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cornelia f prior

writer, editor, swimmer, gardener

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News

Posted on 21/03/2019

‘a confrontational space’ substrand: a profile of Jayisha Patel

Posted on 21/03/2019

’37 women and six of them were Henry the VIII’s wives’ substrand: a profile of Libby Heaney

Posted on 06/02/201907/02/2019

‘a dark mood?’ substrand: an interview with manu luksch

Posted on 06/02/2019

‘finding conviction is difficult in 2018’ somerset house’s substrand: a profile of florence peake

Posted on 29/10/201829/10/2018

tending to…: for nell

Posted on 01/10/201801/10/2018

tending to…: out of place

Posted on 27/03/201827/03/2018

tate modern: suzanne lacy’s silver action

Posted on 27/03/201816/04/2018

pylot: interview with akram khan

Posted on 03/03/201827/03/2018

preview: a handful of dust at whitechapel gallery

Posted on 03/03/201827/03/2018

preview: ceramics and the sea at tate st ives

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the light in our flat is outrageous as is klaus in her new coat and breton miki cap and I (in my complementary red cap) am full of plans for the autumn and winter, including but not limited to apple crumble, an adult gymnastics class, choir, some obstacle course or another, laser tag, a book, and a bop.

this weekend ive enjoyed the vast skies of north norfolk as well as its museums and their frankly dubious curatorial strategies. it's been a strange long summer that hasn't felt quite as heady as they normally do, due no doubt to the worry and uncertainty that's pulsated through it like the stripes of car lights on a bedroom ceiling. klaus and I have begun to watch for their ikeda-like consistency before we sleep. it's so secluded up here that there are no passing cars by the house, no street lights (no street, really). to be sure it's big sky country but it's also dark sky country: all those meticulous pinkprick constellations. I haven't spent much time up here these past months—which is just as well because the beach is, as well it should be, dominated by children and dogs and teenagers carousing in the dunes. —and I'd forgotten how much I like it and how much I miss it. I usually dread the bend away from the sun, but this year I'm bending towards it: visiting friends across the country, a new idea of the future to work towards, big skies to visit here and in tas. feels good, like I'm putting down the roots that will help me blossom.

The thing that's most heartbreaking about having had my bike stolen in the early hours of this morning is not that I only got to ride it once (though that is unfortunately true) and not that I feel like a fool for trusting that the place I chose to store it would be as safe as the place's copy purported it to be (although I do) and it's not that I feel embarrassed to have been so enthusiastic when telling my pals last night about our planned ride for the next morning (although I really do) and it's also our plans to go somewhere (inaccessible by foot or by train) that i've long wanted to visit were scuppered by the theft (though they really were) and it isn't that Klaus and I spent the entire portion of what would have been our cycle to see my mum for lunch speaking to various people who ought to have taken some level of responsibility or at the very least provide us with unambiguous answers to our questions instead of throwing their hands up and sending us on an ever maddening, goose chase of automated, buggy web-forms and interactive voice recognition menus... but it's that I had, after a long, extremely difficult and frankly quite troubling period (for me and loved ones alike) of not having had the capacity for excitement or enthusiasm of any sort finally received some ('recieved', without wanting to sound too ecclesiastical, because I didn't have to muster it or rummage anywhere to find it or manoeuvre anything out the way to accommodate it). With it, I booked and planned a nice weekend which held the promise of friendship and conviviality amongst the dahlias followed the next day by a long, quiet cycle through a sliver of the fens. It's that I have been feeling a bit better these last few days and today's events made me feel like a dolt, like I was being punished for my daring.

the thing about returning to a place as part of a couple onlookers perceive, for the most part, as lesbian (and that you yourself dont really think in those or any terms) is that you realise how implicitly heterosexual and cis so much of your life was before you realised what you realised. part of what you then realise is that your conviction that you oughn't be _there_ is no less or more artificial that everyone else's conviction that they ought to be there. • grande / gauffre (heavenly breakfast) / Heavenly Breakfast (samuel delaney) / bar mahogany / I work to earth my heart / marie / marine

being away from home for obligations rather than to relax (no matter how willingly fulfilled) is exhausting as are other people's families (no matter how much you love those families) and at a certain point during such a trip I always have to absent myself so I can mainline completely forgettable information about, say, the hicksite schism or the different classes of ferries that depart the UK's ports for the continent. • all that said, I spent two relaxed evenings with nell and jed, met this excellent, happy dog, and became best friends with klaus's mum's best friend. I also managed to fit in a lot of writing and reading, a park run, two migraines, a short sea swim, and several secreted teacakes. • liverpool 2019

rose and i spent the evening replaying our summer holiday 2014 by being the ultimate fancy bitches. my cake was GOLD.

been eating ice cream with klaus for 2️⃣ years 🍦

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