Small

The time of the long dark has passed, as the Winter Solstice (derived somewhat poetically from sol ‘sun’ and sistere ‘to stand still’ ) pauses the drumbeat of the year’s turning for one near-endless night. The light creeps up the clean blade of the horizon, floods the new day with the miracle of birdsong. They know, you can hear it in the hopeful tremble in their throats. Everything returns.

We are days from the Nativity. Those who know me well know my Christianity has always had one foot firmly in the green roots of its history here. The decapitated Saints, who bear their talking heads like Old Ones of this island, and the holy springs where their skulls fell still surrounded by the ancient trees, adorned with strips of coloured cloth, roots watered with wine. My crosses are alive with knotwork or entwined with ivy, they belong to an era of seaside monasteries with cells like skeps. The ancient trimmings of a young faith whose customs live still. Grab a Tudor history book and read about Henry VIII riding out to bring in the May, go and do it yourself next year in any rural town.

It is Midwinter, and lo, here comes the light of the world. The sun returns. The Son returns. The King is Dead, Long Live the King.

Yet, I’ve always found it hard to imagine the Christ Child. Christ in His Passion? Yes. Christ in his revolutionary ministry? A thousand times, Christ Resurrected? No problem, because I’ve seen some weird shit, kiddlywinks. But Christ as a baby, as the collapsed point of bright consciousness that is a brand new human being, brought down into the dust of the world? Christ in his first few hours breathing our atmosphere, tufts of fuzzy infant hair sodden with Mother’s blood, Christ tasting milk, Christ falling, sated, into the unfathomable dreams of the newly born. Christ’s tender ears hearing Aramaic lullabies. God so small. Why is that so hard, I wonder. Perhaps because God among us as a 33 year-old firebrand turning the establishment on its head is easy to imagine, to admire. God among us as a helpless child requires more understanding and, perhaps, mercy, than we are wont to give.

Because of course the great revelation of the Nativity is how Christ came to belong here with us, in a place where he too was outcast, with others who weren’t wanted. And as he clothes himself later in the flesh of our suffering, we too have all been as he is about to be. Helpless and soft and mewling in the depths of the long dark. In need of the most immediate care to fulfill our destinies. Such a small, needy body in such a big, heedless world.

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And everybody you have ever met was once the same, every body. Isn’t it easy, somehow, to forget that. Much easier to focus on the Memento Mori of the spiritual life, that to dust we shall return. The admonitions of the dead are chiselled in centuries-old letters up and down the land: Oh weary traveller gazing upon this stone, as I am now, so shall you be. Harder, somehow, to remember the squalling babies we all once were, especially those who need the most and so somehow engender the most derision. Remember the crib that housed the homeless. The pristine flesh of the baby addict. The prisoner’s bottle. The refugee’s booties. All pushed over the same threshold, all torn from the Mysteries and baptised in hot blood to become Incarnate here, only to fall into exile and condemnation and death. Do you ever think about Christ’s fingerprints as Mary marvelled at his tiny hands? I do. Those same hands riven by the executioner’s nails, between two thieves, some thirty three years later.

Now I myself am about to be thirty three, and those years have washed up on the beach of me full of things that are raw and creeping; bleached wood and bones in your stocking this year, young lady. People tell me that when you search through the wreckage of the past you will find treasure, well I have picked through the crab-shelled remains of those years and found nothing. The gold sleeps at the bottom of the sea and all of the sailors are drowned. Only I remain, alone on the familiar shore of strangeness. Only I remain, to watch the sun come up and collect that twisted wood for the fire. Whatever you cast away upon the tide returns to you transformed. Everything returns.

I too have been small, but rather than grow deep-rooted and strong-boned, tall and eager for the sun on my leaves, I have remained there all my life. I have been so afraid of saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, being the wrong thing, that I have whittled myself down to nothing. I am the invisible woman. I am the smell of candle smoke in church although you can see no flame, I am a mouse that creeps past your lively dinner table unnoticed. I am the book with the drab, dusty spine that nobody ever takes down. That, I’m afraid, is just the consequence of growing up in the shadow of a Herod you must placate at all costs. That, I thought, was the fate of a child in exile. Here comes the Son, to say it isn’t so.

