You

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I thought that if I were a better person, then maybe things would go better for me.

I thought that if I were a better person, then maybe I’d be happy.

I don’t know what I want anymore.

I saw that I had a test today.

What’s the point?

I saw you across the sea,

and wondered why someone was looking so sad.

I am not brave, but I felt a lump in my throat.

How to explain a broken heart? To even explain it at all?

But words…I am empty and full.

I did not know you, but I felt like I did.

I wanted to tell you, “I want you to be happy.”

But all I could do was feel.

I cannot think,

though I do.

I won’t close my eyes if I’m awake—because sleep is not a problem anymore.

The rest of the world is shapeless though—I hoped you would fill it in some way

Us Two Poets

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I stand before you now. . .

We are two poets. . .

Will you let me be?

Will you accept my world as it is?

I’ve only just wished for a second chance. . .

Everything I want for myself. . .

I’ve been too scared to dream. . .

—My world has been too tame.

I will open my eyes and feel you here. . .

—I will learn to love what I see.

I can no longer see

‘cept in your mirror.

You’re my darkness and my light

—and I don’t mind.

Your hands are cold—your voice is tempered steel

—But these things I don’t mind.

I can no longer feel

‘cept in your arms,

You are my life and my death

—as I slowly die,

I will believe in what you see.

So speak words into the earth…

With the light of a kiss between us.

The Seventh Column

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Once again Diderot’s beautiful ruin stands

in the corner of my mind,

the great book-city he described in Les Bijoux Indiscrets.

It stands there with its cupola and wings and spires;

the vast cranes that have been thrown up over the roofs,

the towers of every colour and shape, like laments;

the wide-open windows that look out across the city’s view:

and here a rich man’s palace, there a poor man’s hovel,

and everywhere the same old poverty and misery.

The sun shines on Diderot’s ruin, but it is not enough to warm

the air. It glares on the golden spires and cupolas,

and melts the stone and marble into liquid gold.

The shadows lie across the dusty streets like a veil of fire;

the scorched pavement is strewn with broken glass,

with splinters of wood and bits of plaster; the dead leaves rustle,

and amid that universal silence one hears the distant hum

of a city in pain.

I can’t remember how long it’s been.

Every day blends into the next,

each one longer and colder than the last,

a silent, endless lullaby.

But I remember one thing,

—You.

Always by my side,

your smile. your touch,

your laugh, like bells in the sky,

holding me up every time I fall.

You had a tempo in your waltz,

a swaying rhythm

that mesmerized me,

so soft and silent,

sweet like honey in my mouth.

Two steps to the right,

two steps to the left,

round and round you went,

like a quiet storm

rippling under my skin,

flowing over me like the tide.

And then you left.

And I was alone,

cut off from my lifeline,

lost in the sea of monotone days.

So far, so gone,

a speck in time.

But I still remember,

the sound of your heart,

the thrill of your touch,

your beautiful song,

and all that I lost,

when you walked away.

One thing I remember—

“I’ll come back next year.”

—Your words like a promise,

a piece of hope in this cold,

lonely world,

always keeping me alive,

always giving me a reason to smile,

to keep moving forward,

one day at a time.

Will you ever come back?

I don’t know,

But at least I know that

I love you so.

REVIEW: Study in Hysteria by Kathleen Collins

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Kathleen Collins wrote a novel with more voice and depth in her main characters from third person POV than some authors achieve with first person POV. It’s a tale of a perfectly imperfect woman full of fear, anxiety, and anger, but you don’t know it from the outside–you certainly feel it so strongly on the inside (as the reader). It’s the loudest quiet novel you can imagine. 

My first note in the margin reads: my god, we’re fifteen pages in, but it feels like only a few. It’s moving so well. I was already way beyond the “Am I really going to care?” part of beginning a new novel. Oh yes, I cared about Flora’s timeline and life experience immediately. Then to really seal the deal, I came across a passage that ties up how many of us feel about “people”—“they’d turn over a new leaf, get a new job, get excited about a new hobby…begin to enjoy life a bit more, and Flora would chastise herself for being so dour and unimaginative.” This is all of us in one arena or another…at some time in our humanity. Some of us more than others. 

We cannot stop wondering what Flora will be or think or do in her marriage, or as a loving grandmother…will she go back to being a social worker? Will she lose her cool and scream at the top of her lungs for all the neighbours to hear? Will she tell Will how he really is? You read a few pages an hour. Then you keep reading. It’s an extremely spellbinding novel—the magic of ordinary humanity and thinking everything but never saying it out loud. And it’s been a while since I have read a novel that didn’t lean on clever dialogue, and that I found refreshing. It matches who Flora is…was that on purpose? 

