Chiasmus (3)


I spent much of that walk thinking about my personal and political_: of H., of fences, of what was to come.

The centripetal force that kept them oscillating each other was singularly disturbed by an unknown object. Their course was re-written and the ageing astrophysicist would have to begin his life’s work again. He stuck a label on the front cover of the notepad (deliberately over the coffee stain), wrote the dates, and put it into the drawer of his desk with the others.

Chiasmus (1)


I have yet to attempt to write a single public piece about last year’s shattering political events. I still don’t have the desire to, I’d rather keep this writing confined to my journals or let it seep freely into my prose. Mostly it’s that I have felt suffocated by the noise, the opinions of others none of which accurately capture how I feel about these moments. This isn’t so much a criticism of the writers, but of the inadequacy of language. I think of Berger.

Sometimes the only response is a purely visual one, although I guess this isn’t one of those.



nous arpentons dans les deux sens
le calendrier des hommes
telle une échelle d’horizon
avant d’être invités à franchir
d’un bond le vide qui nous sépare
de notre naissance

we go up and down the human calendar
in both directions
like a ladder against the horizon
until we are asked to breach
in one leap the gap which separates us
from our birth

– From ‘we are unknown guests’, Amina Saïd.



This time of year inevitably bears much self-reflection. During our family christmas dinner, we’ve begun a new tradition of going round the table and giving our high and low points of the year.

Throughout World War II, Richmond park was utilised to train bomb disposal units. Despite the fact I live nearby, I only learnt this recently when reading Ondatjee’s The English Patient. 

Today I walked with measured steps,
the wet grass of lifetimes.