The Sparrow and the Twig


One learns a landscape finally not by knowing the name or identity of everything in it, but by perceiving the relationships in it.
—Barry Lopez, ‘Landscape and Narrative’

final sunrise

Sunrise over Dartmoor

We are polite and tentative with each other. Many of the 18 participants wear the trademark rewilder outfit of buckskin and carry sheepskin rugs. There are flasks made of wood and plenty of hand-carved spoons and bowls stashed neatly on shelves in the hut where we store our utensils and any extra food we have brought. My industrial-era enamelware is out of place, ruining the vibe, violating the aesthetic. I am looking at people’s feet. Some of the shoes look handmade. There is jewellery crafted out of leather and bone, holey sweaters fastened with buttons made from deer claws. There are tufts of fur. I do not look like these people. A few of us city-dwellers wear clothing that shouts ‘civilisation’ and ‘sweat shops’ and I am grateful not to be the only ‘civ’ here.

As if from nowhere, Lynx Vilden bounds barefoot like a cat towards us. I had first heard of Lynx when I was living in Montana. She is revered in the West for living as our Paleolithic ancestors did. Her knowledge of ancestral skills is vast and rumour has it she can get a fire started in 30 seconds with only two sticks. She is all buckskin clothing, chiselled cheekbones, spiky blonde hair and eyes the colour of a mountain lake. Born in 1965, Lynx is exactly my age but looks like Brigitte Nielsen’s younger Stone Age sister. For a rewilder (they tend to be a quiet bunch) she has quite an online presence. The tagline on her website is: ‘We aim to “live” in the wilderness, rather than “survive” it to get back to civilization.’ I never managed the seven-hour drive from my bungalow in Missoula to her yurt in Twisp, Washington. So, when I heard she was teaching ancestral skills for a week in April somewhere in Dartmoor National Park, I pounced.

Lynx silently motions with her hands for us to gather and then begins to walk away. We are to follow her to a nearby patch of flat ground where she instructs us without words to take off our shoes. She is holding a hand drill – a flat piece of wood called the hearth, and a stick, which is the bow. She motions for Leah, one of the participants to hold the bottom of the bow onto the hearth while she spins it. Lynx gestures for us to gather some dry grass. It takes maybe 45 minutes for us to take turns holding the hearth and spinning the bow to get enough heat for the grass to light. Lynx carries this smoking bundle through the woods and we follow. I am not used to walking barefoot over hard early spring ground. The pine needles, sticks and rocks hurt my soft city feet.

Lynx lights a larger fire with the bundle and we sit around it in a circle. Our week of living outdoors on Dartmoor has officially begun. Dusk is settling. A wind picks up and I straighten my legs so my bare feet catch some of the warmth of the fire. We pass around a talking stick and tell each other what ‘miracle’ brought us here.

final supper


Back at camp, Katie the cook has a large pot of venison stew waiting for us. The meat came to us from Bob, a local deerstalker. Any worries about the animal’s welfare are put to rest. After supper we take turns saying what we are grateful for. Many people list the deer we have just eaten. Thanking the food and the land seems to be a common thread. It would be easy to be cynical, to do a Portlandia-style satire on the middle-class Paleo folk who don their buckskin, make fire from sticks, play their handmade flutes, and thank the stones for being stones. But there is more here. I can feel it although I have no name for it, yet.


After dinner, we tell the group what we were passionate about when we were seven years old. I talk of my upbringing in the soulless Canadian suburbs. Most of the participants tell tales of playing in streams and catching frogs. Canadian suburbs are designed for cars, for life with sunken living rooms, dry bars, rec rooms, where everything is tinted by the glare of TV. I hated growing up in those suburbs and now I am feeling as I so often do, somewhat disappointed, even a little angry that my childhood was spent not in the woods but in a place where soil was called ‘dirt’, where lawns were mowed to a buzzcut every few days and where bees were swatted to death for fear they might ruin the barbecue. I had no connection with the place I grew up in. This has always rankled me. My birthplace has left me empty-handed of stories, unlike the ground I am sitting on now with its hauntings and druids, ghost stories, songs and rituals involving stone, bone, moss, fertile swathes of soil and rainsoaked ferns.


 The next day I tuck my knife into a cloth bag with some bread and cheese, a bottle of water, my journal and Crossing Open Ground by Barry Lopez. We begin a silent walk where each one of us is led to a spot to sit for an hour or so. From my rock I can see a decaying stone wall covered in moss. Fallen trees are criss-crossed with ivy. Gigantic bees buzz around me but what I notice most of all are the birds: wood pigeons and the quick trills of what I think is a wood warbler. Sunlight struggles to make its way to the floor of the forest through the branches of very tall oaks. Where I sit, the air is cool. I am aware of the two landscapes we all move between: the one outside us and the other that exists within.

Our assigned task is to gather ‘vegetal matter with a utilitarian value for the whole group’. This way of thinking is so foreign. We have all become so individualised, so atomised with our own phones, computers, flats, social media accounts. City life is the opposite of what Lynx is creating here which in a word can only be described as a tribe. I bristled when I heard it being used earlier in the day. I felt it was a word one needed to earn. But now I am beginning to understand that a tribe can be formed when we rely on others for our food and shelter, warmth and companionship.

I am seeing the landscape for what it can do rather than as a collection of named objects; as active, not passive. Barry Lopez captures this idea in his essay ‘Landscape and Narrative’ when a black-throated sparrow lands in a paloverde bush: ‘the resiliency of the twig under the bird, that precise shade of yellowish-green against the milk-blue sky, the fluttering whir of the arriving sparrow’, these are what he means by ‘landscape’. It is by watching the landscape that one learns it, not necessarily by knowing the names of things.

I spot some fiddleheads. My mother would buy small packs of these velvety green ferns at vast expense from the supermarket in Ottawa. She would unwrap them from their clingfilm, lift them from their Styrofoam trays and then soak them, boil them and sauté them in butter. We would savour the two or three on our plates as if they were gold. I harvest a few to bring back to the group. I look around for something else I might be able to share. I pull off a hunk from a charred stump. We could draw with it. Then I spot a bone. This could be a ladle or a spoon. I put that in my bag and top it up with some young nettles. We can use these for tea. My inadequacy is making me manic. Just then I see members of the group approach. I take a breath and join the line. Some of them have bulging bags and I wonder what foods and implements they have conjured from these woods.

We walk silently across fields and through forests of bluebells. Eventually we come to Blackingstone Rock, a 75-foot high, Christmas-pudding-shaped tor of pure granite flecked with shiny feldspar. Running up the back of the tor, like a spine, is a metal ladder. We climb to the top where the wind whips and where the views over Dartmoor spread out on all sides.

