on the uk riots

First of all: I am fine. Everyone I know is fine. The area I live in is fine, and so is the area in which I work. None of that is likely to change, because I am living and working in middle-upper class areas. Everything does seem to be calming down now, too, though we'll see how long that lasts. I don't imagine the peace will keep forever if some big changes aren't made, but for now, don't worry about me. I'm safe. I'm alternately sad and furious, but safe and unharmed.

People have been in touch with me asking about the riots going on in the UK. Unsurprisingly, information about the context and background seems to have been thin on the ground, and pushed aside in favour of the many striking photos of London (and now Manchester, Birmingham, Liverpool, and other places) burning.

And is has been burning. None of what I have to say is meant to belittle the state that the affected areas have been left in. Many are completely gutted. People have been left homeless, without livelihood, injured, and dead. But everyone seems to be forgetting that something like mass rioting doesn't happen for no reason, no matter how badly it devolves. I don't claim to be an expert, and this post is meant only to inform those people back home who've been asking about what's going on. I'll link to some good, informative articles at the bottom, too.

Begin at the beginning. That's a hard one. Real life isn't a story, not some neat linear narrative.

The "beginning" that most people are looking for, in this case, is this: where the riots started, when, and why. Again, not as easy as you might think to answer.

Here are some variants on that answer:

1. The bare-bones facts.

Last Thursday, a man named Mark Duggan was shot and killed by a police bullet. He was black, and from a poor area of London. Officers originally claimed that he fired first - later forensic investigation has shown that he never fired any weapon, and that the shot claimed to have been made by him was from a police weapon.

On Saturday, there was a peaceful protest outside Tottenham police station - park vigil for Duggan, part call for justice over his death. Despite starting off harmless enough, something got triggered in that crowd (unconfirmed reports cite a confrontation between a teenager and a police officer), and the violence and vandalism started. It began with the torching of two patrol cars. Riot police and officers on horseback were sent out to deal with the crowd, which responded with further violence. Eventually, the vandalism started to spread throughout Tottenham. Rioters began setting buildings and vehicles - including a double decker bus - alight, throwing petrol bombs, and looting shops. This continued throughout Sunday, with most of the violence staying local to North-East London, in Tottenham and Enfield.

Monday is when things start to spread throughout London, and the looting and vandalism becomes completely impossible for the police to deal with. Croydon, Clapham, Brixton, Ealing, Peckham, Lewisham, and Hackney are all sites of vandalism, fires, looting, and/or confrontations with the police. There are a few minor issues reported in other areas, but these are the hot spots. It is also the first night that any sign of the troubles spreading beyond the capital is given, with few minor incidents in Nottingham reported. Something to note, here, for those people who don't know London well: every single area majorly affected is primarily working class, with a long history of being both poor and racially mixed; many, like Brixton, also have a history of racial and class tensions erupting. Eventually, though, the unrest does move into better off areas near to the flash points - Islington, for example.

Tuesday day sees a massive cleanup effort by local residents of affected areas, and Tuesday night is much calmer in London, probably due at least partly to an unprecedented level of police presence (16000) in the streets, and threats of harsh punishments. People throughout the city are sent home early whether they work in affected area or not, and businesses are closed and boarded up. There are groups of primarily young men gathered in different areas to "protect their communities," and the motives behind them seem varied - chillingly, there is at least one group of white vigilantes on the prowl, chasing Asian youth and shouting various slurs. Late into the night, unrest seems to erupt again in the previous areas though to a lesser extent than on Monday. Tuesday is also the night that riots really kick off throughout the country - Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool, and other cities all report vandalism and looting throughout their cities, with at least one police station set on fire.

Today, people in London seem a lot calmer during the day, though we've yet to see how the night will go. PM David Cameron has okayed the use of baton rounds by police if necessary, as well as water cannons. Accused rioters have been appearing in court all day - the number of people arrested in London alone is now over 800, and 251 so far have been charged. Courts are staying open all night to process the sheer amount.

2. The background

The fact of the matter is, anyone who's genuinely surprised by these riots is either an idiot, or willingly blind. I've been living in London since September, and there's been blatant unrest here since then - protest upon protest, including the one I took part in in March. Some of these escalated into violence and vandalism, and thus caught the attention of the media. Others went almost completely unremarked upon. All of them have had absolutely no effect on the government. There's only so long people who are angry and disenfranchised will let themselves be ignored until they just explode. London's been a classic pressure cooker situation.

NBC reports, via Laurie Penny:

"A young man in Tottenham was asked if rioting really achieved anything:

“Yes,” said the young man. “You wouldn’t be talking to me now if we didn’t riot, would you?”

“Two months ago we marched to Scotland Yard, more than 2,000 of us, all blacks, and it was peaceful and calm and you know what? Not a word in the press. Last night a bit of rioting and looting and look around you.”

Eavesdropping from among the onlookers, I looked around. A dozen TV crews and newspaper reporters interviewing the young men everywhere.’’

The gap between the rich and the poor in Britain has been growing for several decades now, starting, arguably, with the Thatcher years. The Labour government was just as bad for the poor, invested as it became in big business and neo-liberalism. And its not getting any better. In an attempt to fix the national deficit, the Conservative government is cutting spending left, right, and centre, making life even harder for those who already found it hard. The people baring the brunt of it are young, poor, and many are people of colour - in short, people already written off by society. People who have grown up not only having nothing, but being consistently told that this means that they are nothing.

Again, I'm not condoning vandalism, violence, or looting, but it's hard to say it's not happening for a reason. Many of the people involved may be unsure of the politics behind their actions, but that doesn't make those actions any less political. Without condoning the actions themselves, I can understand the motivation behind them; as Owen Hatherley said on his Twitter:

it's an incoherent, horrible scream from those who are justifiably furious

3. Class War

Let's talk about some success stories in the UK, shall we? In particular, two distinct examples of very big, very current success, which I've chosen both for those reasons, and for me being/having been a fan of them myself, to even out any bias: Mumford & Sons and Benedict Cumberbatch. Both are very talented acts, there's no denying that. Both are also undeniably posh. Why does that matter? Well, if it was just them, it wouldn't. But the fact of the matter is that the overwhelming majority of those who are successful in Britain come from well-to-do or at least middle class backgrounds.

