Monday, October 03, 2016
I'm wrapping my scarf around my neck. (Wrapped around once with just enough left to tie a knot under my chin. Or "shorter than we consider stylish these days" as Henriette Lazaridis describes that particular tie in a article I read in ELLE on the plane the other week. I like it tied like this, it makes me think of my Mum dropping me off at school.) I'm wrapping my scarf around my neck, and throwing my arms into my coat and I have to find a song to play for my walk home that'll keep my mind feeling as alive and full of ideas as it is now. It's easy enough to stop at the pub on the way home from work and have a glass of wine and a generous bowl of green olives (two cocktail sticks) and finish a book. It's better still, lucky even, to feel buoyed by that arrangement. To have things that pop and fizz around your head and require a receipt or slip of paper to scrawl them onto. But then how do you transport yourself home without popping the bubble?
I listen to Steve Reich, who is always at his best when you're kinetic. His strings, his clarinets are lively and cinematic when one foot is moving in front of the other and you're on the go, with a destination and a delight in the getting there. I listen to The Four Seasons: I. Strings because it's high up on the quick-to-click top-rated list. I much prefer Steve Reich when I'm walking. Once I was listening to him whilst walking around Manchester in the evening and came across an empty convertible, all doors flung wide open in the middle of the street outside the glassy Hilton skyscraper. Nobody seemed to bat an eyelid but I convinced myself, I became absolutely certain, that it was about to gloriously blow up. I was listening to Desert Music, the sort of high-octane yet gloomy soundtrack that lends itself to the obvious culmination of exploding car. A car must explode when there's a chorus of operatic voices. Of course nothing happened, and I walked on with only my heightened anticipation, but the point is that Steve Reich, or in fact the majority of music listened to through headphones on the move feels cinematic.
I don't mean cinematic in an egotistical "i'm in a film" sort of way. Really, I'm sure I don't have to explain it at all. The success of the Walkman and two generations of music-in-ear devices comes down to the fact that we all understand that entrancing state. Just like me in the pub, we're with people, surrounded with them, but without people. All alone with the music. It's unnatural to be walking around without the accompaniment of the real sounds around us (stillness, leaves, footsteps, car horns) But it's right! It carries you along, it gives lends your movement a rhythm, it frames a moment in exactly the way a cinema screen frames a moment. The frame of the camera. The frame of the screen against a darkened room. The focus of you inside the room, the world safely outside of the auditorium.
With headphones in your ears, a sort of focused mental frame comes down. Suddenly, with the removal of outside-world sounds, there's less to distract. An awareness of the movements of the people on the street becomes heightened. Sometimes they're heightened because you've had one glass of wine on an empty stomach but. So I walk down Columbia Road and it's properly dark now. My hands are deep down in my pockets, my scarf cosy and tight and the sharp air is drumming little stabs at my knees. A warm upper body and a cold lower body is usually delightful for about two weeks right at the start of Autumn. The novelty soon wears off. But for now it's truly on. This is a great stretch of walk. I'm glad I started taking this short cut. Internally i'm cooing at the fronts of the houses along the street, and how, in the darkness they make me think of Victorian London and kids with hoops. I feel like an American tourist. I never want to stop loving cities like this. If I ever stop loving cities like this I honestly may as well be dead.
Walking down Broadway Market people are bundled up in their coats eating Italian at the tables on the pavement under heat lamps. Up above us in the flats over the restaurants, two men lean out of their windows and hold a conversation across the street.
Back at the pub the things I wrote on the back of a receipt were: "there is only me, this evening, here on earth." From a passage about an acquaintance, an actor known for his powerful monologues, who is reading Beckett to an small audience in his apartment after a stroke has badly affected his speech. Sometimes you underline a sentence in a book and come back to it only a few months later and fail to understand the significance it held. Maybe tomorrow I won't even feel the same way, but sitting alone with a Picpoul and a briny pile of olives it means something. It makes me think of how no two theatre performances can ever be the same, and how that marks a gorgeous unique energy between a cast and their audience. We will never have this ever again. It makes me think of making eye contact with a stranger on a train. Only a stranger you've enjoyed noticing of course, and standing beside them as the carriage snakes and bounces along. And that moment of shared eye contact says the same thing. This is it! Now or never. I am constantly falling in love with strangers on trains. Aren't we all, though. We don't need to know anything about the other person, only that if you'd said something to them, really said it out loud then you'd inevitably end up embarking on that one great affair. A longer than brief encounter.