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This, I think, is what I am taking with me into 2019. The tiny beginnings of big things, better things. I have had what may politely be termed a hard year, culminating in an early winter of the soul. It picked me clean until I was too cold to touch, until it almost killed me. But I, too, have returned from the dark. To bear witness to that great mystery – that salvation doesn’t come when all is well, but when the inn is full, and I will follow that star toward Epiphany. Listen to the birds, now time is made anew, now the light returns when it is needed most.

Everything returns.

Momentum

Opposite my window lurks the gaunt, grey shadow of the old people’s home. I look straight into their dining room, lit almost every hour with dim, soothing lights. The glint of ready cutlery. There is one woman in particular who sits out in the garden when she can, and always on the second-floor balcony at three. She wears a white dress and has beautifully styled hair the same bleached linen colour. The White Woman. Last time she was sitting out there she had a birthday balloon tied to her chair. My neighbour and I were going to take some roses around, but we got drunk in the afternoon and forgot.

I feel like pounding my fist against the door with a question – what the hell happened to me over the last few years? Too much solitude, the keyhole whispers. That long, dark brain of yours ate the silence and then it ate you. I ended up hating this pretty town; endless rainy pavements mocking every step, the ocean’s whisper sultry and lethal: ‘Come away, come away with me.’ I was most happy – back to the question of happiness – on a little boat, surging out to a jagged full stop of an Irish island, salt-fresh, lungs expanding. The sensation of movement (this is also why I adore trains). I clung on to some railings with the flute strapped to my back in case we sank and smoked cigarettes with a cable-knit man, so massive his shoulders took out the last view of the vanishing mountains. That was happiness, simply moving forward in no-place, no-time. A speck of flesh with momentum. The sea is so hungry and deathly and uncaring and obsessed with its own momentum too. I didn’t rate my chances if we flunked it, smooth as it was that day. The sun beating it into diamonds in a second when earth takes a million years to be so intensified.

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The Glass Boat, 2009

And then I was back, heavy again. Back into the world of execs quibbling over cab fare, back into the world of birds that sing only when the traffic dims down its white-noise mechanical hum at the close of day, or the opening of it. Back to the world of the communal (yet also of the solitary and desolate, as without action the relationship between you and the other lives stacked up above and around and below would remain passive and insensate). It’s too peculiar. I can feel the splinters of other lives in the walls working into the skin of my own, getting under the cells and itching there, like a piano being played atonal in the next room.

I said once to him that other people’s lives picked me out like torchlight; a beam slung under a canal at midnight, and all you can see are skeletal shopping trolleys and the dark, rainbow obsidian gleam of dirty water. Toads, reeds like green razors. Broken radios that have stopped talking about stranglings in basement flats and other unfortunate things that end always, always, in boxes being lowered into the exhausted ground. One of the windows opposite has been dark for a while, a tiny postage stamp of black. There is no wheelchair patiently parked on the balcony at three. I don’t think the White Woman is coming back.

Queen of Hungary Water

In the bed this morning, I found a single long, blonde hair. It cannot be mine; my hair is dull bronze brown, and short. Carefully, I make my coffee very strong and dark so I can sip it as the sun phases through the long, crimson curtains and believe myself in some Moroccan bazaar. What clothes does she wear? What does she eat? How many times did she open up this big sash window and taste traces of sea salt in the breeze, feet pressing like cat’s paws into my sheets? Transfixed, I wind it around my fingers; fine and intimate, thinner than memory.

I listen to the cold dawn pass underneath my window, shivering, half-dreaming. It’s monstrous, how much is going on in the world at any one time. Somewhere, a hand is gripping the armrest of the airplane seat; bacon is frying in a thousand pans; a mother is pulling a soft, chemical-clean t-shirt over her daughter’s hair. It is the 10/10/10. Around me people awake to their lucky wedding days and superstitious c-sections.

