Part 1
You grabbed my hand
we left the wedding
Holding and squeezing tight
As we walked
Stood at an intersection
I cried into your shirt.
You reminded me
That I am
They are not.
I would marry you
In the deepest part of the ocean
On the ghosts of traitors
Away from family and friends.
But I cant swim
And we are not really beach people.
When I imagine the day of my parent’s funeral.
You are sitting next to me.
Calmly holding my hand.
It is not very sexy.
A little romantic?
When I think that far ahead.
It is you who is holding my hand.
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Well, I’m going to start by visiting one of my favourite archives-the Australian Joint Copying Project.
Hosted by @nlagovau this collection contains documents from Australia, New Zealand Aotearoa, various Pacific Islands, Germany & Britain 1560-1984. #CityofLitWriterinResidence
This collection is immense. The original microfilms were recently digitised and, thanks to the NLA team, of a better visual standard.
Really the creation of this collection is a story in itself...
It is day two of our social media take over #CityoflitWriterinResidence
Over the length of the snap lockdown our Instagram and Twitter will be taken over each day by a different writer each delivering a uniques day content and connection for your delight and distraction.
There will be no " You've got this Melbourne", Spoonville retrospectives and reflections on North Face Jackets here! Just creation and commentary and some conversation!
Yesterday we had @TheMess19delightignus onTwitter and @gracialouise enchanting us on the Instagram
I will now share some Notes on a cat essay I have been working on as most things it’s not just about mister bread (sorry everyone) #CityoflitWriterinResidence
My Father walks into the kitchen and does not take his gumboots off as he has no time. He goes to the sink and gets a glass of water. ‘’Tigger’s dead.’ He says in between gulps of water. #CityoflitWriterinResidence
We Laugh because this is a joke my Dad is playing on us. Tigger will never die, she is tough and beloved. It is not a joke. Dad explains that he found her body in a bucket of milk that was for the calves to drink. #CityoflitWriterinResidence
#CityoflitWriterinResidence
This will be my last letter to you written from London in this room. I will be in Manchester or more accurately Greater Manchester within the week.
This is the last letter I have edited and shared on my blog. There are more! But I hope this is enough for now :)
“I decide to look into being an Au Pair. I could do that anywhere in the UK maybe even leave London and go back to Manchester. “ #CityoflitWriterinResidence
When pleading for things from the cosmos. It was discovered by Jess, that it is incredibly important to be specific. She had asked for ‘’someone’’ and that was given. She should have been grateful and jubilant as..
#CityoflitWriterinResidence
she sat in the beautiful and intimate Lexi Cinema on Harrow rd. It was only a short walk in the snow from Haycroft Gardens. The ceiling above her head was a series of tiny fairy lights that slowly changed colour from green to blue to purple.
Another letter from my hopeful book in progress entitled How To Build A Skeleton Heart.
Don’t get home hair cuts while fidgety drunk in Kensel Green. #CityoflitWriterinResidence
“When JP asks me whats wrong as we walk to the train station, I tell her its the usual problem.
‘You just need to get laid.’ She says. Maybe she is right. “ #CityoflitWriterinResidence
You know, you are much prettier without your glasses.’ JP comments as she presses a tissue to my bleeding eye lid. My heart sank as it always did when someone says that. I had expected it from stupid guys at pubs but not from JP. ‘I need them to see.’ #CityoflitWriterinResidence