Gordon Parks

I should be packing but I keep getting distracted. It’s my last night with my own room, my own bed. I’m trying to work out what to take and what to leave behind. The place Sam and I will be living in together is all shiny surfaces and Scandinavian design and it feels like a new start, a step into adulthood. Besides which, it’s an inner city studio, and space is at a premium. My books are stacked in boxes pilfered from the bottl-o. My clothes are pulled from their hangers, strewn over the bed and the floor, I’ve been trying them on and then stepping out of them, leaving them where they fall.

I pull on a skirt that belonged to my grandma: colourful diamonds of patchwork tie-dye, and there we are: dancing to the fuzzy radio in the dusty summer sunlight. The veranda looks over the slow, salty river and the air smells of mud. I’m still in my swimming costume and she’s wearing the patchwork skirt. Hand in hand we move to the songs, crazy and twirling and laughing. We are the same height, the same shape, so when I slip into her wardrobe to pull the clothes from their hangers and try them on in front of the shadowy, half-lit mirror they fit perfectly. Long patterned skirts and all the bright colours, the silk and cotton, sliding on like skin. Continue reading


Cloud Turban

I don’t believe in God. I think us humans created this vast story about an all loving and forgiving being – and that’s even more beautiful than the idea that this being actually exists. Heaven is in our heads and our hands.

Last Night

All about the sea


The curve of my arm is a beach, your body washes against it in waves as you breathe. Twitching  feet are crabs, jabbering over the ocean floor. Sleeping we are steady as continents. Sleeping we are solid as worlds.