The Dartmoor chronicler William Crossing believed that in an attempt to settle an argument, King Arthur and the Devil hurled a giant quoit at each other. As the quoits hit the ground they turned to stone creating the two tors, one of which was Blackingstone Rock and the other Hel Tor. The tor is pockmarked with small circular basins, which I am told were druidical altars. Like a cat, Lynx curls into one for a nap.

Lynx curled up.hor

Lynx having a nap on Blackinstone Tor

We head back into the forest, quieter now, feeling the effects of the sunwarmed stone on our backs. Lynx instructs us to gather two dry sticks and eight switches of hazel. People are running into the woods, knives and folding saws at the ready. I am feeling lost. Ella and Carlos, a couple who I had spoken to earlier, notice my anxiety and patiently show me what hazel looks like and offer me the use of their saw.

Once we have our sticks, we head back to camp. Katie has prepared fried pollock with mashed swedes, parsnips and celeriac. I am hungry. In my effort to lighten my backpack, I took out a lot of my food. Hunger is something I have forgotten how to live with. I am shamed by this.


 As I try and sleep that night, I hear an owl’s repeated hooting and the response from a more distant owl. They are marking their territory. I fall asleep with a burning desire to understand them. It is only when they stop their hooting around 4:00 a.m. that I wake. It is the silence that has roused me. A very faint light creeps over my tent, almost like a shadow. I feel I am suspended in that fleeting moment between night and day, between the animals of the dark and those who emerge with the light. I am inhabiting a precious liminal moment. At 52, I am suspended between youth and old age and this sense of being between things seems to be the frequency I am tuned to. The word comes from the Latin limen, or threshold. I am feeling it everywhere. A strange sense of total and utter wellbeing consumes me. And then the birds of the morning take over. The woods around me fill with sound. Life can continue for another day.


We are to find a partner and forage for our lunch. I am paired with Lynx. We walk together down a lane away from the camp. Lynx had seen some very young, green spruce buds. She shows me how to remove the brown husks from the lime-green almond-shaped buds. They have a sharp, astringent lemony taste. She spots a curved slice of fallen tree bark to put them in. It makes the perfect receptacle which in New York or London would add about £20 to the price of a meal in a restaurant (‘served on a hand-harvested spruce board infusing the buds with the taste and smell of wilderness’).

With her survival skills, Lynx shares similarities with Preppers. But, rather than fill her bunker with dried food, bottled water and ammunition, she is prepared in another way: Lynx can live in the wilderness by hunting, gathering, making bows, arrows, clothing and whatever else she needs; she does not have to escape the wild in order to survive it. The Doomsday approach of Preppers who see themselves surviving the economic collapse by storing up on man-made supplies is based on fear and a mistrust of government. A bunker lined with tin cans and bars of gold is finite, whereas Lynx has the skills needed to survive indefinitely – skills that can be passed on. They might both share a mistrust of the system, but their approach could not be more different.


We all place our foraged food onto a picnic table. The colours are spectacular. We silently take turns trying every plant, taking in the smells and tastes and textures: stitchwort, garlic mustard or Jack-by-the-hedge, gorse flowers, pink purslane, primrose, violets, landcress, pennywort or navelwort, dock leaves, hawthorn leaves and spruce buds. It is like eating a fairytale.

foraged plants for lunch

Plants foraged for lunch

That afternoon we are to begin our baskets. This is what the sticks are for. I break into a sweat. I have only ever made one basket and it looked like those photos of webs made by spiders on LSD: anxious, wonky and a bit mental, revealing more about me than I care to.

Lynx shows us how to strip the bark from our hazel sticks, how to bend them and tie them into a U-shape using animal hide as string. I feel my body move in sync with the making of my basket: I bend to make the wood bend, my muscles contract when I tie the struts together. When the deer hide is soaking, I stand, relaxed, watching it soften in the water. This work is three-dimensional, tactile. There are smells and sounds – it is anathema to the flat, backlit screens we all spend our days staring into. It is this physical dimension I have been craving without knowing it.


On our second-to-last day, there is a snow flurry. As the snow gets heavier, we take shelter in the lodge, the one structure with a roof, and watch the grove of beeches bleach to white. A wind whips the flakes around us. Lynx announces we will walk out onto the moor with what we can fit in our baskets and we will camp without tents. Many of us think she is joking and look at each other and laugh. We go silent as we realise she is being absolutely serious. I am not prepared to camp in the snow. An elderly gentleman from France comes over and whispers to me, ‘This is too much!’ He is on the verge of a very Gallic rebellion.

‘Let’s see what the weather is like tomorrow,’ Lynx says as a way of placating us.


The following morning the inside of my tent is a golden pink. I step out onto crispy, white grass. We had agreed that if it wasn’t raining we would head off for our night of wild camping. I pack. We hike out late morning walking through bluebell meadows, crossing streams on bridges made of fallen granite slabs and we say hello to the inhabitants of the few small towns we pass through. They stare at our buckskin and hazel baskets strapped to our backs. We are filthy and giggle like children at the disconnect between us and the villagers with their Lidl bags, heading home to their running water and televisions.

After about three or four hours we come to a wall of Herculean boulders. We scramble up. On the other side is a tiny patch of flat ground, just big enough to cradle a fire and our bodies around it. We set up camp and Katie heats up some leftover stew made from Chunko the lamb, whom we had been eating throughout the week. She adds nettles and throws a few garlic heads into the fire along with some sweet potatoes. We eat with our hands and there is something wonderfully primitive about being here, eating like this from the land. We sing, we laugh, we chat. The group is one unit now.

After dinner, I am told the temperature will sink below freezing. I move my bivvy bag from between two slabs of rock to a spot next to Tiffany, a woman with a surplus of blankets. We agree to ignore the ticks. I go to bed before the others. Maybe it is because I am the youngest of seven children, but I feel comforted falling asleep to the faint murmur of voices. When I was young, much of my education came from this late night eavesdropping. Perhaps it was my attempt to recreate tribal life in those cold, atomised suburbs.

I listen to the laughter and the crackling of the fire. I watch the stars above me. I never want to leave. I am suspended here. We all are. This is the discovery I make: we are all living liminal lives. Denying this is part of the madness. The only real thing is the liminality of life, the moments when we can inhabit fluidity, accept the threshold. We are just passing through, why should we expect anything other than being between places and times and states of being. I let my tears quietly fall. There is that familiar tickle as the salty water slides along my cheekbones into my ears. This is right. I should be crying. I have lived another day. We have all lived another day. This feels like the miracle it is. Sleep comes to me before the group has dispersed for the night. My dreams are more vivid than they have been for a long time.


