A Scent of a Memory

And a letter I should have sent 4 years ago

Okay, well this is a new platform for me, this is brand new and as someone who writes, it felt it was time to branch out. This is my substack. I’m calling her ‘The Scent of a Memory’ inspired by a cheesecake, this title also belongs to something else yet to be made. I called myself an author the other day and I wasn’t sure if it felt whole ‘right’ inside, or maybe it’s currently just an unfamiliar feeling, or even just I’m processing my connection to my past works. I’ve authored one book which I’ll get onto in a bit. 

For the most of it, those reading this will have subscribed to my newsletter on my website over the past 18 months, which truly I’ve not put a lot of effort into advertising as I always thought whoever was meant to find such words which felt a little private anyhow, would just find them, if they wanted to. Most of what I’ve written in the past has been about artistic process which involves myself and the journeys I’m on. Letting my art practice open up new worlds, while sifting through past homes of my soul. Yes this will still be very metaphysical, some dose of healthy emotion, society, all while trying to sustain the balance, while occasionally allowing myself to go completely off balance when needed, only to recenter, to welcome in paths needed to explore. After all, it is inevitable that we will be guided to tip the scales every so often. This is the human condition. And that, is life. 

I’m going to aim to write 1-2 times a month. Sometimes it’ll be a long saga you can sip some tea over and others it’ll be a 6 min read you do on the tube. But I recognise writing is something I must practice, consistently, even when I don’t particularly like what I’m writing about, like today. My writing practise comes in 3 forms. This semi-prose study of the realms but really, Earth which more often than not forms a lot of conceptual base for my art practice. The second being poetry, the most abstract of forms, often as a co-signed offer of expression with the paintings, photos and sculpture. And the third, being something in the middle, the stand alone poem or an ever lasting prose which has no other home other than itself.

I often find myself when needed, having the same information presented to me twice in the space of 24-48hrs. Recently, I had spoken to my mum about how really, we do not know anything. The more I know, the less I truly know. We start to recognise we’re barely touching the surface of knowledge. This again was repeated by a friend later on in the day, when ironically speaking about balance, all life and sufism. Therefore, when repetition occurs, it’s time to take notice. In the past 2.5yrs, I’ve recognised my need to wonder, reconnect with something bigger, all the while returning to a spiritual faith. I’m not going to harp on about this as my readers know this part. 

This idea of return is important. I want you to hold onto that thought as I discuss what on earth I’ve experienced as of recent. Maybe it’s the Saturn and Neptune retrogrades, or maybe I’m just being revisited by my former selves which I could no longer put off. 

There is the very famous poem by Rumi, here translated by Coleman Barks which I’m sure many have read before.

Guesthouse, Jalaluddin Rumi

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

-

The past week has seen me question, walk away and run back to those I love. I’ve acknowledged when I felt like I ‘woke up’, granted this happened in many stages over the course of 4 years. The conversation of living to an end vs living for living has come up, luckily much after the later had been put into practice. And finally, I received 25 copies of my debut poetry book ‘A Year’ published by Olympia some 3 years late. The original publishing date was to be 2021. I’ve read the poetry I’ve read countless times on and off screen, but something about seeing them printed in a book was a very different experience. Some poetry I adore and some which absolutely makes me want to cry in a kind of ‘ick’ way or, just as a real kind of sadness that my heart contained so much ethereal angst. I’d earlier told my social media following that there was a fear that those who didn’t know me would associate who I was back then with who I am now. However, there’s such a difference in the way I write and make art these days, it’s evident there’s been a shift. We’re often our worst critics. Further, in my defence, some of these poems were some of the first bits of writing I had created after a long time away from the pen, and to add to this, like all art forms, you have to practise your practice. It’s the only way. 

I remember at the time of receiving the offer to publish, I was kind of excited about it, although nervous, to publish a manuscript of poems I’d written aged 30. I received the original offer and me being me, had no doubts about anything. I was going to succeed at everything I did, completely disregarding if I felt it was the right time. Ultimately I’d tell myself, if the offer came up to do something, I should take it. The happy-go-lucky persona is still somewhat present in me today. I was so invincible and I felt much younger back then, like I’d never age, like I had a deal with God and no concept of working time. I had a different kind of fight in me. 

