I have been in Portugal for six days. The weather is changing. This past week sure was strange. We stayed in Chosendo, a village in the north-east of Portugal. The journey there required Kat and I to drive off the edge of the earth. Kat made sure to do this at a steady pace. The land had been scorched. Trees, dead, black and wiry cast barely a shadow over the dry and dusty ground. The journey to our house was winding and confusing. The heat boiled our brains. We cooled down lakeside with a foil tray of French fries. In the lake, I got a leech on my palm. I ate octopus and jelly in a convent.

At a praia fluvial under Serra da Estrela, we shared a sunset swim with a sweet father and his two children. The rocky pool was freezing cold, and hard to enter and exit. It required scrambling over slippery stones. As she slipped, the little girl erupted with giggles. It was infectious and I found myself giggling too. Her father and brother helped her to shore with kindness. They stopped at some bramble to eat the berries. “Are they sweet?” I asked. They were. “We left some for you guys”, the father called back. From the mountain, bells began to chime. The girl laughed some more and pointed. A herd of goats descended the narrow grassy paths with bells around their throats. We rolled down the star mountain as the sun set. It was hazy, and we were in love with each other. My god, that mountain left me feeling all sorts as I watched the sky turn dark.

The next day we took a road trip to the coast. We visited a nudist beach and felt like Eve before the original sin. As we approached the beach, it looked as though it had been submerged in a giant cloud. The horizon was obscured. I peeled off my bikini and felt protected by the mist. In the water, I let the waves pull my hair and I laughed with Ella. But my naked body made me feel vulnerable. Afraid of everyone. But I didn’t need to be (I never do). An old man walked past me and held out his hand. In his palm lay a large pink scallop shell. “Encontrou? Aqui?!” I gasped. He nodded cooly with a smile and passed it to me, before walking away and disappearing. That was the day it got cold. Shivering, I covered myself and watched the birds swoop in flocks over the water. Like black clouds dancing in the sky. “Estão felizes!” a tanned man called over to us, holding his arms out to the sea in an embrace. We walked back to our car with him, and he told us to go to the nearest beach town to dance and eat dinner. So we danced a little samba before hurtling back across Portugal.

We had to keep ourselves wired to support Kat’s driving, but it was past midnight, and the roads were dark and empty. My eyelids hung heavy. We saw a lynx on the way home and drove twice around a roundabout to try and catch another glimpse of it. We arrived back in Chosendo, salty and sleepy. The village dog was sat in its own piss. His eyes were sad. In the house, I fell asleep naked, not before apologising to Ella for it. Ella laughed at the absurdity of my shame.

I woke feeling pensive, reflective. Endings leave me with an overwhelming sense of sadness. We’d stayed with Tom, a retired painter from Boston. His house was an 18th-century manor, filled with his 20th century cement paintings. He didn’t like Portuguese food and he was a Christian mystic. I dreamt of him on the first night. It’s too early to see clearly what any of that means.

As we were leaving, he invited us into the church next to his home. Built in 1732, it was Baroque, gold-plated and intricate. So divine, I couldn’t even bring myself to photograph it. Tom sat in the wooden pews. We asked him what his plans were with his home, it was so big - too big for one person. He said he wants to turn it into a museum of his art. He gestured around him, “There’s no culture here.” We left feeling baffled.

I left Kat at the car rental place by Porto airport. I took a taxi back to the city alone. The driver smiled at me in the rearview mirror. He was happy to talk with me. I was happy to practice speaking Portuguese. He told me his daughter was an artist, who painted murals around the city. I told him about Nuno, and the story of how we met.

The first thing I did when I arrived in Porto was eat lemon ice cream. I waited for Nuno to arrive, and when he did, I ran my fingers through his hair and beard and smelled his face. I’d missed him a lot.

Now I am on the balcony, drinking a coffee and watching the Douro carry tourists downstream. The trams noisily roll on by. Giving way for the weirdness.

Next Intuitive Collaging Workshop is in Peckham on 2nd September. We are creating self portraits of our energy! Tickets here.

Be Seeing You!

It’s incredible, but I have not always felt comforted by my inner world. As a child, I was often left feeling scared by my deep connection to the dream realm. In an early dream, I was visited by a large tower of paper that had legs and could walk around. An insidious giant, as tall as a skyscraper. I could hear the thud of his heavy footsteps as I approached the strange threshold of sleep. I’d hear it at school. As an adult I discovered this sound was actually my heartbeat in my ears. But to little Mary, the thud thud thud of my heart was a sort of Ariadne’s thread, keeping me tethered to reality as I explored the labyrinth of my subconscious mind.

My primary school sat next to a large field, surrounded by pockets of forest. At the end of the field was a colourful totem pole that towered above me. There was a large cedar tree. I loved this tree, the fragrant smell of the sticky sap that oozed from its rough bark. Its branches hung low and gently brushed the grass below, leaving a carpet of needles and cones. I’d lie in the softness and get spiders in my hair. Whispering stories to friends of the mythical creatures that lived in the woods when we were not there. My imagination was alive in the rich nature that surrounded me. I formed a small circle of mystery hunters, together we would meet to discuss sightings of werewolves and aliens around our town. One afternoon when I was eight years old, I was daydreaming in class. Gazing intently out of the window, I watched a large black creature run behind the trees at the end of the field.

In my youth, I was enamoured by a sense of mystery. I searched for that which could not be explained. I enjoyed sitting with the unknown. Wonders, werewolves, ghosts, celestial objects and ancient phenomena. In a rigid world of definition, symbols and rationality, inexplicable events and images excited me, comforted me. Even the ones that occurred before my eyes. I was seeking what I now know to be that place that sits between what we know to be true and what we feel to be true.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot this place. I learned that life is navigated by decisions that are carefully weighed with reason. Rights and wrongs governed a constant truth. Even when the space between my belly button and my heart became as heavy as a stone, I chose to ignore this tidal pull, in pursuit of strategy. As I left adolescence, I watched longingly as the moon rose and sank beneath the horizon. Something in me longed to follow her into the mystic. When the feeling in my belly became too much to bear, I tried my best to numb it out. To pour sand over the fire that burned within, unaware of the power I possessed. But the flames refused to be extinguished.

My friends say I have always marched to the beat of my own drum. Perhaps that drum is the soft tapping of my heart as it beats against the chamber of my chest, echoing in my ears since I was a little girl, harmoniously directing me towards that which is true. My eternal return to myself.

Short Film: Knowing

Directed by Mary O’Neill

Camera by Katrina Viva

Assisted by Nuno de Sousa

Freckles appear on the shoulders of my life. I bask in the delightful sunshine of love, desire, joy. But what happens when the cool shade settles over me?

My instinct is to rid myself of the shadowy feelings. To wring myself out with both hands, allowing the murky water to cascade back into the depths from which it came. But it returns, eternally. They creep in, through the open back door, still on the latch from the last time. I consult the mythologies. Symbolism of wands, cups, swords, pentacles. Dealing out my fortune with an indifferent flick of the wrist.

Touched by the abundance of the plump juicy fruit that surrounds me, I bake cherry pie. I’m pitting one hundred cherries as the flies buzz around me. The crimson flesh stains my fingertips. Separating berry and stone in my sweet meditation. My mind wanders. It occurs to me that I’m feeling something familiar. A summertime sadness! I find it on the tip of my tongue in words of dissatisfaction, fear and shame. I dispel them to my journal where I write the gospel on how to let it all go. I let go but the feelings cling on.

I feel compelled to remind myself that my life is a work of art. The poetry of experience. The waves of emotion crashing and washing over me are an eternal mystery, one that I chose to remain unwaveringly in relationship with. That is why, amongst my memories and dreams, I make friends with sadness and shame. I find myself constantly inspired by them. I am reminded of the power of expression; my practice that I leave neglected when I’m feeling salty.

At my desk I spread pigment between my fingertips. All I know is right now, and a desire for something else that leaves me depleted. This searing sense of longing draws me to a photograph of a rose in an old dusty book. Like a surgeon with a scalpel I slice it out of its context with precision. I’m touched by the process of creation, birthing these emotions onto empty pages for anyone to see. A condemned book, a pair of scissors and a fucking pritt stick.

The silence of the afternoon is punctured by heavenly chimes promising creamy ninety-nine’s. There’s nothing to do, nothing to say, no where to be other than right here. Rubbing my bitten ankles. Familiarly feeling like running away and starting again. Ruminating under that sycamore tree, whose leaves will soon burn bright orange, and return to dust. Nature knows no impatience.

Recent News

• I’m taking a pause at the moment to allow all this to settle, but I will still be hosting my collage workshop next week as part of my ongoing Eyeball project.

  

  • We will be reminiscing on the summers of our childhoods. Tuning into these early experiences and using imagery, colour and textures to remember the feelings we left behind there. In the height of summer, emotions melt a little, they run all down the sides. I’ll guide us through a meditation to get acquainted with what might be showing up. Tickets from £8 here.

• Kat hosted her first book club! And she did a marvellous job! I’m delighted with how The Library of Being has evolved over the past 18 months. We read The Vegetarian by Han Kang. Keep an eye out on Instagram or Eventbrite for the next book!

• I had to postpone last month’s film club due to the excessive heat. We will be rejoining on Wednesday 22nd June to discuss Wim Wenders’ Perfect Days. Free tickets here.

• Nuno shot some photographs of me in our garden. I tinkered on my guitar and edited some of the footage together. A love letter of sorts.

  Be Seeing You!

  𓁿𓁿

Nuno is all ears, every “love”, “darling” and flattened vowel excites him and he shoots a grin my way. He mocks me softly and I remember that my accent changes when I come here. The air is hot Jell-O and my fingers are sticky as I write. I’m squeezing the words out of the toothpaste tube and onto this here brush, scrubbing my mouth out with glee. You see, it’s been a little while since I decided to write at all.

