HNY 2015

So here were are: 2015.
Twenty fucking fifteen.

I'll tell you a secret: I couldn't sleep last night. And not in a "I tossed and turned and finally fell asleep at 2am" kind of way. In a literal way. I actually didn't sleep last night.

This might not be noteworthy for most people when you're talking about New Year's Eve, but for me this is ridiculous. Even when I was cramming for exams the night before having studied very little in the days prior, I always bailed at about 1 or 2 am.

But last night, despite being in bed before 11pm - nope.

So welcome to 2015.

The year of being as far away from 2030 as 2000. Which in some regards is terrifying. In others, oddly calming - because in 2000 I was starting high school, and now that seems like a lifetime ago.

Oddly enough, that wasn't the case before I started working with someone 9 years younger than me, but I guess that's what a little perspective gives you.

So in 15 years I'll be turning 44 - big whoop. Time marches on, my virtual friend.
(Fully retaining my right to have a mid-life crisis, despite the above words FYI)



On my Tumblr last night I said that this year would be a year for decision-making and self-care. (And hyphens, apparently).

The crux of the matter is that I need to take better care of myself.
I'm tired of the old cycle of "woe is me what am I doing with my life?" I need to just start doing life. Apparently it doesn't really matter what plans you make, you end up doing what you end up doing.

And honestly, I've finally figured out that it doesn't really matter what I'm doing professionally as long as a) I have good people around me (and, if I'm honest - interesting people); and b) I have the time to make art - poetry or painting or drawing, whatever.

Yes the details matter - I need to be mentally challenged during the day or I'll go crazier. Yes I need an income to pay the rent (later mortgage - ugh) and bills and eat and buy art-supplies and internet.

But the details should be secondary to the bigger picture. And I'm finally getting to a place where I'm happier with the bigger picture: a life with art, and writing, and down-time with my husband, cat, friends and the internet.


Ok - but why couldn't I sleep last night?

It probably didn't help that I was reading a surprisingly engrossing ebook by TJ Klune (look him up if you aren't afraid of a romance and gay theme)...

But it is probably more my mind coming to grips with a few of the details of my life. And whether the things that have been bothering me are "details" or "big-picture" things.

I'll name one: my family. I really miss my family. This year has been strange because we went overseas so I couldn't stretch the budget to visit at Christmas. And there's been such a long gap from when I last saw them - especially my beloved sister. (Beloved is an old-fashioned word, but she is beloved to me). I last saw Teeni in April, and likely won't see her again until April this year. Which sucks so much.

And though I did see my parents in August, it sort of hits home whenever I talk to my (YOUNG) coworker about seeing her parents. She sees them pretty much every week, and makes note of when it has been more than a couple of days since she spoke to them.

Meanwhile, I speak to my parents maybe once a month... Bad daughter? Probably a little bit. We also have a comfortable relationship, and always have plenty to talk about when we do talk - but I feel guilty and a bit sad.

And there are other things - very specific to me things, and very not-specific to me things which I won't get into here...

But you get my drift?


Enough moaning. I guess the point is - it is a New Year.
I have my New World View (Big Pictures and details) and have a couple of things left to scale up or down in importance.

And I should probably start looking after myself by taking a fucking sleeping tablet when I can't get to sleep as the clock ticks slowly towards 4am...

In closing, here is the last poem I wrote in 2014. I was surprised at how well this came out, as it sort of just happened without too much thought on the specifics. I knew what I wanted to say, and I know about whom it is written - and I'm happy with it, so here you go.
Much love, x


Waiting by a Shore

You speak like a mouth
plunged into an ocean

like the weight of stones
pulled by tides.

Cracked shells wash up
against my aching legs

and I see on the horizon
only turrets of wind

drawing up raging water
to a great and greying sky

like an anger waged against
uncaring clouds and dead gods.

Post Xmas Flailing

So we're in that post-Christmas haze, where you sort of marvel at life. We build up to this time every single time, and now we're in this sort of embarrassed moment where we realise how much money we spent, and how we have to go back to work soon and start the whole damn year over again.

Or is that just me?
Perhaps...

If I'm honest, this year's Christmas has been hard for me. Coming back from our big trip overseas, I knew I would experience a bit of a let down. We built up to the holiday for so long, that I knew I'd be disappointed it was over. But I sort of relied on my Christmas-enthusiasm to get me through. And it nearly did.

But I miss my family. I blame my parents for giving me too many amazing Christmas memories, really - damn them!

