Every time I go back home I have a sense of having not done anything with my life, which is partially true. Like Henry Miller once said, we'd all be better off if home just existed like a picture postcard in the back of our minds which we shouldn't be tempted to go back to. I regularly go back to Plymouth and the area of North Cornwall I grew up in. I normally end up walking around by myself and every corner I turn invokes a different memory and an awful feeling. A feeling of regret and emptiness. I need to move on. Anyway, I did one last trip around Plymouth on a wretchedly hungover Sunday morning in January and visited all the places around Plymouth Hoe which ever meant anything to me in years gone by. I took a "trip down memory lane" and ended up feeling suicidal. It was horrible.
|Plymouth Hoe: An empty carrier bag blowing towards the camera. No one else is around and there was a fierce wind.. Sir Frances Drake was bowling up here when the Spanish Armada invaded in the 1600's. I learnt to Rollerblade up here in the early 90's. My mum bought me my Rollerblades from the free ads; they were white leather with green wheels, they were obviously made for girls and I don't want to think about it any more.|
|I had never seen this before but I like it. It's Poseidon stabbing some wretched sea beast with the blunt end of his trident. What a horrid way to die.|
|I've walked down here hundreds of times but I've never been happy.|
|A reflection of the Civic Centre. Lots of this that I don't wish to recall happened in the shadow of this buildng. How morose.|
|I used to skate here all the time. A set of two steps outside the magistrates court. Where's everybody now? Dead? No, shopping in Drake's Circus shopping centre or at home. The play grounds of my youth are desolate wastelands and I'm hungover.|
|The train ride back to Exeter. My favourite view in Plymouth - the Plym Estuary at twilight. Lovely.|