I’m preparing for an encounter with the Brighton curator in my air shelter on Cross Street.
Something’s overlapping, I’m not sure what exactly.
Perhaps the line: “I’m a stationary sculpture, I’m meant to be broken” is causing friction when coupled with the sound of “Pay with Card” still ringing in my ears after my recent trip to Asda.
Whatever it is, something isn’t right. Some energy is amiss today. Have I been the victim of a deception? Have I allowed my partner’s emotions to whirl around me like a carousel?
Away from the ridiculousness, the museum staff is preparing for a group show on New Age hippie culture at the Brighton Royal Pavilion.
It’s my job to write the exhibition catalogue.
This is what I’ve written thus far…
We need healing, sound healing; not the kind of healing you find at Asda. But in saying that, I’m not the kind to mistake masturbation with salvation!
We live, we morph, we die. Did you fulfill your promise, today? You don’t need to be a call centre victim anymore, all the hours of the 24.
Brighton changes with every new wave of gentrification. And then what?
In the New Age of Enlightenment, will the Brighton street names evolve? Will Shelley Road become Flying Yogi Street? Will Coleridge Street become known as: The Happiness Of Life Is Made Up Of Minute Fractions….”
Anyway, I must dash. The curator will be alongside me, momentarily.