Everything is broken. I wish I could rewind and start again.

Just want to be my Dad. With a slight sprinkling of my Mother.

I don’t believe in anything except my own feelings. I am easy to manipulate.

Two months. Feels like years.

“Heterosexual intercourse is the pure, formalised expression of contempt for women’s bodies.”

Strindberg at Tate Modern.

Buoys at sea. Celestographs.

“What is the main trait in your character? This strange blending of the deepest melancholy and the most astonishing light heartedness.

“Painting with words.”

“Such a joy in words.

“Purple Loosestrife: Despite its beauty, the purple loosestrife is a pernicious weed with a reputation for destroying the natural balance of the coastal environments in which it thrives.”

Chance: “Art develops freely independent of its creator’s conscious intentions.

“Strindberg began to paint again so that there would be something beautiful for the newborn baby to look at.

“I don’t care how I look, but I want people to see my soul.

“Hidden correspondencies…interconnectedness.

“I let my mind work freely, grow wild, bring forth mould and grapes. And I believe one thinks one works consciously, while all along the unknown, subterranean forces govern me unconsciously.”

Tornado, all around, but craving the quiet calm in the centre of it all.

I have taken the cards off my mantlepiece, put the photos aside. Dad’s unwashed jumper still folded by my bed, but now it blends in.

More subtle absence – news I can’t share, thoughts of birthday plans without him, the car smells of him, the toolbox he had forever still rattles in the back, patchwork over rust he fixed around the doors, car park tickets from the summer stuck down the side of the seat.

Something I can’t define is manifesting itself as complete intolerance for and impatience with children, particularly small ones. I have never felt less compassionate.

Longing to take off, alone, restore equilibrium.