Class is still very important, and very strongly felt in Britain, to an extent that is honestly baffling for someone like myself - Canadian, with a vague awareness of being middle class, but only in that I'm neither poor nor rich, and an implicit understanding that your place on the social scale is changeable, depending on circumstances, effort, and luck.

Social mobility is nearly non-existent in Britain. Mumford & Sons, for all they play roots-influenced music, are privately educated and well-to-do - as are almost all of the musical gang they hang around with (Laura Marling, etc). Actors, comedians, writers, politicians - again, the majority of the most successful come from at least upper-middle class backgrounds and went to good schools (the amount of Oxbridge-educated celebrities is frankly staggering), to the point that those who didn't tend to stand out like a sore thumb. It is not very likely that someone born working class in Britain in the last few decades will ever be anything but working class. They're born without a fighting chance.

And it's not just in the creative professions where this lack of representation exist - probably more importantly, it's just as rampant in politics. The current Prime Minister was educated at Eton and is worth several million. Nick Clegg went to Westminster. Ed Miliband, leader of the opposition, is an Oxford graduate. None of these men know what it's like to grow up always wanting, in an atmosphere of urban degradation, ignorance, and violence.

There's another layer to it, too: watching a Terrence Rattigan documentary hosted by Benedict Cumberbatch the other week, I was struck hard by a scene where Cumberbatch returns to Harrow (a boys school in London, attended by Winston Churchill among others, and matching Eton in its exceeding poshness), where both he and Rattigan were educated. In a voiceover, Cumberbatch comments something to the effect of, "many royals, politicians, and greats have walked these halls - and even the odd commoner, like me." It immediately brought to mind the commentary surrounding the royal wedding, which insisted on classifying Kate Middleton as common - even though she'd grown up a millionaire. There's a powerful suggestion underlying this - if these people are common, the rest of us must be lucky if we're even dirt.

4. The (frankly quite terrifying) reactions.

Here's a neat trick to try: put everyone you know into even the most glancing contact of riots in their city or country, and watch how many lose all pretensions of lefty-liberal beliefs and turn into the ugliest parts of their grandfathers. There's already been a sharp swing to the right in many people's political thinking.

It's horrifying, the reactions I'm seeing, and the popularity of them. At the top: the suggestions and threats that those involved in the riots should/may be evicted from their council tenancies, and have their housing benefits revoked. There's a stunning lack of understanding of poor lives at work in this thought process, not least that making someone homeless and even poorer is a good way to discourage them from rioting again. But also, the strange thought process that seems to think of housing benefits as some kind of bonus; people are refusing to grasp the concept of necessity, of having (next to) nothing.

There's also the call for violent escalation in dealing with the riots, okayed by the PM - baton rounds and water cannons. A lot of people seem to think the army should get involved. Nevermind the fact that upping the force used in dealing with rioters is just as likely to cause them to do the same as it is to stop them; these tactics could quite literally turn the cities of the UK into war zones. And I can't help but think that the last time these tactics were used by British police, it was in Northern Ireland.

There's other, more banal reactions, too. These do just as much, if not more, as the above to expose the class gaps and mindsets of the privileged in Britain. There's the scolding tones, the accusations of parents not raising their kids properly - in neighbourhoods where many parents will be single, and likely working multiple jobs just to feed those children, or where its an accomplishment just to keep your family safe. The racist backlash, not just from the bile-spewing BNP, but gangs of primarily white male vigilantes in the streets of London - both tonight and last night, now. The hysteria on the internet and suspicious looks in the streets regarding where the rioting's going to happen next - focussing, almost without fail, on solidly bourgeois communities like my own Hammersmith, or even Chelsea. All of these reactions reek of a "them" vs "us" mentality. Of "them," with their undereducated, badly treated, cast aside selves coming for "us" in our rightful middle-to-upper class safety and security.

Nina Power: There Is A Context to London's Riots That Can't Be Ignored

Laurie Penny: Panic on the streets of London

BBC: Riots timeline

Leninology: several recent posts, including A Crisis of Ideology and Political Leadership, Tottenham Calling, and Enfield Calling

Tariq Ali: Why Here, Why Now?

dreary, dark, and damp city. and wolves.

I love this weather. I really do. Cold and wet has always been my favourite, even over snow.
I'm tired. I'm a little worried, despite still believing everything will work out. I had a job interview on Saturday, but I don't think I got it. I haven't heard anything. I'm a little disappointed, too: I had hoped to be able to take a course here, starting in the fall, but because you sign up for full years of study at British universities and not terms, the one I had my heart set on is not legally viable. There's a host of other options I can look into, of course, but the thing that made this one so perfect, aside from the actual things I'd've been studying, is that it would have actually have been a first year of uni in credits.

Right now, though, I’ve got my cosy sweater and a quilt. I’ve got tea, and spinach & chickpea soup, and walnut cake for later. I’ve got Dylan Thomas, and Alan Garner if I finish him, and Seth Lakeman. I’m in lazy, cozy, easy, soulfood mode.

On the way home today my umbrella got turned inside out and in the few moments it took me to right it I went from vaguely dry to absolutely soaked. I squelched and shivered (it is cold for July - I had been worried it would be too hot!) myself the rest of the way to a hot shower and an hour with my notebook that turned into two-and-then-some. I've been forcing myself to spend at least six hours every day doing nothing but jobhunting. I've also been trying to force myself to get fuller nights of sleep. It's paid off in at least one way: as Eliot once said, having a limited amount of time in which to write leads to discipline in doing so. You don't faff about as much. I'm writing a lot right now. In the evenings, when I come home. A lot of it in notebooks, a lot of it probably never to be shared, never mind published, a lot of it more about experiments in figuring out my writing, my ideas, and my thoughts around it than actually producing something whole, but there is, too, quite a bit that will work its way into other things. Honestly, even if nothing ever comes of it, it's still what keeps me sane, and most days it's enough of a gift just to have this part of my voice back.

