I am walking in a Wardian Case. Above the historic West India docks, above the newly opened Elizabeth line, yet dwarfed by the skyscrapers that crowd the dockland horizon of east London.
The tactile power of the moist black mountain soil that has nourished the coffee estate for nearly a hundred and fifty years ran deep through the cold veins of my bare feet resting on the earth.
When an initiative fails, I like to think about what it got right, what it got wrong, and what parts can be modified and improved.
Doing research on dunes is like being a grain of sand in a very wide beach; there are so many factors to consider and so many ways of looking at them.
Much of what we consider to be early radical first wave feminist work does not go beyond written texts. Hoping to disrupt this trend, I contend, however, that there is a different, much dirtier text, being written upon by those women who would never be given access to paper and pen. They would write their legacies in the ground.