I am shades of midnight, shards of the same galaxy collapsed and contrasted to tiny little balls that grow like eggs not subsumed by Mars quakes. I am faulty genes, x-rays, heart scans, and red cells insufficient. I am sexuality in a world yet to be explored by I and me. I am a jar of dry camomile leaves turning to shades of sunlight spreading over the river leaving spaces for evening lights. I am petals of the stars waned to the fragrance of flowers travelling with wanderlust from world to world. I am insights from colours of black, white, golden, everything. I am a sanctuary of solitude, edging on certainty.
I am the oscillation between feeling brilliant at birthing my art and really quite derided at churning consistent literature.
I am the east London girl left with derelicts of poetry originating from Alfred Hitchcock films.
I am the walk by the sea that gives the feeling of the wind coming off the waves. I am the travel between seasons on railways to off-the-beaten-paths destinations through countrysides and beyond to flea markets collecting memories, soul and travel tchotchkes.
I am Sunday breakfast and tea in bed, buried inside heaps of sheets, using body warmth for shield. I am pure joy, one whose heart howls with laughter and a face whose grin is as silly as the scowl of a Cheshire Cat with a hissy fit. I am a numismatist and I am the girl who collects stamps and inherits vinyls owned by my father from the 1960s. I am coffee without cream. I let the days and the weekends amaze me like my time in Hamburg. I am the random stroll to the local Signorelli bakery to have an almond croissant and fresh Italian latte and a nice chat with the transsexual lady. I am a creation inspired by the likes of Thomas Hardy, Francoise Sagan, Zadie Smith, the humour of Lucy Mangan, and the wit of David Sedaris.
I am her, ambivalent between jaunting between rural and suburban villages, bustling cities and seaside towns. I am soul inspired songs by the Upsetters and likes of Otis Redding’s ‘cigarettes and coffees’. I am stuck between layers of diversity notwithstanding an identity of complexities. I am the cheateu in the north of Bordeaux where we did that thing and the grandfather clock chimed and we laughed so hard, we choked. I am excitement yet forgettable like the confetti that drops to the floor after weddings. I am midnight in Paris and late night strolls on 57th and 6th in New York.
I am a result of the birth of a post term delivery caught unduly unprotected by the amniotic fluids of mother. I am layers of skin shedding in green and yellow slime because mum had me at the 11th month with a fontanelle that retained ground rice which she ate when she went into labour. A fontanelle that never left and each time I braid my hair by someone new, they tell me of the dent as if it was something new I only just discovered. I am June created on the first day of summer like Marilyn but could have been April beautifully bore in Spring like April in the TV show, ‘Mistresses’.
I am the heart heaved at a belief swooned towards a soul immortal. I am one who never wants to stop making memories with you, my ‘buh’. I am ménage a’ moi and I am the Pas de deux as long as I am joie de vivre, then la vie est belle. I am altered by indie and foreign films that tell elegantly of French girls admirably in love like that of ‘Jeune and Jolie’ and ‘Blue is the warmest colour’.
I am the smell of my ‘babuska’s’ saliva plastered all over my palms as she wipes them clean with her wrapper cloth sealing them in prayers for good destiny and good health. I am the crux of the patron of St Andrews representing Bajan maidens, Danish singers, Scotish spinsters, Argentine migrants, shell shocked survivors, women wanting to be mothers, gouts, jaws and sore throats.
I am a spanner in the works aggrieved by familiarity and piss taking. I am all there is, transported in my nudity, prayer and thoroughness, clear and bright like a snowy Christmas sunny morning.
I am June