On Autumn

On Autumn

Autumn has crept up again, slinking its way into the air on a cool breeze; sliding into bed next to you as you sleep. Those hot sticky nights and fresh morning swims are a distant memory. The lush greens turn to golden hues, radiating the warmth that the days will quickly lose. Conkers are now the rich treasure of the ground, collected on the way home; their smooth surface rubbed lovingly by fingers in pockets.

It has always been my favourite season. When the air is cold enough to wear cashmere and polo necks. Afternoon walks filled with the crunch of leaves. Dusting off the winter coat. Crisp mornings, hot soups and mashed potato. Baked camembert. New pens and the smell of fresh notebooks. Roasted squash and pumpkin. The countdown to Christmas.

Autumn is a season of change and fresh starts, far more than the grey January days when resolutions slip away as soon as you’ve made them. There is an optimism in the brightness of autumn, the light may be fading but it lingers on. I’ve always fallen prey to ‘back to school’ syndrome; marching into September with an army of new ambitions; goals that need conquering; dreams that want fulfilling. In the past, romantic plans made in summer and embarked on in autumn have crumbled as winter comes; a move to Cornwall that never materialised, a career in a classroom that ended abruptly.

So I’m entering this autumn with some trepidation. It’s another new start. I’m going back to university to start a masters degree. Despite good intentions – a tidy desk, new books – I can’t help thinking of those autumns past, which started golden but ended in emptiness. I know that past me would have enjoyed the moment, indulged in my favourite autumnal pleasures and revelled in the possibilities of the season.

I hope the magic of autumn can conjure those feelings again.


On swimming

On swimming

Summer in London is languishing under a white cotton sheet, sipping warm water from the glass by the bed. Writhing through sleepless nights, with windows wide open and street noise roaring into the room. An oppressive heat fuelled by pollution. Summer is a dull headache, insect bites and sunburn. Heat rash. Wearing the same loose-flowing jumpsuit three days running because it’s the only thing that keeps you cool. Dehydration no matter how much water you drink. Summer is sitting inside with the curtains closed.

The tube is hell. The central line is a furnace packed with sweating bodies in fainting heat. Irritation at being looked at as you walk down the street, your legs inspected by men wandering around shirtless and sunburnt. The office which has no air conditioning heats up like a greenhouse, fans churning fruitlessly.

On these hot days I long for water to cover me and steal the stickiness away. The thing to do when it’s too hot to stay in the house is to choose a place to swim. The only time I wished I lived in north London is on burning days, when the Ladies’ Pond at Hampstead Heath is the most sensible place to be – but the hour-long journey in the heat is unappealing. This time, my local leisure centre will have to do.

Over the past few years I have developed a taste for wild swimming, away from the bustle of a chlorinated pool crammed with children or lane-hoggers. I’m not yet a hardened swimmer like Jessica J. Lee whose recent book Turning describes swimming in German lakes all year round, even in midwinter when she has to chip away the ice from the surface. My dips tend to be in the summer season.

There is something deeply thrilling about jumping into an unknown body of water. I get a buzz from surrendering myself. Seas, lakes, and rivers all offer a different sensation: the exciting crash of waves in buoyant seawater, the unfamiliar stillness and unnerving depth of a cold lake, the freshness of a flowing river.

A hot day without a dip feels wasted. I’m gripped by a feeling of emptiness and disappointment at having failed in my mission to plunge into a new pool. I long to leave London and run into a lake somewhere quiet. What is it about water? It has an endless appeal to the imagination, its scale and possibility stretches below and beyond us, irresistible.

I was born in a town on the north-east coast of England and took my first steps on holiday at a beach in Fort William. When we moved away to a city, my parents had my bedroom walls painted with a sea scene, complete with sand and shells. When I said I missed the sea, my dad would hold a conch to my ear and tell me to listen to the waves.

I recently read a beautiful piece in The Guardian by writer and daily recreational swimmer Philip Hoare, who is haunted by Shakespeare’s words from The Tempest, sung by the spirit Ariel: ‘Of his bones are coral made; / Those are pearls that were his eyes, / Nothing of him that doth fade / But doth suffer a sea-change / into something rich and strange’. I too was proccupied with the wonders of the water depths.

