Pride (in yourself)

I feel it’s always worse to be sad when it’s sunny outside. When the weather corroborates your feelings with its grim drizzle and thrashing winds, it makes sense why you feel bad for no reason because, really– who can explain the weather away ? But when it’s sunny, I just feel so guilty; here are the gods in all their glories working to give beauty to life with their pollens and light rays- and I can’t feel a thing. Not a speck of summer hits the skin and tears blend with the sweat in some awful bodily cocktail. But the best thing about the weather is it’s changes; how you bless the day you’re given and hope it will last for as long as it can. The cliche of emotions being like the weather is cheesy as hell, but it is true.

I’ve been feeling BLEH for a while; a conglomeration of university ending, friends falling apart like the blown petals of flowers, and a sense of unceasing unimportance and confusion. But, it helps to get a little perspective. I saw one of my old friends yesterday who often also feels BLEH, but feeling BLEH together is actually the way to end BLEH, funnily enough. We went to a queer film screening in our hometown to celebrate pride month, and seeing so many stories of love denied, or mutilated, or hidden or so happy it could die was as uplifting as it was soberly life affirming in the different scales and durations in facing the problems we’re thrown. I’m not saying that all suffering is the same, or trying to erase lgbtqi+ narratives back into the soup of heteronormative obscurity, where specific and ignored problems are straightjacketed back into the confines of societal ignorance: I’m just saying, listen to others. You’ll learn a whole new way to see your own pain, and hopefully be able to help the other person/people too.

One of my favourite short films was about a trans kid called Nasser. Their mum keeps trying (in good faith, she isn’t trying to be horrible) to make them wear dresses, to have their unruly hair down; but all Nasser wants to do is eat crisps with their friends in their hideaway and to fix bikes with their dad. Not everyone knows what it’s like to feel wrong in their body, to feel trapped in your vision of yourself and what the world sees and dictates. But, I’m sure everyone, at least once, has wished they could be someone else- has wished to escape and exist in another’s body and life. Everyone knows what it’s like to feel shitty. And here is my point: listen. Nobody expects you to have the world answers or to be born with the heart of mother theresa. It is hard fucking work being tolerant and not judging, but it is so necessary. I really don’t want this world falling into a heap of depressed floppy bodies, all too lazy to learn how to love. Slipping back into the amnesia of claustraphobic understandings of life as an object, rather than a thing that’s always moving. The shadows as they play on curtains. The taste of chocolate as its sweetness hits you, then mellows away. The dragonfly’s one day.

I hope everyone has had a wonderful pride month, doing everything you can to support and give back to the lgbtqi+ community as an ally; or celebrating your love wherever you can to uplift others less fortuante to be romantic in their own countries (it pisses the hell out of me how most commonwealth countries still uphold homophobic laws- THANK YOU EVIL BRITISH EMPIRE AND YOUR PUTRID INFLUENCES THAT REMAIN). I am planning to go to Pride in London this Saturday, so yay! But if you still haven’t signed any petitions, made any donations or at least educated yourself a little about the lgbtqi+ community and how to rid injustices against them in the wider community (and also to rid the community internally of intolerance)- there is always time. And caring for others is the best way to care for yourself. love is a human right .JPG

XOXOXOXOXOXOXXOXOXOXOXOXOOXXOXOOXXOXOXOXOXO

PS- obviously don’t tear your soul to shreds trying to make everyone happy. You do what you can, and you understand that you’re amazing even if you can’t make the whole world love you as you wished. :))))))

The film event was run by CINE-SISTER. You can find them @CineSisterFilm on twitter. Give them a follow!!!!!

GRUMPY OLD WOMEN

If you know me (and if you do- aren’t you blessed!?!) then you’ll know there is one occupation of mine that takes up a rather large chunk of the limited amount of sunlight we get in this United Kingdom of Shitheads: I rant. A lot. Yet, my country (England) is known for being very, painstakingly polite… whilst decimating cultures and livelihoods across the globe. As you may sense, this political cultivation of elegance and grace has not caught on in the skull of M.G.B. I do not understand why we find farting in public so horrifying (remember the doctrine- ‘wherever you may be let your winds blow free’), yet for around 400 years we found the public degradation of a whole continent perfectly respectable?Why- Lord Nelson was so polite and patriotic in his support of slavery that we have given him a fucking 50ft. column to celebrate his militaristic racism! Long live that good old sense of propriety!