I get back to London very late that night. My ten-year-old daughter is still up. She runs to hug me. ‘You smell of dead animal,’ she says excited at this meaty version of her mother.

My husband Jason asks, ‘So, are you a new person?’

Me: ‘Um, yeah.’

Jason: ‘Will I like this new person?’

Me: ‘I don’t know.’

Jason: ‘Do you like this new person?’

Me: ‘I don’t know yet. I have no idea.’

Published March 12, 2018 on the Dark Mountain blog:

All photographs by author


Stories Made of Rivers


This photo essay was published on the Dark Mountain blog, November 20, 2017


White Sulphur Springs, Montana

We have created every living thing from water.

The Koran, Chapter Al-Anbiya, Verse Number 30


  1. Civilisation

The first story I was told about rivers can be summed up like this: There is direct line from the Sumerian Ziggurat of Ur to the Chrysler Building. I was around nine.


  1. Civilisation II

Rivers allowed us to grow food, store it, build houses, libraries, museums, cities and empires. I was maybe ten when I heard this one.


  1. Cells

In sixth grade, the story shifted from history to science when we memorized that our hearts and brains were 73% water. I have always seen fresh water as precious, magical. I used to believe that water could think. If my brain was mainly water, why not?

Every single living and non-living, visible and non-visible object around us—our computer screens, the retinas in our eyeballs, the dust in the air—all of these rely on fresh water. Our body is a walking river. Water flows from us. The liquid inside us will out eventually.


  1. Cycles

In middle school, we were taught about the water cycle: river to rain to snow to mountain glacier to melting ice, back to river. We coloured in those diagrams and added those arrows diligently. But we were not told that this cycle was one of the many ways the earth breathes in and out. Nor were we told that bathing in the River Ganges frees the bather from sin, the outward cleanliness symbolising inner purification. This waterway is fed by the glaciers in the Himalayas, the Mountains of the Gods, and feeds the Indian plains as if descended from the heavens.


  1. Hygiene

The fact that we as humans spend nine months growing in water also passed us by at school. The giggles of embarrassment in ‘Hygiene’ class drowned out any information about babies rolling around in their water-filled pods.


  1. Secrets

Water’s ability to seemingly clean itself, to rejuvenate, to flow and keep flowing no mater what we throw at it is a strange sort of illusion. If you fell a forest, the trail of destruction is there for people to see. But water is different, it keeps the secret for you.


  1. Flow

Many rivers—despite their damns, their drying out, their dead fish, their pollution—are still flowing. Sometimes they run yellow or orange or green. Some may look crystal clear but are carrying thousands, if not millions of particles of arsenic, cadmium, phosphorus, nitrogen, mercury and lead. Two hundred and twenty-six million pounds of toxic chemicals are dumped in American rivers every year. Of this, 1.5 million pounds are carcinogens, 626,000 pounds are chemicals linked to developmental disorders and 354,000 pounds are associated with reproductive problems. Some rivers, such as the 1,900-mile long Rio Grande are drying up and disappearing altogether, but many in a heartbreaking display of trying to do the right thing, just keep flowing.


The Clark Fork River, Missoula, Montana

  1. Float

When I lived in Western Montana, ‘floating’ was what you did on hot days. You’d drive to the Blackfoot or the Clark Fork with a spare inner tube strapped to the roof of your car or in the bed of your pickup. You’d throw it into the river, stick a hat on your head (that searing Montana sun), lean back into your rubber doughnut and let the river take you. We were lucky in Montana: 40% of its rivers are deemed ‘good’ by the Environmental Protection Agency as compared with, for instance, 21% in the coastal plains around the Gulf of Mexico. You know things are bad when the best bill of health is one in which you are more sick than healthy.


The Hot Springs Motel and Spa, White Sulphur Springs, Montana

  1. White Sulphur Springs

Here’s another story. A more recent one, which isn’t taught in schools because it is about me and a guy I once met near a river:

It is a damp December morning in 2016 and I am driving through a starlit, pinky dawn from Missoula to the town of White Sulphur Springs (population 1,000). The morning light has crested above the distant mountains as I roll down Main Street. The town is a mixture of boarded up storefronts and some new, thriving businesses. There is a real estate office, a cinema, a pizza place, a few gas stations, a couple of bars, and off the main street, a library. And then there is the unfussy Hot Springs Spa Motel with its pools of sulphurous, health enhancing spring water. It was while soaking in one of these springs a few months ago that I heard a man with an Australian accent talking about the mine. My ears immediately perked up. I bumped into him later that day in a bar down the road from the motel and we started up a conversation. We were two out-of-towners waiting for our drinks.

I Googled him that night only to discover that he is Bruce Hooper, one of the directors of Tintina Resources—a Canadian and Australian mining company which is behind the proposed copper mine in White Sulphur Springs. I find out that he also worked for BP and Rio Tinto—companies behind some of the worst ecological disasters of the past few years. Tintina are dying to get their hands on the world’s largest lode of copper which is buried thirteen miles from Sheep Creek, a major trout-spawning tributary of the Smith River. The Smith is one of the last great untouched rivers, and it pays its keep: about $4.5 million a year is made from floaters who travel its 60-mile limestone canyon between the Little and Big Belt Mountains. But none of this matters in this story.

Tintina’s project is called Black Butte, after the black butte which sits atop the world’s largest deposit of pure copper. It has been on the table for several years, and Tintina are waiting for the green light. Judging by who holds the power these days, it’s probably not long until the trucks start rumbling and the ground is ripped open. The copper will make the company millions, and the River, well, it’s a river. It will keep flowing no matter what shit they dump in it.

The Mint Bar, Main Street, White Sulphur Springs, Montana

  1. The Tour

I book myself into a tour of the proposed Black Butte copper mine in White Sulphur Springs. I ask about the tailings—the toxic water that is the result of blasting the copper-laden rock from the earth—and am told that they’ve got a “great idea” for that. The guy leading the tour speaks in a soothing homespun way which does the opposite of reassure me. Doesn’t he know what mines do? All his metaphors for the violence of this proposed mine are couched in Pinterest-style baking terms. The rocks left over from the excavations will be pulverised to the consistency of “icing sugar” and will be blended with the chemical-laden water until it is a sort of paste. They’ll be made into “cakes” and will be shoved back into the holes in the ground. “Cheesecloth” is involved. No one will ever know the land was ever mined. According to my tour guide, this story has a really happy ending, like a Martha Stewart cake recipe: everyone gets a piece of it.

