Howlin'

Some days she thinks she could outrun it, just run, run until it is far behind her. An itch builds under her skin and an ache in her chest, urging her to hurl herself into that wind and vanish, run until her bones twist and bend, until they form limbs meant for something older than this place, run until her hair smells of the dark places of the forest, damp and earthy, and until she is so tired she could sleep the winter gone.
Some days she thinks she could jump, she could stand on that edge with nothing but vast air before her and jump; her raven hair would untangle into feathers, sleek and inky, and her outstretched arms would set her free.
But not today, today she is of this world, tethered and biding her time.

I'm posting much more on my tumblr blogs these days, SilkBones and of course Ink and Light Arts, I'm not sure if I have any readers left here? Would you follow me on twitter if I started that to link all the blogs?

Today it's getting cold outside and I'm cold right down to my bones, it's been some of the hardest months of my life and I'm struggling but I'm going to write away those deep, mean reds and just let it go... Today I love good friends and kind words, I love the smell of peat smoke so much like home and the deep green of this land, I love, as always laughter through the rooms and loathe petty anger. Today the woman I want to be is beauty, grace and kindness, she can weather this, that future she wants is within her grasp once more and one of those books on her shelf is all her own...

Of Flappers and Philosophers

Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall
– F. Scott Fitzgerald

Oh dear I have abandoned this a little, the summer was long and heart sore and I wandered off the edge of that map… November arrived clear and golden, with starry shoes left on the doorstep beside the pumpkins but I’ve no ball to go to and today was as grey and as dark as dust even at noon and there is a wind howling around the house as strong as that hurt in my soul. But for weeks I’ve been dreaming of snow and houses I don’t yet know, that new early light filtering through the rooms, of men with steadfast hearts and a kind calmness, men made of something more earthy than that fickle sea, of days like a blank page, filled with deep comfort and hard work, of paper, ink and thought… perhaps I’ll click those heels together and find my way home.

I’m making plans and filling my days with towers of words, new plans of journeys and time better spent. The Weather Watcher is still on to brew; she’s still in love with that man and drawing the rains down, I’m gathering up charms and storing that light… I’m sketching through a new set of tales, still in that eldritch realm, still taking that fairy tale effort and a needle and thread, of women and the hardships and hearts they wore on their sleeves… There is a thesis on to boil too although it is early days yet. It all flits through my mind and won’t allow me to sit still.

Today is grey and stormy, my thoughts as discontent as the weather although I am hoping for calm days, crisp and golden… Today I love piles of blankets on the beds and stacks of books beside them, I love starry nights and content days that taste of coffee and pears, I love laughter and kindness and loathe nasty words full of impatience and spite. Today the woman I want to be has good reason to wear such shoes, she lays out under those stars someone warm and lovely beside her, she drinks coffee with her breakfast and starts the day early with ink on her fingers and jazz playing through the rooms, soft and low and someone to dance with slow and hazy on the kitchen tiles…

Look up and get lost by StgSalt on Flickr
Title from a book of stories also by Fitzgerald, and I'm feeling a little like both...

It's a brave new world...

Hello World- This is me...

This blog for the last few years has been part diary, part experiment and part sketchbook for college... I'll keep it in this form, it's a good place to write and to list my loves, to remind myself that this world is beautiful and magical, and to let pieces of my heart and soul out into it, hoping they wind up in the right hands... But I've started another to list the daily things, the iphone photography (which is despite my protests is changing my days) and the quick, unpoetic thoughts...Ink and Light Arts

The woman I am despite her love of light and photography loathes being in front of the camera, she has avoided it since she was thirteen, it's sure to make her run or ruin her day, no item other than certain people can conjure fear and insecurity as quickly as this... I had an awful experience with a photographer recently and so I'm trying to face the fear... and so this is what my summer is looking like; peony roses and blue skies, new music and a new toy, cotton and chiffon... and this? this is me...

And the crack in the tea cup...

