Group at the first Women's Liberation Conference by Sally Fraser (Chandan Fraser), February 1970, © Sally Fraser

As a child, feminism felt empowering. A staple in my lexicon. A sign I belonged to a collective on the brink sparking brilliance. I believe every wave has felt that, the crucial hope that this time will be different. However, hope often becomes naivety. Aspiration a blinding force that leaves you oblivious to bigotry, perceiving any token act as revolutionary. All the while we lose sight of the end goal: liberation.

This is the issue I take with contemporary feminism.

We are amidst a shift from intersectional, revolutionary politics to placid complacency. I watch the aims of feminism become diluted, simplified, slimmed. We adopt a mentality of ‘meeting in the middle’, accepting incremental progress with grace. The media praises ‘female focused’ film as akin in value to the plight for suffrage. Hollywood is an agent of socialisation, telling audiences that equality has been achieved. This new wave of ‘representation’ is nothing without a wider contextual shift. Yet, according to mainstream culture, feminism is over.

The art of intersectionality is lost. The loudest voices are wealthy, white, heterosexual women. Their status a blanket from the ugliest forms of oppression. Thus the public is led to believe that feminism simply asks for pay raises and ad-campaigns. Those with the chance to broadcast their beliefs tend to avoid discussing experiences alien to their own. Reserving social change for those who can afford it.

To remedy our downfall, liberation must not be exclusionary. Gender, sex, class, ethnicity, everyone is entitled to advocacy. People reject politics contrary to their own. In doing so, we form further divisions. Your humanity cannot cease in the face of debate. You cannot dictate another’s rights based on how they vote. Should a movement of inclusion become one of exclusion, the movement fails entirely. Much like Trotsky’s theory of ‘Permanent Revolution’, we must strive towards Permanent Liberation.

The internet facilitates a bubble of self-obsession. Our lives revolve around aesthetics, forming an ideology of individualism. Self-worship fragments collectives. No change can occur so long as we are alone in our fight. We must engage with each other, find power in collaboration.

We cannot count legislative change as progress if social behaviours remain. Our lives are not bound by the legal categories that exist on paper. We are multidimensional human beings. Paper does not protect us from those who refuse to read. So long as children are indoctrinated into patriarchy, patriarchy remains. Aim to educate others.

Controversially, I believe men can call themselves feminists. However, rather than crassly sticking it in their insta bios and dating profiles, I want to see them act on the claim. One man’s voice often holds more power than a collective of women. They must call out the misogyny they see, learn about our history and gain consciousness of their own socialisation. As Kathleen Hanna greatly summarises: “Feminism is a verb”. Actions speak louder than words.

Beyond my proposals above, I keep a mental list of goals to ensure I am following my own beliefs.

Below are some of my personal aims as a feminist.

• To continue engaging in theory, gaining a broader understanding of different perspectives.

• To understand the global scale of patriarchy and its different manifestations.

• To learn about the varied experiences of other marginalised groups and take a stand against all forms of oppression.

• To maintain my empathy.

• To build relationships with others that do not reproduce patriarchal norms.

• To unravel the negative impact of gender role socialisation.

The list is not perfect and neither am I. I hope it will continue to grow as I learn more about the world around me. No feminist sticks to their ideals 100% of the time, all we can ask of ourselves is to strive to analyse and improve our behaviour.

My advice is read theory. Analyse it, critique it, take what is valuable. Consider your own experiences and empathise with others. Learn from prior movements, cite their flaws. Write your own theory, create your own art. Be ugly, be angry, be authentic. Push forward, scream loudly.

We cannot alter our needs to appease hegemony.

Use your voice. Be heard.

The biggest note of thanks to my friend who advised me when writing this piece. It is all the better after her feedback!

This part-manifesto, part-critique has been rattling around in my head for sometime. There is so much to say about feminism this piece barely scratches the surface. But, like all progress, it’s a start.

I encourage you to break down what I’ve said. Agree, disagree, alter.

Lots of love,

Candy xx

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Link to my other substack xx

Still Life with Peeled Orange and Bunch of Grapes- Albertus Steenbergen

Good morning,

As of yesterday, a poem of mine called ‘Dream’ was published in Tangerine Literary’s Pride issue! Whilst it is a minor step to many, it (hopefully) marks the start of my publication journey.

Tangerine Literary #1

I have previously worked with them on their Pride newsletter, in which I wrote a review of Jeanette Winterson’s ‘Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit’. I later posted this on my other page.

Review!

They are a small magazine, this issue being their first, so I recommend checking them out on socials and submitting to future projects. They are so lovely to work with.