I know, I know - poor Amanda with her husband and cat and money to spend and functional family upbringing who just came back from an epic overseas trip. Woe is me.

I guess it is more than that though... this year has been amazing in so many respects.

I had my first art show.
I made some amazing friends.
I solidified some friendships that I want to maintain for my whole life.
I enjoyed my job.

I unlocked a valve in myself and painted and wrote so many things that I'm proud of.

And still I feel like there are things that I haven't said. Well - haven't said to the people I want to say it to. Sometimes my writing couldn't be plainer in its emotion, but couldn't be vaguer in its subject.

Can that be a goal for 2015? To just let go and tell people how I feel regardless of the social pressure not to rock the boat? (Or the internal pressure not to risk people thinking poorly of me?)

Maybe.

In the meantime, I'll write poetry and paint pictures when the words fail.

Speaking of poetry - here are three that occurred to me over the past few days:


Your Name

Your name beats inside my mouth
like a tiny heart threatening to break
through the bars of my teeth.
I swallow it down but I know
the reverberations of your name
your name your name your name
stutter in my eyes,
now I’m looking at you.


What did they call you?

What did they call you, Matilda?
When the sirens lifted like mists,
what did they scream out through the storm?
And where can I find the meaning
of your name, in this book – this dog-eared,
much abused body of yours? Will it fall open
to the right page, or is it bound on both edges?
What can I tell you, Matilda –
that I’ve been looking here all along? That the mirrors
all looked like windows to me? That the curtains
were stained with wine and I was in a stupor
on the floor, worrying at the lines on the floorboards
there?
Huddle in close now, please just let our arms touch
and I’ll shield this candle from our eyes, and their eyes,
even if it burns.



Touch Technology

"Thank fuck for photographs
and for touch technology -
You, digitally frozen there,
letting me see the specks in your eyes
without you seeing me;
and I’m able to bring you closer
with the outward swipe of my fingers
and linger 
on your cheek
in a way I’d never dare
when we’re together.
I want to pull you closer
with the touch of my fingers,
and meet your gaze, unafraid.
But I won’t. I can’t.
So thank fuck for technology."

Update from Overseas

This post started out as an update email to my friends... but quickly turned into an email so long that I  would feel guilty sending it and expecting people to read it.

So I am copying and pasting here so you can SAY you've read it but you don't have to read the whole thing.

G'day!

(Yes - starting to miss Australianisms...)

We are currently in Amsterdam, and having a great time. This city is amazing - great architecture, insane amount of bikes... the cars actually look out of place. And it is relatively quiet for a city centre too ... I guess less honking = less noise pollution.

We have been so lucky with the weather our whole trip. Apparently when we landed in Hawaii we just missed a week's worth of rain thanks to some storm systems. As you probably saw in the Facebook pictures, the weather there was so typically "dream island beach getaway" it was ridiculous. 

Then we landed in Seattle, where we were too late to experience the joys of rain and wind storms.. so we had very little rain there despite the city's reputation. 

As you probably all know, we loved Seattle. It is a wonderful city that isn't too tourist-geared. Plus Americans don't seem to realise how cheap everything is over there... We shopped up a storm (mainly due to the need to get proper cold-weather stuff... as opposed to the Brisbane version which is all "oh look this is totally for winter because it has a full sleeve!!")

Victoria was great - despite the weather being a bit annoying on the trip up: we had to take a bus rather than the planned ferry because the sea was a tad rough (7 feet waves). When we got to Victoria though, the weather was lovely! Sun and everything. 

Unfortunately N got a cold, and that meant we didn't explore the city as much as we could have, but what is a holiday for if not for lying about and being all leisurely for a while (even if one of us was suffering a little)?

We really enjoyed the friendliness of both the Americans and the Canadians - the customer service emphasis is great, even if it is motivated by tips... and the people in general were very friendly. In the US I wasn't sure if that was a mixture of genuine friendliness + amusement at our "adorable" accents. 

Speaking of which, in America I've never felt so self-conscious about my accent. I don't know if many of you know this but I get really frustrated when I have to repeat myself - and apparently I'm too quiet (don't laugh A Foo!!) and my "o"s are too "o" and not enough "a" for American ears.

Luckily, when we came back from Canada, we went up to visit our friends in Puyallup - and they are already used to hearing our dulcet tones over Ventrilo (kind of like video-less skype mostly used to talk whilst gaming for those of you who are super geeks). We were picked up by our friend Chuck, who was in his army gear still after doing something in the AM. It was a trip, as it always is, to meet this person who we've only heard for so long. 

