Just clearing the energy here

This morning I hurt my hand from punching a wall. My upstairs neighbours have been noisy – stomping and crashing – and I feel like I’m coming a bit unstuck. I could have punched a pillow, but no – it was a wall or nothing! My neighbours must think I’m insane. So I am finally starting to look for somewhere else to live.

I wish I could make something better out of the fact that I hurt my hand punching a wall. I wish I could call it art. But no. It was very ordinary and idiotic.

To try to calm myself down, I decided to go and get a massage. But I didn’t enjoy it because the whole time I was seething about my flat situation and my fool hand.

I started thinking about all the times I’ve laid on massage tables. I wondered why it was that I’d started going to see massage therapists in the first place. There is something inherently silly about massage. (I wish there was a different word for it, too. ‘Massage’ is now too loaded with Weinsteinian tones. ‘Rub-down’ is worse, and ‘manipulation’ or ‘palpation’ sound too medical.) The silliness seems to come from the way that someone is touching your near-naked body with warmth and tenderness but in an essentially therapeutic, totally non-erotic way, often in silence or while asking about your weekend plans. It takes a while to get past the silliness. At the same time massage is deadly serious, because of the intense focus on the body and the ways in which it’s disintegrating, and the knowledge that this practice has been going on for millennia. Your animal body, one in an infinitely long line of animal bodies. Alongside the physical specificity of it, there’s something abstract about the process – maybe the hope that you’ll just ‘feel better’, that being touched will relieve you of whatever dread or worry you have, for a few moments. It’s a hope of being comforted, which must be the oldest hope we have when receiving physical touch.

The first massage I ever had was after the Christmas rush one year when I was working in retail. I was strung out and over-peopled and my legs hurt. I decided to book in, for a treat, to a cheap place. The massage seemed okay, but then every so often the therapist, a soft-voiced spiritual man in shorts, would raise his hands and start sweeping them back and forth through the air above me. ‘Just clearing the energy here,’ he’d say apologetically. It didn’t feel like anything, though it seemed like the air was getting a nice massage. Over the next few years I’d go back every so often and have my air massaged. I don’t know why it took me so long to realise that it was bogus – or something that helped only if you truly believed in it – and there was something soothing and lovely about the experience anyway, lying in a darkish cocoon with a bit of oil on, like some veg under a grill. So even though I didn’t believe in the energy-clearing stuff, and it was even a bit tedious, I really liked the feeling of being outside of time. It was a feeling that – a bit like after a daytime movie – when I emerged back into daylight, something would have changed. Not just something, but everything. I could’ve taken a nap instead of paying the thirty-five dollars. But there was also something about offering all your issues up and then leaving someone else to it. Like those people who pay storage experts to come into their homes and throw everything into bin bags. Then the people come back in and start accumulating crap again. Massage is a bit like that.

I loved having my arms and head stroked when I was little, by my mum as she watched Coronation Street; I would become stupid with pleasure. Maybe a massage rekindled that same feeling of safety, and of gleaning little bits of comfort from someone, like a tree that ends up covered in bits of wool after an itchy sheep has visited.

‘We see our skins as hides hung around our inner life, when, in so many ways, they are the inner life, pushed outside,’ Adam Gopnik wrote in a piece about the science of touch, and I’ve always felt that to be true – being stroked in a loving way made me feel much calmer and happier. Gopnik says the skin is basically like living inside a really tall eye or a big ear. But touch is the first sense you develop as a human. And maybe it is more immediately central to our emotional lives. The neuroscientist David Linden writes in his book Touch that there is no such thing as a ‘pure’ touch sensation: ‘by the time we have perceived a touch, it has been blended with other sensory input’ that tells us what it means: whether the touch is soothing, distressing, playful, reassuring. I hadn’t thought about that before but of course it’s true.

I started trying to get massages whenever I could. These early massages showed me where all my bad spots were – you could tell they were bad if the therapist kept going back to them – and the more conscious I became of my bad spots, the more massages I wanted to get. Rather than just going around ignoring my body, like in airplane mode, the whole thing was starting to reveal itself as a more complex operation. I got my glutes elbowed in brightly lit studios with Easy Listening up loud and the therapist telling me all about his triathlon training; reflexology massages where a young woman pointed to a wall chart and said the reason the arch of my foot was sore was because of my sluggish digestion; massages where my face was stroked intently with a piece of stone; massages where I had fingers shoved in my armpits; massages where I was asked to visualise my feet being bathed in a healing yellow light; a stomach massage in which I thought I could *feel the shape* of my intestines; massages that were so painful I saw stars and heard bells ring; massages where I hated the background music so much that I came out more bunched up than when I went in; massages that were so pleasurable that each of my cells seemed to wake up and I felt like a beautiful glowing exotic snail. Context is everything with massage (and all touch): if anyone but a massage therapist touched me in these specific, problem-solving ways, it would be weird(er).