At some point the poem will be posted on this page for those who wish to read it here! I will also share it on my Instagram @→ 0candysays0

I haven’t posted on this publication in a long time because I have been focusing on my culture writing. However, it felt right to mark this milestone with a post on the account that started it all. I will continue posting poems and personal prose on here soon I have just been wrapped up in submitting my work to online magazines.

In the mean time, I recommend checking out my other page (linked below) to keep up to date with my writing!

My other Substack :)

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I have been writing anonymously online from account to account for years. Content spanning album reviews to personal prose, my voice is sewn in to a variety of formats, never daring to put a name to these words.

Here I am free to write in equal parts candid and messy. Typos and editorial inaccuracy flood the notes app documents- turned late night posts. Perhaps this is the most authentic portrait of myself: haphazard and liberated.

I take great pleasure in hoarding a small part of myself, my home rooted on the outskirts of the internet. Cat-like, I come and go as I please, posting into the void, shouting without fear of reciprocation. I write without audience, economic gain or restraint.

Historically, pen names were intwined with the female writer, choosing to hide behind male facades (or simply going nameless) to gain the respect of their literary peers. In more recent years they have been less overtly gendered: Plath choosing to publish under ‘Victoria Lucas’, doubting her novels literary merit, or King adorning ‘Richard Bachman’, testing if his audience was devoted to his skill or brand. Regardless of reasoning, pseudonyms are scattered throughout literary canon, acting as both a protective measure and opportunity for experimentation.

My own name was completely accidental. One night I decided to create an Instagram page that detailed my thoughts on albums and films, a personal moodboard of sorts. In a panic, I usurped my username from The Velvet Underground song ‘Candy Says’ and dedicated my first post to the song’s inspiration: Candy Darling. It was simply a placeholder whilst I figured out who it was I wanted to be. Before long I met fellow creatives and fans who endearingly called me Candy (for I had no other name), and, it stuck. Despite its accidental adoption, I appreciate the names unnatural nature. Candy, the American term, juxtaposing the rural Britain that weaves its way into my work. An unconventional name, sweet and processed, a dramatic departure from what I write. The blatancy of the façade is, in a way, its honesty.

(Low quality image of the collage that started my account!)

My readership is sparse and scattered. Every individual I have connected with is based across the sea in one direction or another, united by art in a manner that defies boarders. Contrary to the interaction farming obsession that consumes social media users, I enjoy the void I speak into. The few who find my work experience something minute. It reminds me that yes, a person actually sat down and read this, a thought often silenced in the quantitative aspect of social media where interactions are on a mass, depersonalised, scale. I am solitary by nature in many ways, this digital landscape merely an extension of that.

In a world where information is commodified and constantly generated, anonymity is sacred. It provides a space to explore oneself without documentation or regret. Anonymity is power, that’s why I write with a pen name.

Thank you for taking the time to read! Consider subscribing to read more or share your reflections in the comments.

Lots of love, Candy xx

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Art: Pietà by Jacques Bellange (1612)

You carry the stigmata he failed to inflict

His temporary wound your permanent scar

His lost memory, for you, a lifetime

-
And maternal martyr you carry that burden

On your shoulders, in your chest and womb

Both a mother to your child and man

-

Such strength goes unrecognised when,

Humble as you are, no sound is audible

Amidst the dramatics of his violent plea

-

I fear one day it’ll kill you

I fear I’ll be too far to listen

To that same unfulfilled promise

-

That he ensured would pass

Thank you for reading my little poem! It’s been a while since I’ve posted (what’s new?). Any support, sharing my work with a loved one, commenting or interesting with my post is appreciated 🫀

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Medal Depicting Saint Joan of Arc: Allen George Newman, 1900-1915

Dear Joan,

-

God calls to you

-

A myriad of chain mail and ash disguise that sacred beauty

And for your fight how man toils to break you

Stakes and stones in attempt to dim you

-

Tides of metal clash with fury

Horseback you ride

Sword in hand where should be a shield

And defend the ground that left you to rot

-

I try to help, my vials of holy water a raindrop in your river

Small comforts in the grand scheme of nature

-

I come to you, fearing heresy, apathy

-

And you an acolyte so kindly share to me

A faith once lost

-

All at once I’m a child again

Reclaiming my religion as something to adore

-

Prayer card in my back pocket, you reach me

An ocean away

Evangelical

-

So personal yet

Defy physical

-

Souls share beyond the flesh

Transcendental

-

Your hamartia forges martyrdom in my minds eye

And I’ll say with pride my life was touched by a messenger of god

A Saint

-

It’s you who I credit with my christening

Rebirth

-

We build our own confessional and in it you tell me I possess gods gift

How can you not see it’s hereditary

My seeds were planted by your gardeners hand

It’s you who’s aptitude I so crudely imitate

-

But who is there to nurture the mothers?