At school, I performed the role of a spirit in a production of The Tempest, and later composed a song to Ariel’s words for my GCSE Music coursework. I was bewitched by the romantic potential of water, even in death. In Shakespeare’s song, the body of a drowned sailor does not fade, but is transformed into something beautiful and unusual. And so I became aware of the power that water holds over the collective imagination. It wasn’t just me who was under its spell.


I thought I’d end this post by recommending some related reading for those who need some watery words to distract from the summer heat (although, as I write this it is admittedly raining – finally):

The Outrun by Amy Liptrot
Turning: A Swimming Memoir by Jessica J Lee
Leviathan by Philip Hoare
The Waves by Virginia Woolf


On London Bridge

On London Bridge

Stretching from London Bridge down to Forest Hill, Crystal Palace and Lewisham, south east London is a sprawling section of the capital city, rich and full of life. Cultures and communities converge. Delicious food abounds. I love this part of London. It’s my home. When I see the news notifications popping up on my phone on Saturday night, I feel sick. London Bridge is being attacked. Innocent diners, partiers, tourists and theatregoers are fleeing from Borough market, terrified. A pub I had spent many nights in as an undergraduate is being evacuated. People are being ushered down towards Elephant and Castle. I am tucked up in bed, watching events unfold on my phone, powerless to protect those people. A cacophony of sirens whirrs outside our window.

The next day, I hear interviews with bystanders on the radio. People who haven’t slept, who are distraught and haven’t had time to process the tragedy, are being interviewed on national television. Recently, some of those affected by past terror attacks have spoken out about the traumatic impact that intrusive journalists can have. One woman revealed the relentless tactics employed to contact her – hacking social media accounts, calling her parents and turning up at her house. I want the camera crews to leave London in peace. Let these people comfort each other. Let them grieve. Leave them be.

These events are horrific but they are still uncommon. The people who want to commit harm are few, although many voices will try to make you believe otherwise. I feel guilty about being scared and sad on Sunday morning. I wasn’t there at the scene, I tell myself, I don’t have any friends who were injured. I have no right to be upset.

Londoners are tough. We are determined to have a normal Sunday. We go to the pub. We do the laundry. I read on social media that neighbours in my area offered their homes to those fleeing the attack the previous night. The New York Times reports that Britain is ‘reeling’ from the recent terror attacks and a backlash emerges on Twitter as people across the country share mundane details about their Sundays, from taking out the recycling to live-tweeting The Archers omnibus. We are carrying on as normal, they say.

I take the tube on Monday morning, hyperaware that the commuter hour on the Northern line doesn’t feel as busy as usual. I listen more acutely, noticing that no one is talking. No one ever talks on the tube, I remind myself. As I walk home from the station after work, I see a group of women dancing in Burgess Park. I’ve noticed them before with their boombox, dancing together unashamedly, their children hanging around waiting for them. They are brazenly facing the rain, arms raised as if in praise. I love them. I nearly stop to tell them so but I don’t want to interrupt. Instead I watch for a moment, my hair dripping. Then I continue home, rain running down my face.

On Lists

In an interview with Der Spiegel in 2009, novelist Umberto Eco referred to lists as ‘the origin of culture’. He argues, ‘What does culture want? To make infinity comprehensible’. Eco points out that cultural history is comprised of lists – dictionaries, museum catalogues, encyclopedias. He adds that novels are full of lists. Culture is made up of lists and so too are our everyday lives. We write lists to make life comprehensible, to create order in a world full of chaos.

I am made and marred by lists. I write lists when I’m feeling optimistic. Lists seem tangible; a clear delineation of what needs achieving. The lists I write range from the simple – send an email – to the ambitious – clean the whole house, write an essay, do a job application. I write lists so that I don’t forget to do things but also so that I can have the satisfaction of ticking them off, however small. I love the feeling of reaching the end of the day, all my tasks completed and a deserved gin and tonic in hand. But this doesn’t always happen.