Following a trip (a trip!) to Belgium in early spring, my expression became word-less. Everything I had to say was smeared in pastel by my fingertips and now I find I speak in symbols and shades of purple and ochre. The language of my energy.

On a Belgian morning, I beckoned a swan to swim to me, with whom I made a promise that so far I’ve kept. I watched the dew drops turn to mist and row-row-row-ed the boat, barefoot on the stagnant lake. I found a four-leaf clover. Beneath copper beech and a gnarled oak with prematurely green leaves I discovered my energetic body. I entered a different realm. I floated back to London, sensitive, dialated and raw. Seeking connection in a daze, where I find myself alive amongst the dead. I try to turn myself on to those who find themselves in the same spot. Tears fall much easier; my heart’s sincerely, dearly open. At night, I visit new worlds, more concerned with the quality of dreaming than I am the moths that fly in and eat my carpet. In the morning I keep my eyes closed and refuse kisses as I scribble down the directions back to here, this world. I hold myself in my palm, seemingly for the first time. No longer at arms length.

𓁿𓁿

On the train, my sister calls and asks me to put the conductor on the phone. She needs to see me and she cannot wait. There is a Starbucks in Bridlington and Nuno wants to drink a Frappuccino, because of the heat and because we are on holiday. My dad, in the background, remarks reluctantly that there is only one can of ginger beer left in Tesco. The signal is poor so the line cuts out.

My thoughts dance on the breeze. Train journeys act as a remarkable incubator for fantasies to fly above the curves of the grass outside the window. Streams meander and big old clouds float on by, sweatily chugging through the hot pale blue. Purple flowers and telephone lines punctuate our path from London to Hull to Bridlington at the end of the Earth and I close my eyes. My mind wanders around the fields, ruminating and relishing the silence and space. The train pauses in the shades surrounded by trees and the breeze settles. “I’m cooking up,” Nuno says.

My mind fixates. Spores of thought multiply and propagate. I let them germinate, watch how far the little strands go. I haven’t the energy to stop them in this heat. I close my eyes once more and I’m in the cool forest, my feet on a mossy carpet. A branch catches my hair and caresses my cheek, I share a kiss or two. Energy buzzes around me and it’s no longer something I can explain in words.

This is Driffield, another stop that isn’t ours. I’m dressed in orange linen and purple silk, the promise of spicy ginger beer is cool on my tongue, and the afternoon regains its effervescence. Not long now.

I’ve been somewhat M.I.A after transcending in early Spring. Please excuse my digital absence, I’m in the process of putting it all back together again.

Here’s a little update on what I am up to:

• I’ve started a new project; Eyeball. I’m exploring seeing, and being seen. I’m hosting are Intuitive Collaging Workshops, twice monthly. At BHF Books & Music in Streatham and MULTI STORY in Peckham! Tickets can be found here.

• Also as part of the Eyeball project I will be hosting DREAM CIRCLE. This will be a gathering for dreamers to share their dreams and swap wisdom on how to reach deeper states of consciousness. I’ll update when this is in motion. Follow on Instagram for more updates.

• I visited Hastings and was enticed by some sweet Morris Dancers with bells on their calves into staying the whole weekend and watching the Jack In The Green Festival.

• I had the absolute pleasure and honor of showing my short film “Destiny” at the last My Eyes! My Eyes! film night. It was screened before “I Know Catherine The Log Lady” a Lynchian extravaganza followed by an incredible short film where David Lynch makes quinoa and tells stories. I am devastated that I can’t make it this week to their next one this Thursday, “Horror-tastic! an Evening with Dan Martin”. Perhaps you can though, tickets here.

Be Seeing You!

𓁿𓁿

Spinoza argued that God and nature are one and the same; a single reality to be governed by rational law. He believed that through reason we can understand both the world and our emotions, freeing ourselves from the rule of blind passion. I usually find myself nervous in new environments, but the half-pint is lubricating, and when prompted to come up with discussion questions, I raise my hand. “Where does reason come from?” I ask.

Next we split into small groups to answer this question. I choose to sit at a table with four other women. To my right sits a woman who is clearly active in philosophical circles. She holds herself in a beautifully confident way and the speaker knew her by name. She begins responding to my question, but soon her words are no longer her own. From her mouth pours a stream of citations and references to books and theories that she has read and that I have not. She talks about reason and logic and how we can apply these concepts to the world in order to live a good and virtuous life. I notice my initial question slowly edging away from the table as Plato and the rationalists take it’s seat.

Another woman interjects. In a low voice she asks, “How can everything be God if the world was created? Who created the world?” The confident lady starts citing more philosophy from her well-stocked arsenal. My question has taken the back exit and is tussling with Edward Norton in the car park.

“What has that got to do with reason?” I rudely interrupt.

I shift in my seat at the philosophy café, unsure what I’d expected, or why I’d even expected it. I’d imagined we would be discussing questions and independently thinking about the answers. Is that not what a philosopher does? I realised how my own expectations were hindering my enjoyment of the discussion. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that people would be prepared with ready-made answers extracted from books and ideas written by somebody else.

In 1987, disgraced televangelist Jim Bakker and his wife Tammy Faye gave ABC’s Nightline an interview to try and redeem themselves from scandal. Less than five minutes into the interview, Bakker had a bible the size of a pound cake on his knee and was reciting the Psalms. Ted Koppel asked Bakker, “Is it going to be possible to get through an interview with you both without you wrapping yourselves in the Bible?”

When it comes to religion, it’s easy for non-believers to point out the obstructive effect that parroting scripture has on a discussion. It’s easy because there is a name and a set of parameters around that school of thought, so they can comfortably recognise the dissonance of simply reciting someone else’s ideas. But how do you communicate this to someone whose religion is thought itself?

While you may nod along to criticism of something large and abstract such as religion or philosophy, do you consider that your own thoughts (whilst they might not belong to a preacher or a God) have likely found another doctrine to settle on? Frameworks that are less simple to question such as identity, the culture you grew up in, or morality, like being a “good person” or what you expect from a romantic partner.

The ideas we base our lives around are not necessarily right or wrong, and trying to distinguish them as such can create further conflict. But when we use ideas that are not our own as the basis for our identity, communication with others becomes blurry. Ideas become a new religion we slip in and out of when it’s convenient. They prohibit independent thinking.

Even the words of those who try to free others from doctrine can turn into scripture. When I was 22, I encountered self-enquiry. I read Jiddu Krishnamurti and Ramana Maharshi. I grappled with my thoughts, wrestled with new ideas and in some ways freed my mind. But after a while, the same old problems arose for me. For example, I’d feel jealous or angry and immediately my thoughts would label this as wrong, and question why I was feeling this. By constantly evaluating my thoughts in pursuit of “self-inquiry,” I tried to think my way out of psychological patterns and found myself with a new set of dogma. My thoughts were not going anywhere, I’d just found a different lens to see them through.

Perhaps the reality is that freedom from the entanglement of thought is a non-linear path. Like showing up to a philosophy debate with a set of expectations about having no expectations. I offer no solution to my thoughts, only that I’m fascinated by observing them. This relationship was cultivated by spending time outside of my conscious mind; in meditation, in a forest, or in my dreams. I found who I am in my feelings, in my physical experience. When I hear music, the energy that vibrates on my skin and peels the hairs up on my arms is closer to what I feel is truth than any arbitrary thought. When I really pay attention, I discover that my thoughts don’t actually speak the language of my soul and therefore become easier to play with. My mind is my tool, rather than my master.

I thought someone could tell me how, but I found nobody could. They could tell you how they painted their landscape, but they couldn’t tell me to paint mine

Georgia O’Keefe

As I emerge from Oxford Circus Station, a lady informs me that “Jesus is Life”. I’m meeting Ella at Itsu on Broadwick Street so I detour through Liberty and ask permission to spray Italian perfume onto my coat. Granted, I saunter through Soho in a cloud of tobacco and musk. I eat before Ella arrives; my hunger is too demanding and the neat little rolls of salmon, rice and seaweed are too tempting. Ella soon joins, and we sit by the orchids and discuss the Epstein files.

After dinner, it is time to feel intellectual, so we attend the BYOB literary event, “New Work”. It’s an event where writers invite other writers to read excerpts from their upcoming projects, or works in progress. We stand shoulder to shoulder in an art gallery called Edel Assanti. I look around at the other people here; individuals form a crowd.

First up is a girl who published a book last year. She was born after 9/11, so I’m impressed. I struggle to understand what she is saying with her mouth pressed against the microphone. Her words are obscured by heavy breath, like she is speaking right into my ear. People in the audience are laughing at her jokes but they are soaring right over my head. I fight the urge to join in with the laughter out of politeness. I’m trying my best to be earnest.

Next is a man with a buzzcut, wearing a camo jacket. As he is preparing to begin, he says something inaudibly to Rachel Connolly, a Northern Irish writer whom Ella admires and one of the organisers of this event. Her lips are red and her eyelashes are black. Later this evening she’ll bump into Ella and say “Oh! It’s you!” Rachel isn’t reading her work tonight, she’s platforming.

She leans into the mic and says something about Teesside and Thatcher. I quickly look at Ella.

“He’s northern,” I whisper.

We’re excited, because we are also northern. He begins his slam poetry, and I admire his confidence to take up space in a room like this. His lines are thick with imagery I’ve seen a hundred times before. Steelworks, smackheads and settees pour out of his mouth like a soup of despair. Underfunding and a decline in culture. The New North. “I want to smoke spice…” he reads from his iPhone 17. He speaks directly to the audience. He asks us whether we are innocent. The audience meekly responds and a sense of shame washes over the room. Through his poetry and demeanor he has positioned himself as The Other. I glance at Ella; we remain silent and exchange a raised eyebrow. And raised is where it remains for the remainder of his performance, suspended above his telling assumption that those that fill this room are not also northern and working class.

