The cottage was long, settled in the grass with a pleasant grunt
Everything fit
The whole world compressed
And gently shaped
We spent a summer there
My room was mint green
with rocks everywhere
And a mirror in a green frame
encrusted with cheap, faded rhinestones.

My bed was near the window
with copper rocks on the white sill
dull hay lines running through their sides
And the ceiling sloped down towards the other night

The living room was downstairs
with big windows looking out to glowing tin roof sea
The kitchen cupboards were full of labelled jars
We loved cinnamon so much the whole cottage smelt of it
No one could decide if the smell was sweet or savoury

We weighed everything down with sun warmed rocks
That's what rocks are for.
Books, paper, plates, doors,
and folded up clothes.

The books in the house were all unknown
thrillers and love stories and Reader's Digests
and I remember I mocked them
We wrote things on the beach with sticks and rocks
they wrote 'happy birthday' in the sand

And I wrote on paper 'promise me don't cry'

After noon when it began to get dark
he would get jittery for food
stomach cramping sweat breaking
We would all twist our wrists

Faster & faster & faster & faster
till the clicks were not clicks
And I cut sandwiches, white and clean,
horseradish paste - strangely pink
And crispy leaf

But we never ate in the dining room
A long room with a long oak table
shiny and dark and polished
With a filigree turquoise lamp hanging overhead.

She lay next to the dull, glowing lights of the car
green grass and grey tarmac in pale yellow light
And breathed in the smoke & smiled
her hands stopped roving
As if caught momentarily on pale string

The steps were so small that only my feet fit
We ate Italian sausage 
and buzzing, static rocket
with juice running down our chins

The sun fell again in golden olive lines
inside an amber dome
through tall leafy trees and their rust shade
And we went about our business,
sneakers crunching on purple gravel.

We sat near the window & flies
flew in
and couldn't fly out
And we swatted them for being lost.

I haven’t posted anything new in a while, but this is a fairly long poem I wrote this morning. I’ve been developing it for a few weeks now, and the idea first came to me when I was on a train on a very sunny day.

This was the result of spending a few days in a cottage that we rented somewhere in New York a few years ago, so of course the sea mentioned above


isn’t really a sea, it’s lake Erie. I remember that the cottage was both fresh and musty, and my feelings for it ranged from an overwhelming infatuation to a vague disquiet. The atmosphere of the holiday was electric, to say the least, and the ruralness of the setting was not something everyone was necessarily used to. The quiet was nebulous and threatening, unfamiliar American countryside.

I think I take so long to post things because I am very reluctant about my writing, I don’t think much of it is good, and I struggle to come up with things that I feel will be worthy of sharing with people. That has never happened, I think, and when I do post I post in a quick haze of writerly occasions when I type things right onto the blank screen and click post. And then I think ‘oh God, this is really not very good.’ But I leave it there.





When she woke up there were strands of hair everywhere. There was a moment of wild panic as she straightened things out in her mind, and then collapsed back into bed. Her eyes stared up listlessly, coated with a dull film.

There were times when I read books about adventure, when I explored forests on my bike.

Her room was a jumble of things that frightened her. She would count the number of boxes it would take to sort everything out, to pack everything in and it would number in thousands. Small boxes for the rocks and shells and a giant one for her bed. Sometimes before she fell into a restless sleep she would see the lid come down neatly over her in her bed. A rubber hot water bottle lay next to her bed within arm’s reach. It was a wobbly and fleshy pink, like the inside of some innocent young animal. There were no pictures of people in her room, only lonely and bleak landscapes. Hope to her was forever a forbidden drug, and hope to her was a deep and encompassing sorrow. It wasn’t truly sorrow, it was sorrow and anger and a cruel pleasure all mixed up together.

I shaved my head when I was seventeen and my mother said what if it never grows back?

A stuffed pig lay next to her. She called it Maurice. She had stopped answering texts, emails, calls, letters. Everything had been stopped months ago. The front door was battered but silent as she lay in a nest of glossy hair. The wardrobe was shut but there were sounds coming from inside it – like slow, deep breathing.

Father is in the wardrobe, curled and powerless. He speaks in Morse and he cannot understand anything. He gets violent and bangs on the walls around him sometimes, but they are too strong. He screams, less and less frequently. He mostly runs on the spot inside the wardrobe now. There is a yellow lamp in the corner which he gazes at and croons to.

She watched him with regret sometimes, connected to him by some primal thread. They looked into each other’s eyes and saw other lives reflected back.

