Author: Ellen Bell

A good word. A solid word. A kind one, mostly. The take hold, to have hold of, to hold, to hold fast, to hold still, to hold tight. May it hold. That peace, that shaky peace. May it hold fast, tight, still and endure.

It’s been a nasty affair, the brokering of it. But it will mean peace, at least for a time until the belligerent organisers of it once me decide to take up their arms. Let us be satisfied that the lost will be returned, though more dead than alive, and the hungry will be fed. Thank you.

They’ve hurt these last few days. I feel the rawness of the bone. There is no cushion, just hardness against hardness. I want to manage. To keep what is mine, that is, what has been given me (including the pain) and live as well as I can with it. But it’s the sometimes catching, that throws me. That unexpectedness of pain. Give me strength.

And may the peace deal brokered today hold. Let there be a cease from the fighting, the killing, the maiming, the stealing, the hunger, the pain, the fear and loss. Please.

She came in during the end of my dream. It wasn’t her, the one that I drew for almost two years. No, it was someone else. A smaller woman, quieter, less-educated, still, accepting, kind, I think. We sat her down on the sofa, the other women and I, moved the box-cum-coffee table so that there was room for her feet. I noticed the skin on her bare legs were discoloured, patched with liver spots and a few bruises. She wore a summer dress, patterned and colourful. Self-contained, she sat quietly, giving no explanation as to why she had come. And we asked for none.

It floored me yesterday. I gave up, succumbed and took to my bed. I don’t know what it is. Ask Google suggests that it might be gastroenteritis. Possibly. I don’t want to eat, and my stomach gripes. And I am weak. I must rest and see what comes but I feel so guilty not working. I dream of Derrida and know that I must write about him but my head is like spaghetti.

I feel unwell. I’m not myself. Have I poisoned myself with too much magnesium. I did as she suggested and upped the dose. I’ve been bloated and nauseous ever since. It has to stop. I try to behave normally but I’m failing. Every bone aches. I am under the weather and very very sorry for myself.

I remember visiting my mother and her new husband there, years ago. In the palm lounge a man was playing a piano, there was the sound of teacups being replaced on saucers and the chink of silver teaspoons against china. It felt separate from the noise of London outside. We talked of staying there, over breakfast. Two nights, two days, most of which I would spend sleeping. The price was ridiculous. Of course. I can still fantasise though. That costs nothing.

I wake low. It’s a battle to get up. Many have the same. It’s fear that dogs my every waking movement. I want the oblivion, the carelessness of it. And yet life must be lived, each step, each breath. It must.

It is nothing compared to what others must and do suffer. Nothing at all. And yet, it slows me down, makes me catch my breath. It renders me mortal. I don’t mind that. I want my death, when it comes. I want to leave this unkindness of an existence. I am tainted by it. But I won’t hurry it. All of this must be lived through as best as I can.

It isn’t personal. They don’t know us. We just got caught up in their trawl net. It’s an ugly thing. A faceless kind of stealing, more immoral than the usual face-to-face mugging, in some way – though less frightening. I have to let it go. He does. It’s only money, he would say. Why do I cling so tightly to it? Is it because there have been of so little?