For the fun of it, I let the wave of shame imbue me too. I am northern and working class, I swear! Yet, I’ve lived in London since I was 18 years old. The Italian perfume I sprayed on my coat 45 minutes ago now makes my temples throb. But the shame elusively runs off my back. As he finishes his set, the camouflaged man throws a fistful of paper in the air. One piece lands next to me, I pick it up and it is an invitation to riot (when the time is right) that has been cleverly designed to look like currency.

The crowd explodes into a relieved applause and promptly empties for a cigarette break. I’m left with a feeling I can’t explain. It’s not you, it’s me. I wonder about the northern working class experience. The one that I experienced. Rather, the one that I fled. Not the nostalgic caricatures conjured time and again; not “I Want To Be a Ballet Dancer, Dad” or the taming of a kestrel. I think of those who I left behind, my little sister and her friends. My teenage cousins. This is really England; air-fryers, smart whips, Snapchat, Lost Marys, BIAB and a bricklaying apprenticeship. I’m being cynical.

My cynicism was lovingly bestowed upon me as a child, by my grandfather. He would read two newspapers, one left-wing and one right-wing. Reclining in his usual spot on the sofa, next to a strong cup of tea and exactly 3 digestive biscuits, he’d fold over one of the large corners of The Telegraph and lean towards me.

“You’ve got to find out what the other side is saying,” he’d say; “You’ve always got to be cynical.”

I agree with my Grandad, cynicism is remarkably important. However, too much cynicism and you’ll find yourself jaded, unable to see the joy in anything. When cynicism fails to evolve into a discussion, we push ourselves into corners of echo chambers. Once we try to engage with one another from inside our ideologies, our cynicism falls on deaf ears and often lands as an attack. We then become silent cynics, unknowingly shaping the world through our untrusting eyes.

With my legs turning numb in the shadowless gallery, I realise my reluctance to say anything to anyone of the cynicism I am experiencing. I am intrigued by this strange fear of sharing how the northern slam poet made me feel. What is that all about? Recently, I had my fears confirmed when I watched a friend/collaborator George Francis Lee come under fire for sharing similar views on an art installation in Manchester.

Utopia is an art installation by Trackie McLeod that nostalgically reimagines a working class pub. Visitors can drink pints and throw darts at Thatcher. George pointed out the “long-trodden stereotypes” that were at play here. He understands the cultural consequences of the “self mythology” of identity, both working class and northern. It is literally the whole point of his project, STAT Zine, which aims to “redistribute cultural focus” away from Manchester and across the small-towns of the North West.

The response to his critique fascinated me. George was the subject of scathing infographics and comments that insulted his personal character. One commenter called him a “shady guy”. A producer of the installation rejected George’s criticisms on the basis that he had simply not done enough research into the vision for the installation and had misunderstood it.

Aside from the issues that I have with policing the consumption and experience of art (as if art ever demanded to be correctly understood), I wonder what happens when we label criticism as “dangerous”, simply because it differs from our own perception. Does it make people afraid to comment truthfully? What happens to art when we restrict the conversation around it? We all seem to welcome the concept of critique but few of us can stomach it. Perhaps we’d prefer to present ourselves upon audiences made of plasticine, indistinguishably mouldable and mute. Not unlike the ones we find online, really.

Back in Fitzrovia, the crowd reassembles after a cigarette and it’s noticeably sparser. The third act is an American writer, my favourite of the night. She speaks about living above a mystical crystal shop. But by the final act, I am distracted and bored. I count how many moles I can see on the faces and necks around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man across the room with red ears and thin hair. No moles. He is sipping milk straight from a two-pint bottle. I am suddenly bewildered, intrigued, excited. I’ve only ever seen one other person do that and he had a stomach ulcer. Does this man have a stomach ulcer? Can you detect that just by looking at someone?

On the way home Ella and I dissect the evening. I get off the bus back in Streatham and a man is vomiting in a corner. I avert my eyes and go home.

I’m sharing some personal news:

• My film The Last Night of the Earth was screened at Exploding Cinema last week. I answered some Q+A about the film, and was joined by my friends. You can watch a live stream of the event here. My film starts at 2:42:45

• I am having another of my short films The Quiet Comprehending screened on 26th March at My Eyes! My Eyes! Short Film night at Peckham Levels. Tickets available here.

• I am currently putting together a new project, and I am seeking a DOP and Co-Producer to help me realise it. Please send me details of anyone you’d recommend.

• I’d like to share with you my new short film; on the fence. It’s spring now so the pebbles have started speaking to one another again.

  
  Be Seeing You!

This reluctantly echoes through my mind as Neil Postman murmurs at me about the dangers of television from the television. I’m watching a 1988 C-SPAN interview with Postman, making last minute preparations for my book club that will take place on Thursday evening. This month we read Amusing Ourselves to Death, the final book in an unofficial trilogy on technology and control, following Huxley’s Brave New World and Orwell’s 1984. A pipeline that once led me to stop using a smartphone for a whole year. How times have changed, I chuckle, as my eyes flit from Postman down to my iPhone. My eyes dart back to the television when he says: “I never watch television when it’s serious, I prefer to watch old movies and sports.” Suddenly, I am him, and he is me. We both know better and in knowing better we know more, which allows us to do and say whatever we want. Because we know better. We are above it all. I get my news straight from the source. You see, I get all the news I need from the weather report.

The best lack conviction, so I look away from the TV again. I paint my nails pink and swallow a glass of rosé wine. Postman saw 9/11, but he never saw a TikTok. He insults the intelligence of 1980s Middle America based on the entertainment that was thrust upon them (television) and the absurdity of the president they elected (Ronald Reagan). I can’t help but feel an uncanny sense of deja-vu, and an even stranger sympathy for the normal people of Reagan’s America. I consider the world (only for a second, so as to not bite off more than I can chew): I think about television, and the entertainment we are fed now. I think about Reagan, and Reagan’s second coming. Then I look at myself. I think of the way we all want it to be different. And the centre is again, falling. And my eyes are again, rolling.

I’ve written and pondered at length about my relationship to technology and the current epistemic epidemic. From all angles, like a lingering porn cameraman who loves his job. But like Postman, I offer only philosophical and intellectual solutions rather than outright commandments. Because I am confused by the current state of affairs. Because as much as I try, I am not omniscient. Although in one given moment I feel I have a grasp on What Is Going On, a new day may dawn and suddenly nothing means anything anymore. It is safer for me to observe decay from a distance. To remind people of their own agency, whilst refusing to use my own.

Postman, and the mirror he smugly held got too much, I found myself barefoot in my kitchen, investigating the shelves. Caressing my produce in a bid to feel real. There is the egg box, here are my hands. I am the egg-lady, they are the egg-ladies. I remember a Russian lady telling me the secret to reversing the signs of aging is to use raw egg whites as a face mask. I blink and somehow I’m scooping up foamy egg whites with my fingers and spreading them across my cheeks.

I feel impulsive and strange. Far from that which I know, far from thought, from reason. There is a force writhing inside of me that I am familiar with yet I struggle to anticipate. I surrender myself to it. It is darker, shadowy, earthy. Like soil under a fingernail. Like a dilated moon, yellow and waxy, it imbues in me a spirit that can cause one to find sympathy for the devil, to burn bitten fingers on carpet, to touch oneself.

A drop of raw egg white creeps towards my lips and I quickly wipe it away before I gag.

So, I woke up this morning, for the first time in months. Fear, like before, had kept me suspended above the realm of dreams. I sank into the purple sheets and stretched an arm out over my coffee. A kiss delivered itself onto my forehead and I unlocked my phone.

My phone and coffee, first thing in the morning. Should I pretend I don’t do that? I love to be stimulated, should I lie and say I like to be bored? The path of least resistance is naturally slippery. On my phone, I watched a short film I’d made 3 years ago, when I was very depressed about turning twenty-five. I noticed the sadness in my eyes, but I saw him. Just a glimpse. The fucking Dream Man. There he was, flipping my eggs and washing the dishes. I couldn’t believe it, I’d forgotten him again.

The Dream Man has a long face, eyes that hurt when they look at you. The time flies out the window in a hurry and you catch yourself saying things like “Is it February already?” The daffodils appear, unannounced, when the Dream Man is near.

Floating on air, floating on air. White knuckles and my ideas of living. It’s all about ideas, really. My life, should I allow it, becomes a tapestry of notions and plans, sewn together by concepts and things that are a Big Deal. Until one morning, you put down your phone and decide to make apple compote. And the apples and pears grow arms and legs and jump up on your shoulder. They whisper into your ear. Suddenly the light outside becomes cold, and the stove inside is warm. Your living room is a museum of normality. The hum of the washing machine is a symphony.

Somewhere between here and there, I got an air fryer and a microwave. My nails are painted red. I use TikTok. Soaked in unusual yet familiar cynicism following a Buddhist meditation, I went to Tesco with Ella. Nothing like a Tesco on a Wednesday to summon the Dream Man. The moon smiled through the large glass windows. Big Tesco, our tavern, our chapel. Watched over by machines of loving closed circuits. Easter eggs in February. Valentine’s plushies and frozen bao buns. Oh the something of it all. But no - it’s nothing but nothing. I’m just walking around Tesco in a mood.

The Dream Man found me there, and then he followed me home. My face contorted into a smile from here to my ear. The eternal return! I rejoice, finally. For so long, I’d forgotten. There are no ideas, no plans. There really is only whatever is at the end of a fingertip. And my fingertips ached from barre chords. The Dream Man held me as I slept, and then he left me to wake alone. There, normality found me, it trickled over me. Lest I forget it once more.

Recent News:

• I suddenly found divine inspiration whilst listening to a Best of The Ramones CD and made a short film called Destiny:

• I am hosting 2 events this month with Ella at British Heart Foundation Books & Music in Streatham. Tickets for both can be found here. Do come along if you have an open heart and mind:

However, relinquishing the need to hunt for our food is not quite the same as replacing our internal compass with a private company that tells us how to get to work. Even less so when that same company harnesses the data of our poor navigational skills to sell things back to us. It is also not the same as abandoning our innate desire to wander, in place of convenience and punctuality.

