A few weeks ago we went back to Dungeness, on something of an explicit Derek Jarman pilgrimage. (The same day we saw The Outside Inn in Rye.)
Far more secure in myself than last time, no panic attacks were had, but we also found ourselves there in the midst of tourist season.
Whereas last time we found ourselves inadvertently thrust into its emptiness, this time we found ourselves near roadkill for ageing motorcycle gangs and motorhomes, providing a horrifying vision of a post-Brexit Britain with bourgeois-twee Mad Max stylings.
There was more to be said here about Derek Jarman’s Modern Nature here which I originally intended to affix to yesterday’s post on selves and outsideness, but too much time has passed now. More thoughts lost to the pressures of book-writing.
Maybe next time. I’m sure there’ll be one.
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