Jessica E. Wragg

Tag: feminist

We Need the Forest – Revised

The tracks of the underground train from the carriage window. Hot breeze of the last act of summer whistling beneath my blouse. Barbed wire like thumbprints and fingers and outstretched palms. No, the jungle is not the same as Streatham Hill, but the birds are just as loud.

Jealous of our travelling friends in Thailand and South America we did the best we could. Tooting Bec Common was our wilderness, that place in which we searched for things un-done, never tried, never seen. You wanted mountain-scapes, thick cities rich in colour, but instead the horizon was tower blocks behind Bedford Hill and the same church building; a thick tapestry of brown brick and a canopy of tile rooves.

We blew smoke rings, propped up by our elbows until the room filled with the thin mist of mid-morning, searched the internet for the cheapest flights to the furthest distance. We visited the aquarium and spent hours in the tropics, in the pacific, in the mangroves. We fought through the thickets of commuters going south as we travelled north and hiked the Parliament Hill. In Richmond Park we got as close to the red deer as we dared, ignored the twenty others around us snapping pictures on their smartphones, throwing a peace sign to the buck. The zoo was as close as I came to the SavaWritennah desert, or the outback of Australia.

Car exhaust on our tongues, pigeon shit, stagnant water; we turned them to spices and incense, salt water and red dry dust. Our flat was our cabin; pale floral wallpaper faded to brown, overrun by damp. We looked out onto a neat row of garages; grey, brown, black doors, blue beneath as the paint cracked off. Ten, perhaps twelve angular hatchbacks parked in front but to us they are rocks in a stream. At night, sirens turned to the chirping of crickets, and the headlamps of passing cars illuminated our window like torches. Cars that scraped their bumper on the road taking a speedbump too quickly sounded like the cracking of branches. I worried sometimes that the longing would drive us mad, you wondered if we already were. Me and you, we both fitted in quite well.

And then one night you woke me when the sun hadn’t risen yet. My eyes searched for you in the dark and found you, a figure crouched at the end of the bed. Your body bent double and your back hunched with urgency, the cool side of your hand brushed my ankle. In the black I found your face and felt the damp contours and the rolling tears. The shuffle of your canvas rucksack was soft and quiet, and when you put it on your back I could tell it was heavy from the sound you made. You kissed my hair and opened the door of the bedroom and yellow light drowned the room, blinding me. The last thing I saw was the rubber heel of your boot as your closed it again.

I lay on my back until the sun came up and waited for the birds to signal morning, climbed the tree down from the upstairs window to the forest floor. The soft gravel branches crunched beneath me and the mist hung low by the very ground. I caught a sparrow by the wing and plucked feathers from its breast, hung it by the limp feet and bit into it with a frenzy appetite until the guts dropped onto my chin. I bounced from the rocks in the stream, dipped my toe in cool water of the puddled pavement and ran barefoot over broken glass and the speedbumps. The ground shook with an underground train but to me it was the earth sighing, and when the rain fell thick it got caught in the canopy. I spoke a strange language that I didn’t understand, walked upon my hands and lost my fingernails digging in the dirt.

Wildness is a strange word, but I understand it to be me. We did our best there, in the city. Yet still, the feeling that I needed the forest and the mountains, the beaches of an island and the tongue of natives won me in the end. A life without me seemed to have won you.

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My best friend and I, in the bathroom.

An ode to the best friendship that I have ever had. 

I am lying upon your bathroom floor, all cold stone and grouted tile, stray hairs of your flatmates caught in my fingertips and your bedroom pillow beneath my head. Staring into the spotlights my eyes well slowly, blinded by the brightness and you dim them, light a wilted candle in a vase which flickers in the movement of your towelled dressing gown.

“Don’t put your fucking foot in it.” You say, and I don’t, I move myself a few inches away and turn over whilst you get into the bath. You are a slim, small outline in the mirror. I am not supposed to see you naked, but I have, and you are wonderful.

