I read the newspaper with scissors.
Growing up we only ever had two pairs of scissors: one set in the kitchen drawer for paper, which mum also used to snip bacon. The other pair lived in mum’s sewing basket for fabric. The rule was put things back where you found them, but the scissors and the pens always made their way to my room. Dad’s tracing paper, his fine liners, drawing board and ruler. My sister’s Lettering Book Companion. The World Book Encyclopaedias, often N, sometimes A. I collected snippets, traced letters and copied text. Drawing, never finishing anything I began, tracing the world and never managing to contain it. Mum just wanted me to finish and put it away, put the scissors back where I found them, and it always felt too early, I wasn’t finished, nothing I rendered was ever as I imagined in my head.
Mum never saw what I was trying to do, only the mess it made. I wanted to contain the world, rather than have it contain me.