Chuck is a great guy, and we were really glad he picked us up because Seattle provided a bit of its famed rain that day. On our way back to his place on Base, he talked to us about his time deployed (a lot of which was crazy to my ears... full on) and attempting to get back to life despite on-going issues from being "blown up"... yeesh! 

We met Chuck's wife Hannah and their two children Raelynne and Archer. Raelynne is ADORABLE. She is only 3 1/2 so her speech isn't always in the right order. As Chuck said, its like listening to yoda sometimes - the words are all there, just not necessarily in the right order or tense. 

Later we went to lunch with some more people who we've spent too many hours with interacting via computers. I'd not met Josh the last time we visited in 2011, so that was great (he's a giant, but super nice), and our friends Trevor and Brandon joined us too. 

This was the 31st of October too, by the way - so we all went back to Trevor's place to get ready to trick or treat (!!!!) with Trevor's wife Jess and their two daughters Teighlor and Kylene. Chuck and Hannah also came along with their kids: Raelynne was dressed up as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz and was so cute, as was her little brother who was put in a lion onesie which was freaking awesome. 

Anyway - you've probably seen the pictures on facebook - we had a great time!! It was COLD, but I didn't care. At Trevor's uncle's place (where they had a haunted house thing going on, which apprently attracted over 1500 visitors!) they gave us free hot coffee so that kept us going and relatively unfrozen.

The next week was great. Again, if you've followed us on fb you've seen we went to a Halloween party on Saturday night (lots of fun... there was a "fear factor" table where you could eat gross sounding things, and actual gross things, such as a live goldfish. Which people did. I didn't watch.) We also went to our friends' Aunt & Uncle's place on Sunday for a Sunday Football gathering where we ate mac & cheese (cooked especially for me as they couldn't think of anything else vegetarian) and watched the Seahawks win against the Raiders. 

Unfortunately the next two days were a little bit crap because I succumbed to a cold, but some highlights include drinking Pumpkin Spike Lattes whenever I could (because why don't we have that in Aus?? They're DELICIOUS) and going with Jess to Costco. I know, I know. But it was FUN. So much stuff!! You can buy eggs like 50 at a time...

Eventually our time was up - we were given a ride to the airport for our (delayed) flight to London, and then - London! We checked into our (tiny) hotel room, and set off to meet up with our school friend Michael Hahn (known by his last name to us) by the Tower of London. The poppies were beautiful, and there weren't too many people there (from what I gather there had been so many people there on the weekend that tour buses couldn't even stop to let people off). 

But what was better was walking through the back streets with Hahn and his girlfriend Claire, seeing old buildings, avoiding the crowds and finding a pub to drink in and then crossing the river (via Tower Bridge) to a pub to eat in. It was Guy Fawkes night too - so there were some fireworks across the city. Really it was a fun night - it must have been, since we were a little jet-lagged and I was still a bit coldy, and yet we stayed out til after 10pm (right? party animals!)

We didn't really give London a chance, and as usual I didn't really like it. I  DID like the underground system though. Very easy to navigate... even for us. I regretted not giving the city at least another day, and meeting up with some old friends who lived nearby... but before I knew it we were off to Glasgow via Gatwick airport. 

In the interests in keeping this email from becoming a novel... I'll reduce our tour through Scotland to summarising: oh my god the scenery! Beautiful buildings, villages, deer, eagles, seals, mountains, ocean, moss, trees... holy god. And speaking of god, the Isle of Iona was amazing... we happened to be there on the Sunday before Remembrance Day, so there was a bag-piper on the same ferry as us going over to play at the ceremony. Swear to god. Kilt and all.

All in all we went from Glasgow to Loch Lomond to Oban, to Kilmartin to Fionnphort to Tobermory to Mallaig to Portree to Kyleakin to Uig to Talisker Distillery, then back across the Skye Bridge to Fort William to Crianlarich to Edinburgh and finally to Newcastle via a stop at Hadrian's wall and Vindolanda. 

Phewff. From Newcastle we caught a boat across to Amsterdam overnight, and here we are. I LOVE Amsterdam. Yes people talk about the ladies in the windows and the coffeehouses and all that... but so far my favourite things have been 1) CHEESE... cheese samples and CHEESE; and 2) the Van Gogh Museum. 