The Black Butte which sits atop one of the world’s largest lodes of pure copper

  1. West

In 1872, when miners were flocking to Montana to stake their claims, a law was passed which allowed them to dig up what they wanted, inject whatever chemicals they needed to separate mineral from rock, gold from stone, copper from its vein, and walk away without cleaning up the waste. There are thousands of abandoned mines all over the state. Exactly a hundred years later, the Clean Water Act was created. The 1872 act is older but often supercedes the Clean Water Act.

It is difficult for people outside of the American West to grasp the enormity of the reclamation problem. Scott Fields, an environmental health writer, admits there is plenty of controversy around abandoned mines: how many, how lethal, how best to clean them up. But according to him, experts can agree on at least a few major points: “the scope of the impacts of abandoned mines isn’t well understood, the damage that untended mines cause is increasing, and adequate funds aren’t available to address even the largest, most harmful mine sites. And although scientists are developing new methods to treat abandoned mines, the field of mine remediation is still in its infancy.”


  1. Place

There are two main types of mining: placer and hard rock mining. Placer mining is all about water. The word comes from the Spanish, placer, meaning a shoal or alluvial deposit. It has also given us ‘place’ and ‘plaza’. Gold is the place, roads are paved with it in our imaginations, it is central to our way of thinking, our economy, our myths, our histories. It centres and grounds us.


  1. Twin Creek

This is a more recent story. This one has a happy ending:

It is the end of April and Paul Parson is driving me to Twin Creek, 20 miles west of Missoula. Paul is a restoration coordinator for the river conservation group Trout Unlimited. In his late thirties or early forties, Paul has an easy, relaxed manner and speaks quietly and deliberately, choosing his words carefully—something I have come to associate with this part of the world.

Steering his truck with his knees, he looks over at me and asks if his driving makes me nervous. “Not at all,” I say trying to be nonchalant.

We turn off the I-90 onto Nine Mile Road. This landscape is the stuff of screen savers and calendars. Mountains in the distance, wooden fences and photogenic barns slanting at attractive angles. It was once ranching land but is no longer.

Paul is talking to me about mining. He sees it from the other side, from the side of the rivers that have had just about everything poured and leached into them and left for dead. “Private mining claims often follow rivers as you need a lot of water to mine. And mines just decimate them. Rivers can heal themselves if you give them a leg up and plant the right things near them and get their meanders right, but…” he shrugs, leaving me to finish that thought.

This is what Paul does all day: he reclaims, remakes, and designs rivers, although he dislikes the term ‘designing’ when it comes to what he does—too pretentious.


Workers from Trout Unlimited at Nine Mile Creek

  1. Replanting

Paul and I park a short walk from Twin Creek and meet up with two of his co-workers, Dave and Rob. Paul says we can kill two birds with one stone by doing some planting—he is too humble to call it rewilding—and checking out how Twin Creek, one of Trout Unlimited’s latest reclamation projects, is coming along. To an outsider, the stream looks perfect—too perfect. Small waterfalls of aesthetically piled rocks appear at intervals. Each stone, dip, and curve of the creek has been “designed”. It is alarming how this near-perfection in nature looks unnatural. I watch the three men walk along the stream. If you didn’t know them, it would be clear to you that they were not out for a hike. They run their fingers through the grasses and shrubs they planted from seed: willow and hawthorn and rose. They touch the trunks of the three cottonwoods they left in place which have seeded others nearby naturally, as well as the conifers which they planted as saplings. They poke at the mushrooms and squat to examine some scat: elk and bear and goose, full of seeds. It’s all looking good.

“We know what a healthy stream looks like,” Paul says, “It’s in our mind’s eye”. They stop and listen to the sound of the water and talk of the meander. Like artists or physicians, they call upon all their senses to review their work. Certain plants are thriving more than others. For the first time in a long time, the creek meets up with the Nine Mile River and will soon be able to support trout. This is a success story.

“Native trout are really sensitive to climate change,” Paul says. “They can’t survive in warm water. They are an ice age fish. Ex-mining water is the worst for them. It’s often standing water, doesn’t flow, gets warm as a result, and the flows that were created from the digging go in straight lines and this causes a lot of sediment. Trout are very sensitive to sediment.”


Standing water

  1. Soup

Paul wants to show me what a creek looks like before he and his team have done their work, so I have something to compare Twin Creek to. We head to the Mattie V Creek, named, I believe, after Mattie Hixson who married a Montana man in the 1920s. Mattie died in 1985 at the age of 83 and her namesake creek has been sitting stagnant and polluted for a long time. Paul took Mattie’s great grandsons fishing to show them what a good stream looks like and said, “This could be on your property”. They got totally behind the clean up. It is a horribly ugly spot. The still water is split-pea green. It buries the trees half way up their trunks. Hills of sludge have been piled into grassless tors around the site. It is unnervingly quiet and claustrophobic. We don’t stay long.


  1. Desire

We are lulled into thinking that because these sacred waterways—and every river is sacred—are constantly flowing, they possess what we desire more than anything: eternal life and an ever-changing nature that gives the impression of permanence. They are everything we want to be. But even rivers can die.


  1. Reclamation

The first known use of the word ‘reclaim’ is in the 13th-century anonymously-penned poem Cursor Mundi, whose title in English means ‘Runner of the World’. Its 30,000 verses were written by a cleric in the North of England as a way of tracing history and religion up to his lifetime. In the Cursor Mundi, to ‘reclaim’ is to ‘call back a hawk’. In the 14th century, the word was used to mean ‘to reduce to obedience’. And today the word retains that sense of control in its definition ‘to bring land under cultivation’. But now among ecologists, rewilders, and environmentalists, to ‘reclaim’ land is to return it to a pristine Eden-like state. But, just how far back do we go in reclaiming a river or a tract of land? Does one try to ecologically wind the clock back to pre-ice age times? Or to one of the interglacial ages? If so, which one? They are all very different with their own unique flora and fauna. Does one go back to 1492 when Columbus set foot on American soil, which is what some American rewilders used to think. Others, however, believe that 1778 is more desirable—the year Captain Cook landed in Hawaii. Whereas for some, the foundation of Yellowstone Park in 1872 is the ecological baseline to which we should be aiming in our reclamation projects. And for the more dedicated contemporary rewilders, we should be looking to our Stone Age ancestors, to the hunter-gatherers for the most ecologically healthy baseline. The debates are ongoing. But we all seem to think we need to look back in order to move forward.


Paul Parson planting seeds

  1. Illusion

In 1963, the National Park Service published the Leopold Report, named after the zoologist and conservationist A. Starker Leopold. Starker was the son of Aldo Leopold one of the founders of the land conservation movement in the United States whose book A Sand Country Almanac contains a chapter on Ecological Conscience in which he put forth the idea that “conservation is a state of harmony between man and land”. But the authors of the Leopold Report were already aware of the problems and the conflicts in reclamation. They wrote, “restoring the primitive scene is not done easily nor can it be done completely … a reasonable illusion of primitive America could be recreated, using the utmost in skill, judgment, and ecologic sensitivity.” Even in 1963 there was the awareness that wilderness could only exist in America as a “reasonable illusion”.