I want to draw attention to the flickering torch of our internal lighthouse that for eternity has shone the way. Because no matter how cliché it sounds, life is not just about arriving at your destination: it’s entirely about the journey. Following squiggly coloured lines on a small glowing rectangle is a dull replacement for the art of being lost, finding your way and the strange people and places you stumble upon in between.

When I wrote my essay about giving up using a smartphone, not having access to Google Maps (and I must stress, specifically, Google Maps) was the number one reason people told me they would not be able to do the same. They rely on their phone for navigation. There is really nothing wrong with that. Especially if you are travelling to new places regularly for work or school, using a paper map or asking for directions every day would truly feel anachronistic and potentially dangerous. In this respect, I don’t think it’s realistic to expect people to devolve. I do, however, think that it’s important to at least notice the way that constant access to satellite navigation bleeds into other aspects of our lives.

Getting lost is an art form. I am a certified wanderer. I roam the streets aimlessly with my friends, with no destination at all. We eat whatever we stumble upon (think: Bourdain if reincarnated as a twenty-something woman). We drink cheap wine poured by characters with stories to tell, chatting simply to whoever will give us the time of day. We follow the white rabbit and embrace the unknown. Reader, I beg you: how are you supposed to get lost if you’ve always somewhere to go?

Of course, when you have somewhere to go, satellite navigation ensures predictability, precision and preparation. This is why it’s so seductively hard to diverge from. But what exactly are we being precise about? Google Maps uses ‘promoted pins,’ essentially meaning that the results most likely to appear when you search are often paid placements. Visibility is no longer determined by proximity, quality or community reputation, but by marketing budget.

Aside from the obvious distaste this leaves for anyone who values their own autonomy (let alone culture and character), it subtly reshapes the landscape of our cities and lives. Venues with less revenue, time or knowledge to compete in a digital bidding war are pushed into obscurity, even when they’re just down the road. Our map evolves to reflect commercial priorities rather than cultural. Over time, will our feet follow?

I’ve discovered some of my favourite places in South London whilst wandering off the beaten track. Unfortunately they are the same places that have had to close due to the decline in hospitality trade. In 2019, my favourite place to spend a Saturday night was Cafe Cairo on Landor Road. Where else could you rave, watch films, smoke shisha and eat pizza in a Victorian house that felt like a Bedouin tent? Sadly, like many independent hospitality businesses, Cafe Cairo fell victim to Covid1. More recently, The Courtesan in Brixton closed its doors for the last time in December. A remarkably unique blend of burlesque and dim sum that (to its detriment) sat just ever so out of your way up Atlantic Road.

Meanwhile, less than 300 yards away next to the busy Brixton Market, Freight Brixton is set to open its doors in Spring 2026. Brought to the area by Field Vision, who operate the bars at Printworks, Flannels and various festivals worldwide, Freight describes itself as a ‘home for local talent, independent traders and creative culture’ situated at the ‘heart of Brixton’. Just across the road, you’ll find Pop Brixton the self-proclaimed ‘home to the most exciting independent start-ups and business in London’ based in the ‘beating heart of Brixton’. Interesting.

Back in November, I attended a free Channel One event at Freight. In the lead up to their opening, they are putting on a variety of events to spark interest in the venue, and I never pass up on the opportunity for a free dub event. The venue was brand-spanking new, it was £17 for jerk chicken and I got a free pint of Jubel, as they were sponsoring the event. It is a little blurry now (as Channel One sessions tend to be) but I had fun. Yet, I could’ve been at Freight, Pop Brixton or BoxPark. Channel One naturally brought the soul to an otherwise indistinguishable venue.

Just across the road from Pop and Freight, you’ll find an unassuming bar, Brixtonia Lounge. If I search ‘bar’ on Google Maps when I am in Brixton, I have to sift through several Pergolas, Effras and natural wine clubs before I find Brixtonia Lounge, with its seven gleaming reviews. On Thursday evenings they thump out heavy dub from local DJs who are part of the Brixton Dub Club. We drink thick hot chocolate, smoke on their patio, chat to the regulars and feel the building shake. Their Instagram bio lists their prices; espresso: £1.95, cocktail: £8.50, smile: £0.00.

According to a recent survey by UK Hospitality, almost half of Brits believe their local high street is in decline. Last year, the Guardian reported that one in four late-night venues had closed since 20202. When we outsource our sense of discovery to ad-heavy platforms like Google, independent venues that don’t fit the Instagrammable mould or pander to an online audience are being pushed out. We’ve known this to be the case for a while. When I worked in digital marketing (one of my many lives), I won clients by warning them that if they didn’t focus on their digital presence, they’d fall behind. In some ways, I’m ashamed of the fact that I perpetuated a world where falling in line is the only option. Though it’s clear I too bought the lie we are being sold.

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: you may not have control over a lot of things in this world, but the way in which you experience it all is entirely up to you. It’s January now and compared to last month, you probably have very little to do. Why not take a wander? Without expectations or destinations, wrap your chilly throat in a warm scarf and get out of your mouldy house, even better if you’re with a friend. Keep your phone in your pocket and let the wind blow you about for a bit. See where you end up. Ask a stranger for their favourite place to get a cup of tea. Go to the restaurant with the name you can’t pronounce. The world is out there for you to discover. Eyes up, feet on the ground. Trust your inner compass and you’ll find your way, if it doesn’t find you first.

After recently re-publishing my essay Smartphone Junkies, I realised that although I had reconciled my relationship to the smartphone, many people haven’t. I spent over a year using a dumbphone, and as a result, my approach to life has been irrevocably changed.

During this time, I wrote a paper that was intended to guide people on how they too can live without a smartphone. Although my desire to radicalise people into anachronism has dissipated, I would still like to share my findings and perhaps guide others on how to decenter the smartphone.

Also in my Decentering Your Smartphone series:

Similarly, the devices, apps and technologies we carry with us everyday gradually shape how we spend our time, think and connect with one another. Yet despite the landscape of life shifting beneath our toes, we must remember that we are not merely observing it. Every action we make: a tap, swipe or scroll, reflects a choice.

Since the Industrial Revolution technological change has occurred at an exponential speed, breaking the sound barrier around the mid-20th century as we entered the Information Age. After the war, the United States in particular experienced a consumerist boom. Vance Packard’s 1957 book The Hidden Persuaders warned of a shift into the “Age of Manipulation”. Subliminal messaging was already commonplace in marketing, but developed further during the 50s and 60s. Marketing companies started to make use of existing consumer data in order to find the best way to push products.

Consumers began being targeted for their “pain points”, marketing jargon for the aspects of life that can be improved. This optimising attitude saw us make small swaps; from which dish soap we use to the cars we drive. Products were promised to save us time, make us more attractive and even better people. The manufactured desire to maximise our time and energy landed us at the smartphone.

The IBM Simon, released in 1992, is technically regarded as the world’s first smartphone. Blackberry later increased the demand for devices that could do more than just text and play Snake, but it was the launch of the iPhone in 2007 that defined the smartphone as we know it today.

The iPhone, Steve Job’s magnum opus, was released to huge acclaim. It coalesced the computer, mobile phone, mp3 player, camera, calculator – and more – into a small device that would fit into the palm of your hand. When delivering his keynote speech, Jobs declared “Today, Apple is going to reinvent the phone”. That they did.

After the launch of the smartphone, people increasingly wanted to be on their phones as much as possible. As devices cemented their place in daily life, society responded. Apps began popping up for everything. For instance, The Royal Bank of Scotland launched what it claims was the first mobile banking app in 2011, promising to bring customers “closer to their own financial affairs.” It was revolutionary. No more queuing at the bank. Everyday tasks could now be optimised in ways never seen before.

Despite the early optimism, the smartphone and consequent technological advances now have quite a bad reputation. We’re warned of diminished cognitive ability and social isolation. Teenagers are in pipelines and elections are being rigged. How can one imagine that we all agreed to it?

It is much easier to believe that we didn’t, that it was forced upon us. We were tricked by Silicon Valley tech bros into buying smartphones and scrolling our way to our graves. To be clear, there was manipulation. There is evidence that points to the addictive psychology behind our devices and the content we consume on them. A 2023 peer-reviewed study conducted in China, published in Computers in Human Behaviour Reports, showed that the persuasive design of smartphones and their apps, such as notifications and content suggestions, contributed to prolonged screen time, repeated phone-checking habits and distraction.

Teams of developers are encouraged to create apps and operating systems that are as addicting as possible. It’s normal to feel disgusted by this. But look a little closer and we see a team of developers who are doing their jobs exceptionally well. That is: to meet and surpass targets and keep shareholders satisfied. This is what happens when we have a culture that places so much importance on optimisation.

Former Facebook president Sean Parker recalls how social media “pioneers” consciously knew that the products they were creating were exploiting vulnerabilities in the human psyche, and that they did it anyway. Does that make him the villain? Parker has since expressed regret about his choices. He serves as a reminder that the people building these systems are operating inside the same incentive structures as the rest of us.

We can be simultaneously outraged by the tricks that these devices and apps have used to harness our attention and also recognise our own agency within the situation. This is how we can create change. You can pay attention to what’s happening around you and also have the power to transform your experience of it.

The human fixation with what we haven’t got, and our insatiable hunger to get it, has driven the planet into chaos. It is now seen as strange to want less, to do less and to be satisfied with less. It is also increasingly difficult to get by with less.

Notice how the choices in your life are influenced by the need to optimise, maximise and profit. Maybe you work more hours than you actually need to, at a company that you’re not really morally aligned with, but you turn a blind eye as it funds your lifestyle.

