A friend’s nearly-five-year-old demanded to wrestle me, announcing that she was very strong. She was. Defeated, I balanced her upside down from my feet as I lay on the floor and she extended her legs up to the ceiling, and it was inelegantly yogic. Her mother, temporarily disarmed by a feverish younger sibling, pointed out that sock wrestling would be a good community winter sport, and advocated for a weekend wrestling meetup, and I’m pretty sure she’s onto something.

We walked over the side of Cusop Hill afterwards and passed the vast old yew tree by the church that can (we’ve tried) accommodate seven children with ease. The snowdrops are out by the roadside and the crab-apple bush above the kitchen window is insistent that now is a sensible time to blossom. The first tentative dark pink buds are out.

Beautiful things 2/3

Thursday: two daffodils pop up every January, even last January, amid a patch of feral ivy in the garden. They’re always first out. I don’t know who they are or how they got there, but I like them. daffs

Friday: we leave for school in the usual whirlwind of book bags and coats. The children are with their dad this weekend, and when I get back and appraise the storm damage to the kitchen table — The Complete Calvin and Hobbes Vol. III, pink and silver sparkly masking tape that doesn’t stick and spontaneously unravels, a fairy in the bowl of grapes and an incredibly small cheese grater from a Christmas cracker — there are notes guiding the creation of made-up languages (boy) and inappropriately psychedelic thank-you card designs with spirals and eyes (girl). It’s a chance to marvel at them without missing the madness too much. At the Co-op, I picked up a bottle of wine and a bar of chocolate for supper.

Beautiful things

I’m stopping short of full insta wellness mode, but after a pretty tough last year it’s time to change step so I’m going to write about one beautiful thing every day. I will desist from posting pictures of my breakfast, for now.

This morning the kids went back to school. We’d just got back from Goa, where we dozed and basked in sun like lizards, and after a week of that I remembered how bad I am at heat and how northern I am at heart and the cold Welsh air felt really good again.

For once, jetlag meant we were up with time to spare, and I scraped the ice off the car without swearing about imminent lateness. The houses on the hills to the north of the Wye, from the Begwns to the Hergest Ridge, were just beginning to pick up the sun and glint pinkly as you drive along the south side of the valley in the morning at this time of year.

After being really quite freaked out by winter driving last year, this morning it was gorgeous, all frosty fields and candy-coloured sky, and the outlines of the trees on the crests of the hills closer had perfectly clean lines.

The Clamour of Being

I wrote this essay for publication in Nicholas Johnson‘s catalogue for his upcoming show, Inns of Molten Blue. It was such a pleasure to collaborate with a visual artist, especially one whose interests and influences correlate so intensely with mine. I am very excited about seeing the catalogue in print; his work is strange and beautiful and it will be a wonderful document in its own right. The title of this piece is from Deleuze’s Difference and Repetition and it pops up later on too, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to namedrop him in the text. 


Once upon a time, we would have spent much of our leisure , or what leisure we had, lying beneath a tree, or perhaps sitting with our back imprinted into the base of its trunk, our legs extending out along its roots, looking. Looking or dozing or gazing, in the psychic twilight edgelands of waking, in the thinning of the veil between worlds, for other sorts of things could be seen if you looked long enough.

Other worlds lay beyond this place, but perhaps they were only ever ways of seeing, otherworlds of being in the same place when the mode of its cognition had shifted for a time. All things can become strange given time. Beyond their surface, and the words we use to denote it, all things are very strange indeed.


The Victorian philologist and comparative theologian Max Müller famously described mythology as a ‘disease of language.’ What he meant by this was that language, as it developed into an ever more sophisticated and specific way of naming things, made them less strange, less big, less alive. It made things into things. In the very early language of the Vedas, words made broad fluid brush strokes of meaning, so that the shifting and metaphorical nature of what it is to view the world outside was not excised.

The disease of language was really a disease of things. The problem was that the strangeness and aliveness of things resisted words. They came to life another way, by animating the words themselves into a new and cartoonish pantheon of beings. The words became gods, Eos and ­Chaos; the netherworlds of non-ordinary experience became Faerie, and then fairies. Animism – the belief that all things possess, or are possessed by, a spirit – arose out of a cognitive bias.