Most of the therapists I met had worked in different jobs – physio, yoga, nutrition, teaching, even law – before getting into massage therapy. One woman played in a death metal band. One guy had all of his marathon times printed out and stickered to the wall so as you climbed the stairwell into his studio you passed all of his progressively shorter times, and motivational slogans, then at the top was his goal – a sub-2.5-hour time. He was the only massage therapist I’ve met who had no sense of humour. My favourite therapist was a young sporty woman who also struggled with anxiety so we talked about things that helped. We both rode bikes and hated a strong northerly wind and were both always trying to give up coffee. She also gave incredibly painful massages. Have you ever had your adductors massaged? It’s like stingrays; do not approach and you’ll be okay.

At this time I asserted that a massage was only truly good if it was painful. ‘The good pain,’ I would say to friends, and announce proudly that I’d almost blacked out. These painful massages were always ‘sports massages’, where you were trying to loosen up whatever poor muscle you’d ravaged by lifting too-heavy weights or running too far or just sitting at your desk. It was always strictly unnecessary to have done this damage to yourself – but on a sports massage table, whatever you’d done to yourself was deemed necessary (it’s sports!) and the pain, therefore, was necessary. I went through several sports massage therapists who started out giving me the level of pain I needed; gradually they came to seem too soft, so I would move on to a tougher, sportier therapist until I outgrew them too. If you didn’t bruise – pointless! If afterwards you didn’t walk around feeling completely out of it, like you were made up of all of those little dots collected by a holepunch, and if you didn’t lurch around insisting ‘I needed that’, then you might as well have just poured a bag of autumn leaves over yourself.

Pain meant progress was being made. On the other side of pain would be relief. Maybe pain meant that the heaviness and immobility that I felt in myself were also being worked out and would eventually resolve. Pain provided a compelling temporary focus. I also liked the idea of being a person who could bear a lot of pain. At my high school anyone who’d subjected themselves to pain – usually just by wearing shorts all through winter – was ‘hard’. I thought of myself as ‘hard’, like a plant that can grow in a salty environment.

I think through all of this massaging I was in pursuit of ‘the release’. Everyone has heard about someone who had a massage and ended up sobbing on the table, maybe even vomiting, after the touch ‘released’ something in them. Something had ‘come up’, and now needed to be ‘let go’. I was hoping the release would happen to me, but it never did. There’s a bit in Tao Lin’s story ‘Cull the Steel Heart …’ from his collection Bed where a character named Colin is described as having a metal rod inside him:

The rod went from his stomach to the middle of his head. It was made of steel and sugar, and had been dissolving inside of Colin for ten or fifteen years, slow and sweet, above and behind his tongue; and he could taste it in that way, like an aftertaste, removed and seeping and outside of the mouth. Sometimes he’d glimpse it with the black, numb backs of his eyes. But what he really wanted was to wrench it out. Cut it up and chew it. Or melt it. Bathe in the hard, sweet lava of it.

Maybe everyone has some kind of inner object, not necessarily a rod-like one. Maybe there is a great variety of objects. I feel something quite heavy and functionless in me, like a kettlebell or a cast-iron frying pan with the bottom burnt out of it. And I wanted it to be released. At the end of that Tao Lin story there’s a weird and beautiful moment that almost seems like a release, for Colin: ‘And every once in a while he would catch himself smiling and laughing a little, and it was those moments right after – as, having lapsed into a fantasy, there was a correction, a moment of nothing and then a loose and sudden rush, back into the real world in a trick of escape, as if to some new place of possibilities – that he felt at once, and with clarity, most exhilarated, appreciative, disappointed, and accepting.’

