Font size
Letter spacing
Line height
Highlight titles
Hide images
Reading mask
Highlight links
Black cursor
White cursor
High contrast
Soft contrast
Black and white
Audio Description

Convalescence

By Saskia Horton

Convalescence
Part i I am standing in darkness Grey matter expanding out from my body. I am centred in a slab of concrete- shatterable, unbreaking, breathing (moulded) like Michaelangelo. They are ready to pull the pieces out of me. A sculpture is just a slab of stone, with a message inside (of it) Cupid? Hermes? He’s the God who sends messages, right? They’re sending me messages, right? Don’t be that. Don’t look there. Don’t see that. i am crumbling, a framework of a cellular matter whittled down to a DNA which I don’t know if it proves or disproves my existence. But I exist, don't i? Red yellow angel dust, pink fabric gossamer, Tulle tearing at the seams, bursting buttons, it seems You want to constrict me, but I will break you Before you even try. ______________________________________________________________________ I KNOW WHO I AM . I KNOW WHERE I’M FROM I KNOW WHO I AM. I KNOW WHERE I’M FROM I KNOW WHO I AM. I KNOW WHERE I’M FROM I KNOW WHO I AM. I KNOW WHERE I’M FROM
BOOM BOOM BOOM FOR REAL BASQUIAT SASKIA BAS QU AIT SASKIA BASQUIAT SAS QUA IT BASKI AT We are one and the same, come from the same vein Red purple bleed blood like royalty rain from the sky I’m Dilapidated high rises BROOKLYN Tune in the hifi, I smile like it’s Saturday Flippin on some pancakes the stoves hot I know not what I do or why I come to you she says SAMO. Ratatat-tat-tat SH-BLAMO- I wizkid Kazamo myself an identity out of a top hat Rabbits a raving w/ glosticks craving a slo hit of the caramel saving myself for the BLOWUP Shown up for my homies Shaw Nuff hot step Parker, he can Blow tough man that cat can blow rough hard like warp speed Thought I heard a corpse breathe but heh? CAPITALISM IS DEAD. Muthafuckas can’t call me
MY PHONE BILL is red w. No’s Uh OH they cancelled me. I wake up w/ dread from Night terrors Can’t cry myself to sleep Art archival celebratory. I need to bury Morbid ammo Artillery. I ARTICULATE. ANUNCIATE. Myself because My bones my mother bought a skeleton Color by number -THEY SET ME UP RIGHT But don’t really know if I’m here to PUT UP A FIGHT Feeding on this consciousness like its food. FREE WRITE 1. I sit here, I can scarcely believe it's been a year. A YEAR since we got co-vid. Since we got robbed, since all this began. I walk through waking like it’s a dream. A beautiful dream, but a dream nonetheless. Trying to remember what it felt like to BE. Alive. No, I’m not dead, I’m just half-sleeping….. Sleep walking....
I used to be scared of that shit. But now I think it’s blissful. Not being fully awake or fully aware, conscious. Breathing that in-between air. Not sure if you’re going backwards or forwards, coming or going, staying or leaving. I love sitting here in the afternoon light, just breathing. I think- this is what it means to live. Nothing else. Pen in hand writing away sunlight fading behind the other half houses. I said to my therapist- I felt as though I lived more this year than I have done in my entire life. How’s that? Is it when you give up, against the tearing sands of time, stop naked and dirty ferociously trying to battle the inevitable wheel of evolution. The Gong of passing, that for the first time you feel the blood in your veins. When your throat rasps not from speaking but of silence, held for many months. And you feel the earth in your bones, the air in your lungs, shuddering to find its way out of you, to reconnect to something deeper. How is it, that THEN you go beyond ‘surviving’- When you’re almost dead? I’m being melodramatic again, I’m not almost dead, but when I was lying there in the hospital bed. And I felt more joy than I had in days (hooked up to an IV on fluids and anti-nausea meds) just seeing REAL people interact with each other, in real life. Bantering, exchanging small talk, running off to their random tasks and errands, talking to other patients. When my heart leapt for such joy in that moment- of course I questioned- What am I now? If not a shadow of myself? Lifeless, immobile (breathing) yes but unable to consume food, sustenance, that would give me life. Hooked up to an IV drip, impressioning about others lives to lift me out of my solitude. Ha, maybe I’m just lonely. (You’re probably right, duh, of course you’re lonely). But I would even question that, I have a partner don’t I? Though we seem to slip past each other, momentarily. Koi in a koi pond, hap or helpless shadows of ourselves. I keep trying to reach out to him but my fingers slip through the slimy water & get caught on some seaweed instead seaweed…
Sea… Oh how I’d love to be by the sea. The crashing and withdrawing of waves, dragging itself back relentlessly. Never giving in whilst being an (undeniable) slave to his mistress the moon. Ha, we are all slaves, in this dream. I’m not one to believe in fate. And yet in my most desperate moments, I’ve found myself praying to God. Are God and fate the same? If you believe in God must you believe in fate? I don’t think my future is predestined. I’m losing sight of it, anyway. Just like the sun as it sinks behind the halfway houses. Escaping from view. I wish I had faith. I mean, I do have faith. But not that kind, where I could pinch myself, fall backwards into the monotonous circadian rhythm of life I had previously attained, more than well over a year ago. I’m a different person now. And so I don’t even know…. if I want to wake up. Part ii FREE WRITE 2. I feel like I don’t have a clue who I am anymore. I know in years I will look back on this existential BS and cringe or laugh like a muthafucka, but it's hard. I just feel so damn lost. I can’t believe a year has passed since this started. This empty space, this loneliness. I’m used to the echo of my own voice. It feels as though the walls are coming in on me. The curvature is a comfort cocooning in…. on myself. I don’t know, I’m sure there's things, I must do things, I must be. But ah, I haven’t heard from my friends, I can’t hear from my friends the distance between myself and others seems incomparable. Unbreakable. And weirdly I don’t feel ‘less’. I just feel ‘muted’. Being ‘bored’ feels like a privilege, so I breathe into it. 2x walks a day, sunshine, soul music, good food, a supportive partner. How can I complain that I’m suffering? When I’m so damn lucky. Fulfilled, fulfilling up my life to the brim overspilling assuredness,
