molly march.

All of a sudden this empty diary stretches in front of me like the yawn of a rhinocerous, I dont know where to begin, how to portion importance out of everything that has happened in four years, and the shame of not really writing anymore, the self-doubt, bites me hard –

Four years on, I havent done anything special. Survived.

I trained as a massage therapist. Thats been good. Was working pretty hard for a while. Then last October I pulled my shoulder. Carrying my table is still painful, so I m not chasing work. At the moment I m in ‘Reclaim Your Body’ mode and doing 3-4 hours of yoga a week, and 3-4 trips to the gym for strength training. But my shoulder still hurts in the mornings. And I still have a belly. Not fair.

Things were looking pretty grim coming up to the end of 2017 and then me and a friend decided to go away for a few weeks. We ended up in Peru.

Riffraff passed away 2 years ago. That hit me pretty hard. Lung cancer. Days after his 50th birthday. I had to go to his funeral alone, upset, looking at the faces, trying not to talk to anyone. I d given him my flute to repair and then it went missing. Second flute to ‘go missing’ in 4 years. With the end of his life I felt the end of a link to Ireland. We went to the pub after the funeral and I did reflexology treatments for some of the girls, to distract myself, to stop crying. Wrote in the memorial book. A whole page. About Dublin castle, the Mezz, fluffy ducks, sunflowers, lentils, the Looneys –

my summertime groom slipped a piece of the rainbow around my finger and he says that he sees things, the fortunes, the fates, the dead –

I m still seeing Trombone. Four years on. He s still married. Yeah, going to hell for that one. But I cant help it, his embrace is one of the few places where I find happiness in this shitscape. However he s just been prevented from re-entering the UK at the border because his visa application isnt complete. So I wont see him for the rest of the year. Unless I pull £500 out of my ass for a plane ticket over to the US. And patrons are thin on the ground these days.

I dont really play the sax these days. There was a fun phase last year where I was living in a recording studio and getting lessons, and practicing altissimo at 2am -because I could- but since moving home again last June I dont have a place to practice. Or some other equally weak excuse. I think its more I finally came to the conclusion that I dont have it, so there was no point trying anymore. Thats a bitter draught to swallow, like yarrow and skullcap combined –

3 years ago I went to Guatemala to learn about building pedal powered machinery at a project there that I have followed for years. It was going to be the beginning of my new and improved life. Instead I was robbed by someone involved in the project and ended up hitching around the country with an El Salvadorian boy, making and selling jewellery on street corners, hey, it wasnt so bad, there are worse ways to spend your time than macramé. Antonio was a lil bit borderline though and we used to fight bitterly. I punched walls in Xela because I couldnt handle it. A few more scars to adorn my knuckles. He came to the airport in tears the day I left. My flute, which I had left with the director of the project, was stolen from my bag –

I joined the Womens Strike for International Womens Day this year. I was one of 7000 women in the UK who pledged to strike. We congregated outside the Home Office in support of the hunger strikers at Yarls Wood deportation centre. Joined the striking sex workers in Soho calling for decriminalisation. Paraded through the streets with a soundsystem (and strippers) until we reached the picket line of the Picturehouse workers who are striking for the living wage. Can you hear us now, management?

They could.

Four years on, there are echoes through these caves, there are ghosts, glimmers, wee folk and tunes, there are ideas and memories I ve forgotten or just plain repressed – lots of them – and there is still the struggle. Now more than ever. And that keeps me going.