Ugh. The Van Gogh Museum was unbelievable. I was so excited to see his work up close, that when we got to the first wall with his early paintings - that are all dark and focusing on the earthy lives of peasants - I was grinning like an idiot. Yes, I made N laugh at me. 

Then, when we got to see one of his self portraits (Self Portrait in a Felt Hat), I had to hold back tears. Yes - I'm a geek. But I don't care. His work was at once so much part of a movement in terms of technique and colour, yet at the same time he was so incredibly different. His colours, the movement, the way when you look closely you don't see careful placement - you see energy, you see exactly where the brush went. Faces aren't perfect, straight lines aren't straight, but you don't care. 

I was saying to N (who politely nodded) that his work, compared to others at the time and compared to many other of the "great" artists prior, was open. You are not kept at bay from the subject matter, from the piece - you are drawn in. You want to see the glob of paint. Your eyes are drawn from line to colour to line to colour. Shadows are not dark, but azure. 

In his later work, we saw a landscape, painted the year of his death, and after his time in an asylum - which was striking to me because it seemed like he finally came back to using black. It is called Landscape at Twilight. It is so striking, because it is basically two trees silhouetted against this brilliant, vibrantly golden yellow sunset sky. I don't want to go on about what it means or what it means to  me, but yes - geeky Manda tear up time again.

(Ok. Gosh. This has become rather longer than I expected... I think I'm going to just paste this into a blog post and those who can be bothered can read it.)

Anyway, today has been a lazy day. We've been enjoying our beautiful apartment here in Amsterdam's outskirts. We are heading out shortly to see Rembrandt's house, and whatever else we come across on the way, and then tomorrow N wants to take me somewhere inappropriate (we'll see) and I want to go to the Rijksmuseum. Maybe a canal tour? Who knows...

Then onward for the final 2 stages of our trip - Lübeck then Singapore, before home on the morning of the 29th of Nov. 

I've thought of all of you often, and really look forward to seeing you again when I get back. Can't believe it will be essentially Christmas when I get back... hoorah!

Looking forward to catching up and hearing some beautiful Aussie accents once more.

Love to you all!

x

Amanda

Continuing: Bring in the Books / Bottles / Fire

So the strange creative renaissance continues. It isn't quite as manic is it was at the beginning of the year, which is good because I'm sure I would have exhausted myself. I am still writing and painting, but I also feel like I have the mental energy for other things - which is great, because... well, I'm an adult and have to do other stuff than play with paper, pens, paints and canvases in the dark.

For example I now work full time for an energy company. Which is... well it has pros and cons, like anything. I have more money! I am doing interesting things at work, and work with amazing people. But also it takes up a lot of my brain ... parts of my brain that crave something a little less mundane, a little more poem-y.

Speaking of which! I've written quite a few since I last posted... so here are three that I like:



Bring in the books

I told you to bring the books inside,
to put them in their places on the shelves
that line the living room, like badges of knowledge -
I told you to bring them in, and now
they are wet, and dirty, their covers unreadable,
their pages wrinkled and altered into
a metaphor for ageing or consumerism.

I watched Maria die today.

Oh, we knew it was coming, and
she knew it was coming, (in some moments),
but you should have heard the wracking sounds
her daughters made. I’m not callous, but you hear
enough people grieving and it starts to sound
like laughter.

I told you to bring the books inside,
now see look at this? My favourite collection -
and you can barely make out the words, or tell
which page was weary from dog-ears and thumbing.
I told you to bring them in, and now
they are dying, and I don’t know if I should bury them
or put them back on the shelf. Are they ruined
or symbolic?

The funeral is tomorrow.

Bottles

Alcohol burns at the back of my mouth
but in a way you tasted the same -
your tongue had a similar quality
in flavour, and in its ability to make me
lose my mind.

Dizzying; your words sent me spiralling,
the last of a bottle that would have
been better down the drain. But you know
I’ve never been good at walking away
when I’ve had enough.

Fire

Fire licks at my feet
but I don’t make a move.
My eyes are set on the stars,
pain a forgotten memory -
dull throb in my mind
where it was once processed.

Fire licks more insistently,
discovering my legs,
and my eyes in some primal response,
work tearfully to put out the flames.

I remember when you
discovered my body, a heat
not dissimilar to now
- white, eager, flickering -
consumed us before you
were consumed.