The rivers Paul Parsons reclaims, are not wild rivers, they are illusions of wild rivers. Just because a river flows does not mean it is not dead. We can and we should reclaim as much of the earth as we can even if it means dreaming ourselves back to a time very few people can remember, before history was written and stories were on paper. I would much rather wander through the reasonable illusion of Twin Creek than the toxic reality of the Mattie V. For now, and probably for the rest of our time on earth, humans will have to come to terms with the reasonable illusion of wilderness because the real thing is disappearing fast. The story goes that we can call back the hawk, although we know in our hearts it is too far away to hear our cries.


This Little Island



March 30, 2017

Today is the day Britain leaves Europe.

Two vivid memories spring to mind, both from the early 1990s.

The first incident occurred a few weeks after I arrived in London from Canada. My days were spent job-hunting and sightseeing. I had come to London with a few hundred pounds and had found a room for 20 quid a week. My landlady, the impossibly named Lady Drew leant me her typewriter so I could write query letters to publishing houses. The ‘l’, the ‘j’ and the ‘t’ were wonky but this was before computers so you were allowed to send letters to publishers with sentences that looked more like rivers than train tracks.


Between job interviews I would take advantage of the free museums and galleries. One day in the crypt of St Martin-in-the-Field where you could get a cheap cup of tea, I found myself at a long table next to a woman reading the Times. When she came to the end of a section, she folded it and tucked it next to her dirty plate. It was clear to me her newspaper, when she was all finished with it, was headed for the bin. So, I reached over and picked up the section lying under the rim of her plate.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

“Um, I thought your were finished,” I said, guiltily putting it back down.

“Doesn’t mean you can have it,” she snapped.

There it was: her newspaper was not for sharing. My dirty paws were to stay off it. She had made it clear. And there was a subtext here: I could tell that my accent hadn’t helped me in my newspaper borrowing. I had been called a ‘pushy American’ by so many cab drivers, newsagents and publishers by now. I knew I wasn’t considered ‘one of them’, and probably never would be.


Cut to a few years later. I have a great job, I’ve been saving a little, paying taxes, and managed to buy a small flat. In short, I had become the perfect little immigrant. I am in love with London, in love with my work, I have an incredible, diverse and bohemian bunch of friends. Life is good. One Sunday as I walk home through the Portobello Market just as it is closing up, I notice a stall-holder packing up her things. She’s tossing stuff into an old cardboard box in the gutter. It is clear that the items being thrown in the box are unwanted: they’re broken or chipped. In other words, they’re the items she doesn’t think are worth her while packing into her truck to sell at the next market she is headed to.

A small ceramic vase not much taller than a Penguin Classic catches my eye. It is not especially pretty, and might even be cracked, but it is turquoise—my favourite colour. I stop and pick it up. There is that question again: “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Um, I thought you were throwing it away,” I say sounding sort of strangled.

“I am,” she replies.

“So, um, well, I thought maybe I could have it then,” I say.

The woman lunges at me, grabs the vase and smashes it to the ground. I stand for a second stunned by her violence. Then I turn and walk with a lump lodged somewhere between my throat and my heart. I have spent the past 25 years trying to understand this act.


I’ve never written about these small events. Mainly out of respect for my adopted home. It’s not a good look choosing to live in a foreign country and then moaning about it. “If it’s so crap, then why don’t you leave,” is an annoying refrain, but one that is true nonetheless. So I tend to only mention the positives about life in Britain—or my life in Britain. And the positives do outweigh the negatives.


But with Brexit (a term I despise for its jaunty, punny elision of ‘Britain’ and ‘exit’ as if it were the punchline to a racist joke) the genie is out of the bottle. The mean-spirited side of the islanders I live among is out for all to see. The small-minded lack of generosity, the ‘Little England’ mindset of the conservatives who yearn for some lost Eden that never existed is now at the forefront. The horror of it all has been made public. My narrative of coming to this place and being welcomed and finding a home here now has to be rewritten.

The bean counters and bureaucrats have won. I wonder what it would be like to move here now. I got my fair share of “Come here to steal our jobs, then?” from cab drivers the minute they heard my accent. I hate to think of what I would get now. I had one employer way back who threatened to sack me because according to her, I “looked too happy.” She was a young woman but already withered from bitterness. She was allergic to stimulants which meant coffee and tea were banned from the office. One day I brought in some peppermint tea. When she walked into the kitchen and spotted it, she shrieked and called her boyfriend to come and take the contraband stimulant off the premises. I remember her shaking with fury and shouting at me, although I can’t remember now what she said exactly.


But all this was the forgettable hum in the background of life in one of the greatest cities on earth. When things got too mean or lacklustre or grey or snobby or ironic, there was always Brixton Market, Ridley Road, Chinatown, the Portuguese cafes in Stockwell, the Lisboa on Golborne Road, the Spanish bar on Hanway Street, the Italian Church and its shop on Clerkenwell Road. You get the picture.

Not only is there a glorious diversity in this city, but it was something I always had the sense was wanted, was welcome. Now I am not so sure. The messages out there that my antennae are receiving are coming from the newspaper hoarders and vase smashers: Let’s make Britain so crap that no one will ever want to come here. … Let’s keep everything to ourselves, even the things we don’t really want. … Just because we don’t want it, doesn’t mean anyone else should have it. …


The future of this tiny island in the North Atlantic will be one of tip-toeing through the shards of broken vases knowing deep in our hearts that we can at least have our own damn newspaper that we bloody well paid for—written in the Queen’s English, full of tits and asses and headlines made up of stupid puns, and no one can ever take that away from us, not even the immigrants.


Note: for my friends and acquaintances who voted to leave Europe, this is in no way a diatribe against you. It is the misguided campaign, the cynicism and the lies peddled by the politicians that I find inexcusable. The whole project to leave Europe was based on falsities and dishonesty and a small-mindedness.

Are We Ruining Our Children with Too Much Praise?

 When my daughter came home from her third-grade sports day with a plastic gold medal, I asked her what she had won it for.

“We all got a medal,” she beamed.

I looked at my husband, who had been at her school all day cheering her on.

“They got a medal just for showing up?” I asked.