The closest I came to ‘the release’ was a few months ago, but it wasn’t the vomiting on the table sort, and I’m not sure if it had anything to do with the massage. One night, after getting my head and shoulders and arms rubbed, I fell asleep early and woke up at about two in the morning with a feeling that was on a knife edge between clarity and utter panic. It was a certainty that I needed to change something in my life, and the fear of what that certainty meant. It was just like the last line of that famous Raymond Carver story: ‘My life is going to change. I feel it.’ (I can’t help but read that line as comical even though it’s supposed to be momentous.) I lay awake for ages with my arms over the covers and my eyes wide open and I had a sense of myself as being like a bat, hanging into space, heart pounding, listening and listening for a sign of what to do.

And in the last few months, my pain threshold has gone right down. I’m no longer ‘hard’ but am soft and squishy. I wouldn’t even be able to wear shorts all through winter. In my massage this morning I realised halfway through with embarrassment that the head hole – the bit in the table where you put your head – was damp with tears and snot bubbles. And it wasn’t even a painful massage! It was a very average, swooshy one, like skywriting that disperses straight away. It’s just that my hand hurt and I was sick of myself. But bodies change. My hand will heal. I’ll harden up again and punch the wall again. Or not. If I don’t I’ll still be changing, still seeking new things to punch and new ways to be comforted.


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Fan Art

I just came across this terrible artwork of Thom Yorke that I did when I was 16 and it cheered me up no end.


terrible TY fan art.jpg

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tūī vaunting themselves through the tree
their song drawing
fear off me like steam

making my heart dazzle
like a windscreen
being spattered with bugs


a memory of riding fast down the hill
with purple light streaming into my mouth
and out of my injuries

if I can just watch enough birds it will drown me out
if I can just be overwhelmed by birds . . .

my regrets are beautifully made
and unlike many others we are seeing at this time


I’ll go down
trying to embrace everyone

overwhelmed by the hill I’m regretting my way up again
growing uglier – but fitter, but fitter – all the time

and if I can’t continue
then I can’t walk either


a sparrow pins a smaller sparrow down
to drop food into its beak. Give over, be sat on, be fed,

a song vaunts itself through the smaller sparrow,
it isn’t any use
getting angrier.

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Pressure valve

Would I have to carry the inflatable Spider-Man around with me at home, or only when in public?

Both. You must carry it around at all times.

‘FAQ for Entering an Agreement to be Paid $5000 Per Month for Life to Carry Around an 8-foot Inflatable Spider-Man at All Times’ by Dan Carney

As a kid – like many other kids – I didn’t learn what to do when I was angry or how to talk to someone who was angry. People who were angry exploded suddenly and then went quiet. Or they would wreck something, cut something or someone down. Or they would just be silent, with something huge and unfathomable pressing out from behind their eyes. When I started getting bad mood swings as a teenager I was at a loss for what to do with anger. What was it for? Sadness was easy. You could write it, play it. Even numbness was something you could work with. Numbness could be used like a kind of hovercraft, letting you float through the day. But anger gave you nowhere to go. It was like a nut allergy or crooked teeth or all the new daffodils in someone’s garden with their heads pulled off.

I remember reading The BFG and thinking that Quentin Blake’s illustrations of the bad dreams – dark and quivering inside glass jars – looked like my anger.

Anger felt like carrying something very unwieldy around for no good reason other than you had entered into a contract that required it. Like in this FAQ by Dan Carney about entering an agreement whereby you will be paid $5000 per month for life in exchange for carrying around an 8-foot inflatable Spider-Man at all times. (‘Would I be able to carry the Spider-Man around in a specially designed rucksack?’ ‘No. You will carry the Spider-Man underarm at all times, like you would a surfboard.’) Anger didn’t just feel unwieldy, it felt undignified. Look at Huey Morgan, the Fun Lovin’ Criminals frontman, smashing his mug to smithereens in an episode of Never Mind the Buzzcocks and then saying mildly, ‘You’re not upsetting me, it’s fine.’ It’s like he’s been possessed by a geyser.

As a teenager if I was very angry and I did try to speak, I would start shouting or screaming and then I would embarrass myself. I once had too much to drink at a party. A friend and I were standing by the pie cart, eating chips, in a deserted main street of our town at midnight when she made fun of me about something – or I thought she had – and I lost control. I really lost control. I was like Huey Morgan but instead of throwing a mug I threw hot chips. I heard myself screaming, but more than that I felt the anger, white hot and ferocious. It felt like the anger was tearing strips off me, like a hawk tearing roadkill off a road. Then I ran. At school the next week, mortified, I told my friend I couldn’t remember any of it. ‘I was just drunk,’ I said. This was when people would regularly drink to the point of black-out, so I hoped it wasn’t too much of a stretch. I wanted to keep that night buried.