Vaguely relatedly, I'd really like to share something. It's this story:

The Wolves of Brooklyn

The wolves have eaten people. Why be coy about it? Not a lot of people. But it’s happened. As near as anyone can figure, the first one they ate was a Russian girl named Yelena. They surrounded her and she stood very still, so as not to startle them. Finally, she said: “I’m lonely”—it’s weird but you tell the wolves things, sometimes. You can’t help it, all these old wounds come open and suddenly you’re confessing to a wolf who never says anything back. She said: “I’m lonely,” and they ate her in the street. They didn’t leave any blood. They’re fastidious like that. Since then, I know of about four or five others, and well, that’s just not enough to really scare people. Obviously, you’ll be special, they’ll look at you with those huge eyes and you’ll understand something about each other, about the tundra and blood and Brooklyn and winter, and they’ll mark you but pass you by. For most of us that’s just what happens. My friend Daniel got eaten, though. It’s surprising how you can get used to that. I don’t know what he said to them. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know Daniel that well.

This excerpt is amazing and beautiful and just the thing on a cold rainy evening all on its own, and I knew from it that unless the author completely let me down I was going to love the story, and then I clicked through, and…

This story? Is written by Catherynne Valente. Only one of my absolute favourite writers not only working right now but ever. And even though some of her works resonate differently for me, she has never ever let me down (in what I’ve read, which is not all, but I have faith).

This story does more than just not let me down. One of the reasons I fell in love with Valente is that she so often seems to write stories tailor-made for me, for my obsessions. (There was Palimpsest, with its trains and its maps and its dream cities and its bees, for instance.) I feel like I was meant to read this tonight, here, curled up in my grey wool and drinking tea and thinking long and hard about this city.

This is a story by Catherynne Valente about Brooklyn and the huge, uncanny wolves that live there, and a girl that is very much not Little Red Hood. It is about cities and the villages and wildernesses within them, about the way some of us are called to them, and how we don’t belong until we do (or at least we don’t belong anywhere else, either), about fashion and self-presentation and the feeling of being looked at, about tribes, about how we move apart and fall together. (I won’t tell you any more, for fear of ruining it, but please, if you read one story on the internet this month, let it be this one.) It is, on some level, exactly what I needed to read right now.

(And I mean, well, is it any surprise that a story like this would mean a lot to me?)

an addendum:

Writers write.

things I have learnt

No matter how far and how fast you run, you're always going to be right behind yourself. That's just how it works. Stop running.

Relatedly, there's not much point in beating yourself up. Not only will you be battered and sore in the morning, you'll be the one who has to patch yourself up.

ca·thar·sis (k-thärss)

n. pl. ca·thar·ses (-sz)

1. A purifying or figurative cleansing of the emotions, especially pity and fear, described by Aristotle as an effect of tragic drama on its audience.

2. A release of emotional tension, as after an overwhelming experience, that restores or refreshes the spirit.

eu·pho·ri·a (y-fôr-, -fr-)

n.

A feeling of great happiness or well-being.

I'm being crushed against the metal barrier in front of me by the several thousand people behind. The girl next to me's hair is in my mouth, and I am sticking uncomfortably to the leather jacket of the man behind me. (In two hours, when we peel apart, my skin will be embedded with zipper and leather wrinkle marks, but he gets a pass on this because he will spend the evening protecting my head.) The arm that's not hanging over the barrier is stuck awkwardly by my side, my feet are going numb, and I would be literally dripping with sweat if I wasn't too crowded for that to be possible. Someone's arm is around my neck, and another is propped on my shoulder; partway through the concert, someone else will snake theirs around my waste, and I will wrap my previously trapped arm around the back of a French girl's head. We are too stuck together to even jump properly to the music, and so instead we all surge as one, back and forth, back and forth. Six feet away, Jarvis Cocker writhes on top of a stack of amps and peers out at us as we all sing along to every song so loudly it's a miracle we can still hear the band.

I know, I really do know, that amazing concert experiences are not just something that happens to me; that music inspires faith like religion, and that lots of people have had similar moments in their life. This isn't about the uniqueness of my experience. But: five years ago, I went to a concert with one my best friends, a small local band playing outdoors. I couldn't even stand at the back of the crowd, it was too much for me, I was going to have a panic attack - I had to go and sit in the bleachers. Now, compare.

What this is about is healing, and how we do it. It's about realizing something about yourself that maybe you should've known a long time ago, but only just figured out. It's about lightning-bolt moments. It's about growth. Don't get me wrong; I'm the last person to take me seriously. But sometimes I'm forced to.

An important part of any concert experience is the crowd, and this one was the best I've ever been a member of. Pulp have been apart a long time, and they've been around for more than twice as long as that. They've meant a lot to a lot of people, and a lot of those people are here tonight. Everyone knows every word of every song intimately. People shout teases and quips at Jarvis like he's an old school friend. This is pure love of pop music.

The experience shook me so much that it's taken me ten days to write about it. Even now, I don't think I'm properly expressing how strongly the concert touched me - and not just the bands, but the realizations I had that night. I'm having trouble writing about it evenheadedly, as you can see. The adverbs and adjectives are piling up all over this post, and I'm at risk of sounding like some trippy new-ager when I talk about healing.

But the week before last something snapped inside of me. Leading up to it I was the unhappiest I've been since I moved here, I think. I wasn't talking to people much because I didn't have much to report - I was looking for work. I hadn't found any yet. That was about it. And then suddenly I woke up one morning, and went to the National Gallery, where I spent a long time glaring at Van Gogh's Sunflowers as Japanese tourists and a group of schoolchildren all tried to shove around me. There was no reason for me not to, after all. I was unhappy. I needed to do something to be less unhappy, or I was going to go mad. I figured that much out. The next evening I took myself to a performance of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, and laughed so hard my cheeks hurt, and when I stepped out of the theatre into the warm Piccadilly night I felt lighter than I had since February. The day after that was the Arcade Fire show, and then Friday was Canada Day (though I only paid a brief visit to the celebrations.) Saturday was the Pride Parade, and even more dancing in Trafalgar square, and then Sunday was the night described above. So it was all a slow build of experiences, even though the tipping point was singing along to Disco 2000 with everyone else in Hyde Park that night.

