Golden Years

1. Untitled, 2. Just Peachy, 3. flowersinmarais, 4. Cappucino

In walked luck, and you looked in time
Never look back, walk tall, act fine.
-David Bowie

I’m spending my days weaving still and writing again, covering pages in ink; they flutter around me like those falling leaves. I’m reworking the old tales, today it’s Beauty and the Beast... It’s domestic, words scribbled in haste and love. It’s golden and content. It’s one of the few tales about real love; it’s acceptance and compromise, it’s hard work sometimes but anything worth your heart should be... A few thousand long stemmed roses later and they’re still waking the neighbours, he’s still writing her notes in the morning, and she hates their bed without him; all heat and quiet strength. She’s put the pain down, made her peace, he’s atoned for his sins, each kiss bringing him closer to absolution...

Today is golden and tastes like peaches. Summer has taken another breath, champagne and fiery leaves. My hours are filled with tea, but I’m making changes and my signs won’t settle... Today I love candlelight and starlight, I love whispered promises, kept. I love flowers for no good reason, I love blank pages, fresh notebooks and blue ink. I love long rolling conversations about everything and nothing at all and as always I hate half truths...
Today the woman I want to be laughs more and her hair tumbles like those wild roses. She knows the way home, she loves without doubt and has many more tales to tell...

Holy Wine

Just before our love got lost you said I am as constant as a northern star
And I said, constantly in the darkness Where's that at?
If you want me I'll be in the bar
-Joni Mitchell A Case of You

Oh I look up from this stack of books, from these charms and tales and the days have turned to months and Summer has given way to Autumn. My world, so long stagnant, suddenly changed over night; a sea change of such force I'm still reeling. A wish I never dared to make granted. An unconditional act of kindness... And so I'm lighting candles and watching for stars, my days taste of coffee and pears and smell like hope. My horizons are wide once more, there is salt and sand on the breeze, my feet itch and those maps in my veins are whispering again... I'm making plans; I'll flit with the swallows and no longer hold my breath...

Today Love, Death and the Weather are my daily bread but I will no longer sip that bitter holy wine... The house has stilled, those bats have found another home and fire fills the grate. That rain drums on the roof and arches the light into colour, the rolling thunder stirring the butterflies within me. My fingers still ache from roses, my sleep is not yet dreamless and I am not yet home, but just give me time.
Today I love laughter and the blood that ties. I love those gritty pears, notes scrawled in ink and love and anyone who brings me tea. I love truth and kindness and as always I loathe uncertainty... Today the woman I am knows her strength, she has weathered those storms, she can't see her own future but she'll weave it as she goes... She'll slip on grace with her shoes and dance until dawn. Those she loves will know how to find her, you'll know which trails to follow...

In Search of Lost Time...

Your kingdom for a kiss* and a rose for your soul...

Where does the time go? Summer has blown in with the swallows; a tangle of marbled skies, winding roads, salt on the air and those honeysuckle stars. I’m working on my masters’ project now; making those tales tangible, thirteen of them... My days are filled with it, love, death and the weather never far from my mind. I’m dancing circles, barefoot and dreaming, weaving some magic, charms fit for kings... the rooms fill up with that summer scent, all grass and heat and rain; it drums on the roof and makes my mind wander and my feet itch. I’ve stacked books high, my fortress, and I leave a trail of tea cups wherever I go; a map to find me by...

Today my fingers are numb with pins, rope and ink and still I cannot sleep. The house shifts in its sleep, restless and waiting, for what I don’t know... The bats still fall into the fireplace, the birds tap at the windows and there are frogs where it is damp. I long for blank notebooks and the stillness of dawn, but all I have are scribbles and the taste of coffee on my tongue.
Today I love laughter and how it fills a house, I love that summer rain; its rhythm and its scent. I love the green of this land and that green silk against my skin, I love the blue of the sky and sometimes those blue stars, but no one follows me there... I love fresh sheets and now loathe shoes... Today the woman I want to be is worthy, she sleeps sound and dreamless and she can walk through words as safely as she can walk through those bees. She has no crown, no halo but she is home, she has planted peonies and trusts the sun to rise...

(Title by Marcel Proust)
*Paraphrase of Lover, you should have come over –Jeff Buckley

Of Lilac Nights and Days

1. Not available, 2. in the shade, 3. Berry Luminous, 4. Autumn - Morning #5
Take them then, my curls, and stay a while 'til morning; leave me with blue skies and your boots by the door...

