I’m going to Cornwall this summer. I’ve never been, and I’m excited. I’ve got a google map with loads of places saved on it already. With any luck, I’ll get to swim in the sea, which is a joy, always. Continue reading “Daphne du Maurier, or, finding out what I’ve been missing”
I was listening to Cat Power on my way to work, the perfect soundtrack to a gross rainy morning. Continue reading “A weirdly vivid memory”
“They will say ‘Agnes’ and see the spider, the witch caught in the webbing of her own fateful weaving. They might see the lamb circled by ravens, bleating for a lost mother. But they will not see me. I will not be there.” Continue reading “Burial Rites – Hannah Kent”
It happens every winter: I stop reading. Or, more accurately, I stop finishing books. Continue reading “I finished some books!”
I reviewed A Curmudgeon’s Guide To Christmas Round Robin Letters for The LGBTQ Arts Review last week. I really enjoyed the play (letters! lesbians! audience participation in a good way! hats! a small cry!), the venue is fantastic, and I felt all Christmassy and wonderful afterwards.
It is not stupid to think that birds might play, and here from the clifftop it has always looked as if that is what the fulmars were doing: the endless, repeated turns, first on one great circle and then another, skaters outlining discs on the ice, stiff-winged, patient, waiting for the long rotation to take its form, a series of geometries, as if the birds were cutting shapes through the paper of the air.
The air doesn’t always comply. Now and then a strange lack of certainty runs through a fulmar, even as it makes these Euclidean digrams beneath you, a whole-body hesitation, coughing in mid-flight, when it shudders and disassembles, all sleekness gone and all purpose paused, as if waiting for the data stream to resume, which it then does, and the long effortless gestures, milking energy from the wind, continue from one end of the ballroom to the other.
It’s taken me a while to write this, to turn something huge into words that make sense. I think I’ve done an ok job of it.
This sat in my drafts for ages and I’m not sure why, but here you go.
It’s been a busy summer – a fortnight in the Lake District, a couple of days in Brittany, some volunteering, building an office with my pals (power tools!), going bouldering, helping Lauren move house, going to a wedding, seeing my niblings, going to Pride for the first time… I read some books, not as many as I expected to, but some. I fell in a bog in the Lake District, which was hilarious at the time but became rapidly less-so as I realised I’d actually done some damage, resulting in two days off work, a lot of painkillers, multiple trips to my amazing osteopath, and walking like a duck. I’m on the mend, but it’s shaken me. My mood has plummetted over the last week or so and refused to lift, especially when I then dropped my phone in the toilet and was furious with myself about it, on top of everything else. I’ve had to cancel plans and miss out on things I wanted to do, and all this has coincided with the weather shifting from summer to autumn. I have not been in a good place.
The primal force of the sun shapes the environment. With the wind and the sand it bakes and cleanses all signs of decay. There is no cleansing by water. The rivers flow beneath the earth, and rain falls too rarely. Continue reading “The Road From Coorain – Jill Ker Conway”