I didn’t know who or what this anger was for. If I felt around it really carefully, I could find predictable things stuck to its sides like barnacles, like self-loathing, boredom, self-consciousness, physical discomfort, maybe a feeling of not being heard but also an inability to say what I meant. But all of it was wildly out of proportion to any real-world situation, which made the anger even uglier and potentially more damaging if I ever tried to voice it, so when I felt it building I drew back into myself and waited.

I am struggling again with anger. One of the things you encounter when you taper off an SSRI medication, which I am doing, is anger. The other set of symptoms I’ve become most familiar with are the ‘brain zap’ sort, as described in Harvard Health: ‘a feeling that resembles an electric shock to your head—or a sensation that some people describe as “brain shivers”.’ A shivering brain. It sounds like like something off Ren and Stimpy. Discontinuing this drug feels a bit like being homesick. I keep thinking back to my warm, lumpen, medicated state as if it’s home and wondering what I’m doing out here with my head being zapped like an idiot and why I haven’t just gone back inside like a sensible person would. I remind myself about the side effects of the medication, like violent nightmares that left me reeling and night sweats that left me drenched and the sense of my emotions being somehow muffled, like drums stuffed with pillows. I remind myself that this is just my brain figuring out how to manage its serotonin for itself. But it doesn’t help to know. In the moment of anger, all reasonable thinking is vaporised. It is shameful to have an anger that exists in a vacuum and is sparked by trivial things, when there is so much to be justifiably angry about in the world right now. My anger is like a kind of nonsense blimp bumbling along, impractical and uncool and piloted by an old man with heartburn who’s refusing to take his antacids today.

I recently hurt my hand punching a wall because I was upset at all the noise from my upstairs neighbour. On my bike I screamed at a truck driver who’d revved as they passed me. I found myself emailing a vegetable grower because the carrots I’d bought were slimy. ‘SLIMY CARROTS’ I typed into the subject line, stabbing each key. I sat in the gym and typed a furious email to an electronics company because my sports headphones kept falling out of my ears. ‘THESE EAR BUDS ARE NOT SWEAT RESISTANT AS ADVERTISED’ I typed, still sweating. These are stupid, privileged things to be angry about. They are things that have become snagged on something bigger that I don’t know how to control, other than forcing myself to wear boxing gloves, which might lead to the wrong outcome. And none of those reactions have acted as an adequate pressure valve for the anger, and they’ve almost definitely made things worse (except for my carrot complaint, which led to the happy outcome of being sent a big bag of potatoes, carrots, and onions). One afternoon last week, I was trying to work at home and there was a lot of yelling and thumping upstairs from my neighbour. After trying to ignore it for a while, I felt something flame up inside me. In a split second I knew I was going to go up and complain about it – something I had never done before. I didn’t truly want to do it and I imagined several people telling me it wasn’t a good idea but there’s something about irrational anger that freezes you inside a moment of great, clear-cut intention, as if you are taking back control of the world and are going to right everything that is wrong with it. I thumped up the steps and knocked on my neighbour’s door, pacing to and fro like a gif until she opened the door. And behind her there were four tiny toddlers running around happily and immediately my anger curdled and I was mumbling, ‘I’m so sorry to ask but . . . the noise . . . it’s very noisy . . .’ My neighbour said, ‘I’m sorry. But there’s nothing I can do.’ They were just little kids. I felt like I’d turned into a literal troll under a bridge.

My anger will likely get worse before it subsides, as I still have a way to go. The best I can hope for is that in a few months’ time I will be struggling to surface from a hearty pile of veg. I will eat my way out like Groundskeeper Willie eating his way out of the creamed corn explosion and this will solve two problems: my veg surfeit and my bad temper.

I hope I come back to myself. I hope if the anger comes too I will get better at turning to face it.

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Bird Brain

I can talk for a long time only when it’s about something boring.—Lydia Davis.


