Letter to my Younger Self

I was asked to take part in an art project for a participation programme for Goldsmiths College. We were asked to write a letter to our 15 year old selves, and then a 15 year old would respond with a letter in reply. Here was my letter to myself. It was painful but cathertic and I would recommend doing this to anyone.

Acceptance will come when you stop pretending to be someone that you are not.

Aged 15, you are so painfully shy that you are outspoken, loud, a motor-mouth. You are so unsure of your feelings that you need to voice them so people can tell you they are real. You worry so much about what other people think. You will think that you are being open. You are not. You will think that by being open you are drawing people closer. You are not. You are pushing them away. I wish I could tell you that you do not need to do this – people will love you for you, not a projection of you.

You do not have to be who you think people want you to be - not being yourself is a form of lying about who you really are. You can talk about your achievements. To do so does not mean you are showing off. You can take credit where credit is due. Your needs and wants are not nothing, You do not have to be so desperate to be liked that you feel you can’t ask for help. Ask for help. You need it.

No one will love you less by admitting that you are not always strong. You do not always have to be strong. You do not always have to be the best. You are allowed to fail. You do not need to always be in control, as you will overburden yourself, and people won’t understand your frustration and sadness. To control is dismissive of others who would do things a different way. Why is your way better than theirs? Do not make them feel you do not care about what they think – because you do.

Talk. Talk. Talk some more. Don’t stop talking when the words get difficult to say. These are the words you need to say and the words people need to hear. Be loving. Be kind. Be caring. Be gentle. Be loving. Be kind. Be caring. Be gentle. Everyone is merely finding their own way, and you can never know what has happened to them, or what could happen. Life is long. 

Your body is yours to do with as you wish, and don’t let anyone tell you how you should use it, adorn it, or offer it to others. Do not spend time devising ways to punish yourself for its aesthetic failings. Instead use the time to play, sing, laugh, write, create, have fun. Please have fun. Please don’t let life crush your sense of silliness. Laughter helps.

You will go mad. You will lose control of yourself and psychiatrists will tell you what label can be applied to you, what medications you need to take to stop your thoughts spiralling. Counsellors will make you unpick buried memories, navigate neural pathways, explore past traumas. Listen, learn, but be sceptical. Do not pathologise your personality. Do not let them break your sense of self. There are good things about a brain that can’t stop thinking sometimes.

There is a part of you that will always be sad, and there is a joy in that. Every bad thing is an opportunity to learn. You will hate people who will say that to you when you are in what seems like the bottomless pit of despair you will find yourself in. But you will learn that they are right, once you are able to re-align those misfiring synapses. You will lose everything. But when you get it back again, it will seem all the sweeter. It will get better. It will. It will.

These experiences will make you who you are. Do not be afraid to love. Do not be afraid to do. Do not be afraid to try. Do not be afraid to fail. Do not not be you. Just please be you.

Indelibly Inscribed

My mother was a bookbinder. She would sew

reams of cream and indigo that held

all the knowledge she ever gave me.

The papers were thick, so it took us two

to flatten the pulp and prepare to print.

In that thick mulch I could catch

whispered words I would not hear as wise

until too late. The ink on my hands stamped

an authority I rebelled against, in my desire

to carve a space for my own characters.

When she died the books no longer spoke.

Their hushed secrets were silenced, the ink became

invisible. Their pages turned, but I could no longer

read them.

At night I dream of her. I drift away

until I am way back when, when

the pleasure of paper and print and words seemed

indelibly inscribed upon my hands, so it took

white spirit and wire wool

to remove them.

Nothing Will Come of Nothing

‘Nothing will come of nothing. Speak again.’

From that dark place, you kept our vow of silence. I said,

‘I loved you,’ but those words could not take me away

from you, from us, and the nothingness.

In that silence I could read you. It was a gift

you gave me when I had a voice, back when

I had no need for questions. I remembered what

I had heard when we were wordless, when 

dead language was laid upon our tongues, when

our mouths had crumbled that dry dust,

like ancient books, unread and unwritten.

Like ancient books, unread and unwritten,

our mouths had crumbled. That dry dust,

dead language, was laid upon our tongues. When

I had heard; we were wordless. When

I had no need for questions, I remembered what

you gave me when I had a voice; back when,

in that silence, I could read you. It was a gift

from you, from us, and the nothingness.

I loved you, but those words could not take me away

from that dark place. You kept our vow of silence.  I said

‘Nothing will come of nothing. Speak again.’

Re-Opening the Cage

I read this Edwin Morgan sonnet for a course I'm taking at the moment and I just thought it was so simple, beautiful and profound - I was amazed that so much meaning cold be unpacked from 14 simple words. The Morgan poem takes as it's inspiration a quote from radical poet and musician John  Cage, who is most well known for his 4.33 piece which is just 4 minutes 33 seconds of silence. Cage was the master of not saying anything, and it being poetry, as attested to by the line Morgan has used.

