Last year I had my runes read by Noa from Sheaf & Barley in the Barbican greenhouse. Seven creamy-white pebbles (?) inscribed with symbols were laid carefully between us on the low stone wall that served as both tabletop and seat. They were there as part of an event organised by Justin, Johanna and Season’s I’m With You, nestled in a kind of arbour. A crowd of artists, queers and unsuspecting general public mingled amongst the leaves and fronds around us.
Everything felt grey. I had descended from a grey morass of cloud and taxied along a grey tarmac runway at [insert airport name here] a few hours earlier, getting a train that arrived at London Bridge which had its own shinier, sleeker, more modern kind of grey, one that followed me into the earth via the Underground station. Topside once again in the City of London, the Barbican’s towered like a drab Tetris block. Inside, the sky spied through the greenhouse ceiling was mute.
Oss: the voice – was the rune that bound the others together. I felt a lump in my throat – and swallowed it back again.
I’ve had this reading, this rune, in my mind for most of this year. A year in which I’ve said more than I probably ever have before. But this risks getting mawkish and I’d rather cut this off here, so the year ends as it should: headless and writhing in the dust.