We like to believe that Britishness is all cricket whites on a summer green playing tiddlywinks with Annabelle, sipping on Pims for the glory of  ‘democracy’ whilst training our beloved pet dogs to curtsy. In reality, all we have is sun-burnt football hooligans with union jack scarves tied on-top of bald patches whilst they spittle their pints all over the place, belching about THOSE FUCKING (*insert racist/ misogynistic ect… intolerant stereotyping of a group here*). Basically: England and it’s history of (white) people haven’t got a fucking clue. I know I haven’t got a fucking clue either- but at least I don’t pretend to know with a silver spoon up my bottom; and if I do sound cocky in my announcement of ignorance, so be it.

I know that ranting doesn’t change the world (let us see the Suffragette wisdom- ‘deeds not words’), but it’s at least a bloody place to start isn’t it? It strikes me that the white patriarch in his tweed can rant and rave all he wants in the golf club man-cave about whatever new minority is causing his stocks to collapse; or, on the flip side of Britishness, the tired everyman in Wetherspoons who will happily drink German beer, but when faced with the prospect of multiculturalism and difference wants a Tardis trip back to D-Day so he can once again defend our precious cliffs.

It annoys me that people rant about the wrong things, because ranting for a good purpose can be a very cathartic and inspiring action. I begin my tirades, and I see a look of quizzical glee in their eyes: ohhh haha doesn’t she get her knickers in a twist?!? Or even worse, the dead-eyes that say: you’re wasting your breath. You are a small fish in a big pond, give up and join the rest of us in our day-time TV acquiescence towards the suffering of others.

WHY ARE MEN ALLOWED TO COMPLAIN AND NOT BE TOLD THEY ARE NAGGING? WHY AM I MADE TO FEEL SO FUTILE AND POWERLESS WHEN TRYING TO DISCUSS PROBLEMS THAT NEED TO BE CHANGED? WHY IS INJUSTICE ALLOWED TO BE SILENTLY ACCEPTED BY LITERALLY EVERY FACET OF SOCIETY, BUT WHEN SOMEBODY SPEAKS UP- IT IS THEM WHO IS IN THE WRONG?!?!

However, there is one person who saturates themselves with as much verbal ammunition to rain upon the barminess of the world as myself. My grandma. Okay- whilst her specialties include the woes of road potholes and carpet stains, rather than my métier consisting of the structural oppressions and aggressions of our white, abelist, heterosexual, phallogocentric, imperial, fatphobic, nationalistic patriarchy in the west (i’m getting riled up, can you tell?). Together we are the grumpy women of breakfast. Presiding over the Guardian and bowls porridge tutting away and adding our own commentary to the morning news. We listen to each other, and I think that’s the point. Yes, the world incessantly depresses us all as we collectively melt the ice caps and let migrants die with not one government actually giving a damn; but at least being able to say so without fear of being ostracized or labelled the family communist next Christmas dinner makes it all feel a little more manageable.

I don’t wanna be the grim reaper of news when I walk into a room and depress people with my rants, but I do find apathy, or even outright poo-pooing from others is a whole lot less depressing than biting my tongue the whole time and hoping it will all go away. I just hope these words don’t stay words, but that one day they will be a part of the plan for us all to help one another a bit more; without yawning half-way through some-ones dissection of whatever thing it is they’re trying to wrestle with for the better.

mind fart

I promised I would start making writing on here more structured. Being an anxious drama queen who soothes fears of inadequacy and failure by completely ignoring or avoiding the offending threat, often means this blog is neglected whilst I swerve my attention to less sustainable lifestyle choices… I shall not digress further. But, despite just claiming that I want to make this space more structured and reliable for posting content which actually has a clear intention; today’s post shall be a ramble. A mind shamble like a beach walk through London gutters filled with alligators and pink rivers. A big old bramble of ideas or something like that which I thought of when I was probably a bit high, and probably just a littleee bit sad or worried. But always hopeful- and today’s post is about hope and how I thought maybe we could not let it crush us with its brightness and potential big and heavy as whale smiles. A thought about hope that is catered to the inevitable failures of this capitalist, racist, misogynistic, anthropocentric world (so many words- not enough people to hear me…)

Basically, my brain thought thus: Just because your dream worlds cannot be replicated in the materiality/ reality around you, does not make them any less valuable or less real- they still are a part of you and the life/ lives your body encounters living each day. Don’t expect your dreams to be a plot for the success of your life, let them already be your life- let imagination and surreality all slither and intoxicate and wedge themselves into the drudge-space of other eyes deciding who you are- let your goals and thoughts and ideas (even worries, that you can constructively and conceivably change) that make you feel  sincerely content bathe you in obscurity. Be obscure and so wrapped up in your hopes that it doesn’t matter if the rest of the world doesn’t notice/ care/ is insane/cruel/ unfathomable. ask yourself what your REAL dreams are and why (world peace or slimming down to a size 8) – if they even are your dreams originally in the first place and who you would be with no one to see/ experience your being…

Don’t expect the material conditions and circumstances of your present life be the end product of what your mind is capable of. The mind is more hopeful with its energies and movements and imaginations than the actual weight of the world with its limited resources and space and time can achieve.

