Books: Letters of Ted Hughes by Ted Hughes and Christopher Reid & Sylvia Plath in Devon: A Year’s Turning by Gail Crowther and Elizabeth Sigmund / Currently Reading: The Stories of Breece D’J Pancake, The Sleep Room: A Very British Medical Scandal by Jon Stock
TV: Weird Britain, Jeopardy, University Challenge, and The Secret Life of the Forest
Film: Frida (dir. Julia Taymor), The Edge of Love (dir. John Maybury), Capote (dir. Bennett Miller), and Violette (dir. Martin Provost)
Podcasts: Ear Biscuits, BBC Radio 4’s Front Row, History of Literature, and Weird in the Wade.
Support: @ Buy Me a Coffee
“I found a bat today – its belly full of mosquitoes.
If I squint, the shoreline of coconut trees becomes green star lights strung across a
patio.”
—Last Aerogramme To You, With Lizard by Aimee Nezhukumatathil“Can you smell the cigars / in this place?”
—Last Aerogramme To You, With Lizard by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
March is where Sylvia Plath and I diverge, for I am not rested, caught up, or human.
How can I be rested when every second is spent focusing on my breathing? How can I be human when going to the bathroom tricks my heart into believing we’ve ran a marathon? How can I be caught up when writer’s block has me in a chokehold?
We talk of seasonal depression in reference to the annual birth of the colder seasons, but what happens if you’re a victim to the opposite? I feel most like myself when the trees are bare and ice dusts the ground like a sponge cake.
I’m eating a stick of pineapple, gold as a Christmas star, when I get word that I placed third with my poem Where Flowers Give Birth to Snow. One of my goals for the coming year was to place in a writing competition, and three months in, I’ve only gone and done it.
Then I dream of a poetry party in which I am given photocopies of some of Plath’s handwritten drafts. The man who gives them to me says, “You will be the next heroine: talent like that transfers, my love.” In that same staccato, I am transported to the ‘50s—to a cottage somewhere in the country. We roll down hills and hide from alley thugs.
During my BBC Sherlock fandom days, I had such a vivid dream about Benedict Cumberbatch that I (as soon as I woke up) went to stand right where had been just moments ago; right outside my dad’s office. Was he attached to me in spirit? When we dream of things, places, and people, do we forge a psychic connection?
You hear about those people who dreamed about disasters before they happened, don’t you? For me, I have had minor prophetic dreams and visions. Supposedly, Abraham Lincoln had a dream that would predict his own assassination. I know when a dream is trying to tell me something, so I write them down: every minor detail. The ancient egyptians held dreams in high regard too, and of course, Sigmund Freud wrote a book on them.
When I was little, I used to have a recurring dream about being abducted by aliens. In the dream, I was facing my parents as they slept in their bed. I looked to the left of my mother—where the alarm clock was—and saw that it was about to hit midnight. This was when they came for me. I was terrified. There would be sudden bright lights streaming through the curtains before being woken up for school.
In another, my cousins and I gathered around a lake near our nana’s house. It was as white as cream—frozen over. Attached to three wooden steps was a random door (think Monster’s Inc). Hanging from the doorknob, a sign read: CLOSED. But one day, the door opened. I was handed a map by a man at a market stall, but before I could explore, I woke up. I never had that dream again.
My affinity for the mystical goes back years. In my twenty-eight years, I have seen ghosts, felt ghosts, heard ghosts, had prophetic dreams, predicted things, read tarot, and more. All palm readers / psychics I have come into contact with have asked me for a hug at the end. In the era of magazines, I would pick up my copies of Mizz, Shout, and Bliss, only to flip to the star sign page before reading anything else.
Our lives consist of something beyond our physical selves. These skin suits are merely backpacks for the true meaning of humanity. The ancient egyptians removed the organs, placing them in canopic jars, for a clear passage to the afterlife. I have believed in reincarnation for a long time, and interestingly, when I tried to probe my own past life at home, I began to feel incredibly nauseous for no reason at all; having been fine when I started.
As a youngling, I was convinced that my past life had something to do with Jack the Ripper. Seemingly out of nowhere, I homed in on Victorian London. I sought out books and films that take place there. It was my belief that—through divine knowledge—I would be the one to solve the case of Jack the Ripper.
I find myself in a spiritual limbo between the months of March and September. When I was able to leave my house, I would find the sunlight too exposing. The heat itself makes me completely miserable. Logically, I know I am supposed to be appreciative of colour, but I don’t find my soul in it. The first sign of a spinning jenny is like an electric charge to my system. But as I write this, the sun hurts my eyes. The only joy I can find in the season is watching Barney, my black cat, play in the garden. The air carries a bouquet of grass, sunlight, and home cooking. I ask myself: Are these the times people crave?
Now, I work away in the late hours. My mother sleeps opposite me (both confined to the sofa). I have historical documentaries playing in the background as I write up outlines for a story. Perhaps I thumb through a few pages of a book. Barney snores away, occasionally waking himself up by hissing. I am reminded of 2016; the time when I was on LA time instead of UK time. At 6am, I sat at the back door, listening to the birds—and the world—wake up. Then once I finished my thousandth cup of tea, I retired to bed at 9am.
March, march, march, what have you taken from me?
Courtenay's Corner 