I've somehow grown into the type of girl that dances, and screams, and has emotional breakthroughs rather than breakdowns in a seething crowd of strangers.

paper journal paper journal

some excerpts. a l'expédition francaise.

03/04/11 -- Paris, France

There is a strangeness to learning how to lose someone that you already missed. How do you deal with grief and loss when you've gotten so used to living with the absence of loved ones? Right up until N. cried in front of me for the first time, I didn't really believe that he was gone. It felt untrue, like a badly-told story, like an infinitely cruel joke. But he's gone. And I'm not confronted with the shock of that every day because I've already been practicing missing him for eight and a half months.

05/04/11 -- Paris, France

I didn't notice last time how many cats there are in Pere Lachaise. Feral little things the lot of them, but oddly charming. There's one black one in particular that's been following me around the place. I'm sitting next to Oscar's tomb right now, and he [the cat] keeps peering around graves to watch me, disappearing for a bit, and then checking in again. It's almost like he wants me to follow him.

06/04/11 -- Auvers-sur-Oise, France

The song might be about Paris, but it feels like spring for the first time here. Everything is golden and bright, and flowers are blooming everywhere. I got up early this morning and caught the train here, changing at Pontoise where I basked in the sun for half an hour, soaking the heat into myself like a cat. The train ride here was charming, in a carriage I shared with a raucous group of boys on their way to school. When I walked out of the station onto the main street, the bells of the Eglise were chiming 10 in the morning, and I knew instantly, the way you do, that this was the right place for me to come.

...

On the hill about the Musée Daubigny (where Van Gogh lived and died), there is a concave cliff. It is clay-coloured, but wreathed in the green of the surrounding forest, and dotted with the reds and yellows of wildflowers. In a shelf set into the cliff near the top, there is a small white statue of the Virgin Mary.

...

(written on the train back to Paris) The last place I visited was the grave of Vincent and Théo. It's in a graveyard just outside the town, past the Eglise. It is not a famous Parisian graveyard; there are no markers on how to find certain of its inhabitants, and despite being clear of weeds the graves themselves are mostly badly upkept. I was the only one there. I have visited a lot of dead people here, and I do so again tomorrow in the Catacombs, but none of them have moved me like this. The brothers' grave is on the edge of the graveyard, and the simplest but strangely beautiful thing: two white headstones, and a thick patch of green ivy rather than stone. Even in death, even as one of the most famous and important painters of all time, Vincent is modest and practically uncelebrated. I stood at the foot of it for a long, long time, and cried.

08/04/11 -- on the bus ride back to London, primarily the Chunnel

Last night I drunkenly wandered the streets of Montmartre at 2am, looking for crepes. Paris, Paris, you will always hold a piece of my heart. Maybe one day I will even live inside you. For now, though, it's London that's home.

autobiography through popculture

my face is unappealing, and my thoughts are unoriginal. i did experiment with substances, but all they did was make me ill. i used to do the i ching, but i had to use the meter. now i can’t see into the future but at least i can use the heater. it doesn’t get much better than this ‘cause this is how we live our glory days.

and i could be a genius, if i just put my mind to it. and i? i could do anything, if only i could get round to it. we were brought up on the space race, now they expect you to clean toilets. when you’ve seen how big the world is, then how can you make do with this? if you want me, i’ll be sleeping in. sleeping in throughout these glory days.

&

strange little girl.

There are a hundred things she has tried to chase away the things she won’t remember and that she can’t even let herself think about because that’s when the birds scream and the worms crawl and somewhere in her mind it’s always raining a slow and endless drizzle.

You will hear that she has left the country, that there was a gift she wanted you to have, but it is lost before it reaches you. Late one night the telephone will sing, and a voice that might be hers will say something that you cannot interpret before the connection crackles and is broken.

Several years later, from a taxi, you will see someone in a doorway that looks like her, but she will be gone by the time you persuade the driver to stop. You will never see her again.

Whenever it rains you think of her.

&

The fairy Tink who is bent on mischief this night is looking for a tool, and she thinks you the most easily tricked of the boys.

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am writing to apply for whatever the hell position you’re willing to give me. As a foulmouthed two-time college dropout (from Canada, no less), I believe myself to be the perfect candidate for your team, since we all know that people want underlings they can look down their noses at.

I am detail-oriented to the point of obsession when it comes to things I actually give a shit about, motivated by the need to make money, and an excellent team player because I am generally too polite in a working environment to let people know what I really think of them. I am too intelligent and too aware of my intelligence for my own good, and I don’t like being told what to do by people I don’t respect. In my last place of employment, I was regularly praised by superiors and customers alike for the speed and quality of my service, because for some reason no one else seemed to realize that the work was so easy an especially slow four-year-old would be capable of doing it.

Also, I make a mean apple-rhubarb pie, possess an encyclopedic knowledge of song lyrics and pop culture trivia, and believe that every hour should be happy hour.

Thank you for your consideration, and I look forward to hearing from you. (Oh god please let me hear from you.)

Sincere regards,

Dee.

“Y’know, all the rich people… all the rich people that live around this park - every year, they try to buy out the rights... so you can’t make a little noise.
EVERYBODY SAY AAAAAAAHHHHH!!!”

where you invest your love, you invest your life

So I don’t have many photos of last night because from the moment Zach Condon opened his mouth to sing until I stumbled up my steps and cracked a beer, I existed in a state of extended rapture.