Today my world is a wash of greens, blues and golden light, the swallows are long home and flit against a tall, cotton sky. That golden sun warms my bones yet I find myself missing the sound of rain. It's days like this that I wish I was a painter, the materials of my work as fluid as the weather... It's been a tough year, full of wishes coming true and deep, dark hurts. My Masters is over, graduation has come and gone and I am cast adrift. Here in this ending place my heart is a little more broken, pieces of it left in the hands of the unworthy and given wholly to the tales I told... I miss my camera and I miss sleep - so deep and true. There is a tower of books building by my bed, perhaps they will keep me safe. I'm so tired it has seeped into my bones, like a fog has settled around me, but those who love me are calling me home, tea cups waiting for me with cake and candles... I am without a map, my plans slipping through my fingers like that summer rain or floating away like untethered kites, yet more than ever I know who I am- I'm taking the days a moment at a time,finding beauty and narrative in all things, breathing deep and finding my way...
Speaking of; I've started a Tumblr blog for all those daily little things I never get around to posting here, I hope you'll take a look- Ink and light Arts on Tumblr.

Today I love my bike and blues, blue stripes and blue skies, butterfly blue dresses and blue denim shirts. I love those honeysuckle and champagne nights full of stars, and music both old and new, I love blank notebooks and beginnings and as always I loathe selfishness and impatience. Today the woman I want to be is beautiful, inside and out, she is someones daylight and is worthy in all her flaws. She laughs daily and knows shes home,safe and sound...

Follow the Red Line...

Thirteen Tales of Love, Death and the Weather
On exhibition throughout the
University of Ulster, York St
and
at SpaceCRAFT, College st
Belfast
23rd May-4th June

My masters show is currently on exhibition and will be up until June 4th, if you're about the city please call in...

I hope to have images and a website up and running soon,in the meantime Culture N.I have featured my show, so hop over there for a few pictures; Fairy Tale in Belfast
Today is as cold as autumn and as grey as the jumpers I'm wrapping myself in, but freedom is on the breeze and I've so many plans, winding themselves around maps and promising starry nights and honeysuckle days, cake and dreams within reach...
Today I love old friends and laughter, I love golden champagne and sparklers like stars on my tongue or in my hand... I love, as always, peonies decadent and oh so pretty, I love chiffon dresses and that warm south wind. I hate half truths and avoidance but love promises kept and kindness... Today the woman I am knows herself, she trusts the dawn to come and knows someday soon she'll sleep sound...

We're half way there...

1. ♥ K loud, 2. Untitled, 3. wedding dress, 4. Untitled

The Equinox has again come and gone, and summer is on the breeze whispering in from the south promising golden days and starry nights. Things are coming together, and I'll get there somehow; on a wing and a prayer, by maps scribbled in blue ink that read like lists and with a little help... I'm dreaming of blue skies and that blue lough stretching into tomorrows sky, my red shoes and dresses floating on that summer wind, that heat slow and lazy and bowls over-full of strawberries. Yet before all that I need to keep scribbling; thousands of words on white, and stitching in red and gold, early blue mornings and late inky nights, but I'm nearly there...

Today was calm and windswept, golden light and tea gold rain, blue and grey and as always green... Today I love daffodils and creamy lace, creamy coffee and brownies for breakfast. I love laughter and soft jumpers as grey and fluffy as the sky. I love thoughtful actions and loathe thoughtless impatience. Today the woman I am wears red shoes, she has fire in her hair and the moon on her fingers, she is still bargaining with those rosy apples but she knows their tricks and can charm them just the same...

Words, Wishes and Wills...

Black as a raven, dark as a hearse,
black as jealousy and deep dark earth.
White as snow and pure as love,
pale as bone and snowy dove.
Red as blood, raw as grief
red as birth and pure silk sheath.
Black beady eye and feathers white
red evening sky and wings taking flight

Today has been snow, rain and hail and the sky is falling down... it's on my boots, in my hair and trailing across that wooden floor. I'm casting spells to turn boys into birds and I've woven charms to change then back again. But is that where the freedom is? On the wing. Brothers and boys should be free, yet sisters and lovers always wait behind.
I've tied myself up in knots and there is no one now to undo them, but what magic is that, more a magicians trick, a few right words and I'll be free... I'm baking cakes, tall, dark and Irish and I wonder if there's some pumpkin charm in that, some midnight chime, or a call... Those boys with paint on their fingers and this land in their eyes, wolves or lambs in leather jackets, and I'm always pale, dark and red.