He didn’t seem to think there was a problem with this, but it niggled at me for weeks. I couldn’t help wondering about the kids who are genuinely gifted in the 30-yard dash or at jumping over hurdles. How would they feel being awarded the same medal as the ones who have zero interest in running and jumping or are just not that good at it? Have we reached the point where we can’t be honest about our children’s skills and limitations?

Educators and psychologists have debated the subject of praising children just for showing up for decades. You often hear comments like, “We are in a new age of narcissism” or, “We are entering a new me generation.” Is there, in fact, a connection between entitlement and how much praise we give our children? If so, what can we, as parents, caregivers, and educators do about it?

Studies show that feedback is a necessary component in a child’s sense of self-worth. But they don’t seem to need praise in order to thrive.

Although the debate is far from over, well-accepted studies in this area come to the conclusion that, yes, in many ways our well-intentioned tendency to lavish our offspring with praise is fueling a generation of narcissists. I am still not happy with the “gold medal for all” approach to sports day, but I have to grapple with the fact that many of us live in a society that values praise over engagement and end goals over process.

• • •

In the 1960s and 70s, the cultural pendulum had swung a great distance from the Victorian idea that sparing the rod would spoil the child. We had, thankfully, moved from seeing children as little adults who could be sent down the mines, to viewing them more or less as equals. Child-led learning was gaining ground; parents told their kids to call them Carol and Bob, not Mom and Dad. The issue of praise has swung alongside the pendulum: Gone is the Dickensian approach of “building character” through coldness and disinterest, but parents and teachers are now beginning to question the “everything is great” mode. We have shifted toward a middle ground, one where we understand that feedback is good, but praise does not always bring about the outcome we hope it will.

The educational psychologist Jere Brophy, writing in the Elementary School Journal, provides an example of a well-meaning statement we can all relate to:

“Tom, how much is eight times seven? … Right. Jane, nine times six? … Okay. Bill, do you know how much is two times two? … Good, Bill! That’s exactly right! Nancy, how much is nine times eight? … Right.”

At its core, this example evinces the desire to boost a pupil’s confidence by using praise. But Brophy notes that this method of praising will probably “backfire, causing the recipients pain or embarrassment rather than making them feel good.” This is because praise on its own is not enough. The quality, context, and intention behind the praise matter, too. Bill correctly works out a very easy problem and is given extra accolades; meanwhile, his classmates have managed much more difficult ones but are shown less approval. This undermines the child’s trust in the person praising their efforts, thus devaluing the praise.

Studies show that feedback is a necessary component in the building of a child’s sense of self-worth. But, interestingly, students do not seem to need praise in order to thrive. Feedback is distinct from praise in that it engages with a child’s efforts rather than simply passing a value judgment on them.

In more recent studies, another danger emerges: Approval itself can become the “extrinsic reward,” the end goal. A child who is praised often will begin to crave the satisfaction he or she gets from pleasing their parent, teacher, or caregiver. Instead of doing something for the pure joy of it, the child will begin to do it simply for the praise. This is not a healthy cycle, and it can turn children into approval addicts. Their worth comes from the recognition they get rather than an inner sense of achievement or fulfilment.

In addition, there is some research showing that intrinsic motivating factors, such as wanting to learn the meaning of a difficult word or getting lost in the act of painting simply for the pleasure it brings, are incompatible with extrinsic factors. Writing in the Educational Psychology Review, Martin V. Covington and Kimberly J. Müeller take this idea further, positing that “when teachers attempt to encourage intrinsic behavior directly—for example, by acknowledging students for pursuing already established interests such as poetry writing—then ironically, these activities may be discouraged….Such discouragement is believed to occur because the offering of additional rewards devalues an already self-justifiable activity, which from the student’s perspective translates as, ‘If someone has to pay me for doing this, it must not be worth doing for its own sake.’”

If praise becomes the focus for preschoolers, and then shifts into wanting those gold stars at elementary school, it can then segue into craving the top grades in high school. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but all we are doing is training our children to attain goals rather than to pursue learning for its own sake. In fact, a study of college students found that they rated “achieving the highest grade possible” as their main reason for learning. Things like “increasing one’s knowledge” or “undertaking work as a matter of personal challenge” rated much lower in their priorities.

How do we foster in our children a desire to learn, rather than a desire to please us?

Although in some educational situations, some amount of praise can lead to short-term results, “these gains are countered by lower levels of motivation for continued learning.” There is evidence that “the more children are induced to do something for a reward, whether the reward is tangible or verbal, the more they show a diminished interest the next time they do it.”

So how do we foster in our children a desire to learn, rather than a desire to please us? One simple way is to praise the effort over the outcome. Not only does this encourage them to keep doing whatever it is, it takes the focus away from “good” and “bad,” placing it on the idea that working toward something can be its own reward. In other words, instead of thinking about praising our children, we should be concentrating on encouraging them. Some psychologists are keen to emphasize that we need to provide specific feedback rather than overall generalizations. We should also work toward creating an atmosphere where children feel safe making mistakes. Failure is part of the process of learning and is something we often overlook.

Psychologists suggest using “sincere, direct comments” in a “natural voice.” In other words, try not to say you think something’s great if you don’t, and don’t overdo the enthusiasm. It can be tricky: When I am confronted at the school gates with a robot made out of All-Bran boxes, my first thought is, “Oh dear, just one more thing to clutter up the house.” The object may not display any sort of skill or be particularly nice to look at, but my daughter might be quite proud of her creation. Asking her about it is a better tactic rather than wading in with disingenuous positive comments. Encouraging her to tell me about her process saves me from making insincere remarks.

Although most parents and educators agree that some praise, or, more precisely, “positive encouragement,” is critical to developing children’s self-esteem, the keys are to limit it, to keep it focused, and to be honest with it. If we applaud everything our children do simply because they have done it, then we are teaching them that mere existence is enough. This leads to entitlement and narcissism, not self-assurance and confidence. We underestimate how much children can see through dishonesty. They so often know what we really think, and it’s important for them to trust us.

In our fast-paced technological age, we are witnessing an upsurge in what some see as the normalization of narcissism—not garden-variety self-regard, but pathological self-absorption. And I can’t help but make the connection between a generation of approval-needy children and one of parents whose heads are buried in their smartphones. Perhaps, while we are simply too busy to notice, we are using praise as a sort of shorthand: the “like” button on Facebook, the thumbs-up emoticon in a text message. If all a child needs to do to get that endorphin-y hit of approval is grab two seconds of our time, then this will become the norm, the model for proper engagement.

It is up to us to see that the children in our midst are presented with the mess of reality, with their failures as well as successes, with joy as much as disappointment. We owe them more than plastic gold medals for participation: We owe them the ability to confront complexity. It is our honesty—and not our distracted “wows”—that will provide our children with the skills needed to live in the real world, the one that lies beyond the bubble of constant praise.