Chapter Five has a set up that I captioned as PERFECTION—setting the scene for how and why Flora got into social work, and what it did to her emotionally and instinctually—so that while we read of her life as a mother to Abby and a grandma to Bea, we know where she had been before this—the flashbacks are clear and concise. The same goes for her livelihood as a private piano teacher, and in these sections and explanations of Flora’s world we are privy to Collins’ gift for scenario and essence: “Whenever Flora took on a new student, it was like having a new burst of color in her garden, a child whose quirks or weaknesses or impressive talent…she would be allowed to behold.” I’ve never read someone capture being a teacher this way, and I bit my lip in admiration. More than once in this book. The other “capture” was a scene of the two contrasting grandmothers. The way Flora moves and adjusts to Abby’s MIL, and the way she is so self-aware, and we as the reader, feel so many things for Flora and her constant overthinking. It’s sheer brilliance on Collins’ part. 

One of my favourite passages appears on page 87 when Collins dives back into Flora’s training as a social worker and the way she internally judges and categorises: “But with people, even the sad beggar, she could just as quickly feel disdain, depending on her mood or the wind.”  And just when I thought the existing cast of characters provided plenty of material for Flora’s mind and spirit, Dawn walks in…Dawn is so well written, and I cannot spoil it for all of you. Let’s just say—Collins’ has created a character who we all want to be, who we all pity, and who we all love and get annoyed by, all at the same time. Their friendship pivots the story so naturally, yet we still cannot wait for the resolve of Where and How will Flora end up? 

The ending is quiet, strong, and beautifully composed. I am buying this book for many friends in the new year. It’s life on pages. Annoying, angry, beautiful, sunrise—life. 

The spirit of Christmas

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They always speak of the Spirit of Christmas,

A force unseen,

That comes at the first whisper of the holidays,

And fills our heads with dreams.

But I have seen the Spirit of Christmas,

Dawned in a gown of white and holly greens.

I have seen the Spirit of Christmas,

Gold thread tying her up at the seams.

She enters the house at the first morning of frost,

Smelling of cinnamon and cloves,

And adds just a touch of her magic

To each corner and alcove.

And the Spirit of Christmas comes to our house

And she finds a place to stay.

She climbs atop the fireplace mantle

And waits for Christmas day.

And perhaps she is what Dickens parodied,

When he wrote the Ghost of Christmas Present,

For there atop she sits – white gown, gold thread, holly greens;

She is luminescent.

And all the children see her, and some of the adults too.

They gaze up in wonder, though she never utters a word

You can always hear a touch of her song

In the voice of each visiting cardinal bird.

And the Spirit of Christmas watches over the house

From her place above the mantle,

And acts as a guiding light for us throughout the season –

An ever-burning candle.

And it is then we are all at our very best,

Under her ever-watchful eye

That burns with depths of molten gold,

And bring a joy which none of us could deny.

For she is the reminder to us all,

As she sits beaming atop her perch,

That each of us has the power to come together in the season

And form our own little church.

For she reminds that the season is filled with blessings.

Time to bask in the love of family and friends.

A time where snow, music, goodwill, and peace abound,

And joy, transcends.

So yes, I have seen the Spirit of Christmas,

For we welcome her into our home.

It matters not how many years have come to pass.

Or that we are all but grown.

For the Spirit of Christmas does us nothing but good,

And bears a light for myself, my sisters, my brother.

And in her holly greens and gold threaded frame she shines like an angel

And bears a smile – just like our mother’s.

And when Christmas morning comes the Spirit of Christmas climbs down

from her mantle – and does one last wander through the house.

She blesses each thing she touches – the spruce, the stove, the stockings,

All quiet as a mouse.

And she places a kiss on each of our foreheads

Still wrapped in sugar plum dreams,

And she leaves behind a trace of the glittering gold

That thrives in the thread of her seams.

And before she leaves, in her voice like a cardinal’s song,

She utters her first and only prayer.

For the joy of Christmas to remain in our hearts for the coming year.

She utters it before she disappears into the Christmas morning air.

And so, I have seen the Spirit of Christmas

In her gown of white and holly green,

Adorned with glittering gold thread

Tying her together at the seams.

And I do my best to honour the Spirit of Christmas

With her golden kiss upon my head.

I do my best to honour the Spirit of Christmas

In the new year ahead.

For knowing the Spirit of Christmas,

I hope to share her light with you.

So that you may feel the blessings of the season,

And hear her prayer – like a cardinal’s song – too.

