Having read Meli’s post, in which she quotes the opening paragraphs of Randolph Stow’s Tourmaline: red, hot and transporting, I reached out my arm, and picked up this:
Which I carried off to bed.
As I read my way into that carmine landscape, treading between the Spinifex and peeling paint, all that filled my mind was the essence of this place, which then became an Aida Tomescu painting, expanding into hugeness as I fell asleep, with my cheek upon the pages, warmed and calmer.
Aida Tomescu, "Liquid Amber" 2007, Liverpool St Gallery
2. Orange Baklava from Carlos....
is better than anything, really.
3. The Woolly Child
has a sensor, with which it reads my misery, and chatters away hard, to drive out potential tears and sulks.
“Do you know what I love? when we were at Point D surfing and I looked up,
And saw you, paddling delicately towards me.”
(At which he tips head back and puts chin out, raises his eyebrows and half-shuts his eyes, making dainty little paddling motions with pointed fingers, to illustrate the supposed preciousness of my paddling)
“And then you surf in like a baby. You surf like a baby.”
-And just how might a BABY surf?
“ in a straight line, squealing. (makes line with hand) Like a baby.”
4: shoe post
I think my shoes are very me.
I will not think any further about white words, for the minute. New ones have emerged, and they are written in orange ink.
Still can’t get my head around is the indecent haste with which these people disposed of everything, how they would have seen the lovely pages sliding into shredderdom, and there is nothing I can do about it.
I’m going to Aida Tomescu’s exhibition opening. I am inviting y’all.
They usually have a decent Shiraz, which makes everybody look like a vampire with purple teeth. That will amuse me, greatly.