Melbourne

she is morphing.
olive coloured oil pastel lines drawn hard against cartridge paper represent her harsh landscape.
emerald green rubbings over fine leaf stencils for trees.
Her buildings are grey acrylic applied in long thick upward strokes
and her sky; a watercolour blue with wax resist streaky clouds.
She is a collage of National Geographic cut out people and New Idea frivolity, stuck down, drawn over, torn up and re-represented.
Her gardens; a patch of brightly coloured curled ribbon for petals and twisted jade crepe for stalks.
By mixing acrylic and PVA you can paint her black roads in thick meandering curves. They look textured and tactile.
You outline her in thick black oil pastels and then use dye to fill in the white spaces until she looks like the picture in your mind (of what she is, or should be..you never could quite reconcile the two).
You construct her sprawling outer suburban housing out of cereal boxes and picture frame corners.
Her sunset is a tissue paper montage roughly torn in a multitude of colours and stuck down onto the page
Indigo at the top, blue, purple, pink, red and orange where it meets the horizon at the bottom.

the way you see everything has changed.

..do you need a woman to look after you?

secrets

the terrible no good very bad day

house of words

It’s sort of like moving into the beach house for a while. The crockery doesn’t match, the furniture is faded and holey, the stove doesn’t work and there is a dusty, stale smell that requires an airing to dissipate.

But you make do with what you can. You tell yourself the crockery is eclectic and bohemian, the furniture is well loved..not utter shit, and the house can air while you walk to the shops for your fish and chip dinner.

But, it doesn’t quite feel like home, does it? Home is where the walls whisper your secrets back to you and this place doesn’t know your well enough to do that yet. Can you adjust, you wonder?

Words.
I have posted them flippantly, effortlessly, angrily and spitefully. I have been amused by them, challenged, heartbroken and dismissed them as trite. I have loved, learned, laughed, enjoyed, dreamed, decided and truly lived through them. I have had my best and worst days with those flippant little inconsequential written words of mine.

So what happens when you built a house of words and it all falls down taking you with it?

a little entry about my relationship with love