Years ago I was rushing to work on a rainy day. I was in the first few weeks of a new job. I wasn’t used to having more money than just enough to scrape through, so on pay day I’d gone out and bought some new sneakers. They were green Onitsuka Tigers. As I rushed along in my Tigers I suddenly slipped on the wet paving stones and both my legs shot out in front of me and I cannonballed backwards onto my arse. I’d fallen over loads of times before so I thought this was just one of those times. I picked myself up and continued striding along professionally. A few metres up the road I fucking fell over again. This one was more dramatic – I went sideways and onto my knees, with my bag sprawling and stuff falling out of it across the wet stones. This time someone stopped and helped me get up. I managed to walk another ten minutes down the road without falling over, but right outside the building where I worked, one of my feet skated out dramatically sideways and I literally strained my groin. At this point I was angry. I went into my new job and told everyone all about it. ‘It’s these shoes,’ I said. I spent all day brooding and then after work I took the sneakers back into the shop where I’d bought them. ‘I have a problem,’ I said to the sales assistant. ‘These shoes keep making me fall over.’ After a stilted exchange it became clear she couldn’t help me, so I just went away again with the Onitsuka Tigers and proceeded to fall over in them whenever it rained.

Last weekend I was in an event at the Melbourne Festival called the Menagerie of the Imagination, held at the Animal Church – a chilly but beautiful space at the bottom of Flinders Street, designed by festival director Marieke Hardy, with candles, flowers, and photographs of people’s pets (some of them dogs in cones) lining the walls. Two women walked slowly between the rows of seats, banging drums and chanting. But despite this beautiful setting, the event didn’t take flight and I flailed. Was it too early, too cold, was it that no one seemed to know what the event was about? I didn’t help by reading, badly, something I’d tried to write about Nigel the gannet – in fact something I’d started writing months ago that I’d hoped I could make work for The Spinoff. I was about halfway through when I realised I’d written something incomprehensible. As I went on I became aware that I was retreating further and further behind my hair, as if a lift’s doors were closing, and in my last couple of lines a noisy street sweeper started up outside and drowned me out. I spent the rest of the session marinating in an amazing hot shame. Was it Nigel’s fault? Just like it had (obviously) been the shoes’ fault? But no, it was just that I had given another really average performance at a writers’ festival.

Nigel was the first gannet to live on Mana Island in about forty years. He arrived in 2015 and lived there on the western cliffs for around three years, all the while attempting to court one of the eighty concrete decoys whose purpose, as part of Mana’s seabird attraction project, was to lure other gannets to the island. In January this year, Nigel was found dead, alone, in the nest he had built for his concrete mate.

I wanted to talk about why this story had moved so many people around the world – why the headlines had been things like ‘Six Lessons About Love From Nigel the Lonely Gannet’ and ‘Nigel, the world’s loneliest bird, was no victim. He was a hero’. The thing that the international media focussed on was, of course, the love story. It was pure. Nigel’s devotion was depicted as somehow eternal. There was the occasional cynical commentary, like one commentator who said Nigel had been way out of line by continuing to pursue a woman who clearly wasn’t interested: ‘I hope the autopsy turns up that Nigel died of syphilis.’ But on the whole, when this story broke it was as if the internet were collectively keening into its own eerie sound system that wobbled in the wind as it reached out over the planet, and others were answering with their sorrow too.

I wanted to ask what it is that makes an animal story popular on the internet. I said that all it seems to be, sometimes, is seeing an embrace between the species. We want to see the lion embracing a man in a field. We want to see the condor embracing the man in a remote village. We want to see the chicken surging forward to embrace the little boy and we want to be able to make that into a gif and use it whenever the time is right, and the time is always right to see a chicken embracing a boy. Of course we all crave the hits of sweetness that can be siphoned out of the news cycle. And maybe there is something to do with our longing, despite how catastrophic our human business has been for so many species, to be loved by animals and to have them, no matter how wild, available to us to – clumsily, insistently – love back.

There’s another kind of widely shared animal story that is not warming in this way (Nigel’s falls into this category). Like the recent story of a grieving orca who carried her dead calf with her through the sea for weeks, refusing to let go. Or the robotic spy monkey, with cameras for eyes, embedded by behavioural researchers with a family of real monkeys. When the spy monkey one day fell from its high branch and lay motionless in the dust, the other monkeys – who seemed to have accepted the spy monkey into their family – appeared consumed by grief. I tried to say that stories like this, of the grieving orca and the spy monkey, stir something different in us. It may be irrational but they touch our private griefs and heartaches and things we can’t let go.

I also wanted to say what I had learned from visiting Mana Island, the scientific reserve where Nigel lived and died – the island he’s made famous. Earlier this year on a hot Sunday morning I took a boat to the island. Because it is so carefully protected you can only go there as part of a guided tour that goes out at specified times each year. In the piece I would write I had decided that going to the island would show me the bigger picture of Nigel’s life and remove it totally from the anthropomorphised portrayals that had popped up during the week his story broke. I wondered, too, whether going there would help me to view my own sorry situation with a colder eye, ideally like a wildlife documentary-maker slowly freezing to death in the snow while waiting for a snow leopard to show itself.