killing more people then ghosts of my people will emerge from the shadows of this pandemic like please, people hear people See me See me. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Things I am anxious about: They killed a 13 year old boy, a 13 year old boy. Thirteen, he shouldn’t be dead. Herpes, herpes. I’m overwhelmed by people telling me how to heal myself. Not knowing how to heal myself, Finding it all draining, the - do nothing- draining Drinking, sleeping, doing nada, chiling, watching, waiting, watching, what is this stasis? Is it the reason I’m sick? Damn. whoever thought standing could make you crumble? Illness, illness, illness. Look after your damn self. I will surrender, I will love myself, I will cradle my health in the palm of my hands. Love, love, love, You know what it is? You got out. This time staying out loving, giving, receiving. Not alone Breathe, do, work, a cure, You will find respite or it will come to you- wait-
FREE WRITE 3. I’m not okay. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay. But I am loved, I am cared for. I feel safe. I feel like I’m spiraling through several universes backwards & yet I feel safe? I don’t know how this is possible, I feel at ease, alone, isolated, full, jeoparodized, like I can't spell anymore (clearly) funny upside down, inside out. I feel like I’m floating away from myself and I’m fine with that. I feel like it’s necessary, mandatory. A turning point. I feel ageless and yet I feel like I'm in an age that will never end. I feel like I’ll never see my friends again. Or that maybe they weren’t my friends. In the end. Sweet Jesus, what's the point of all this? If it ends anyway. Existential bliss. I don’t wanna make sense of it, anymore. I just want to fucking exist. I want to collaborate with someone who gives a shit about life. About bits. About something that fucking matters. I don’t want to be a fucking vase. I want to be broken into a million pieces. I want to be shattering. I want to be earth-shattering. I want to be earth-shatteringly beautiful. I am earth-shatteringly beautiful. I am a leaf falling from the sky. I am a person who cares in a sea of nameless people. I am no-name, I am Yahweh, I am Ananshe, I am junglebook, I am gleaming, I am pussy, I am a puppet, I am a heroic cowardly bitch, I am a hoe, and a proud one. And I’ve also never known my sexuality. I want to open myself up. For the whole world to swamp in and forgive me. Who's that screaming outside the --?
Part iii What Death have I experienced? Charlotte, my friend from ballet school- Chesire cat, billy elliot, curly hair, bright eyes They played “Unwritten” by Natasha Beddingfield at her funeral. It was so hopeful and so devastating. Grandad, Tom Peter Horton - Slipping away, memory by memory, holding on with quaint British politeness. Like a finger, slipping off a teacup. Uncle Roger - Wine belly, belly laugh, sarcastic pessimism, always joking. Committed suicide when I was 14. I used it to get out of Physics class. I didn’t cry about it for years. My Self Confidence - In me, for me. And not me for my body. Me for my intelligence. For my ability to kiss ass. It died because I didn’t know who I was without service to other people/things. My Family home - Crumbling beneath on foundations made of sand, caught by truth tides, refusing to hold back any longer. I was grateful for this death, needing to be lost so we could all be set free.
Crumbling beneath on foundations made of sand, caught by truth tides, refusing to hold back any longer. I was grateful for this death, needing to be lost so we could all be set free. My Innocence - I don’t know if it was in the first relationship or the last or was/is a constant gentle erosion of ‘certainty’ of ‘knowing’ that everything will be alright. Maybe it started when he lied about losing his keys, deepened when I smoked a blunt to fit in. Ended when he threw his mum’s cancer at me as a reason that I should stay. And I ran, turned my back to blindly escape, leaving my innocence to die out in the cold. Uncle Richard - I barely knew, a whisper in the corner of a conversation, a shrug, a side-eye in response to a question was the entirety of his existence to me. And now he’s gone. Drowned in booze and hung himself. At least I suppose. I guess. No one’s actually told me how he died and I’m too afraid to ask. Poppy Syl - How could I forget? (passed even before Richard). Whose presence chiding, cheekiness is so real to me in my mind. I don’t believe he’s dead. I can feel his rough skin on wrist. His strong grip as he pulls me in for a kiss, cheek brushing mine. His smell, so distinct; peppermint, pillows and leather. I’m doing it an injustice. But believe me, I can smell it. Do I miss these people? Miss them? Ghosts, memories, reminders, fading. Is Love just a poem that decays with time? I don’t know
But I need to write it down. _____________________________________________________________________ In memory of all those who are forgotten FREE WRITE 4. I know what I want and what I want is… To be still, to be quiet, to stop, to breathe, to let go, to know myself, to feel my bones, my muscles, my skin, flexing to meet my heart to HEAL My heart. I want space. I need space. I need to be away from everyone, from everything and cocoon empty, parallel, angular outside perpendicular angles I need new angles from which to see myself. I need to let go. Of what once was and breathe into what will be. I need to let go of everything, all the tensions. all the pain. BURN IT TO THE GROUND. Crumble the ashes in my pocket for a brighter day. Release…. I need release. I need peace. Enlightenment, air, good food, a hug. help. I need help. I need guidance. I need trust. I want love. I want suffering. I want to give in to my suffering so I can be crucified and be reborn. At least Christians got something right... I want to stop answering to everyone. I don’t have the capacity. I want to let go. I want to grind myself down to nothing. I want to empty my organs and fill them with air. I want to shatter my heart, pick up the pieces and put it back together like fine china. I want to leave this place.
