Today, in the tradition that we - Kimmy and I - established a few years ago, I climbed a hill and thought about you. Jamie came too (he usually does) and we chatted about stuff that you’d be quite proud of, I think. The fact that I’ve written a book
On grief, and the rage of the world. i. Turn your face to the sun, my dear As we did when we were young — chasing rays and highs in every corner of our Bright little lives. Before we knew loss Before we knew what it felt like to feel Functionally
In my favourite bit of woodland, where no one ever ventures, far from the hordes ascending Arthur’s Seat, a patch of wild garlic grows every year, a verdant carpet announcing its arrival with an olfactory riot. My friend and I — a friend with whom I often share these woodland
“To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.” — Mary Oliver A few months ago, I went to a panel discussion on liberation and experimental literature. Having recently emerged from a two year writing ordeal trying to translate the messiness of organising into words on a page that people
You, like the trees, were planted in place while the shells were falling. — Najwan Darwish, 'The Shelling Ended' I woke up to more shattering news of this latest imperialist hell. As I settle into a quiet, safe morning of caffeine and keyboard, far from the murderous herald of
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When you’re not feeling the Lunar New Year vibe