disturbingly beautiful

I would love to go and see Marion Mitchell's exhibition.

Unfortunately I'll be on the wrong side of the planet. Go if you can.

late at night

Late at night; I sit on the sofa, tucked into the warm sound of a cat licking it's fur. In the soft lamplit evening glow I feel the day stretched into my legs. Around me my house sleeps gently in a chocolate darkness. Hours of movement have come to a slow, slumbering halt. "Sssh", that is what the night is saying, "Listen".

May and June

May and June. Months for growing. June brought wet, greasy rain that soaked into the dry earth. In May, the sun shone, burnt the earth desert brown. We bought bright flowers and planted out our window boxes with sweet multi-coloured petals. I sat, back bent, eyes fixed to the pixeled screen and wrote, wrote and wrote some more. I sent my dreams up into the sky and imagined fairy dust for my daughter's birthday cards. We ate summer soup for the first time; rich, spicy minestrone, speckled with barley and courgettes, fresh tomatoes blended into deep red. We swam in the freezing sea, plunging winter white skin into icy water. For seconds. May and June. Unforgettable months with surprising answers. I catch a train, run a course, sit waiting at the station in the still of the heat. While waiting for my connection, I learn that immobility and stillness are essential in the cocktail of travel and high temperatures. I rest on a chair, eat sprouted spelt bread and wait. May and June. I neglect this space, do not unpack my case, have left washing dirty and to do lists unticked. May and June. I feel like the shape of my life fits my body and soul.