In Memoriam.

The jacket that has been my constant companion for the last few years has finally come to the end of her life. It is time to retire her, to place her into the wardrobe of eternity.

You have served me well my friend, you accompanied me to the beach of my dreams where you saw me struggle with death and with life. You were there when I became a pseudo-father and when I ceased to be one. We had such good times together, you and I. Know that in my dreams, I still wear you.

You have seen me through the worst of life and the best.

You will be missed.

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My relationship with my jacket is a complicated one. It is the skin I wear, my armour. It becomes a part of your identity when you spend so much time involved in a pseudo-autobiography. The character of Matt Illman wears a suit jacket every day and that version of myself, semi-fictional though it may be, impacts me, takes over certain aspects of my life. I find myself doing things that he would do, saying things that he would say and most importantly, wearing a suit jacket every day.
Writing this, it seems absurd, but we all focus on our identity, on how we present ourselves to the outside world and who we believe ourselves to be. It’s just strange to admit to it being such a conscious and deliberate process. I mean, obviously, as much as anything is conscious, I take what exists and rearrange it to make better sense of things – a bricolage of the soul?
It has something to do with fetishizing objects. Imbuing things with meaning and significance.

The suit jacket.
The winkle pickers.
The butt of a cigarette.
The bucket and spade.
The bottle of water.
The buried mystery.

All of these ‘things’ have significance for me, have meaning – they form a part of my work, a part of my life. In isolation, removed from the vital context that connects and implicates them in some circle of understanding, whatever connective tissue that breathes life into the mundane, these objects remain inert – purely functional. But we give them something, it is only through this process that they become meaningful, and, in the bizarre world I have chosen to immerse myself in, mythic. They resonate with a power only words and stories can provide. We write our own narrative and use these objects to guide the way.
Much of my writing is concerned with attempts to reconcile the past with the present, to uncover the hidden meanings that lay buried in the sands of personal history, rewriting the story of a life – but that story wouldn’t be complete without a character, someone to play in this tale.
I’m dealing here with unreality, with something that never happened as someone who never was.

And this person wears a suit jacket.

If anyone wishes to pay their respects, please feel free to leave a comment below.

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