Deadlines, Distribution, and a Despot God

I like to keep busy on a Sunday.

As a child brought up by an overly religious father, my brother and I were forced into strange behaviours every Sunday. We were not allowed out to play on the street in reverence to God, who clearly was nothing more than a party pooper. There were bible readings obviously and we had to be quiet all day. I feel scarred by the rigour of it all.

More recently, when I was running the Brighton Arts Club, Sunday was a day of getting over whatever massive event had happened each Saturday. There would be an eerie silence after four-hundred revellers had all gone home, and an adrenalin drop that felt like falling off a cliff. I would always be looking for a Valium to ease the change in.

These days, in my studio at Royal Clarence, a live-work space where I reside with my Persian cat, Sundays can feel deathly quiet. Often they are days where the sadness of the past creeps in as the distractions are so few. A reminder for me that we are born alone and will die alone.

And so I work hard and I pop to mum's house for supper in between producing radical art films and experimental music that questions religious ethics, despot Gods and that eternal difficulty, my purpose.

I very much doubt that I will ever like Sundays.

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