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...