I place the hair between the pages of a thick book, ghostly and near-intangible, visible only in the lazy dance of Saturday sunlight. Perhaps it’s sex, perhaps he loves her. She must be a thing of unimaginable delicacy.

​​​*​​​*​​​*

‘Seguine will be there.’ That’s how he referred to her, surname alone. Breaking eggs into a bowl. Sleep-ruffled hair, striped blue pyjamas. ‘So at least one person you know.’

​​​I pour more coffee, the sun on the backs of my hands. They look old today, skin thin with the need for water.

‘I haven’t seen her in years.’

‘Perfect time to catch up then.’ The empty shells are that perfect, freckled honey-brown that makes you sad to have to break them.

‘She might be different.’

‘People like that don’t change, and anyway, aren’t you different?’

I say I haven’t made my mind up yet. I retreat to the study half suffocated by ivy, where a sliver of his other woman is trapped in a book on Seneca; where each new season teases out a different kind of mould, forty minutes from our glittering capital. The sound of a knife rhythmically hitting the wooden board like an axe, Luke executing ham.

Seguine will be there.

A steaming plate is dumped in front of me, an omelette folded over melted Gruyere, pink meat slices sticking out like bookmarks. I put a basil leaf in my mouth, the taste is always new, somehow. Isn’t Basil supposed to be holy? That’s something I used to know.

Seguine will be there.

Luke folds his cutlery neatly on his plate and speaks slowly, deliberately; like someone who’s been waiting all night to lay their ace on the table.

‘She’s bringing her new boyfriend.’

Ah, but I’m clever, I already know. Facebook messenger is today’s Hermes, winged feet have already delivered the news.

‘Yes, Finn. Something in computers, isn’t he?’ My eyes are innocent as milk. Head down, he watches his shot hiss harmlessly into the water and clears his things away.

I think about booking my ticket secretly, so I can arrive at a different time to him; enjoy the white noise of the train as it speeds through the countryside; watching the fields change colour, the mountains looming suddenly out of low cloud and heat haze. I’ve been clinging stubbornly to my introversion all week; no, I don’t want to spend a week with near-strangers forcing small, safe words out of myself, and yet…I hear forks clatter in the steel belly of the sink as Luke scrapes everything clean. Padding in feline silence across the blue Turkish carpet to the bedroom, I open the dresser drawer silently, take the top off the elegant bottle nestled under plain cotton knickers and neutral t-shirt bras.

Inhale.

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***

I ​​​​​​think my favourite things are doors painted white.’ We were talking across shared plates, thin slices of carpaccio like stained glass meat.

‘Why?’

She shrugged, looking at the ceiling as though the answer was hidden in the rough, cobweb-haunted beams. No one but us and two tight blue-grey buns in pearls sipping coffee at the other end of the room, shaking their heads at that woman daring to show her face at Mass.

What about her boys? They’ll have to change school.

​​​​​​Did you see his face? Went white, completely white.

Married, you know, this other one.

Took Communion! Face like butter wouldn’t.

Trollop.

Earrings, something brassy and Indian, tinkled like pixie bells. ‘There’s just so much potential.’ Trista said finally. ‘They might be new or old, they could go anywhere; I could open a door like that and be in Rome, or a forest, or at the edge of the sea.’

‘All doors are magic.’ I said, grasping the shape of her thoughts.

‘Exactly.’ She held her glass up to the light with her customary half-smile, watching the wine shift into luminous rubies (Took Communion! Face like butter wouldn’t). ‘But doors painted white are endlessly possible.’

Those words stayed with me all through that hasty lunch, and all along the dusty concrete walk past the station, and all along the carpet to the psychiatrist’s office. I didn’t like this doctor; cool-eyed and remote and sinister somehow. A fairytale witch in polyester pencil skirts shoved into that fluorescent office, manicured fingernails of barley sugar.

I have sixty minutes to explain it all; the sense of being a sun hurtling around the edge of a black hole, never quite falling in even when gravity has crushed you into glittering dust, you remain in orbit, half-eaten. I must have lowered my gaze, eyelids bleached by bobbling hospital cotton. I felt as though the weeks in that place were written indelibly across me; as though every bone was a white linoleum corridor.

