Barebones and Snowlight...

Today was barebones and blossoms, Snowlight and halflight, sunshine and blizzards; March in all her moods... It was blue ink pouring too long past midnight and boys talking books oceans away... I'm stitching maps and drawing down storms, making plans and lists, casting wishes and setting wills, and hoping it will all come true... I'm snow white in the forest with a hound for company, tracing paths and rewriting tales one adventure at a time...

Today I love every blue in the sky, I love snow and the crackle-pop of corn and the fire, I love the flicker-light of candles, films or hope and I will always loathe impatience. Today the woman I want to be gets up early and gets it all done, she's happy in a crowd and success doesn't seem so far away...

I'll...

I'm making myself a map, covered in red stitches and blue ink, books of fluttering pages pinned down, wishes made into plans somewhere between my ribs amongst midnights and witching hours... This is past work, sent as a portfolio in the hope that a dream will turn into maps and plane tickets in my hand. This is some of what I am; fairy tales, words on white, silk stitches and still snow, tales of this land and the land itself, Irish and green, superstitions and the sea, I'm that weather watcher gathering charms and the rains washing in...

And this is a work in progress, written one summer night;

I’ll draw down the rains. I’ll call up a storm.
I’ll bargain at the crossroads,
that time, that place
I’ll shut my mouth; store up the heart-sore ah’s
and those floating butterfly oh’s until you tear
them from me.
I’ll build castles brick
by brick,
a house of cards to come tumbling down.
I’ll stitch in the stars and still the night,
I’ll steal away the hours
and hide them between the coffee and the jams.
I’ll cloak myself in the blue of that sky and the strength of days,
wrapped around me like a blanket,
still nothing to your heat;
quiet and scorching,
like August on the sills.
I’ll tie up my hair, and keep it for only you;
curl by dark,
bewitched curl.
Something to unwind
like honeysuckle in the night,
heady and damp.
And still I’ll charm those apples and I’ll tell the bees
I’ll lay aside that honeyed halo
and I’ll befriend that fickle sea
All this
until you come home to me.

All lists of intent, words and wills and I'll set my will now, because scars create strength... Today is green and turf fires, high smoky skies and we're still in-between. Today I love tulips, I love popcorn and films flickering in the dark, I'll always love tea and cake and laughter and hate inconsiderate words or actions. Today the woman I am is barefoot, she wears red like a charm, and she's not there yet but she can feel that familiar sense of hope...

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...

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.

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

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.

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...

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...

The Gathering Storm...

She could stitch in a storm for days and then unpick it when the ground had had enough....

September is almost over, and autumn has truly set in, low sunlight, firey leaves and the sky full of stars... I'm filling my days; as always, with stacks of books, cloud grey scarfs and windblown papers, and my nights; with cups of steaming tea, tangy oranges and music that's oh so blue...

College is making me very happy, the time I can spend just reading; filling my head with tales and theory, poetry and philosophy is so indulgent, and yet I'm itching to make something, turn all that thought into something tangible, sound the narrative out in my own rhythm...

Today I love grey morning light low across the sheets, falling leaves and the smell of coffee drifting down the street. I love books worn and battered, and as always I cannot stand selfishness. Today the woman I am is still barefoot, she has been wandering and eating pears and her sleep is sound and deep...

The Weather Watcher...

The evening hung in the air like torn lace,
that fragile word left unsaid and the gathering rains washing in...

Oh it's been such a long time since I last wrote here; the summer blossomed months ago and then died suddenly in the night, it has been raining for weeks and the nights fall suddenly now, like a grey curtain drawn on the world... autumn is here, and as usual I'm filing my days with books and coffee, plums eaten in the depths of the night and words sounded out in rhythm once more...

I return to college on Monday to start a masters degree, I'm scared and excited; I let Kerouac make my feet itch and I'm feeling more than a little like a bird in a cadge... but it's only for a little while and then I'll have a shiny new key...
I hope to update more often, once I'm back to college, lots of fresh work; fairy tales and briars, poetry and light, craft and politics all made tangible...

Today I love that thick golden autumn light, I love plums and creamy coffee and the sound of rain beating off the roof, as always I love maps with well worn creases and music that feels like home and, as always, I hate words spoken in anger... Today the woman I want to be wanders, she knows the back roads and will never be cadged, she doesn't need to count the stars to know they're there, she trusts the ones who love her and those ready compliments no longer make her stall... in a little while...

Witch's Thimble...

She could call up a storm with a single tread of her raven hair and draw down the rains with a petal...

I've so many ideas still flitting around my head; I gathered hundreds of superstitions for my degree, all handwritten and stored in an old index cabinet, and I discovered they mostly concern one of three things; love, death or the weather. I've worked with death; drowning sailors and lost souls... and so now begins a new project 13 tales of love and the weather... superstitions made tangible, a weather watcher weaving charms, embroidery and lace, rain on the roses and stormy skies, summer breezes and sheets on the lines; so many ideas so much work to do.

Today the clouds have rolled in and the sky is heavy with heat and rain, the roses tumble over walls and hedges spilling their colour over the green, the bats are back in the fireplaces and flit into the house and the bees wander in dazed from pollen and heat... Today I love crisp linen, cool against my skin. I love well worn books, the sound of laughter through the rooms and the smell of lemons. As always I can't stand disregard for others. Today the woman I want to be is grace, she doesn't doubt and finds all the time she needs... she always bakes cakes from those lemons, dusted off with sugar and summer roses and she always finds light in the rains...