identities, journeys, fictions away from the roots
It's that time I've been waiting for. Of bare feet and legs and arms only dressed in sun cream. Of explosive growth of plants and trees, air alive and active with scents, bugs, pollen, laughter, barbecue smoke and procreational urges. It's the time we've all waited for. It's time for my vaccination. In a way... Continue Reading →
Monday 18 January 2021. Blue Monday. Soon there will be an inauguration, and 6.1% of the UK population have received the first dose of the vaccine. Minute by minute, the days are getting longer. But at 7am, when I go for my walk after failing to sleep for more than a few hours, it's still... Continue Reading →
Since lockdown started, I’ve made sure to call my dad every Friday during my morning walk. It’s now the social highlight of my week. We have never found it difficult to talk, my dad and I, but we have at times found it difficult to agree and sometimes extremely difficult to get on. After a... Continue Reading →
There is so much little life flying around. It's nearly 8pm, still light, still warm, still battery in the old machine. A neighbour is showing her vegetable garden to a friend on her phone. The Italian family are on the other side chatting. And all around, between, above us, there are gnats, fruit flies and... Continue Reading →
61 days. 23 hours a day spent at home. My motivation for cleaning, DYI, life admin and other household jobs is minimal. My motivation for escape is gargantuan. I've finished reading Blå by Maja Lunde, and am now watching The Last Dance on Netflix. It brings me back to the Saturday mornings of my childhood... Continue Reading →
Suddenly work words appear out of nowhere. A product, a portal, a process will come into my mind and take up space, blocking out other words, my words, like blue, that I want to use for writing. I try to empty myself of work words by reading, sunbathing, falling asleep in the middle of the... Continue Reading →
Was I born too late? The world was already on an irreversible trajectory of doom – of illness, destruction and death – when I was born. Perhaps I’m the last of my kind. My generation were told that the world belonged to us; we were the ones who were allowed to work with anything, study... Continue Reading →
Today I got an email at work congratulating us all for having successfully kept the business running from our homes for six weeks. At the weekend we did the most lockdowny thing of lockdown: one of my housemates cut all our hair. It was very successful; we all look the same but different and the... Continue Reading →
"To write truly is to speak from the depths of the maternal womb." Elena Ferrante, The Days of Abandonment (2002) A writer in her thirties is left by her husband, and descends into a kind of reality and identity shifting madness, where she accidentally locks herself, her children and their dog into their Turin... Continue Reading →
Were there always this many birds? Did they always sing this much? Or did I simply not hear them. Was the air always this fresh, this still, on an April morning? Was the neighbourhood this homely? Was there ever anything called 'rush' or 'busy'? What was I looking for at beaches, in pubs, in cafes... Continue Reading →
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