She smacked her lips together happily, as though my diagnosis was something vulnerable and tender to get her teeth into, pink and fleshy and served on a bed of clean paper.

‘In personality disorders of this kind, you might experience an unstable sense of self, a persistent lack of identity…Can you relate to that?’

I told her, the taste of truffle oil lingering on my tongue: I am a door painted white. I could be young or old. I could lead anywhere; to the colosseum or to the sea.

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***

Behind me, I can hear laughter spilling out of the kitchen, tinged with blushing pink. Luke watching our hosts fill up their flagon from the vineyard with his mouth open.

How much?

Three litres? Six euros.

Holy shit, we should move here.

I sip my wine and think about curling my body up inside a suitcase and posting myself somewhere he’s never heard of, but Luke is a good man; anyone living with me would need the golden head of a ministering angel, even here in Eden where parma-violet butterflies skip in the gentle, grassy palm of the land, freckled with nodding poppies. Laura, all opulent curves and honey-blonde and Luke’s old college friend, is playing the part of gracious hostess in this villa while the owners are in America. Earlier, she offered his wine taster’s nose a tanned wrist, laughing, a wave of sour sugar settling around our ankles.

‘‘Every woman needs a new scent after a break up.’

Now Luke turns over in the smooth sheets; the glow of the lamp falling over his face. In sleep, he still purses his lips like a judge; eyelids flickering as his earthy features soften, rolling backwards into clay.

***

‘Is it a feminist consciousness thing?’ She said, leafing through the pages. Torn at the corners, the cover splitting where I’d dropped it in the bath.

‘No, I just like reading about them.’

‘So, which is your favourite goddess? Which one do you relate to the most?’

I said, Diana, of course; the boyish hunter-woman of the forests; distant and strange and wild.

‘The Gaulish Celts called her Arduinna, she rode through the Ardennes forest on the back of a wild boar.’

‘Diana was always in the company of women, wasn’t she?’ She tilted her head, regarding me with laughing, dark sapphire eyes. ‘Isn’t that why you went into the wilderness?’

I felt an ugly sweep of blotchy red roar past the collar of my shirt; I’ve never blushed prettily. She giggled, one hand over her mouth. The other set her glass heavily on the table, it had the perfect imprint of her lips around the rim in raspberry.

​​​​​‘Beth told you that too.’ A great gulp of wine, choking on acid.

‘Oh!’ Now she leaned forward, appalled at my trembling lips like a child swallowing awful medicine. ‘Oh shit, I’m sorry…’

I pushed the apology away, boiling with embarrassment and misery. It was suddenly horribly fresh, the crater of a lost love, the site of a pulled tooth. The sensation of spine and hipbones pushing themselves through unwashed skin. Ghosts appear everywhere, on every street corner, in bar booths and lounging at cafe tables. Dead love requires a strict exorcism and you have but one weak-willed and weeping priest.

‘It’s fine.’

‘It’s not fine, look at me.’ She put her hand underneath my chin, tugging my face upwards towards the rainbow glitter of her kitchen fairy lights.

‘Look at me.’

She stroked my cheek quickly, as though it were too hot to touch. Then slowly, soothing the red puffiness away with the moisturiser in her bag. I wondered at the smell, somehow familiar, as it sank quickly into my skin. She told me it was the rosemary I could smell, because the cream contained Queen of Hungary Water.

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​​​*​​​*​​​*

We have a storm.

I stand like a child at the bedroom window, mouth open, skin prickling with delight. The sky is a flickering patchwork of violent, palpitating clouds, the thunder sounds as though the air is tearing itself apart; folding inwards in a quantum equation. The sky is imploding above Arduinna’s tall house.

