Tag: Natasha Sinclair

Organic; Now or I’ll Forget

I can’t believe it’s been this long since I’ve shared anything here. I’ve meant to, but the intention has slipped several times. Perhaps so often, I thought I had already paid these pages a visit. This year, I’ve not written in solid form beyond spatterings of ideas, character notes, and stray poetry swirls—none shareable in any fashion. I’ve written extracts from things I can’t yet give the time and sustenance to nurture and grow. The spatterings of poetic lines, sequences, and numeric strings from the noises that cause my eyes to fly open from technicolour dreamscapes to muted grey silence. Rest? What is that? The threads make sense in how they weave into knots, and those taut threads melt, strengthening into chain links that rattle the posts. I’m awake! I can see constellations within them just as I do with every inspiring bruise, but they’d be senseless to anyone else. A showcase of some insanity; the hyperactivity of the mind fighting against the bloody dripping bones to focus! Ooo, did you see that pretty bird? I wander off direction, tired of the paths I’ve seen and all those damn arrows. Fuck the arrows. I veer off the tracks of tedium, where all the stories have been over-shared; they’re overtrodden, smooshed into the dirt with so many lost details.

New faces, old eyes, same stories. I’ve heard them before, but I’m quiet while they speak. Sometimes, a word will be yanked from among the twigs with blurry intentions, “It’s new!” they’ll cry. It’s never new. They’ve just jumbled up the old letters and pretended to be founder finders. I yawn, say nothing, smile. They declare titles on their stickers and pins like it means something. A statement of what they are—just children role-playing. I prefer the details—the answers to questions, but they don’t allow space to be asked.

I need the wounds that I can still taste the blood from when I draw the air in and pennies dance on my tongue; my mouth waters for more. That taste shows what you are. What you do when all the words are gone is what you truly are. Maybe that craving is why I’ve been painting with blood again. It’s just mine. The aroma has changed. I need the stories that make my core tingle. I’m listening for that. The details can’t be found on the tracks I’ve seen. And I’ve no interest in walking in anyone else’s shoes. I’ll stick to my bleeding bare feet. I like to feel the mud shift from wet to dry and back again. I like the way she sucks my toes after bleeding them. I am in a bloodthirst right now—something else that was entombed. Then I have some pouring when it shouldn’t—life literally bleeding away—an obvious other factor of distraction. I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I’ve been stung by labels and tags in the ear—too tired and tedious to repeat. They are distractions or some showy bunch of rosettes I’m supposed to wave to be part of a series of communities, cults, some dire, suffocating populous that I’ve never trusted. It’s uninspiring, and I’m bored of looking or more so, I’m bored of seeing since looking implies I’m seeking what I’m not. Perhaps that’s why I can’t write how I want. That, along with the lack of time, too many distractions, and desires weeding out falsehoods and fantasisers to find substance that, perhaps, doesn’t exist.

I’m not publishing anything of note right now; I’ve been undoing things that have undid me. I’ve been unburying myself with one handful of earth at a time, and I’ve been remembering, waking, accepting, breathing, working it out, growing, forgiving, and trying to ‘be’. That’s the most challenging part when life is so busy, and it’s not just mine in my hands—it never was. And my mind is cluttered with so many to-dos and the ever-humming starving pieces that have risen from the dirt I’ve been steadily shifting. I drink, and I drink, and my skin is still dry, but I’m not as dead as I thought I was. They’ve been singing to me in some survival revival—those little canopic jars of my organs thrum. The dirt is under my nails, and I’ll keep digging. I’m an archaeologist, and there are revelations from all these old discarded pieces reforming. It’s all in the details. It’s all in the context. I didn’t intend to lack eloquence quite as much as this, but no one can say it isn’t organic. 

I’ll come back with more sense in a few days.

Hogwashed

I watched Hogwashed, Joey Carbstrong’s spin-off documentary following his film Pignorant (which you can watch on Amazon Prime).

Have you seen either of these yet?

Our abuse animals, particularly through the system of animal agriculture is one the truest horrors of our world. It fills me with terror how desensitised many of us are to the entirely unnecessary atrocities these animals are put through. 

Isn’t it absurd that the release of these documentaries on YouTube are age-restricted? We can eat the murdered at any age but need to be carded to see it…. Many people feed these victims (sorry – bacon, ham, pork, etc) to their children (mmm, bacon, right?), so why not let them see where it comes from, huh? Fucking blows my mind. If you cannot face them, if you can’t look your dinner in the eye while you take his/her life, don’t fucking eat them.