Basically (I hope I don’t sound preachy, if so- my sincerest apologies): Let your mind colour your life and live submerged in that colour simultaneously. be your own rose tinted glasses and know the world is only as beautiful as you can conceive it to be. BE A WIERDO DREAMING NERD FOREVER!!!!!!! xoxoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxxoxox

Pocket Revolutionaries

Survival is difficult. I don’t mean Bear Gyrlls macho survival skills eating maggots or sleeping in a goat carcas. I mean the endurance of being able to wake up every day without instantly loosing hope in the world we inhabit as soon as your eyes scan the news. As soon as all the misogynistic/ racist/ classist/ general unwarranted cruelties all come to light, and you’re told “That’s just the way things are“.

I know that worrying about abuse and violence doesn’t prevent people suffering, but thinking is a start and the more you imagine the lives of others, the more unfathomable it seems to be able to ignore all the pain. Not imagining in some wierd voyeuristic, self-righteous way; I just mean, the more you think of others, the more potential for inciting a change of attitudes- which then hopefully leads to a decrease in the shittery that is ‘human nature’. 

This morning I woke up and did the mundane task of reading the newspaper with my orange juice ( I sound so bougie lol- its just my grandma likes to get the good old broadsheets still in their big flapping wings of paper). There was Windrush. There was the murder of Kim Wall (may you forever rest in peace xoxo). There were ambulance staff being sexually assulted and people in Nicaragua killed. The world is so beautiful because of it’s diversity; but this diversity and the incessantly shifting natures behind the diversity also means a huge pick’n’mix of the absolute worst parts of what we are capable of too. Reading all the stories didn’t armour me a thicker skin of acceptance, I didn’t try to make it make sense: I cried.

Crying is seen as something wimpy and that you should only do if absolutley nobody can see. Nope. Not for me. There’s nothing strong in denying, of repressing terror and fear in the name of blind comfort. Crying just means you care, a lot- and caring a lot is definatley something this world needs more of. But to return to my previous point: worrying incessantly does nothing to help those people whose lives you are invested in wanting to help. Putting obvious activism aside (‘obvious’= joining political parties, starting your own grass roots groups, protesting, donating to causes and signing petitions/ nagging politicans), I would like to propose another kind of activism that helps one cope with the world’s miseries without becoming an angry, detached, disillusioned shell: pocket revolution. The small, yet so so so necessary acts of kindness and understanding  that make the world- well, at least your patch of it- better.

POCKET REVOLUTION- my grandma hugging, not telling me off for being ‘too involved‘ with what I see in the world when I cry to the morning paper. The kind man who gave me a pink geranium after grandma and I admired his Tulips. It is smiling when the dogs cover me in dirty river water, not shouting at them. The mother whose pram I helped carry down the tube steps despite rushing crowds and the little girl who I made smile when I was feeding pidgins. Basically: not being afraid of strangers. Not being afraid to be childish and silly, or afriad to be the first one to say sorry. It is complimenting strangers and smiling because if Donald Trump/ Amber Rudd/ Theresa May/ Kim Jong Twat can hate people for no reason, then I am going to fucking try my very hardest to love people for no reason other than the fact you breathe and feel and eat and shit pretty much the same as me; but with a lot of interesting details I have no idea about (and that I would love to get to know over a cup of tea sometime).

I know I probably sound very righteous and I haven’t come up with any break through political rhetoric to destroy the montser of patriachal imperial capitalism… But I tried. And that is the point. We should at least try to try.

I was at the train station reading some poems after the newspaper, and the one I want to share is another example of what I would call pocket revolution by a Ghanaian poet, Joe De Graft called ‘An Un-African Breakfast’. His positivity made me feel stronger, and so I would love to spread the loveeee further. (it also kinda reminded me of my boyfriend in how happy Joe sounded despite all the world’s various brands of cruelty- both he and my luv are definatley pocket revolutionaries) xxoxoxoxoxoxox

AN UN-AFRICAN BREAKFAST 

So here I am this morning
Early in the Kitchen.