I woke this morning in those moments before dawn; the world still, pale and a thousand shades of blue, that blackbird the only sound. It made me itch for blank notebooks and fresh sheets, steaming tea in the early light and the scent of lilacs and salt on the breeze... Today the sky is white not blue and the wind blows in from the south, whispering in foreign tongues and making promises it will never keep.
I'm into the last few weeks for college, as usual I'm surrounded by papers, piled high or pinned to walls, I need to find some order to it, stitch it all together somehow. I always work this way, I leave the narratives strung across my studio walls, catching the light and the breeze until the last possible moment, it's the fear that if I put them in order and hand them over that no one else will see what I see...

Today I have the urge to just run. The house smells like summer and the lost boys are waiting for me to finish the story but there hasn't been a star in the sky for three days... Today I love blueberry cake for breakfast and those swallows flying home. I love slow food and slow travel, slow days and slower nights. I love, love and all its kindness and loathe bitter words, hurtful and cruel. Today the woman I want to be has long dark hair, she is kindness and bravery and she shares beauty like other women share candy. She can finish that story, she can close her eyes and know his heart and she doesn't ever doubt...

Falling ash and Scheming stars

Love, tell me what metal are you made of?
Well you must be from some scheming star.
- Everly, Scheming Star.

For a week it has been as blue as summer, that honeyed sun sprinkling freckles across my skin, the wind blowing soft and slow from the east; promises, promises... That ash is falling unseen until there is a diamond shine on everything and the gulls fly inland calling out in the otherwise still air, trouble following not far behind. And yet despite the disruption I can't help but marvel, the world is vast once more; the distances between not mere finger-lenghts or hours, but days and adventures, that ocean is dark and cold and deep and love less easily proven...

For college I'm still scribbling and gathering; I always have blue ink on my fingers and on pages and blue thread tangled up in knots. I've been questioning and determining irrational characteristics, personifying the tales and superstitions and finding the core of how they, or perhaps how I, tick... I need pebbles, pure white and smooth and bones, chalky and bound, red silk and playing cards, blue china the colour of truth and waves and brambles once they've greened. They sit on shelves and lie scattered across my desk, and some midnight, when that clock with no swing decides to chime, I'm certain they'll transform into beauty and narrative...

Today I still have sand in my shoes and that thread in my pocket, I love eyes the colour of the ocean and anyone who brings me cake. I love sparklers; burning like stars in my hand and tea after midnight. I love laughter and truth and men with paint on their fingers, and as always I hate decisions left unmade. Today the woman I want to be, laughs more and gets up early, she plays music through the house; soft and low. She loves easily and compliments never make her stall... Someday.

Light and Some Falling Rain...

Spring is finally here, green and true. That lazy heat is slowly waking; it’s on the night breeze promising those long hot honeysuckle nights when every star is in the sky, it’s in the ground under my bare feet, whispering of daydream days and those daisies in my hair. I’m gathering stacks of books to me, I’m dreaming of maps and winding roads and home, someone else in the driving seat, and dancing ‘til dawn. But before all that I have so much to do for college; I’m still gathering objects and images and nightly I’m waging war to shake the poets and the beat*... shaping words and rhythm into something resembling those tales trailing through my mind. I cannot place Snow Whites voice, I fear she is what Anne Sexton called a “dumb bunny”, so I write the queens instead, I have more of her fire in my veins, or perhaps it is that she is now queen; all that snowy innocence melted away...

Today I love green; the pale green of spring and that deep slow green of summer, the green of this land and the green of a rambling mans eyes. I love the scent of sunlight and the soft patter of rain. I love those stories told of starlight, teacups on the counters and cake with candlelight. I love those little truths no one else knows but I hate words that sound like lies. Today the woman I am isn’t china and porcelain, she isn’t a lock to be picked or a secret to tell; but she is chaos theory and between the lines, she’s fire and patience and a pair of red shoes, she’s those white sheets and a map full of stars...

*Kings of Leon; Use Somebody.

Lady Grey...

