Scrunched up on the sofa hugging a cushion and the unwashed fluffy jumper I’ve been wearing for seven days. I marinade. Despite lastnight’s bath – filled with magnesium salts we got for Dad -, I’m sure I smell earthy, natural, and probably rank: my hair, due a wash last Wednesday, is matted and limp and lacklustre. I relish the freedom of no effort.
I watched the first two episodes of Normal People, a show based on one of my favourite books, and was mortified that I’d recommended what came across as a BBC soft porno to everyone. Afterwards I got to thinking about sex, the good bit, when you first meet someone, fancy them, and it feels awkward. It makes you a teenager again.
Then the News came on. Death death death.
Death and sex. Ends and beginnings. I wondered if you could make death sexy or sex deathy and thought of how people die through asphyxiation during sex.
I don’t like thinking strange shit, but when you work in the arts you have to. Writers have great capacity to be twisted (we don’t write an act of killing without imagining it first) and everyone else is obsessed with reading, watching and finding out about our freaks: Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy and and and… The best art is inspired by human depravity. I think…
… and we all have a touch of depravity in us, don’t we? Corona virus happens and supermarkets turn into a Lord of the Flies re-enactment over fucking bog roll.
(Note: I served a carer on my last day at work and she told me one of the old ladies she looked after was out of toilet roll and the carer couldn’t get any because the shops were empty. All you toilet-roll-stockpiling-dickheads deserve your heads rammed on sticks if you really wanna play-act Lord of the Flies)
News tells us the death toll is receding, slightly, but the government needs a plan to make a plan: to lift isolation.
Call Jacinda Ardern and ask her advice!!! Now there’s a woman who’s intellectually sexy, even in the face of death. From what I read, New Zealand’s death count was 19 today (April 27th) and the first confirmed case was in February!!!
But who believes anything they read? The non-fiction writers are better at fiction than the fiction writers. Proof of that is how many people believe the British press.