A girl I knew told me once that if you tore a little bit off a butterfly’s wings it would fly faster.

She had never known pain, she just thought she had. The things she created shone dully, peering through black cobwebs.


The Hidden Beauty and Usefulness of Inanimation

I am sitting by the large window in my kitchen and sunlight is streaming into the room. The dining table has a gammy leg; it wobbles and one has to be careful not to disturb it. It is usually quiet in the kitchen because it is in the back of the house, away from the street, and so this is where I like to sit and think. Maybe write. I feel very happy with my neatly arranged tools – my laptop, a pencil, a book (in case I get bored), and a notebook. But let’s move on.

It is very difficult to find your own voice in the increasingly loud clamour of voices that want to be heard. This is droll but still relevant, I think. If I can’t hear my own voice how will I know if it’s my voice and not someone else’s? Life has become very tiring suddenly and it is much more difficult to find an unsaturated space of your own. I can always feel the presence of some great oppressive weight, like a carcass I have to carry with me constantly. But there has always been a kernel of, an identification with, the solitary woman. I can remember her for as long as I can remember. She has always been there, in the books I read or the films I saw or the people I read about. These were usually old books, written in the 19th century – like Jane Eyre and Jo, most obviously – and some in the 1950s. The women in these books did usually get married, though, and did not remain solitary women, but her spectre was there. If times had permitted I am certain that many literary characters and actual women would have gone on to lead solitary lives. People such as Dora Carrington, Susan Sontag, Patti Smith are examples of solitary women in my mind, despite having being deeply involved in many relationships. They are the new solitary women. They seem unfettered and fully-formed in the way that they are accepting of whatever flaws they might have which enables them to transcend their ‘women-ness’. They are not slaves to norms. Not just those of gender, but normal societal norms as well. People have to bind themselves with so many chains to please others. To be solitary is a relief and a joy. To be able to be solitary. Art cannot exist in a vacuum, that is true, but neither does it exist whilst being trampled upon by a herd of wildebeests.

Inanimate objects are the best friends for the solitary person. They are comforting and familiar and frequently take on a life of their own. Everyone’s kettle has a unique personality and a unique face for them. I know we are told repeatedly of the worthlessness of the material world but there is nothing as comforting as the safe and solid feel of an old wooden table. Or a book. Or your favourite blanket. When I weep my people may not weep with me, but the walls weep, with great tears rolling down their faces in the rain. My inanimate objects are loyal creatures – or objects, that is.

I have decided to try and cast off the need, the craving that makes us debase ourselves and grovel to other people and the simpering person I am sometimes reduced to while pursuing these ends. It will be hard because these are habits that are ingrained in me and I will have to learn to listen to my own voice as opposed to theirs. I have decided to become a solitary woman because I have a feeling that this might be the age to be one.

Jon, Michael, Maria




Blood in the sand behind you there is blood in the sand

Are you dragging it or is it dragging you?

Over rocks and jagged stones

Under water and through hot, molten stones

A severed head you carry, a severed head

To rival your own, so pale, so proud

(so ugly, so wracked with lies and deceit)

Eyes rolled up within yellow sclera

Set in waxy skin

A sick tongue protrudes from its shrunken mouth

Whose words does it say, tell me whose words does it say

Does it say what you mean it to say

Or do you say what it means you to say

Oh dearie dear my dear you have fallen into such a trap

One such as will never release you (no, never)

Snapped up, you have been snapped up

By ghosts and devils

By lunches and revels

By hearts

By people

By perfect stones and betting kneelers

25 Candles (of Mind Numbing Disappointment) Playlist

  1. High and Dry – Radiohead


This is how I start my day. Well this is how I start the enjoyable part of my day. My day actually started at 6AM when I was woken up by people who sounded mad with enthusiasm and happiness and wished me a happy birthday. Listening to them talk made me want to slowly disappear into my duvet and preferably die by becoming one with it. So I am now lying in bed in the pose made famous by murdered people with chalk outlines in a defiant protest against life and birthdays.

2. Fake Plastic Trees…and also Fade Out – Radiohead

High and Dry has done the trick. I feel a little pumped. The Bends is a great album and I go on to Fake Plastic Trees, which is soaring and enveloping despite its disconsolate content. But luckily I love extremely sad music. Sometimes I listen to the sound of tears streaming down people’s cheeks. Fade Out and we are moving into bleak – but beautiful – territory. Great birthday material – except, obviously, for all the beauty of the song. That’s the very opposite of what birthdays are made of and represent.