1. Untitled, 2. cherry blossoms going for a dip, 3. April 5th Snow Storm Maine Fence, 4. Steamy hot

April is here, pale and cold. The night before last it snowed in the living room, perfect flakes drifted down the chimney and settled on the cold wood floor and last night, every star was in the sky, pressing close and tasting like sherbet on my tongue. My pearl tumbled to the floor, in the realm of lost things, bouncing amongst the hair so recently cut from my head; as black as those crows, my mothers’ friends, but they can do nothing for me. I can read the signs well enough that I daren’t pick up a tea cup, the willow pattern sits on the windowsill, but I know the tale it will tell me; instead I pick up pens and pages and write my own...

Today is grey and yet there is a film of gold just under the surface, so close that I expect the preternatural to occur at any moment; the house smells of daffodils and ice, there is snow on the hills and rain on the windows and the steam from my tea whispers in curls through the air. Today I love blossoms that fall like snow, I love soft knitted jumpers, the colour of that grey sky, I love kindness and as always I hate hurtful and pointless anger. Today the woman I want to be knows where home is, she breathes in those champagne stars and breathes them out as words and rhythm, she smells like chocolate and oranges and she trusts without trial...

This Sunday is my birthday; I’ll be very happy with spiced dark chocolate cake, daffodils on the table, sunlight on the sills and coffee, rich and creamy, but we’ll see... Have a wonderful light-filled weekend, eat lots of chocolate, dark of course; resting on cup saucers, better still baked into cakes and brownies... Here’s hoping this brings in the spring!

Sin and Sacrament

She knows the way, she's traced it a thousand times;
Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning...
Red velvet on white crumpled sheets,
the stars on fire,
And Him; red satin scars,
a mouthful of pennies and dark velvet earth.

I’m trying to get on with work for college, following those red paths; I’m covered in scratches from brambles and there’s a pile of pebbles growing by the door. My tales are slowly forming, becoming more solid day by day, and yet I don’t want to pin them down, I’d rather follow them deeper into those woods, see where their truth lies... Once upon a time there was a boy and of course there was a girl and yes; he was handsome and she was beautiful but it’s never that simple is it? That prince is tearing himself to shreds on those thorns, Greatle is living in the witches house, and little Red, well she’s in love with that big bad Wolf... That’s her story above, what do you think?

Today was grey, rain on the windows and that roaring wind, yesterday was thin lemony light, pale blue skies and bare feet and tonight the temperature has dropped and snow is blowing in from the east. March is as usual refusing to be anything other than a lion... Today I love falling stars, I love keys, the ones in black and white and a rhythm sounded out on a hardwood floor, I love old friends and as always I hate anger. Today the woman I am has ribbons in her hair, the colour of the apples she’s sworn not to eat, she had been writing by firelight and bathing by candlelight and she has that jazz stuck in her head; red and silky smooth...

The Weather Watcher... (part II)

That wet sky is in the teacups and the light hangs like lace, she has woven in the rains; breathing green upon the world, her bare feet are stained with it and there are droplets like diamonds in her hair...

The rains have set in, and I can’t say I’m sorry; it makes the light arch into colour and drums on the roof, a rhythm that calls up so many memories, nights with books and candlelight, gold-grey noon’s under blankets and when the rain washes you clean you’ll know*. Old images here, I’m itching to have my camera back in my hands so I’m watching the light and the green, waiting for the world to bloom and the days to lengthen; golden mornings and lingering nights... The Weather Watcher is forming in my mind into a side narrative; it’s a tale full of everyday folklore, she has long raven hair and her nimble fingers draw the storms down, her pockets are full of threads, hand-wound around spools and her garden is full of flowers and bees, she’s falling for a man who is as calm as a lull, he stills her world and smells like sweet rain; we’ll see how her story turns out...

Today has been full, as usual, with pages and tea, with inky pens and those riverside blues, night came slowly; the daylight stretching out like a yawn and the stars turning blue. Today I love lyrics that stay with me and the scent of oranges, I love rain on the windows and that evening gloam, I love laughter and long-known friends and as always I hate uncertainty. Today the woman I want to be is grace, she knows her heart not just her head and she dances in bare feet, slow tangos on the kitchen tiles...

*Quote: Fleetwood Mac; Dreams.

All things being Equal...

1. Untitled, 2. laundry weather, 3. Untitled, 4. Waving

The spring equinox has come and gone; sunshine and skies full of stars, rain beating on the roof and blood on the moon, day and night, good and bad all in equal measure. I spent this weekend with lace, string and porcelain, making to-do lists; as always longer than days. I spent it with films and books and giddy friends. I’m still distracted, still baking cakes to calm my heart. The smell lingers, I carry it to bed with me and still I can’t sleep; that ghost is still sitting on the stairs, he replaces the vanilla with the smell of cigarettes and slips those shadows amongst the lace.

