Today I realised how much, in some senses, how un-British I am. Or perhaps it’s fairer to say, un-western.

The through line of the story, of my journey for the audience, to the viewer it might not be clear, well clear enough. I don’t “see” things, I don’t visualise images, scenes from a Eurocentric standpoint. In the same manner that I don’t scan a written page instinctively from left to right, vertically top to bottom. My eye involuntraily starts its scan from right to left in a horizonal sweep. I have been told that this is one facet that is a contributory to my dyslexia. My memeory, my vision, my inner eye is circualr, it spirals, it meanders, coilingf around past, present and somewhere else. I don’t join the dots sequentially. I never have. My eyes, pour into and inhabbit my dreams, my memories, my projections taking on whatever form, scene, vista the dreams, memories or projections take.

People keep saying to me what’s the storyline, what’s the journey – but what if there is no journey in the conventinal sense. What if it’s the journey that is no journey?

I am the journey, each decaying, regenerating cell is the journey…

“Truth is in our blood. It is the essennce of our being. It is the best part of us, the core of what makes us human. It is our soul, our fundamental genetic beauty, and our spirit. We were created perfect, and despite the inevitability that we loose some of that perfection when we mature and develop in the midst of others who are wounded, we always retain the capacity to become perfect once again. The soul may be buried deeply, but as long as our hearts beat there remains hope.” 
― Daniel Mackler, Toward truth: A psychological guide to enlightenment

Each day I learn more about inter-country and transracial aoption, I learn more about myself and with hindsight can piece the jigsaw together. The why the how, the wherefore of past actions, emotions.