(Don’t get me wrong - Owen Pallett was amazing (I am pretty sure Owen Pallett is amazing when he’s doing nothing but breathing.), although his performance was a little wrecked for me by the obnoxious dudes a bit behind me who were ‘only there to see The Vaccines’ and were - forgive me if I sound snobbish but it’s true - of a certain breed of (predominantly male, though there’s definitely females too) obnoxious indie-rock fans who think tight jeans, a leather jacket, and a bad attitude are the be-all and end-all of cool, and who probably still think Pete Doherty’s the messiah. I also had a moment of profound culture shock, in that I was literally the only person in my area of the crowd who knew who Owen even was. The Vaccines themselves were fun and danceable but definitely the weakest band on the setlist, and, even though I was a big Jay Jay Pistolet fan, I really think they’re just another in a long line of good but not all that original or memorable London indie bands.)

Beirut, unfortunately, had a moment of almost being wrecked, too: by a group of completely wasted girls who were pushing forward to try to get nearer for Mumford & Sons (and can I just say: I FUCKING HATE THAT. If you are the type of person who rushes the barrier at gigs instead of getting close at the beginning and appreciating the entire line up? We will never be friends. In fact, I will happily punch you in the face. The rest of us like these bands, too, dickhead. That’s why we got here several hours early. This, of course, does not count in instances of moshpits, and moving/dancing crowds. If you are alone I am also slightly more likely to be forgiving.) who started shouting at me and the girls around me for not letting them past. One of them proceeded to pee in a cup, which she then spilt on one of the poor girls near me. They moved off pretty quickly, though, and my bliss at finally, finally seeing Beirut live won out.

It was the next two bands that really rattled me, though. Mumford & Sons are incredible live. They feed off the energy of the crowd like nobody’s business, and the amount of joy they put into every instant of their music is contagious. I screamed and sang myself hoarse, and danced all my troubles away. I spent the entire gig one deep from the barrier, a bit to the right of the stage, and was lucky enough to have really amazing people around me for the most part - the aforementioned girls behind me and to my right who were just as blissed out the entire time as I was, a man and his two young sons who were obviously having the time of their lives to my left, and a three girls and a guy in front of me who threw themselves into the music with so much abandon; they were wonderful to dance with.

And so that was the act that brought me the most joy in the simple sense of the word. But the one that brought me to tears was Arcade Fire. I’m ashamed to say that despite being a fan since Funeral, and a Canadian to boot, this was my first time seeing them live. But as the sun went down, someone released a wishing lantern, and the crowd sang along to their joyous cacophony, it didn’t matter in the slightest.

stark raving sane

Just a very quick note, on something that deserves a very long, rapturous ramble, and will probably get one:

I saw Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead starring Jamie Parker and Samuel Barnett at the Theatre Royal Haymarket tonight. (It has been - and will continue to be - a week of excellence, and of treating myself. I am giddy with excitement over the concert tomorrow! And then I think I will go to the Canada Day celebrations on Friday.) I am probably going to see it again. It was incredible.

My favourite History Boys (Pos & Scripps for those who don’t recognise the actors’ names) in my favourite play by my favourite playwright. The culmination of so much that meant everything to me in my high school days, the development of my literary loves and tastes. And, just, not only was it so good - I have seen Parker on stage before, at the Globe as Prince Hal, so I knew going into it that he’d be amazing, but his Guildenstern is perfect, radiating helpless confusion compounded by his startling intellect. And Barnett’s Rosencrantz is oblivious but also perfectly arch and occasionally withering with scorn, in a way people who know the film probably wouldn’t be expecting, but which works very well indeed. And that’s just the two leads - the Player & his men, Hamlet, the costume designs, the direction, the stage design (oh god, the stage design) - all of it is so good.

And this is rambly and gushy and emotional and uncritical and probably pretty mushy because I just got home and haven’t had time to think it through and I came into this production with an already strong love of the play and its leads, and I will take the time and effort to write a proper review later. But for now I just wanted a record of the glowy feeling I came out of the theatre into the warm London night with, because I have been very very sad these past few weeks, and I’ve spent this week using art as a healing balm, and I laughed a lot tonight, but I was also touched, and challenged. Because this play (and it has since I was 13), and now this production, means a lot to me.

So, as you can see below, I am slowly but surely getting myself back into the habit of blogging around here. It’s been a bit of a push to do so. I have been so tired. When I am sad, I react like a turtle; I retreat into myself and let the thick shell that has had years of growth keep me safe. I can go for days without engaging or interacting. And that’s okay as a primary defence mechanism - though I know there are people who’d disagree with me - but it’s definitely not okay as a way of life. And so I’ve been focussing most of the energy that I’ve not been using on just getting through the days on doing my best not to succumb to the instinct to be a zombie.

Saying that I haven’t been writing is not completely true, either. I have been writing quite a bit, but it has all been for myself. It’s the sharing that has felt like effort. I’ve a thick black notebook I bought myself in Oxford that’s been slowly but surely filling with diary entries and notes to myself and quotes I like and lists and all sorts of assorted other jottings, even the odd drawing. There’s a daisy from the field next to Christ Church College pressed between the pages, and an odd greeny-grey mark from where I dipped my finger in my absinthe and drew it down the page in Auvers-sur-Oise. It smells of the leather of my satchel and a faint hint of my perfume - though I may be imagining the latter. It’s the first time I’ve kept a proper diary - not a notebook, not an online journal - in a good long while.

I’ve written before about how I lost my voice for a while, and how I got it back, and how important honesty and writing are to me. The practice of keeping a diary varies for everyone, both in approach to and want of doing so. I think it works for me, not just because it means I keep a far more detailed record of my life than I had before. I am, in essence, having an extended conversation with myself in those pages. I was so so scared that I was going to stop writing completely after my father died, because I was pretty sure that if I lost it again I wouldn't have the energy to fight to get it back. Instead, words have become more of a necessity for me than ever before; they are my solace and my distraction (I have read more and faster this year than any since I was still in elementary school), but they are also my filter and the way through which I approach the world. That is, I think, a good part of the reason I have been copying so many quotes down alongside my own writings:

Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief. — Anne Carson

I don’t want to have the terrible limitation of the person who lives only by what can be made to make sense. — Clarice Lispector

She wanted a story, a narrative; she wanted to be whole, not broken. She believed it would keep her “from flying into black bits.” — Carole Maso

Here is our problem, Sylvia: how to feel enough anger to survive and yet not to soil one’s ability to love, how to love, open oneself up, be free, and not be destroyed. Is love always a body climbing over a forbidden wall with a spotlight & machine gun on it? Is honesty always suicide? Would we all die like you, if we were honest? — Diane Wakoski

Bravery and submission are far closer than one realizes. Each is risk, each receives its own reward. — Anne Quinn

(What I most need is to record experiences, not in the order in which they took place – for that is just history – but in the order in which they first became significant for me.) — Laurence Durrell



I always planned on coming back to this blog. Sometimes you just have to let things happen organically, and it feels like time. I have such things to tell you about, too! The rest of my time in Paris, my Van Gogh pilgrimage, adventures with friends from Canada, stores for monsters, my exploits in jobhunting and what I do in between...

