Gathering...

Today was March grey and rain like a blanket, but the green is stirring. The scent of earth when the wind picks up. Yesterday was blue, as blue as truth and china, it was blues on the radio and stones as blue and clear as the heavens; promises, promises...
The birds are busy building and so am I; dreams and projects and ventures, setting sail once more, off the edge of that map... My days are filled with the scratch of ink on a page and needles through cloth, conjuring magics in my usual way, and tea, always tea, a subtle magic all by itself.

Today I love flannel shirts, porches and pizza, love is in the little things. I love the green of this land and rain on the windows. I love the English language; malleable and melodious. I love daffodils and popcorn and loathe kindless words. Today the woman I am wanders, she's tracing those paths, she's dancing barefoot under the stars, she wears the sky on her fingers and sometimes holds the probable future in her hands...

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...

Of Blackbirds and Honeybees

Where did the year go? It slipped through my fingers like water from a stream but it's left gold in its wake... I'm excited again and finding magic daily, the months were hard and long and hateful, misplaced trust, real hatred and my tea leaves reading far too true but they are over and my days are golden once more... I'm building my business and making plans; keep a weather eye out for a website and the restocking of my Etsy store in the coming months! Find me on Instagram @InkandLight for more regular imagery too... I'm also launching Blackbird Teas soon; styling and tea-leaf reading for parties and events, it's fun and so wonderful to use my heritage to bring joy to others, do get in touch for bookings!
The Weather Watcher is still on to brew and I'm excited to see how her tale takes shape, I'm as busy as a bee and twice as happy... I hope to continue much more regularly to share my blessings, magics and work here now...

Today was as grey as a hound with an icy bite, and the sky was falling down. Today I love white sheets and fresh white pages, an inspiration of their own. I love laughter and love and flowers, all kind and bright and full of life, I love jazz, smooth across my hips and the razzy sway of that dress, I love dry dirt beneath my bare feet and the moon on my lips and as always I hate cowardice and words that should have been said... Today the woman I am has long dark hair, she sleeps sound and deep, she can tell those tales, and she has a magic that's all of her own...

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...

The Word Girl

At night I don’t sleep, I can’t, not when the sky is so black and blue, and if I do my dreams are so dark and deep waking from them is like finding my way through a maze; its high thorn hedges casting deep and dangerous shadows. Each morning my eyes and pillows are stained black from tears I’ve cried in my sleep, I can never tell if it’s yesterday’s make-up or that black ache I feel in my heart. And so I don’t sleep, I write, pouring ink onto paper with my heart; stories, poetry and ideas, snippets of beautiful things, a comfort, a distraction from the dark. Each morning my fingers are covered in ink, as blue as the dawn, and is that the mark of a writer? My mother says I was born to this; before I knew the alphabet, before there was school and exercise books full of copied letters, I was writing, covering pages in tiny ooooooooo’s, broken like words on an inked page, telling my parents with all the exasperation a toddler can muster that I was writing a story, as if they were in my way or costing me time. And so these twenty something years later I write, words now, magical, strange, distracting words; my comfort blanket, my saviour; for a word, after a word, after a word is power…. *

I’m wishing for a new start, and snow, always snow; days quiet and still and full of possibilities, days wrapped in blankets and nights full of stars, but my world is constantly grey and dirty, everything is damp around the edges and confused. A blackbird sits outside my window calling in the spring, snowdrops fringe the emerging green like lace, that same green dances nightly behind the clouds overhead and yet the grey remains, like March come early, keeping us in-between…
Today was that grey, the hours felt late and smokey and the tea tastes off. Today I love blankets, wrapped around me in the night, I love the silk roses blooming across my skin, and that ring like armour, my magpie distraction, a scrying stone, I love the green of this land, earthy and ancient and long for the sea, I love books as always, words on white and I loathe rash actions and stinging words, spilt like venom without care… Today the woman I want to be sleeps soundly and that ache is gone, her midnights are happy and never spent alone, she dances beneath those whiling stars and the only blackness in her life is her raven hair…
*Margret Atwood- Spelling

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.

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...