The gods, Müller wrote, were ‘nothing but poetical names, which were gradually allowed to assume a divine personality never contemplated by their original inventors.’

Something was afoot. Something in the human mind resisted the dryness of things. It bored through their surface and the names by which they were denoted.


Some things were more resistant to thingness than others. Müller created a taxonomy of tangible, semi-tangible and intangible objects in which the insistent vigour of life sounded louder up the hierarchy.

‘Some objects, such as stones, bones, shells, flowers, berries, branches of wood, can be touched, as it were, all round. We have them before us in their completeness. They cannot evade our grasp. There is nothing in them unknown or unknowable, at least so far as those are concerned who had to deal with them in early days.’

Semi-tangible objects carried a mysticism correlating to their scale: ‘even a tree,’ Müller wrote, ‘at least one of the old giants in a primeval forest, has something overwhelming and overawing. Its deepest roots are beyond our reach, its head towers high above us. We may stand beneath it, touch it, look up to it, but our senses cannot take it in in one glance.’ For ancient people, ‘something went beyond the limits of their sensuous knowledge, something unknown and strange, yet undeniably real; – and this unknown and unknowable, yet undeniable something, became to the more thoughtful among them a constant source of wonderment. They could lay hold of it on one side by their sense, but on the other it escaped from them – “it fell from them, it vanished.”’

The intangible objects – those that could be identified by sight but not touched, like the sky, the sun, the dawn – were those most prone to godliness. Awe correlated to scale. To stand before a mountain was to stand ‘in the real presence of the infinite’, and the infinite was either God, or the noumenon, or both.

The indefinite was the gateway to the infinite: where something evaded meaning, or evaded being pinned down in language or at first sight, provoking further consideration, the magic of being could be found. Enchantment was an indefinite exercise, playing in the margins of perception.


Müller had a lifelong admiration for Kant, which led him to translate an English edition of the Critique of Pure Reason. He maintained, however, that there was one adjustment lacking in Kant’s metaphysics. Between the phenomenal perception of the individual and the noumenal realm of things-in-themselves, which defied human experience, there could be an intermediate mode of apprehension, aistheton.

Aistheton was the human faculty to acknowledge that there was more going on beyond the surface of perception; that beyond the horizon of our detailed vision of a thing lay its indefinite nature, and beyond that the infinite. Müller’s error was to ascribe the ability to glimpse the infinite to a particular scale: the demigods of tree and river, the celestial bodies of sun and moon.

If we cannot find the same strange intimation of life beyond the frames of our understanding when looking at a leaf or berry, so that behind the veins and hue and particular geometries of a leaf was something unknowable and alive in its unknowability, perhaps we are not looking closely enough. Perhaps we have forgotten what it is to gaze without imposing prior judgements, until our frenzied application of things begins to melt away into something more indefinite, and we can start to look, and to actually see, again.

The infinite is always there, all around us, immanent in all the things we could see if only we were able to stop naming them as things. It is the infinite domain of the beyond-us, and it does not need to be brought to life as an unreal god, or gods, and it does not need to be named as the infinite.


John Duns Scotus, medieval theologian and Subtle Doctor, described the infinite as ‘a measure of intrinsic excellence that is not finite.’ To ascribe perfection to a finite object was mistaken, for the perfection of the divine was found instead in infinity, which is an intrinsic part of being. The infinite did not exist as some separate ghost-entity beyond material things, but within them.

Concealed in the tangle of the forest beyond the church were moments of infinite perfection to be replicated by the hands of men inside, who adorned them with foliate heads of oak and berried hawthorn and other imagined perfections: fleur-de-lys and waterleaf, and the fruits of otherworldly lilies.

Manuscripts grew tendrils, animated by whole vine-life ecologies of real and imagined plants, beasts, birds. The unruly irrepressible indefinite of life kept creeping into human words, growing beyond its borders into human texts, announcing its own landscape in the human mind.