Gods chosen receive crucifixion where affection should stand

-

Man washes their hands of the sacred blood

And I, a disciple, can only pray to be spared the loss of my saviour

A poem long overdue! Tell the people in your life you love them!!

I hope you enjoyed this piece, as always feel free to share your thoughts in the comments. Any form of support is appreciated🫀

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Joan of Arc (1865) by John Everett Millais

Image: The Kiss IV- Edvard Munch, 1902

You love for self

When to care should be less

How can I love a boy I have not born

-
I’ll keep you in mind

Should you keep me in flesh

But how long does life last

When strangled by memory

-

What worth is the lyric you carve me

If I am your affirmation that you are worth more

Such a slut cheering from the sidelines

Not daring to try

-

I fear that I see you in my past

When all you know is present

And all I want is the future

Hope you enjoyed this simple poem!

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Leverett Pond- by Erastus Salisbury Field 1860-1880

Let me sow my field anew

Let crops bloom once more

Let them wither away

And blossom again

A never ending cycle of toil

-

Should my grass grow over

Where rows once dug deep down

Do all the flowers that lived before

No longer reflect in the ground

Will I ever post consistently? The evidence is yet to be seen. Regardless, if you are reading this I appreciate your patience. As always I appreciate any feedback <3

Lots of love, Candy xx

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Image: ‘Shoe, Herring, and Book’ 1833, George Loring Brown

I’m scared to write again

Scared I’ve lost the knack

To spit my sorrows in ink and verse

Regain my body back

I feel that familiar state

Come crawling with desire

To lose my interest in all life

And dull my heart’s dim fire

I sense that subtle repulsion

That drive to remain recluse

So I’ll prolong my writing until

I have no further use

Long time, no see. As always shares and critical comments are appreciated especially after the deterioration of my writing routine!

Love, Candy xx

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Grapes photographed and eaten by Candy!

There’s life in everything I eat

I see it in the veins of a grape

The pit of a cherry

The heart of an Apple

-

And I feel it morph into me as I chew

Tongue to tongue, soul to soul

So many lives in mine

The sensuality of taste

The moment I am alive

-

How often did I deprive my senses of air

My body of socialisation and intimacy

Each time I wish to shut my mouth

And rid myself of all that grows beyond the skin

I remind myself there’s life in everything I eat

I see it in the veins of a grape

Thank you for reading this little poem of mine! I would appreciate it if you shared your thoughts by liking or commenting and sharing this piece with someone you love dearly. 🫶

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The Sudarium of Saint Veronica- Claude Mellen

I wish to let go as martyrs do
Haw easy it was for christ bless those who wronged his gentle nature 
And accept the kiss of death with intimacy 
Yet pure to the last breath
Untainted by a society of sin

I too could forgive…
Should I recieve a martyrs death
And know bliss blessed my body in death
But my scars sealed all my hate within 
Still my skin seems smooth

But my mock martyrdom is temporary 
Such guilt can’t be erased in le petit mort 
For a false death provides no salvation 
No confessional or kiss of god 
Can be found in the dirge of sin 

So martyrdom but a dream to me now 
Distant, hypnotically divine
And from this creaking alter I’ll find
My own meaning in death
And mind

Thank you for taking the time to read this short piece- it’s been a while since I’ve posted so readership means the world right now. Feel free to send this to someone unable to forgive or leave your own response in the comments 🫀

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ART: The Kiss- Auguste Rodin

DIGITAL:

Distant though we are entwined

In coloured nostalgia we combine

Like technicolour pictures burnt by time

Your voice rings true on a separate line

Thank you for reading this short piece! Send it to a distant lover or comment your thoughts into the digital abyss 💿

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ART- The Battle of Love: Paul Cézanne

The phrase ‘too young to love’ feels false

For I surround myself in what I love

I feel it wholly and completely

The idea that to be in love is to be with another

Is so naïve when you think about every

Scenario we curate to feel complete

We are always in a state of love

We simply search for someone to share it with

First post in a while! If you enjoyed this piece, try my previous work or subscribe for future updates🪷

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-The Language Of Love: by Francesco Vinea

I carve you, solace in stone.
Eternal and irrevocable.
Such resilient artistry to my love.

