phosphoresce

Doubling, broadly conceived, as subject/inspiration/trope in literature, film, theatre, music and the visual arts

There’s a syndrome, which I discovered in myself, and which I see in other women, whereby you’re very angry with men, maybe your father, and therefore you choose a partner who it’s easy to be contemptuous of. I think that’s a syndrome that needs to be recognized more. I would put that generally: we don’t talk enough about the power of women, we talk much too much about the powerlessness of women.

He was lying on the sofa in the dark under two damp bath sheets, crying. I came in the room and said ‘oh dear’ and then fetched him a dressing gown and made him a tea with sugar because that’s what people do. I feel the same way as him but I don’t like to go on about it. Everyone does.

I decided the only thing for it this morning was to put my phone in my bag and leave my bag on a hook in the downstairs cloakroom. When you’re in the middle of summer you want to distil its essence with words but it seems impossible, and that afternoon sat in Regents Park drinking a passion fruit flavoured portuguese canned drink, that afternoon two days ago: it feels like decades ago. The fan in my office is perpetually on. My new deodorant smells of cucumber and green tea and actually works for once. I think I should make the word ‘wholesome’ apply more to my daily and weekly activities, like last night when I spent the whole evening sprawled across my bed reading my book, a glass of water on the bedside table, kids playing in the park and in the estate outside my open window, the massive trees opposite my flat making their background noise in the wind. I put my phone under a pillow on silent. 

The Courtauld Gallery is one of those galleries where you can sit on a wooden bench and feel semi-alone. I went last Friday and willed strangers to talk to me. It sort of worked. The man on the front desk gave me a discount and told me to visit the Fashion and Textile Museum where he used to work (“People appreciate small galleries,” he said), and when I sat in front of a Renoir and clutched my phone in front of my face while thinking about what to write in Notes, the invigilator leaned towards me and said “You can take a photo if you want,” in this hushed, conspiratorial tone. There was a woman in there taking photos of every single painting and the last thing I wanted to do was join her.