June 30 to July 7
June 23 to June 30
This night, the shortest night in the northern hemisphere, I can’t sleep. So I get up and creep downstairs to write, to stop the fleeting thoughts and leave some tracks, to pick up tomorrow.
My mind slows now to let me notice the space between the interruptions.
Perched in the night I watch the dust rise in the shaft of my reading light, disturbed by the turning of a page. I can blow the glittering specks but they return, free and light, caught in natural disorder. Like meteorites they are torn from some larger body and hurtle out into the unknown, suddenly caught by the atmosphere, in a gust of warm breath. They land somewhere and spread a soft feathery layer over everything. Left undisturbed, they’ll soon be caught up in skeins of new life.
Dust, droplets, particles, particulates are the invisible accompaniment to our days, threatening our encounters.
I live at the bottom of hills and almost every day I walk up one of them. Every day at some point, amid the interruptions, I push myself to step outside and head for the hills. I enjoy the steps it takes to reach the top. I seek a view: the distance across the horizon to a huddle of grey towers. Always the same towers, but different sizes depending on the hill I’ve chosen to climb that day. They are cold, grey, hard interruptions; unscaleable and unreal; an old idea of the new.
The trees and roofs of suburbia spread out, smaller and smaller till they blur into a haze that is returning now the cars are back and diesel thickens the air.
I need to walk up, out of the valley of my day without a view. The windows of my home face a hedge, and higher up, just the houses opposite which are rarely interesting. The poodle that sits in the window watching, a curtain twitcher, makes me smile, but otherwise the view is familiar and flat and I can’t bear to look. In any case I don’t have time to look out – I’m scattered inwards and indoors, from desk to kitchen to calling up the stairs then trudging or scampering up them, to reach my children. I am not reaching them. They are in their own worlds doing their own thing, caught in a blue light. They are good at ignoring the interruption of my voice. I don’t even hear my voice anymore, nor do I want to.
So a walk up one of the hills pulls me into the world. One foot in front of the other, I feel my thighs tighten, stretch my Achilles tendons, deliberately tighten muscles, use more strength than is needed just to feel my own strength, pent up, unused. Reaching the top of the hill means I’ve arrived somewhere. I can see further than my hedge and ‘what’s for dinner tonight?’ I can see far and wide, to the sticks of steel and the blue haze. I can’t see the future, but the space is something. The future is a dangerous thought. I try to hope the futures we might like to make, full of clean air, joy and peace. But the future blinds me to the impenetrable present which is hard enough to contemplate. The future is easier than the now, and thinking only of the future means it won’t happen as I imagine it. But the views: the air and space and distance replace the pressure of time, for a moment. I am suspended, in luckless flight, petering on an edge of now. I turn and catch a Frisbee, and turn again and see the trees.
The lime trees in bloom smell of Berlin beer gardens.
June 16 to June 23
‘My manager’s off on holiday, so I’ll have to wait till he comes back …The call said that’s not open. They’re massively off. I got the letter that says about furlough. It says what they’re going to pay me on the letter. It says my average over the year was 85 something, I can’t remember over the month. …The only thing I put in for was my pension. It’s about 20 quid (laughter). That’s still a big difference from £650 to 80 or 90 – that doesn’t even cover my rent.
I was going to just shave it all off, and go for a pudding hair cut, but it hasn’t had the approval yet.’ You overheard this in the park a week ago.
The polyphony is in your head as well as your home. How to capture this edgy, unclocked, sad glue time? The buzzing, restless insects and chattering, always anxious birds; the back garden sawing and crying; footsteps swerving past others on the street; edges of lives more bird-like than before up against each other: all make it clear that lives go on. But there is a waiting, you don’t know quite what for. Waiting for the world to be safe again? But it wasn’t safe before, for many or most. Waiting to go back to your day to day lives? There’s plenty of everyday now. You aren’t sleepwalking, or sleeptalking. Renew your friendships daily: it helps resist those who renew their enemyships daily.
The tearing apart of quarantine: people are crying inside, in the darkness of losing their loved ones, and twos and threes. A wrenching, like when a nursery teacher has to unpeel the fingers of a small child clinging to a parent who has to go to work. The child knows it’s a trick. But now it is the parents who are left behind in hospital, or at home, or in a ‘care home’, unable to cuddle their children, wondering when they’ll see them again.
The anger at the enemyships cools as I write. They make me boil and I don’t want to be cooked right now.
The waiting, the larger waiting, in the air you breathe is also a listening, to figure out what to do next. ‘To make the world a better place’ sounds so trite, but it’s just a bit imprecise.
If this were a dream, now would be the time to wake up and make breakfast. That was a long sleep and many are still living the nightmare. Others are ignoring the fragility and ache of bodies just waking.
The half-dream in-between state between sleep and waking can sometimes let loose and bring to the surface deep unfettered wanderings and images, visions and feelings of a different almost world that brushes against this one. The Crown Letter has helped me sometimes to hold on to those moments and bring them into the day, for company.
I listened the other day to a story of how thousands of meteorites were found in blue ice, pushed to the surface in Antarctica. Over millions of years they fell from Space.
June 2 to June 9
May 26 to June 2
May 19 to 26
They will be on the move
They will be on the move.
