When I write,

I am me.

Little bits of Lucy come out

like squozen toothpaste on to

an expectant page.

Each word tumbles out

as if pushing the other

in a queue.

The domino effect of

thought,

crystallised and channelled through

touch and finger;

the thought of the

hand,

the birthing of letters

as each tap tempers

new text.

When I write

I am with you.

Surfing with you,

on you, in you.

Less tactile

than visions that may

distract,

and yet conspire to

inspire.

It’s funny how new tranches

of life pulse through these

limbs,

to express what they desire,

catalysing with technology.

I am reproduced,

iterated and multiplied –

screengrabbed,

Control+F’d –

hand and word,

you and me.

The day today,

where the source of

what it means to

deconstruct, to question,

to critique, to resist,

left.

 

I had felt the loss for days beforehand.

 

I came from one place to the next,

to follow him.

 

Transported to study and learn and try and be

like that man, that gentle man

who turned law inside out

and told us how it was –

and was not.

 

And to pass today

just as other endings

come by …

all endings being the same.

 

I am taken back to

26,

Bloomsbury,

pinching myself to stay awake during

hefty Foucauldian surmisings,

transfixed by Force of Law-ings –

utterly petrified by the

language of sovereignty.

 

I would sit mute,

where last night’s events still

dripped across my burnt septum,

my tear-stained cheeks.

The imposter of imposters.

 

But he never said anything,

never judged – he must have known.

 

Today I find it hard to write, to think, to breathe,

as a scholar

who came to the job

because of him.

 

Today I am reminded that

I was so conjured and brought to life,

by that man who inspired.

 

How the years have gone by

and law is so obviously shit.

 

But praise that someone

who can take the dirt

and make you see what

delight, play, violence

and menace,

law can be,

all at once.

 

Those who can tear through the bullshit

with such beauty –

the example that rallies

the next,

revealing legacies,

as they really are.

 

The role of the wordsmith,

the verbose academic,

the densely jammed page

of flowery language –

I love.

 

Cut, drawn, quartered

by the market,

he leaves us in times where

the intellectual does not write,

does not think.

The intellectual copy edits –

snapshots and titbits,

abstracts and metrics.

 

Research

barely gathered at all,

before contact hours –

and now contact tracing.

 

This man who inspired

is removed

with such a

deference of mind and pen

that is borne of a time where

there was still an outside.

 

Impact was not quantified,

but his enduring presence regardless.

 

We are feeling him now,

we’ll be celebrating him later,

we read him before we had seen him,

we followed him to Birkbeck.

 

Thank you Peter Fitzpatrick.

Rest in peace.

 

22 May 2020

Somewhere drips the sweat of yesterday, where skin came together and ripped us from ourselves.  Somewhere I am kissing the proverbial, and you’re absorbed in your own sense of tomorrow. Split screens, screens split, screens split us as blossom glues itself to green embers on garden posts and red pillar boxes.  Foam, formly moistness, rich spittle slices through and lands on the plastic lid, the collection of empties, the emptiness of collectivity.  Where did culture go, sucked out of the ether like a curtain caught in a vacuum, stuck and too big. Too big to be removed, yet it hides in a crowded wardrobe, dusty electric blue heels and monochrome brogues. We are left with the petrified unrest of you.  We are left with the dreaded calm, the luxuriant death swerve. I hear you, not much you can do from an overcrowded furniture space where never worn night gowns hang and fake fur stoles fall on dress fabric and broken plastic hangers.

When birds fly past me and I miss their wings, but feel their strength.

To flip the switch.

But there is no switch –

The keeping going of the keeping going.

Each churn of the cell is a connection regained,

Re-lost, whichever the movement may be.

Not to indulge,

In insult or injury,

In love-lust or unluck,

Speaks languages beyond dreams.

Askance in peacock attitudes,

Where mind and mouth do not talk,

Wilderness is seen as unkempt and ungainly.

It is easy – and preferable – to get lost.

Returning from circular motions

Of you and me, and them,

There is no rest for the challenged.

To challenge.

At least there is always something to do.