Applications are being made to degree courses. A lot of students want to do graphics, others film and photography. Only a couple of them want to do fine art. Which is a surprise to some of the tutors who consider this lot to be a good batch. I’m walking away. I’m turning my back on any further consideration. I tell them lies; I was applying to colleges in America, that I had a job as an assistant in a small animation studio, that I was going to university to study English literature and that I wanted to be a writer. The head of foundation says he knows painters teaching in the States and would be prepared to get in touch with them. Another tutor wants to show my writing to an author friend. But I have no confidence, no desire and worst of all no sense of direction. I am a clueless. Constantly creating smoke screens to cover up my ineptitude. Colin tells me in a bar that I should do photography. Jane, sweet Jane says whatever I do I will be fucking brilliant at it. In the student canteen as we are gathered around our usual table as far away from the technical students as possible I make my announcement. I have placed small ads in newspaper and magazine columns on supermarket and newsagents’s notice boards. I’m seeking to become a househusband to a professional woman. I can cook, make beds, do laundry and iron. I can be sexually subservient. Or dominating. Wine drinker and enthusiastic swinger. I am a non smoker.
© Alan McKerl 2013
blog: the emptiness of longing