Today I love words on white, my words sounded out in another's voice. I love evening light and nightly rain, deep and black like ink, I love those primroses and the newness of spring, I love the whiteness of snow and hate even white lies. Today the woman I want to be is Sunday mornings and sunlight on the sills, she has walked those lanes so far from here but she is home, and she's never been so sure...

(The image and narrative are for The Juniper Tree, one of my red tales, and the recipe for that cake can be found over at Darjeeling Dreams)

Red tales and the mean reds...

Tales of Love, Death and the Weather
Installation and Work-in-Progress by Siobhan Rodgers
14th-19th March 2011 at PS²

The show will consist of old work and work-in-progress, my red tales, embroidery and my superstition cabinet. The aim is to test how people view or read the work, create work in the context of the narratives, present that distinctive fairy tale aesthetic and expand the collection of superstitions. I'll be there all week sewing and gathering reactions. Any visits, feedback or superstitions would be very welcome, if you're about the city call in...

Today was blue skies and grey stormy sleet, warming spring and ice cold, it's that place in between, March; month of ides and lies, something untrue, I can barely wait for the stable ground of April, my birthday, new beginnings, cake and blossoms on the trees, green and sunny heat... I still have threads in my pockets and that black cat is still wandering around, as black and red as hell or my hair, and that thin edge of panic has yet to subside...
Today I love piles of blankets and piles of books, all in my own hand. I love those long rolling conversations, I love maps and nights when every star is in the sky, I love possibilities and loathe decisions left unmade... Today the woman I want to be is content in a crowd, she never has the urge to run, she lives what she loves and she trusts the days to change...

Tea, Tales, Tides and Tidings...

All images from flickr

Oh it’s been too long since I last wrote here… I’ve been writing so many other things, days of writing, books of pages, I always have blue ink and bruises on my hands; little dents that mark where the pen sits. I’m not long back from Donegal; I spent my hours writing by daylight with steaming cups of tea and nights beside that peat fire, which smells so much like home, trying to conjure those tales in words and rhythm. It rained every night I was there, that deep, aching rain I feel in my toes. That fickle ocean was there of course, a constant wash of tides that have touched a thousand other shores and that tiding of magpies are still roosting beside the house; so many the old rhyme doesn’t count high enough, if they bring good luck or ill only time will tell…

Spring is finally stirring and I find my mind not on those dark tales of transformation, snow, apples, blood and ice, but on The Weather Watcher, I tucked her story away for a stormy sunny day…but she’ll have to wait a few months more, brew a little longer, as I’m rapidly running out of time on this Masters course. The tales, all thirteen are drawing together, all deep darks, reds and whites; those wild geese are dressed in the green of this land, Briar Rose is leaving princes bloody and heart sick in her wake, Gretel is alone but no longer wandering, she’s tending that oven… Red is in bed with the Wolf, Snow White has turned temptress just like her mother, those bones are wrapped up in silk, the spell cast, Beauty and the Beast are nightly making their neighbours jealous, Bluebeard is still keeping count, the bread is baked, those charms pinned in, and don’t you know the little man’s name? And me; I’ve put on my red shoes, I have needles and threads in my pockets and a pen in my hand, I’m tracing those maps deep into the woods but I know the way, I’m stronger than the Snow White they all take me for and I’ve plenty more tales to tell.

Today was blue and thin spring light, as cold as winter but not as true. Today I love books; words and gateways… I love tea and truth and those white sheets. I love tulips in a shock of red. I love kindness and patience and as always I loathe cowardice and words unsaid. Today the woman I want to be laughs like the early morning, she is beauty and grace and she sleeps sound. She never has to guess or doubt and kindness doesn’t make her stall… someday.