StoryJumpers - Chapter 7

 You can find parts 1-6 here:

Chapter 1 - A Flood

Chapter 2 - The Fog

Chapter 3

Chapter 4 - Mensamque

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Finn felt relieved. That overpowering sense of being lost and confused was ebbing away . Or so it seemed . There was still that lack of taste even though the tea offered by Hedgehog had seemed appealing and comforting.

The certainty that had gripped Finn’s mind  a moment ago was still there. It was fragile though. The images of these past few days or were they shorter? How long had these pictures and strange moments being going on?

Finn got up. Time was still difficult to measure. There appeared to be no consistency in the recalling of the journey. Encounters and the memories were hard to recall.

All the confidence that went with that bold assertion of “ I think I’m ready to make sense of what is happening “ was drifting away . Finn felt a nagging sense from somewhere that ‘ being ready ‘ was not quite what was going in inside. On the contrary the  ‘being ready ‘ feeling  was escaping rapidly.

Looking around too the shop was disappearing. Where the cheap nick-nacks had been displayed were small humps of decaying materials.  Looking again Finn recalled – from somewhere – the memory of a phrase – what was it? Why did it keep picking inside the jumble of memories as if it were pushing to escape No Planet B? What did that mean? Why was it so important? Was it important? Why did it keep shouting out?

Finn looked again and stopped suddenly. The sense of smell had come back. The room or was it something bigger stank. Finn couldn’t be sure if the return of taste and smell were blessings or not. The overpowering smell of decay provoked such a reaction inside that Finn was barely in control.

The library had gone too. All those who had offered tea or had seemed reassuring were no longer there either. The stacks of books were – like the nick nacks – nothing more than piles of moulding and decaying leather and paper.

Finn looked again at the piles. Images and squiggles were disappearing almost as if they were being sucked up. Trying to read the lines made Finn’s eyes hurt. Somehow the answer Finn had been seeking was here . Looking again Finn tried to focus. Moving closer to one pile and bending down to pick up a book Finn notice the pictures on the pages.

As Finn looked next to the pictures were lines of squiggles that with deliberate focussing and trying to be calm Finn could start to make out letters. And assembling the letters made words and then sentences. Finn was breathing very quickly.

These sentences might be the answer. But why this book? Or all of them that was left why this particular one?

Finn paused. Looked again and this time the rag tag of jumbled letters started to form a clear sentence. Trying to be calm Finn spoke out loud the first sentence.

All too human

This is the story of a baby; a child and an adult. It is the story of how I came to posthumanism, as the process of theorizing becomes linked to self-recovery - theory as liberatory practice, as bell hooks would say. It is the story told by Joe Bousquet: ‘My wound existed before me: I was born to embody it.’ And how we must live to own our stories, continually experimenting with the creativity that comes from them.

Not all of us can say, with any degree of certainty, that we have always been human, or that we are only that... (Braidotti, 2013)

To be born ‘different’ comes with the language of deficit. Of deformity, disability, and many other words that indicate a departure from the normed index of humanity; the white, Western male, able and rational in mind and body. Our Vitruvian model of perfection, symmetrically cast by Da Vinci and inscribed into our social and educational systems over centuries still persists despite the language of inclusion which only ever invites those ‘othered’ to a table already set. For myself, to be less than human manifested itself through a rare condition in which skull bones fuse together too early in the womb. It was thought at first that I had Down’s Syndrome (and was thus not deemed fully human either) - either way, it appeared unlikely that I would ever be a ‘normal’ child or even make it through those linear Piaget-style ages and stages to adulthood. It was to my eternal good luck that I was born into the care of one of the country’s best neurosurgeons, who ‘just happened’ to be based in Southampton, in that time, at that moment. He diagnosed my condition and set me on a two-year journey through serious restructuring operations and plastic surgery. The doctor’s template for my skull was – strange though it seems – a grapefruit, which he used as a guide for the reshaping. Not so much human as citrus fruit. We are always entangled with the material world; and I might write here about non-human assemblages – but sometimes, you just have to laugh.