As you lower yourself down your shoulders shiver and you grimace from the hot water and make me turn on the cold tap. I stretch to reach, I am not looking, but my face ends up dangerously close to the toilet and then to the plughole and so I roll over on to my back and let you figure it out.

And then there were are, listening to music from my phone using the grubby white bidet as an amplifier, and the bond between us seems tangible and touchable somehow as you bathe yourself and I listen to trivial details about your day, hanging on your every word as though I depended upon in, upon you, upon us. We talk about him, about her, about them, about that, and somewhere within the wet steam rising from the tub I think: how lucky I am, to be here with you.

We hold hands in the cinema, cuddle in front of the television, re-enact the sex we had with the men the night before using the cushions from your sofa, binge eat fifty pieces of fried chicken and wallow with our gorged stomachs. There is no subject too much, no small piece of stone that we would leave unturned for fear of shame or judgement.

We are two best friends, two sisters in the bathroom. Your body is my body, and my voice is your voice, and I am writing about it now only as a writer can, propelled by love and admiration, fearful that things will ever change. If I could only choose you for life, know that I would.

Open call for London-based women.

I’m looking for London based women to take part in an art project I’m working on.

Entitled ‘Any Place’, the work will be exhibited on my website first and foremost, and will feature portraits of 50 women along with the most ordinary or unnerving place they have been sexually harassed or assaulted.

The idea behind the project is that to viewers, it will look as though the women have been asked a far more mundane question – perhaps ‘what’s the strangest place you’ve kissed someone?’ or ‘name a place that holds some significance for you’. In actual fact, the answers across the board will prove a far more sinister point – that sexual harassment can happen anywhere, to anyone, at any time.

As an example, my portrait would have ‘In the cold room of a butchery’ below it.

I’m looking for 50 women or all ages and backgrounds to take part. You must be somewhat London based, and be happy for me to meet you and take a head and shoulders picture. It goes without saying that you must also be happy to speak about the harassment you’ve endured.

This is a hugely exciting project for me which, if well received, will hopefully go on to become something bigger. If you’d like to get involved, please contact me via my ‘Find me‘ page, or email me on jessica.e.wragg AT gmail.com

I’m really looking forward to hearing from you.

Jessica

There’s Your Problem

When you leave the hospital, the air is metallic in your mouth; on your tongue you can taste the car exhaust, the cigarette smoke, the stale rubbish rotting away in industrial sized bins. You, yourself, feel like a motor engine with cogs and gears whirring inside of you and some turn in the wrong direction with no way to fix them. The doctor talked to you as if you owned a car. There’s your problem, he said. Only one works.

Once, years ago, you saw the skeleton of the Elephant man in a museum around here and where you expected to see smooth bone you saw what looked like jagged coral on the mandible and the femur and the ulna. Your boyfriend sat down, half watching a grainy film about keyhole surgery, half listening when you told him to come and look. Look at this, you said; you wanted him to see the fifteen inch metal pole that was used as a catheter and you wanted to laugh as he, like everyone else, imagined it getting inserted into the end of their own penis.

The thought of a penis makes you scrunch up your eyes. Reproductive organs and eggs and fallopian tubes and wombs and lining and ovaries and only one works.

Over the road, as you walk past the Post Office collection point, a small boy crawls along the floor outside the underground station. You watch as his mother, phone lodged underneath her chin, stumbles frantically after him with her arms stretched outwards and her fingers just about managing to hook him from the armpits. As if flying, he is in the air, feet flailing five inches above the ground. He enjoys the feeling of hovering. When you were small, your father would put your small body in a blanket and gather up the corners in his fist. You would be in darkness for a second, making a peephole for yourself, the rough cotton smothering your skin and swaddling you like you remember as a baby. In the blanket, he would pick you up, and swing you around and you feel weightless, flying past the light wooden cupboards in the kitchen and narrowly avoiding the flat stool that rested against the ‘breakfast bar’. Your heart would feel like it was being tickled on the inside, you know now that what you felt was adrenaline and it was the same adrenaline that you felt when you found you were swinging too high and you couldn’t get back quick enough to the ground.