I found this way of being wholly necessary at the time as I found myself constantly having to back who I was to the communities I was in. Later I would realise, I could and always had had a talent for shifting and flowing between communities. And, to stop fighting as such, say my piece and keep it moving. A constant reminder the people we meet will give us constant different conversation. It is up to us to decide if we want to extend and continue to work on that invitation.

So anyway, back to these books. The moment  of being published hadn’t hit me until I received my pile of books, and that’s when I couldn’t avoid the question to myself, that after 4 years do I recognised who wrote these words? Truthfully, I’d tried to pull the book from being published a few times but the cogs were in motion. I wasn’t expecting a set of fears to arrive as a guest in my body. Some fears I long either thought I wouldn’t have to greet in such a way ever again, or I could postpone indefinitely, which even I know isn’t possible. I’m truly laughing as I write these words.

I’ve learnt there are two ways in when and how I communicate with ‘the audience’. The first being when something is hot off the press. This is the imitate reaction. A cocktail formed from the mind to the heart. The second being when I’ve have time to sit with my guest, we’ve spoken for a while, felt each other out and I’ve assessed - realistically, without rush, without pressure - what gift they’re offering me. The first pass always contains slight comfort, because that’s what the heart does. She, in my case, speaks the inherent truth. So even when I’m largely uncomfortable, my heart is there holding me while she breaks the news. 

When I knew I’d have to speak to my audience about ‘A Year’, I had very mixed feelings. I thought it would be fitting to give a portrait of the woman who’d written the book. I spoke about myself as another person, maybe as a way to identify or become familiar with myself or, to remove myself from this former poet. Sad, but quite possibly some truth in it. This person who I was presented with, this beautiful magnetic, extroverted, platinum blonde pixie, is somewhat different, but maybe not as much as I realise to who I am today. We may move and have different ways of executing things but our devotion to our cause remains the same. I was and still very much am a lover, an artist, with deep conviction to my cause. 

Over the year of being 33, without much say in the matter, I witnessed and therefore grown exponentially. I don’t think I’m alone when I say how much we’ve all witnessed however, I also owe it to myself to acknowledge my own pile of challenges this year alone handed me. I’m sat on the eve of my solar return which will happen roughly a whole 19hrs before my actual time of birth; being handed another opportunity for self reflection, or self-return. And oh my god, the heart is a little like ‘this again huh? Fucking hell.’ I can’t lie, sometimes it gets tiring even though I’m grateful for the taste of life. Nor will this be my last taste of it. It will strike again with different guests, at different times, in different environments. But even then, sometimes the gratitude of the lessons still tires me. Like, just please, let the human in me crawl into some kind of ball under 3 duvets. Alas, would the heart let the soul ever become jaded for too long?

Let’s get to the point. What was it about this book of 80 or so poems and this portrait of myself I shared to the public that moved something in me? When I saw my portrait, I noticed how different I looked and not in this physical way, but how I carried myself, the energy I gave off. I noticed how much effort I put into myself. Somehow being ‘more’, as though who I was wasn’t enough. I recall this because I remember the memory of that feeling in that photo. I’ve called myself a ‘child at 30’ before. No, there isn’t a timeline for how and when we grow, but somehow I’ve been holding this shame for how late I came into myself. Even to that affect, so many of my peers between their early 30’s to mid 40s have all told me I’m right on time. I believe them.

I think about how slender (skinny, the word is skinny, I am currently slender) I was back then. The lengths I’d go to achieve or even maintain that. There’s still a healthy amount of pressure from society put on women which we face around our bodies, what we do with them, how we spend our time and resources, who we pander to, how we express ourselves and maybe this is why I hide away a bit more than I used to even though my friends often praise my genetics, words and paintings. It’s not to say I don’t like the way I look or who I’ve become today, rather the opposite. I’ve grown into myself. I have arrived. There is an exhale after the word ‘arrived’. I no doubt know and believe I’m quite beautiful, however I know that beauty is not limited to the way I present physically nor is beauty a pursuit which should overtake other things worthy of admiration. The art I’ve spoken about many a times has helped me arrive to the person I am today, especially many of the red paintings I make which centre intense feminine expression, while the green ones cater to an uninterrupted channel to the divine. Maybe these days too, I’m just thinking more with the heart and the heart is the key.

