Anyone But Me

Joy Crookes presents Anyone But Me.. - Episode #2 With Kate Nash | Part 1 

This conversation is very pertinent, highly intelligent, super real and oh, so moving. As well as discussing the potential dangers of our technological addictions and how global lockdown has affected creativity, Joy + Kate articulate beautifully what it is to be female in 21^st century ‘Western civilisation’ and how in a male-run world it can be so incredibly difficult to be true to ourselves, to express ourselves without being derided or damaged in some way, or to even come to the realisation that the self we are forced to project is not who we really are.

Despite huge obstacles both women have courageously risen to the challenge and here they share their experiences of overcoming trauma, getting back to themselves and the things in life that really matter as well as finding ways to live in a way that feels more genuine and meaningful.

An intelligent, inspiring and highly recommended listen for young women, older women, men who have daughters, men who have mothers / aunts / nieces / female friends in their lives – yes, that’s everyone.. 

Part 2 coming soon x

Prepare to roar, weep and feel the love in Part 2 here.

Edge Of The World

I sit at the edge of the world

waiting for the end

will it come fast or slow?

if she's here, will she know

what to do if I drop

and won't wake up?

I sit at the edge

wait for the end (of the world)

this bed provides comfort

but it's not my friend.

outside grows greyer

I screen it away

blindness protects

from the harshness of day..

I sit at the edge of the world

wait for the end

will I choke on the blood

or the vomit or bile?

will it be instantaneous

or go on for a while?

will it hurt or feel dreamy?

will my last cries be heard?

I sit at the edge

wait for the end of the word

I had it here somewhere

the perfect reprise

a shimmering spirit

who giddies the skies..

I sit at the end

and wait for the courage (to take me..)

I suppose I ought to add a little something about this pieces's provenance just in case anyone is concerned: 

Dealing with chronic pain and more than one defined ongoing illness can often, for me at least, bring up a sense of something that could be insensitively described as a vivid dose of hypochondria or, more sympathetically, as an acute awareness of death's ever reaching fingers drawing close - making it's presence felt through an increased intensity of usual symptoms with additional new strains of discomfort - a seemingly random pulsing vein here, an occasional eye twitch there and/or some unusual stomach spasms for example. Perhaps at night there is also a feverish heat emanating from the neck rising to the lower skull..

All these happenings can easily conspire to make one think about the inevitability of leaving this life and act as a reminder that the departure board can change it's details of time, destination, even mode of transport, any time it pleases. There are no guarantees and (as was made abundantly clear in the small print) any deposits made are unlikely to be refunded.

Whilst it is seldom enjoyable to ponder these things for any extended period of time, I feel sure that acknowledging the existence and inevitability of death is a healthier way to live than denial and pretence.. Perhaps.. 

Maybe this is all subjective. Besides, my intention was to explain that Edge Of The World is a poem that comes from this kind of pondering rather than any desire to deliberately accelerate the process or indeed charter one's own private train to Elsewhere. I hear cancellations and delays are forecast anyway..

Until next time, may your days be filled with love & kindnesses :) xx

And To Make An End...

...For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning...
T.S. Eliot

For those of us who tend to over-think almost everything, have an inbuilt obsession with attaining an unattainable perfection, and seem hell-bent on criticising every aspect of our tortured selves on a regular basis, the end of a year can feel like an impossibly difficult time. 

The expectation that everything will and should change for the better, is difficult to avoid. The predilection for ruminating on the past year's 'failures' and less than successful projects and relationships is rife and often overwhelming. As Charlotte Carpenter so succinctly puts it in her beautiful song Another Year - "...this trip around the sun, it ain't easy..."



I watch myself going through all these fears, disappointments and anxieties year after year and only seem to add to the chaotic mix of chemical imbalances by attempting to stop feeling the feelings that cause such pain but ultimately cannot be undone by undoing.

