You should never shun your subconscious no matter how oblique it seems. Your subconscious is busy in the background alchemising your art. Feeding off your inspirations. Building your journey; your symbols; your craft; your tools. All you should do is listen. And act. On what is gracefully given. Not what you force.

Fucking hell, my current project — THE DRESS — that I have been outlining this week, has been forming since 2002. 23 years ago. When I am on attachment at the National Theatre. Since 2014, crossing Waterloo Bridge to Somerset House, to see Egon Schiele. Three newsletters ago when I write The Bridge. 2011, when I am standing in the Whitworth Art Gallery — between a Bacon and a Freud — and I say to my friend, 'I'm a portraitist.' For no fucking reason. In the very room that will house The Reno at the Whitworth, 2019.

18.09.25. Me and my producer-in-waiting are sat our backs supported by Adam's deconstructed consultation room wall, transformed during MY MUM IS WHITE (MMIW) exorcism. We are building a real company that will have an accountant, and an admin, and a PA, and I will just concentrate on thinking up daring steps to ameliorate me.

2013, while in the depression caused by the abuse of a seemingly powerful mistress/Karen, I propose a book/journal called The Amelioration of Miss Amelia Samuels, my dad’s second name. 2024. Factory International. In the Ruins of the Big House. (ITROTBH). Using my white mum’s status, I descend Bette Davis stairs wearing a bespoke denim ballgown to declare myself the mistress of my dad’s Jamaican plantation. Berlin Plantation. St Elizabeth. Located with my dad’s second name.

I want women in Jamaica to experience their own ballgown. To become the mistress of their plantation too. We've been talking about this since prepping MMIW. It will cost a fortune. Where are we getting a fortune? We can't just have one woman wear a dress. Post MMIW process the idea is making me feel like a mistress — a Karen. What do I know about modern Jamaicans? I just want wings. Bigger wings. Icarus fucking wings. I'm feeling adrift like this for a minute. Tired. Manic. Thrilled. Otherworldly. My producer-in-waiting is kindly waiting for me to talk. Like she does when we first meet at my decadent table ITROTBH. Suddenly, like it is riding in its own carriage, insanity enters my mind from the left. 'What if we cross from the National Theatre to Somerset House in a carriage. Women, any fucking woman, who wants to wear that dress?' And bang, ITROTBH merges with MMIW. As we sit in a forest of 8-station mind-maps with tame MMIW candles. That would look amazing with ferocious ITROTBH candles.