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Writing
On the Cusp
Donald McDonnell
I had to enter the Mater Hospital in Dublin in 1956 when I was nine years old to receive medical treatment for pulmonary tuberculosis (TB). Although I was unaware of the deadly nature of this disease, I knew it was a serious matter to be hospitalised.
Afterwards there were more weeks at a convalescent centre. Read more »
Strand Lines
On Saturday, Dickens came to the Strand – in the ambitious form of Dickensfest! ~ an event co-organised by The Centre for Life-Writing Research at King’s (where Strandlines lives) and Westminster Archives. Many thanks to Ruth Richardson and Judith Bottomley for inspiration and organisation. Read more »
How They Talk:
When I phantasmagorize of being a writer, I create V types of characters. One of them is a seeker of eventful time. S/he evolves through chronological sequencing of spatial instances. The other is a rascal. I put them in conversation. When they communicate, one of them takes on the role of a curious explorer, an inquisitive, at times tedious, examiner, who wants to know as much as possible about humanoids with different shapes of head. The other assumes a stance of an ignorant bastard, indifferent to external stimuli, ignoble by the performative act of whatever.
The flash of the shadow struck my heart with vehemence never felt before. What runs with me every day, each minute, every single second of my living days. And nights. It then got totally out of control. The remembrance of the river’s love depths--an overwhelming amount of the red liquid flooded that pump. And it made my body scream through the pleasantly humid air along the river bank. I didn’t know it was also called running. But I run like mad. Melting in the heat of my boiling (--)consciousness/the cacophonic beauty of my grandparents’ quarrel/my parents’ silence/my running scream. 