Jun 052014
 

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Sixty-two shopping days to Christmas

Another week survived. A new poem started.

Tristram makes the students draw me at arm’s length. Paper on the floor. Long willow sticks dipped into ink in jam-jars.

I look like I’m drawn in blood. After the brutal axe murder the serial killer leaves his famed signature, a bloody sketch on the bed-sheet’s white expanse.

I’ll use that in a story.

Tristram has a wife and kids and a studio in his basement that he never sets foot in. Apparently family life wasn’t good for Picasso either.

I am single. I am childless. I am free.

I am lucky.

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  2 responses to “Page 4”

  1. As a mother of six and grandmother of four, there are times when I cannot do as I would like, and I would not anyway have the experiences, the insight nor the continual ability to behave like a child and get away with it. I suppose I like my glass to be half-full with cookies – and to be a cookie-monster to boot…

    But I still paint! And as my lovely grand-daughter said:
    “Gwannie, Mummy says you’re naughty.”
    “Oh yes, Kaidii – why is that?”
    “Well, Gwannie, when I drewed on the wall at home, Mummy got really cross, but I told her I was allowed to at Gwannie’s house.”
    Mmmm, think I will stay naughty, and paint on walls…

  2. Glad you are managing to paint, Nikki – unlike Tristram. While being snowed under with offspring, you are evidently not trampled underfoot by them. Allow me to add, Nikki, for my readers’ information, that you are doing a degree in Fine Art, never mind ‘painting’.

    It has to be the best policy to describe one’s own circumstances – whether they’re chosen ones or have just inexorably evolved, as ‘blessings’.

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