Monthly Archives: January 2013

Hi Cecil

What is it called when you can physically feel a sound? I know that seeing a sound is called synaesthesia, and I know one could go as far as to describe any sensory confusion as such, but I’m wondering if there is a specific name for it. For example, when I hear the names Alyssa, Alyssia, Licia, Lyssa or Alicia, there’s something about names in that phonological field that makes me feel weird… I think they sound dirty, sticky, difficult… it actually makes me feel like I have treacle on my hands that I can’t wash off or something. It’s almost unbearable.
This isn’t linked to any traumatic experiences with people of this name, it’s just a strange reaction I have. However, when I hear the names Lucien, Lux, Luke, Luciano and Lucio, I feel happy and think the names conjur up images of light and amazement. Like it’s sunny outside, even if it’s raining. 
Is this an etymological issue, or is it more a neurological thing?
Thanks Cecil! 
Sian Sofia x

hello all, today i have two posts. first, this one, about a piece of short fiction (or ‘flash fiction’ as i believe some of the kids are calling it) and later, my small stone for the day. first, this piece called ‘the book group’.

this is one of those pieces i write that stands slightly apart from my other stuff. it’s not quite able to fit into any category i try and squeeze it in, but it’s sometimes nice to perform, and sometimes nice to discover and read. the background behind it is merely a feeling of nostalgia. i wrote this perhaps a year ago, maybe more. i don’t want to put it in my book because it won’t fit in there, so instead i’m letting you lot read it. hope you like it:


the book group

That day at the book group the postcard from Florence fell out of my Voyage in the Dark (of a cathedral, and the cathedral’s steps) and fell to the floor without grace. it was Yorkshire, and it was raining outside. The book group were too consumed with Rhys to notice, and Nicolas pushed his glasses up his nose and continued to glance occasionally at my breasts which caught his periphery from across the room. 

I had walked three blocks home before I noticed the card was gone and so started to walk backwards. Nicolas told me the look on my face was that of a woman who had realised long after the event that if you take antibiotics, the pill doesn’t work, and was trying to work out the first day of her last period. I remembered having a fever and the remnants of a chest infection the last time I had sex with anyone. “You didn’t tell me” said Nicolas. “He was nobody” I replied. “Someone told me he’d be good for me but I don’t want to stay in touch with him”. Nicolas turned with a wince and gestured to a taxi, which we rode the rest of the way home. 

Six years had passed when Julia and Robert moved out of the house they held the book groups in. They tracked me down at a house in Manchester to finally return the postcard. They must have swept it up and put it away; it was found nestling between a potato stamp painting and a box of spare christmas cards in the Rubbish Drawer. It was a unique moment that Nicolas would later describe in a cento as:

“All the world dropped dead; the
Evening, spread out across the sky. 
A totem.
From a grief ago” (Plath, Eliot, Thomas).

I should mention here that Nicolas was the one who saw him off at the airport when he flew out to Florence, three days before the card was sent, and wishes he’d been the one to send it himself. His motives were suspect, and so his thoughts here are as sincere as they are his own.
I took the postcard from Julia in the kitchen whilst drinking tea, suspicious of the leaves for their bitterness without sugar. It was my birthday, and presents were on the dinner table. Julia said she’d read the postcard (hard not to, really). She said every day she is overwhelmed by codes of normality and social fallacy; she said it might have killed me if she never  returned it, even worse if she pretended not to know its significance in my life now. 

The week after, I framed it and put it up in the hallway. My daughter, now three years old and able to talk. Her father Nicolas, out in the village meeting beautiful new men. Outside, she kicked a half deflated football against a curb, awarding herself points every time it bounced upwards. “It’s not a competition if you aren’t competing against anyone so you already lose” I told her.
At that same moment in time, unknown to me, my publisher in Berlin took a fatal overdose of Zopiclone and Depokate, so my book never went ahead in the end. 

The groups resumed again when the kids were old enough to play out on their own. We all lived near eachother now so we didn’t need to get the bus, like when we were students, when we were young, and the idea of getting on a plane to Florence seemed immediately possible, when everyone could just marry eachother and we’d all still be here years later to celebrate.
How the bus would heave and lurch forward at every red light.

How my body would never jolt like that again. 

my friend anna ( is doing this thing every day, for the whole of january. a small stone is, from what i gather, a small piece of writing that sums up the day in a crystalline way, it is a small stone of description and can describe something very miniscule, or very large, in a humble way. 

it’s now the 6th of january (well it’s very late so it’s actually the 7th) but i’m going to do mine now and do it for the rest of january, i think. here goes: 


the shower came through cold for the fourth time i’d tried it. i heard the whole house rumble awake as the heart of it broke and stopped its copper arteries from carrying any warmth and it reminded me of the squat we held when i was just 18. washing my hair in the sink with a half-boiled kettle, rotting from the inside out with my own lead pipes long since broken beyond repair. i was terrified of the world then. suddenly the memory of the cat shit on the kitchen floor, the blood that speckled any tissue i sneezed into, the matter-of-fact suicide notes i wrote as love letters and the freezing cold wet walls frightens me – the abandon, the detachment; and it’s the memory of the dissociation that smartly carries me upwards here today, and sees me settling down on the floor by the boiler, fixing the fucking thing, doing it for myself, because i need a shower and i am not going to wait any longer.