In the supermarket everyone is complaining about the cold. The frost will be getting at my wisteria, says a woman in the queue behind us.
I cried after the class last week. The grief of failure joining hands with other griefs, some known some not. Kitaj, he said to me as he stood staring at my drawing. You know Kitaj? he asked. I nodded. How many times have I come to this frozenness? Over and over. Time and time again. Meeting my averageness – pushing through the mass of not being able in the hope of finding that something, that spark. Of what? Wonder? Best in show, I had overhead two women say the week before, as they surveyed my initial sketches. Best in show. And yet, last week I was frozen. Again. Immobilised by fear. Tactics. That’s what I need. Some tactics to have in place so that I keep drawing, keep moving – keep the momentum going.
She can see me next week to discuss my proposal. What is it? What is my proposal? What is it I want to do? What do I have to offer? I need time to think about it. Radio off. In the silence.
Cornwall was good. Wet but good. Her lovely house. Cool, white and serene. We talked all night, Mary Margaret. Not enough sleep but good soul work. Good soul work. She has a studio. In the garden. Everything in place. Ready. She is ready.
Most of the galleries were shut. Tourists gone. Season finished. High tides. Lemon Street slippery with wet leaves. The promise of the Alba. Upstairs closed. A gift from the kitchen. Yes. I sent out a wish. It was granted. Shining, full of love in the Sloop. The stink of stale beer. I didn’t mind. It could have been anywhere. As skittish as a gazelle. Beautiful.