Kat Lister

@katlister.bsky.social

Stay afraid, but do it anyway / words: Guardian, Observer, i paper, the Quietus / lecturing: City University / agent: http://blakefriedmann.co.uk/kat-lister / book: https://blakefriedmann.co.uk/news/kat-lister-fragile-bodies-auction-weidenfeld

My forties have really hit, I’ve welcomed an exercise bike into my home. Trying to decide what soundtrack to go with this month…opting for the new David Sedaris audiobook because at-home aerobic workouts don’t define me.

Happy release day to the wonder that is Ed Askew: whose musical life began with the 10-stringed tiple in the 1950s & ended with his death last year, aged 84, on the verge of releasing this final record. I wrote all about him here – give it a read: listen to the music, spread the word:

‘His chords are like sheets of diamond ice’: the beguiling psych-folk of late cult songwriter Ed Askew

The late songwriter released around 50 records, writing gay love songs and effortless folk songs from folk’s fringes. Fans including Bill Callahan explain his singular brilliance

theguardian.com

Just to add to the convo around social care: I remember being told by Pat’s hospice that our only alternative for care (hospices don’t have the resources to house residents for more than 2 weeks – & that’s another huge failing in this country) was a care home for the under-55s.

One of my prized possessions at school in the nineties was a GCSE history folder that I painstakingly laminated with cut-outs of various male actors that I fancied and let's just say that most of that folder would need to be redacted now.

I asked my dad if he fancied going to see some Mahler with me at the Proms this summer & forgive me if I take a moment to applaud his reply – that he's "a bit Mahlered out at the moment" – because it's made my week.

I rewatched Paris, Texas over the weekend and, my god, those one-way mirror scenes between Harry Dean Stanton and Nastassja Kinski inhabit me with a supernaturality I hope to never get to the bottom of.

I know the fashion is for short, “clean” sentences these days but I yearn for lengthier lines from time to time – how old fashioned of me! – & I love this from László Krasznahorkai in the New Yorker:

Bild

How do you write a thousand words on Ed Askew when his music evokes a sea of them? As his pal Jay Pluck said before Askew died last year: “Ed was a brave gay songwriter from the beginning & I hope more come to know this.” I hope so, too. May this be the first feature of many – lord knows it’s time

‘His chords are like sheets of diamond ice’: the beguiling psych-folk of late cult songwriter Ed Askew

The late songwriter released around 50 records, writing gay love songs and effortless folk songs from folk’s fringes. Fans including Bill Callahan explain his singular brilliance

theguardian.com

I'm compiling a mega spreadsheet for my book permissions & I've got to say I'm a little unnerved by how much I'm relishing the process: a yellow highlight for secondary references? (why not?!), a green highlight for out of copyright quotes? (hell yes – how satisfying!)...should I be worried here?

I’ve developed a strange habit of replying “your mum” every time a commentator says “Yamal” & very much looking forward to this continuing into the final.

Any other actor playing Ada’s brutal husband in The Piano could have made him an entirely one dimensional character but Sam Neill played him with such complexity that that brutality became something else entirely: frayed & shatterable. He acted as he lived it seems to me – with such integrity.

My social media has been throwing out back-to-back clips of Bellingham doing-good-deeds-in-the-world & I hope by typing out these words with a JUDE BELLINGHAM it continues to do so because it’s an algorithm I can 100% embrace.

I’ll be honest, developing an inexplicable crush on Thomas – still waters run deep – Tuchel wasn’t on my bingo card this summer, but life moves us in unexpected directions, doesn't it.

Uncontested claim after uncontested claim. There is no need for this to be streamed live. Vet it, then clip it. He is not entitled to an open ended PPB on national networks. Sets a terrible, dangerous precedent.

My boyfriend wanted to watch the match this morning spoiler free and, as predicted, that was FAR too much excitement and anxiety for a 7am replay. Just bought a carton of the fancy M&S orange juice to celebrate.

Pirkko Saisio’s Helsinki Trilogy has been sitting on my bookshelf for longer than it should have, but her writing melts time anyway. The layers she finds, the dreams she collects:

Bild

I can't remember the last time I cried at the end of the play. Arcadia at the Duke of York's Theatre: cerebral and tender and playful – that delicate dance – with the kind of perceptive staging that made me audibly gasp in its final moment. If I can afford to go again, I will. If you haven't – BOOK.