I don't want to apologise for it. I don’t want to feel bad. I deserve this. I deserve space. I deserve peace. I deserve love. I deserve warmth. I DESERVE to heal. Above all, I deserve to heal. I need to allow myself that and stop hanging on by my claws. I am scratching up the looking glass and all my friends and all my pleasures, not allowing myself the simple things, because I’ve always seen myself as overcomplicated. I’m not overcomplicated. I’m just sick and I need to heal. I want to heal. I want to get better. _________________________________________ I don’t want to dance for you anymore Watch you, watch me Your eyes gluttonous with envy I don’t want to dance for you anymore. Spilling seeds on the floor, only for them to bloom and die In an instant Instantaneous deaths, stories spilled I don’t want to dance for you anymore You validation an IV drip into my veins- feeding into my self worth an aorta’s length of longing My heartbeat a hummingbird's life away from exploding As I conquered. Only for you to claim my spirit. I don’t want to sing for you anymore Years of heartless passion- eddied out onto a framework Of blood sweat and tears,
blood sweat tears, I need to be the best For who? For you. I don’t want to sing for you anymore So you can count your coins in your parlour and refuse to give them to me. Use the dust I shed, to make bread and get fat off it. And I couldn’t get enough of it- Watching you bite into my carcass, just so I could feel a part of something. I don’t want to sing for you anymore Just so you can question what I’m saying If I’m good enough? If I shouldn’t mould my words differently? Make it blend more easily I won’t be a part of your recipe anymore I need to feast somewhere else. (On my nothing) I feel like I don’t even know the bones of my self-worth But I am digging them up and stringing them on like an epitaph A necklace Peace. Warning. Loving I’ve discarded so many parts of me. I don’t even know if there’s enough of myself left, to move forward. But I do know this. I don’t want to dance for you anymore I don’t want to sing for you anymore
I don’t want to perform, not in this life or the next. I didn’t lack purpose. I just lacked the strength to pull away. To make this final difficult decision. I don’t want to. So I won’t. Anymore.
Part iv _________________________________________________________________ The silence has a sound mid to high range frequencies pulling at the fabrics of my room threatening to tear it apart. My walls- lilac- bloom force my consciousness back in on me force me to see my face face it for the first time and say Ah, this is me. The sound has a silence Echoing on into infinity A priceless reverberation I seem to be paying for it dearly Penance. Solitude. Peace. This being is my own undoing Un. Doing. I will be my own Un. Doing ______________________________________________________________________ The friends I have are GHOSTS The streets I walk are MEMORIES
I have survived a worldwide PANDEMIC I am not who I once was. _____________________________________________________________________ It was only when I lost everything. That I understood how little it (all) meant. ________________________________________ I’ve never been so overjoyed. To not be a part of something _______________________________________ H Y P E Passes me like a disingenuous helium balloon Happiness Youth Persistent
Ending Part v ______________________________________________________________________ “ Having M.E is like walking along a cliff face. If you walk too close to the edge it is life-threatening. If you just take a step back, it’s BEAUTIFUL” M.E Sufferer, 2021 _____________________________________________________________________ This burnt-out vessel is a pearl- in my clammy palms begging to be reborn from a salt washed seabed Regurgitating old sorrows. She sings to me, Don’t bury yourself again, my love. This (2nd, 3rd) life may be your last. The fine sands of time appear infinite on the beach Except when they leach away from you With the tide leaving wide, unforgiving wholes This burnt-out vessel is a pearl found far out to sea By a sailor who doesn’t even know what their dreams are made of yet.
I have just been diagnosed With CFS/ME Level 3 Given a 2 year time of recovery. I sit against the bed Buttocks to the floor- hips tilted at a 45 degree angle So that my neck catches the mattress I feel like a baby. Mother holding up my spine- like precious cargo Cradling my neck saying- ‘Look at that’ ‘Eat’ ‘See’ ‘Breathe’ Commands to life. Unspoken. Now I do the same. ‘Look at that’ ‘Eat’ ‘See’ ‘Breathe’ A dribble of milk teetering on my lip. I am chronically ill and disabled. And I have never been happier. My limbs are empty for purpose Lighter for it. My breath is free from speaking No need to explain myself to anyone, anymore. My eyes are closed in peace No need to seek validation outside.
I am enough. I am not the sum of my parts. But I am whole. And all those identities I held dear Unravel like dust in the wind. It’s in my DNA- my epigenetics To fight. To exist is a tumultuous act of resistance An act of overcoming Rebellion. We may have moved on from evolutionary Darwinism But it hasn't moved on from us. Killing each other in the street Chased by insufferable dreams The Lion and the Antelope caught in a chaotic dance with near death To which we never succumb. PANIC- Was my all-sustaining life force PANIC- Was my alter-ego inducing endurance PANIC- Was my overarching ambition, drive, nutrition But I never stopped to listen. To the thing I was running from To the footsteps behind me Of which there were none. I never stopped to listen.
I was all but skin and bones, when I stopped running. ½ a mile, 1 mile, one hundred. Lost deep in the desert Of my ambition, persistence So now, I sit here, mother cradling my neck Seeing the world like I am taking my first sip. Reaching for it, bones as light as air. I am nothing, yet I marvel at everything. A white sailing boat out to sea Clouds at sunset, settling to leave I might disappear from this space But all that matters is that I was here I wrote these words I felt this fear And I finally came so close in this dance of death, I nearly died. And found myself in the smile of a newborn child. I was just diagnosed with CFS/ME Give a 2 year time of recovery Chronically ill and disabled And I’ve never been more happy.

