At the checkout (i)

Does the male body stoop inside a dress? Is that the difference? Tiny flowers scattered over light cotton. Fading yellow, fading pink and a little bit of black. In the queue to the till, the skirt swirls around his calves like a bloom of jellyfish, the draft curling up his knees. Above, a navy mac weighs as heavy as lead from his rounding shoulders. His lobes and lips hang in threads from his face. Too many piercings, too much jewellery. Age chasing him like a trolley down the aisle. I don’t want to look away. I like his Hush Puppies and his short brown socks. I like the mop of steel hair on his head. I like his refusal to feign happiness, and his determined realism. I wouldn’t mind much if I ended up like him, slopping up the side of the market, getting things done while expressing myself to myself.


where journalists lie


I’d never heard of Emanuel Licha until a week or so ago, when someone kindly sent me a link to his work here. I think it’s excellent, and chilling. The hotels where the media stay when they are shooting, chasing, (re)presenting, capturing and distorting conflict on to our TV screens.