I remember dreaming that Carol and I were in my mothers garden. There was a mighty storm and we were watching massive trees all around us falling. We would make exasperated/disappointed noises whenever one fell - as if saying ‘oh no, there’s another one gone’. We had to dodge them and aim to find a place in the garden where we wouldn’t be hit if a tree fell. At one point å ‘thought’ that a particular tree, a skinny pine like the ones near Lilac Cottage) would fall and just as I thought it - it fell. Two: a dream I’ll never forget. I was standing on a shore with Juliet and Cherry, two prolific women in my life, both academics. We were looking out at two pillars in the ocean. Atop them were two males peacocks tied down with heavy chains. We swam out to them, the three women that we were, and they helped me to untie the peacocks so they could escape upwards into the sky. The Game. It’s a shortened group ‘essay’, written in the ‘heat’ of the festival moment: Title:...
To Remember you must Dismember - Andrew Towgood Latin rememorari "recall to mind, remember," from re- "again" (see re-) + memorari "be mindful of," Latin de "take away" (see de-) + membrum "limb" The act of remembering is a flaky one - unreflexive and often faulty attaching as it does to the ego. To truly remember you must dis-member - a painful process. At 60 I spend a lot of time dis-memberring my remembering - trying to construct a personally and morally satisfying narrative arc of my life - sometimes, on good days my remembered life seems to have arrived smugly and satisfyingly at a ‘good’ full stop - something I can reflect on as valuable and great. Other times the dis-membering brings cognitive dissonance between where I think I should have arrived and where my examination says I have dissatisfyingly/distressingly/too late arrived at to do any remedial work. Buddhism and other mindful practices suggest we should no...
The Revenge of the Widow Guiliana Govini Domenica. Sunday. Once it was the most welcome and tranquil word in the Italian language – now it’s a mockery to me. Domenica, Domenica – the day when everything changed. A bright, spring morning of broken promises. Matins done, and the Vespers bells not yet singing on the hilltops of Umbria. The smell of jasmine, before, so sweet and innocent, stinks of betrayal now. My son, Guido, coming back from the Church of St Mary of the Consolation, running into the kitchen, his curls flying, his mouth wide with happiness – I will never see him like this again. Mama! I’ve invited someone to lunch, do you mind? He’s from Rome and he’s been watching our choir. He’s very important. His name is Signor … Guiseppe Tarantino, a man says, stepping into my kitchen – the cheek of it – no man has crossed the threshold since my poor Antonio fell to the waves. Then he bows. He’s wearing a buttoned burgundy jacket and a fine hat with a black feath...
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