writing — annaheisterkamp.com

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1.

a note on seraphim -

The “Seraphim” music video and the video for “Mannequin” were made in quick succession and they’re definitely both part of the same body of work -

When Anna and I first met to discuss Seraphim we realised the video was being borne of a coincidence; both of us named after our aunts who passed away. I didn’t want the video to draw on this private emotionality and the coincidences of it all too much but kept finding myself falling back into it - the song and the video not about the loss explicitly, but Anna and I have perhaps both been shaped by that, being named like that. How to remove grief from yourself, what it means to have this name, overcoming loss by sharing something with another; this video is somehow grappling with those as well as focusing on what the song sounds like and how to move to it. Ultimately the video is looking at how your body always wants to react and how you can shape it continuously away from that. -

Making this video was a catharsis and I am so honoured that Anna entrusted me with this beautiful song - that we were both able to make this together with a lot of people we love feels very special.

This video is for K & C, and for my mother

2. SUGAR WATER in new irish poetry from new irish press

3. TWINKLE in the lesbian art circle

Her name was Sparkle, she told my friend later. We had been to the final that day in Tallaght,

had waited in the freezing cold for the Luas after the match stretched as long as it possibly

could (1-1 at full-time, 2-2 after extra, 4-3 on penalties). I ran to the bathroom as soon as

we arrived at the pub, had to wait to duck in behind the woman (estimate: 75y.o) singing

her heart out in the most amazing heels and dress combo. Her hair had been done up for the

occasion, you know when you can tell - the blue rinse was fresh and the curls were spread off

the scalp in a way that whispered to you, letting you in on the secret, she’s dressed up tonight,

it’s a Sunday. I immediately felt insultingly under-dressed, baggy pants covered in chain oil

from my bike. I took my hoodie off to try and give the occasion at least some semblance of

costumed respect, thought about how in moments like this it feels like the most natural thing

in the world to want to fit my feet into tiny sparkling kitten heels and my rude body into a

slightly too tight floral number, just so I could somehow feel more comfortable around these

women - though at any other time it would make me feel strange in a way I’ll never truly be

able to grasp.

I saw her, then, across the bar. She was wearing a blue and white striped jumper, collar of a

shirt poking out the top the way I hate. She had short white hair like all the other women. And

yet there was something different about her, something about the way she was sitting up at the

bar watching the singer that felt lonely immediately. Maybe that’s just hindsight. I ordered a

hot whiskey and left her sitting there alone, filming the singer on her phone.

An hour later I went to the toilet again, and as I turned to walk out of the bathrooms she

emerged from one of the stalls. “Heya sweetheart” - she said. “Hiya” - I said back, pushing

the door open as I walked on out, thinking to myself, that’s so cool. I’ve never met a lesbian

this old. Not only a gay elder: an Elderly Lesbian.

I sat on a barstool watching a young lad sing Pavarotti. The Elderly Lesbian (unconfirmed,

strong hunch) was sitting on another barstool. The Elderly Lesbian asked my friend to film

the singer on her phone, she obliged. As repayment, she bought my friend a drink - incredibly

suave. Then she was suddenly beside me, throwing her leg up on my lap in a wild display

of sexuality. I guess I’d seen it coming but hadn’t thought it would happen like this - maybe

because she was a woman? Or was so old? I rejected immediately the idea that she wouldn’t

have tried something inappropriate because she was a woman - I think I just thought because

she was an Elderly Lesbian she would be epic. I pushed her off me, laughing slightly, maybe

she was joking. She pretended to fall over and nearly hit her head so I had to grab her, lying

her over my lap, holding her like we were hitting the last pose on Strictly. I locked eyes with

my friend (gay), who suddenly realised what I had realised in the bathrooms. She looked

down at the Elderly Lesbian in my lap. We burst out laughing.

I don’t really remember how many minutes passed until she was trying it on again, putting her

hand on my crotch. I just picked up her hand and moved it away, flashes of memory. She

asked my friend if she was my bird. My friend said no, but she has a bird. Suddenly it felt

different. She had read me correctly; I was gay, but taken.51 Issue II

I fantasise about all the stories she could tell me, the life she has lived. I imagine lying in bed

with her, her stroking my hair, holding a cigarette in one hand, as she regales me with tales of

a life in Dublin, on James’ Street as a lesbian in 1975. I imagine she used to live on my road,

used to meet girls at the back of the church. She’d tell me about when she first cut her hair

short, the first time she realised she was gay. I imagine her explaining what it was like to be in

a Catholic all-girls school in 1959, and the fear that someone would know she was different

by looking at her. I wonder if she prayed for salvation. I imagine her laughing at the triviali-

ties of my gay experience as she kisses me, her lips that have kissed so many, or perhaps none

at all. I would be so young to her, I would be the youngest of all somehow, younger even than

the first girl she loved when she was 15 in 1963. I’d ask her what it was like in Dublin in the

80s and 90s, if she lost any friends to AIDS. I’d lie in Sparkle’s bed for days, I’d soak up all

the histories I never thought I needed.

I go to the bathroom again and as I close the door to the cubicle, someone starts knocking on

the door. Hello, I say, knowing. I come out, wash my hands, she asks to give me a kiss. It

feels like she’s offering an “I’m sorry” kiss. I say I’ll give you a hug instead: she is an Elderly

Lesbian after all! We hug, my friend joins the hug, we have a big three-way lesbian hug and

for a moment I’m thinking, this is epic, she’s such an old lesbian! And we’re young lesbi-

ans! And I want to learn everything about her and from her and the History and the Hersto-

ry - she’d probably hate if I made a big American deal out of it. But I leave her alone again

because I’m still thinking; she did try and grab my literal vagina.

The pub lights have flashed and the last song is coming to an end and suddenly there’s a

dance circle with at least 4 Young Queer Women in it, she comes over to dance with me again

and this time my friends square their shoulders and stand in the way. But I weigh it all up

and romanticise a life and beckon her in, telling my friends to make space - oh, space - and

the Elderly Lesbian starts dancing with us and I think: wow, this is epic again. It’s all come

full circle and at the end of the night, she’s been through all the stuff we always talk about,

she’s lived a life I will never feel the weight of, and it’s this inter-generational moment of

her seeing us all being queer (language) and us seeing her being lesbian (history) and it feels

incredibly special and then suddenly she turns around and moons us.

I text my girlfriend :

It took such a crazy turn ró

-whA!

There is an elder lesbian who tried to kiss me hahaha

-no way ahahaha what!! I need a story time

hahaha it is such a saga I will explain so soon

when I say elder lesbian I do not mean elder than me, I mean an elder

-Like elderly? Or elder like cate Blanchett
(love heart react)

Elderly

-What da heck

-Now I don’t blame her

hahah it has been such a journey of understanding

-Hope ur OK tho and it wasn’t bad weird
(love heart react)

We leave when the lights all come on full and the pub is closing and she’s begging me to

come have a smoke with her. I say I don’t smoke (a lie). She calls me a stuck-up bitch and

tells me to come for one out the back. I refuse, she calls me a cunt and walks out. My friends

ask if I’m alright, I’m not sure. She had undoubtedly harassed me, but she had also made me

start yearning for a history I didn’t know could be mine too, a history she could teach me. She

had given me something; I had seen it in her and she had seen it in me immediately, this thing

I hated and hid so well for so long. By seeing me she had made me real. We all leave.

I fantasise about her coming up to me one last time and whispering in my ear: “You’re the

sexiest woman I’ve ever seen”.

“Person”, I correct her. “You’ve so much to learn.”