I wasn’t shocked by the footage and the mountain of easy evidence showcasing blatant barbaric abuse and neglect captured by Joey’s team from UK farms, whose products are stacked on shelves and in restaurants with all the shiny feel-good labels for those that consume them; RSPCA Assured, High Welfare, Organic, Free Range (all bullshit to make consumers feel good about the animal abuse they pay for). I am not shocked, but I am constantly appalled that people continue to support it with their eyes closed. Lying to themselves about the glory of animal farming and the benefits of feeding our children the dismembered and skinned corpses of other species. Corpses that have been pumped full of antibiotics so it’s ‘fit’ for your fucking plate because of the disease-ridden, cannibalistic conditions they are forced to ‘live’ in before they are killed. Remember what kicked off BSE?! Yummy!

It (darkly) amuses the fuck out of me when folk who consume this stuff have the stupidity and audacity to talk about ‘healthy’ diets or the problems with pharmaceutical companies and vaccines while chowing down on these animals. And ‘High Welfare’? These words are meaningless as far as animal agriculture goes. How delusional can this collective be? It’s insanity! If I wasn’t already vegan for reasons of compassion, care and respect for other animals that we share this rock with, if I had no care for these living creatures and saw them purely as products for consumption, I’d still be disgusted! How can folks feed this to themselves and their children? Seriously?! the abuse isn’t just of the animals — think about it, and be honest with yourselves.

There’s a moment in Hogwashed where a farm worker drags off dead pigs (who likely died of disease), then washes his hands in the pigs’ medicated drinking water. This is the meat people are eating! What the fuck?!

Anyway. My reaction was as expected. Sets fire to my rage and deep sadness towards our species. And I’ve watched a lot of this type of footage from breeding to abattoir processing – both the ‘clean’ processing the industry likes to share and undercover day-to-day.  It’s all fucked. More of us need to do fucking better. Stop making pathetic excuses. 

I also want to throw in the deep admiration I have for the brave vegan activists who speak up and take action, often putting their own safety and even lives on the line to advocate for the animals. 💚

Rosslyn Chapel

It’s been a couple of years since I visited this spot.  Rosslyn Chapel, and Roslin Glen is one of my favourite places to spend time.  There’s an immense peace around this area. It’s a cleansing meander where time could stop—of course, it never does; what we spend can never be made back. This setting has inspired many poets, storytellers, novelists and artists for hundreds of years, if not more. I admit it inspired a fictional setting in one of my short stories. I wonder if any of my readers could spot it? That story has more to it in the pipeline — don’t they always.

Today, after another restless night, I took a slow venture to Roslin village in Edinburgh. My journey was flanked with sorrow from the moment I left the house; a lone magpie was almost constant in my sights. Different individuals, but always a solitary sorrow. I penned some notes. At the village, I paid a visit to the chapel first. I asked after William — anyone who has known Rosslyn in recent years may know of the black cat often found around and inside the chapel. My heart hurt to hear of his passing in 2021. The first time I visited, he sat by my side in the chapel. The cool cat left a strong impression. When inside, I took a moment on that pew with a memory of that energy. We’re all just passing through.

Rosslyn Chapel was founded in 1446 by Sir William St Clair (Sinclair) as a family chapel. (Like the name? As a Sinclair, I have a blood draw to the place like many from our rich Scottish/French/Scandinavian line). The founder died before the building’s completion 40 years later. It was not finished to William’s original design. As with many such buildings, following the 16th-century reformations, the little chapel fell into disrepair. Cromwell’s men later used it during their attack in the 17th-century to stable their horses. In the 19th-century, the chapel underwent some Victorian restoration, and services began again. Unfortunately, the work performed to protect the sandstone carvings, along with the high humidity within the chapel, was discovered to have a deteriorating effect, and major restoration works began in the late 20th-century by The Rosslyn Chapel Trust.

Read more about the chapel by visiting here.

I find it interesting how peaceful the building itself is. Silence enveloped my bones the first time I stepped inside it; silence and comfort. I have sometimes felt visceral unrest in Christian buildings — the energy poured into their design is distinctly to pay worship to their single god—a god whose people I’ve had conflict with. I feel the judgment and persecution beneath its serenely carved masks and outward message of peace. Peace that’s splattered in blood. I can feel dirty, hateful hands squeezing my throat. I’ve never felt a whisper of that at Rosslyn Chapel. One could shelter there under all those carved eyes, flowers, stars, and green men. Rosslyn feels more spiritual than religious. I love that about her. Perhaps she was designed for monotheism, but she feels far more polytheistic to this pagan. And you don’t have to look far online for information and theories on the glorious tapestry of symbolism carved into the sandstone inside and out of this divine little gothic gem. But, if you’ve never been, I suggest not reading a single thing — visit her, sit in her cradle of silence and tell me what you feel.

