Dear Mg, this is how it is:
My sister cut my hair. I trust artists. About ten minutes ago, my hair was down my shoulder-blades like mermaid scraggle. That's over.
Returned to bed with tea. Foamy blossom and cherry-pink peg on the washing line. Cambridge.In this storm-rich, buttery morning light, I am thinking of my son, who is thousands of miles away. That's it. Now it's the afternoon and I just saw some English lightning and some English hail, neither of which I have seen for longer than my own child's life-span, to exaggerate. Okay, I just read this: "A decolonial practice for me is, during the creative process, letting go of imagining the white liberal audience reaction to the work and keeping present in mind myself and an audience who will feel empowerment through the work." TextaQueen. Yes. To write something that's not as beautiful than you could have made it. And then. To tolerate or to be able to tolerate. The audience reaction. Now I am watching a preview of Rehana Zaman's Your Ecstatic Self. This is all from Flatness, curated by Shama Khanna. This is making me feel better. Because all I dream about in this fizzy countryside is the red door of the Institute of Astronomy being shattered during a motorbike chase. Henry, on his Vespa, is ditched into a canal and dies! What kind of dreaming is this? Basically, I need to get a grip and write 278 things. But it's raining, and I'm feeling anxious, and I miss my son. It's raining and my hair, having dried, is even shorter, but it's fantastic! I love it. No more scraggly old octopus frenzy half way down my back. My sister puts on a Hawaiian version of Somewhere Over The Rainbow and my mum kicks off her shoes to do slow-motion bharatnatyam and at that moment an actual rainbow bursts over the landscape and we rush outside and can see that one end of it is going right into the university library! It's amazing! This was a harder day, a wierder day than the other days have been -- but it's over now. Love, BK