I pray to you, lost when parted.
Destitute and desperate.
What call can man answer to my love.

I kiss you, everywhere in sight.
Soft and slow.
The juvenile tribute to my love.

I knead you, dough in hand.
Warm and homely.
A darling domesticity to my love.

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I am a pale imitation of a woman.

My body makes a mockery of my mind.

My legs are poorly waxed so that, no matter my precision, clumps still remain.

I bleed mid month uncaring for my health.

I love unconditionally and hate just the same.

And the marks on my thighs say: “I won’t grow old! Let me hold onto my skin, I’m not ready to shed.”

I kiss the air that holds me tight and hope life will come to me if I leave daisies on my desk each spring day. An offering to a deity that looks like me and longs just the same.

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I can’t imagine myself a day beyond now, another hour and I won’t be the same. How I desire my greatest fear and pray each night for a future epic to sweep me up and carry me through life, unscathed.

There are divots and bruises around my hips and lips, they talk to me whenever I look to them. My body tells me things I can’t comprehend: do we lose empathy when we lose communication?

Not yet a mother, not yet a bride

To weary for girlhood

And lost to survive

I let you see my body, for you know not my name

I’ll let you see my mind, my reasoning’s the same

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You who I have immortalised in verse

But never dared to name

I try to etch your features with words

But cannot see your face

Feeling presides over all you touch

And all that is touched by you

So that lines may linger in my mind

Where your eyes dim and fade

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Far away you seem from me now

When distance ties the tongue

You loved me once (and will again?)

My doubts are ever growing

What future is there worth indulging

When current is not defined

If you could only see me now

I’d make you change your mind

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-Art by Van Gogh :)

NIGHT

I want the night to wrap me up in its arms
like a mother cradling a newborn
until I finally feel safe

I feel like death will be one long night 
but without stars and lights
just the empty streets of my small home town

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REFLECTIONS

I wrote this piece around three years ago. It’s strange to see something written by someone almost alien to me now even if it’s just six lines. The voice is the same despite the change in my tongue. Does this show I am the same writer at my core? I’m unsure. Regardless I’ve always liked the simple yet vivid image that appears when I reread this one.

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Photo by me :)

I already feel so old, so empty. It’s like I have nothing left to give. I cannot love or hate, a life of extremity had left me docile. 

Neutral in breath and death.

Where did my youth go? 

I turn around and she’s faded, cold and alone. I want to run to her hold and devour her, keep her safely in the pit of my stomach so we’ll never sever. I don’t want to become intimate with isolation, he’s a rougher lover and a lousy lay. I kiss the ground my lady steps on, rest my body over dirt. I want her journey to be painless at my expense. Maybe if I’m kinder she won’t walk out.

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Crying is futile, praying is too. Time has more weight than an idol or god, it presses on my collarbone and leaves me blue. I’m scared this is all I will have to remember, bus journeys with Paul Simon and eroding countryside beyond the glass. 

This is it, the formative years are bygone, buried beneath the intricate plans for the future. I can’t appreciate the now, always back and forth I ruminate. I lose the current to the ever shifting balance of definite and indefinite. Since childhood I have travelled to these two worlds routinely; I don’t know how to live in equilibrium, I fear I never will. 

Maybe I’ll look back fondly, regret growing sweet before it falls and rots. Plaths fig tree has haunted me since thirteen. There are so many women I want to be but I don’t deserve any of them. Each is hard working and prolific: a painter, a muse, a writer and mother and I am so tired. I was a Madonna, my baby hasn’t been breastfed for years. I can’t save her nor myself. 

The sky and I are in open conversation 

And she’s the only power worth listening to when all hope is lost.

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Painting: Georgia O’Keefe

A gardener has an artists hand
Pigment under nails 
Skin that’s stained from years of practice
Delicately cut and carved
Tame what often runs wild
And capture a moment of death where life lives on
No vine could grow in untouched soil

My greenery is left alone 
Let be for years of decay
Should I choose to pick up my palette
I may find it too late 
To try and reach that Eden I once mapped out
In ink and watercolour
I hope this time my dark fern shall find 

A softer lover

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Did you enjoy this piece of clunky poetry? Feel free to leave me a tip/‘buy me a coffee’ 🫀☕️

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What evidence is there that I’m alive 
I stopped living 6 months ago, left my body by the shore
Pages stop there, my inky fingers dulling in stain
No more must I go on

Maybe if I resurrect 
I could be that girl again
Well versed but bruised by change
There is no weight to my words

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