But that was long ago, memory
buried under layers of stale air
and wood, and dirt and grass.
Fire does its efficient work.
Smoke, its friend, gentle in its lullaby.

Battle the wind / Hospital Seating

Battle the wind 

Trying to find the solid ground,
my eyes are useless in this dark ocean,
storm is battering my senses -
every breath without water in my lungs
is a victory.

I would use a compass if I had a moment
just to use my hands, to steady the waves
still my body, and contemplate
the usefulness of the machinery
at my fingertips.

Yes I know if I speak the words
the winds will stop, no need to shout at me
I know the solid lump stuck behind my breathing
will still the ocean, but if I could just have a moment
to analyse - pause time for me, oh god
I am not prepared,
and there must be some solid ground
around here somewhere.






Hospital Seating

Sterile room, plastic chair,
black line on the wall, runs 
right through my ears. 
Eyes focussed on a speck
I wonder how long it has been there -
stench of bleach or disinfectant
burns my nostrils, like a buzzing
I can’t focus on.

I wonder, when will it start?
The 5, or the 7, or the 
whatever the fuck how many it is
stages of grieving. On a plastic chair,
waiting for them to hit me.

Will it hurt? Did it hurt?
When they opened you up, 
to find out how you’d been opened up?
Will it hurt at stage 1 when this sinks in
like our little plastic toy ships
sank into the mud pies we made 
on the back porch?
They were so mad with the mess
we made with our hands.

Maybe this is stage zero, a stage
before the stages because I can’t feel anything.
Just a plastic chair, and a buzzing 
in my nostrils, some ringing in my ears perhaps.
Words spoken with downcast eyes
clanging around my skull - 
that you didn’t make it. Make what?

We made plenty, why not this?
Stage whatever the fuck might be denial,
might be anger, might be 
I don’t know - you were the one 
who took psychology, not me.
Tell me what to feel, but only 
if you tell me it won’t hurt.

I think I’ll stay seated, thank you.
Maybe some water, thank you. 
No, there is no one you can call, thank you.

Flamingo

A bright pink plastic flamingo
flutters down to the balcony awning.
The corner of my eye catches it
and tells my heart to start pounding,
the bile in my stomach to rotate,
my skin to prickle and perspire.
"Is this about the children?" she asks.
A pause. A blink.
An explosion contained in terse, controlled
- clipped - words.
"What. Children." I say.

"The children in Africa? In Congo or Sudan?
The children in Afghanistan, perhaps? Pakistan?"

She smiles, irritatingly pleasant,
pink and plastic in her perfect mask.

"is this
about the children?"

My eyes, if they could, would flash
a warning.

"In the hospital? In the orphanages?
In the cancer wards watching their
parents inject poison to save themselves?

In the morgues?"

A pause. A blink.
A smile.

"Well,
is this about
the children?"

"What Children?" I gasp, a fish on the jetty.
"What fucking children?"
I cry, I throw at her flamingo face,
"There are no fucking children!"
my words round and precise,
until they crash against her lips
which arch as she breaths back
"Exactly."
Pen twirling, eyebrow raises
like the sure leg of a waterbird,
"Exactly."

-Amanda Wells, 2014

Love letter

Dear Amy,
I've had 12 friends named Amy, did you know that?
So I feel I can address you by name
and you and I will remain safe in our anonymity.
I risk you never knowing, by the same token,
though I expect that if I die, someone will tell you.
If you die first, then you'll either knew it all,
or nothing at all. But I digress,

Dear Amy,
I love you all.
You were the first I ever let in, and the first
I put up my boundaries for - brick and stone, metal and glass.
You introduced me to paradox, at once inside and perpetually,
fearfully locked out. There and not there
long before Schroedinger was ever born.

Dear Amy I learned rock climbing for you.
Learned to cling with fingerpads,
praying that the rock biting into my skin
would cling back and stop me falling.
Watch the red lines appear sharp and slow
on my white flesh - my arms and hands.

Dear Amy you showed me the meaning of mirrors.
One way glass in its truest form, as I tried
to look through my reflection to find you
but was left caressing smooth, cold, silver glass.
Dear Amy the shards still stick in my soles.

Dear Amy you are the reason my voice wavers
when I tell him I love him. And I do love him.
I waver with the memory, or perhaps my voice
tremors under the weight of words
I never said to you.

Dear Amy, I wish I could only relegate you in my mind
to the past where I could reimagine us - as better
than we were. I don't wish you were dead,
I don't wish you dead.

