Walking old routes makes the known city feel unknown; a rediscovery is in process.
Spent the morning in a building site, fluorescent and hard-hatted. The city’s old cinema has been undergoing a process, a compelling mixture of restoration and redevelopment. The roof has been torn from the old cinema, and replaced with a polycarbonate box that allows daylight into a previously cramped space. On top, where the pigeons used to roost on the drainpipes and facia, is an entirely new space with a new cinema.
Entering an old building made new, seeing the walls stripped bare, corridors running perpendicular to what was remembered is a discontinuous experience. Our previous offices remain exactly intact, wooden-panelled boxes with CLINIC and SURGERY written in small, beautiful sans-surryphs typefaces upon the glass doors. Mosaics have been revealed to have lain covered beneath the floors for the best part of a century. Delicately sculpted plasterwork has been restored. There is a movement both towards and away, forward and away
Walking into these rooms, where I spent years learning about independent cinema and becoming ensnared by new forms of visual expression, is wonderful. At that time I wrote furious reams of nonsense. Little has changed, except I have forgotten how to write.
Writing each and every day will evidently become harder. How I’ve disregarded this, having given over three something years to writing weblogs. That this requires motivation was lost. This has always been a point that consternates, for some it comes easily, but not to me. I am given to wasting time, irresponsibly.