I’ve been working on a new project called The Grantidote. Last week it took me west, to where I come from.
The Grantidote’s centering women, pausing to understand how a woman’s wholeness is made up of fragments big and small, some chosen, others delivered by circumstance.
The Grantidote’s about acknowledging the marks women leave on our world. I believe by fully registering women’s impact we begin to rectify an error that’s made how we organise, experience and understand humanity feel ill-fitting and wrong.
Toxic masculinity needn’t control the whole narrative, after all.
Hop on my hashtags too, won’t you? #52and40, Instagram and #TheGrantidote
When the bloke I fancied told me he lived on a west coast island and ‘commuted’ to Aberdeen for work, I pictured Father Ted’s Manse and grimaced.
‘How can you bear it?’, I’d asked. ‘The flatness? The wind?’
He looked like I’d spoken in Spaniel. The following week I understood.
Sapphire sea in a white sand bay. The perfect cottage.
Mountains, seals, dolphins.
Sunsets, the Milky Way, mornings to make you feel reborn.
Him, in an Acid Croft T-shirt.
‘What about the commute though?’, I’d asked.
He put on Shooglenifity and drove.
More info on #52and40 here.
Everyone’s a tourist, up Calton Hill. You can see in all directions and take in the various curiosities providing perfect photography props.
You can grab coffee and cake then wander through art.
I was reminded of Berlin, up Calton Hill. Different accents, space for everyone; no tension between worker bees and butterflies. The National Monument, our memorial to lives lost in the Napoleonic Wars, stands in its long since abandoned state of grace as people climb up it to smile and laugh for iconic photos and memories.
History & modernity at a peace.
Read more about #52and40 here.
A few weeks ago on the number 16 going down Leith Walk a tourist got on, cleared her throat, radiated deep blushes and asked the driver in a beautifully accented voice, ‘Are you straight?‘, while pointing down the big road through the front windows. The driver replied with, ‘yes, I’m going straight on’.
She paid, thanked him, smiled a lot and humphed on her huge rucksack and hand luggage.
This week in France I told a farmer I only speak a petit pois of French.
Good enough is amusing. And good enough.
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