On Praising Effectively
The Elementary School Journal, Vol. 81, No. 5 (May, 1981), pp. 268-278
The University of Chicago Press
Intrinsic Versus Extrinsic Motivation: An Approach/Avoidance Reformulation
Educational Psychology Review, Vol. 13, No. 2 (2001), pp. 157-176
Nurturing Mastery Motivation: No Need for Rewards
YC Young Children, Vol. 63, No. 6 (November 2008), pp. 89, 93-97
National Association for the Education of Young Children (NAEYC)
PRAISE OR ENCOURAGEMENT? New Insights Into Praise: Implications for Early Childhood Teachers
Young Children, Vol. 43, No. 5 (JULY 1988), pp. 6-13
National Association for the Education of Young Children (NAEYC)

Alchemy is Magic

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Philip Corner performing his Paper Piece in honour of Ben Patterson, September 2016

I believe in alchemy. These four words keep surfacing from somewhere just as I am falling asleep or on the verge of waking up or when I am walking down Bethnal Green road to buy vegetables. They first surfaced while I was watching Philip Corner, the 83-year-old artist and musician a couple of weeks ago perform at Café Oto. As he and his diminutive wife, collaborator and muse, Phoebe Neville enacted his ‘Piano Movement’ by literally moving a piano, it happened. I realised that a piano is not merely an instrument, it is an object, a sculpture, a piece of work in and of itself. It not only makes music, but takes up space. Corner did eventually sit and play the piano, but throughout the evening, the instrument became so many things. By the end of the night, it sat shrouded in paper and covered in flowers and torn fragments of paper. By this point it had become a monument to Philip’s friend and fellow Fluxus artist, Ben Patterson, who died this past July. Patterson was known for his ‘Paper Piece’ in which he asked audience members to make sounds using paper. Corner enacted his own version, while he and Neville wrapped the piano in thick, brown sheets. They crumpled and ripped the paper and stabbed at the keys. The noise was incredible. And angry. In those sounds and in their movements I sensed the grief at losing a friend.


Cascade Mountains from the air.

So, a piano becomes a memento mori. An object that can be silenced and repurposed with grief and mourning.


Divided land from the air.

Since witnessing Corner and Neville’s performance, I keep thinking about this alchemy. Today during a Yoga class, I stared at a poster on the wall of the studio in an attempt to keep my balance in a one-legged pose. The poster was one of those small laminated things telling you that you can’t use the door because it is alarmed, or something. I couldn’t actually read it. But the key point was that it had two blocks of colour on it. In my mind the poster became a Rothko. It didn’t look like a Rothko at all, but my brain morphed it into one of his red and brown canvases.


Mountains and the Great Salt Lake in Utah from the air.

And this has been happening to me frequently. Objects are morphing from one thing to another, from one use to another, from one state to another. And I think I know why. I, myself, am morphing from one state to another. The change. The half-century mark. I am there. The child-bearing years are coming to an end, the days of being able to be called ‘young’ are coming to an end. My body is being replaced by another one. I am feeling it physically, but it is manifesting itself in me psychologically in more profound ways.


The Great Salt Lake, Utah, from the air.

It is odd that no one talks about perimenopause (the period leading up to menopause). It is a sort of bizarre edgeland in one’s life. It goes unmarked and yet, as I am experiencing its effects, I feel it should be marked with something like a wrapped piano or something equally magic. Our bodies at this point are losing their ‘use’ value and becoming something else: a shrouded vessel. There is mourning needed for the loss of what we once were and also some celebrating in order to welcome the new person we are becoming.

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Buffalo hide being scraped in preparation for tanning, Montana, January 2016.

Why are there no rituals around this time in a woman’s life? Women are reluctant to talk about it even amongst themselves. There is a reticence and a shyness around menopause. Is it because so much of our value is measured in our ability to procreate, attract a mate, look ‘hot’, be ‘sexy’, satisfied that we are the subject of locker room banter? I am finding the transition difficult, there is no doubt, but the struggle lies more in the challenge of convincing myself of my value as a woman who is heading past her shelf life.


Buffalo hide being scraped in preparation for tanning, Montana, January 2016

We have seen in this farcical competition between Hillary and Trump how the disregard for women has become so normalised as to barely register. If there is one thing to come out of the disaster that is the Donald, it is that men are coming out and saying, “Wow, I had no idea you women were treated like this. I didn’t know you had it so bad!” We are often treated like this and we do have it so bad. We are badly paid, we are beaten up by our husbands and family members, allowed to die in childbirth, set on fire, forced to marry people six times our age, sometimes when we are eight years old, sold into prostitution and slavery, forbidden from using contraceptives, we have our clitorises sliced and we have acid thrown in our faces. We are not listened to and we are ridiculed for aging. Our cellulite is circled in tabloid newspapers and our stomachs mocked for being saggy after childbirth. We are not allowed to get wrinkles and god forbid our hair should go grey. But it doesn’t end here. We are expected to be nice. And we are the ones who take the day off work when our kid is sick. We also do seventy percent of the household chores and the cooking — even if we are the main breadwinners*. When our parents or even our partner’s parents get old, we are the ones who do the caring. We buy the birthday presents and make the soup for sick friends. Of course there are exceptions—many exceptions and many incredible men who love and care and do the lion’s share. There are men out there fighting the fight on our behalf. But they are rare and we love them.


Floor of Powell’s Bookstore, Portland, Oregon.

At the moment as I approach this physical and psychological change, and experience the alchemy inside me, the image I have in my mind is one of running between carriages on a moving train while someone is offering me lunch. No thanks, I can’t stop to eat, I have to get into the next carriage. I’m moving fast and I have no time to sit and chat. There is life all around me and I feel it pulsing inside. It isn’t a child I am about to bring into the world, it is something else. Equally valuable, equally demanding and important. Equally beautiful. We just have to watch and see what it becomes. I think we might all be very surprised. Alchemy is magic.

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Philip Corner’s piano after his Paper Piece in Memoriam of Ben Patterson, September, 2016

*In Britain women still do 70 per cent of the housework. Analysis by the Institute for Public Policy Research (IPPR) found that eight out of 10 married women do more household chores than their husbands, with only one in 10 married men doing an equal amount of cleaning as his wife.

Joanna Pocock Meet Joanna Pocock

kingsland road

A not very good photo of East London taken by coincidence a few days ago on the same street where the ‘Other’ Joanna Pocock works.

I have always thought my name was a bit weird. Those three soft, round vowels in ‘Joanna’. Then the harsher plosive ‘P’ in Pocock with its spiky ending. I was mercilessly teased as a child for my surname: Poke-a-cock being a favourite playground taunt.

