…humiliating? Beyond my brains capacity. I think someone should give me a certificate just for finding the correct door.
London leaves me breathless. There is no physical device like a cane or wheelchair to clarify chronic fatigue to the masses. And like how your legs grow pace down steep hills, London doesn’t let me slow. By the time I reach uni I am panting and the lifts are full of those that can still run up stairs.
The carers called on Dementia Lady without shouts today. Still the slams jolt my concious like gun shots. One rasping, African accented wail was on the edge of my sleep. My spirits still wane after yeserdays insults on me being a dumb female and Christened ‘Essex’ the place of stupids, unaware it’s the earth I grew from.
The students are so ambitious, see life in textualities and visual narratives. Their dissertations raise the politics of education, everything utterly everything is capitalism. Capitalism has executed a joy of books.
My dissertation is on the forgotten writing of a sick woman who died in an asylum. I don’t believe she was mad. I think she endured pain and the wrong group of aquaintences. Her poems look up to the moon, the sky, moments after moments.
And then comes those beastly moments to discuss in groups and what do I think? Nothing really, nothing at all. I don’t really know the question. I need an hour to form a thought.
Tomorrow I am back in Oxford, back in the Big Book of Vivien to compare her drafts. Oxford is like my dream city; I watch punting on the river, teenagers mocking it, feed the ducks and walk around lush old buildings to the library. The library is cool and quiet, I study without interruption, with space and lovely silence.
Oxford does not push you along like London in stampedes of suits and umbrellas.
I am in class and all the clever young people consider politics. I consider how beautiful the bustle is of the Victorian lady’s photograph on the whiteboard. How do I put Vivien’s words in a dissertation without anesthatising them to academia?