A slice of Christmas cake

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If there is one thing that I believe everyone finds strange about me, it is the fact that I do not like Christmas Cake. This is not something that is particularly odd. There are a great many people who do not like Christmas Cake. Many of which I have learned are like myself, and it is because they are opposed to the variety of different dried fruits one finds in it. Particularly raisins. It really is a cake that isn’t for everyone. Nothing truly strange about that. Except, most people who do not like Christmas Cake do not make a habit of baking several batches of it leading up and into the holidays. But I promise, I have my reasons.

It is a simple thing, a baked good, but in my own mind, it is the heart of everything I love about this time of year. The lights are beautiful, the weather both deadly and gorgeous, the music enough to bring tears to my eyes at times. The overall glow of the world gives me just a few minutes to catch my breath and take in the wonders and the beauty of the life that I have been given. But none of it can compare to the hectic hours I spend, baking with and for those that I love. Because for me, and I hope, for so many others, this season is above all else, about one thing, and that is love. Love for the sake of loving.

My earliest holiday memories are filled with the warmth of the kitchen and the sweet smell of various baked goods. In the recollection of it, there is an added warmth, like a blanket across one’s shoulders, that brings comfort, and makes one further appreciate the beauty of the outside world. I grew up on my Grandmother Hilda’s shortbread, always made with salted butter. I have tried out new treats like coconut ice in order make something special for my Nana, Pat. We have taken on a recipe for my Great Aunt Kay, lovely chocolate and coconut treats we’ve nicknamed Christmas Ornaments. In recent years, when my mother makes her shortbread layered with jam, we video call our cousins in England, and make it alongside them. Thousands of kilometres apart but sharing in it all the same.

Love is the act that taught me all the recipes I know. It is preserved in them. It was my family involving me in every step of a process they could do blindfolded until I too became just as skilled as them. Love is the act of packing up a tin with all the things you know someone will love, because you know them well enough. Love is the act of making and breaking food with one another. An act that has been written as sacred. It speaks of warmth, of trust, of the willingness to share that which one is and has. Love is the act of leaving behind these memories, these skills, even when one is gone.

It is true, I do not like Christmas Cake. I despise most of the things that go into it. But, when I lost my Grandmother Hilda, I inherited her recipes. And tucked away, typed up, the white paper stained yellow, I found a recipe for Christmas Cake. I had no intention of making it, until I showed it to my father. He remembered the Christmas Cake well, said that she used to make batches of it to give to her friends. He talked about how much he liked it, and even my mother, who shares my sentiments about Christmas Cake, said she remembered others speaking of it fondly. And perhaps it did begin as a way to cheer my father up, but it also developed into my own way of saying I missed her.

And so, one November day, I went, and I got all the ingredients, one of which was about three pounds of the raisins I could not stand. And I set to work. It was enough to make four cakes, and I remember having all the ingredients in their various bags lined up across my kitchen counter. I pulled out every baking bowl I had, and it still wasn’t enough. I remember being mortified by the amount of Crisco in it, and not knowing what to do with my hands after I smeared what remained of it alongside sheets of parchment that lined the baking dish. I had to wait three and a half hours before they could be done. Before I could be certain they’d be right.

Everyone in the house wanted to know how they turned out. My Nana, Pat, was keen to try it, my Father too, and even my Mother came in to check on their progress constantly. It was nerve wracking. Never had it felt like my holiday baking had any stakes. But it mattered here. And when they came out of the oven, perfectly cooked, I all but held my breath waiting for them to cool down, before cutting the first few slices.

My mother was the first to try it, avoiding the pieces she did not like, she took a bite of the actual cake that held all the fruit in place. And I remember it so clearly, for as tired and as anxious as I was, that my mother’s eyes instantly filled with tears, and she looked at my and said, “Grandma would be so proud”.

And I remember crying then too. Because I had done it. I had recreated something special. Something so tied to her and who she was. I watched my nana and my father happily begin eating their slices. My nana praised my skills to high heaven. My father said it tasted just like how he remembered it.

And for a moment, just for a moment, it felt like she was there again. Like I was in the kitchen with her all those years ago, making sure I used salted butter for the recipe, and cutting the shortbread cookies into the best shapes imaginable. She was gone, but she had still given me a gift. She left me behind a recipe, so that I may continue those special holiday treats with her and continue to give her holiday treats to those we loved.

And that was exactly what I did.

With two cakes saved for the family, I made even more, and I offered it to those I loved to try. There were, of course, those like me that did not like Christmas Cake, but there were those like my Grandma, my Nana, my Father, who readily accepted it. And lo and behold, I heard it several times: “This is the best Christmas Cake I have ever had.”.