A great fork of lightning streaks towards the earth, and I wonder if she’s called it to herself; the goddess riding through the forest, lithe and golden and free. I can see her, ragged-haired in her short tunic and hunting boots, racing through the long pines; the air reeking of warm rain and animal sweat. The wine I’ve drunk rolls around inside me like melting copper; I feel as though I could fly out to the rain-soaked trunks of the trees. I can hear the patter of hooves on the wet soil, I can feel prickly bristles between my fingers. This is her gift, I think, drunkenly. This is a seduction.

When Luke comes to bed I am half conscious, daydreaming on the emerald satin coverlet. The back of my hands are soft with moisturiser, shea butter and almond cream.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Happy.’ I murmur, the rain has done its work and rinsed the inside of my skull clean.

‘Good,’ He slides his body between the sheets, voice peevish and thin. ‘You could be more social, you know. I said you were still tired and needed sleep.’

I nod as though my head were suspended above my body. Downstairs I can hear Laura clinking glasses with her tinkling laugh. I don’t care what people think is happening in this bed; I am hovering above it, cocooned in white fire, making love to a spirit.

***

The sun gleams off the surface of the pool until the blue vanishes in its glare, it looks like mercury. She is here now, bobbing silently at the deep end, staring at something clinging to the sides. Her hair is in a long plait that will dry in copper mermaid curls. I feel – if not envy, if not longing, if not hatred – displaced. Shunted aside by all this unconscious womanhood that lends itself to the naked smell of the jasmine flowers. It’s inborn, a tiny curled seashell growing in the stomach of girls until a day comes when, like Aphrodite, they coast to shore upon it with wild white foam rushing around their ankles. I was born with the powder blue of a Robin’s egg in my stomach.

‘What are you looking at?’

She turns to me; the pool’s reflection playing over her face in greenish streaks. It might not be her face at all but that of some vicious water nymph ready to drag the boys under.

‘Come and see them!’

At the edge of the pool a writhing mass of millipedes curl and uncurl their bodies over the warm stones. Up close, you can see in detail how they move, a microscopic, alien undulation.

​​​​​​​‘Aren’t they amazing?’

The smell of coconut bronzer hazes above the water. I feel raw, the skin between my shoulder blades is crab-red with the sun. Someone shouts at us from behind the pink drowsiness of the roses, Luke is waving a spatula.

‘Lunch you guys!’

I join him on the patio; the look he gives me is cold and pitying. I feel the terrible urge to scream; like the ethereal hair of his unknown woman is trapped in my throat. In the kitchen, Laura is laughing with Something In Computers; her wide mouth framed in soft pink lipstick. I look back at the impossibly blue pool where Trista is taking off her swimsuit; a sinful apple peeling itself.

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​​​​*​​​​*​​​​*

‘I’m not like you.’

‘I’m not like anything…I love souls.’ I waited for the rest of my explanation to fall out, but it never did.

The texture of the air had changed. Before it was thick with the warmth of her body creeping through me, through the slick walls of my organs, making them steam. Now it was jaundiced by sickly yellow streetlights. I wrestled the sheet away before she’d finished speaking, looking at the unlovely naked gibbet of my body in the mirror, wondering if abandonment was always like this when you didn’t know whether you loved someone, or if you wanted to become them. I thought about the goddess who weighed the truth of your heart against a feather.

She didn’t try to follow me as I dressed, walking with thickened, stupid limbs to the kitchen and cleaning the plates left in the sink over and over again, the glass warping night’s reflection so that two moons appeared side by side, the future predicting itself. Patiently, deliberately, I could have worn the china to nothing. At some point, the door shut quietly and I put my hands to my chest, my mouth. I stared out of the window at the man who lived across the street. I could see his shoulder-blades moving under a white t-shirt as he padded around the lit kitchen. I willed him to turn and look. I wanted him to wonder who I was, this empty wasps’s nest with arms dangling, mouthing across the night, ‘Look, look. I am annihilated.’

​​​​*​​​​*​​​​*

I wake to the shadow of a tree dancing in windswept sunlight across the dresser, feeling as though I’ve surfaced from a sunken house; corridors full of deep green water and mysterious light. I dreamed I rented out a secret room in a city where I lived another life. When I go down to breakfast, I compliment skin, hair, smiles. I pass butter and the groaning cafetiere as the faces before me open up like flowers to this new and unexpected sun; Luke brushes past me with a plate of buttered croissants, rolling his eyes.