I also think of the Japanese art of Kintsugi; the process of mending broken pottery with gold.

There’s a crack in everything – that’s how the light gets in. Leonard Cohen

I have spent my whole life denying and hiding not only the physical scars but the emotional fallout, shame and trauma (I did once share a piece of biographical writing in a blogging group, but was put off by the reaction of a colleague who told me off for over-sharing). There have been odd moments of exposure; the challenge of providing a baby photo for a work competition (I don’t have any); being questioned about scars by hairdressers or a first boyfriend; the inquisitiveness of children and teasing at school. I spent most of my primary years being bullied in one way or another about the shape of my face; so much so that it was a relief to turn plump at puberty and have the focus shifted to something differently but more acceptably shameful. But denial is tiring, and I'm a bit long in the tooth for games of hide and seek. 

If you put shame in a Petri dish, it needs three things to grow exponentially: secrecy, silence and judgment. If you put the same amount of shame in a Petri dish and douse it with empathy, it can't survive. Brene Brown.

Writing these words now has been helped by theory. Affirmative ethics – the process of transforming pain to knowledge – has taught me that we have to extract meaning from our situation in order to gain reason and understanding of the world. If I am honest, I have spent too long denying myself that journey in order to spare the pain of others. My mum in particular suffered the shame of a disabled child in an era when feelings weren’t talked about. It wasn’t possible to say that your dreamed for child was imperfect and that you blamed yourself; was it all that standing by the bus stop in heavy traffic? Lead poisoning feels better than a faulty gene, although one frustration is that we will never truly know what caused it.

At the first Posthuman Summer School I attended in 2015, I heard Ryk Dolphijn talk of 'the wound that was there before us', drawing on Haruki Murakami’s novel ‘Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage’:

‘Wounds cannot heal. Life has taught us in many ways that sickness does not exclude health and vice versa. There are always a thousand tiny sicknesses and a thousand tiny heaths, at work, at the same time. Wounds transform, mould into other wounds, merge into bigger ones or shred into pieces. But they will always matter’.

Posthumanism has taught me that it matters; and that in my process of becoming (more-than) human I needed to recast difference and refuse to accept mine or otherwise-cast human bodies as abnormal. In doing so, together, we can ‘...strike generative alliances, starting with the composition of a transversal, materially embedded and differential ‘we’. (Braidotti, 2019, p.147). And this requires us to be vulnerable.

Language is important, and it has always been a barrier in my case. The technical word used for my condition – which is not disabling – is deformity. De- as negation, deprivation, removal, separation. I will not use the word deformed to describe myself, and yet nothing else has ever been found in its place. If I had a choice, I would perhaps choose ‘reformed’, ‘reconstructed’ or ‘reimagined’.

But perhaps the word I have always been looking for, and finally found, is posthuman.

StoryJumpers Part 2: The Fog

 Part 2: The Fog

Click here for part one

The turning home was, as ever, a turn towards mixed emotions; echoes of nostalgia, the sense of time moving on, and - more surprisingly - a rush of deep love for the landscape of their childhood. They (for the purposes of this story, we’ll call them Finn) - rose early the next morning and decided to confront the flooded landscape head on.  It was misty; the damp rising from the sodden ground so that everything felt opaque and washed out. Water pooled in deep puddles the colour of dirty washing-up water and the low February sun looked as if it didn’t had the energy to break through the fog today. Finn felt that this was completely relatable.

They took the footpath across the floodplain, dodging the deep scars left by hooves and boots, and eventually connected with the iron track that led to a patch of woodland. Finn seemed fairly sure that, on the other side of trees, lay a visitor’s centre and cafe, and after spending an hour trudging through heavy soil they hoped for coffee. Sure enough, the low building soon appeared in sight, although from a distance it appeared a bit more run down than they remembered. Flood water had left a tide mark on the brickwork and there were deep puddles around the entrance. As Finn approached,however, they could see that the lights were on and a hand-drawn sign had been posted in the window. It was also anything but quiet - even from 100 metres away they could hear the rumble of conversation and laughter.  On closer inspection, the sign read Veritas Liberabit Vos. Their Latin wasn’t great, but a few moments (and a quick Google) revealed the phrase ‘The truth will set you free.’ Intrigued, at this point the only thing to do was to go inside.

