Insomniac’s ennui

Subtitle: Existential ennui at 00:45 am

“You having said [posted] much recently; is everything OK?”

Well what is there to tell.
Maybe it’s the Thirty year itch
But I don’t see the glitter in life any more.
I used to
But my eyes are all too clear these days
No scales here – they’ve all fallen, and my worries gained weight
And my ebbing hope is gone down the back of the sofa
As I lie, beached, in front of idle witty relational fantasies and audiovisual drugs to get me through the evening
and at least some of the following day.
Instagram-(m)alicious curated #blessedness just gets me down
The unconscious jealousy seeps in and sours my life-tired mind.
The rest is endurance
Listless cross-office longings and
Sheer utter boredom I thought I had left behind in school.
A five-figure golden ergonomically suitable cage with all the internet at my disposal
But somehow I’ve lost the will to surf.
It’s only mid-January
But I’m fed up of nothing happening.
Why does nobody text any more?
(Not that they really did anyway)
And when they do they’re just enquiring to be polite
I can hear they don’t care
They’re only initiating to talk about themselves
and they’ve got half an eye on their phone.
And with my birthday approaching –
So many candles
I don’t think I have enough breath to blow them out
Let alone make any wish.
Maybe that’s why I don’t pray
I don’t know what to say
And nothing turns out how I’d plan anyway
Not least because I never had a plan.
I’m playing it by ear here
But I can’t hear the next note.
Can I find someone
Any more
Who’ll strike a chord?


My Crown

Opening creative writing exercise at St Leonard’s Shoreditch evening event ‘Sun at Night’:
My crown
1. What is your crown made of?
2. Who gave it to you?
3. What powers does it give you?

My crown is a ring of daisies
I have made for myself.
I am queen for the day
Or half an hour
Before the bell goes for the end of lunch break
And they wither and die.
Most reigns are temporary anyway
and ultimately man-made.
Though usually the crown outlasts the wearer
and not the other way round.
“Remember you are but dust
and to dust you shall return.” (+)
Ecclesiastes – “[the Creator] has made everything beautiful in its time.”
But in their time – such beauty.
This is why we still make daisy chains anyway.

Advent: the world turned upside down

An unusual revolution begins

with the consent of an ordinary teenage girl.

Her simple defiant submission

disruptive of our very world order.


An international movement begins

with the splitting of an ovum

silent and imperceptible

that will divide the whole of time

into BC and after.


A new world order begins

with the tentative journey

of a non-noble couple

relegated to a stable

who host among the humble

the greatest of Kings.

Rite of Passage

His Light Material

Rite of Passage (Durham 2017)

There are still some things only life can let you know

Time is a classroom with no conferring

In the cloisters, the ghosts of Celtic saints have worn the floor

Adulthood is the painful art of letting go

The bridge is a widened gate to self-improvement

To towers of learning established above the trees

Where centuries of earnest minds have pushed the doors

Time is a classroom with no conferring

Place is the settled form and bend in the river’s flow

Adulthood is the painful art of letting go

Rowers learnt to sculpt and steer the current’s turning

There are still some things only life can let you know.

The beech trees are shedding this year’s brittle mast

Striking the shaded paths around the river’s course

There are still some things only life can let you know

Love is the painful art of letting go.

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In praise of Sana

In the fourth season of the globally/virally popular Norwegian TV drama, Skam (meaning ‘Shame’), the gaze shifts to a girl called Sana as its protagonist for the season.

Sana is seventeen years old and lives in Oslo. She is bright, beautiful, witty, wise, discerning and loyal to her friends. She is great at Biology, keen to be a doctor and loves basketball. She is Norwegian and (or but – that’s a tension explored but more lightly than you’d expect) of Moroccan descent, from a Muslim family, where at least her mother attends Friday prayers at the mosque (her elder brother Elias is less interested and more conflicted) and she has faith in her own right, praying daily and dressing modestly (mainly in her trademark black and with gold hoop earrings and a hoody) including wearing a hijab or occasionally turban. This last sentence puts her in the minority at her high school in an upmarket suburb of Oslo.