We’ll all be on the move, next.
Now we’re stuck at home, pacing,
Soon we’ll be leaving our home if we have one, searching
for somewhere to rest,
Or the Moon,
Or Camping until we’re moved on.
Today we take it one meal, one stroll, at a time.
There’ll be no sitting still then, when this is over,
when the heat is on.
It is already of course, and we know it, of course, every day,
There isn’t time to sit still, really.
I heard blackbird, robin, blue tit and a screeching
parrot – brighter than ever, at least in their lifetimes.
“We’ll need five pandemics to really make a difference to pollution and carbon emissions.”
That can’t be right.
Public servants in their private rooms, in public mansions,
Reassure with lies.
If you take stock, during the lockdown,
Those who can,
Who eat readily and have a bed and cash enough to sleep at night,
If we take time to think, together,
And more to work out ways, ‘I can plot, resist and serve.’
If I, if lots of I’s under brighter skies take private public stock during the lock
Then flight from drought and flood and failed crops and torment just might,
Early May 2020
May 12 to 19
May 5 to 12
Walk from my house to the park
A recipe for wild garlic dip.
I soaked some beans overnight, to finish the jar.
Next day I boiled them and left them there in the pot, while everyone wanted eggs and pasta.
Next day in the park again I threw a ball with the boys, spinning it as my son taught me. Kicked it high and straight from the laces.
We’ll have a casserole for supper, with leftover sauce. I must not forget the beans though. They need eating, maybe garlic and spice, as I walked through the trees in the hidden part of the park. I know, wild garlic!
Beans, wild garlic, olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper – voilà! Whizz the beans in a mixer, sloosh in the olive oil, squeeze a lemon add salt and pepper tear in the wild garlic.
It tastes of wild, but silky smooth and light with flecks of green, it brings the glade into the bowl.
April 28 to May 5
Windowsill, Lodeyno, July 2018
From The Northern Sea Route series
Photograph, C type print, archival paper, 2019
800 mm x 560 mm
This is the flat of a Sami woman I met in Lodeyno, above the Arctic circle in Russia. I think of her and others looking through windows now, onto empty streets, from empty rooms, wondering and waiting.
April 21 to April 28
It’s all right in the mornings
It’s all right in the mornings
It’s all right when the day is still to make
When everyone’s asleep except the birds
It’s all right in the kitchen –
There’s food to cook and water to boil
It’s all right in the garden –
Needs watering and planting
It’s all right by the open window
It’s all right on the floor –
I can stretch and bend,
Tip myself upside down.
Night sweats and screams and shakes and buries heads.
Fires flame full fear fracking welts appear itches fiercely scrape fierce skin
from within and without.
Burning blood headward rushes –
swells, retreats, rages through again – drowning the floating thing, off guard.
Blasts it – brain thing – to bits.
Then out goes the tide leaving some embers and smouldering.
Fingers tentatively tentacly sweep at the ashes to gently hold the little grey scraps
and the rest of it – in place, and still.
Ashes won’t settle. They rise in gusts of breath scattering dust.
Chase the bigger ones, like bubbles,
this time, grasp the good feeling (good for many reasons I can’t explain).
The good feeling came just before
the memory of a thing from his life lived burst in and exploded, silently,
Instant combustion made boiling blood head.
The living I had lived was nearly given back to me,
and I blew it.
Or it blew me, blew through my blood, to head,
swelling rush of hot tears instead of cool fond remembering.
I’m left with scattered ashes forgetting whatever it was that had remembered itself to me
in that instant. Ashes. My fault –
I blew it, that instant as it was meant to be, as I meant it to be.
All that remains are the ashes scattering my scattering, skittering mind.
My limbs and jaw hold tight and stiff, locked down,
forgetting to soften and sleep.
Held alert stiffly still while burning white blood
sloshes through lung to heart to throat to brain to heart again and lung.
The rest forgets as the steady loving muscle tries to find equilibrium again.
What are the eyes doing? And ears? They didn’t see the rushing blood
or sparks, or ashes blown by the explosion.
The ears missed the white noise blood torrent.
Soon they’ll pick up breathing again, another’s.
They’ll fixate on in and out,
rustle of sheet and nose hairs and whistling.
And next the grey sounds of the night,
of the abandoned street. And then the birds.
And then prone body aches and shifts woodenly.
Ears and brain start up spinning
settling on elsewhere inside, listing
things and forgetting things, blinking blinkering, out.
Side roll bend at the waist, push and sit up.
Reach out feet
stretch hands, gather the scraps that make waking getting up.
It’s all right in the mornings.
Ruth Maclennan, April 2020
Ruth Maclennan is an artist. She lives in London. Her work includes films, multi-channel moving image installations, photographs, performances, writing and interdisciplinary curatorial projects. Maclennan’s films and photographs explore how the climate emergency has irrevocably transformed ways of seeing and understanding landscape and place – both for their inhabitants, and as representation. Informed by ecological thinking, cross-disciplinary research and fieldwork, her works examine places through the relationships, cultures, geographical conditions, and stories that form them. She exhibits in exhibitions and film festivals in Europe, USA, Australia and Central and East Asia. LUX Artists’ Moving Image distributes her films (https://lux.org.uk/artist/ruth-maclennan).