It is only through a younger memory that you can remember an older one; like you remember remembering.

Do you want children? He had asked you.

You thought of your mother. You thought of lying on her chest in the morning after crawling in from your own bedroom. She was warm, her nightdress a soft cotton. Her heart beat was slow, peaceful, timely. Her small eyes scrunched up in the daylight after a heavy night’s sleep, and you would often wonder how she could recognise you so early in the morning. She held you tight to her chest, and you drifted away again. When she got dressed, she would hoist on her underwear as if strapping on a parachute. Deep, straight veins of pink skin from the rubbing of her bra strap developed after a few hours; she would constantly adjust it. She told you that before you were born, her breasts had been much smaller. Your first bra fitting was with a woman who felt too handsy and gave you something you didn’t want. Young ladies wear cotton t-shirt bras, she had said, but you wanted one with a strap that would rub just like your mother’s. Somehow it signified to you what being a woman was like. Opposite the doctor you realised this was not the case.

On the way down the steps to the underground, you are met with a disgruntled rumbling of a train.

CHESHAM (Metropolitan line) 1 min.

Your oyster card does not have enough money to board. By adding five pounds you have missed your train. You feel the inside of your handbag, the photocopies. Dr Mann had printed off six sheets on a black and white printer for you; they were detailed, with diagrams and flowcharts and the first one he had handed to you was a quiz; get mostly As and you should freeze your eggs now.

Now, the platform is rumbling with the sound of two trains arriving at the same time. The breaks hiss and screech, and you watch as the doors open simultaneously, a familiar jingle as they do.

EDGWARE ROAD via VICTORIA (Circle) 3 min.

This is not your train. The doors jam shut, lock themselves. You breathe. You hate to spend time down here, in the pit right at the bottom of a staircase that ascends to the summit. You can’t stop thinking. Then, you are nervous and your heart skips a beat and it reminds you of when you used to get panic attacks. You went to therapy and you didn’t do your exercises at home. You couldn’t ride the tube because somehow it set you off. You couldn’t drink or get drunk because you didn’t feel in control and then you would go again. Therapy didn’t work. You grew out of it. Your mum bought you something from Boots. It came in a bottle with a pipette and you dropped a few drops onto your tongue and it was meant to calm you.

Princess Diana used it, your mum said.

What good did it do her, you asked. She’s dead, now.

Sssh, your mum said and scolded you. Don’t speak about her that way.

And then you wondered why all older people, mostly women, are obsessed with Princess Diana.

EDGWARE ROAD via VICTORIA (Circle line) 4 min.

This is not your train.

You pull out the leaflets in your bag; all six of them, and shift through them slowly. When someone drags their suitcase by your feet, you pull the papers away from view and wonder why you are looking through them in a train station. The colour is off; this is not black and white, this is grey. You wonder if you should call your doctor, tell him to invest in some more ink, in some office toner, in something to fix his shit printouts. You wonder how long it has been since he printed in colour.

A carriage roars in to the platform next to you, and it is only when the train begin to warn its departure that you realise that this, this is your train. You run, get your bag caught in the hungry doors, they chomp; open and close until you manage to snatch it free. As you pull away, one of your printouts flutters on the platform in the breeze. ‘FREEZE YOUR EGGS’.

The train pulls you away as though you are hovering, and you can feel yourself loosening. The carpeted seats scratch at your back through the shirt, and you cannot put your arm upon the rest because of the broad man sat beside you, but still you are easing. You are melting into the metal, re-moulding into another person on another train. You pick up the newspaper, slot your printouts into the middle in between the television guide and fold it away under your seat. The train grinds to a halt.

‘I’m sorry about the delay ladies and gentlemen, but we’re just waiting in the tunnel whilst they fix something on the train ahead. We should be on the move shortly’, he says.

And then:

‘Ah, there’s your problem! There’s a signal failure up ahead. We might be here for some time.’