At the front of the room was a wide reception-style desk; probably left over from the visitor centre days. On top was a brass bell and a sign which read ‘Librarian.’ Behind it on a high stool was an older woman who was clearly embracing the role; she’d put together the classic librarian assemblage, from the pinze nez and bun, to the cardigan and sensible shoes. It wasn’t uncommon for people in those days to dress in costumes which reflected the roles of bygone days (roles known back then as ‘jobs’) - from those times when labour was a commodity, and someone else decided what you were worth.  Just yesterday Finn had seen three men dressed in suits on the train, talking on old-style mobile phones and pretending they were going to an office. On the tables to the librarian’s right were an array of objects; ornaments, maps, plants, photographs, and what looked like a giant mushroom; although strangely, not a single book. On the floor was also a small white dog, which eyed Finn with some suspicion. The laughter they had heard came from a row of people sat behind desks at the far end of the building; each had a sign in front of them too, stating their name and age.

‘Have you come to borrow, or lend?’ the librarian asked as Finn approached the desk. Finn paused, unsure of the correct response.

‘I’m not sure to be honest. Is this a library now?’

The librarian laughed and waved her arm vaguely in the direction of the objects and people at the end of the room. 

‘You could call it that. Borrowing is fine, but we encourage people to lend themselves too, at some point.’

Finn paused and looked around. Their guess at this point was that the whole set-up was some kind of mutual aid facility, or perhaps one of those human libraries where you learn about other people to work on your mental health. But the objects seemed to have no obvious function, and there was no indication of who the people were or why they were there.

‘I’ll borrow this time please… see what it’s all about. How does it actually work?’

Finn detected a slight eye roll in the librarian’s expression.

‘People usually borrow for three weeks…I’d recommend taking a person and an object out. Gives you lots to go at. Have a browse if you like? There’s no rush.’

Finn turned and contemplated the objects, the dog, and the people. They still hadn’t grasped what exactly was happening, but nevertheless felt intrigued. For the first time in a long time, Finn felt a sense of expectation and clarity, like a fog was lifting. There was a sudden hush in the room as the chatter died down and all eyes turned in their direction. Finn regarded the objects once more and took a step towards the table. The moment felt significant… but what to choose?

Today, on Lesbos

Today scientists discovered a petrified tree
on the island of Lesbos.
Twenty million years old - perhaps?
The age is hard to tell
Fossilised through fire and molten lava
I wonder how it lasted so long.

Today I spoke to a petrified refugee
also on the island of Lesbos.
Twenty years old - perhaps?
The age is hard to tell
Damaged through fire at Moria camp
I wonder how he lasted so long.

I ask for his asylum papers but they didn't last
as a petrified tree might do.
Instead he sends a photo from his camera roll
Oranges, brassicas - a market stall
I wonder if it reminds him of home.

I think of other things he's taken
round the world
To tell stories of belonging.
A woven blanket; a recipe, or the way his father
taught him to whistle.

Perhaps one day his wonders
will be greeted like the tree
As if his life is unique
As if his existence is a marvel
As if he were always meant to be here.

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2021/feb/25/unique-petrified-tree-up-to-20m-years-old-found-intact-in-lesbos

StoryJumpers - Chapter 1

It was a day like any other. (A rather cliched phrase; but for Sam - now 26 months into a full lockdown - it was undoubtedly true).  And so it began just as the others did, with coffee, a quick check of social media, and a morning walk around his local area.

Sam's usual walk took a circular route. He would begin at the corner of a large field and follow the well-trodden footpath across to the canal; after which (depending on the weather) he would either head on into town or join the main road which led back to his house on Sycamore Street. Over the past year he had given in to the new pattern of his life and equipped himself with hiking boots and a proper coat, which was apparently suitable for all seasons. Despite his initial reluctance and hatred of following well-being trends, he had grown to love the walks, and had even (much to his own disappointment) begun to recognise bird song and the various wildflowers appearing on the route.  He figured he was only a few months away from making nettle soup or dandelion honey, and the thought made him shudder briefly. 

