I dip in and out, lured to new depths of surveillance data stirring on unthinkable currents. There are no limits to these domestic service files. No solid foundation to ultimately reach or push back and spring up from: just murky beginnings and slick surfaces. I navigate slowly through thousands of carefully crafted handwritten and typed letters and file notes and do my best to make sense of the chaos.
This is private, intimate reading, and these young women and girls will not let me rest. Their voices penetrate every membrane of every cell in my body until I recognise them as my own, and like proper good nannas and aunties, they are not letting me off the hook. Their apron linen is pressed against my skin, and I see their dust rise and float on shards of light. My hands are red-raw and my back aches.