I finish the book - Vivian Gornick's The Odd Woman and the City. I'm probably going to read it straight away again, something i've never done. This book has really caught me at the right moment. I check Facebook. "It's too late for sympathy and prayers, so please spare me - i'm now trading only in raw love," this is the latest post from an old family friend. Seng-gye is a character. Calling him a 'character' actually just sounds condescending and doesn't do him justice at all. He's bloody marvellous. And he's important to me, even if I haven't seen him for around 11 years. He and his family lived in the flat downstairs when I was between the ages of 3 and 10. He wore one of those army surplus-type utility waistcoats with all those pockets. Lots of khaki. Always bare feet, even on the streets of Redland in Bristol. He has a bald head, a long grey beard (now temporarily banished with the chemo) and one eye, after a motorcycle crash in his youth. He kept the eye in a jar of formaldehyde in a jar in the flat! I was in absolute awe of it when I was little. He didn't wear a glass eye, or cover it up with a patch, one of the sockets is just sort of... dark. I thought this was very cool. I still do. He lived with two partners and their three children. I'd never been to a house that had three adults in it like that. I absolutely loved them. I was always hanging out with the kids, mixing perfumes from lavender and sage and water in the garden, arguing with them and getting to understand the varying levels of feelings in very sensitive human beings, having them show me slow worms in the garden out the back. My Mum left the latch to our door open do I could come and go, racing up and down the stairs to hang out with them. I'd jump into their beat up Land Rover (sometimes Seng-gye would scream at us to be quiet in the back so he could focus on the fucking road!!!) and later into their old American Chevy (it had actual carpets and armchairs in the back and a heavy sliding door!) and we'd all go to the 24 hour Tesco Superstore in Eastville and get baked beans and chips at the cafe. (We'd go late at night! Like, 11 o'clock at night!) He's recently been diagnosed with what looks like terminal cancer. In his Facebook post Seng-gye scientifically outlines the pros and cons of chemo and the realities of the poison and asks "if you need to visit, bring good food! If you need to see me, you have NOW!" I don't even feel that sad. Of course this is another it's now or never! but it just feels essential. We're all waiting for it, and here it is, explained peacefully. Yeah. What else is there to say? Here's my raw love. I have it. I love this man, and I love his family. I think about the time he put on his roller skates (rare footwear) and cycled over to my Granny's house to help her out because her back was bad. The strange, important adults in my life. They went into her bedroom and closed the door and he clicked her into place and we could hear all these comedy noises coming from the room and my Mum and my Mary absolutely pissed themselves laughing through the whole thing. I looked up at them and didn't really understand why it was funny but I joined in too because it's fun to all get the giggles together. I have raw love for so many people who are and aren't here. It stays though.
Posted by discotheque confusion at 9:29 pm
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Posted by discotheque confusion at 8:38 pm
Saturday, September 17, 2016
Posted by discotheque confusion at 4:35 pm
Saturday, July 02, 2016
Part of me thought that wasn't very adventurous when there are so many beautiful paintings in that building to gawp at up close. I like looking at paintings up close because i've always craved the ability to put colors on canvas with the conviction of knowing what to do. When I get up close i'll look for actual clues to see how the thick the colour is, and how steady the strokes are. Does it look like the painter had a plan or were they just channeling some deep painterly instinct? Whenever I've painted (rarely) my dominant thought has been "Right... I'm painting. Yes.. i'm painting. What am I painting?"