The mistake I make is overestimating what can be achieved in a day. At work, I write a list of everything that needs doing in a week and feel disappointed when there are still 10 items unfinished by the end of Monday. I put ‘clean the house’ at the top of the list forgetting that this will take half a day, leaving little time for me to finish the article I am writing. I fail to acknowledge that the completion of certain tasks invariably depends on others; waiting for sign-off on a piece of copy or an email response to a reference request.

I have discovered that my personal sense of success is in direct correlation with my list-dictated productivity. I become frustrated if things are perpetually unfinished. Regular chores are a constant battle – as soon as they are ticked off, there is more to do. I have spoken to others who experience similar anxious sensations about productivity and needing to have a measure for their personal success on a day-to-day basis.

My solution is this: make achievable lists. It sounds simple but I am still working it out. Think realistically about how much time something will take and ensure you have allowed space in your day for it to take that long. When it is clear that the day is full, draw a line. Anything else that needs doing can wait until tomorrow. Next, prioritise. An application deadline the next day is more urgent than cleaning the bathroom. Accept that you may not have time to clean the bathroom for a few days. Do not punish yourself for this. You could even, god forbid, ask someone else to clean the bathroom this week.

I recently saw an anti-capitalist lovenote emblazoned with the message: You are worth so much more than your productivity. Remember this slogan. Print it out and put it above your desk if you have to. Sure, make a list if it helps you but don’t let it dictate your day. Feel free to stray away from the list; adapt it as the day goes on, cross off things that aren’t important or scrap it entirely. After all, the best days are those when you have space to be impulsive.

On Walls

On Walls

It is 2017 and Donald Trump is planning to build a wall on the US/Mexican border. This was one of the key policies on which he was elected as President. It has become synonymous with his politics; a politics of division, of separation and of distrust. On Friday, thousands of protestors joined hands along the border to protest the plan, forming a human barrier of almost 1.5km.

Back in 1989, Germany rejoiced as the wall that had divided the country physically, socially, economically and politically for the last 40 years was torn down. Back when I was an A-Level student studying German politics, I was astounded as I learnt of the post-war history of this nation. I couldn’t believe there had been a physical wall dividing this country, separating families and friends. It sounded like the plot of a dystopian novel, not the recent history of a European nation. But then, it’s not all that surprising given that physical and imagined walls are what divide our world.

Borders, fences and walls are all symbolic of the dark side of human nature that strives to shut out the world and divide land, people and property. As Donald Trump shouts about the wall he will build to stop Mexicans from illegally entering the US, I think of the late director Derek Jarman writing of his garden in Dungeness: ‘There are no walls or fences. My garden’s boundaries are the horizon’. I wish the rest of our world was like Jarman’s borderless garden, which thrived despite it’s inhospitable location on the harsh Kent coastline.

On Films

On Films

I have recently discovered, rather late into my twenties, the truly cathartic power of the cinema. There is something about the anonymity of the darkened auditorium and the shared experience with strangers and friends which makes it a good place to face your demons. Last night I went to see German writer and director Maren Ade’s new film Toni Erdmann, which was highly recommended by a film-buff friend. It is undeniably brilliant; an excruciating black comedy (which German directors are so skilled at) about the difficulty of communicating with your family. I won’t go into the detail of the plot here; Peter Bradshaw has written a fantastic review in The Guardian which says everything you need to know.

This film had an emotional impact because it deals with situations which feel uncomfortably close to my own life. But this certainly isn’t unique to me. Who hasn’t had to face up to a difficult relationship with a parent, an uncomfortable sexual encounter or the death of a pet? These are ordinary life experiences played out on a big screen but dealt with intimately, in what Bradshaw aptly calls ‘excruciatingly understated tragedy’. Yes, Toni Erdmann made me cry in a primal Where the Wild Things Are way but it also made me laugh loudly and it turned out this was just what I needed.