Your lifestyle might be shopping at fast-fashion retailers so you can wear a new outfit every time you go out. You might be semi-aware of the harsh conditions of the workers that produce the clothes, but you absolve yourself of any guilt by reminding yourself that you aren’t rich and you deserve to buy new clothes too.

Perhaps you use dating apps to speed up falling in love and filter out potential partners that don’t meet your expectations on paper. You might sense that reducing intimacy to a swipe feels off, but you do it anyway; everyone else is. These choices (and the cognitive dissonance they carry) are not that different from the ones that fuelled the addicting apps that we decry.

Choosing to not use a smartphone will almost certainly inconvenience your life, and is perhaps impossible for the kind of life that many of us live. Choosing to use a smartphone may improve your life, but will alter your sense of time, attention and presence.

Perhaps it’s unnecessary to decide which path you’ll choose, rather to notice that you can choose. To see how small, incremental decisions such as opening or closing an app shapes the texture of our days. Your phone isn’t your villain, neither is it your saviour, it’s your mirror. What you see in it depends on how you hold it.

After recently re-publishing my essay Smartphone Junkies, I realised that although I had reconciled my relationship to the smartphone, many people haven’t. I spent over a year using a dumbphone, and as a result, my approach to life has been irrevocably changed.

During this time, I wrote a paper that was intended to guide people on how they too can live without a smartphone. Although my desire to radicalise people into anachronism has dissipated, I would still like to share my findings and perhaps guide others on how to decenter the smartphone.

Also in the Decentering Your Smartphone series:

At my Nanny’s house in a small ex-mining village in Yorkshire, there is a cupboard filled with shoeboxes. Inside the shoeboxes are thousands of photographs. Some from the early 20th century, some from last year. A constellation of memories and family history, and the first place I learned what it means to hold a memory in my hands.

When I was a teenager, I’d spend my summers with my Nanny. We’d wake up early and go rambling together. She taught me how to knit one, purl one. I’d play bingo with her friends on Thursdays, Saturdays and Sundays. And in the afternoon, with a cup of tea, I’d sit on her carpet and open her shoeboxes.

I’d say “Nanny, can I have a look at your old pictures?” and she would say, “go into my cupboard, and pick any box you like”. My Grandad Terry passed away in 2004, before I really understood what death was. But nobody stopped loving him, especially my Nanny, who keeps fresh flowers next to his framed photograph in her sitting room. The shoeboxes were my connection to my grandfather, and the love he and my Nanny shared, way before I was a twinkle in anybody’s eye.

There are photographs of them in flares in the 70s; my dad at his passing out parade in the 80s; my grandad with Las Vegas Elvis impersonators in the 90s; and me and my little sister baking cakes in the kitchen in the 00s. My Nanny, a keen photographer, documented her life in pictures and therefore my father’s life and mine too.

But she isn’t precious. “Take anything you like”, she’ll say, passing me empty photo albums to fill for myself, “this is your history too.” Her house is filled to the brim with memories and love, and she fills the lives of those around her with the same.

Susan Sontag once said that photographs are a way of imprisoning reality, yet there is an undeniable human quality to the desire to preserve and document our lives. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. From cave paintings to diaries, the act of attempting to record whatever it is that we are trying to do here on earth is, to me, part of existence itself. But, it’s the way in which we document that has changed more in the past 20 years, than the last hundred. The medium is the message, and the meaning changes depending on the tools we use.

My iPhone camera is exquisite, it’s of far superior quality to any of the other cameras that I own. However, there are over thirty thousand photographs sitting in my iCloud. A sea of memories that act as a digital diary for my late teens and twenties that will no doubt, as I grow older swell into an ocean.

No longer limited to 36 exposures, we live vicariously through our own content. If a tree falls and no one is around to photograph it, did it even fall? Our modern obsession with image making echoes what surrealist artist Magritte found himself fascinated by: the art of meaning. As the painting of a pipe is not actually a pipe; a photograph is not a substitute for its subject. We have begun to orchestrate events in order to capture images of them. This changes the context of a photograph – the image is becoming the event.

Although I’ve been collecting cameras since I was a young teen, it wasn’t until I gave up my smartphone that opting to use a camera over my iPhone became habitual. At first, I felt panic and fear, as I divorced myself from the ability to easily capture and share everything I did. As though my memories were slipping away from me. But eventually, I began bringing out a camera with me, sometimes film, sometimes digital. It was not until I became comfortable with moments of my life being undocumented, that I was able to intentionally document my life.

The difference is the pause. In order to see my photographs, I need to have them developed, or upload them to my computer. This process, in which we regard our work after the fact, is where the photographs become intentional. Rather than throwing them without context into the endless depths of my iCloud, where they lay only to be discovered in fleeting moments when I’m desperately searching for a photograph of my tenancy agreement.

I still take photographs with my iPhone as it’s very useful, but I do not rely upon it. However, it’s okay if you do. Intention isn’t automatically gained with the absence of a device, but from the presence of attention. Throwing your phone away won’t make your life meaningful. That part is down to you. Like my Nanny, who no longer carries a camera, she now takes all her photos with her smartphone, and uploads them to her new shoebox: Facebook.

It’s a Tuesday morning and I’m supposed to be on a train to Manchester but I’m actually working from a coffee shop on Brixton Hill. I’ve been here for almost an hour when the man sitting to my left tells me he has to ask, what is going on with my phone? Before I can answer, the man sitting to my right looks up from his laptop and agrees that he too wants to know and that the question has been burning inside him since I laid it down on the table. The phone in question is absolutely nothing remarkable by today’s technological standards, but it is exactly this fact that makes my Nokia such a bloody attention seeker.

On Halloween last year, I found myself wandering the streets, through the packs of trick-or-treaters and into an Argos, where I bought myself a brand new dumbphone. Spooky. In case you didn’t know, a dumbphone is essentially a phone that cannot connect to the internet and lacks the sophistications of the modern smartphone, such as Siri or Hinge. But this wasn’t my first rodeo. It was in 2020 when I really started to dislike using my smartphone. I bought a vintage Nokia 3310 (aka the internet’s indestructible sweetheart) and told everyone that I was “breaking free from the reins of my iPhone” and “totally immersing myself into the present moment, man”. You’d catch me saying things like “I’m not in control of what I consume,” or “the 24 hour news cycle is just really getting me down”. It lasted around a week; the battery from the ancient Nokia proved completely unusable, and I was soon back in my iPhone’s loving arms.

Fast forward to today, and I find myself uncomfortable with how essential the smartphone is becoming to our ability to function in modern society. It is the ultimate human companion, beyond the wildest sci-fi dreams of the 20th century — banking, communication, navigation, news and weather, tracking my menstrual cycle, booking a doctor’s appointment, taking photographs, listening to music, it’s all right here in the palm of my hand. That’s a lot of proverbial eggs in one proverbial basket.

I take a walk down my local high street, past a sea of recently closed banks and restaurants that use QR codes in the place of a paper menu and an actual human waiter. According to Which?, our banks have been closing at a rate of 54 per month since 2015. This may not be an issue for the average Joe, who can afford and understand how to use a smartphone. But I can’t help but think of the alienation this creates for those who are less fortunate, or for some elders of our society to whom a QR code is more akin to a modern petroglyph. Or perhaps, just people who want to have a choice in the matter.

Beyond our functional reliance on our phones, you’re probably not unfamiliar with the ever present challenge of trying to find a ‘healthy’ balance between reality and online life. We are generously offered screen time limits that are designed to keep our usage in check. Maybe you have tried to delete social media or your news apps periodically to control your usage, declaring to your friends “I am off the ‘Gram. For good this time”, like a Gen-Z Mark Renton, only to sheepishly ‘like’ their Instagram story less than 24 hours later.

My contempt for using a smartphone has as much to do with attention spans and convenience as the fact I’m inviting almost every company in the world into my pocket. Everytime I type my email into a website or app, I wonder where that data will end up, and at what price. According to Statista, In 2023 Google generated over $237 billion in ad revenue, undoubtedly thanks to our data. In her 2019 book How To Do Nothing: Resisting The Attention Economy, Jenny Odell suggests we must “protect our spaces and our time for non-instrumental, noncommercial activity”. This echoed Naomi Klein’s 1997 revolutionary No Logo, wherein Klein declares that we have “no space” left that hasn’t been touched by those who are trying to get us to spend our hard-earned cash. Heck, Neil Postman was warning us in 1985 that we were “Amusing Ourselves to Death”. When will we decide to listen?

Consider that these privately produced devices that rely on our continued, dopamine-fuelled usage are not only harnessing our lucrative data, but also getting in the way of normal everyday interactions and human connections. A 2019 study showed that teenage loneliness has been spiking in the USA since 2012, which, the New York Times noted, also happened to be the first year in history that the majority of Americans owned a smartphone. Another study, published in the scientific journal Computers in Human Behavior, indicated that the presence of a smartphone was enough to reduce the amount of times we genuinely smile at strangers. Welcome to the Brave New World.

After retiring my smartphone, I naturally wanted to find others who had also made the switch. Online forums and social networks are awash with people who have abandoned their smartphones in search of a less connected life. The dumbphone Subreddit, for example, has 44k members at the time of writing*. Sales of non-smartphones are on the up and movement is certainly brewing. The rise of the dumbphone is upon us.

I wanted to go a step further. I wanted to get out into the wild, speak to people who had really disconnected. In the absence of my Voice Memos app, I bought a dictaphone from CeX, fashioned a handwritten sign out of two cardboard boxes that read “HAVE YOU STOPPED USING A SMARTPHONE? TALK TO ME,” and set out to the busiest place I could think of: Piccadilly Circus. Underneath the Eros statue, I sat, alone, in the freezing cold of a Sunday in January. Upon reflection, sitting in the centre of the tourism universe was not the spot to meet off-grid types. Illuminated by the soft glowing lights of the consumerist monolith, I watched as tourists stared at my sign, snapped a quick photograph on their iPhones and continued walking. As I settled into my post, people began to approach me. As one can imagine, I didn’t speak to a single person who had actually stopped using a smartphone, but I did speak with a few people who wanted to. Victoria from Lima, Peru, said she thinks we have a problem connecting with each other. She has a 19-year-old son with whom she struggles to maintain a relationship, because he is always using his phone. If smartphones didn’t exist, she thinks we’d find it easier to enjoy “the present moment” and to “dedicate time to do exactly what we want”. I agree, but I think time is up on pretending we don’t have the choice to make a change.