Today finally feels like spring; bare feet, washing on the lines and fluttering pale dresses, there are hats on the teapots and the rooms smell like daffodils, the bats are back in the attic, the blackbirds in the apple tree and the bees are flying. They taste the spring.* Today I love sea spray and cold sand underfoot, I love knitted blankets and steaming tea. I love pale mornings and burnt toast with jam and as always I cannot stand unspoken words. Today the woman I want to be is brave, she doesn’t listen to others words and she has nothing to lose...

*Quote: Sylvia Plath; Wintering.

Of Tales and Tea

Oh March; month of lions and lambs, of ides and days dressed in green, month of spring fever and frost on the glass, days with daffodil rain, lemon light thick enough to be cut like cake and rose sunsets pouring like tea. Mad as a hare and twice as late. Month to keep those jumpers on over dresses and to keep hearts safe and close, else they slip through your fingers and fall through the too thin ice...

Today was stormy and grey, flat calm and sunshine, nothing has bloomed and we’ve removed all the clocks... It’s days like this that I wish my hair was honey gold, my skin was porcelain pale and seeped daylight and my lips were peaches. But my hair is as black as coal and the night is in my veins, my skin is snowlight and starlight and my lips are stained by cherries; their pips piled high for curses. I’m the type of girl who carries books bound in leather and falls for wolves and hunters and poets, the type of girl who slips through the cracks in the universe or wanders off the edge of maps. I’m the girl in the red dress, the girl bargaining with apples and covered in soot. I’m the girl who knows too much about knots, who sits behind a wall of thorns and knows for certain the only man who could make his way through, will find himself there by getting so badly lost...

Asterisms

While she slept the stars stood still, the wolves were silent and those birds didn’t fly and yet the roses grew tall; a wall ready to tumble at his feet and all the nights were days, fragrant and dust grey...

I'm attempting to forge ahead with remaking/rewriting the tales for college; making them tangible, sounding them out in rhythm and setting them in ink. Making connections, tracing those red maps, late nights spent wearing out pens and days forming needle wounds and thread burns on my hands. Briars, bones, red silk and red thread, pebbles; pale and smooth, storms in tea cups and foxglove fingers, snow on the ground and paths through the woods, and so much more... Thirteen Tales of Love, Death and the Weather.

Today has been full of papers and books and my arms full of flowers, the sky is full of birds and stars and those perfect red apples tell me letters I'm not sure I want to hear. Today I love words on white and well worn notebooks, I love windswept skies and the grey of my scarf; lace and fluttering, I love the green of this land and boys with green in their eyes and as always I hate hurtful anger. Today the woman I am dreams of keys and honeybees and rainy days, she is so very restless waiting for those swallows to fly home and that pearl still sits in the hollow of her throat...

(first image is by Sara Morris)

Casting...

1.portrait4, 2. Herbier, 3. lilies2, 4. the heart of baking
She was brought up on a diet of spells and tea, fairy tales and candle light, flowers in her hair and dancing barefoot 'til dawn; after that there isn't many ways a girl can go...

For college I've been looking at stitching and knot-work; the folklore of drawing down the rains and tying the wind in with knots, Lovers, Crowns and Reefs amongst others. The processes have become the aesthetic of the work, I'm surrounded by spools the colours of the sky, blues and grey, the threads tumble down the walls. And yet I have the feeling that I'm a little too superstitious for it, I'm afraid I'll somehow stir up a storm...
I've been so distracted recently; I've burnt cakes, and tipped too much sugar into the mix, made pots of tea only to find I've left the tea in the jar, I don't know whats wrong but I need to snap out of it!

Today the air smells like spring and peat smoke, and the ground is finally stirring. Today I love rambling tales, I love daffodils and snowy soft jumpers and the smell of popcorn. I love thoughtful actions and as always I hate unfairness... Today the woman I want to be can tell those tales, her rooms are filled with golden flowers and golden light, she is at home in a crowd and is so very sure...

Narratives...

