I was talking with Chloë about keeping track of reading, which I do badly, my memory palace not being what it used to be when life was more regularly paced. I bought this novel by Jane Parkhurst (Nancy Smith?) back when I was first diving into Isobel Gowdie a few years ago, but this one did not grab my attention at first and I set it aside. Having a more leisurely reading schedule at present, I started again and enjoyed it much more.

If you’re not aware of Isobel, she was one of the many women tried for witchcraft in Scotland, but unlike most we have her confessions and she offers quite a lot of detail. There is much in her case to interest, including:

This does not mean that Isobel was not tortured by modern day standards but likely escaped the horrors of judicial torture or illegal physical torture using a torture device. It seems probable that she was subjected to the horrors of sleep deprivation. She may have endured the indignity of a facing a witch pricker, one which was known to be active in Moray at the time who went by the name of John Dickson. It turned out that Mr Dickson was really a woman named Christian Caddell, who was deported to Barbados in 1663 for her fraudulent behaviour. [Spook Scotland]

I highly recommend Emma Whitby’s book on Isobel, which alas can be difficult to obtain (try ILL). The upshot is that we know a lot and yet we don’t know even more. The bare facts are filled in by novelists, in this case giving her a convent upbringing, an unhappy marriage and a French lover. Definitely an interesting and entertaining read beyond the gloriously garish cover.

As we watch the deal with the devils move through Congress while our representatives turn their backs on us, maybe I feel more keenly Isobel’s rage at a world where the odds are stacked against most of us. I stand to lose my healthcare, just a year on from when I lost the only job I ever stuck with for more than a couple of years. Those who counsel me to just ‘get another job’ as the price of getting medical support overlook my inability to do regular jobs, the complete lack of academic jobs (which should go to young scholars anyway), and my loathing to spend one more minute of my precious, ever-shorter lifetime doing a bullshit job.

No one has ever written, painted, sculpted, modeled, built, or invented except literally to get out of hell.

Antonin Artaud

The racist and corporate responses to Mamdani’s win of the primary (just the primary! He hasn’t won the election yet) exposes the mendacity of the Dems who remain GOP in all but name. The loathsome racism of my own representatives makes me regret every ballot I cast for them. I have seen this rot since the 80s and it’s not getting better. The weirdly symbiotic relationship of Puritanism and Capitalism has sunk the US into a swamp of its own making for refusal to deal with its birth in blood. To watch Britain fall mindlessly into the same mire is doubly infuriating, especially here in Scotland. At every turn people choose comfort over community, thereby dooming their comfort to end.

I am adding another language to the spoken language, and I am trying to restore to the language of speech its old magic, its essential spellbinding power, for its mysterious possibilities have been forgotten.

Antonin Artaud

Thinking of Leonora’s advice that one must look through both the telescope and the microscope to really see the world (as wonky as it makes your eyes and brain feel). Many feel helpless, unable to reach those in power — that’s deliberate, by the way. Out of touch isn’t just a metaphor. They don’t want us to get our grubby paws anywhere near them. But we can do what we can do. We can talk to our friends and neighbours. We can do every little thing. We can say no. Over and over again, we can say it. We can support one another. We can dig our heels in.

But mostly we can help each other. Community is our strength. Fight the urge to grow that carapace. Be soft, be kind, be compassionate. It is more difficult. It’s easy to be cruel, to be hard. Open your eyes and speak your truth, even if your voice shakes, as Maggie Kuhn advised.

And find creative works that restore the will to live and the desire to believe. Art inspires, art encourages, art makes us laugh and dance. And art can make us acknowledge the awful things done to us in a succinct way. Politicians obfuscate with words used as a disguising spell, a fog to hide the truth of their actions. Art cuts through that bullshit.

I watched Restless Natives (1985) this week; a film obviously influenced by fellow Scot Bill Forsyth’s quirky tales of his homeland (those of you who’ve been around a long time know that my PhD dissertation swiped its name from his 1983 film Local Hero). In a Scotland stabbed mortally by Thatcherite machinations, two young men decide to become bandits in the Highlands. While the dazzling array of cameos from Ned Beatty, Bernard Hill, Nanette Newman, Mel Smith and more may distract you, the charming trio at the centre of the film — Vincent Friell, Joe Mullaney and Terri Lally — are utterly captivating. Added to that the rousing soundtrack by Big Country helps lift over some of the cringey 80s obtuse moments (yes, like the title).

I think I would have enjoyed it back in the day, but now with all the gorgeous shots of the Highlands, and views in and out of Edinburgh — even a trip across the Firth of Forth — it hits in an entirely more direct way to my heart. Well worth your time.