Artist in practice. Collage - writing- colour
When the air is wet and your hands are cold in your room Called to be in hibernation for three to four months The system denies that mammalian softness, as it tears all of us from our natural needs A candle burning on the slate hearth of my rented room
I yearn to be less stubborn, and willing to see the possibilities beyond myself I am nearly 450 years old Dusty and tired in every pore, and yet Habits are hard to let go I am the largest empire of all time A quarter of the world’s land in
Vogue, strike a pose. Shed your clothes. Hold for 10 minutes. Feel the slow burn. Scritch scritch, scratch. “10 minutes left” In the break I walk around the room slowly, taking in the many versions of myself. Held by the artists’ gaze, I am a powerful solid body, beautiful to
A few short thoughts from the archipelago that is Malta. I had a good time, would recommend esp for spoonie rest. Malta, a place of many empires meeting melting mouthing “we were here, too” The British were last, carving out there ‘politeness’ into the limestone Mdina – Arabic for city – was
Allow Me To Gather You, And Your Name After Mahmoud Darwish Allow me to know you, in my heart As you know your land, your home, your love Allow me to taste the joy of olives and watermelons grown with the care of a thousand ancestors Allow me to feel
Maybe I need a free write before I try to turn my mind to the corporate bingo of the 21st century Maybe I need AI, which I thoroughly despise and would not wish to contribute to the eco racism of Maybe I need to jump in the sea to cleanse
Move slowly through the swamps of Empire Take time Resist their urgency Pay attention Look up at the galaxy Draw at the park, the gallery, the cafe Look down at the roots Pocket a leaf A feather from a parakeet Who lost her way, arrived in Southall To sing to
(transitive) To bring out of a state of stimulation I live in a noisy city. I live in a noisy home, with a noisy building site next door, for however long that takes. We live in times of over-stimulation. Our senses are deliberately engineered with too-much-input-at-all-times; it takes a massive
Recipe to recover from burn out, in this version of Alexia: * no writing, unless light noodling or processing * half working days * listing the contributing factors, seeing the tangible demands * freestyle embroidery * gentle social time * sleep without alarms * magazine reading in parks, sprawled under a tree * nude whenever possible * safe foods,
I bought this neon acrylic necklace two nights ago at a community cabaret for Trans Pride. That day I had been rudely ejected from a local communal garden space because people hate free women sitting peacefully, drawing and sleeping. We are the scourge of the universe, clearly. Another line to
This week I learned I have been awarded a Develop Your Creative Practice grant by the Arts Council of England. Somewhere deep inside resistance rumbled, talking to me about the harms of institutional power in the late stage capitalist freakshow and the falsehoods of our creative juices and desires being
A long time ago, I was recently D.I.V.O.R.C.E.D. and adrift. Bounced out of the cis-het time loops against my will, no longer with a home that the system pretended was my own, no partner, no cat, no bloody idea what came next. I