Confetti Hearts

He has my father’s mouth.

There were two confetti hearts on the ground just by the Bar and beneath Alexandra Hall. Perfectly rounded white hearts. Bright things, innocent things in the pitch dark. There is an abundance of work suddenly – almost too much. There is never a steady flow, just a rush or a nothing. A stagnant nothing. I have to rise to it. I want it. I have asked for it. But the terror of failing is always present. They were happy with the last one. I am glad. I am finding some pleasure in that work, though it isn’t high falutin’. Work called last night. I was trying to slumber though too much tea the day before was taking its toll. Three times he called. Was there parking? Had I read my emails? No, I wanted to say, I haven’t, I’m in bed. But I didn’t. He was young and it sounded like a producer was breathing down his neck. And now, just now, I’ve had a text saying the booking is cancelled. It can’t give me a living. Just imagine if you depended on it. A cancellation means no fee. Simple as that. Whims and politics. So be it. I now have more time to work here. My real work. My proper work. My heart’s work. And I’ll make a pot of tea. New tea. Lapsang Souchong. Leaf tea in my new pot and using my new red tea cosy. It’s the rituals that see us through. I had to cancel our meeting. It all gets too much and I need to claw back time just so that I can breathe. I like her. She’s a sweetie. We will meet when she comes back for the autumn. God speed little one.

I think about the performance of stillness I want to do. It will take some thinking about. Why the stillness? Is it to do with yearning for rest, for peace, for time? I want to sit in front of a Rothko, ideally, and stare. No, that’s the wrong word, not stare but look, really look. Looking in public. Looking for the aura. What would happen? Stillness is a strange thing in our contemporary world, I think. I want to see what happens. Always, this wanting to see. Wanting to see what happens.

There is a row of windows above the job centre with a series of posters fixed to them. Are they posters? Not sure. Anyway they read something like – ‘Gateway to South America’. I pass it when I walk the back way to the harbour. What an odd thing. From what I can read from such a distance and without my specs on, they offer dance classes. Salsa, tango. Shall I go us those steps? Shall I learn the tango?

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.