The aroma of fresh coffee on the boil,
Nose-filling aroma of good fresh coffee
on the boil;
And this kitchen is good to be in
And good to hear the browning water
babble-bubbling inside the glass-trap
head of the percolator;
And the good wife still asleep in her vono bed
Dreaming good dreams, I hope,
Of me!

All night the tummy hasn’t been well,
Running like it wanted nothing more
to do with me for eating what I
do not know-
All night a running tummy;
Till at last out of weariness
I drop into oblivion between 4 and 5
Quite unknowing –
Deep oblivion
Sweet as feathers…

Then crash out of nowhere
The white day comes bursting in
Through frosted louvres…..

And its good to be alive!

Good indeed to be alive,
So thank we god
For everything,
And the myriad sparrows
Chirrupping in the fresh morning sun outside
While the percolator bubbles……

(The poem is quite long, I can’t type the whole poem out but I highly highly highllllyyyy recommend reading his poetry, they are soul food)

Volaility of feathers

I am a volatility of feathers- one day sweet as apricots freshly brimming up with ruddiness on the twig and branch; Smiling is for granted, even with no make up and a lil bloat on; without having spoken properly to another person, be they friend, family or bachelor- on these day’s life is magnificent and mine. The sadness of this volatility is it’s inert nature: things cannot remain so.

Other times, simple acts of willed neglicence or bluff, intended cruelties- which most people flounce off with an expletive and distraction- cause me to imagine approximatley 100 reasons of said blow’s cause; the nature of the cause; how this cause is intertwined with and affects other causes etc etc. AKA- I cry and get mad at myself for uncomprehended reasons.

I feel like this blog has no poetry to it; I want to write about important, universal issues and not just focus on bitty, repetitive autobiography the whole fucking time. But it is late, I am hungry and simply want to savour this day where I have willed survival and not Sorrow’s feathers.

I watched the T.E.D Talk, “The gentle power of highly sensitive people” by Elena Herdieckerhoff and it made me feel so elated to know my propensity to cheshire cat smile at the sight of my dogs excited for walks, in tandem with unfathomable hours of thinking and crying and blaming ghots some more, is not a weakness. I felt like Billy Pilgrim’s long lost sister- “And so it is.” The fragility of things and my incessant hankerings for answers that justify tenderness are no joke. Hale-fucking-luja!!!!

Rambling and waffling are beyond the realms of energy right now, so I am just going to end on a little quote (So much for exclusive poetry- haha) by another highly woke and wonderful woman, Minna Salami-

“Only a person who sees and values the humanity in everyone can be a revolutionary, because only a person who sees and values the humanity in everyone can do so about themselves.”

Women fly when men aren’t looking

I still feel a bit tired and for no fathomable reason unnervingly wierded out since coming back from my birthday weekend: this makes me feel guilty, seeing as I have nothing to complain about yet still want to stab my self with a million forks (wierd image, I know- but it’s what hit my mind first)

I saw some artworks at the Tate Modern; Carrie Mae Weem’s red sadness and protest of the enslavement of black African people into black slaves of America- ‘I saw and I wept…”; Red photographs cased by poetries etched onto glass frames. After the Tate Modern, I met up with Daisy and we went to Oxford Street to look at pink feathered jackets and blue sequined denim jeans that looked like they belonged to a mermaid with legs. We met up with Flo and walked down to Foyles, scanning shelves of books, but of course focusing on the beloved aisles of poetry- I was so flamboyant. I brought books brand new.

In the evening Zab came- we got ready in make-up and fancy clothes; I feel in all my pettiness, this is where some seed of current confusion of stabbing forks was sown. In the weeks leading up to this celebration, I had been so excited to make myself look and FEEL hot/sexy/ powerful bla bla bla in this little red dress. The reality is I felt bloated and ugly and pure second rate compared to my HEAVEN SENT GORGEOUS friends, and got changed immediatley into a less than glamourous outfitt (think Paris Hilton’s ugly sister who was locked up in the highest hotel room, forced to live only on Twinkies). I am not saying this in order to try and obtain any sympathies, on the contrary I am saying it because it is the truth of incomphrensible emotion. It is white first world problems, and it makes me feel even sillier for knowing what I should finally (at nearly 21) know is bullshit, my brain still pushes onto the child within me and makes the child inside cry and want to hide.