But deciding to stick to one thing- looking only at sculptures, painting only apples or shopping only for fuchsia coloured dresses is comforting in a pragmatic way. It's manageable. And I say that because "manageable" can feel so important in a big city. Otherwise how would you ever know where to start? It's like that paralysis of choice Malcolm Gladwell spoke about when faced with dozens and dozens of jars of spaghetti sauce. Having categories and filters helps us to get through a day. (Pick the jar under £3. Pick the jar nice enough to use afterwards. Pick the same jar your Mum always picked.)
Today i'm at Tate Modern. And because I recently treated myself to a membership, I can go into any of the current exhibitions without needing to pay! So what did I do? Unable to pick between the two options I wandered into the free galleries... There was so much I liked, and I liked it all even more because I'd got out of bed early on a Saturday, eaten a giant almond croissant for breakfast, and felt like my hair looked nice. I looked at a sleeping young woman, lying neatly across the frame. Her pillow tucked under her shoulders in a way i'd never think to tuck it. So comfortable looking! A Duncan Grant painting with Richard Diebenkorn-esque blocks of colour in ocre, mint green and browns brushing up against chair legs. I looked up close. He looked like he'd had a plan for his brush.
Then I walked into the next room, and this is where I appreciated my Mum's "pick one thing" approach. Because this room was just black and white photographs of glasses. Wine glasses with hexagonal bases. And boob-shaped dessert glasses- hopefully once filled with a spherical scoops of ice-cream. Eaten with a teaspoon! Glasses that made me think of holidays in Europe. Or maybe holidays in Europe that i've seen on-screen; characters drinking from glasses like these on the dark terrace after a hot day. Katherine Hepburn in Rome. Tilda Swinton on Pantelleria. Short glasses throwing shadows and tall glasses distorted so they looked like buildings, those early photographs of awe-inspiring skyscrapers in the 20s and 30s that are
I liked the order in this room. I imagined being the curator and thinking right, glass! and going to the archive with a mission. I didn't feel like I needed to go in any of the other galleries after that. Glass will do for me today!
Which is funny because now I'm sitting upstairs in the cafe with a view over the city and all I can see is glass. The glass sheets covering buildings aren't as satisfying as the round glasses on tables though. I can't imagine them being drawn out of a furnace and turned in circles in the same way as a wine glass, or a bottle, or anything that holds a liquid. They're glorious but they're majestic in a distant way, like they separate people. Glass with no openings. Glass that's glass but not a window. I know this because I struggle with my desire to throw open a window when I work in a place without them. Where does it open? These buildings surely throw shapes like the drinking glasses. It's a shame we can never get far away enough to see how the light marks their shape in shadows across streets. Maybe that's why people take helicopter tours over cities. (Actually- let's face it- it's probably not.)
There weren't people in any of these photographs but they were implicit in the arrangements. You can't see a collection of used dessert and wine glasses on a table without thinking about the people they've brought together. An evening of filling and pouring. Social props. A glass so pleasing to look at, it makes the drink taste better.
I go and buy a beer!
Posted by discotheque confusion at 2:29 pm
Thursday, May 19, 2016
When my Granny was dying she told me "I'll always be close" and I believed her. After she'd died I felt angry, like Well?! Where are you? when I needed her, and her presence was intangible. But you have to trust that closeness is as much a feeling you produce in your own head, as it is something you feel from others. There's a crossover. When I'm walking down Exmouth Market at lunchtime, or under the last fall of the Cherry Blossoms around Islington (as I did last week) I feel close to her. I know how excited she would be for me, to be in this new city, getting paid to write words during the day. When I listen carefully to Bowie's lyrics on Blackstar, of survival sex, of accepting what you will and won't do and not being able to give everything away, she is incredibly close, and that's why I continue to feel so strongly about Bowie's death, because he's become like this artistic and emotional conduit to my Granny. Where on earth do these people go when they die? And isn't it just the greatest gift to have all this leftover art to absorb and comfort ourselves with?