This is the fourth film I have watched in recent weeks. Manchester by the Sea was impressive and mesmerising in its slow-burning, gut-wrenching unravelling of past tragedy but lacked the nuance, subtlety and skill of Toni Erdmann. La La Land was mildly entertaining but too predictable and sickly sweet for me. However, there is another film that I thought matched Toni Erdmann for its charm and poetic beauty. Jim Jarmusch’s Paterson is a beautiful film which draws its inspiration from the American poet William Carlos Williams and the imagist movement.

In this film, like in Williams’s poetry, patterns occur as images are repeated. A waterfall. A pair of twins.

The central character is named Paterson and lives in a town called Paterson; the town which Williams was from and which he used as the name for a collection of poetry. Paterson is a bus driver who spends his lunch break writing poetry in a notebook. He observes the daily rhythm of the city, he hears snippets of conversations, he returns home to his eccentric wife and her dreams. The film is punctuated by Paterson reading aloud poems that he has written.

According to Ezra Pound, the key features of imagist poetry are:
I. Direct treatment of the “thing,” whether subjective or objective.

II. To use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation.

III. As regarding rhythm: to compose in sequence of the musical phrase, not in sequence of the metronome.

It is refreshing to watch a film that responds to poetic ideas in such a determined way, combining and contrasting art forms. If you haven’t been to the cinema recently and are feeling disenchanted with the world, I would urge you to go. Ignore the news and switch off your phone. For a few hours, sit in the dark, be absorbed and transported, laugh, cry and remember that humans are still capable of making something beautiful.

Meditating on blue

Meditating on blue

I recently attended the first meeting of a new Book Club organised by one of my friends. The focus of our reading is on cultural and critical theory, and the first book on our list was William H. Gass’s ‘On Being Blue’. The author subtitles the book as ‘A Philosophical Inquiry’, but it is clear from the outset that his primary concern is language: he uses it, abuses it, savours it and concludes by encouraging the reader to wallow not in ‘the blue things of the world’ but in the language which says them.

Since reading this book I, like Gass, have been meditating on blue and its multiple manifestations. For Gass, blue is pornographic, melancholic, cold, wet, violent. Blue is emotional, adulterous, physical, sensational, unstoppable. And language is the medium which gives this blueness its materiality. Without language, blue would be a vague feeling. With language, it is vivid and sensational, captured in many forms by Gass throughout the book. It is this materiality that really intrigues me.

Some weeks ago, I spilt an entire pot of blue ink on my bedroom carpet. My initial reaction was one of shock; I was frozen to the spot, watching the stain spread like a pool of blood. The blueness of the ink was almost as shocking as that bright red might have been. I spent two hours scrubbing the carpet to get the ink out and, like a bruise, it grew gradually lighter: from navy, to green, to yellow until it was barely visible. This blue that had spilt on my floor seemed to be the material body for words that might have been; the ink that would have fuelled my fountain pen and given life to language on paper. Sitting on my carpet, bruise-like, it looked bluer than ever; melancholic, lost and lonely. I imagined the words I might have written sinking into the carpet and vowed to use ink cartridges in the future.

There has certainly been an artistic trend to meditate on blue: Picasso’s so-called ‘blue period’, Gershwin’s ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ and Matisse’s blue cut-outs, to name but a few. Perhaps Gass could have chosen any colour or object or theme and found a way to weave a linguistic web around it, as he has done here. Perhaps blue is incidental, an opportunity for him to meditate philosophically, using language, on any given subject. But I was drawn in by his magic. There seems to be something peculiarly special about blue and its connotations.

‘It’s not the word made flesh we want in writing, in poetry and fiction, but the flesh made word’ (p. 32). Gass is preoccupied with the physical, with the fleshiness of language and its relationship to our experience. Whether this inquiry is philosophical, literary, emotional or personal, it taps into the relationship between language and experience which permeates all of our lives, whether we know it or not.

As much as I relish refilling my fountain pen from a pot of ink, I am still using ink cartridges. Once the bruise is light enough, I will return to my old ritual. I will return to the physical, impulsive injection of blue that seems such a crucial part of writing.