3. Crown of Love – Arcade Fire

Sad. Sad. Sad. But really grand sadness. I would like my sadness to be announced by orchestras and guitars. I imagine a camera overhead gently turning and slowly zooming down to my body. Corpse attitude indie shot. They will probably put that on a motivational poster for hipsters now.

4. Disco 2000 – Pulp

Because I recently saw a list it was on along with the Arcade Fire song above. I wonder what life means and why he couldn’t be with Deborah.

5. Blue Monday – New Order

80s electronic music is the best. I felt this was the logical move after Pulp.

6. Love Will Tear Us Apart – Joy Division

Joy Division. I love them. If you think that this song is heartbreakingly sad then you should not listen to any more Joy Division. This is actually medically verified. This song is a unicorn jumping through a rainbow while a child caresses a buttercup on the other side compared to the rest of their songs. I have reached an impasse now which will result in one of two ways – either I will survive the end of this playlist or I will end up killing myself. Do I listen to more Joy Division today? Do I risk the Russian roulette of the effects it will have, coupled with birthday blues? Or do I back down and listen to some Smiths and gently move on to Suede or something?

I put on some Lemonhead.

Oh, did you think this was going to be a playlist containing 25 songs? No. I wanted to selfishly pass on my disappointment to my readers. Now we are miserable together (say that in a drawn out-children speaking in unison voice)

The World’s First Deaf Astronaut

The first time I saw him he was walking away from me. We were in a grassy park surrounded by dense pockets of trees. It was like a golf course, but wilder. I gazed at his back and traced its outline with my eyes; mapping where the dark burgundy of his shirt stopped and the blue of the sky started. He was a big man but he had a way of thrusting his neck forwards when he was being particularly passionate about something. I saw his arms rise and fall and draw confident arcs in the air. I thought he was one of those ignorant people who had no idea – or pretended to have none – that they behaved in outrageously self-aggrandising ways and I prepared myself to dislike him. My father heard me coming and turned around. He quickly turned around as well. My father smiled. “Charlie, this is Aksel.” He had the most extraordinary face; it seemed to shift from one emotion to another effortlessly like the motion of waves. It was so alive. I wanted to record every one of its movements with my hands like a blind woman. Only to see if it really would feel like the soft ripplings of water. Right then his face broke into a smile as he brought his hands up to make a sign. My father laughed. “He’s very happy to finally meet you and not very happy with me to have kept him waiting.” I smiled awkwardly. This warmth was unexpected and I didn’t quite know how to react to it yet. Also, I knew who he was now. I recognised him. He was the first deaf astronaut.

This is as widely known as can be. Becoming an astronaut is hard. I would have thought it was impossible for a deaf person. But he was there, in photographs, videos, floating against the pallor of the inside of the ISS with his hands constantly moving beside him. He was undeniably there. And I hated my father in that moment for having us meet. I had failed my training. I had not gone up. I had not become an astronaut. And he had. Despite my almost fanatic passion and exertion I had not passed the training. And he had. Therefore he was better than me, he was everything I was not, and he did all that I couldn’t do while deaf. His presence felt like a terrible pain, as if someone had carved a part of me away and had whittled me down to a stump; barely able to walk or talk. I tagged along behind them miserably for the rest of the evening. My father would occasionally translate some of his comments; usually funny ones. I would smile tightly. When it was time for us to go he turned to me and gestured.

I would like to see you again.

He was looking at me, no longer smiling, his face still and alert. I smiled and nodded.

“I’m not going to see him again. Why are you doing this?” I turned to my father angrily as we walked towards our respective cars. “It won’t do you any harm, Charlie. Talking to him might feel better.” “No, it felt worse. I don’t want to think about it, dad. That’s how I cope with things and it’s healthy for me. Don’t give me any psycho-bullshit about how I need to experience the pain. It’s just a rejection.” My father shrugged and patted my arm before walking off to his car.

I drove myself mad. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I would forget what his face looked like and then suddenly remember it and examine it in my mind. Despite all my conversations with my father I thought, I hoped, that he would make me feel better. I thought this guiltily, as if the mere thought of it would chase away all possibility of it really happening. I hadn’t slept properly for weeks, and now night-time became even more chaotic and worrying. Everything is different at night, you become a different person. A neurotic, paranoid version of yourself. I tortured myself by alternately hoping, and then ridiculing myself for hoping, that he would change everything and change me. I found his letter outside my door on a crisp day. It was bright and clean outside and the green of the trees was fresh and dark in the clear silence. I imagined him lying curled on the grass lit up by the golden light of the sun. I imagined his body fluttering with small movements while the grass grew and withered, grew and withered; and diminish till it became part of the earth.