Posted by discotheque confusion at 11:47 pm
Saturday, March 26, 2016
Posted by discotheque confusion at 6:06 pm
Saturday, February 20, 2016
I've missed this little textbox, which I temporarily sidelined whilst focusing on ££, among other things. I'm trying to remind myself the purpose of a blog; to put words into a space where everything doesn't have to be polished and full of purpose. We (I) are too obsessed with efficiency sometimes. The view from here: it's February, so- early nights, not going out much except to the cinema or maybe drinks at someone's house. Cranking up the heating during the day, weeks passing very much in the same fashion (suddenly we're always back to Saturday), feeling weighed down by the amount of stuff I own and so big sorting piles emerging through which i'm trying to find some happy compromise- somewhere between honouring the fact I like stuff and whether or not it sPaRks jOy. Small joys in things like walking an hour to work (even in the rain), getting back into podcasts, trying to find the sparkle I seem to lose each winter, and indulgences like taking long baths three nights in a row. February is weird, isn't it? It's when I particularly cling to the memory of wearing sandals to the shops and the smell of buying flowers on a Saturday morning when the air doesn't taste cold anymore.
Here goes; some of the reads and listens that have given my brain a nice little massage in the last month..
"Back when I was at my loneliest, I decided it would be a good idea to force myself to do all sorts of things alone...One June evening, I determined that I would go dancing. I didn't want to - of course I didn't want to, I didn't want to do any of it." A cut-out-and-keep by Sadie Stein (thank you Ava.)
Yesterday lunchtime I was batch-cooking a big pan of Thai Curry and In Therapy came onto Radio 4 and caught me completely off guard. Quite suddenly in the middle of a weekly session John, a retired railway unionist was vulnerably declaring his love for Susie (Orbach), his psychotherapist. What is this? Is this.. real? I stopped chopping and sat down and listened.
"The frontline of labour disputes had shifted from picket lines to worry lines and collective grievances had become individual psychological battles." Sometimes I feel I trigger stress by thinking about how Stressed I am.
"Evan never made me watch sports with him, or complained when I took ages getting ready. Evan had never taken a selfie in his life, but he called me 'selfie queen' affectionately." Solid Dudes!!!
Get serious about your Fuck Off Fund.
"The joke in the field is: The male pill's been five to 10 years away for the last 30 years" Why Isn't Birth Control Getting Better?
Bowie x3: "The guitarist was going on about an art exhibit, and how much Mr Bowie would love it. Then he caught himself, realising whom he was talking to, and said, "Oh, you can never go there; there's too many people." Mr Bowie answered, slyly, "You'd be surprised the places I'm 'able to go."" David Bowie: Invisible New Yorker is so nice, and goes well with this anecdote: "People think: that's David Bowie, surely? Then they see the Greek newspaper - no, can't be, just some Greek guy who looks like him."And then there's this Jezebel piece which I really didn't want to read, but I did, and it made me uncomfortable in various ways, and was probably of the most real value. "We can't value one without devaluing the other."
Posted by discotheque confusion at 12:10 pm
Tuesday, December 29, 2015
Hi, hi, hello, hi. In the past couple of weeks I've had two people ask me if my blog was still going? The answer was yes, of course, and then I paused, did the maths and realised quite how long it's been since I last posted. What is there to say, except 'I've been trying to make money' and dedicating as much time as possible to writing that pays me enough to survive. In short, it's been a really great past few months, and I've been writing for publications I've adored since I was a teenager and started this blog in the first place, which sometimes punctuates a day with a nice, glowy proud moment (especially when that day is the day in which I get paid for a piece.) The blogging will continue, and you can also find some of my recently published pieces over here.
In the meantime, HAPPY NEW YEAR! I am actually entering the tenth year of blogging which is insane because I started this blog when I was 15 and that just means there's a steady documentation of my teenage and not-so-teenage thoughts all neatly archived online for strangers to rummage through. But also, I really feel that things would have panned out quite differently if I hadn't thrown myself quite so keenly into blogging in the first place, while I studiously avoided homework and focused on critiquing fashun with the blogspot set and for that I am truly #blessed.
