Thursday, 4 February 2010
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.