When we look at small things, something arises in their liveliness. It, whatever it is, for like the small things it is resistant to being fixed down, moves within them, making them indefinite. You can hold the small thing but you cannot suppress the uncontainable truth of its aliveness when it lives, unless you kill it, and to kill it is to enact a violent discomfort about its life. Its aliveness buzzes with intention. Even small things that were once alive – Müller’s shell or berry – is a document, an arche-fossil, of its former self.

If we find the indefinite and unpredictable magic of intention in things, it breaks our sense of thingness and usually results in an accusation of anthropomorphism. To impose consciousness onto other things, like plants or insects or water, is to impose our human frame of being onto something quite unlike ourselves.

It is an odd accusation, underpinned by its own fallacious anthropomorphism, in which consciousness or will or mind or whatever we imperfectly name it must be the same sort of consciousness or will or mind that we possess. There is a lurking tautological maxim in which mind cannot be non-human because mind is human that sits, unexplored, in the darkness of modern assumptions about things.

Things that are not like us do not have a mind. Things that are like us have a mind. God is like us, a named enminded man in the ether, because he has a mind and we have a mind, but things that are not like us are not like God. They are merely arrangements of dust.

Perhaps it is more comfortable not to lie beneath the tree. Perhaps it is more comfortable not to rest in the bizarre and mindbending alienness of plants and fungi and bees, because there is simply too much strangeness in there.


Edwin Abbott Abbott’s novel Flatland is sometimes considered the first piece of science fiction for its multidimensional thought experiments, but it is primarily an allegory: a tale of geometry, of axioms and how to break them, and of the mimetic illusions of the mind.

It tells the story of the Square, a contented member of the regular bourgeoisie in a two-dimensional world ruled by hierophant Circles. One night the Sphere arrives from a third dimension. At first, the Square does not understand what the Sphere is, appearing as it does first as a dot and then as a growing entity whose curvature indicates circularity but of no fixed size. He is discomforted by the apparition. In time, the Sphere communes with him and he with the Sphere, and the Sphere takes him to see Spaceland.

Upon the Square’s return, the frames of his understanding exploded by the possibility of multiple dimensions and driven by a desire to share the knowledge he accrued in his strange experience, he is imprisoned as a madman or a heretic, for they are close cousins.

Whether it is a geometric heresy against the parallel axiom or a theological heresy against certainty, to speculate an otherworld is to engage in a heresy against the world we think we know. In that act of speculation, of imaginative invention, we access new worlds beyond the mind’s old frames. The most terrifying heresy is the possibility that they might be true.


To learn from a tree was to learn from another dimension, and other dimensions were strange and fearsome places whose magic operated on its own principles, and the worlds within them were infinite and unknowable. Sometimes, there were heretics who lived on the far edge of town and took their wisdom from the trees, and they would consume parts of the tree and take it into themselves, so that the tree would become them and they the tree.

Sometimes, the whole town would be complicit in this flirtation with the vegetable otherworld. Sometimes, on May morning, the young girls would go out into the dawn and sip the dew of roses, so that the beauty of the rose might transfer itself onto them for the day of the flowering and the dance.

The flowering boughs of Beltane and northern Midsummers brought the dance from the plants into the human realm, and the insistent life-beat of the plants would drum its way into the human dance, forging new couplings and bringing forth new human lives.


The infinite is remarkably easy to find with a little patience. It has a habit of expressing itself in both expected and unexpected ways. Sometimes, it announces itself by way of the indefinite in resisting description. Sometimes, it reveals itself in strangeness. Sometimes, it reveals itself in patterns.

Patterns have an odd tendency to repeat themselves across scales. We can call them archetypes or tropes or memes, depending on the texture of our cognition. The patterns of Dreamtime paintings and cell biology and the post-war future kitsch of what it would look like to be in space are made of the same shapes. As you circle a city from the air, spiralling closer from space in the approach to landing, it looks by turn like a ragged lichen on the many-scarred dirty surface of its rock, and then cellular, subdivided and peppered with receptors and transmitters and active transport channels. Here are xylem and phloem; veins and arteries; modes of commuting and of commerce.

When we look closely at small things, at tangible objects of little consequence, we find new complexities in them. The same geometric and technological elegance can be found in the architecture of Brunel and organelles, in the double-helix of DNA, in dendriform management structures and in new leaves.