Posted by Stevie Mackenzie-Smith at 1:39 am
Saturday, August 29, 2015
I finally get back to my house and it’s rather quiet, but I don’t mind too much because there’s a parcel waiting for me just inside the door that I wasn’t expecting. A house at night can be quiet, but an unexpected parcel at least stops it from feeling lonely. When you know that somebody has been thinking of you, the rest of the evening doesn’t feel quite so aimless. Like me, my aunt Mary acutely feels the gap of the ‘sensitive advisor’ role left by my Granny. Sometimes we both miss and need it very much and so we’re learning to go to each other for this comfort instead. The parcel was from her; inside, wrapped in beautifully illustrated paper (I know who we’re both channeling in our minds here) was Infragreen, a recently published collection of poems written by our cousin Kate. I feel thought of, and connected to Mary, and to Kate who represents the side of the family we feel a familial closeness for (and desire to be closer to) even though we see them rarely; most recently two funerals, a wedding and the novel lunch I shared in her garden when I visited London last summer. There’s something about poetry that elicits a school-ish feeling inside me, of somehow ‘not doing it right’, of reading poems self-consciously as if they are above my ability to understand. But I put my keys on the table and lie back on my sofa and plough through twenty in one go. She writes of green, wet gardens and rain, footprints on car brakes, and waking up in the early hours (mind racing but also dumbly half-awake) and the municipal journey of a tulip from a loved one, from Holland to wobbling over the edge of a vase at home. This doesn’t feel like a battle, and I turn each page feeling reassured by descriptions of nature which feel like the Norfolk scenes I was enveloped in a couple of hours ago. I read about foreheads and try to guess which family member they belong to, if any at all. I project memories of my trip last summer onto the words, imagining kitchens described as I remember hers. It seems right to be reading about the earth continuing to turn and school runs, and empty plastic milk bottles on counters and to have spent an evening alone feeling the presence and familiarity of a faraway loved one quite close, and not-so-faraway relations closer.
Posted by discotheque confusion at 11:13 pm
Friday, August 21, 2015
I used to keep a scrap book of the magazine and newspaper articles which affected me; they're still glued into an fluorescent pink notebook. There's a beautifully-written profile of Natasha Richardson, an interview with Jane Shepardson from when I was sure I wanted to work in the fashion industry, and a run-down of a morning at BBC Radio 4's The Today Show from 2011 when working in radio became far more appealing. There's a feature about Dave Gilmour and his son and their personal film club (and how Gilmour allowed his son to leave school at 16, so long as he continued to educate himself through cinema.) This article was from a 2008 edition of The Guardian- a tell-tale snapshot of me aged 17, cruising along at college, desperate to be done with education and throwing myself into my new found hobby- solo trips to the cinema. I'd forgotten about lots of these cut-out-and-keeps before I leafed through my old notebook just now, but at the time they all felt important and worthy of holding onto. More recently, after a string of flirtations and romances that didn't go anywhere, that left me feeling cold and like the people I'd been opening myself up to couldn't reciprocate, or couldn't see me, I read this Ask Polly column and suddenly had a new vocabulary for this sort of man: tepid. "You need to tell tepid to fuck right off," Polly said, and when I read that lots of things fell into place and I returned to valuing and loving myself and demanding that anybody I was going to be romantically involved with absolutely had to do the same. On my second date with my boyfriend (though I didn't realise that's what it was at the time) he asked me about my love life and I told him I was only interested in people who thought I was fabulous, and this new rule for myself and for others felt personally revolutionary even though in retrospect that seems like such a necessary wish to have for oneself. This is a celebration of the essays, columns and words which have allowed, and continue to allow these moments to fall into place.
But I Invested In You
Last year, my friends and I all read The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. by Adelle Waldman. Afterwards, we referred constantly to this review by Sheila Heti, who analyses the troubling power imbalance in the book between Nate and his girlfriend Hannah (a “seven”/“co-worker material.”) The insight of Heti’s that bashed us over the head was how Nate “outsources the work” of their inevitable break-up to Hannah. “The women around him do the heavy labour of making relationships honest and tender, because that’s their position culturally…” Jessica Stanley, Writer and Freelance brand strategist, London.