I did manage to speak to one person who has given up his smartphone. Jack Graham, from London, switched to a dumbphone last year. “Within just a couple of days I definitely felt a difference,” he told me. “Not only in terms of relationships but also in slowing the mind such that my perceptions were heightened to the world around me, my concentration and mood improved, and I was more open and curious to learning about new topics that interested me rather than just mindlessly pressing buttons.”

I find my Nokia to be an easy conversation starter with strangers. People ask me about it, and tell me they too are considering buying a dumbphone. I tell them, it’s not as hard as you think, go for it. I still use social media almost every day for work and to connect friends who live far from me, but only for a limited amount of time when I get home, using my laptop or tablet. If I need to, I check maps before I leave the house and I ask people in the street for directions if I get lost. I’m yet to find a reasonable way around e-tickets and the fact that my banking is entirely based on a mobile app. So at the moment, when I travel, I bring my sim-less iPhone too.

Freedom is important to me, as is living a life where every moment is just as beautiful as the last. With my neck poised downwards at a 60 degree angle, I can’t see the way the leaves shake in the wind, smile at those who pass me by, or notice the sky turn from blue to pink. However, I’m not in the business of telling people what to do with their lives. At this moment in time, I’m using my iPhone exponentially less. What works for me might not work for you, and what works for me right now might not work for me in five years’ time. But in order to maintain autonomy, one must assess the extent to which social conditioning impacts how one lives their life — in our hyperdigital age, the demand that we remain constantly plugged in is just another convention to challenge. We each possess the ability to transform our experience of the world in a single moment.

With thanks to Ella for her edits on this piece.

*As of November 2025, the dumbphone subreddit now has 179k weekly visitors.

I’d been staring into my glass for about forty-five minutes when my good buddy Mr. Dandelion Puff slammed his drink down next to mine.

“What’s wrong Daddyo?”

I was in my feelings, so to speak, and about one more scotch away from sheddin’ a tear. I straightened out my leaves and turned to DP. His big fluffy seeds were almost completely gone.

“Nah, DP, y-you know how it is, I’m a lil’ lonely, is all. It’s been years since I felt the warm touch of another. People know now. They know – don’t get too close to the nettles. I just can’t help myself. If a hand gets close to me, I get so excited, I just gotta bite.”

DP chuckled and gestured to the bartender, Beetle Senior, for another round.

Mr Senior was an old pal of mine. His body was the color of an oil slick, changin’ hues as he crawled around. He liked having us there, and we never paid a dime for what we drank. I think it’s ‘cos he got lonely on the weekdays, but he’d never tell you that.

These beetle types have a tendency to drink a little too much on the weekends, which make them sensitive and quiet during the week. He reached up for the scotch with his top legs and grabbed two heavy glasses with his bottom. DP was wiping some crumbs off the top of the bar when he shrugged and looked up at me.

“Well baby, as it happens, you’re barkin’ up the wrong stem. I don’t got a problem like that at all. Everybody just loves to blow me.”

I know what you might be thinkin’. It’s a little odd for a nettle to be friends with a dandelion puff. Nettles have this reputation of being anti-social and invasive, whereas a dandelion puff is respected. One of the guys. But this is The Garden. It ain’t just no regular patch of grass. Here, anything goes and if I wanna be best buds with a hunky dandelion puff then so be it. Anytime anyone tried to question this type of thing, Beetle Senior would tap on his “Keep The Garden Weird” sign and shake his head.

Anyways, it was only a Monday, you see, so the bar was pretty empty. They had the sports playing on TV – you know, the kind of sports that play on a Monday in The Garden, bee hockey, occasionally toad poker – if you’re lucky. Beetle Senior had installed one of those neon lights above the pinball machine and a couple of those blow flies were buzzin’ around it like zeppelins. Other than that, it was the usual crowd: Chuckie Green, a tall, handsome blade of grass, was playing pool by himself and smoking a slim; and one of those seedy millipede characters had just come out of the little bug’s room itching his crotch. All of them were silent when laughter erupted from the other side of the bar.

“You don’t got a single clue what’s coming to you, my friend!”

DP squinted his eyes to try and see where the voice was coming from. It was dark as hell over there.

“Huh? You tryna talk to me?”

Out of nowhere, a big old dandelion flower made its way into the light, with the brightest yellow hair I ever seen. I’m not just talkin’ any kinda yellow, if you’re from The Garden, you know this colour. It’s the type that you just know – by nature – to not go anywhere near. The bar got quieter than quiet. You coulda heard the ash droppin’ from Chuckie Green’s cigarette.

“Yeah, you heard me. You think you’re Mr. Big Balls now. All these hands dippin’ low to blow those pretty seeds. Just you wait lil papa. One day…”

DP had leaned back on his stool to try and get a proper look at this guy. You’d never seen him so stressed out. There’s a saying here in The Garden about never seeing a dandelion puff and a dandelion flower in the same room. I guessed we were about to find out why.

“What? One day what?”

DP took a hard look at Ol’ Dandelion. You could see the whites all around his eyes.

Ol’ Dandelion breathed out hard through his nose. He started to laugh. He looked into the distance and began to tell his story.

“I’d just got my last seeds blown. I was feeling on top of the fuckin’ world. My consciousness was reincarnatin’, as they say. I floated down to the ground and found a nice bit of green to settle on. You know, ready to pass on to the next stage. I grew this gorgeous flower, bright fuckin’ yellow – I couldn’t believe my luck, I thought I was hot steamin’ shit you know? I thought, “Wow, these humans are going to go buck wild for my pretty yellow locks”. I’m gonna get picked to be the centerpiece of any respectable dinner table. But they don’t tell you, man…” Ol’ Dandelion trailed off.

“Don’t tell you what?”

At this point, Dandelion Puff was sweating. Beetle Senior was leaning over the bar on his front legs. He’d muted the sports.

Suddenly, Chuckie Green walks up to the bar and stubs out his smoke.

“I know what he’s talking about. Human folktales can be some other kind of evil, y’know. And they ain’t just for children. They say ‘If you touch a dandelion’s head, you gonna piss the bed’.”

Ol’ Dandelion let out a cry.

“Piss the fuckin’ bed! I mean, are you even serious, man? How does that even work! I’m a flower god dammit. They won’t even call me that. They call me a weed. They put poison on my kind for years. Count your days lil pretty boy.”

The room was totally silent. I looked up at DP. Fella looked like he had seen a ghost. He picked up his glass, polished off the rest, put one hand on my shoulder, and gave me a funny type of look. Type of look you give to your pet when you’re about to leave them at home while you go to work. I didn’t really know what to say, I mean Ol’ Dandelion just really took the wind out of all our sails right there and then. DP did a salute to everyone in the bar and walked out into the night.

That was the last time I ever saw him. Folks tell me he went up to the pond, and let the wind blow all his seeds into the water. Sad really.

𓇢𓆸

I got myself a lady now, Miss Dockleaf. She’s the antidote to my generational bitterness. Sometimes I take her to the pond, and each time a single tear falls down my leaves.

“He would’a loved you” I sniff, wiping myself dry. She puts her leaf on my leaf and we watch the flies skate on the water.

At sixteen, before introducing my teenage sweetheart to my family, my grandfather’s first question was a very serious: “Is he a Catholic?”. My surname is O’Neill and I have red hair. Catholicism may be woven into the very fibres of family lineage, but I’ve not been fully cognisant of the fact I was raised an active member of a religion until, believe it or not, I first put my pen to this page and began to write this here essay.

In my mind, religion wasn’t something that happened to me. Religion was saved for the pious, the devoted, the lovers of bread and wine. It was for the fasters, the crucifix wearers, the no meat on Fridays-ers. I’d forgotten all about church. About the boring Sunday Service that I’d spend staring at the stations of the cross, my little legs sticking to the worn leather on the kneelers. My palm, embalmed in white lace, clutching a string of soft mother of pearl rosary beads on my first communion.

𓇢𓆸

I entered this world as I meant to go on, kicking, screaming and partially brain damaged. My mother had a very difficult birth. After an emergency C-section, they pronounced me dead and a priest was invited to perform an emergency baptism. This is absolutely essential in Catholicism or I’m afraid your newborn baby may go to hell (or at best spend eternity in limbo) thanks to The Original Sin.

My mother was numb, defeated and high as a kite. My father was devastated. My grandparents were drunk; it was New Year’s Eve after all. After an airborne sign of the cross, the priest flicked holy water at me and my crusty little eyes flicked open for the first time in my life. Immediately I was rushed away, my funeral cancelled and twenty something years later I’m here writing about it. I’ve been told this story hundreds of times. I was even in the local newspaper. “THIS LITTLE LADY’S A REAL STAR” the headline read. Note to self: must change Instagram bio.

This experience, naturally, deeply affected my father, who was twenty-seven and fresh out of the British Armed Forces. He loved my mother, his mother and Rugby League. Recently, after several glasses of Jameson, he confessed that it was my miracle birth that convinced him to convert to Catholicism. An understandable series of events.

When I was a little girl, I’d speak with God every day. Before bedtime, my mother would come into my room and we’d pray together. Now you lay me down to sleep, and so on. Sometimes we’d even rejoice in a little hymn, and I’d do a series of actions to accompany it. I loved these moments. My room was pink and purple, my hair soft and red, and my mother young and kind.

