It gave me a frisson of joy. I walked out into the unseasonably cold air and there they were, all lit up. It’s not Christmas, yet their white, sparkling light was such a fillip. The mornings are growing lighter, though at 4.00 am it makes little difference. The moon was full this morning and shimmered it silvery-ness on the water. It throws a white light into my studio too. A little eerie. A magic light. A fairy light.
I think of Easters long ago. Going to church with Dad and coming home with my cream egg hot in my pocket. And the laying of the table. Mum had a box of impossibly yellow chicks with orange plastic feet. Let me, I’d say, let me do the table. A centrepiece of chicks and tiny sugared eggs atop a nest of cotton wool. I was so proud. Don’t knock it. Smoothing out the crepe paper. What did we eat? Pork? I cannot remember. There was sweetcorn in the hostess trolley and peas and gravy in the white porcelain gravy boat. We used the best dinner service. And I think there was sherry. The TV was full of programmes about the Passion. I didn’t want to see his torture and looked away.
What a beautiful day. A perfect sky. Silence except for the cawing of crows.
My dreams were too vivid. Moon dreams. A woman murdered and cut in half. Bagged up neatly, severed at the waist. No blood. And an acting role I had to do at short notice. On the West End stage. I missed the matinee and then I didn’t. There were contracts to fill in. I didn’t know the script. I hadn’t seen it. But somehow I was all alright. It was alright.
My sewing gives me tension. It is slow work and I still do not know if it is working. Persevere. Something will come from it and if it doesn’t at least you have seen through your imaginings. Is it the same with everyone? I see it so clearly in my head that I have to make it. If only to manifest it into physical form. Then to cancel it. Discard. Perhaps not a sensible, time-effective way of working but this is an unearthing process. It is not linear, not sensible, but felt. It will come. I am sure of it. Aren’t you?
Happy Easter, by the way.
I remember Caramac eggs. Sickly cloying. I would save them. Never gorging. They looked so small once the packaging had been removed.