‘Borderlines,’ he mutters. ‘You should be all be bloody actresses.’

I kiss him where crumbs have caught on his stubble. He grins, hugging me into the familiar, broad plain of his chest. He buries his nose in my hair. ‘You smell nice.’

I smell like wooden floorboards and wild thyme and a secret pocket of the past. Laura is watching us, warm brown eyes flitting from my face to Luke’s as she listens to Finn’s plans for solar panelling. She puts a friendly hand on his arm as he talks, and I wonder if it’s her hair pressed between the pages in my study; if she’s trying to make Luke jealous. I don’t care, I forgive her. I forgive them all. Trista is face down on her bed in a rage, sulking in her aloof, Aquarian way after a row with Finn on the landing, a hissing viper on the terracotta tiles. I imagine running up the stairs; she will be curled up in thoughtful agony, face schooled into death-mask serenity while the bruises bloom violently inside.

I should tell her that I did get her letter but just didn’t reply, it would have been like a General going to sign the surrender and bleeding all over the flag. I should tell her that downstairs Laura is all sunlight and laughter and ease compared to her crucifixion in the sheets, and that Finn has started looking at that lovely, coral-pink mouth. I baptise myself in the pool instead, tilting my head back to watch passenger planes roar in a silent line above the trees. I think, I’m going to need a new scent.

I tread water and unravel gently, becoming a loose cord of memory. The summer heat has caused a love-blindness, a kind of flowering cataract. I remember things through a haze; flower petals raped by violent rain, Luke asking gentle questions of a blind man in an elevator, like someone trying too hard to be good; the spots of blood from a nosebleed on the back of my hand; a swathe of stubborn poppies blooming in a white field. I realise there’s nothing to stop me taking the train to Venice tomorrow. I get out of the water, curling my toes with pleasure like one of the garden’s fat-bellied lizards at the warmth of the saffron coloured stones. I can hear Arduinna’s laughter through the listening pines; the winged exhilaration of summer lightning, striking upwards through the nerves of my body.

Persephone’s Feast

Get up, because the draught has woken you again, make a thin, weak instant coffee and listen to the absolute feathery white static silence of the night. Try to be positive; think how lovely this breeze will be in the summer, as you rub the blood back into your feet. Check the cupboards and nibble a slice of hardening bread.

Back in bed, with the covers wrapped cocoon-like around you, wonder if today’s the day you can have a hot shower, or a bath without boiling the kettle seven times, because maybe by some miracle the plumbing your landlord won’t fix is better now. Wonder how many calories there are in the bread you’ve just eaten, tell yourself to relish the cold night because shivering burns fat. Wonder what you’ve become.

There’s an ethereal quality to the hours just before dawn, when the night is over but the day not yet born, it’s the counterweight to faerie’s dusk, when it’s dangerous to look in hallway mirrors. You know you should be writing but instead you’re thinking about Victorian seances and bathroom suicides and bad omens (before you woke you dreamed about a buzzard dying with its wings torn off). About bisexuality and lesbianism in bohemian Paris, about the likelihood of WWIII predicted in Buzzfeed articles, about dying your hair in lilac pastels and changing your name again. About the food you can’t afford (it doesn’t matter, starvation has 0 calories).

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When the sun comes, listen to the crowing of a rooster in someone’s back yard. Dress in cold clothing, staring at the freckling of peridot moss on next door’s tiles. There are bargain plums ripening in a bowl on the kitchen counter but they are not ready to eat; remember that time you bought a pomegranate and every seed was flawless and the most mystical thing you’d ever tasted, rivalled only by farmhouse eggs with the richest yolks of golden orange. Remember a house with heat and light and carpets, look around at the mould beginning to creep through another coat of nunnery-white paint. Wonder what you’ve become.