After walking up several steep hills our group came to the exposed cliff where the gannet colony is. There were no real gannets that day – only the decoys: painted yellow and white, with a white slick of paint beneath them to suggest guano, and near the decoy birds was the speaker system in the long grass: a single loudspeaker that shook furiously in the wind and sent huge ghostly cries out to sea.

Cheryl Strayed has a piece of advice I often think about: ‘Don’t surrender all your joy for an idea you used to have about yourself that isn’t true anymore.’ It’s hard advice because it means you need to come up with some whole new idea that is true, and for a while you flail. It applies to writing too. It’s partly why I’d botched my talk. I’d surrendered to an idea I’d had at the beginning: that going to the island would make me look at the story through a more rational lens. In this version I was able to view Nigel as simply a quirk of nature, a random old seabird who’d washed up there and who had no real idea what was going on; i.e. he was a bird whose circumstances were … birdy, and we would honour him better by understanding this. But as I wrote on, I remembered, inconveniently, that in fact going to the island and seeing where he had lived amongst the decoys had actually just made me feel sadder about his life and even feel a bit lost, stumping around on my own while everyone else was in twos and threes. ‘Are there any wasps on this island?’ I’d practically screamed at a man who seemed to know a lot about the island’s biodiversity. ‘I don’t know anything about the wasp situation,’ he said. But what was new about any of this? It was too late to change tack. I’m a disorganised person and I had to read my piece aloud at the festival the next day. (‘Like a tropical storm, I, too, may one day become “better organized”.’ – Lydia Davis.) So I kept going.

As we walked up a steep hill, a tiny drone came buzzing over our heads. It bobbled along above us, bucking about like a neighing mechanical horse, then wandered off. Further ahead, we saw a green gecko sporting a tiny radio transmitter on its back. In many places there were little corrugated iron roofs tucked into the ground; these were homes for geckos and skinks. There were areas of weirdly lush native forest from a massive replanting programme. And there were takahē – slow-moving in the grass, like careful gardeners in blue woolly jerseys, surveying the work yet to do; they’d been flown in. Something about Mana Island feels faintly dystopian. But all of its careful measures are needed in order to keep it alive, like a tiny child kept swaddled.

By chance, the journalist who was first to write about Nigel, Virginia Fallon, was on the trip too. She visits the island often, and in fact had reported on Nigel back whenhe’d first arrived and had started wooing the decoy. There’s a certain kind of person who is alert to small but crucial stories and Virginia is one of these people. A few weeks after our trip she wrote a story on Thomas, a blind bisexual goose who died at age 40 and was buried next to his partner of 30 years, Henry; the township in which he’d lived held a funeral for him, including a procession with a bagpiper and a speech by the mayor. I asked Virginia what it had been like to follow Nigel’s story for those years and she shook her head and said, ‘I’ve got no emotions left.’ She told me she’d cried while writing about his death and hadn’t really stopped since.

As we walked around the island in the hot sun I kept hearing people in our group say his name. ‘Nigel. Nigel. Nigel.’ Our patron saint.

At the end of 2017, he was still the only gannet on the island. And he was still trying to woo the decoy. Around this time, the sound system at the colony was adjusted, sending the recorded calls into a more opportune direction over the sea. And soon after that, three new gannets flew in. Unbelievably, Nigel, the curmudgeon, didn’t take any notice of them. The others set themselves up at the opposite end of the colony from him, and, perhaps because he’d already spent so much time with his concrete friend, he stayed where he was. (‘Concrete friend’ is how the tour guide described Nigel’s mate. ‘Friend’! I love that a gannet’s unconventional relationship has the power to strike coyness in the heart.) The other gannets didn’t seek out Nigel either, but the conservationists kept waiting and hoping that something would happen.

There’s a part in Barry Lopez’s book Crossing Open Ground where he talks about how we perceive relationships in the natural world. ‘Relationships in the exterior landscape include those that are named and discernible, such as the nitrogen cycle, or a vertical sequence of Ordovician limestone, and others that are uncodified or ineffable, such as winter light falling on a particular kind of granite, or the effect of humidity on the frequency of a blackpool warbler’s burst of song . . . the shape and character of these relationships in a person’s thinking, I believe, are deeply influenced by where on this earth one goes’. Although a gannet’s affection for a decoy is readily discernible to us, shaped by our thinking about love and romance – i.e. the places we’ve been – there is also something ineffable in it too, like winter light falling on granite.

