Do storms have an identity because we give them names?

Written yesterday

I’m in Humanities 2 at the British Library. There is a whiny noise, like a storm trapped in a chimney, coming from somewhere behind me. Perhaps it’s Gertrude. She’s brought snow, power cuts and flooding from across the Atlantic. Last night her gusts sounded like a giant’s fist buffeting the walls of my apartment block. All the storms have names now. This winter we’ve had Clodagh and Desmond and Frank. Now we have Gertrude. Perhaps she’s trying to join us here at Humanities 2 through an open vent. Perhaps the sound is just an asthmatic computer. It wasn’t even that windy this morning.

When I asked for my books at the counter they looked at the bookshelf at the far end, under the letter B. It still surprises me. Last time I came here regularly they always went to the shelf with the letter H stuck to it. I’m no longer the person I used to be. The cells in my body have changed. My name has changed. We change and stay the same. I’ve been thinking a lot about identity lately, about losing it and coming back to it. I’ve been thinking about choosing it. We stay who we are through the stories we tell ourselves. Because of our Facebook accounts and our Instagram accounts, those stories are more permanent and visible than ever before. They hold us accountable to who we think we are. Do storms have more of an identity because we give them names? Do they get their own social media accounts?

I shouldn’t be writing about identity. I’m here to read about the London stone and to find out more about the foundations of London. I have a meagre haul of books. The only one I could find with the title “London Stone” is a pamphlet about a completely different London stone in Staines. I think it might be near Heathrow, but I’m not sure. It has the same name, but it’s not the right stone.

I’ve also picked up Daniel Defoe’s essay on the plague and Charles Booth’s account of the London poor. I’m not really sure what I’m going to do with this selection, but I have to start somewhere. Working in the library is like sifting through soil. Eventually a few golden nuggets will fall through. I love working here. It smells of books and dust. It quietens me. Even with Gertrude, or not Gertrude, whining in the vent.

Image by Mario Calvo.

Back in rainy London

London. It’s eight days since we landed at Heathrow. The day after we left Finland the temperature in my hometown dropped to minus 27. Cold enough to make your hair turn white with frost and your nostrils stick together when you inhale. London hovers around 7 plus. Drizzle-gray. Sunshine and showers. Mostly showers.

Today I walked past the big house and the deer at Clissold Park. The sun was out. Orange light in the puddles. Bright and early joggers rushing past. I stopped to say hello to the deer. Then I met up with Madicken and we spent the morning writing together in a café. All the other customers had brought their laptops too. Madicken spotted an actor sitting behind us. It’s very north London. I wrote some words and I was pretty happy with them. Then I came home and read about the publishing industry and suddenly everything felt impossible. I did my taxes. I downloaded Spotify again and created a radio station based on Sia. I’m clicking thumbs down on anything that isn’t Sia.

This month is one of small tasks. It’s too early for a big picture. There is one thing and then the next and maybe soon the year will start taking shape. I took me a week to shake the post-Christmas fog. I went home to Finland and didn’t turn on my phone for the first five days. A sweet, disconnected rebellion. Gerry and I went for long walks when it was light. The inlet near the house thawed and then froze over again. The ice was washed up by a storm and looked like panes of broken glass, crushed and squeezed together. I’ve never seen it like that before. I ate well and often. I spent some time in the sauna. My muscles unwound themselves. I relaxed and stopped thinking about work, the future, everything. It takes a while to resurface from that. So here I am, tensing up again, telling myself I should do more yoga, writing lists and trying to get a sense of where this year will take me.

Image by David Marcu.