Call your partner, your sponsor, your friend. Tell them everything’s fine. You miss them, you’re still sober and getting to meetings, what are they up to. Block out the insistent whispering in your head by trying to act like a normal person. With going to the shops and gazing longingly at meat that won’t be reduced until 18.00 like a normal person. With running a tepid bath and lying there until your flesh is numb obsessing over torturous cold water therapy in Georgian sanatoriums like a normal person. With picking up the tablets that stop the worst of this putting you back in hospital.

Wait…Just wait for the quiet night to roll around again, when it’s just you and your ghosts in the Hades of this room, waiting for revelation between the clock hands, eating up the seconds like those pomegranate seeds.

Wonder what you’ve become.

Flying in the Crucible

‘I’m not a mental health writer.’ I say, watching the water beneath me tangle itself up in silky spirals that vanish again in an instant. Beside me, he blows the air out of his mouth hard, frustrated.

‘You should be. Do something with it.’

I try to explain that teasing everything that’s beautiful about the world to the surface is all I’ve ever wanted to do. It was never about how the warped lens of my brain saw the way sunlight looks rippling across a shallow riverbed, or the way the ground in that blistering olive grove I visit year after year steams after the rain. The silence you only ever find in church, candle smoke and frost.

On Sunday, walking home at night, I breathed in the air as it turned towards a new season and instantly flew backwards 22 years to throwing open my grandmother’s bedroom window, amazed at the sweetness of the evening air as summer comes. I remember pulling in deep lungfuls of it as a child, high on its perfume, and even the fullest, most rib-breaking breath never being enough. The same drugged sensation came over me again on Sunday night; it was intoxicating, it was Midsummer, it was faerie, it was limitless possibility and I wanted to run and run over the fields until I slipped somehow through the veil to the world beyond I always secretly knew was home.

It reminded me of all the time I’ve been wasting, trying to be normal. Because I do want to talk more about the strangeness that blooms under my skin in secret petals, about always being impossibly Other.

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Honesty is a refinement of the spirit, a crucible that makes a molten puddle of your deceptions, but in this case I ask myself what good would it do. I worry; wonder if my words would disappear into the void of ‘mental health’ rather than remain standing as they are, barefaced. The way I see the world is warped, through sea glass and stained glass; lit by halos and moonlight on silver shillings. It’s the sound of doors to everywhere opening inside me, a thousand grandmother’s windows thrown open to let the night in. I don’t want my world to shrink to a word, would it? Why should I care?

Perhaps I’m protesting too much. Perhaps he’s right and I do have a gift, something to say about living with a mind full of watercolour. The fact remains that my name is stamped in black photocopy in doctor’s offices along the coast. I eat pink pills every night just so that I can get some sleep, but when I do dream, it’s of flying.

The Blue Shell

Hello January, bruised and freezing. Hello you North wind, knifing our lungs, pushing out the last, stubborn ghosts of the old year.

Hello first fire, did you see the the grate swept clean for you, the old ashes gone?

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2016 is the start of a big year for me; I know, you’ve seen those words on everyone’s blog over the last couple of days, I’ll explain.

If you’ve been following this blog since it’s melancholy conception, you’ve seen some writing, some photography. You’ve seen snippets of poetic prose and even the odd arty nude, but you haven’t seen much of me. Some would object – say the writing speaks for me, illuminates my character already – in many ways that’s true, but not completely.

Dive deep under the skin and you may find a graceful spirit, darkness blooming around the edges; a cool, complex Neptunian drifting in dreamy waters. I think sometimes that she is a my cosmic creative yolk, and I am the brittle robin’s eggshell trying to protect her, but too thin. Bitter? Maybe. Yes.

Here’s the blue shell:

I’m about to turn 30, I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m supremely inconsistent and smudged around the edges and only a pinch of that salt on the fields can be attributed to mental health issues. I am constantly at war with something and do not know peace apart from those times I take myself off and revel in a remote landscape and utter solitude. Even then, wait for the tide to turn, and loneliness to start devouring my remains. I am a child of grazed knees and bramble snags; relentlessly bullied for being different. Too weird, the girl who talks to trees, who hears music when none is playing, who was so feral when they dragged her screaming to secondary school she didn’t understand how to use a sanitary towel, how to wear a bra, how often humans bathe.