In January this year, Chris Bell was out walking along the steep track near the decoys. Like Nigel, he lives alone on the island. The other three gannets weren’t around that afternoon, but amongst the decoys, he noticed something fluttering in the wind. He walked closer. And he saw it was Nigel. Nigel was lying dead in the nest he had built for the decoy he had been trying to woo.

One of the things that affected me so much about the story was the way in which Nigel was portrayed as a bit thick. To me this portrayal, as well as being a bit disrespectful, showed that Nigel, like so many birds (as the old slur ‘bird brain’ attests), was just misunderstood – and obviously he was helpless now to persuade anyone otherwise. There’s a notion, proposed in the eighties by Jane Goodall and Hans Kummer (and described in Jennifer Ackerman’s fantastic book The Genius of Birds), that a wild animal’s cognitive abilities should be measured by the ways the animal finds solutions to problems in its natural home; we should seek an ecological measure of intelligence, rather than a laboratory one. They proposed that intelligence can be more fully seen in the ability to innovate, to ‘find a solution to a novel problem, or a novel solution to an old one.’ Like when a great skua in the Antarctic snuggles in with a bunch of baby seals to steal their mother’s milk, or a heron uses insects as bait to attract fish. Maybe Nigel had simply found a solution to the novel problem of being the only real gannet on the island? And a novel solution to the old, old problem of finding a mate.

When our group reached the gannet colony, we sat down above the decoys – they’re incongruous, freaky-looking things, almost garden gnomey – and I thought of Nigel living for so long in this ghost town. And, even though I tried to stop it, really tried to tamp it down, like trying to stem a river of garbage bursting up out of the golf course in Springfield, I thought of The English Patient. In this analogy, and it doesn’t work but hear me out, Nigel the gannet is Katharine Clifton played by Kristin Scott Thomas at the end of the film. She’s waiting in the lonely cave, in the dark, not giving up hope. And maybe the international news media is Count Almásy, played by Ralph Fiennes, sobbing open-mouthed as he finally carries her dead body out of the cave into the desert. But then . . . the concrete decoy is clearly also Almásy? So it doesn’t work. But, still, as soon as I started thinking about The English Patient, the floodgates opened. Soon I was imagining Nigel as a glittering, powerful, enfolding angel, like Xas from The Vintner’s Luck. He was like Sam Rockwell’s character in Moon, who thinks he’s been talking to his wife back on Earth but she’s been gone the whole time, or something. He was like the victim of a long-running practical joke that has got out of hand. As Chris the ranger had concluded in Virginia’s story, ‘This just feels like the wrong ending to the story. He died right at the beginning of something great.’

I’d gone to the island to know more about the animal reality of Nigel’s life and death. Of course there is ample room for both emotional and intellectual understandings. But I couldn’t get a handle on my sentimental response to the framing of the story as one of unrequited love. I just wanted to see the chicken embrace the boy.

There’s that cliché, when you’re embarrassed, of wishing that the ground would open up and swallow you, but the wish I always have when embarrassed is to be dramatically airlifted out. As I sat back down on the stage in front of the small crowd gathered on Saturday morning, who I’m sure have all by now completely forgotten this event, I wanted a huge bird to plunge down and pick me up in its comfy beak and carry me to some remote outcrop and – important to note that the bird would not eat me – we would live out our days there together, and eventually I would turn to stone and never have to stand on a stage again, although somehow I would still be able to write.


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… hello

It’s been the longest time since I’ve posted anything on my blog, and I’m feeling guilty about it, but I guess not guilty enough to do anything properly about it. I now think about this blog in the same way I’d think about a gun – I wouldn’t know how to pick it up, and if I do pick it up it’ll be the wrong way, and it’ll accidentally go off and I’ll shoot one of my fingers off and the instructor will be like, ‘I tried to tell you! You wouldn’t listen.’ And he’s right, I didn’t listen.