The chapel sits above Roslin Glen. A wee wander down beneath and by the ruins of Roslin Castle is a divine way to cap off or sandwich a visit to the chapel. The ancient woodlands along the glorious River Esk are perfect for a quiet contemplation walk and just as good for a fun day out with the kids. I needed the former, and I will no doubt be taking my little monsters on the next trip over.

Oh! As I left the chapel grounds, I was approached by a confident and curious ginger cat. We exchanged pleasantries, maybe I’ll see him next time on the pews.

Hyper compartmentalising or hyper exposure?

I began writing about this some months back. It came to the forefront of my mind again recently, but from a personal angle, so I’m going to blend my tangent tangle; why the hell not? An attempt to de-compartmentalise the thoughts. Oh, the anarchy! My mind will not enjoy this. It’s a tangent—potentially incoherent at times. Just go with me on it.

Psychologically speaking, compartmentalising is a defence mechanism—an isolating process within the mind of thoughts and feelings that may conflict–this can have benefits, of course. It can help us focus on a task without being distracted. Given the nature of defence, I wonder if it’s beneficial that we are raised to compartmentalise how we are educated. As a home-educating parent, I’ve often considered this. In nature, for most, applying this to every aspect of life is stressful and unfulfilling and can make us appear inauthentic. I often worry about what parts to share, with whom and when. We naturally show different parts of ourselves to different audiences to suit boundaries and comfort levels. There’s a difference between natural compartmentalisation that protects us and the hyper compartmentalisation that seems so prevalent today. Have we all gone a little too far?

I think of the neurodivergent kid who masks all day while in a childcare or school environment and then has a meltdown at home, or the smiling and helpful cashier who spends his day helping and being patient with trying and rude customers but returns home exhausted, moody, and craving solitude from the hustle and bustle. 

In business, there’s little expectation for the heads of large organisations to share extracts of their personal selves and private lives with their customer base. I’ve never heard anyone ponder how interactive and personable James Daunt (Managing Director of Waterstones) or Roger White (CEO of AG Barr) are with his customers, for example. Few customers consider how these guys ‘made them feel’ or how personally engaged they are on social media before buying books from Waterstones or picking up a bottle of Irn Bru. It’s predominantly about the products and not the folks behind them. This doesn’t apply to independent businesses such as authors and artists like myself, who maintain complete creative and distribution control of their work. Yet, as an independent, I read and hear about this often. How folks must ‘buy in’ to the artist, and we must tirelessly engage—not too much or too little, just the right (arbitrary) amount to be ‘seen’ and be personable. In the online compartment, I’ve seen folks complain that authors only post about their work and their books, then, on the flip side, they share too much of their personal lives. There’s no pleasing everyone, even for people-pleasers, an epidemic primarily associated with women. Sadly, it is a piece of conditioning I am struggling to break free of, though I am trying! Even if not for myself, as an example to my younglings.

Again, this compartmentalisation, at its root, is a defensive process. One that can help separate and protect business from personal and facts from fiction. 

Personal compartmentalisation, on the other hand, isn’t as clear-cut either. In fact, for some of us, that’s even more of murky situation. When is it too much? When is it not enough? It’s now undeniable to me the more I’ve considered it that how I manage my personal relationships in this manner is a defensive and trauma response. I was raised to hide pieces of myself, from how I smiled to the questions I’d ask, so like the people pleaser, the hyper compartmentaliser was also created. Don’t let them see you, Natasha. Don’t let anyone see all of you because you’re a fucking mess. Your teeth are crooked, your accent isn’t right, your questions make everyone uncomfortable. Just stay quiet, and keep your mouth closed. But that’s not unique to me; I’m not special in any way, so many of us have this — our friends, family, co-workers, and acquaintances only see us from certain angles. A version just for you and them. And with this, I’ve always kept my social relationships pretty separate. I don’t mix family and friends or different friend groups. The idea of such social mixing sends me into an anxiety-ridden shambles envisioning the horror. There’s experience to support the separations—I mixed groups a bit in my youth, and lessons were learned, so the defences were erected in full force, and I haven’t thought about allowing passages between rooms in a couple of decades.

In recent months, I began considering my history with social compartmentalism when one of my closest friends noted I had uncharacteristically opened a door between rooms. She has perhaps been exposed to more of me than anyone else in my life, so her observation hit hard. In creating this invitation, which was uncharacteristically not thought out, it was strangely natural in contrast to my defensive conditioning. I’m here today overthinking or just thinking about how I may have created a draft. Shut the door, Natasha! The open door, even if the invited never passes through, is akin to an open wound. Have I thoughtlessly regressed or is it a progressive change of self? A seasonal shift that has to happen for a growth I’m yet to understand? I don’t know. It’s getting cold in here. Maybe I should close the door.