Maybe this visit from a younger woman made me feel a little sad, or anxious that we let ourselves go through so much. Sadness that we didn’t eat more damn bread for years (or rice which baffles me). I wish I told her at the time how much of a treasure she was. How intelligent, talented, interesting, brave, hilarious, and beautiful she was. How she could move into her faith more, move into any spirituality more, that she had it in her to find it herself, say what she had to say, that she could just be herself. However, all that unlearning and healing takes time. And the debut book of poetry is some evidence in the art of healing. Maybe if she knew sooner about all this, then she might have felt less pressure to move unmeasured at the speed of lightening, or go against her own grain. 

All of this feels evident in some of the poetry from this book. My recorded impatience throughout the poems is so starkly obvious at times, from romance to pleading with God for everything to happen all at once. I’ve read many a times that if we were afforded everything all at once, would we even be able to tend to them as we’d wish? Would we even be ready to accept all of it in one go? The romance didn’t last thankfully and years later I’d be revisited by that very same man only to turn him down. Even though, saying this, I love some of the words written during that time which he provided some inspiration for. After all, he was the first relationship although too soon, post marriage. The words do not need to mean the same as they did back then, nor do they anymore.

It’s interesting how fast we outgrow things, situations, people when we allow ourselves the space to explore ourselves. The things which remain after we’ve shifted are the things we tend to keep. All in all, I learnt over the years just how capable I was of doing so much. I’d be lying to myself if I said my words in these older poems didn’t trigger me slightly. These were all events I’d worked through, no longer had conversations about. I had moved onto other parts of my life. Therefore the frustration to yet pull up conversation again or just the acknowledgment that I had experienced such things, when I felt much younger requires some effort, and a lot of kindness and grace towards the self.

It’s important for myself - and I extend this invitation to others who resonate - to own these parts, accept them, give this grief its place, understand some of what you wrote back then will still resonate and there’s no harm or need to feel guilt for this. Remind yourself exactly how far the journey has taken you since. We often remember parts of ourselves that no one else has had the privilege of ever knowing existed in the first place and that part is huge. The human contains so many secrets and we forget this. So many secrets to the point we forget many of them ourselves. Not many are confronted with a copy of themselves from 4 years ago, therefore the matter that I have been, is absolutely a gift. It seems I had to be reminded of things. 

For all my worries for this person I was, I do believe at the time, she had a ton of fun. Going forward, I think I forgot I used to love taking photos of myself and how everywhere was a stage. Today, I see that stage go beyond a screen interaction. It’s something which goes through so many realms and time moving in many directions. Maybe I’m more at peace with the stage these days and my relationship to it has matured where only I set the time I have with it.

In honour of this, there are some poems I hold dear to me in this book and they ought to be celebrated, maintained, shared. May I always welcome the unexpected guests of my past and may we always lay on the same stretch of land hand in hand. Here’s  5 poems which I still love. And thank you for being on this journey with me.

COMMUNICATION, SUBSTANCE

Be patient with me
I'm learning, so please 
Wait to hear me out
Wait for my voice to stop 
Trembling at every thought
Wait for me 
To overcome
Hurdles I've come to learn

REALISATION - SEVEN SEAS

When it is held
Fear that it will break and crumble
Into a thousand worlds
That it will be taken
Snatched
Even with prior warning.
Temporary state 
Of all life, it seems, 
Has taught me 
To never redeem,
To close down boarders,
Darken seven seas.
To what ends
Do dreamers dream?
Rebuild these parts
There were lands of milk 
And sweetest honey
Flowing free

UPON READING MANY NOTES

May I steal another kiss 
From your mouth I've missed
Our last was taken
A little too soon

SOOTHE

I've found myself
Speaking the prayer
I told myself I would never make.
The effort my voice makes
To move air
In twilight hours.
With each word
My intentions multiply 
And with each return
I know the words replied.
In these times
With these truths
That which is written for you 
Will surely come to soothe

DAWN, INCEPTION

Patience.
Feel it through.
Let it sit.
Keep things close.
Cut others loose.
Fire will burn.
Continue through tomorrows.
Some things don't turn to ash.