I'll do my best not to disappear for so often or so long any more.

clarence clemons died today.

oh god. oh god, this feels just like a boot to the gut. my dad raised me on springsteen and the e street band. they’ve always been a part of my life, and always will be. and, i mean, i knew - everybody knew - that it was coming. the last time i saw the e street band live was a few years ago, but even then it was obvious that clarence was getting old, getting weaker. he sat through a lot of the concert. and of course the stroke earlier this week. but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

and the worst part of it all is that all i can think of is my dad, how he would have felt, how he would have reacted. he would have cried just like i am now, i know that - he was never ‘too manly’ to cry. and… god, i wish i had something coherent to say, but it just hurts too much, so soon after becoming so familiarly acquainted with death to have it shoved back in my face again, and like this. this is a selfish reaction, i know. it’s grief.

rip ‘big man’. you are unreplicatable, a giant among men. to his family and friends, my love and best wishes.

i think that i’ve finally reached the point in my grief where i am ready to crack open the protective shell i’ve built around myself and start working on expansion and expression again. i needed to just hold on tight to my soul for a while, and that’s okay, but i also can’t stay like this forever. i need to start moving forward and working through the pain, no matter how scary a thought that is, because otherwise the healing becomes just paralysis. and that’s not okay. he wouldn’t have wanted that for me; he would have wanted better. i deserve better.

so, i’m not really sure how to go about it, but i know i’m going to start with really focussing on me, instead of letting myself be numb, or keeping myself distracted. and i know that i’m probably going to hit rock bottom in doing so, but once i’ve done that the only way to go is back up, and dammit i’m going to do that too. and i’m going to work on nourishing myself - body, mind, heart, and soul - as much as possible. life is short; i understand that now. i’m going to learn how to say yes to everything instead of a fear-based no, i’m going back to working on making my dreams reality, i’m going to dig deep into myself, i’m going to try hard, i’m going to go back to being that mad and passionate mess that i am at my very best. i’m going to make him so fucking proud of me.

Everything is holy! everybody’s holy! everywhere is holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman’s an angel!

-allen ginsberg

catch a fire

For some reason, whenever I get homesick, I always get all masochistic and make it even worse by trolling through facebook or watching videos like this, or a hundred other things.

When I tell people here where I’m from, I always just say Vancouver - as opposed to Victoria, or Vancouver Island - because they’re way more likely to know where that is. And even then, so many (especially continental Europeans, it seems, but some Brits too) ask me “why? Why would you leave there to move here?” and I always say “For a change, to try something new; I can always go back.” And I can, and I know this, but on days like this I can’t help but wonder why myself. (Weirdly, whenever I’m homesick for Victoria these days, I find myself homesick for Vancouver, too. The two are far from interchangeable, but for some reason I end up wanting both. Maybe because Vancouver is big and dirty enough to satisfy, on some levels, both my love for London and for Victoria?)

And I know it’ll pass, especially once I’ve found work and meet some more people again, and probably a proper night’s sleep wouldn’t hurt. But all the same, even when it’s not a I-want-to-go-back-right-now desperation, and especially I think now that summer’s in swing, I really miss my home sometimes. I’m from one of the most beautiful, wonderful places in the world as far as I’m concerned. Which is not to say that I don’t love London, too: most of the time, I really, really do. I love my little bedroom in this haunted house, I love Camden and Brick Lane and Portobello, I love dubstep nights and intimate folk gigs, I love the parks and the streets and how huge and all-encompassing the city is, how it feels important, and how you’re only ever bored here when you let yourself be. Which is funny because what I love about Victoria is the exact opposite: the nature, the beaches, the west coast hippy vibe, the friendliness, how intimate a city it - small, but important in that it holds everyone I love. The thing is, I’ve never met Vince Vaccaro (only seen him play), but I recognise everywhere that is in this video. I that, and the beauty of it all, almost as much as I miss my friends and family.

June 30th: Arcade Fire, Mumford & Sons, Beirut, Owen Pallett, & The Vaccines in Hyde Park

I am so excited. I literally cannot stop grinning. My cheeks hurt. Like, actually, a year ago I was in Victoria, panicking about moving to London. I spent most of my time hiding in my room. Opted out of even local gigs with friends at least half the time. And now I`m going to see five of my absolute favourite musical acts, by myself, in Hyde Park. I need festival-appropriate footwear, stat. I also need a job, to finance my music habit. And some friends actually in this city would be nice (stop leaving me, you fuckers!). But, you know, so much happens in a year. And a lot of it has been amazing, and a lot of it has been shit, but aside from the obvious one thing, I wouldn't change a bit of it.

i know that you're not broken

Birthdays are funny things. We get older every day, every hour, but we celebrate like we spend a year in stasis before suddenly moving on to the next. That's not how we grow or life progresses at all. I wasn't worried about celebrating away from home when I left, because I'd be wherever I was and that would be amazing. I'd miss my friends and family of course, but I'd see them when I got home; it wasn't a big deal at all. That changed when there was suddenly someone I was never going to see again, and he was supposed to be here in London. I've got the next best thing, of course, but it's still hard.

That said, I'm 22 now.

My birthday eve was a great night of homemade pasta, wine & gin fizz, wandering along the river with ciders, laughter and talking and bonding, of meeting Steve, the not-hell's angel from the previous post.