Having, by no small miracle, begun to put into practice the probably life-long lesson of allowing feelings - whether they feel helpful or less so - to flow through unhindered throughout this past year, I imagined that this year end would be less painful than the previous. Yet despite putting mental, emotional and situational safety barriers in place, I've found the crossover from 2019 to 2020 just as exhausting and full of disappointment with myself, one or two unfortunate others and with life itself.

Putting the past behind us as Eliot suggests in the wonderful quote above (and elsewhere in his Four Quartets piece), is no easy task and takes huge amounts of courage and trust in the eternal process of change. 

The idea of calling an end to one way of being and thereby allowing a new way to come forth, however, is very appealing and resonates loudly in my soul. Thus, I have allowed myself the miserable luxury of spending the day (and much of the previous night) immersed in all the sadness that came skulking out of the new year woodwork, ruminating over unhelpful thoughts and disappointments whilst simultaneously attempting to employ the art of observing feelings without too much judgement. 

It's been a long day but I feel ready to make an end and let the beginning roll in. I hope you do too.. x


P.S. The following extract from Burnt Norton, Part 1 of Eliot's Four Quartets (perhaps not intentionally) sums up the feelings of fear and anxiety that, perhaps necessarily, hang over this time of year poignantly. I also like how it (definitely unintentionally) evokes the Twittersphere quite beautifully.

...Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
With slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world...

Coming Home From Paris...

The constrictions of Twitter have so far proved a wonderful challenge for my usually verbose impulses and I appreciate the regular opportunity to restrain the avalanche of words that tends to pour out when I sit down to write, or, at least, to hone that avalanche into a snowball without losing too much potency. 

Coming Home From Paris On The Eurostar is one of three micropoems I wrote for a submission in September. The constraints here were a limit of 11 lines (excluding title) - more substantial than Twitter's 280 character perimeter but still far shorter than most of my work. 

Thanks to Twitter I've learned that poetic boundaries can be fun though I'm not sure I'll be attempting a haiku anytime soon!

Coming home from Paris on the Eurostar
She sleeps, lips softly pouted,
cheeks ablaze with solar kisses
finest raven feathered lashes pour from lids
heavy with travel and late summer nights.
Golden mocha skin, loose untroubled arms crossed
fingers rest quietly, sated as freshly weaned bairns.
Her father’s hands wide, roomy, safe home-making arms
hold tight her dreams against his beating chest.
Drowsy warm aroma floats across charcoal slate -
her and him entwined, sprawling nonchalance disguising
complex root combinations, no beginning, no end.

The Radio Edit

In the radio edit
we’ll make sure to leave a gap,
a poignant edge-of-the-moment
full-of-potential stop-go trap
between the chorus and the bridge,
the knowing and the liminal.
We’ll harmonise speculatively
on the incoming vertical
and wait
just enough
for one
breath.. taking.. gasp
to take us to the climax
hit us like a sudden gust
sweep us up over the waters
to the blue sky we can trust.


In the radio edit
we’ll repeat the chorus here
‘til it chimes with all our heartbeats,
becomes one with collective ear
and just when they’re feeling comfortable
singing along to the melody
we’ll cut the vocal, play just the tune
bear the weight of expectancy
as the audience falters unsure,
words slipping off their tongues
through the open lips of surprise -
will they stay or will they run?
Do you sing the words regardless
drawn towards the spot of light,
make your own mark on the record
stand tall, prepared to fight?
Or do you stop there on the spot
afraid to sing alone
the only voice resounding
mantra under desert sun?

Too late! The strings are soaring
drums beat loud, vocals return,
accustomed order is resumed -
our song will now play on.


In the radio edit
we’ll focus on the expected frame
of chorus following verse and chorus
following verse and same again
all the way up to the bridge
where keys change unsubtly,
usher them into a room beyond
ever so gently.
‘Take the step, it’s just one note’
Noting the rise in splendour,
letting them know ‘oh yes, it was good,
but now it’s even better.
Come up, up, up where the air is clear,
sweeter, breathe deep, let it in,
raise your hands if you want to go faster -
here comes the chorus again!’