Brad Troemel's essay talks about ‘a new species of artist flooding the internet with content [inviting] the audience to complete their work by loving their brand, making the artists themselves the masterpiece’. This intrigued me: I'd always been fascinated by Nietzsche's imperative to turn oneself into a work of art, making it the basis for a short story that I first drafted in 2002 and rewrote several times over the next ten years. But the process that Troemel described was all too familiar, particularly where he talks about how social media (as well as precariousness, debt and unemployment) has led artists from making works to ongoing self-commodification, with the audience becoming part of the medium. Any loss in quality was offset by each public statement - a blog, a tweet, whatever - becoming an opportunity for personal connection with the creator, but after documenting my transition in the Guardian and on Twitter, I'd found this constant contact had utterly drained me, and I needed a new way of working. Troemel helped me to break my obsession with broadcasting every aspect of my life, and accept that I didn't need to be visible all the time - I was far better off taking as long as I needed to make work that I could be proud of. In the two years since I read it, I've become far happier as a writer, reconnecting with what made want to do it in the first place rather than remaining caught up in the endless churn of opinion. Juliet Jacques, Writer, London.
Structuring Life With Depression
I suffer from anxiety and depression; it's not something I make a secret of because what good does it do to further internalize fears and worries? (Not much). I came across this Rookie essay about routines and depression a few months ago during a rough patch, and within a few lines, I knew I'd be sharing it with everyone. The best part? When I shared it in my TinyLetter, my readers were also moved by it. I've found that I often share things online for the possibility of sharing a "you too?" moment with others. 2015 has been a bit of a strange year, but the guiding idea of this essay—"Might as well"—has been so helpful. It's so good, I'm just pasting a paragraph here: "My day starts with making the bed, and I’ve discovered that if I can complete this one task, the rest follow with barely a complaint. This is the principle of Might As Well. I made the bed, so might as well do the dishes, and shower, and take some blog photos, and get back to that bit of writing. Might As Well is the queen of forces: Never underestimate its power, for it is singular in its capacity to motivate while maintaining the lowest of low-key profiles—you get stuff done practically without noticing. You got out of bed, so you might as well have a productive day." Sarah Galo, Freelance Writer, New York City.
Yes, Men Are Better Writers
I encountered this blog post by Helen Addison-Smith almost exactly a year ago, when I was in an unhappy marriage trying to be a mother and a wife and someone who needed to write all the time. It resonated so much for me. After a year of trying to be more selfish, I'm now a single mother, but I'm still writing. There are no easy choices for us, and this goes a fair way to explaining why. Kate Feld, Writer, Manchester.
Since Living Alone
My first attempt at writing this was just pasting the long quotes from Durga Chew-Bose's piece Since Living Alone that most affected me since first reading it when it was published, back in January. Now, in this version, there are fewer long quotes from Durga and a little more from Brodie, but that only serves to reinforce how excellent she is at describing what it means to be a woman alone in apartment—as I've been for just a few weeks now. Durga writes like I wish I could write, with such self-assurance and the kind of references and connections I can relate to and recognise immediately but would never think to draw myself. She writes like someone who's well-read but who doesn't want to rub it in your face and make you feel bad about not having the same cultural touchpoints or not having read the books she refers to. I mean—fuck, man—she makes the act of eating a pear seem like the most important and romantic act a single woman can perform in her own space. I am so obsessed with and jealous of and in awe of her ability to make me feel at once understood and envious. "I’d been avoiding myself with such ease that even when an obstacle presented itself—like the pained limits of a friendship that had run its course—my response was to adapt around it the way we circle street construction on our way to the subway without much thought, as if the ball and sockets of our hip joints, anticipating those orange pylons, swerve so as to save our distracted selves from falling into crater-sized holes…It takes me fourteen steps from my bed to my bookshelves and nine steps to walk from my front door to the globe lamp I’ve propped on a stool under a wall I’ve half-decorated, of which a poster I’ve framed hangs asymmetrically next to nothing more than blank white wall. That globe lamp is the first light I turn on when I return home. For nine steps when I walk in at night, after shutting my front door and placing my keys on their hook, I navigate the slumbered mauve and moon-lit darkness of my space. It welcomes me; the darkness and I suppose the lamp too." Reading this piece makes me feel the same way I did when the credits rolled on Life Itself, the Roger Ebert documentary: at once inspired to write better and tempted to give up the game because I'll never be this good. Brodie Lancaster, Writer and Editor, Melbourne.