Brazen Folk Horror Check in

Beltane rolled in with storms, humidity, hot and cold fronts colliding, fires, droughts, floods, and even a sinkhole! Literal and metaphorical …

Brazen Folk Horror Check in

Blip

I met you before
You wore another face
Another body 
Same eyes that sparkle and die instantaneously
Warm love and cold hate fight to dominate 
The soul fractured as hammered bones and rusted nails
I’m drawn to broken things; my reckless heart hurts with the need to lessen the pain.
Abandoned, I’m magnetised, hypnotised, bewitched
With everything to lose and nothing to gain
I’ll stab myself with all your broken pieces
You don’t notice the blood
You offer life and death in one smooth blink 
Crimson reflections are of your face and hate
You play at more than you can give
Loveless devil of the dying heart
Your air is a replica 
Like a vacuum in the presence
My mouth is dry
I can’t think straight.
There’s dewdrops on the blades and never Enough to quench 
You’re never enough
I’m always left dying of drouth
Chasing the desert for a spring 
I’ve known you before
I see how this plays out
Blood pools around my feet
You stand before me with a cool glass of water
A mirage of “I don’t lie.”
The “don’t” is silent
Your glass beyond reach of my parched lips—with those eyes of love-hate bemused.
It’s a filter
A lame game 
I crave your touch like air
My skin is screaming
And I’ll die without it
All lies, and I made them
The drops of poisoned water
From a loveless lover
And you’ll fast forget my name
Player Boy and Cowboy—just the same
They love themselves and their toys
Fed from temporary validations
The ego always needs another hit
Obsessively compulsively dismiss and onto the next
Nothing sticks
Just a posed picture 
There’s nothing else inside
Built up from superficial shit
Station your play
This time, I’ll stay away.

Broken Home

This term was mentioned to me when my kids’ father and I split up. I knew it would come up but I’ve considered it a lot since. Honestly, I considered it many times before that. Here are my thoughts:

‘Broken Home’ when used as a label towards kids that don’t grow up with birth parents who are in a relationship or married to one another is mostly bullshit. I’ve experienced and know of many far more broken homes where the parents remain unhappily together. They stay together with sticky notes of excuses, ‘for the kids’, ‘for the vows of better and worse’, to ‘prove a point’, to not ‘disappoint family’, because they’ve become unhealthily co-dependent. They stay together for fear of loneliness, judgment, the unknown, financial reasons, practical excuses, and lies they tell themselves that it ‘might get better’ and ‘things will change’. They trap themselves and their kids into true broken homes. Even though I knew better, I did that too for a time. Kids see that. They feel it, even if they don’t say it to their parents, though, sometimes they do. And when they do, it hurts hard.

My kids are not of a broken home—we fixed that when we chose to raise them in two happy homes instead of one unhappy one.

Break those toxic fucking cycles and fuck those ignorant labels.

Change in the House of…

Life is constantly changing, as it should. I’m of the mind that if things stay them same, we may as well cease to exist. Right now, the changes outweigh anything settled. It’s profoundly unsettling physically and emotionally.

The connections we make, the connections we miss, and those that break are in constant motion. Sometimes we need to go back to move forward.

We learn, grow, change, evolve.

I’m thankful for every person I’m crossed and blended paths with so far in this mad life. Even the horrors I would not change. There are pathways forming through the fog.

Another Old Building

What a building.

I walked by this building daily for several years. It was in use then. Recently, I’ve been walking that old route that takes me through Elmbank Street and even on a bright day, it’s chilling to see it like this. This building is another stunning piece of architecture designed by 19th-century architect Charles Wilson. I’ve written a little about him before, in that he also designed (among many other landmarks around Glasgow) the entrance to Glasgow’s Southern Necropolis, which formed the stage for my urban horror short, City of the Dead.

This building was originally the home of a private school, Glasgow Academy, from 1846. When The Academy moved to the west of the city, it then housed The High School (the oldest school in Glasgow, established in 1460) until 1976. It has since been used as council offices and by the police and is now empty. The most recent proposal I read was that it’s under bid to undergo a 20 million pound transformation into a hotel and wedding venue. Hopefully, this old piece of history will get its new lease of life in the city. It’s sad to see it looking so abandoned amidst the changing dynamics as modern steel beams and glass-faced builds tower around her.