He asked me to meet him by the banks of a river. I recognised it. I used to go there often and it was a quiet place. We lay on the banks and stared at the sky. The water lay lifeless at our feet and the sky stretched lazily overhead. Everything was calm. Tame. He began to speak and I couldn’t understand him at first but that didn’t seem to matter. And then I slowly began to see, in flashes at first and then more and more; his hands moved confidently and surely. They drew pictures and bright movements, leaving traces of colours in the air behind them. I could smell the wet smell of the earth. He seemed to be telling me about everything. His hands were dancers in themselves and his face moved with them, letting out noises which became the howling of wind and the sounds of showers of meteors.

It began to get dark. He sat up and looked at the water and the night sky reflected in it. The water was silky and soft against my back and blacker than anything I had known. I moved in it, curving like a fish. It was so dark that the sky seemed to descend and curve itself around me and I was no longer separate from it. I looked into the black, bottomless waters and felt a sense of wonder. They hadn’t made him to speak. They had made him to see stars and speak to them. They had made him like the air and the sea and the galaxies. The water splashed and became alive as his hands rose and fell in it.



The grass began to sprout. The earth changed and a shape could be seen in it. It grew and fluctuated, filled out and soft hair sprang up. It changed colours like the sky and eyelashes brushed the cheeks.

He opened his eyes.


Transcendent and Shining Grief

When I heard today that David Bowie had died I got out of bed and went into the kitchen. I boiled some water and looked at how peaceful it was outside and thought, like so many others before me, like any person who has experienced loss ever, why nothing had changed and how there could be no sign of him not being there anymore. I loved him. I loved whatever I knew of him. He was my friend who sang to me. He was my inspiration because he could be so many things. He was never boring, darting from one thing to another, a glittering, burning arc. I poured out the water and held the cup because it was warm and comforting. And I traced his name gently with the tip of my nail over and over again on the rim of the cup. Being a ‘fan’ – I think it’s such a disdainful term, isn’t it – is so hard. You have to mourn for people you never truly know. You never spoke to them, you never laughed with them. They are already phantoms.

You never knew them.

And it seems so strange, so unbelievable that a person you’re aware of almost all your life is unknown

Because you’re so close in your head

And then they are gone. Without knowing your name, without knowing that your heart beat and blood flowed through your body and whorls arranged themselves on your fingers while they stopped one day and left you.

It was a comfort just knowing that he was always there. Somewhere. And now he’s gone.

There are so many uncertainties. Are you supposed to feel so much, so deeply? Surely these feelings belong to people who really knew them, surely only they are the ones entitled to them.

How are you not here anymore? How do I find you after you’re gone, through all the pictures and articles and songs?

I thought we would meet one day.

It’s been a long time since I wrote anything. I’m sorry.



I thought he would live forever.

Love in German/but photograph is ‘Paris, je t’aime’

This is the most horrible thing in the world. Everyone will agree. “Badum pam pam” far worse than a song stuck in your head because this is a person. The only thing you can do to somehow gather yourself from the puddle of whatever liquid you’ve melted into is to read and watch and listen. Immerse yourself in the suffering of others to alleviate your own because that’s what other people are there for (you’ve finally realised their importance). You can either convince yourself that they had a worse time than you (eating buckets of ice cream and pining away in bed for several days while slowly vegetating) or you can make yourself into a martyr and believe that absolutely NO ONE in this world and in history has suffered as much as you. Not Dido, not Norma, but you with your velvet scrunchie.

Us with our glass hearts.

Kidney pie you see the world in black and white.

And you at the centre of that vast tragic swirling vortex of monochrome.

Although far from monochromatic, Turner has captured so much more than nature in this painting he has captured the storm within us all and it is rushing into every crevice on and on in a seemingly unrelenting endless flow overwhelming everything everywhere and engulfing you in its colours overpowering invasive acute


“I know you *liiiilt* you’re the one I’ve waited for…”

You listen to this Jon Brion song from Synechdoche, New York and write a blog. All the while eating ice cream of course. Mint chocolate chip.