The surface of a fruiting lichen, all emissary launchpads and tentacular factory units, looks up close like some strange futuristic space colony because that is what it is.  A hawthorn tree, new-grown for the coming of the new light at the vernal equinox at which point it plans to eat the sun and create weapons so that it may not in turn be eaten, is up to something wild and warlike on the frontiers of existence. If we saw these things in outer space, their weird intentions might make more sense to us. Outer space is what we call the realm of infinite possibility we have forgotten to see in the microcosms of our own world.


Today, though we speak little of the infinite, it sometimes feels as though Max Müller was right: that within us there resides some drive or will to glimpse that which goes beyond ourselves, to see the nature of things beyond their given names, to attune to worlds beyond those we inhabit. Sometimes they call out to us and sometimes we have to seek them.

If a single voice raises the clamour of being, perhaps we do not hear it when the clamour is harmonious. The dissonances provoke us to listen, listen harder for what it is that is happening; to provoke the search for the noise and for its voicing.

‘When we speak of colours or sounds,’ wrote Müller, ‘we seem for all practical purposes to move entirely within the finite. This is red, we say, this is green, this is violet. This is C, this is D, this is E. What can apparently be more finite, more definite? But let us look more closely.’

The dissonances of the inbetween, the both-and-neither, are the sound of difference, large or incremental, differences that endlessly proliferate until they collapse into chromatic sedition, into the indefinite all.


Sometimes there is sameness in difference, things contiguous with the other, repetitions of the same imprints across dimensions and scales. Those shapes, those patterns, tropes or memes or archetypes, forge their way into our aesthetic consciousness as they shape our cognition.

Our minds seek to stamp these cookie-cutter shapes upon the outside world, and sometimes the outside world calls back, teasing us with them, or what we thought they were: the variegated shadows of foliage, hills and rivers, snakes and faces, provoking ancestral emotions from times before and beyond ours.

Here and now and everywhere are quincunx matrices and dendriform fractals, parabolic canopies of growth and decline, configurations perfect and infinite and prone to eventual collapse, for nothing lasts fixed in time forever, but nor does it cease to exist except in form.


But let us look more closely. Let us look more closely until we find ourselves within the tree’s strangeness, so that the mode of its invention confounds us and it seems as though it exists in its own separate fold of spacetime in which our technologies and tools of measurement do not apply.

We cannot truly know it, for its unknowability extends too far into the otherworlds; we can only imagine what it would be like to know it, or to see it, out there on the threshold of our world, where imagined botanies are more real than the things we thought we knew.







How Acid Caused Postmodernism (or didn’t)

Here is the talk Eli and I gave at Breaking Convention. After a really difficult year of working hard on lots of things that didn’t work out well, this was a much-needed success, my lousy presentation skills aside. We got to meet loads of fascinating people we had long admired as a result too.

People asked if we were doing podcasts, which seems to me an excellent idea, so watch this space.






The New Acidheads

One of the most inspiring events of recent years for me was Breaking Convention 2015, a biennial conference and get-together for scientists, thinkers and dabblers in the psychedelic world. It had the full rainbow of utopianism, bonkersness and cold hard science that you would hope for from such an event. There were people with hairstyles that should not have been legal and respectable men in suits. It was the most disparate and welcoming crowd I had seen in a while. I wandered through the sunshine at Greenwich, completely sober, watching London float on a heat haze like a city from the future. It felt like the future there.

And then 2015 ended and 2016 happened.

I was struck by the oddity, in 2016, of Home Secretary Theresa May’s exceptionally illiberal Psychoactive Substances Bill passing into chaotic legislation – perhaps a bellwether of the Brexit mentality to follow – as trials here and in the USA confirmed the benefits of psychedelic experiences for depression, addictions and end-of-life engagement for terminal cancer patients.

These developments are exciting. They are powerful tools for working with struggling minds. The idea that we have to let people slip into misery, addiction or terminal illness to access psychedelics grates. Once you’re in jeopardy, there’s a slim chance that you may one day be granted therapeutic access via a licensed practitioner. Otherwise, you are a criminal.