In the radio edit
we’ll keep it short and sweet,
focus on the melody
highlight the lyrical beat.
We’ll give them what they expect to hear
with a little extra flourish,
a flouncing twist of pleasure -
you’ve been here before, you know this -
and they’ll return time after time
to listen to our song
but this cropped and censored version
can’t hold you for too long.


There will be no lengthy intro -
a gradual build of sounds
layering cozily over each other
in which the listener will lounge,
deep piles of sirens singing
harmonies we can’t deny;
there will be no vocal mosaic,
divided, reapportioned, reapplied.
Brightly coloured tiles
bearing glorious luscious notes,
expanding and contracting
in a universal flow.
There will be no vast extensions –
a stretching out of time,
basking in melodic rays,
float on a sea divine.
No waves to lift our heart and mind
into glorious ecstasy
where music is the food of love -
each note a chance to breathe.


The radio edit will be a joy
but it will never feel this free.
This original extended version
plays just for you and me.

Entanglement Theory

Long, long, long ago,
Beyond the scope of time,
Your shiny, spinning rock star
Collided into mine.
Left a meteoric scar
Across my cosmic heart –
A crater lying aeons deep
A lifetime’s width apart.

Far, far, far away.
Bonds that can’t be severed,
Bound my lonely heart to yours
Our orbits changed forever.
In a cold, dark, empty space
Our bodies out of time,
Knew we’d be together, love
Further down the line.

If the numbers all add up
And the cosmic maths is right,
The physics that is drawing us
Won’t give up the fight.
A million miles of galaxy
Can’t keep us apart –
We bleed the same blue star dust;
Same plasma in our hearts.

A promise made so long ago
Sends us spinning through the skies
In opposite directions –
You turn left and I spin right.
Yet we are still together,
Connections running deep -
The stories and the songs we share
Will bring you back to me.

Nothing can tear our hearts apart
Without forcing a hole
In the holy matter of time and space,
In the fabric of our souls.
And so our planets circle
Around the same bright star
In spirals of galactic love
That keep us near and far.

Interstellar longing,
A message from above:
Find your inner compass -
A universal Love.

The Papered Cracks

What is this pounding in my chest?
This hollowed out container, emptied
scoop by scoop; no vanilla tones here

only bitter spices, aniseed rising,
cinnamon smothering the airways,
coating sugar with lime.

Plates and bowls crashing heavily,
cupboard doors slammed shut too tight -
tightness in my chest implodes as

kitchen noise reverberates through the skull,
landmines collapse the heart’s will to live -
undermined, undernourished, underfed.

A repetition of epic proportions -
no portion too large to share.
Colour drains from all our faces.

Time stood still whilst pain kept falling,
washing away all sense of truth
leaving nothing but fear, catastrophised

upon the table, wooden boards laid
plank to plate - a guest house where
no-one wants to stay. Alone

in corners facing inwards, the child,
unhappy seeks redemption from the walls.
The papered cracks scream for attention

and a kindness that seems so obscure,
so impossible to reach, but I can see
it disappearing around each bend

and I follow, hopeful, scared but hope
will always be my friend even when
I can no longer feel his bones, fragile

pieces of him and me and him and them
ground down by the pressure cooker
releasing steam in erratic rhythms,

puffing and screeching her requirements,
her disappointments and regrets. Still
heaping overcooked piles of veg, steaming

hot as fire to burn your tongue -
stop the words from forming, throwing
us off our game. Whose turn is it now?

Biting down on bloody lips, whispered
words of attempted comfort evaporating
in the frosty air. Knives cutting

every string of emotion, all connections
severed at the nub, just below the bud -
there will be no flowering this year again,

no seasoning on this scorched flesh, dry
almost tasteless on the tongue and
who’s got yours now? So quiet,

tiptoeing over broken milk and spilled shells,
crunching precariously between the highs
and the oh, so low lows of teatime.

