Category: Writings

I long to go there again. I remember its light in those early mornings, still cold but with that promise of heat. But it is such a journey.

Will it happen? Will diplomacy take over? All this belligerence. Have we learnt nothing? Meanwhile, the powerless are being starved, bombed and made homeless. Is there anything we can do? Ever?

I have a longing. But for what exactly it is hard to say. I want to be still, to shut my eyes, my face inclined to the sun and to just listen to the world turning. All very fanciful, but I am tired, jaded even – running on empty.

He emailed to say that he thinks that they have it. That it has been lying on someone’s desk for quite some time. That they didn’t know whose it was. He doesn’t believe this story. But it doesn’t matter. If it is found and I can hold it in my hands again, I don’t care what may or may not have happened. I am blessed by this little miracle.

Berger writes that drawings are merely ‘notes on paper’ and yet, to lose them, as I have is a grief of sorts. I certainly cried.

It shouldn’t be done. This is where I am now, and what has happened, all those choices that I made, good and bad, have brought me here. And it isn’t so bad? Is it? I’m just tired and jaded today. Moon stuff can bring such dullness on. Let it be, let it pass. And it will.

It’s a crazy amount of money. But oh, to be back there….

I dreamt of L. last night. It wasn’t her but at the same time it was. Her face was wider, paler and her hair blonde. She was open. She came into my house with her new love. She even accepted a cup of tea. Can dreams come true?

Sometimes I know them, others are strangers to look at but I know them by a voice, or a gesture. They promise tenderness, sometimes it is given, other times I wake before it can be. The memory of them lingers till long into the morning.

I think about living abroad when I am older, and he has gone. I think I might. It would be an adventure. A new kind of learning….

It was a messy start. I couldn’t seem to get a grip on time. All those pesky little jobs to do, that seem to eat it up. I had a quick walk and made two attempts at drawing. Uck. No one was about except me and a Hovis lorry driver. The bird song came later.

She was in hospital when he called. I’ve got shingles, she said. I think about how destabilising it must be for, who ostensibly lives in one room, to be rushed into hospital away from the accustomed safety, though narrow, of her now confined life. She is at the mercy of others, totally. I feel for her. She is back in the home now. That not-home but home it must be, until…