Screen Shot 2018-07-08 at 8.41.03 PM

Things have got busy somehow, and I’ve found myself overwhelmed, to the point where I’m groaning and sighing and lightly sobbing a lot more than usual and am way, way, way worse at replying to emails and messages than I am ordinarily. (If I haven’t replied to you about something, I am really sorry and I will reply soon; unless – and this is the ONE SOLE exception and I am so sorry, oh God this is a bad point to have reached – UNLESS your email was to ask for some writing advice or publishing advice. I’m sorry! But I cannot give you the advice anymore. I CANNOT. I can’t even give myself any advice. I’ve tried and I don’t listen.)

I wish I could spread out all of the writing opportunities that have suddenly come rolling in, because I want to do them all. But I can’t do them all. ‘You could if you were a bit less useless,’ I say to myself, in the same reasonable tone as the gun instructor who told me off earlier.

I’m also slowly, cautiously tapering off an antidepressant medication at the moment. I’ve been taking this medication for about 15 years. It’s early days and I feel jangly but also really curious. It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time, and for a long time there’s never been a right time to do it, and there still isn’t, and I don’t think there ever will be. So why not now? One nice thing that’s happening is my dreams are becoming much less frightening, which was one big side effect of this medication. The other night all I dreamt was that lots of friendly people in wheelchairs kept trying to come into the elevator I was in, but there wasn’t enough room for all of us, so I said, ‘Perhaps some of you could wait till the next one?’ (I’m not sure what happened next, but I woke up yelling.)

Here’s a piece I recently wrote, up on The Cut.

Some things I’ve been looking at and listening to and reading lately:

The whale

Sabrina by Nick Drnaso

Ear Hustle, a podcast recorded at San Quentin State Prison

How to Change Your Mind by Michael Pollan

Cat Sense by John Bradshaw

People from the Pit Stand Up by Sam Duckor-Jones (published this week by VUP!)

Poūkahangatus by Tayi Tibble (published this week by VUP!)

Peach by Emma Glass

This article about Mimicry, the journal run by Holly Hunter

These photographs of animals by Pentti Sammallahti

‘Another Beautiful Bike Lane’ by Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks (not on YouTube in full, but they play it around 2:30 in this clip)

I can’t stop listening to Let’s Eat Grandma.

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They tell me any idiot can do it and I tell them

I’m not just any idiot, I am specific. Even when my lungs

are bursting – properly bursting

like things dragged up by that Russian deep-sea fisherman

I keep riding.               I get tired.                    I just keep riding!

People who drive talk about how great it is

to get out of the city. They drive to new cities

so they can get out of those cities.

Cities coagulate around drivers to try to stem the wound,

stop them leaving. I could become a valued member

of the resistance. I could drive aggressively at the city

to make it move down, like a conductor yelling into a packed carriage.

I ride along the street outside your house

with my heart flapping loose and getting chain grease on it.

I’d just like to be able to pick you up from the airport

or drive a medium-sized dog around.

I’d like to buy some small trees and drive them home

in companionable fragrance.

What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people

and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing

asked Kerouac. That’s your conscience

telling you that you’re yet another problematic single-driver

automobile on the road

and you should turn around and let those people carpool with you.

Jack, let me attach a bike rack to your boot.

Fears coagulate around me to try to stop me driving.

A man flicks on his windscreen wipers at their most aggressive speed

to deter the squeegee bandits at the intersection.

I keep riding.               I’m tired.                     I have to find

a good pole to lock this to.

Years coagulate around me to try to stop me leaving.

The world flicks on its high-speed windscreen wipers to deter me.

The only good ride was when you were on your bike too,

coming downhill

and we passed each other

and yelled ‘Hey!’ at the exact same time.

When I walk I imagine throwing myself in front of buses

to punish them for being late. When I ride I brace myself

for drivers to barge right into the shoulder

and plaster me into the leaves like a chip packet.

Why don’t I just cycle directly into my coffin and be buried

with my learner licence, which expired in 2011?

I yell that. I see drivers expand and shrivel and expand

like octopuses in motion and I envy them

being able to shapeshift deep inside their personal oceans.

I’d like to be able to pick you up from your new place

or take you there sometimes.

You can always make your own way from the airport

but I’d like to transport some small trees, a marrow, a table.

I’d like to have a table to stand on, to stretch up into a tree.

The small trees will grow into trees that overhang public footpaths

and slap my head good-humouredly as I ride under them.

A dog will hang its head out your window as you go by

its slow mouth saying something important to me in a dream, but I

won’t remember.

It will be great to get out of the city.

Get to another city, pull ourselves free, get out of that city

and the city is watching us go, shaking its fist; but we’re just specks dispersing.

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