Mix-Tape 10 - The Long Way Round - Apr2019

Words to accompany my latest Spotify mix-tape The Long Way Round Apr2019

I’m Heading Home again. My mind is full of you. You, shining bright in all your True Colours, surpassing the glorious Starlight blazed across these expansive skies as I Drive slowly, pushing wearily against The Road at 4500m, tyres crawling over the surface, soft and sticky like Glue. Embracing, like your love.

The Lights from distant towns glimmer on the horizon whilst I listen to your voice playing over and over in my mind. You always know what to say to pull me out of my self-centred stupor and Push Me to My Limits. I need your voice now as I float across these Roads. Without you, it feels as though I might be foolishly Walking Away from Love, heading in the wrong direction to I Don’t Know Where. Back to you?

I’m taking the long way ‘round, of course, but I could Ride All Night along these grey, dark paths, pedalling endless cycles and it won’t change the fact that I Adore You, that I would gladly spend all my days and all my nights finding my way back to you. Back to you and I. You and I in our Private Universe, where the Algorithms are always spot on, feeding and holding our rhythms in perfect time as we live and love many Lifetimes together, weaving in and out of life’s never-ending web.

Thoughts spiral backwards (or was it forwards?) to that Easter in the city where we bathed in the Half-Light of early spring evenings, surrounded by the regal glow of hyacinths, fragrant as the new life blossoming all around our eager souls.

I’m often startled by how easily memory can Roll Back the moth-eaten blanket of Insecurities that have weighed heavy on my heart since 1976. But that day, lying Beneath You under the magnificent magnolia whose petals fell sweetly down upon us like kisses from an oceanic sky, drowning out all sound of distant Street Life, we gave ourselves up to the Purple Sun, confident that Everyone Should Have Their Day and this was ours. Ours for the taking. Ours for the keeping, alongside the myriad other jewels stored securely in our treasure chests, heart strings tightening with every remembrance.

Back on the road, the Okolona River Bottom Band sings loud from the stereo. Lilting voices harmonising thoughts into a dream-like reverie and I find myself and lose my self in a Labyrinth of recollections. Looking upward to the sky, Wide Open, blue as childhood summers, I fall to my knees as though Love in Itself were bearing down on my shoulders, pushing me to the ground through vivid vivacious sunbeams.

I awake to find myself alone and lost again. This time, at the centre of the puzzle caught up in an Inner Tale of half-truths, secrets and dilemma, bound by mythic string and you, Red Dressed floating toward me in Detached Motion. Here one moment, faded the next. Like all our too short days.

As the sun sets, we are reunited and lose ourselves in Love for Days - magical days that stretch on and on. Though each moment is delicious in many ways, my heart yearns to Take You Home but as we try to leave, our legs, heavy with love, seem to be drawn like magnets to the welcoming earth and we struggle to stop ourselves Falling Down. I start to worry, feeling confused but you are laughing in Turkish Delight as you take my hand and pull me from our dream back to the road.

The music has long since stopped playing and only your voice remains, resounding at Perfect Magnitude through the persistent drum beat of my heart, seeping into my bones, vibrating at comforting frequencies, forming a Bridge between our worlds as I keep on driving Until The morning.

Mix-Tape 4 - The Sweet Darkness - Dec2018

Words to accompany my latest Spotify mix-tape The Sweet Darkness - Dec2018

Our final Mix-Tape of 2018 is The Sweet Darkness. It comes with a story so let’s gather round the fireside, blankets pulled up close, press shuffle (or play in date order as you wish) and allow ourselves to get lost in the flicker & glow of the flames as the music pulls us into a dream. This is no festive frolic - more a venture into the dark depths of winter’s renewing wonderland. So, pull on the thick, hooded cloak of friendship, grab an oil filled lantern of good hope and take my hand as we embark down a musical rabbit hole on a journey into the dreamy darkness of Winter…

Goodbye England (Covered In Snow). The Nightfall Pale Blue drifts down over this place where The World Is A Ghetto and the Hourglass is Falling, Catching the last beams of daylight behind the Winter Trees. We’ll leave the Dirty Old Town behind us this December Day, Burning Bridges as we go.