When I arrived back in London after my two years away in Montana, I was sent via Facebook a message from a woman I got to know while I worked in a video shop in East London. She was a regular, and we would talk about film, politics, and the likes. Over the years we have sporadically kept in touch and ‘Liked’ some of each other’s postings on Facebook.

This is the message she sent me:

Hello Joanna Pococks!

SO! Last weekend I met a Lovely lady called Jopo and when I asked how she got this handle our friend said “‘cos she’s Joanna Pocock”. The little cogs started whirring and I said, “but I know a Joanna Pocock!”

“You KNOW Joanna Pocock!?” Squealed Jopo.

“Um, yeah!”

And Jopo proceeded to tell me that she’d signed up for a writing class at Central Saint Martins some time ago but on arrival saw that the teacher was Joanna Pocock so she retreated fearing that “Miss” would consider her some scary doppelgangerstalker. Also a few years ago “Miss” Pocock’s father wrote her on Facebook curious to find out about this other Joanna Pocock and the two proceeded to correspond.

Anyway I wanted to introduce you guys and if you chose to meet please lemme know how it goes or indeed invite me. Welcome home “Big”? “Old?” Jo (snark!) and hope you’re having a blast at Boomtown “Lil'” “Young” Jo (ahem..)

Loadsa Love XXX Lucy

So, it turns out there is another writer living in East London who shares my name, who corresponded with my father, and almost enrolled in my creative writing class at Central Saint Martins. I wonder what I would have thought if she had walked through the door and sat down. Maybe that she was doing some kind of art project whereby she pretended to have the same name as her tutor?

So, Joanna Pocock (the Younger) and I are planning to meet up somewhere in our neighbourhood and as she says in a message to me, “Haha this is amazing… We should go for a coffee and talk about what it’s like to be called Joanna Pocock and turn it into art.”

This is exactly the kind of thing I would write.

Is there a story or documentary in this? I don’t know why I find it so strange, but it may have something to do with the fact that Joanna Pocock is a fairly weird name.

I will keep you posted.

Joanna Pocock (the Older)

Six Suitcases


Around the corner from my house, a cri de coeur

We left Missoula exactly a month ago and are still living out of our suitcases. We have another week before we move into our house, thanks to some fairly strong bullying from the estate agents who told us we couldn’t impose an 11-month lease on our tenant. So the couch-surfing continues.

“Mum, where are my swimming goggles?”

“Joanna, where is that brown checked shirt? The one with the cigarette burn on the pocket?”

“Where is my bicycle lock key?” And so on….

I have become the keeper of the suitcases, as if by some kind of magic I can see everything inside them.


The need for novelty hits Brick Lane where you can buy the best bagels outside of Montreal and Manhattan

London continues to overwhelm. I went to Morning Lane in Hackney which used to be where illegal raves thrashed through the night in burnt out buildings when I first moved to East London. It is now the site of a Gieves and Hawkes, a Nike superstore, a Burberry outlet and one for Aquascutum. I lost all sense of where I was. This was my first feeling since leaving Montana of urban vertigo, of losing the London I know. It made me feel old. I can hear myself saying to E as we walk through Hackney, “Oh, this is where I went to a book launch where a guy dressed like an ape and almost jumped off the roof,” or “Your dad and I used to DJ at parties in this building,” etc… I have told myself I need to stop with this narration. But every bit of land, every bit of space is monetised, owned, profits are being turned over at an enormous rate. There is very little space just for the sake of space. It is dizzying. I hadn’t noticed it in my little patch because, well, it became twee and ‘gentrified’ a while ago. And there are blessedly few chain stores on my high street apart from a Tesco’s, a Boots, a MacDonald’s, and a very grim Nando’s. You can still buy cans of paint, toilet scrubbers, spools of thread, sewing needles, stationary, old lady slippers, bowls of fruit and veg from a cart, Tupperware, and stuff that you actually need. But delve further into Hackney and there are fewer and fewer of these shops selling the necessities of life — well, the necessities of my life.


My neighbourhood which still has lovely nooks and crannies despite the gentrification

I am not sure how to grapple with the changes around me. Apart from the fact they make me feel old, they also make me feel there is a huge gap between what I hold dear and what others hold dear, how I function and how a whole swathe of the population seem to function. I get the feeling that people now live in their tiny flats with everything digitised and at their fingertips. No more books or messy CDs. It’s all streamed. No more sewing up holes in your jumpers, you just throw them out and order a new one online. No more cooking because you can buy a takeaway in a styrofoam container for the same price. I sense that there are lives being lived that are one big stream. Every click on that online purchase sparks a whole trail of algorithms telling the shopper that if they bought that, they might like this. It is endless and infinite and alienates the shit out of me. And of course it isn’t endless or infinite. The resources are coming to an end. Living simply now means throwing out your junk and living online. The space you save! Living simply has been turned into a desirable lifestyle with books like Marie Kondo’s “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing”. Kondo famously used to rip the pages out of books in order to save only the words she liked while simultaneously saving space. We listen to someone who molested her books? According to Kondo, one should only own 30 books at a time, or fewer. If you have more than that, you simply throw away (she loves sending things to landfill) the ones you no longer need. The ones we are instructed to keep are the ones containing “necessary information”. So there we have it. It is all about data. Despite the fact that the hard, cold facts of  “War and Peace” would be useless to most of us, I am still upset that my old copy which had long ago fallen apart to the point where I called it “War in Pieces” was lost during one of my moves.


A Londoner looks out onto the morning rush hour from her flat on Hackney Road

The monetisation of land, the digitisation of art, the value of things being measured in their usefulness, the quantifying of our taste through algorithms: it all feels connected. The necessity factor has crept into how we assess art and the less useful objects around us like old books, bits of clay clumped together by our three-year-old, hats rarely worn but given to us by a dead relative we once adored. While simultaneously across London upscale cafés are replacing shops selling shoe laces and door handles. We seem to be devaluing the things with no monetary value (like art and the texture of our lives) while putting a huge value on the things that don’t give meaning to our life (like cups of bespoke coffee).


Old-School graffiti in Shoreditch

I am happy to be back. Whether London is really home or not is something for another day. But I am not happy about what I see going on around me. I remind myself that there are enough people writing books, making films, working in hospitals, singing in bars, designing costumes and generally making life vibrant and interesting in my sphere. But for how much longer. More studios are being knocked down and more ‘curated’ spaces are popping up. I tell myself to go with the flow. Life may feel like it is slipping away and becoming a performance I am not good enough to participate in. But I have always been a good spectator. I’ll stick to that for now.


Chess 4 Fun FREE in London Fields