The Rule Of Lore

The Rule Of Lore

What troubles me more than anything I think, in the fallout from this case, is what has happened with the law at the heart of it. Brock Turner was not sentenced appropriately for his crime. It's as simple as that. He raped a woman. He raped an unconscious woman, he left her unconscious next to a dumpster in the dirt, and he has been sentenced to six months in county jail. Possibly. 

This is not the rule of law. It is the rule of lore. It is the result of privilege, and a closing of ranks by upper-middle class educated men around one of their own. It is a travesty of a system that I have had a great deal of faith in, and which I wish I could continue to hold in esteem. 

A Fire That Feeds Our Life

A Fire That Feeds Our Life

No amount of dodging, ducking or putting of metaphorical fingers in ears and yelling 'la, la, la!!!' as loudly as possible to my psyche is going to cut the mustard.

Not this time.

It's those one or two seconds of fear-drenched icy realisation, the skeletal fingers up and down your cerebellum, when you just know. If we were in The Great Escape, it's time for Steve MacQueen to start revving up the motorbike. 

It's the moment to go over the barbed wire of cynicism, and escape any feelings, or stay by your side, and face down the bastards together.

I Ran Too Slow

I Ran Too Slow

I've not to this day worked out what was more hurtful; the names you sprayed like poison at me, or the fact you genuinely couldn't remember them afterwards. 

l'm also not sure whether I'm more ashamed of the fact I allowed you to hit me more than once, or that I stayed to allow it. 

Red wine coating walls like blood. The smell of bleach as I scrubbed them clean, mixed with the taste of angry, delirious, tired tears.