Tag: Writing

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.

Sandcastles

I tried to cut it out—to stop the rapids from rushing the empty. A tsunami simmered beneath tiny ripples, I said, ‘Let’s stop’, and goodbyes in other words. Because saying it caught like barbed wire in my soft throat, “I feel for you”. I knew you felt nothing. Goodbyes stuttered at the ends of my thumbs because I felt what I considered long dead…. Until we kissed…I was a dead thing, perhaps a mirror of you. Tattered fragments scattered across the basin, worn and ground, fine and sharp after too many storms, too much friction, too much pain, fleshless broken bones—just sand.
Then my heart woke, and my soul burst in Aurora—electromagnetic, chemical awakening—
I was powerless. But I was just a child with her imaginary friend making sandcastles. I have a habit of loving those that can’t love me back—dead things too shattered to fly. I thought I was one of them….Then we kissed. I tried to say goodbyes in too many other words when I realised what you were between the lines, when the flowers I laid upon you withered and your pretence slipped. You were bored and I was a fidget toy within your reach. The sweetness masking the bitter fast dissolved. I tried to accept the end of your mornings and silence of nights, then you’d say, ‘Let’s do’ but we never did—you’d bail because of some unforeseen that I foresaw every time I said with hope, “yes”. I accepted your literal words to my catastrophe.
Now I’m hurt by the inevitable absence—the ghost I knew you’d become but hoped you wouldn’t. I foresaw it through the hope I was encouraged to dress in. You never really existed.

—Natasha )O(

Original photo, Natasha Sinclair.

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.

Rush-Hour

The heart thumps in my ears
Bodies squish closer
Brush my hand, my hip, my hair
I shiver
I can smell them
Intermingling molecules
All sweat and too much perfume
The smoke—I could choke 
Heart in my throat
Where to look
I squeeze my own hands
Dig broken nails into the skin
Cracks fingers inside the palms
They’re cold and clammy
Another stop
More bodies pile in
I can taste his neck
Scratching stubble
I’ve nowhere to go
An eye catches mine
Don’t!
Please don’t
Don’t look at me
Another stop 
More bodies
Less space
I can’t breathe
Her eye on mine again 
I can feel the colour of her iris bleed into mine
Brown to blue; the earth to the sea
She can see every crease
How my skin is dead and withering 
The corpse paint can’t fake life like it used to
I can’t see my feet
Only a stranger's ass
Her leggings are snagged
And the boots muddy
The heart keeps thudding 
It’s in my throat
Get off!
Is it time to get off?!
Another stop
And more squeeze in—smiling clowns
Just breathe!
I feel the noise in my dry eyes
If I get off, I’ll have to do it again
Wait it out…
The majority push and shove off the stop before mine—grinning cat-rats
Departing they rush like my soul screaming to break free
Breathe
Breathe
It’s just a fucking train.

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.

I am the Cycle Breaker

I’m the cycle breaker. The black sheep. The problematic relative who doesn’t endure bullshit because of a stupid thing like ‘blood’. I’ve often spoken up against wrongs and followed through in my actions.

When I was seven, I rejected eating animals. It was also around that time that I rejected the religion forced upon me, too. The hypocrisy was too loud for me to bear. How we are taught of love while we feed our bodies and those of our children with violence and murder?

Natasha’s just over-sensitive or impressionable—she saw a vegetarian once on TV; it’s a phase. My family would contaminate my food and lie about it. I’ve been cooking my own meals, for the most part, since I was eight. I was bullied, and instead of being supported, I was made to feel weak and as if I brought it on myself. I was the problem. I needed to harden up. Fight. I wasn’t rough enough, loud enough, or anything enough for my mother, and she let it show. As a teen, when I told her about a girl I liked, she flipped. Said all sorts of horrible things, and if my sister “ends up queer, it’s your fault!” Hell knows where that came from and why any form of queerness was considered a fault. But it was. I could have died. I wanted to die. I daydreamed about it a lot. There was even a sit-down talk with my mother and father, “it’s not Eve and Eve,” my dad said through gritted teeth at the kitchen table, adding insult to injury by throwing that drivel at their pagan practising daughter. I couldn’t open my mouth without being the family’s disappointment. Even when I kept it shut, I was wrong. Being a teen in their house—never my home—was hell. I had to leave school sooner than I wanted so I could work more hours, save and get the hell out of there. I made other excuses so no one’s feelings were hurt and they didn’t feel at fault. The house was increasingly volatile, and I couldn’t handle the hate and disappointment that emanated towards me every single day. I didn’t feel love. I never felt safe. I couldn’t be me.

When I sought help (after moving out), alone, for depression and being suicidal, telling them felt like coming out. I was attacked again. I should have known, right? I didn’t blame my parents for my mental ill health then. And yet, opening up and seeking support threw my mother into a rage, “You can’t blame me! You can’t blame us! There was nothing wrong with your childhood. You have no idea what I had to grow up with!” (I’m keeping the examples mild. Filtered. Even now, I’m protective). I felt like an idiot. Why did I keep trying to have a relationship with these people? Why, when I was consistently attacked, did I keep giving them fuel to burn me with?

I split up with my boyfriend, and instantly became a slut—because if you have sex with more than one person, you’re a slut, especially a woman. If a relationship fails that’s what a woman is. A failure, and a slut. Better to be with one person and condemned to an unhappy marriage than be, well, anything like me. My parents were occasionally supportive, but it was always finite and always used against me at some point—guaranteed.

My baby died in my belly. They were great, at first. Supportive the way you’d expect. Like everything, though, my grieving had a clock. not mine—someone else’s. Park it. Draw a line. Suck it up. Someone else is pregnant and I had to get over it. When they found out I had experienced loss before, I was attacked for not telling them, you know, for support.

Many folks talk a good game about breaking cycles and respecting and creating boundaries, especially when raising children. That has to be modelled. It took me a long, long time of enduring emotional abuse, banging my head against a brick wall in trying to communicate with people who didn’t want to hear me, let alone see me. I walked on eggshells for thirty years. My depression was my fault. I was a pervert. A slut. Too sensitive. Never ever good enough.

I will always be my parents’ failure.

It’s been ten years since I finally drew the line to break the cycle and stand up for myself. Life is too short. I’ve learnt my lesson, and it was damn hard. I am the cycle breaker—for me and my children.

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.

Art or Blood

When I become entangled viewing a piece of art, enraptured by the skilful technique and inspired by the story being depicted, through the palate, the stroke of the instrument, the shapes, the words, I don’t much consider the artist—at least not at first.

If art speaks to me, at that moment, that’s all that matters.

I cannot get on board with this peculiar demand for so-called diversity by being selective of the artists’ personal attributes before viewing the art. Let art speak up for itself. Separate the creation from the creator, just for a bit. An artist’s nationality, sex, sexuality, gender, health, colour, heritage, politics, experiences, age, family and all else has nothing to do with the viewer unless they choose to share it.

The demand for artists to expose themselves so consumers can feel good about being selectively diverse should stop. And no, I’m not what ‘they’ think I am either—as a writer and artist, I could expose and exploit personal details for targeted diversity marketing, as too many seem to do at this strange juncture. But, not everything is for sale. I don’t offer my body and who I am for vultures to peck to the bone. I’m not for sale; my books and art are.

Want to diversify the art being consumed?

Step outside your comfort genres, go to an exhibit ‘just because’, grab a book because you’ve never heard of the author or publisher, or because the cover’s texture made you want to run your hands all over it, or because it had that ‘read me’ smell.

Enjoy the art without baying for the artists’ blood.