The peculiar circularity and shape of the poem created in the sonnet made me look at each phrase very carefully to try and understand the meaning(s) that can be drawn out, of which there are multiple. The re-writing was my way of trying to 'fix' an interpretation, and the most wonderful thing about this exercise is that I could go back and write another entirely different poem with a different meaning using different punctuation. In this, there really could be a whole sonnet sequence (though it could try the patience of an audience.) This exercise made me consciously understand the connections between words, whilst de-familiarising each one. 

Opening the Cage: 14 Variations on 14 Words
"I have nothing to say and I am saying it and that is poetry." — John Cage

I have to say poetry and is that nothing and am I saying it
I am and I have poetry to say and is that nothing saying it
I am nothing and I have poetry to say and that is saying it
I that am saying poetry have nothing and it is I and to say
And I say that I am to have poetry and saying it is nothing
I am poetry and nothing and saying it is to say that I have
To have nothing is poetry and I am saying that and I say it
Poetry is saying I have nothing and I am to say that and it
Saying nothing I am poetry and I have to say that and it is
It is and I am and I have poetry saying say that to nothing
It is saying poetry to nothing and I say I have and am that
Poetry is saying I have it and I am nothing and to say that
And that nothing is poetry I am saying and I have to say it
Saying poetry is nothing and to that I say I am and have it

Edwin Morgan, The Second Life
Edinburgh University Press, 1968

Re-Opening the Cage: Interventions on 14 Words

I have to say poetry, and is that nothing? And am I saying it?

I am, and I have poetry to say and is that nothing? Saying it,
I am. Nothing and I have poetry to say, and that is saying it.
I that am saying poetry have nothing and it is I. And to say,
and I say that I am to have poetry - and saying it is nothing?
I am poetry and nothing. And - saying it is, (to say that I have
to have nothing,) is poetry. And I am saying that and I say it!
Poetry is saying I have nothing. And I am to say that and it?
Saying nothing I am poetry and I have to say that. And it is,
it is, and I am, and I have poetry saying “say that to nothing!”
It is saying poetry to nothing and I say “I have and am that!”
Poetry is saying. I have it - and I am nothing. And to say that,
and that nothing, is poetry. I am saying and I have to say it.
Saying poetry is nothing and to that I say “I am!” And have it.

Leaving

It was time to go, you said.

Before you stepped out of the door

Into the corridor.

So I began to get my things.

When I had arrived there, I had left

My dignity behind. No place for me

Upon those shelves. My sense of self

               subsumed

By the fabric of the sofa. My pride

Buried by the washing basket. My

independence

Stacked behind the tins in the cupboard.

In the bathroom I found my soul

And stowed it in my wash bag. Hidden in

My knicker drawer I discovered my secrets

and packed them away

With my lingerie.

Amongst my books, there was hiding my

Desire, and I used it to mark

The words we never said.

I took down my largest suitcase, but

My memories wouldn’t fit, so

I removed a few, and left them

 just for you,

Hidden behind the wardrobe.

At last.

I squeezed my heart into a hat box

Gathered up my bags

And

Walked out into the future.

Unheimlich

He is your type.

An archetypal type. Ein toller tüp.

He is the protagonist, so too

His white-hot eyes.

His desiccated heart

And capillaries of ash.

He dresses like money.

His James Dean smile and the

Juiced embolism of his neck-tie

Straightened with canonical fingers.

Those claws of Nosferatu

And that neck of authority.

In love with his reflection

The effect is dopple.

                Gang.

                                Her.

His umlaut is cold.

With his Schwietzer smell

Of electrified defences,

That lemon juice mouth’s tone

a ringing telephone

In an

      empty

room.

He is your type.

An archetypal type. Ein toller tüp.

The Drake Jewel

In the New Year the Queen becomes the moon.

Her face a map, its’ creases sailor’s chart,

Her sleeves crescents, half lighting the night’s sky,

Glistering jewels stars that shine a beacon.

Sir Francis, aft adrift, at Queen’s behest

Navigates favour with treasures of spice.

Courtly presented, a blackened smile splits

The white sea, from his fainèd love to show.

Since she be Cynthia, her lunar tides

Counter-flood her list, with gems of pleasure.

Her gifts a ship’s glass, later foundering,

As the explorer’s mercury cools and falls.

Cameo of alabaster and black

Of white lady, native man, she decked

With Roman mantle, royal crown, they encased 

By forget-me-nots, behung with ocean pearls.

Inverse, Diana. The phoenix whose rise

Sets swift flight to the Spanish Armada.

Under whose slight fingers, the globe will rest,

Lands broken, torn by merchant’s pickaxes.

The audience’s eyes bore holes, and watch

My lady Juno, with current favourite.

She looks to see within his face such dread,

For in this jewel, all the world’s encompassèd.