Oh so long, so long to find a moment to write today. As I write this I wonder why? Why write when I could walk? The sun is bright and the sky is blue and there are less shifting clouds today, the trees wave but they wave with a gentle calm.

The tumble dryer is tumbling. The line has been full then emptied and is now full again. I have been a busy house woman today. Catching up always trying to catch up. I am behind, behind.

One small success. A tidy teenage bedroom. I have vacuumed piles of dust, removed dirty underwear trapped down the side of a bed, found uneaten chocolate eggs from easter time, golden coins from christmas, empty bottles and cans of drink, a plate, a glass, a can opener….lego, lego, lego, boxes, books, dressing up clothes, a collapsed wardrobe hanger. I have placed clothes back in drawers. I have folded up clothes. I have stripped his bunk and placed the dirty sheets in the washer.

I have noticed that his bedroom is changing. Posters of his favourite bands have been blue tacked to the wall.

I found a very big house spider which I scooped up into a glass, looked at then placed outside. It most probably will find its way back in but its a warm day to be finding a new home.

Patrick and Naoise are away at an organised fun day. I cannot say that I feel I am having much fun. Pleased to be getting things done, but fun, NO. I keep hearing John Lennon singing in my ear….Woman is the nigger of the world.


We yearn to be connected.

Griselda Pollock, 2nd June, 2015, Motherhood and Creative Practices conference, London South Bank Centre.

I yearn connection. I yearn.

I watched the History Boys with my boys, a TV adaptation of the Alan Bennet play. It was amazing. Even Naoise followed the story line, laughed at the right moments.

I yearn for my eldest son when he is gone. When he is gone, being here in this home is lonely. I miss his presence. I miss his soundtrack.

Have I forgotten the yearning. The yearning to connect to others. This is a very inward looking project. I need to look out. Look beyond the self. I do want to look beyond just me, and make it we. MeWe.

Have I dug down too far into my own selfhood. Is this selfish?

I thought that I should push the second hand pram from the studio up the buttress to Heptonstall and Sylvia’s grave. I thought about filling the pram with potatoes to make my journey heavy. Heavy baby, heavy heart. Then I thought it should contain nothing, just air. Air for the baby that I yearned for but will never have. I thought I would place my smart phone inside the pram, it could record what it sees. Its eye an imaginary child’s. I shall try to do this.

What shall I do when I get to Sylvia’s grave, say a prayer (I am not religious), read out a poem, read her some of my words. I will do that I will read some of my words to the remains of Sylvia.

Beep beep beep beep…the oven buzzer sounds.

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