I’d ask God for guidance in my difficult childhood life, which was (according to my parents, teachers and God himself) full of sin. Difficult was the buzzword of my childhood. Inconvenient. I inconvenienced my mother before I even took my first breath by swallowing amniotic fluid and almost dying. I then inconvenienced my teachers by being loud and argumentative. I inconvenienced my friends by being needy and violent (In pre-school I bit my best friend. My teacher reported to my mother that I’d “taken a chunk out of her arm”. In hindsight, that feels like an overstatement and my over-excited canines probably indicative of a neurodivergence but I digress…). As a result, I’m extremely familiar with punishment, repentance, and absolution.

𓇢𓆸

Last Tuesday, I was with Daire again. This time, over sake poured graciously by our waiter “like a spring” (his words, not mine), I told her about my incessant need to confess for my sins. Of course, by sins I just mean anything that my brain decides is wrong, which can range from my own feelings and emotions to the simple act of requesting time-off at work. My poor little index finger tires of pointing itself in my direction when I ponder who could be the problem. My mouth aches from apologising. I’m rather bored of self-flagellation. Internalising sin at a young age left me with a remarkable ability to regard any obstacle that I encounter in life and blame myself for it. And where there is blame, there is shame.

Shame is the first cousin once removed of Guilt, as discovered by my parents when they decided, Henry VIII style, that Catholicism no longer worked for them and they wanted to get a capital D Divorce. My mother stopped receiving Eucharist at church and the shame of her objective sin became too much, so we stopped attending altogether. My father hasn’t set so much as his little toe into a church since.

The omnipresence of Our Lord, with his white beard and long cloak slowly melted away from my consciousness, but it didn’t matter, I’d already solidified the belief that to exist is to sin. I was a Bad Person, and the only way I knew to become a Good Person was through shame, guilt and suffering.

𓇢𓆸

In my twenties, as young people have been doing since The Beatles told us to picture ourselves in a boat on a river, I’ve splashed around in the stream of spirituality. Late at night (or rather, early in the morning) over someone’s kitchen counter, I’ve declared myself as “not religious, spiritual”. I’ve read an awful lot of Baba Ram Dass, I’ve let my thoughts dissipate like a cloud in group Buddhist meditation, practiced Qi Gong on the beach with my toes in the sand and dove deep into the ocean of kaleidoscopic consciousness (with a little help from my friends). I’m not a girl who misses much but, upon reflection, it appears I may in fact have missed religion. Or at least someone to tell me the difference between right and wrong.

Navigating the choppy seas of reality without a lighthouse to guide me felt at best, traumatic. I searched endlessly for any kind of guru that would cleanse my soul in holy water and whip the skin clean off of my back in the way only Catholicism could. Caught up in the eye of the storm, battered by sin and buoyed only by repentance, I cling to the slippery ropes of the boat we call life. I beg for someone to tell me how to command it. As the rain lashes against my face, I’m slowly learning that actually, nobody ever will.

In my humble opinion, the date upon which you finally accept that summer has ended directly correlates to how good of a summer you actually had. If summer is dead and buried by August bank holiday, you’ve clearly been having a good time. So much so that you physically need to put on a pair of tights and gain modesty Book-of-Genesis-style. If you’re still tragically clinging on to your beach ball whilst wading through conkers past September 7th, I’m afraid the time has passed, and there’s always next year to do better.

Meteorologically, it’s been a warm-ish September so far, which may also have caused the confusion. But I’m not sure that in 2025 the weather can be a great indicator of anything traditional. Modern pagans believe autumn begins on the equinox, around 22nd September. Like many ex-Christians clinging to some kind of mystical tradition, I normally just loosely believe anything the pagans do. But with all the fuss around the equinox, or Mabon as it is traditionally named, people tend to forget about a slightly earlier pagan celebration. Lughnasa, which takes place on 1st August, marks the beginning of the pagan harvest season. Harvest season? First sightings of pumpkins? Not very summer. The traditional Chinese calendar enters the solar term Liqiu on 7th August, and is widely considered as the beginning of autumn. This date is roughly shared by other East Asian cultures too: Risshū in Japan, Ipchu in Korea and Lập thu in Vietnam.

Of course, you are entirely entitled to believe it’s whatever season you want it to be. We do live on a globe with two hemispheres after all, two seasons can be true at the same time. However, there is an undeniable chill in the morning, regardless of how high the degrees climb by lunchtime. My bicycle is surrounded by piles of leaves and there are pumpkins on the greengrocer’s stand. I’ve put down my Addison Rae CD and I’m playing Elliott Smith. To me the evidence is unequivocal.

I’ll now share with you my Favourite Things of this moment in time. This beautiful singularity where the summer meets the autumn. The estuary wherein the Strawberry Shortcake Matcha meets the Pumpkin Spiced Latte.

1. Being Just Like Everyone Else

   This summer I became very bored of feeling isolated in my contrarianism. Anyone that knows me personally knows that I pride myself on my eclectic tastes, gleaned from my many esoteric activities. Whilst I do love being mysterious and strange, it can be a lonely place on top of the proverbial high horse. I have embraced both watching and creating TikToks (my favourite TikToker is @Cookingwithambernicole), listening to Addison Rae and drinking Blank Street Coffee. I do however draw the line at celebrating the engagement of a billionaire and an American football player.

2. My Eggs in the Morning

   Eggs are truly a gift from God, should you believe in a deity as such. Versatile and nutritious, they are the perfect breakfast, and the only thing that keeps me full until lunchtime. Sadly, fast-paced city living doesn’t lend itself to indulging in a opulent breakfast on a daily basis. I choose to resist and do it anyway, regardless of how late I make myself. Yes, it means using a pan in the morning (I don’t believe in owning a microwave) and it will take longer than preparing say, a bowl of cereal (if that’s honestly a problem for you, perhaps you should ask yourself the question: do I really hate myself that much?). I like my eggs organic and scrambled, with a buttered crumpet, a bowl of chia seeds soaked in coconut milk, a piece of fruit and a tall glass of orange juice. Can you imagine how it feels to eat that every day?

3. Marshall McLuhan

   McLuhan has been my guy for a few years now, but I recently picked up a copy of War and Peace in the Global Village and he has truly rocked my shit. Quentin Fiore’s graphic designs are also seminal.

4. Paying attention to my dreams

   The full moon brought back a recurring dream. I woke sweating and scared. If this ever happens to you, it’s important to consult the symbolism. Jungian is the best, but any can work. Your subconscious is talking, so sit your ass down and listen.

5. Algerian Dates

   Meriem, my colleague, gifted me some Algerian dates and homemade sweets. I was incredibly touched and inspired by her generosity. She told me to eat one date in the morning with a cup of milk and I wouldn’t be hungry until lunchtime. I had to pass on that as it would disrupt my egg fascination, but they are truly delicious.

6. Feel The Sound

   A now-finished immersive exhibition at the Barbican, exploring the physical experience of sound. Bravo.

7. Book Club

   We’ve sure had fun this summer at book club, and there is a cool crowd that turn up regularly now. Our next one is on 18th September and we are reading Even Cowgirls Get The Blues by Tom Robbins. Get a ticket here.

See Also:
My YouTube video about this moment of transition from last September.

“Amsterdam”, Nuno blinked at me first thing in the morning. The sun was barely hanging on the wall. I get mad at Sylvia for ruining fig trees; she could’ve chosen any other fruit. Now every woman hits twenty-four-and-a-half and spends the next four years babbling about figs whenever they can’t make a decision. Myself included. The pile of books in the corner grows taller, but I’m choosing short-form content because I’m genuinely being more entertained that way. I’m just being honest right now. I don’t need help finding the beauty in it all because that’s exactly what I’m avoiding: noticing what I will miss when it all inevitably falls.

I’m blaming August now, the sweaty, lazy sod. Or Mercury, for retrograding. I’m blaming because wallowing is easy, and I don’t feel like trying. “Commitment” was the distinctive word my friend Fritz said through the screen last night. He’s right. Ennui, I think to myself. Jealousy and honesty. Britney Spears and The Woman In Me.

Now it’s London’s fault. At the very least Lambeth Council. No, it’s most definitely my mother. Or my father. Or my mother’s father. I’ve got my nails pressed into the walls, clinging on, and all I need to do is to let it go. Back to the feeling. To being a child. To being fourteen and wanting to die. To thinking it’s forever. My favourite plant hasn’t grown a new leaf in 2 summers.

Three scrambled eggs and seven strawberries for breakfast. A large gulp of black coffee. Jealousy. Wondering what will become of me. Quickly realising more pressing matters like what to eat for tea. Remembering Slovakian Diana and how she told me not to look too closely at the berry you’re about to eat. And I reluctantly arrive at the meaning of it all. The halfway house: blind courage. Amongst the fearful conquest of control. I consider only putting whites in my scrambled eggs tomorrow, and for some reason I want to blame Bella Hadid. Or the BBC.

Well, everyone else is blaming the world, and the funny thing is I normally feel I’m quite above it all. Despite and in spite of myself. Like, I am beating this fear whether I like it or not. And you know what, I’ve not yet reached for my phone this morning. I’m saying that too because it’s something people are concerned about. So now I told you I haven’t, surely you can trust what I’m writing about is real. Truth, I’ve landed back at Truth. Drink from the stream of my consciousness. It’s organic, unfiltered and free from seed-oils and microplastics.

So to summarise, I’m not sure, in summary. Where I’ll be, who I am or why we’re here. Of course this is important for an artist to wonder about. It’s my punishment for committing to living rather than climbing. For choosing a path of least resistance. Frustratingly learning freedom is earned, not bought. But it can also be bought.

Are you mad? Does the existence of Chat GPT upset you? Are you worried about the “state of the world”? Save it, man. We’ve already left. My prescription reads items such as “Nature is Beautiful”, “There is No Planet B”, “Hold Space”. These are the things we must repeat to ourselves. The New Commandments, etched into our brains by blue light upon the online Sinai. “Stay in your body, feel the feeling” I’m whispering it to myself right now. I’m casting a spell on myself. Repent your sins. This is your brain on ennui.