Let’s move on from that place, for all its savage beauty. For all the dawns I saw breaking with the moon still hanging in a violet sky. For all the horses I rode bareback when the farmer’s family were sleeping. Let’s ease back to here.

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2015 was hard, terribly hard. There were hospital admissions and fear and death and hopelessness. A love I thought would never survive, the creeping realisation that time has spun on, and here I am still. Little redcap forever lost in the forest, with wolfish fur tickling the underside of her ill-fitting, transgressive skin.

I’ve hidden my whole life; behind my unwashed hair, in shapeless invisibility cloaks, in plain sight with a bare face. I have crept into mossy hollows to lick at my wounds, the thousand knives a mermaid dances on. I think that this may be the year to stop hiding, to be as I wish to be; as feral as I please and as eloquent too. I will take pride in that something about me slurred across pub tables and whispered in my ear, at once magnetic and repellent, the desire to plunge your hand into a nest of beautiful snakes.

Welcome to a New Year, lovely readers.

Tripwire

There is a tapping against the window. This time of year, spirits are abroad; floating like solitary shells or thundering through the teeming clouds on horseback. And because I see things they tell me are not there, I turn my head. The glass, of course, is blankly black. Raindrops shiver where they have fallen; tiny, delicate globes. No ghostly hands. No wavering faces.

In the morning, the bed is quicksand. I dress slowly, slipping on dirty shirts. I haven’t slept again; spinning in the 3 a.m. eye of a constant storm.

They tell me breakfast kickstarts your metabolism into solidarity, but too often I forget, and brew bitter coffee instead to wipe my eyes and rearrange insomnia’s regret. The fear hums through my body at night like a soundwave, reels of imagined and inevitable catastrophe; shadow play on the walls. I take my seat and buckle up, answer emails on automatic pilot, crash.

Because I am an adult, but I do not know how to live adulthood with its loss and focus and exit wounds. Its filthy fingernails, its silent, stoic, grown-up crying, its poisoned wells. I am sick, and yet my sickness manifests invisibly; in walking on clouds until my wings scorch like Icarus. In tidal waves of frenzied creativity. In terror of coffin-lining.

I call the crisis team, they say: Make a cup of tea. Have a hot bath, have two.

Imagine if I changed my name and ran away. To Amsterdam, Rome, Prague. Imagine a pretty, functional girl trailing through picture postcards. Imagine if I could starve myself back into perfection; ethereal slenderness, escape my life with a skeleton key. It’s never worked, it won’t now. Defeated, I sit back down, press send. Answer the phone and rattle out affirmations; yes I will do the things you ask, even though my head is a helium balloon held to my collar with safety pins.

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Daere (Fiend). Self portrait.

I hate this loneliness, hate skittering around the inside of my skull like a spider in a matchbox. The sheer, pinned-butterfly exhaustion, the long squeezebox crush of the clock, the deathly irritant of the same frustrated faces all wishing they were somewhere else. The sudden surges of my too-bright rage and happiness, swirling together in terrible colours. Might as well plunge your hands into a bucket of nails, spend your cigarette break standing in a barrel of gunpowder.

I go and wait on the street corner speckled with drizzle, just to look at the people. Headlamps glide past me, a continuous river of will o’the wisps. A half-bottle, 6o mg, and the vague beat of music through the wall ceases to fall across the tripwire of anxiety, and the fire in my head dulls to a chapel’s glow. A soft prison formed of old walls, protecting the marshmallow and butter of me.

These things are a shield against the long silence, against the fear. It is a wall between me and the things I half-glimpse; behind my reflection, in doorways, stairwells. It is protection against the evenings too scared to leave the room, fervently imagining the flaming sword of the Archangel Michael sweeping down in a blaze of ferocious light. Watching shadowy heads fall. It is in these long nights that I realise the depths of my own insanity, covering the mirrors with cloths and saltwater.