One Year Later
My friend Bethany wrote this incredible post about reclaiming the word 'fat' as a factual description rather than a pejorative evaluation, which I read and send to people all the time. Regardless of your body type, it's a fantastic mission statement about self-acceptance and casting off the weight of societal norms. "Denying that I'm fat is denying me the chance to find any beauty in it," she writes. "I enjoy my appearance, whether or not you do. And that's priceless." Laura Snapes, Culture Writer and Contributing Editor at Pitchfork, London.
If He Hollers Let Him Go
One of my cut-out-and-keep articles is If He Hollers Let Him Go, written by Rachel Kaadzi Ghansah for The Believer. Written in 2013, it’s a bit of an older one, but it really hit me when I first read it. I would have been a bit more green back then, and I remember thinking I wished I could write with her sensitivity, condor, and confidence. Since reading this she’s become one of my favourite journos of all time, and then as now, Dave Chappell is a personal hero. I don’t want to give too much away, because it have a really perfect ending, but it’s such a great study in how to write about a celebrity and a hugely covered subject in a fresh way, while still being respectful and treating them as a person. Funny, last month Good Good Girl held a workshop for writers and editors and we were speaking about certain articles you return to again and again for whatever reason. This is that article for me. I find it frustrating, because in the years since it ran I’ve never approached it for quality. But whenever I feel dejected about writing or my work it is also endlessly comforting that if done right, your words can be so effecting. Wendy Syfret, Editor at Good Good Girl, Melbourne.
Ask Polly: How Do I Make My Boyfriend Listen?
"And then there are smart women with lots to say who are also very sensitive and weird and analytical and incredibly talkative, who ALSO listen very closely. These women are often labeled “a little too intense.” We think way too much, and slice and dice everything under the sun like a Ginsu knife that’s been sharpened one too many times and is now capable of cutting a watermelon in half like it’s made of crepe paper." I've emailed this essay to all of the smart, special, sensitive women in my life. I grew up in a household where talking about my feelings was normal. When I was at university, I found myself surrounded by a group of people who were deeply uncomfortable with talking about feelings, let alone analysing them. To them, my tendency to delve into matters of the heart was seen as overly-emotional, hyper-sensitive and "taking things too personally." When I read this particular Ask Polly (and there are so, so many great ones), I realised that I wasn't an annoying weirdo. I was simply a sharp knife. Simran Hans, Freelance writer and film programmer, London.
If je ne suis pas Charlie, am I a bad person? Nuance gets lost in groupthink
I still think about this article and regularly allude to it in boozy political/social justice-orientated conversations. I first posted this article on Instagram under a photo I took of a mural that read Je suis Charlie in huge block letters that was located on one of the most traveled streets in Los Angeles. At the time of posting, I felt a bit nervous of getting into a social media conflict with a follower and friend about posting something other than absolute solidarity with the Je suis Charlie cause. My precariousness to press the "share" button is author Roxanne Gay’s point exactly; having a nuanced opinion is not appreciated in situations where groupthink has taken over. This point has undoubtedly been made before but is becoming more relevant when thinking about social media campaigns (think KONY 2012 or the rainbow-ing of Facebook photos in allegiance with marriage equality). I respect Gay for the bravery it took for her to write something like this for an international news-source knowing the backlash she would recieve. Her message is something I think about all the time when interacting in communal virtual environments. Kara Hart, Medical Genetics Programme Coordinator, East Hollywood.
The Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain
When I was twenty I was with a man who was the great love of my life. He ended the relationship when I told him I loved him in a terrible nightclub. Although we carried on loving each other messily afterwards for many years, the end of the love as I desired it (uncomplicated, happy), was a direct result of the confessing of it. You would expect the effect of this to be a fear of making my emotions audible, but the opposite happened -- I didn’t mean to be the woman inspecting, and asking everyone else to witness, my wounds – I knew what kind of ancient dialogue/fetishized mythology this entered me into - but I was helpless to it; I was bored and embarrassed by my own pain, and I bored and embarrassed the people I loved with it; but still, over time, however shaming, it became something I defined my life by. So when I found The Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain by Leslie Jamison who asks the question, “why am I talking about this so much?”, it became almost holy to me; I pored over it; I carefully printed it out for the wounded women I knew (there were many), and passed it to them with reverence over pub tables. I carried it in my bag like a piece of scripture; a love letter granting me the permission to hurt, and to transcribe this hurt into the poems I was working on, without defending myself from “the old litany of charges” against “The Girl Who Cried Pain”. She writes, “I’m tired of female pain and also tired of people who are tired of it”, and in this line, and all the many others of its kind in this remarkable essay, I was first able to live with my pain, and then to move on from it, and to see, what she calls, the “last alchemy, pain-to-art, as possibility”. To use the Anne Carson line she references, “it pains me to record this, / I am not a melodramatic person”, but I will forever be in Leslie Jamison’s debt for creating a language for my pain, and showing me how “to find something in it that yields”. Harriet Moore, Literary agent and Poet, London.
Don't Try This At Home: Mooncup Edition
Stevie Martin's article on the humble mooncup is so bladder-shakingly funny, that when I originally read it way back in 2012, after semi-winding myself with laughter, I promptly shared it with all of my fellow Women of the Womb. But more pertinently, it really took me aback at how this ostensibly cool, clever girl was so comfortable about writing the gruesome, sticky details of periodhood. It's gross. But if it's normal for half of the population, why the hell are we so ashamed of it? I am now a proud "over-sharer" of my very normal monthly visit from Aunt Flo. And to this day, if anyone asks me what my favourite accessory is, I answer "my mooncup". Frankie Tobi, Radio Production Coordinator and Writer, Manchester.
George Saunders Had Read The Best Book You'll Read This Year
I first read this on my laptop, in bed in my flat in Shoreditch on a Monday night, a month off finishing my Masters. Outside it was grey and cold and snowy and I had this weird, poignant sense of anticlimactic disappointment. All my education was coming to an end, and what was it for? I had gotten a job that was objectively my dream job, and in many ways everything was great! But, but (my lip quivered) – is that all there is?? I wondered, pointlessly, about the future, about life. And then I read this profile of George Saunders, which is brilliant because it’s a cleverly-written, sensitive profile of an author, but also because it’s about George Saunders, an author who has taught me ultimately that life is going to be OK. Because it is. And because the whole point of it is that sometimes you are disappointed and sometimes you are angry and sometimes you are joyous and it’s all big, wide and expansive and maybe it’s OK if you can just try really hard and be kind at the same time. I can’t believe it took reading a profile in the New York Times Magazine to get me to realise that. I’ve sent this one on to many friends – and revisited it myself many times, when I’ve forgotten – since then. Those final lines in particular have become a mantra for me: “Don’t be afraid to be confused. Try to remain permanently confused. Anything is possible. Stay open, forever, so open it hurts, and then open up some more, until the day you die, world without end, amen.” Ana Kinsella, writer, and editor at Bon Magazine, London.
Going With The Flow: Blood and Sisterhood and the London Marathon
The story about Kiran Gandhi free-bleeding at the London Marathon resonated with me because my best friend is an elite runner where I live in Sheffield and he's always trying to improve his times despite injuries or other setbacks, and although he doesn't menstruate, health, injury recovery time and mood on the day can really affect performance. I appreciate why Kiran didn't want to start mixing up her routine with menstrual management that might irritate or chafe during the run. No menstrual product is every going to be leak free, no matter how shaming the ads or how great the innovations. My own comedy and (menstruation-orientated) education and engagement work aims to take the stigma out of leaking in a fun, tongue-in-cheek way and I was so glad to see someone doing this for real - it happens more and more lately and it's great that menstrual taboo-breaking is gaining momentum. Chella Quint, Comedy writer and Education consultant, Sheffield.
Posted by discotheque confusion at 12:16 pm