Dog Roses (5)

Must I mention it? I don’t really have much to say. I feel at a distance from it. I care. I do. I care about the fact that he lost his seat. A nice man, a good man. I enjoyed him coming into the studio. So be it. Perhaps he will welcome the rest, to be out of the limelight for a while. To spend more time with his family. Change. Always change. So be it.

I sent it off to her. I wasn’t wholly happy with it. Sometimes the mediocre is all one can do. There is a lesson in that. I feel constrained by her. I know this. Perhaps this will be the last time I write for them. Something will come in its place. Sometimes I am scraping against metal. Jarring. And yet, I can see something there. Misted up. The writing brought me further on. It always does, even the failing. I was reintroduced to his work. I remember it now. The ice-cream spoons with those burnt black lines. He never touched the work. Only the sun. Did he still make work when it was cloudy? I ache for the same simplicity of working. Beyond thought. Just lines. Not about reading, about making sense of something. Nor about pattern or colour. Beauty or intellect. Just being. Ach.

Walking early on the Prom in the rain. A girl coming towards me, KEEP IT REAL emblazoned on her t-shirt. A yellow moon dropping from beneath the clouds. The smell of bread past the Pelican Bakery. The scent of dog roses in the Castle grounds.

I was woken by the splash of raindrops on my face.

She is pregnant. The grief of it. Life and death, the big stories, the only stories. Keep her safe.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.