 Lidice Memorial It was a vividly sunny day, I was standing with Mila and Tom, on bright green perfectly manicured grass with Mila telling us the history of the village that used to be there but had been completely erased early in the second word war; all the villagers, animals, trees and plants killed. Mila showed us mass graves and was giving us a kind of tour - it was surreal, sad, hard to take in, but also a unique, incredibly forward thinking response. He’d met us in Prague, in a red car with ‘Lidice Memorial’ written on it, then driven us to the memorial and museum near the airport; wearing a suit with shoes so new they squeaked. Tom was a nomad, who had spent much of his life on boats, and Mila was a previous housemate. I’d met Tom in Corfu trying to go to Albania but the ferry was broken and no-one was bothered as it was an out of season national holiday. I was intent on getting back, so we took the car ferry to Greece, then walked over the border to Albania. I thought people avoiding the checkpoint were going for photos from a good viewpoint, Tom said “I don’t think so”, in an American accent. But we were in Czech, not Albania or Corfu and I’d drawn Tom on the journey then printed it on a t-shirt, which he wore in Prague. I was in Albania trying to write a chapter on trauma therapy, that I was struggling to get done in the UK due to the volume of clinical work, so I was on a long bus journey avoiding vicarious trauma and writing; writing nearly every time I sat down. I’d also planned to visit a friend in Corfu, who having spent most of his life on boats, now lived in a beautiful ruin. He was too traumatised to meet much due to current events in Israel / Palestine. In the art gallery (permanent collection), which Mila curated, he explained that the artworks had been gifted by artists, globally, who had a connection with, or were, refugees, so they understood / had solidarity. He had loads - including Gerhard Richter, Peter Blake, Sigmar Polke, Joseph Buoys, Mona Hatoum! He showed us a house, from a whole street of houses purpose built for the village, but not where the village originally was because they kept the empty space (where we had been standing) as a memorial. He drove along pointing at them and then we went into the one that had been given back, which reminded me of my nan’s house. He explained why there are streets of houses in Czechia that look like the UK, due to shared architects, or something like that. We were chatting, catching up whilst he drove. I’d been living in Albania during a virus, where pretty much everyone in the world had to avoid each other. The Conservatives were in power in the UK and had lots of parties, videos of which emerged, so they declared the Lockdown over and for a few months the UK was popular in the Balkans. Mila had moved to and fro, but was in Prague during lockdowns and was now connected to Stoke-on-Trent, which was strongly allied with Lidice due to the supportive miners - a more encouraging side of humanity. Suddenly, we were back at home in Prague, Mila went to a meeting and Tom and I ate Belgium food and drank Hoegarden. Each sip obscured my view, the glass was so big. I told him how standing on the grass, in the sun, in front of the only monument to dead children, ever, that I felt I could be dreaming and in the morning I’d be sitting at the kitchen table in the coop Mila and I had lived in ten years previous, having a coffee and telling him about this wild dream - or writing it in my diary - and that would be more believable than the current reality. I said I might write it up but didn’t tell Mila as I might not get around to it. Maybe I’d use the dream thing, but that might be a bit cliche. We then watched an ice hockey match of Czechia against Switzerland, Czech won and people were going for it but it morphed between festival / protest/ royal wedding. There was a childrens’ art thing too.. a floor dedicated to this and I’d shared a link from my sister.. Tom and I had been going to libraries that were like something out of a fairy tale and had loads of astronomical equipment, fossils and dead butterflies alongside the books. Mulling all this over, I sleepily glanced around the room. It was white, with lots of art and plants, in a building awarded the prize, ‘Ugliest Building in Britain’. The outside skin (cladding) was being replaced as it was flammable, so it was covered in scaffold and the windows didn’t open. I was in bed and stuck one of my legs out from under the cover, regulating my temperature, then used my phone to continue with the diary entry in spoken words. Habitually I checked my emails, my MP (Matthew Pennycook) had replied to Van Saga (a TFL trap I was caught in), he said that as of tomorrow (now today) parliament was dissolved but he'd help after 4th July if he had his job back. I wonder if his initials encouraged his path in life. I’d a nagging concern that a Mayor of Westminster and king of planning, had it in for me. I had the same name as a silversmith who'd decorated his borough with giant jewellery and couldn't stop using my name when they trademarked it. The now benign bruise started to flare up with Van Saga, which had a similar smell. Making connections to make sense of senselessness, which humans are so good at, I concluded he had bigger fish to fry and the systems in Britain were simply broken. Also discussed with Mila in the car, was how the UK had gone so downhill the last ten years, with increased corruption; Brexit, education fees, artists moving out were symptoms, galleries seemed to have lost their edge and concert crowds were more aggressive. On a train through the English and Welsh countryside, I send Tom a message, ‘Just checking I didn’t dream you’. Confirmation arrived from far away and getting farther. Why did it feel so surreal standing in the memorial? The sun was so bright, so hot. More intense than consciousness, time surely slowed. I write, edit and write, thinking it might be easier if I knew who this was for. Looking out of the window at the scaffold, I’d like to write for Lidice, to share something, to write a review of the exhibition we'd initially gone to see: No Feeling is Final, between Skopje (North Macedonia), Lidice and The National Gallery of Prague. My review wouldn’t do it justice, my artwork isn’t suitable to donate. Maybe a piece of writing, of thought, care, dwelling; witnessing. In my own way, is something I can do. What can anyone do? What can we do? What we do. We do, What we do. Maybe I wrote a review. No Feeling is Final, exhibition of prints in Partnership with The Skopje Solidarity Collection  Monument to child war victims, by Marie Uchytilová Art Collection with curator Miloslav Vorlíček Art collection pieces and a room the house Prague libraries Tom's portrait, Ice Hockey shown in the Old Town Square, Van Saga letter and Cladding (UK) Taxi from the border, waiting for the bus (Greece), Corfu >< Sarande ferry, writing on the bus (Albania)
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