It stands at a cross roads; easier to call up the devil that way. It is doled out in measurements, encased in glass. Fairy Tales and red ribbon. Life covered in moss. It’s between the lines, decadent dark and sun-shiny days… It is a poet and a scholar and a banshee wailing against the wind. It is dark green and deep, sky blue and pale, blood red and silky. It smells of apples and salt air, earth and iron. It is both scientist and sidhe. It is north wind, sea change and all between here and there… It is barefoot and wandering. It walks back roads and makes its way through city streets; stopping as every moment of the truth wanders past. It is maps made of sand, blood and moss. And when night stirs at sea and the fire brings a crowd in, you’ll find it spoken out loud. You know it already and you’ll hear it again; another time, another place. It has been playing that guitar and beating that drum… you’ve danced to it before and you’ll dance again. You drink it in with your tea and breathe it out with a sigh… It changes on the tides yet it is constant like the northern star, where’s that at? If you want me I’ll be in the bar… It is dawn on a still city street, the shore at twilight... It flies home with the swallows yet it never left. It is grey-green rain and sunlight on the sills. It flits between the clock hands, and though it enters unnoticed you’ll feel it when it leaves ... It’s everything you have always feared and all that you’ll ever love. It is poetry and politics and all the life in between, it is the root of the root of the bud of the bud of a tree called life; Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head… It is fragile and resilient, born on that dark and stormy night, once upon a time, and the time before that, a century after, last week, tomorrow, yesterday and today…

I've been meaning to post this for quite some time; it is an ever evolving collection of quotes (Joni Mitchell, Austin Clarke and E.E Cummings amongst others) and definitions of narratives.

Today it is still heart-breakingly cold and yet the sunlight has turned golden. I have been scribbling in blue by the heat of the fire and wondering about Queens, boys who wander and falling snow... Today I love battered decks of cards, and smoky coffee with apples and cheese, I love crisp sheets and the blue of early mornings, and as always I love patience and loathe anger. Today the woman I am has been baking again; tall and creamy cakes after midnight, she has been brewing tea and weaving tales, she longs for the heat of summer and the smell of honeysuckle and rain but she'll settle for these frosts a little while longer...

The Doldrums...

Tea, cold on the counters
Blackbirds and honey bees
Time slowed to a whisper,
flat calm and grey
Raw as morning and pebble smooth.
His sails lie idle,
listless wishes and wasted time
And those moving hands rattle her bones

My days have slowed, almost to a standstill, each one grey and brittle like that place between sleep and awake; the cold of morning and half forgotten dreams. March is here, that treacherous month, a month best waited out with cups of tea and a stack of books, and that's what I've been doing; poetry and anthropology, novels and theory, all piled high.

Today it is as cold as winter and as clear as spring, the sky is a scattering of stars and my tea leaves read like a book... Today I love tea and toast with jam at midnight, I love the feathers that weave themselves into my hair as I sleep; sound and deep. Today I love that sea green scarf and the smell of leather and paper, I love lyrics and lines both old and new and I hate words left unsaid. Today the woman I want to be is somebodys' daylight, she wanders between the rooms in bare feet and jumpers, her walls are lined with books and she knows every star in the sky...

On the Road...

1. Travel Onward, 2. sky blue, 3. jelly jars, 4. l_26db85818e854ae94ef276bb09ccd248.jpg
Store wishes and truths, in jars between the coffee and jams, for those worst of days...

For a class in college recently I had to pinpoint my values, to live and work by, they boil down to these; truth, beauty, freedom and love. Far too bohemian (and yes clichéd) to be practical... and so I may add comfort; I don’t need riches just enough to put food on the table and heat in the rooms, there’s far too much more to happiness. But recently I’ve just been so restless, like a bird in a pretty cadge... Someday I’ll just get in the car and go, drive far away from here, drive ‘til I run out of land; the trunk full of books, knits and chiffon, poets and blankets in the back seats and long gone musicians on the radio, I’ll eat jam from the jars and stop somewhere off the map for tea, I’ll open the windows and catch sunlight in my hair and lie on the bonnet and count all the stars, and then when I can smell salt on the breeze and sand blows on to the road, I’ll know I’m there... Do you want to come with?

I’ve spent today rugged up in the warm, with tea, a stack of papers and silken thread. Today I love laughter and promises and loathe goodbyes and that sickening feeling of uncertainty... I love warm baths and rosy apples, I love poetry and lyrics; all words and rhythm and, as ever, I hate meanness. Today the woman I want to be is beautiful, inside and out, she knows who to trust and it’s oh so easy, she flies kites on the wind and never wastes daylight, she sleeps sound and she’s more than strong enough...