In 2013, I wrote this:

If a similar liberalisation strategy goes ahead, it will be authoritarian in its own way, in letting medicine and psychiatry mediate experiences that have long been part of human existence. But at least some good may come of it, and the old moral panics about irreversible madness and the bad trip to infinity may eventually die down in the face of empirical evidence.

It looks like the first part of this might happen, and given the political climate we find ourselves in now, it feels like a fantastic tool for psychotherapy. There is more work to do, though.

Imagine a substance that promoted long-term empathy for other people and life, that made people happier and more productive, that saw anger ebb away. Imagine such a thing existing. It feels like something we could all do with more of right now.

Lay psychedelic use overwhelmingly has these outcomes. See James Fadiman’s microdosing studies; read Erowid or Reddit. Read what people have to say about it themselves. Sometimes there are thorny moments, which are overcome and learned from. People go to the jungle to drink ayahuasca precisely for the thorny moments and come back feeling strong.

Find me the acid casualties, the people who went mad after one trip, who had never taken any other substance before, who jumped out of a mythical window and tell me that they outnumber the people who have brought light into their lives. Tell me that they outnumber the deaths caused by drink-driving and booze-fuelled violence, let alone the slow alcoholic decay of mind and body. Find me the acid casualties, full stop.

The thing is, the acid casualty myths put about in the 1960s were just that: nearly all mythological in character, they were put about in order to curb what looked like the beginnings of a dangerous social revolution. You don’t want your future ruling class thinking property is theft, love trumps war, that God is found in the intricate workings of the universe rather than the established Church. There will always be people out there who break themselves via the mechanism of indiscriminately taking loads of drugs, although the reasons for doing so will inevitably be found deep within their personal and social worlds; those broken souls got labelled acid casualties, because acid felt dangerous.

Psychedelics are dangerous. They are dangerous to a world order of anger, violence and greed, whose continuation depends on ignorance and fear. They are dangerous to a social world dominated by alcohol and its capacity to help us bury and forget that this is how things are. The people who take them are dangerous for the best possible reasons, and that is why I am going to write about them this year.


Brownsea Island

In the first of the photo albums that line the bottom shelf of my parents’ bookcase is a picture of me, aged about eighteen months, fat-faced and nylon-onesied, next to an ostentatious and substantially larger peacock in a field of heather. I look bemused by the peacock; the peacock’s attentions are to camera. He is used to cameras.

Brownsea Island is inhabited by peacocks, red squirrels, Sika deer and vast numbers of birds. It is also inhabited by vast numbers of visitors and a phalanx of delightful volunteers, as befits a National Trust property. In the daytime, on a sunny day, it is all azure sea and Narnia woods, its filmsettishness eroded only by too many people who slowly erode the paths down to the yellow-pebbled coves along its southern edge.

Our family seems to end up here time and again. There is the office where my grandmother worked for years, the house that her boss lived in, the patch of sea where her and my grandfather’s ashes were scattered when I was newly pregnant with their sixth grandchild. Now I’m in a house my parents are renting on the quay, a house that would normally be booked up for years but for some strange glitch of fate, and a house whose neighbour we stayed in when I was the same age as my son who has gone off somewhere with a stick.

If you draw a map of the layout of places in a dream when fresh in your mind first thing in the morning, the act of map-making often provokes memories of new bits of dream you might otherwise have forgotten. The layout of the dreamed place is often very similar to the layout of a real place, but with the added capability of wormholes and secret passages and paths in the undergrowth that cross-reference it to other dream versions of real places, and something about the many repeated visits and weight of family relations with Brownsea make it exactly like a dream place.

I went running in the rain one night when all the daytrippers had gone home and found the thick patch of wood at the end of the nature reserve with the strange high scaffold that I thought I remembered from early childhood, in a scene etched into the memory of many consecutive dreams. Emptied of people, the museum-like quality of the place ebbs away. I ran past the crumbling village where the soft grey clay that oozes seaward never made a fortune after all, over the beach made entirely of discarded shards of clay pipework, and up back into the woods where the deer ran off, clearing overcleared logpiles on the forest floor and disappearing into thin air as though into another dimension.

