Sun 17 April
I’m writing today because I don’t know what else to do. I’m inconsolable. There is nothing wrong as such; I’m in great health, have food, shelter and entertainment, my family is fine (if dislocated) and I have balance in my life. But this morning I can’t see past the emotional fog, the densest I’ve felt in a long time. Recently, I’ve been very neutral, nipping off the super-lows or -highs to nurture a wider acceptance and gratitude for the everyday –the pedestrian– and it has been working effectively; my general demeanour is more positive and easy-to-please. The down-side to this wider berth is a feeling of numbness, almost imperceptible at first and now so intense I’m bolt upright in my bed shaking with tears. I am shameless and without pride. The moment is heavy.
Just like I’ve learnt from my parents, who were indoctrinated by generations of patriarchal and capitalist society, I work to keep busy. I keep busy so I don’t lose access to my basic needs, moreover I keep busy to keep me away from myself. Without space for unstructured reflection, our blinkers remain firmly on while our feet pummel the ground towards progress. Always forward, always more, never still, never less.
The bodily stress that occurs when you feel out of control often precipitates as fear or anger, and eventually sadness, yet the control we wield over our lives is of such farcity we could all do with laughing a bit more.
Since the measure of our worth in late capitalism is inextricably linked to the surplus value our labour creates, how can we muster the self-respect to mourn injustice beyond our own when we have none of our own surplus to give?
I am extremely lucky. The birds’ chorus lasts all day here. Our grass is not threatened with blade or glyphosate, I have a nice bed, a fridge full of donated food and a bunch of second-hand jumpers. Although I have to work less than I have ever needed to to survive, deep-seated ideologies restrict my thriving. I want to write that I should be revelling in my freedom but that word is banned from my vocab.
I’m still living in the shadow of the monolith of hyper-consumerism and occasionally I can glimpse the sun through one of the hairline fractures. In places, full cracks have converged, a few chunks are missing from the corners and there is rubble on the ground. Rain, through attritional, has scooped tiny dents in the just-sloping facade and now sits there stagnating.
Flecks of wild yeasts and other microbial opportunists carried in the wind find the water, and a dandelion seed which ejected itself from the clock takes residence. Ruderality is rebellion: pioneering plants populate the recently barren, inviting less adaptable species to join the precarious community. Soon there is multifarious life, even in the shadow, and it is hopeful.
Mon 2 May
Hugh calls at 9am to ask what songs I want on the playlist for our drive to Great Dixter. He attaches a screenshot of names of bands we loved ten years ago and I send a chef kiss emoji back. I’ve made a big sandwich with scrambled tofu, sliced fennel, pickled gherkins, wild salad from the estate in Brockley that I’m staying on with JJ, and garlic herb mayo from a squeezy tube. I’m wearing all green and I’ve got two flasks of water in my bag of opposite temperatures. When he picks me up in his work van, he’s wearing sunglasses and a dangly earring that looks like a wooden chess pawn. Immediately as we leave he puts the playlist on shuffle and I’m belting out an early Tubelord demo before we even turn out of the estate.
Once we’re on the M20, the satnav decides to take us a scenic route to avoid bank holiday queues and customary motorbike convoys on their way to Hastings. Through deep green Kent, through villages and hamlets I hiked as a boyscout, through my childhood geography. Undulating country lanes look narrower as banks full of blooming cow parsley lean in. Hugh relies on my call for cars coming on obtuse junctions; I crane my neck down the road and the coasts are mostly clear. The journey is long enough that we hear a few songs from each of the bands on the playlist: Tangled Hair, Talons, TTNG, Giraffes? Giraffes!, Blakfish. All terribly ephemeral but I don’t think we will ever get bored of repeating these songs for comfort, emboldening our friendship through shameless sing-along nostalgia.
We do the gardens in reverse order: coffee and cake first, then the main event. Hugh has been working as a gardener for like five years, he’s been studying on the job and calls out scientific names as I. Crocosia, Phlox, Agapanthus, Libertia. I chime in with common names. Ivy leaf toadflax, spurge, harebells, golden saxifrage. We cherish the intertextuality, horizontality, (in)formality of our respective knowledge. Between us it rarely seems important to be correct, only to be open. Without competition there is softness. We ask genuine questions, knowing we’ll get genuine answers, peppered with irreverent word association to tickle our ears.
We take turns to point and gasp at, then stroke, leaves, tendrils, petals, bark. I sniff something so hard I sneeze a few times into the crook of my arm. It seems like the craft of these gardens –the magic– is in the comprehensive design. It’s truly maximalist without being overbearing, both highly chaotic and cheerful. Conversations between light/dark, hard/soft, same-same/opposite, foreground/backdrop all flowing between phases. There is a highly-nuanced observation practice being honed by these horticulturalists, building a bank of plant behaviours which informs their plans and ensures they provide the perfect environment to suit their unique characteristics.
It looks effortless, fluent, harmonious. I think I now understand why classical music is so often paired with flourishing gardens in televisual culture: Antiques Roadshow, Gardeners’ World, the olde English countryside in adverts about tea or home security. The everyday violence of human dominance over nature is vibrating just beneath the stunning superfice.