essays | fiction | poetry | photography | art
Today I woke up slightly ill and with a sense of nostalgia that was only just bearable.
On the riverbank. In the corridor. In the
laugh ache. In the small hours. On the
station platform. In the stomach churn
on the way home.
No one is ever prepared for these dreaded words: your husband’s got cancer. I should have known, but I didn’t. For months, my husband Russ complained of muscle weakness, nausea, blood in his stools, and dizziness. His new primary care provider, a man lauded by his young receptionist as a “genius”, said, “If you…
My bones willow and bite.
My lungs are a workshop. The thing is, I
want to be both engine and earth.
I find the process of actually writing fiction to be like some sort of mysterious alchemy. You have a plan and then what actually comes out is completely different.
A glimpse into a young woman’s summer working in a quaint town in Provence on the night of an open-air concert.
I ask my body ‘what is life?’ it says ‘dance’
because dance is a way the body finds liberation
through lyrics, solace in songs, an overeager mosaic
of marinated moments & coralled colours colliding.
you slid once more into my dreams
so real i woke and called your name
it was that hour so close to dawn
the world doesn’t know if it’s coming or going
I have never felt it so clearly: the field of independent, potential affirmatives, the ‘yes’, the ‘yeses’ to all of the pleasure and power, freedom, purpose and desire that is mine to choose and discover.
Wonderful insights into the books you should be reading while self-isolating, from passionate book instagrammer Miriam Gauntlett.
The fluttering ribbon of blue
outside my window deepens
but holds fast to the birches.
Deirdre Murphy died on the 11th June, exactly three years after she should have died of a stroke. She was a despicable old bat, a snobby try hard, an utter sour puss, to name a few of her nicknames.
Porridge 