Welcome

I don't really know what this space will be, but I hope it will be nice for you, and for me.

In my youth (well, my early twenties, which, I have only departed as of 18 months ago) I wrote impassioned Op-Eds about birth, abortion, sex education, and women’s pay. I was very serious about the whole thing and I kind of hate most of what I wrote. I was trying to *be* something, or someone. It was before I’d read Roxanne Gay’s work and realised it was admissible to not be a perfect feminist. It was before I’d tackled why I felt such a deep sense of isolation amongst womanhood and thought, if only I tried harder, I might find a way that womanhood could belong to me. It worked though, people loved it. I wrote with the mind blowing confidence that only a 21 year old white person living on colonised land could. I wrote without nuance, in definites and absolutes. A weird thing happened where the first piece went viral and like a wee circus monkey the editors demanded of me “do it again! do it again!” So I kept trying to do it: again and again. I got tired, eventually, of trying to live up to my first one hit wonder. I got mad, when I tried to write with nuance and nobody gave a fuck. They wanted the absolutism, the hard hitting headline that made worthy clickbait. The idea of it now makes me nauseous. My life has been many things, but absolute is not it.

I stopped writing for a bit, because I thought I had nothing worth saying. In 2020 I told other people’s stories for a while: published a zine of birth stories and used my social media to elevate the experiences of others. I got so fucking tired of hearing white people with privilege weigh in every goddamn thing happening in the world that I wanted no part of it.

Eventually, I figured out how to write for me, and of me. How to weave this life I’ve lived into the world around me. How to weave this life I’m continuing to live, into the lives others are living. One thing I can say as an absolute, is that in 5 years time I will look back on this writing and I will hate it. As Janet Jackson says: that’s the way love goes.

I don’t know what this newsletter will give you, or me. I can tell you about some things I know as absolutes: the ability of humans to go on loving, despite; the ability of bodies to go on burning, despite (as per Carson, 2000); that the earth and her worms are more fragile than you or me know, or care; that to know another person’s bare beating heart is both joy and terror; that there are small wonders like the softness of bellies and the smell of rain on hot asphalt that will never stop bringing you peace. I can tell you some things I do not know as absolutes: why this life hurts and heals so much in one turn; where the road is leading us, and if we’ll ever get there; what it is to be woman, to be man, to be human; whether slugs know they could have a little house on their back if only life had served them a different hand, and if there is a class divide between snails and slugs, or they’re aware of each other’s existence at all; who I am when the moon is full and the stars are dim and the night is cool and the breeze is warm, and who I want to be when the sun rises again; wtf is astrology and why do I keep dating girls who are so into it and make me feel like they could put a curse on me if I don’t make them cum.

I lied when I first pitched this idea of a paid newsletter: I don’t know what I want to write here, not exactly. I'd love to know what you want me to write about, what you want my hot flaming takes on. I think I want to write about gender, and dogs, and bodies, and birth, and sex, and what it is to be out at sea with how to exist in this world. I also want to write about the things that keep me up at night: hybrid snacks, my academic work, rent control, and human rights and reproductive health policy and justice. I want to write about the experience of being in a genderless body while neck deep in perhaps, the world’s most gendered career. I want to write about things that feel good, and things that don’t feel so good. I want to write about the time my parents moved to New Zealand and left me on a snowbank in Canada when they went to the airport. I just want to write, and have others bear witness.

Because really, that’s all anybody wants: a life, that was witnessed.

Thank you for being here while I figure this out. If you want something specific from this space, please let me know. This is for you, and also, this is for me. A togetherness, of sorts.

Referenced:

Carson, A. (2000). Plainwater: Essays and poetry. Vintage.

Jackson, J. (1993). That’s The Way Love Goes. Virgin Records.