Black Magic Woman...

Raven hair and ruby lips...
-The Eagles

This morning I woke early to find a dusting of snow covering my world; still and beautiful, a blank day waiting to be filled. I've filled it, as always, with tea, with stitches in red; silk on velvet, drifts of paper and books; piled high and fluttering, and wish bones; delicate, white and chalky. I'm slowly reforming the old stories and isn't that how all the best tales begin; a needle and thread, red on snow, bones wrapped in silk and a wish... A spell cast without intent, woven with thread, weather and blood; and so it is that beauty is conjured, raven black, blood red and as white as that snow, and no good ever comes of it; the boys turn into birds and disappear over those woods, the girls choke on apples and are set in glass, those red paths are tricky to follow and anything made with blood and bone always comes with a price...

Today I love cups, heat held in both hands, and toast with raspberry jam. I love the snow but I love that sense of spring. I love daylight; cold and golden, and filtered through vines and glass, I love cake and keys and as always I can't stand thoughtless impatience. Today the woman I am wears red silk shoes, she makes hot chocolate as dark as night and can trace those red maps, she's fought for who she is, she now loves that song and she'll never be cadged...

A Life of Rain and Roses...

Save me for a rainy day

There exists, in the universe, a certain law that ensures whenever life smells like roses the wind picks up and the rains set in... The signs are there of course; the scent of something burnt and bitter amongst that heady perfume, bats in the bedrooms; unbidden and circling, the tapping at the windows that is something more than just weather, ignore them at your own peril. Once that wind blows in from the North change is in the air; it may be something best forgotten come back to haunt you, nightmares and starless nights, it may be some darkness carried in on someone’s breath and allowed to roost, merely biding its time. It's the past standing in the street as if it never left, its precious things becoming something lost, it's the wrong choice at the crossroads, the wrong words and the wrong time... When that North wind blows tie blue thread into your hem, stitch it to that lover’s shirt, stand still and wait for the calm.

Today I wish for sleep behind a forest of thorns, safe and long, if someone is brave enough they can wake me up, just give me some time... Today I love soft knits and silk on my skin, a beautiful defence from the cold. I love that my hair is as black as a curse or spilt ink and the gold and cream of my grandmothers cameo ring; all heritage and myth. Today I love the comfort of tea with family and as always I loathe selfishness in any form. Today the woman I want to be knows the way, she dances in the rain and doesn't tend those thorns...

Earl Grey and Midnight Blues...

1. Me & You Show Sign, 2. unloved, 3. no. 11, 4. tutu-rose

Those in love do not always announce themselves with declarations and vows. But they are the ones who weep when you're gone. Who miss you every single night, especially when the sky is so deep and beautiful, and the ground so very cold.
-Alice Hoffman

I have to say I'm not a fan of valentines day, years in florists and jewelers and as a friend and a sister; watching men, always late, under pressure and worse, bullied, to buy what they are expected to, put paid to that... it's the everyday acts of love I adore; the notes left inside books, on the fridge and in the oddest of places, flowers for no other reason, cheap bunches of tulips, more beautiful than those long steams, little remembrances, evidence of thought and love; pebbles or a pear with steaming tea, shoes, not for themselves but because I'll dance, that song I sing learnt off by heart, sounded out in rhythm and string...

Today I love tulips and peonies, morning pink and as pale as snow. I love old friends and laughter with cake. I love early mornings wrapped in grey and long pitch blue nights, as always I hate those dreams that hurt like new... Today the woman I want to be isn't scared, she has dust on her boots and stamps on her passport, she can sing lullabies in a foreign tongue but she could find her way home blindfolded...

True Blue...

Somehow time keeps slipping away; the hours move on and turn to days, each one as blue and as cold as the last. Blue mornings, filled with tea in blue china cups, blue silks close to my skin, blue scarfs the colour of heaven, blue skies and deep blue nights. Blue for protection, for love and sorrow, blue for truth, blue music and boys in blue moods...

For college I've been looking at the blue of Marys clothes in traditional imagery, originally an economic decision which gave birth to countless pieces of superstition and folklore. I've also been looking at Blues at the Crossroads, crosses and suppers for queens and goddesses... It all feeds into that map in my mind, crisscrossing trails of information.