‘Everybody Loves You! Wdsg?’ the Villagers’ Fool yells down from a flaming flyover, running towards us with a toothless grin. He offers us V4 Fake Sugar which we politely decline as we pass by The River where Club 8 are Swimming With The Tide and Avril tries to Keep Her Head Above Water.

Turning away, we enter the enchanted forest through a Tunnel of evergreen hedgerow. Radio Silence falls and for a moment or two we are overwhelmed by the peaceful lushness of ancient trees and wild flowers blooming proudly in the moonlight. The cool calm covers us in a blanket of Serenity whilst high above in the canopy, Bowie sings his Opus ‘Wild Is The Wind’ from a glittering trapeze swing, making us sway with vicarious Vertigo as we watch the tails of his turquoise suit floating behind him like wings, a yellow rose in his lapel.

‘No CD!’ he calls down to us, dropping The Rose at our feet like a Sacrifice. We both move to pick it up, but before we get a chance, Eric appears from behind an old, beautifully snarled oak and holds up a warning hand.

‘Let It Grow’ he advises of the lemon flower and ushers us towards a new path. ‘Please Be With Me’.

We follow him into the darkest part of the wood where the trees have joined upper limbs to create a chamber-like arbour in which Cat’s Eyes glower in the gloom at the only Girl In The Room. Myela is stuck in a groove, lost in her past, Always whirling around singing,

‘Who Hurt Who on the 25th Of Last December? Now I’m Dancing On My Own…’.

We spin around the dancefloor with her for a moment until she disappears into the misty darkness and we sense another presence hovering behind us.

‘Is Someone Out There?’ we call through the greying murk. The only response is a repeated refrain of our voices echoing back and forth. A crunch of footsteps finds us spinning around again.

This time we spy Muse lurking in the shadows, softly tempting us to The Dark Side three times over in their Alternate Reality. We find ourselves drifting towards them when suddenly Lily runs over exclaiming,

‘I’ve Lost My Mind! If you find it, please Send To Robin Immediately!’

She hands us a battered leaflet with the faded headline ‘Things It Would Have Been Helpful To Know Before The Revolution’ before running off into the trees. What does it mean? It feels like a relic from another world.

‘Tough Love’ mutters Iggy Pop swinging down off the back of a passing Three Oh Nine bus. As he walks alongside us, we notice the landscape has changed to a more urban environment and we amble, unsettled, along the edge of a raucous city park complete with deafening fairground and dizzying carousels.

Iggy, sensing our desire to return somewhere quieter and more familiar, indicates towards the grand houses on the other side of the street and explains,

‘This is where The Pure And The Damned reside. Have you tried Thinking Of A Place When There’s Love?’ This seems like portentous advice, but we can hear Roberta inviting us to join her party. Glancing at your face, I can see you Feel Like Me and that we’re doing better than we’ve ever been, so we follow Minnie’s suggestion to ‘Close Your Eyes And Remember’ and cover our faces in gloved hands.

The Chromatics’ Camera clicks into place (and we love it despite the outrageously banging donk on it!) Opening our eyes, we find ourselves in a clearing surrounded by painted rose brambles and silver birch. In the centre of the clearing sits an enchanting, wood-framed, cob cottage bathed in a welcoming flickering glow. Like instinctive Detectorists we know we will B. Inspired to find the gifts waiting for us inside, so we head towards the golden fireside to tell our stories and sing our songs assured that Love Will lead us home.

The End.

Enjoy the holidays. Much love, Rache xx