Last night I had a proper existential nightmare. I went for a walk but the landscape started to change, and I felt confused and frightened. So I decided to ask the name of this strange place, thinking to get a bus back. Nobody would tell me and I’d forgotten where I came from. Worse still, I didn’t know who I was.
At some point I realised it was a dream and woke up with a horrible feeling of being hollowed out. But at least I got this poem.
There’s a black hole in my heart
I’m a golem with the scroll
missing, bare oblate spheroid
mourning for its atmosphere.
Waking up, my name feels strange
who I am a fantasy
my brain whistling in the dark.
There’s never been much to do in Campbeltown, but at least we had a unique art deco Picture House, which celebrated its centenary last year. It rarely showed anything except bog standard American movies, but there was a First Mondays showing each month when more out-of-ordinary films were offered. And over the summer we had simultaneous broadcasts from operas and plays in London.