Today I love oranges that taste like sunshine and golden sunsets in at least six shades of blue. I love crisp cold air with a coffee cup in hand and peat-smoke which smells so much like home. I love movies; flickering in the dark and poetry; strange and new. As always I can't stand unfair actions. Today the woman I am has pin pricks on her fingers and still she can't sleep, she's been baking all week and is beginning to suspect it's just another charm, she still doesn't trust easily but she's surrounded by roses and thinks that maybe she should...

(Second image from www.sadieolive.com and that little portrait now hangs above my desk)

Sleeping Beauty...

A brave man would have left them be,
appreciated them for what they were;
a wild thing, charmed and tousled.
As it was he cut and pulled and twisted
until all that remained were neat stumps,
brown and hopeless.

The days just keep disappearing; all grey and cold and I want to sleep for such a long time, wake me up when it's spring...
For college I'm attempting to reform the old tales, make that superstition and folklore something tangible, tactile, formed from the crafts of the tales themselves; I've been weaving fragile papers, sewing scarlet embroidery and tying in the weather. I've filled notebooks upon notebooks with words and rhythms, plans and poetry and I'm longing to fulfil it all... so much to do and not enough hours in the day. I took this photograph at the end of the summer, it needs redone but I'm a weather watcher always waiting for the seasons, the weathers and light... Sleeping beauty, briar rose, the sleeping princess; to me shes fierce even in sleep, all thorns and armour, hurt and lost, danger and beauty like her namesake. As usual I'm collecting things, pieces of rose folklore, variants of the tales, jars full of thorns, dried petals; brittle and dull, long twisted briars that seem to creep up my studio wall, I'm sure it'll all form itself into something beautiful some midnight...

Today is grey, dove grey with rain on the windows. This house feels as if the ground could shift under it at any second, it creaks to fill the silence. Today I love pebbles, like the summer I was sixteen, I love tea in the early morning, grey like the light. Today I love the twang of a guitar and laughter like my nineteenth spring, and I hate feeling oh so old. Today the woman I want to be is as free as those wild things, she doesn't mind a silent house, and she can pull beauty out of anything at all.

House by the Sea

1. Storm in a Teacup, 2. The Newest Form of Transportation, 3. ., 4. one thousand mornings

I've been dreaming of love and of freedom...
-Iron&Wine

Have you ever stood on the edge of a cliff watching the waves below and wondered what the odds are of surviving the jump? That's how I feel right now... I'm standing on the edge of that cliff; that north wind blowing around me, it's carrying snow or salt or ash and it's tugging that thread from my pockets and whispering through the curls of my hair, my fingers are raw with ice and ink and pins but I can smell rain and strawberries and I wonder what my odds are...

Today has been grey; a strange half-light which smells like smoke, tea-filled, text-filled day, all talk and silence, red tulips and well worn cups and I'm so very ready for spring. Today I love the thaw and the green, I love blue ink and blue music and I badly miss my ring. Today the woman I am can read the signs, she can turn that straw into gold and she will sleep on pins or peas but she won't bring those wild birds home; brothers and princes should be free...

The Red Map...

Oh where did the months go? It's been so long since I last wrote here, it's been a long winter; dark and white and so very cold. I spent it reading; tracing the fairy tales back along paths of bread crumbs, following silky red threads, attempting to find that cold house where they were born... and so my head is full of history and geography, narrative and folklore all layered along those paths, a strange map in my mind...

I loved the snow, I find myself missing it now, everything was so beautiful and still, like that moment before dawn lasting for days at a time. I loved the ice on the windows and the heat of the fire, the steam off my tea spiraling through the cold air, layers upon layers of blankets on the beds, like a fairy tale test... The cold and the snow make me long for blank notebooks, that sense of possibility. I've been filling them as usual with narratives and ideas, too many thoughts flitting around my head, I'm itching to make and write. I'll try to post more now, when I'm making; happy and inspired.

Today I love dustings of snow and pale blue skies, I love feather beds and low sunlight on beaten books, I love knitted scarfs and rolling conversations and as always I hate unfair actions, I've been eating oranges and pomegranates whilst reading my tea-leaves deep in the night, there's red thread in my pockets and a flurry of paper that follows me everywhere, my clothes smell like vanilla and I have cake burns on my hands... Today the woman I want to be isn't swayed by the words of others, she sleeps sound and her tea leaves change, she lives where the seasons aren't just a wash of grey and she manages to get through that stack of books waiting for her...