When we woke up yesterday, Hannah made me a delicious birthday breakfast and we ate it watching Ace of Cakes. Then it was off for a day of wandering through Camden's intoxicating multicoloured maze, where I treated myself to a dress, and we ate Moroccan and went for tea at a gorgeous, friendly little cafe where they were playing music from The Last Five Years, and gave me a free birthday macaron.

And then we were off to Kensington and the Royal Albert Hall, for Eric Clapton, supported by the Lowriders, where we were the youngest people in attendace. It was a brilliant concert, and the Hall is easily the best venue I know - intimate without being crowded, and with perfect acoustics. Clapton is, of course, a musical god, and I feel so lucky to have seen him live. So, yes, an amazing performance, but it was hard to get through. I was doing okay until I looked round at the crowd and saw a man and his son there together, which had me crying. But the music buoyed me back up because that's what music is for. And by the end of the night I was okay again, because that's what friends are for. Hannah and I went home and finished off the day with pizza, cocoa, boozy tiramisu, and sitcoms.

All in all, I'd say it was a pretty good birthday.

there was pointed singing.

life is so much better when you've got friends around.

like tonight: yummy food, cooked in my teeny tiny kitchen with barely enough room for the three of us. tipsy wanderings through hammersmith. the river is beautiful, always. beautiful ladies to giggle and gossip with. gorgeous eye-candy. the perfect city for people watching. drunken ramblings for candy and more booze and then settling on mcdonald's because it's the only place open at midnight. eating it under a tree on a sidewalk. a drunken not-irish, not-policeman, not-hell's angel stopping for a surreal chat. ringing in my birthday like a boss.

yesterday: brick lane wanderings, an afternoon spent lounging in a brilliant cafe/bar, curry for dinner, and then dancing to house, despite the poster advertising drum'n'bass and dub step.

saturday: the arrival of my bff. the reconnection with an amazing highschool friend. the reintroduction to a brilliant lady who, stupidly enough, has been living less than twenty minutes away from me for eight months and i've managed never to run into. delicious dinner. the ridiculousness of eurovision. talking, talking, talking, laughing, talking. photos. love.

i am happy. i am surprised by this, but it's true. i am happy. i am happy.

paris in the springtime

(Paris: my métro entrance, a view from the Promenade Plantée, Notre Dame from the South Bank, Monet's Les Nymphéas at Le Musée de l'Orangerie, paintings for sale, lilac blooming on a typical café, and the best bookshop in the world.)

There is a secret garden in Paris. It, like most secrets, hides in plain sight, and offers itself up as a reward for those willing to look a little harder and in different directions. It is called le Promenade Plantée, and it's on top of a disused suburban commuter rail line. It's one of those things only Parisiens tend to know about; a boy I met in Edinburgh told me about it - he had lived here for five years. It was my first stop today, and as I wandered through part of it, it felt like I'd tumbled into a children's novel.

And then it was down onto street level, and back into the real world of Paris in the spring, which is not really the real world at all. One of the first sounds I heard when I arrived in the city was an accordian being played on the métro as I travelled to my hostel. The first thing anyone says to me without me approaching them first is "she has stolen my heart! What can I do, I have a hole in my chest. I will keep my tears there." This is from a young Frenchman working at my hostel (joking about his coworker, who he swoops in to kiss on the cheek as she laughs), while I wait in line to check in. He's small and bearded, with a nosering, and it takes me five minutes to fall in love.

Paris in the springtime. The air smells of lilac (sometimes, when it doesn't smell of bread or coffee or spices or piss). I have already grown a lightness here. I wrote two poems to day, and a whole skein's worth of diary entry. When I was thinking about Cities of the Dead yesterday, I forgot that Paris is also a city of emotions; London is not. I am beginning to carry my scars on my chest, instead of my back.

city of the dead

A few scenes from around my hostel on the Canal St-Martin, and the jazz band I just came upstairs from listening to.

Leaving London this morning, I felt a surge of pure, dumb fear. It grew as we travelled further and further away, until I was nauseous from nerves. I was scared; I wanted to go home. That was how I knew that taking this trip was the right decision to make. It confirms my suspicions that I was hiding really rather well in London, being numb.

On a hill above the English terminal of the Eurotunnel, there is an giant chalk horse. Later research will tell me it's a modern recreation of the ancient figures throughout the UK, but seeing it, I feel something in me loosen. I think of Rhiannon, forced to tell her tale over and over in penance even through her own sorrow. I take it as a further sign that I've done the right thing.

In West, Jim Perrin says something like "I have come to this place of the dead to be alone with my dead." I think there's a reason I've chosen Paris, one which goes deeper than its beauty and the nostalgia I have of a high school visit. I've come on this trip out of indulgence, yes, and where to go to allow myself to be hedonistic when I can't find a job and I"m sad but Paris? But I realize that I've also come somewhere that in my subconscious is a City of the Dead.

I am very good at running away. Both physically and emotionally, I am a master of distance when I can't cope with something. Motion soothes me, and any writer is able to pull away to observe. In London, in my haze, I was able to hide from the truth by staying busy jobhunting and distracting myself. That's fine, I needed some time of calm, but I can't continue like that forever, just because it's easier. At some point, I will fall to pieces.

(I'm thinking, now, that I was also protecting myself. That I love London, and I live there, and I want to live, there, and maybe I was subconsciously shielding myself from soiling it. I definitely know that I was being very English in my emotions, and maybe there's some culture adherence to it, too.)

When I booked my room in Paris, I was doing it for a week away from the daily grind of fruitless jobhunting, drinking wine and coffee, eating macarons, and looking at beauty. But this is also the first step in my consciously dealing with the loss of my father. In this city that most people associate with romance, but for me is most strongly haunted by the people in its history out of any place I've been, I've come to a place of the dead, to understand the truth about my own dead: that he is gone.

I didn't do it on purpose. But now that I've realised it, I will give in to that urge. This will be a week of indulgences and senses and giving in.

