the colour of autumn

A glassine bag of scraps- torn and cut and collected into a possible fiction – a fragment of a story. Sad inching and fading away from a dark European romance of myself- Always questioning- sifting through whys and how’s – re-frame- reframe. The striped tower- a symbol –a sermon. Summon up my ghosts- conjure them with fake tears – poor you-poor you.

A pleasant song with a rhyming chorus that soothes-stills from films I will never make – drawings that are not plans but a map of re-invention. Pages, edges of tape – I have always done this- Ted’s Hawk.

I have my own attic.

Visiting

I caught the thread in Venice- brown- woven through with decay- like the holes in the cuffs of my sweater-

rotten lace on a dress-

April the 14^th- A desire to mend. A collision of pattern the dusty patina of a bygone season.

The house’s edge through the black metal gate- framed and obscured –trees and hedges- I have walked this way often- I covet the house- its gothic its mystery the scent of remembering something that never existed. The weight of scaffolding- the knots and threads of a frame.

first day

Conversations- dots on a line- markers of time- my soundtracks. Grey paper white skies- London skies in February. Sunk into rooftops stark vistas, notebooks and dried rose buds. The square the echo a lifetime of picking flowers before the blue. Blue sky shouting chromatic a nervous inky seed spreading into the order- one two – a pair –twins- oh look at the twins!

Walking through this with my philosophy of rain. A park stark winter bone trees followed by a magpie- black and white-a map of prophesy- one for sorrow- hello Mr magpie, hello Mr magpie, hello Mr magpie