It is perhaps appropriate that Sana comes to the spotlight last, after being a supporting character for several seasons, as this seems to be how she is seen by many – objectified or stereotyped as a single, one- or two-dimensional figure in the background of others’ stories, and nobody seems to fully get how she can be many things to many people, to heavily paraphrase St Paul. Sure, she is a surly, sassy, non-nonsense Norwegian teen who means what she says even if she doesn’t always say much, and she loves her friends and having fun and thinks about boys and school and her appearance as much as any of her peers. Yet at home she is also a good girl; she helps out with dinner, she chats with her mum, she looks out for her brother, she’s devout in her faith and studies and doesn’t lead a double life hiding drinking or anything else out of bounds for Muslims.

Somehow, and with difficulty at many turns, she manages to toe the delicate line between being ‘in the world and yet not of it’, as Christians say, attending the parties but not drinking or hooking up; getting takeaway pizza with her friends but not eating pork; getting dressed up for a night out but still covering her hair. When she talks about her faith it is sincere and deep, but she holds no truck with the homophobia that some associate with it. She is serious about who she is and not apologising for it, but it’s just her being her: it’s normal. In fact I fear I am making more of this here than the series itself makes of her cultural, ethnic or religious distinctiveness – it is more that the microaggressions against her are faithfully but neutrally recorded in and around the other troubles she faces: schoolwork, friend drama, boys, fitting in, organising the traditional ‘Red Bus’ party for graduation and her dopey lab partner trying to crib off her homework (not seen but clearly he’s tried it). You can no more separate Sana the Muslim from Sana the schoolgirl; they come as a complete package.

In making these daily negotiations between (sub)cultures and societal norms, she reconciles the different sides of herself without (for the most part; though she does express her frustration eventually) conflict, contradiction or cognitive dissonance. What could be seen as Jekyll-and-Hyde situation just becomes nuanced as we walk with her, read her texts and Facebook messages and see the looks and smiles she gives and is given. I love that Skam shows some #westernmuslimproblems she faces, like people coming in to make out in the bedroom where you’ve snuck off to pray at a party, or the neighbours playing Daft Punk & The Weeknd so you get distracted when praying, or ignorant flippant comments from her friends at school such as ‘you’re lucky, you don’t have to worry about any of this stuff [i.e. dating]’, as if she is somehow sexless.

Sana isn’t perfect; she can’t cook, she can be judgemental and come across cold or stubborn, and she worries, like any female, too much about how she’s perceived. She shouts at her mum and rolls her eyes too much like any teenage girl. Her style and makeup policy (broadly goth-Muslim) are sometimes a little too clumsy or inconsistent for me. When a mean girl hurts her friends, she knows exactly how to wreak revenge, and does so with painful consequences. But that’s all good. Great, in fact! And at last, a real character with struggles I can really relate to.

And relate to her I really do. I am and grew up Christian; I am white and English and was in a majority-white part of England so I don’t face the race or culture issues she does, but in terms of her faith and the family/subculture expectations, I completely feel her.

One memorable speech she gives, when the normally strong exterior crumbles and she reads a sobbing message for her friends, verbalises a lot of her narrative. They are right she says, she is angry at the world, at life. She never feels enough for anyone; “not Muslim enough, not Norwegian enough, not Morrocan enough.” She could try but she is wise enough to know that trying to be less or different than you are will never work; it still would not suffice even for the people who want you to do it. Her rejection of this pressure does not mean it disappears though, and that is why she is angry. I love that speech. It is so honest and unfiltered, so insightful, so Sana.

But the really interesting part for me came after it becomes clear that she is being drawn into a relationship (entirely chastely but no less intensely for it) with a friend of her brother’s called Yousef. The show displays skilfully the denial she defends herself with, how torn she is between wanting to avoid him and get close, and how external factors shape all of their interaction but do not dictate it entirely.

Yousef is a tall, handsome, older Turkish-Norwegian boy who, like Sana loves basketball, and observes her with smiles which clearly make her stomach flutter self-consciously – not that she doesn’t try very hard to hide it. He sometimes comes round her house with her brother as part of his gang, where he gets talking to her, and she sees him socially at parties, where on one horrible occasion she sees her pretty blonde best friend Noora making out with him and is heartbroken, but says nothing.