This afternoon, watching the ugly French countryside roll past under the even uglier grey sky, I thought about my dad and all I never got to say to him, all he'll never see me be. And I cried, for the first time since I left Victoria.

here comes the sun

Things that have happened recently:

I met Thom Yorke on Monday. I went to Brick Lane to get a copy of The Universal Sigh, and who was handing them out but one of my heroes? I didn't have my camera, but a guy took a photo for me and said he'd email it. No sign of it yet, but, fingers crossed. Apparently Phil was also there, but I didn't see him.

G and I finally went to Abbey Road on Tuesday, as you can see above. We went to the pub afterwards.

I still haven't found a job.

I cut my hair, died a piece of it purple, and bought a tube of bright coral lipstick. I am starting to make an effort again. I am purposely bringing colour into my life, and going out and doing things other than looking for work, even when all I feel like is curling up on my bed in my pjs and writing now that the words are starting to come back again. I am scared, so scared, but I am ready to try hard, and to work my butt off. At this trip, as well as at writing.

I am reading lots of memoirs and diaries and poetry lately, thinking lots about words and writing and self-definition. Rilke and Nin and Plath. Letters to a sad & panicked young girlthing who bleeds ink.

(Relatedly, Catherynne Valente and SJ Tucker interviewed each other for the Interstitial Arts Foundation, and it nearly made me cry. "Dream big. Make friends.")

The cherry blossoms are blooming; spring is a season of rebirth.

I leave for Paris on Sunday.

living in the meantime

Every day in London (with the exception of yesterday, when I marched and attended a rally against government cuts with half-a-million other people (and which I wrote about at my new culture & politics blog.) begins the same way: without any set plans.

Maybe I drink my tea downstairs, watching BBC News, or maybe I bring my cereal upstairs to eat while I read Victoria Coren's memoir/yet another Angela Carter book/David Foster Wallace's essays. Maybe I'm tempted to stay like that all day, curled up in my pyjamas behind my locked bedroom door; I've always been rather lazy.

But I get up. I shower and dress. I head out into London. I look for work. I look for way to amuse myself while I'm not working.

On the days that the sadness doesn't stay away, I've found that the easiest way to cheer myself up is to head to a well-known tourist destination, and let the crowd swallow me up in its chatter and flow. Even after six months, there is still a thrill at seeing people take pictures of themself in front of Big Ben or Tower Bridge and being able to think I live here. As the song goes, London, you're a lady, and some days I don't know what I'd do without you.

I don't spend much time in museums and galleries right now. I think it's because they're too still, too enclosed; they're definitely too cut off from the beautiful weather London's been having. Instead I'm drawn to Hyde Park, to Portobello or Camden or Borough Markets, to the South Bank, to outdoor spaces fairly bursting with people as Spring hits the city and everyone rushes out from their homes and offices.

It feels a bit like living in the meantime right now. There are no special events, I'm not going to many shows. It's more of a slow, calm, settling-in for the long haul. It's something I'm okay wit. In a lot of ways, I'm more comfortable with myself than I have been in many years.

So I keep carrying on the day-to-day. I think about finally getting my next tattoo. I decide how I'm going to cut my hair. I paint my nails blue and my lips pink, and I contemplate the pros and cons of investing in a pair of floral Docs as the weather takes a turn for the better. I read books, in bed, in parks, on the Tube. I drink, as ever, too much tea. I write, I write, I write...

"Ah, world, what lessons you prepare for us,
even in the leafless winter,
even in the ashy city.
I am thinking now
of grief, and of getting past it;
I feel my boots
trying to leave the ground,
I feel my heart
pumping hard. I want
to think again of dangerous and noble things.
I want to be light and frolicsome.
I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing,
as though I had wings."
-Mary Oliver, "Starlings In Winter"

Before I came back to London, I made Nikki a promise. I promised that I would do something fun, something just for me on the Saturday after I got back. It turns out I was too exhausted to do much more than wander ‘round Hammersmith and through a bookstore that day, but the next, true to my word, I headed for Paddington station bright and early and bought a return ticket to Oxford.

The journey from London to Oxford is approximately an hour and a half long. I’d purposely not brought any book or magazine. Just a mix on my iPod and the hope of snagging a window seat, which I managed. On one level, just like every trip I’ve ever taken, my favourite part of the day was the train ride itself. I’m an in-between girl, as I’ve said before, and I adore being in the state of travelling. Trains are especially wonderful to me. This doesn’t usually detract from the destination, though, and Oxford was no different. This Sunday was a spectacularly clear spring day; the sky hung blue and high above the city, so different from the low grey clouds you grow accustomed to in London (and, for that matter, in Victoria in the winter.)

Confession time: ever since I was very little, I have wanted to go to university at Oxford or Cambridge. When I was younger it was usually Oxford I dreamt of, though these days when I contemplate pursuing my academic career, Cambridge also pops up (due in no small part, I must admit, to the reputation of the Cambridge Footlights). But it was Oxford that first captured my imagination, with its dreaming spires and green spaces housed in golden brick, be-corduroyed professors and precocious young things with their books and ink-stains. So it’s no surprise that I’d been yearning to visit since I first arrived in the UK.

Oxford the actual place was both quite like and quite different from my expectations. It’s definitely a student city, with lots of young people and bookshops and cheap places to eat. There are bicycles everywhere, it’s incredible. I hadn’t realized, however, just how tied up with the city the university is - the different colleges and library are actually on the city streets. Maybe I just never paid attention, but I hadn’t been expecting that. Unfortunately, for some reason, none of the colleges were open for visiting that day. I did go to the Bodleian library, though, which was quite cool, not least for the exhibit centred on the Shelleys they’re currently showcasing. It’s a very surreal thing to be able to read the actual letters between Percy and Mary Shelley, and Byron and Keats. (Keats, unsurprisingly, had the most beautiful and legible hand of them all - his were the only letters I could truly read.) All in all, it's a very youthful, very friendly city, and I will probably go back at some point.

(I have pictures to share, but for some reason blogger's not letting me upload them, and I'm tired of fiddling with it for tonight, so I'll edit them into the post in the morning.)