As his walks had got earlier (due mainly to crippling insomnia), so his meanderings often coincided with the arrival of the farmer who owned several of the fields he walked across. Being a city boy at heart, he didn't have much of a clue what farmers did.  Nevertheless he had become quite well-acquainted with the various activities that went on throughout the year. Every morning without fail, the farmer spent a fair bit of time checking the boundaries of the fields, sadly not - as Sam might have imagined - in a smock, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of hay, but driving round the edges in a beat-up four-by-four. Sam had reflected on this and now, while he watched the farmer, undertook a daily mental boundary checking process of his own. This involved checking in with himself about his current position at work (stressful), the status of his romantic relationships (complicated), and the state of the latest government pandemic briefing (abominable).  

On this particular day, the process was interrupted by the arrival of a large dog who appeared suddenly from the undergrowth. Seemingly overjoyed to find a potential walking companion, the dog alternated jumps of joy (with accompanying muddy pawprints) and yelps of excitement. Sam's initial pleasure at the dog's appearance quickly waned as the animal's exuberance threatened to ruin his new coat.   He looked around in hope of seeing the owner, and it was at that point that something quite unusual caught his eye.

In the far corner of the field he could see the farmer's vehicle; not parked near the road as it usually was, but halfway up the bank to the canal. Beyond it were three figures, stood at the water's edge; two men and a woman, Sam guessed. They were gesticulating at the water and he could hear the sound of raised voices carried on the wind, although he couldn't make out the words. Sam felt a strange shift in the atmosphere, and the dog seemed to sense something strange as well; the animal cowered behind Sam and whined softly. As Sam shifted his gaze to the direction of the pointing arms he suddenly realised with  astonishment what the group were looking at. On the horizon, and moving swiftly across the water appeared... 

Part 2 by Andie Reynolds @ReynoldsAndie

https://professional-personal-nexus.blogspot.com/2021/02/storyjumpers-chapter-two.html

Part 3 by Peter Shukie @ShukieOne

https://shukiesweb.blogspot.com/2021/03/chapter-three-forgotten.html

Part 4 by Philippa Isom @PhilippaIsom

https://philippa-isom.medium.com/the-return-fbbb3eebeae1

Part 5 by Peter Venables @Venablespj

https://venablespj.wordpress.com/2021/03/19/they-said-love/

Part 6 by Julian Crockford @JulianCrockford

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1cSqJcOjTwcRJozSGAxGkq0jJyQGzNL8ACuBCQKjdsJM/edit

Unstable Connections

'Your connection is unstable'
Zoom tells me, and I think
well, quite.

I'm waiting on communication
behind three flashing dots
dreaming with too many windows open
in a life held together with the flimsy lick of cigarette papers
and the anaesthetic of relentless scrolling.

My connections are the loose roots of plants in sand
too soon broken with the scuff of a heel
or washed away in sudden summer rain
(the deeper ones dug up a long time ago;
extracted like a troublesome tooth).

I could reduce my processing speed, but then
there's joy in instability
the shout of laughter from a dizzy spinning daughter
that time I tripped in the rain and you caught me
or the sway of dancing, three gins in.

Give me the looseness of the rhizome connection
because in the end, I know
that the uprooted plant leaves seeds on the scuffing shoe
so that newness can be carried to another shady spot
just a bit further down the beach.

Cloud Sonnet

(After Nina Powles)

Today scientists discovered the speed of clouds:
The taste of froth on milky coffee
The crumpled bed with duck feathers
The way my computer autocorrects 'cirrus' to 'citrus.'
The day after our wedding was diluted water-colour blue.
A hand unfurls and confetti is found among the debris
along with shards of a day I never memorised.
There is no synonym for clouds -
only the precision of names or the sense of change
My mother says it's us that move; not them.
I write the names nimbus, stratus and mackerel sky on folded paper
and hang them by the window so I am surrounded
inside and out.
Their silent drift is lulling me to sleep.