deborah rose reeves
Finland 2007 moleskin journal, and the first scrawlings of a story that would eventually be my first published story in 2014.
Found in a box, hardly decipherable in parts, and quite unlike what it became, as far as I can read.
Pages smell strongly like linseed oil.
(But, also, I feel old tonight and wondering what I was doing for so long)
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Last month you knew the grand children
even though you had trouble remembering their names
which daughter they belonged to
Last week impeccable you
walked into the lounge
with your patterned jersey on backwards
and your black trousers on under your jeans
Today you can’t remember
who your son in law is – the father of my children
Like the family photo in ‘Back to the Future’
We are being erased
and no time travel will save us
No flux capacitor will bring you back
We love you Mum
We are and will be with you
the whole way
wherever you go
Even if you don’t know who we are
or where we are
We will be there with you.
This post of Mary’s includes the clever, funny video ‘Scared is Scared’.
If it’s Monday, I must be home. . . ..
I stress, this art is for sale.
This art for sale gives me stress.
The image is distressed
deliberately, I stress.
An idea creates energy
With this energy I create
something worth sharing
Transformed from artist to salesperson
Mistress of my situation
sales is a very different art.
So much seems to be about perspective.
Her tiny hand extends to that of a tall thin man, no doubt her father, judging by the similarity of their smiles and the familiar way their arms swing together.
That aside, what captures me, is her outfit. A gorgeous bright multi-coloured tutu, all gauzy with long stripes of colour. Teal green, sky blue, lemon yellow, orange and red. They walk past. She giggles. On her back, a pair of shocking pink wings.
I’m attempting the one hundred possessions challenge. A tutu and fairy wings would still leave ninety eight.
It’s all about priorities.
my warm woollen over coat.
Either the coat stretched
or I shrank
Lost in a crowded pocket
A small hole
Your hand scrabbled around
Oh, the hard landing
No familiar warp and weft
In my hand
remains a treasured thread
Though with surprise
I find the air warm.