I’ve sat myself down next to the small bowl of petals I collected from the rose that is dying on my balcony. Rod Stewart is on the stereo, serenading the afternoon with his easy-to-forget charm. It’s been fresh as a daisy all day, a sweet respite from the angry heat that sat upon us the past couple days. The past couple of days you could’ve sparked a match on the breeze, but today its soft and bright. I say the past couple days but truthfully its been months since I felt the way I do today.

Not that I’ve been feeling low or anything. Well maybe I have; funny I’d come to write about it today, on Father’s Day. I don’t really have any animosity or discomfort towards Father’s Day, I’m blessed with a dad that loves me and as a bonus I’ve got a stepdad that loves me just as much. I guess its a little bittersweet today, as its the first year I’m not wishing my maternal grandfather a Happy Father’s Day, and in a week or so’s time, it will be the first summer solstice he wont ask me “What’s special about today then?”

Grandparents are wise, old and omnipresent – until they aren’t. They are the ones responsible for the punctuation of my formative years. As I gaze out at the sky from my desk, my mind is flooded with memories. I cling to them now as the future washes over me and sun-bleaches them all out of focus. Regularly, particularly, I recall a moment in my childhood when I spat out a shiny brown apple seed. My grandad pressed it carefully into a damp paper towel. He promised me it would grow into a tree. The sun was shining through the conservatory window, and his wide eyes smiled at me. I could tell that he knew everything. The apple tree sits in the front garden of my Mum’s soon to be sold old house. Another chapter closing, another story for another day.

Soon after my grandad died I was in Athens for an unfortunately timed pre-planned holiday, pretending to not be encountering grief for the first time in my adult life. We stayed in Exarcheia. Stationed next to the riot police and the young people with free minds, fighting the good fight out in the street on everyone else’s behalf. They kept drinking their wine and we kept drinking our ouzo, beckoning for more ice as we watched them march. In the park, the old men played backgammon in the shade next to rotting fruit and a topless man lay sunbathing beneath statues of the gods. We just sat there, watching the kids hang out in the fountain. Eventually we were deposited back to the airport, past the next batch of tourists who would take our place.

Reality felt like a waiting room until the funeral, which was visceral and again another adult first. I’d felt so old until now. I waited patiently and pleaded everyone around me to wait for me until after the funeral, when I’d go back to normal. I think I was surprised when I couldn’t put my finger on what normal was. I felt guilty for living my life far away from my family. “Pissing about” was the phrase I used, actually. Emotion flowed from each pore, and most of my plans remain postponed.

“I don’t want to talk about it…” Rod’s now singing at me. Rather aptly as I find myself stalling in writing this. Hard to put into words whatever the confusing experience of grief has been for me, a little like running in a dream. Discovering the nature of memory, unreliable yet undeniable. Through death I encountered my past and my future and both were as frightening as each other. But neither can replace right now, the safety and the volatility of the never-ever-constant present. That’ll do for now.

I’ve noticed that people often finish their writing with lists of things they’ve done and have been enjoying. Here is a list of the things I’ve loved since I last wrote in January:

• My job

• White toast with butter

• Going to Lidl

• Talking to my sister on the phone

• Painting on procreate

• Making ribs with Nuno

• Addison Rae

• Wearing a neckerchief (Nuno gave me a lovebite)

• Going on a long walk with Ella

Along with some photographs of more things I loved because I’m actually more of a visual person:

We've reached grey season here in London. The skies and faces are grey. The moon too, a grey plate upon which our destiny is served. Sadness lingers in the air and everyone’s holding their breath. Summer isn't even a whisper away. And David Lynch has died.

David Lynch was many things, and to me he was my hero. He ripped the hair right off of my head when I watched Blue Velvet for the first time. Strangeness, validated. Like walking backwards through a timeless dream – and oh how I love to dream. Then I discovered what he said about consciousness and fell in love. The greatest artist of my lifetime.

The moment I found out that he’d passed, I was cold and my fingers were stinging. Ella was drinking what can only be described as a chocolate soup. It was open mic night at the pub. But before the teenagers started to sing about being sad, a man came onto the stage to declare that David Lynch had died. He spoke with the same spirit that one would announce a war, and the audience let out a hushed gasp. Red curtains hung silently behind him in a fitting yet unintentional tribute.

Perhaps a war is upon us. I mean in the metaphysical sense, at the very least. The times are certainly a-changing and it feels hard to cast out an anchor to anything. David Lynch was a universal constant, for his art stood unwaveringly against the test of time. As I read the tributes that poured from the eccentrics among us, I felt a profound sense of connection. The era that we’re living in pushes us to the limits of our individuality. In fact, we now must define ourselves by our uniqueness – which by nature divides us.

With youth on your side, you long to find your people. Yet, in a world gone mad it often feels there’s nowhere to look but the mirror. Though even in death David Lynch reminded us that we’re all fundamentally connected. We’re the same even if we’re strange. Mycelial beings that swim in the deep ocean of consciousness. Dive deep and you’ll discover the only people to find are each other, and that war is over if you want it. So I’ll cling to myself in others through our changing times, my perception switched on like headlights in the darkness.

It’s grey skies all along the way today, but I’m sure I can see golden sunshine trying its best to burn on through. Godspeed!

I’d once been seduced by a New York dream. As soon as I turned 21, I booked a flight and landed in the middle of a snowstorm. I boarded the subway from Jamaica all the way to Midtown. I didn’t understand exactly why I was there and my student loan only afforded me three days of jet-lagged exploration.

In those three days I surveyed all of the vintage shops in the East Village (I found the perfect Harley Davidson T-Shirt that I later lost in Los Angeles), picked out a charm bracelet in Brooklyn, put a quarter in the jukebox at Doc Holliday’s and ate pasta alla vodka to live jazz at Arturo’s (thanks Jack and Amelia). I’d never felt cold like it, and only a month or so earlier I’d scaled a mountain in the Scottish Highlands.

When I returned to London I was tired and sad – I’d discovered the real reason why I’d found myself stateside (but that’s a story for another day). After the photographs had been developed, I buried New York in my mind and waited only for Patti to dig it up. I read each of her pages slowly. I hung on between each line until my knuckles turned white. I felt the cold in my bones and in my heart. Patti’s poetry echoed in my ears in between coughs and sneezes.

The book ended, but it was perfectly clear to me that I needed more. The next day, I was at the charity shop and found M Train. I’d waited years for Patti and now she was spoiling me. Her books came like buses.

At this point, I was in the midst of my malaise. I realised my life had absorbed the books I’d been reading. When Patti was sick, I was sick. When Robert had toothache, my jaw throbbed. When Patti mourned Fred, I cried. I carefully inspected her blurred Polaroids and then on my birthday my boyfriend gifted me a Polaroid camera and two packs of film.

Did you know? I gasped.

Know what? He replied.

Of course, he didn’t know. But what we really didn’t know, was that Polaroid film only works between 13-28 degrees celcius. On my birthday hike, Nuno stopped to drink some tea from a flask I’d prepared. I snapped a photograph of him. It was so cold that the print didn’t develop. It was overexposed and had light leaks all over, as though a ghost had joined us. It was my favourite. Later, I showed the Polaroids to Nuno’s father. Distracted, time passed and when I collected the photographs, that one was missing. We turned the room upside down, but it had gone. When Patti lost her coat, I lost my picture.

In the timeless space between the years, my world had become a mirage. Reading heightened the senses that had been dulled by the speed at which life moves after summer ends. I started to notice the lovely oddities again. I recognised the face of a man in the street from a drawing in my boyfriend’s sketchbook. I followed Patti’s curiosity. In a librairie, I bought a copy of Rimbaud’s Une Saison en Enfer for three euros.

When I woke this morning, Los Angeles was burning. In London the leaves have turned from rust to black and the naked trees assume their mossy jackets. Regarding the pain of others, I was suddenly grateful for the crimson centipede I found in my cold and damp cupboard.

Work was quiet, so we sat reading and drinking tea. Sol was playing Ali Farka Touré and we were in each other’s daydreams. I finished M Train slowly, stopping every once in a while to dispense hot coffee to cold grandparents.

There was a commotion outside. A mountain of discarded Christmas trees blocked the entrance to the park. Some still wearing their tinsel, perversley disposable. The men were feeding them into a wood chipper, a satisfyingly violent end to the season. A moment with reality and a long cool sigh of relief, before we again plunge into the unknown. But I’d already known it was all over, for this morning I ate the final piece of the panettone.

I wake in the absence of light. Flicker my eyes to confirm I’m alive and reach for the iPhone on the bedside table to name the hour. It’s garish light illuminates my face and I calculate around 8 hours of sleep. That’s reassuring. Though my puffy eyes and heavy body assure it was not the highest quality, beggars can’t be choosers. I remember and subsequently blame last night’s limoncello.

I make my way to the window and peel away the curtains. Light pours in and fills the room, pooling on my sleeping boyfriend as he snores. Outside the window stands a tree, absent of leaves, but covered in moss. Crooked, untrusting branches but a wise and sturdy trunk.

Good morning Tree I whisper.

Bonjour Mary he whispers back.

My feet drag me to the kitchen, which is absent of a kettle. Coffee is dispensed only in espressos. I fill my face with panettone and slurp my coffee in a single sip. The sound of espresso wakes my sleeping companion, who follows me in, rubbing his eyes and demanding a good morning kiss.

I sit to write about my dream but my head is absent of thoughts. Nuno, noticing my dream journal, starts to recount his dream.

We were getting a couple’s massage–

I hold up a hand. Not yet it says.

I have to concentrate on remembering my dream.

I close my eyes and the patchwork memory forms. Falling snow gently covers grass. I begin to scribble it onto the page but I’m forced to stop.

My pen is absent of ink.