Dear Amy, I don't really know you now.
They tell me you are happy. I -
I am glad. Know that though I do think of you,
and this letter contains too much and not enough
truth, and I am showing you how I came to be,
I do not always think of you.

And I'm sorry I never said what I wanted to say,
or what you needed to hear, and I'm sorry
you didn't hear either. I'm sorry for the metaphors
and the poetry, and for never speaking plainly.

Dear Amy, we haven't spoken in years.
Dear Amy, the distance and the years are my fault.
Dear Amy, love Amanda.

Well-Spun and Falsehood

Well Spun

Lately you breathe words out in strings

and they crumple, and scatter on the floor.

Your face a picture of contrite earnestness,

but yours, seeing mine, knows that I perceive

you - not your well-spun promises.

You clamour and cling to my clothes -

enough to make me scratch at my skin.

How much more do I give to the void -

words are not enough to tide me over,

this garden will not keep me here - I can't

see anything growing, anyway.

(2014)

I have been writing a lot lately, and quite a bit remains in my notebooks, waiting for another day when I can recraft the poems into something a little more elegant, and more representative of what I'm trying to say. But this one sprung from the experience of someone I know, and it seems to work, even if it is in a raw state.




In other news, I've been painting lately too - I'd say I've been "almost manic" in my creativity, but that is a lie. I have definitely been manic. Borderline on needing to visit someone with experience in levelling out brain chemistry... but not quite.

I do feel proud that I am able to identify this in myself though. I am aware that this may not always be the case, but I'm also proud that I've surrounded myself with people who are intelligent enough and compassionate enough to help me if I should slip off the edge.



And for a second poem, one that takes an idea and runs with it, so that it isn't quite fiction nor non-fiction.

Falsehood

You tease out words like future

and paint images of gardens

and kitchens, and mason jars.

Juggling glittering ideals of the path

you see laid out before me,

light dancing in your eyes

of these concepts you weave the way

forward. A fence is between us,

cut from my eyes across your teased

words and paths. You do not know 

my feet, my womb, my fingernails.

The difficulty lies in the colours

bursting in my night sky,

wrenched from between my clenched limbs,

even if I made it to fifty-four.

(2014)

Doomed Songbird

And another poem for you... this one on a topic that I fear will form themes in my work for a long time to come.

Doomed Songbird

Doomed songbird who left

an empty bottle of cheap red wine,

a chair by the railing,

a violin in its velvet coffin.

Black Bulbul, your plaintive cry

is etched in my skull

and I hear it played back through my bones

like a record, whenever reverberations play.

Flightless bird you fell,

shattered the glass before you.

Fear - not your wings, your feathers

will remain behind my eyelids

as long as I can see the sky, or broken things.

Written by me, tonight, about events of 2 years ago... has it been that long already?

Comfort and Mud

Alright! So - here is some poetry that I've come up with. These are two I wrote yesterday.

Comfort

You are buttered menthol

to my throat raw from screaming.

Your hands thrust my arms 

above my head - clasped -

your mouth closes tight

on my lips - stops

the sound from leaking out;

swallow it whole,

and make me quiet.

Mud

We're all made of mud, I think.

How else to explain it?

Sticky, messy lives. 

Gritty, thrown together, not planned -

and the scientists always say

the key to life is water, don't they?

We're churned, and mixed and thrown together;

We're dirty and horrible and get in

each other's noses, smeared

on each other's skin.

Sometimes trodden upon, and sometimes,

in wiser hands than my own

built into something beautiful,

fired in a kiln to last.

But we dry up, and we crack - when theat

essence of life, water, runs dry - we crack

and find it hard to move. Aching bones

arthritic fingers stretch, creaking towards

muddier times so that the dry-sore skin

might be quenched.

But it isn't so easy as metaphor.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and I

want to go back to mud.

Renaissance

It is I, sporadic blogger.

I've been having a bit of a creative renaissance lately. I'm not sure what has sparked it, though I have my suspicions that it isn't 100% healthy.

For reasons that I won't go into in too much detail, my moods have changed a bit lately. I'm less *controlled*, which has been both nice and scary.

One of the upsides is that I am tapping into a creative energy I hadn't realised I'd lost. I have been painting and drawing and writing with scary compulsion. And it hasn't been shit - to my eye, anyway. So I'm thinking I might start using my blog here to post some things, just so that I can look back and go "Oh yeh - remember that time I went crazy and started being an "artist" again?"

Good times....