Related

Digital oil painting of two Black trans people sit closely on a green couch in a vibrant room with colourful art on the walls, plants and a fruit bowl. One person is in recovery from top surgery with bandages around their chest and a quilt on their lap. The other is offering them a drink.

aftercare/devotion

A digital oil painting of trans care by Mercy Thokozane Minah

A concrete camp: embodying collective resistance for Palestine

Musings on a student encampment

 Multicoloured pill boxes and safety pins are spread over a flowery surface with hands holding and playing with the boxes and pins

Beyond Pills: Mapping Community Care through Memorabilia

A photo essay by Divya Mahatme exploring moments where care is both a gift and a loss.

 Abstract digital illustration with three people in the centre, one with a walking stick, one with blue hair and holding a white cat, one with a brown hat on, all wearing masks. They are enclosed in a bubble and around them are neon green and pink germ shapes

Compromised – Surviving In Isolation

Abstract digital illustration of a family keeping each other safe by Amaranthia Sepia

 front cover of Sophie Chauhan's book Curious Affinities which has a mustard yellow cover and is sitting on top of a woven blanket. Image has yellow-green filter on it

Is pain always political?

An excerpt from Sophie Chauhan’s book Curious Affinities

 Abstract style colourful illustration of people in various body positions and different angles. Image has orange filter on it

Loss of reason

Peter Barham explores white supremacy’s dominating influence on madness.

 Illustration of an open lighter with a flame coming out, set against more flames with the words 'somos fuego' on top all in black and white

Somos fuego: Amulets from the Locus* project

Amulets made by participants of the Locus* art workshop with Nada Colectivo

 Soundwaves in blue, green and pink

Ondas

A soundscape of healing and restoration after loss by Jasmine Kahlia

Disenfranchised Grief

A dance film by Diana Amma Gyankoma