Category is: Writing
Sexual experimentation while watching Scream
It’s some time in the late nineties, and a friend has brought round a video: the first film in the Scream trilogy. The film is already infamous for its blood-soaked scenes of gory, violent murders, but its eighteen rating and reputation only makes it all the more enticing.
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On darkness and light: winter to summer solstice
Let’s rewind to six months ago. Deepest, darkest December. It’s bitterly cold and black outside. My alarm goes off, signalling 6am, and I creep out of the bedroom so I don’t wake my partner, then put on the clothes I’ve collected in the bathroom the night before.
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In the Dream House
“The Dream House was never just the Dream House. It was, in turn, a convent of promise (herb garden, wine, writing across the table from each other), a den of debauchery (fucking with the windows open, waking up with mouth on mouth, the low, insistent murmur of fantasy), a haunted house (none of this can really be happening), a prison (need to get out need to get out), and, finally, a dungeon of memory. In dreams it sits behind a green door, for reasons you have never understood. The door was not green.” — In the Dream House, Carmen Maria Machado
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Let me write you letters
Babe, I want to write you letters. I want to write you letters because it’s a one of the most direct and authentic ways I know of for us to keep in touch, one that can’t be limited by Insta algorithms or caption character counts.
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