Typewritten Words No1: 20th December 2025

'the wind sang itself through my mouth;

Read the typewritten piece for the textures and typos.
Below, I have digitally decanted the words.

The wind sang itself through my mouth
a low whistle entering me off the sea.
Too tender to bare my toes, instead in
boots, waves sloshing over the top.
I had forgotten how to feel, how to
unblock the dam of tears. But she knows.
Remind, remembering, my salt is your salt,
my breath your breeze, my snot your spittle,
my bone your shell, my flesh your soft creature.
In the torrent of spinning frustration, in the
warning signs printed behind my eyes, DANGER ZONE
DO NOT ENTER, you remind me that I am you.
The forgetting is the crack that lets all of the
other drivel come through.
This pain that erupts from my chest and brings
sobs that are finding their voice again, is for
all the ways I have forgotten you, and for all of
the millions of ways we all have.
Standing in your shallows I ask for your guidance.
Desperate and small.
You respond straight away, no hesitation.
”Return to me daily. In whatever way you can. Return.
Remember.”
I leave with head bowed in gratitude, your frothy
swell draped invisible around my shoulders.

20th December 2025
Dark Moon
Day No. 1

Over the last few months, I have returned to writing with my vintage Brother Deluxe 800 typewriter, which was gifted to me at the end of a creative project I worked on a decade ago.

Some dispatches are made into zines. An archive.

Another method of making marks. Banging out on paper. Thundering on the desk. Body and metal stamping of definite letters and words. Typos left, thoughts as they are. Exploring what this non-digital method brings. Somatic, corporeal, metallic.

Each dispatch is anchored with the date, the season, the moon cycle, and my own inner seasonal menstrual cycle.

Cycles meeting cycles meeting cycles.