There is magic in this world, it is writ in the stars, the moon, the sky. How could there not be? Our world is too beautiful not to be bountiful with magics of all kinds. The magic mends the fractures we create. We live in a time when the Men
Content note: mention of war and the genocidal states of US slow night // slow day slow emerges when my body is in an immune system storm crip time, slow time, out of every day rhythm time when do you eat if you haven’t moved since waking and you feel
Some writing from my retreat designed to support people like me, writers who want to but are not yet doing that thing. Writing the book that calls to us like a siren and allows a reader in. There is a loneliness in my body. A longing. Desires push up into
January is a time for knowing, not for doing. Yes we must wade amongst the demands to pretend we’re full of the vigours of a (false) new year and fresh goals. But we are not those people, at heart. We are still and slow and careful in midwinter. I
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
Written in a heatwaved Thursday at the queer writing group I co-host. Grateful for these spaces of space, amongst the insanity of the city. A nod to Brum Butch Bar’s recent picnic and the pirple glasses of a good friend ASH. One line pinched from Kamil @kamilpoet as part
Spiral Time Is Crip Time Is Queer Time Is Black Time Is Neuro’d Time Is Wild Time + Lost Time How do the people who have to survive capitalist time - but truly dwell in these times - make life work? I only can because it’s just me, my
make me so joyful, even more so in this exhausting world. So many films are released in one month; I want to see them all and so I don’t get to a single screening. The cost of a taxi there and back, plus ticket plus snack is impossible anyway.
A new phrase to me, as is the idea of fragmentation as crip literature - thanks Char of The Remote Body for tonight’s juicy seminar. I wrote this a few days ago and feels right for blog post #2: Collage as meditation, glue as slime
Is this a blog post…? I don’t know. It’s a start and starting is the thing I need. Some content notes: slugs, sexy stuff, body stuff. Slugs have entered my life. Not quite literally, tho there were a few small beautiful ones on my visit to Balqhuidder in
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This is Neon Pony’s Noticings, a bloggish space that I’ve craved for a while. To keep reading me, you can subscribe if you'd like to stay up to date and receive emails whenever I do the thing. Writing here, that is.