Dear Mother Landfill

    The sun that hides behind the snaking fumes, the woods that sleep beyond the mounds so hideous, and the very sky somewhere above; none of them know where the football is buried. Fernando – don’t tell anyone watching him, but yesterday was his 11th birthday – digs his hand into the rubbish that…

We The Tantalised

    Puerta del Sol, Madrid, 2009. We were having breakfast in one of the few cafes here that cater for the early risers. Our table was next to the window, and we could see the sun strip the square of night and the morning commuters dress it for the day. I was having a…

Travel Essay on Chiaroscuro Writing

  The Gran Via, the Plaza Mayor, Puerta del Sol – these are places that dwarf you, make you feel like an ant standing at the threshold of the cosmos. It’s not just their size that makes you feel miniscule; it is their splendour, the regality, the life and living they can host, coliseums of…

Dialogues on the Edge

Dialogues on the Edge     Dialogue with a Venezuelan   No: I don’t want anything Not so long as you are starving.   Don’t sing to me of conclusions Whilst the riots still ring in my ear.                       I want to tell you who I am But how can you hear me over hunger’s…