It is fascinating to see this dynamic portrayed on TV in a way that doesn’t show the character with more restrictive principles 100% sacrificing either their beliefs or their desires. Sana walks the middle ground – she hears her her mum (gently) and her fanatic friend (less so) warning her that nothing good can possibly come of consorting closely with non-believers and she goes ahead and gets to know him, cautiously, in fits and starts, because her head and her heart tell her he is worth knowing. And because Yousef respects her, and her faith, deeply, and cares about her as a person and a friend not a potential conquest or to be turned, it’s beautiful. They just like each other. It’s not a big deal. It’s occasionally tense, where she clearly wants him to bridge the gap further than he is willing or able to, and she hopefully wonders if he is sure he doesn’t believe in Allah, but that underlying care for each other holds them by a strong enough thread to continue. For him, she is enough, just as she is.

This is, probably, one of the shames alluded to in the title (as well as perhaps that which people would wish to assign her for her faith or her ethnicity, as we see when a woman opposite her on the bus home is shown involuntarily staring at her with distaste). She knows she is attracted to Yousef, but does her best to hide it out of shyness, principally, and knowing that she cannot, will not or should not date a non-Muslim. Sana is not naive, oppressed or repressed; she is shy and cautious, but he teases her out so casually that she overcomes any residual fear and trusts herself to know where she wants to set her boundaries and enforce this herself. Before Yousef leaves for Turkey for the summer, Sana plucks up the courage to reconnect and they finally go on a date, messing about on the shores of the Oslo fjord at twilight. He thoughtfully brings her snacks and a bottle of water to break her Ramadan fast; they do not kiss or anything further but their hug speaks volumes.

I really admire and/yet also identify with Sana. I love that she is depicted as tough, stable, strong and serious, but does enjoy herself in her quiet way. I love that she joins in, but only with what she feels comfortable with, and has the courage of her convictions. I love that her style reflects her personality; she takes that religious modesty and makes it her own, with don’t-fuck-with-me vibes from the all-black clothing and dark makeup, plus a perpetually raised eyebrow that says ‘really?’ at anyone daring to make assumptions about her.

I love that she makes decisions that I should have made on reaching conclusions that I should have reached earlier in my life, to not pass up good opportunities out of fear of perception or not trusting her/myself.

I want to be as sorted as Sana.

If a tree falls, or Modern Existential Philosophy pt. I

If a brunch happens in a cafe

and nobody there Instagrams it

Did it really happen?


If your friendship is not enshrined online

alongside a line gushingly praising mine

are we even good friends?


If you ask me how my day was

standing unmoved, face downwards, tapping at your phone

would you notice if I said anything strange?


If I say I am a Christian

but in no way behave differently in public from any other Clapham yuppie

(bar maybe not sleeping with folks unmarried)

am I really a Christian?


If you claim to know Good News(TM)

that is life-giving and exciting

but you do not get round to telling anyone

as you are too busy socialising with others from your holy huddle

Is it really good news

and do I believe it?

If someone complains about a problem that threatens people’s lives

inattention to which is clearly selfish, but also easy and cheap,

and I decide to ignore and disregard it,

does the problem go away?


If a woman walked away from a church

and nobody paid any attention

was she ever there at all?


The Grenfell Tower Beatitudes

Just perfectly said and summing up my mood.

His Light Material

The Grenfell Tower BeatitudesIs this the moment? Is this the hour? When all our ungerminated seeds of justice flower?Is this the day our myopic consumer bubble finally bursts?Is this the moment the sublimated cry of those whose voiceIs stepped on, stopped up, silenced, sidelinedBreaks through and slakes its thirst? Might this be, for all its visceral, pain and lossAnd all its tears and grief and monumental human cost, All the hideous detailed traumatic tales and horror stories, All its blackened, choked up smoked infernoOf misery, cheap industry, colonial history, ignominy,All its horror at the thought of flames rising rapidly on those       who never had much choice, Might this be the moment where people of poverty, dignity       and community find our voice? And when we do – clearing our collective lungs, Coughing up the blackened phlegm, Crying past the…

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