I promised the children I’d take them on the same run tonight, in the hope on my part of getting last night free to run alone and indulge the strangeness of memory/dream/reality where they meet and part along the way. I wonder if they’ll have the same relationship with it too one day, here or in some other place.

More on the death of clubland

This piece by Lauren Laverne was great. But seeing clubland’s virtue in terms of economic growth is misguided.

I have millennial friends, five to ten years younger than me, and they all seem to live like monks. They work very hard, drink little and don’t touch illegal drugs. They find the prospect of going to a club abhorrent. Our twentysomething experiences are radically different for a relatively small age gap.

My ex, a 90s clubland stalwart who saw the emergence of the scene out of the M25 raves, always maintained that alcohol was the great enemy of clubs. When Ministry of Sound got a licensed bar, the whole vibe shifted overnight, he said, from something communal and transcendent into a business. Ecstasy posed a huge threat to pub culture and alcohol revenue, and the brewers responded to the wave of new clubs by providing drinks aimed squarely at the club crowds: lurid sugary alcopops and watery import beers.

The impact of this on the atmosphere inside was insidious – they turned back into the meat market discos he had always sought to avoid in the 80s, and women began to stay away. The absence of women in a queue, he said, was a red flag for a bad club. On balance, I think he was right.

I only started clubbing in the late 90s and didn’t take any drugs for the first few years but, without knowing it, for we’d leaf through Time Out and try to intuit which club would be most fun and, critically, finish late so we could jump on the first train out of Charing Cross to Kent in time for Saturday morning school, we seemed to alight on the ones where people didn’t drink and took E instead.

As seventeen-year-old girls this made it possible to go out and be safe in the crowd. Men who drank were leery, sleazy, sexualising the space. Clubs where people took E were light, bright and about the music. You didn’t get hit on, and the only time we got approached was when people mistook our youthful exuberance for chemicals they hoped to acquire. Once the lights came up and it was time to leave, we’d wander through Soho at dawn hoping to avoid the drunks, who on one occasion stalked us all the way to Leicester Square, where we barricaded ourselves in the phone box until a couple of kindly gay men on their way to Heaven offered to walk us to the station.

My ex thought the brewers were slowly winning the battle, bemoaning his twentysomething employees’ proclivity for pubs over clubs. The Psychoactive Substances Act and our bizarre belief that the alcohol industry will magically choose to self-regulate seems to back that notion up. It certainly seems to be the case in London, where my sense of FOMO from the Welsh marches has gradually withered away.

It is hard to have spontaneous, experimental scenes of any sort when physical space to put them in is in short supply – Berlin developed its nightlife by virtue of being underpopulated for many years. Going back after a ten-year hiatus recently, I was struck by how money, a disproportionate tourist population and booze was moving in on Berlin’s clubland. Parasitic entities can last a while before full strangulation occurs, but the soul of it was already fading fast.

That said, I think there might be hope elsewhere in Britain. My best nights out in this country have been in the basement of a Paisley curry house and at Salford’s exceptional Islington Mill. In Paisley I chatted to the German DJs, who expressed surprise that they never seemed to play in London. ‘It’s odd,’ one of them said, ‘it’s a huge city but it’s as though it doesn’t have much of an identifiable techno scene.’

That was a while back, just before the boom in EU migration to London filled its clubs with young people who had grown up in continental cities where they do do techno, but it still seems to be the case that London clubland is driven by the need to run a profit to cover the cost of the space, and the profits come from bars and the music that works for a drinking audience has a different, less upbeat quality.

In Berlin twelve years ago, it was always quite fun watching the middle-class students from posh western German cities like Düsseldorf or Hamburg or Munich in the queue for clubs. They dressed up for the occasion, a massive door policy error, and couldn’t understand that the aura of money worked against them there.

Clubland has always thrived, paradoxically, in the absence of money, and certainly in the absence of big money. When the money moves in, turning land into property, forcing the expansion of bars that can turn a profit on wet margins, it slowly sucks the fun out of the whole affair. Money and its agent, booze, is what’s killing it – and so much emergent culture – in London. It’s time, at least in Britain, that we looked to the North instead.