A Manifesto for Making the Most of Things

Lippy, I have loved you and now I must leave you. My time as Editor-In-Chief has been a joy, not least for the fabulous fun we’ve had but since it’s enabled me to meet all you lovely lot. Before I go, here are 5 final bits of advice I wish I’d learnt quicker throughout my time in Leeds. A Manifesto of sorts, to make the most of things.

1. Romanticise Everything but People

My friend Alice claims we must ‘move through the world as you want it to become’. She envisions a greener future and so will take care when walking as to not step on any slugs. It’s an optimistic way to look at the vast work that still needs to be undertaken. There’s something slightly cheeky too, that we might steal a little of the future to hold in our habits now. That how we interact with the world is determined by perspective and that perspective is yours to mould; blessings are made when you name them so. So, I have vowed to be a romantic, not to anyone but to everything. To read Patti and eat more than she does. To watch Bourdain and imitate his ideology, it comes in handy when the recipe doesn’t taste as delicious as the TV looks. How lucky I am to have so many mugs. How lucky I am to have friends that drink from them, even if the ceiling is leaking again.

2. Writing is Resistance

There is, I suppose, a certain narcissism to artistry. The presumption that anyone would listen to or even like what you are saying feels dirty and self-important. Until you read something, written centuries ago, by ‘a lady’. She reaches through time by a page and reveals something about herself, something about you too.

“And why don’t you write? Writing is for you, you are for you; your body is yours, take it.”

Cixous imagines the literary cannon as a body, language as autonomy. When we are abstracted in body and mind, the relationship to spirit becomes all the more tenuous. As artists it's our duty to navigate the form through word and claim it as our own. At the end of every relationship, I think my lover has ruined me. I think their absence turned me into a poet and now I am destined to be poor. Except for the lines I wrote for Harvest, aged 9, sitting next to my birth certificate. A horrific revelation to learn that you have always been an artist, this pain is only a current muse.

3. The Personal is Political 

Once, a boy told me he had no interest in writing love songs, he wanted to tackle serious subjects, like war. Love was fickle and inferior to the sweeping detonation of politics. He wanted to be like Bob Dylan and if Bob was singing bleak tales, then so would he. The absurdity of his statement didn’t lie in his leafy green, conflict free upbringing but in the assumption that you can untangle love from politics. Clearly, we differed. I thought that the bed was a battlefield. Who we invite in reveals the most intricate of political differences. 

Bob reckoned there were only 136 protest singers in the world. I reckon he’s wrong. Politics is bound up in everything, even a pillow. Who we date presents an image to the world and in doing so reveals our precious personal politics, there is a vulnerability to visibility. At the core of every protest song is a plea for love, a plea for justice and recognition. Who gets to love and be loved forms the foundation of politics.

4. Speak Loudly, Not Clearly 

It’s a running joke that I can’t hold a conversation without mentioning I’m from Blackpool. Usually, it's to apologise because despite not being home for months, there is still sand in my car, shells in my pocket and a northern attitude on my face. It’s instinct, I love my hometown best when seen through a rearview mirror, but I’m carrying it with me everywhere.

In seminar rooms, I speak eloquently, softly and with a slight London tinge. It’s about knowing your target audience. It’s about saving your stomach from twisting when, inevitably, the conversation changes and (since it doesn’t snow where there's salt air) you have nothing to add about skiing. It’s about being heard. It’s self-defence, sure, but it’s self-imposed too. Plus, it undersells your audience, to presume that they might be so wrapped up in their own worldview they can’t step into yours for a conversation. In changing your accent, you add an illusory veil into the conversation, one that obscures you both from truly listening. So speak loudly, not clearly, and let the world hear your wisdom in its native tongue.

5. Give Into Grief

I used to wear a leather jacket like a breastplate. My heart was so far from my sleeve, it must have been left in a footprint somewhere three streets ago. To cry was an inconvenience, to fall apart needed a calendar entry to work around. Strength meant marching on, denying your feet are wet and pushing on into an ocean. It works until you drown.

When you prioritise productivity, does the work end? Do you sleep well after getting so much done? Or, does the hand clawing up from underneath your bed look a lot like that thing you’ve been avoiding? Give into the grief.

Know not every friend is forever. Admit the greatest gift your lover gave you was disappointment. Watch your mother reconfigure the world where her father isn’t. When you mourn, imagine the world mourns with you. Feel vindicated by rain, wind, willows and anything else you cannot keep in your pocket. Let Marigolds become a metaphor and explain it to no one. When you weep, as you must weep, your ancestors weep with you. There is no kinder act than to give catharsis to ghosts, except releasing burden from your kin. You’ll find whoever you’re missing in a song. You cannot find them if you do not take the time to listen.

Words by Bea Butterworth, she/they