And that lovely feeling I described, like a blanket over your shoulders whose warmth helps to amplify the beauty of the cold world around you? That is what a batch of Christmas Cake did for me, during a holiday season that was tougher than most. It reminded me of what I loved about the holidays. Of what I most looked forward to. Spending time with and sharing in the joy of the season with those I love. Family, friends, and those that have left us.

And so, this year, I’ve taken it on again. The fourth year in a row. And this time I’ve cut the recipe down. I thought of Grandma Hilda, and those I’ve lost in the years that have passed too. Grandpa Max, Grandad Michael, and Uncle Alan over in Spain. I thought of my Uncle Steve, who we lost in July. How he always took home a cake or two.

I overfilled my cupboards, utilised all my bowls and counterspace, covered myself in flour and batter, and made an entire mess; waited out the three and a half hours they take to bake.

I did it all with a smile on my face, and if I shed a few tears, it was in good faith, and a toast to the memories of those I love and still miss.

And now that it is done, I might prep to bake some other things too. And I’ll make a list of all the people that year who need a tin, and what might go inside of it, and hope it adds just a touch more magic to their holiday season.

Because even as we grow older, and the holidays carry their own burden or woe, I’ve learned, sometimes all you really need is a slice of Christmas Cake to remind you of what you still have, even amongst what you are missing. That you always have love. It is not something that can ever be lost.

Life post uni

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In August this year, my university years ended with the submission of my major project for my masters in multimedia journalism. The submission marked the end of my intensive one-year masters course as well as the end of five years in higher education, having completed an undergraduate degree at the University of Andrews prior to my masters.

Having been in education for the entirety of my adult life so far, there were some apprehensions about leaving the security of university and going into the working world, although personally, I was desperate to make the change.

University provides a blanket of security with the knowledge that after the end of each academic year, there is another to follow it. And when those years have been exhausted there is the option of a masters to delay the plunge into working life.

However, by the time I had reached my final year at St Andrews, I had well and truly decided that I did not want to do a masters. I knew I wanted to be a journalist, and I was hopeful of getting into a graduate scheme or a training position at a newspaper or media company. But worried that I might not be so lucky, I applied for multiple masters courses in journalism anyway, fully convinced that they would just be a backup.

Sadly, several job interviews and dozens of applications later, no job was forthcoming, and I resigned myself to another year of university. With that year now behind me, I feel like I can finally reflect on the differences between university life and working journalist life.

University is full of looming deadlines, a consistent flow of coursework, and loads of mandatory reading. While I loved my undergraduate degree, by my fourth year I was ready to put student life behind me, and my masters was only more intense, as you would expect from a masters degree.

Working life did not feel like an adjustment. My masters was a 9-5 course and I had 25 days of work experience to complete as part of the course, which meant that when I joined my current newsroom, it felt like just another day at work experience, and I still struggle to remind myself that I’m not a student journalist anymore, but an actual journalist.

The hours at work can be tiring, and I find myself dragging my body to bed earlier during the week for those precious extra minutes of sleep, but my evenings and weekends are once again mine. They’re mine to do what I want, to socialise, to read, to finally start writing that book I’ve always said I would. There’s no more feeling like my days don’t belong to me or any guilt when I haven’t spent all morning reading academic articles on Shakespeare’s tragedies, there’s just all the free time in the world.

I find that I have more free time to spend with friends and family; I don’t think I’ve socialised as much since my second year of university pre-covid. I also have more time for my volunteer dog walking, and now little Milo can get nice long walks without me worrying about all the work I haven’t got around to doing.

I do miss my years at St Andrews; I miss the interesting film classes and the discussions in my English seminars, but I don’t miss the workload that inevitably comes with any degree at any institution, and at any level. As much as I love a bit of Shakespeare and the Brontës, I’m relieved to now just read their works for pure fun and enjoyment, and not for an exam.

19

Trigger Warning: Mention of suicide

I once knew a guy in elementary school. His name was Darek. Darek would come over every Saturday morning to play with me. We would run around my garden and skate down our road. One Thursday when we were playing in the park, I tripped and fell to the ground. Darek didn’t ask if I was okay. He fell next to me acting like it was a mistake. I felt a little better. Then he turned to face me and said, “I love playing with you, Judy smoothie.” I laughed. “Judy smoothie?” He nodded. “Yes. It is my pet name for you. Do you like it?” “Never call me that again,” I said. We both laughed till tears were streaming down our cheeks. He killed himself last month.