This small, miniscule discomfort of not wearing the dress I’d imagined us partying in should (and truly, thank god, DOES NOT) overshadow all the fun we had travelling round London; talking of poetry in Foyles and the feminist library, being intellectual and going to see the beautiful Queer exhibition at the Tate gallery; laughing in parks so hard I could pee and dancing to trap music on the stairs of St. Pauls, then collapsing into our hotel room with plush double beds and a boquet of flowers (we’d eaten all the cupcakes by this point).

I hate this ungratitude of the disobedient side of my brain focusing more on how my stomach and hips looked in a dress rather than on the smile of our faces in the strobe flash of photos we took. I may not be, nor ever shall attain supermodel status or looks- but that in no way inhibits capacities for love, for loving my friends and the time we had- all the times more awaiting.

I realise now how easy it is to focus on one tiny negative thought instead of cherishing the memories of how lucky I am on this planet- a father who organised it all, the train drivers who got me there, and my friends who took the time out their jobs to come see me.

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SHOUT OUT TO MY FRIENDS FOR PUTTING UP WITH MY EXTRA BULLSHIT AND SELF-LOATHING ALL THE TIME!!!!! XOXOX

Today’s post is already verging on being lenghty, but thats okay because it’s for a special lesson and occassion. Without further adiue, here is today’s post- it is from a book I bought in Foyles by Jeanette Winterson, one of my favourite authors. The small book is simply called ‘Love’ (the quote I use is orginally from “Why be Happy when you could be Normal?“). xooxooxoxoxx

“Love is vivid. I never wanted the pale version. Love is full strength. I never wanted the diluted version. I never shied away from love’s  hugeness but I had no idea that love could be as reliable as the sun. The daily rising of love.” 

 

‘The stars do not care’

My absence from running this blog; trying to keep good habits (for writing or otherwise), ticking alongside attempts to live life in as happy and meaningful way possible have been rocky of late, all I can do is say ‘sorry’ and keep on going. True- I have been busy, but almost a 20 day long silence is not really justifiable as an excuse; when you love something, you defy excuses.

But I shall fill in the gaps.
My pink rose is no longer dead. I read Slaughterhouse- 5 in one night. My family threw me a birthday meal at our favourite Chinese restaurant, then the next day I went to the Transatlantic slavery memorial performances in Trafalgar Square with my cousin, Oscar; we went to the National Gallery and saw Van Gogh’s sunflowers, we sang Whitney Houston with a homeless artist from Sri Lanka who told us to look for Mother Mary. I drank Westons in a field with my best friend, then went to a poetry reading with another of my best friends and blew bubbles over our pints. I walked with Nelson and Pogo.

These details have no bearing whatsoever on anyone else’s life, so I question the feeling of needing to write them down, or anything, for that matter which isn’t purposeful and powerful and intelligent. I guess it boils down to a second voice; words create a world parallel yet intricately webbed in the physical senses, which in themselves warble and wane depending on one’s temperament- language causes a trembling which is and is not real, which uncoils translated through eyelashes as chrysalis births wings which flutter, to die within days.

This post basically just confirms I am not giving up on this quiet endeavour, hopefully it shall amount to something- but I guess one consolation is that at least it keeps one person out of too much trouble.

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These flowers have nothing to do with my writing, but fuck it life is random so here’s a little beauty to brighten things up :)))))

Today’s poem is by the legendary Audre Lorde, a beautiful soul who wouldn’t want me to stop doing this just because it seems the rest of the world seems more engrossed with big plastic tits and guns and sports cars.

Stations 

Some women love
to wait
for life    for a ring
in the June light    for a touch
of the sun to heal them    for another
woman’s voice    to make them whole
to untie their hands
put words in their mouths
form to their passages    sound
to their screams    for some other sleeper
to remember    their future    their past.

Some women wait for their right
train    in the wrong station
in the alleys of morning
for the noon to holler
the night come down.

Some women wait for love
to rise up
the child of their promise
to gather from earth
what they do not plant
to claim pain for labor
to become
the tip of an arrow    to aim
at the heart of now
but it never stays.

Some women wait for visions
That do not return
Where they were not welcome
Naked
For invitations to places
They always wanted
To visit
To be repeated.

Some women wait for themselves
Around the next corner
And call the empty spot peace
But the opposite of living
Is only not living
And the stars do not care.

Some women wait for something
To change    and nothing
Does change
So they change
Themselves.