So many things to tell. I've been living in a sort of dream, just going through the days and taking in all the beautiful things that surround me. So many projects. So many stories.


This is a big deal for me, as I had never illustrated something before. It took me way to long to figure it out properly, and to do it in a way that I like, but I expect next time will be easier. It's a huge confidence boost for me to realize I can do that.
I also took a lot of pictures. I've been totally enthralled by the nature around me. The lush greens and the dragonflies have enchanted me, so much so I almost forgot to commit it to memory and on film. But one day, I took my camera out and set out to take a few shots. It does not convey adequately the beauty of it, but it's a star
More inspiring things: lost nests, feathers, birds, cricket songs, windy days, cold ice tea, strawberries, thunderstorms, riding in cars with windows opened, sleeping late, fresh mowed grass, eating outside, ice cream, rivers and lakes, reading books, daydreaming.






Waiting waiting waiting. I am so terrible at it. It gnaws at my insides, grows in my chest and becomes this monster that I have to extract. Between my clenched teeth, between raged breaths, in the middle of the night, so that it does not contaminate and eats at the throats of people and things around me. It poisons and scratches and burns.
I admire people and things that know how to wait. This quietness inside where there is only fury in me. It is often seen as a weakness, or passivity, to just wait. But it can be the most admirable thing of all.

I imagine that's what Sleeping Beauty did. Wait. Not sleep really, just a metaphor for a lifetime of waiting. And how strong would one have to be? To wait and wait, alone in a castle full of ghosts, unable to leave. To go about each day, with only oneself for company, and maybe words and maybe music, but no one to speak to and no one to laugh with. Just the deep knowledge that one day things would change, the eternal patience and faith. How strong would one have to be to not lose one's mind?
She would wait and wait. Maybe scream once in a while, through her burning throat, making sure no monster lived there to swallow her whole. And then just the soft settling of her bones, and her blodd, to remember and dream and hope.
And on that day, when the prince come, she would kiss him, because he's beautiful and he has come just for her, but really what she really wants is the world. Isn't that why she waited so long? She would smile and say her thank you and leave him behind, because now that she had learned how to wait, she would have to learn how to move.
And really how could one learn how to move properly, if one didnt't know how to wait for the right moment to do so?

I admire them all, those precious few who can stay still long enough for the right moment. To know when life is ready for them. And when they are ready for it.

I have no words today. They sleep inside me and do not want to come out. It's okay though, because the sun is shining and the snow is melting. I heard birds singing this morning, and possibly the sound of geese coming back for Spring. It might be a few more weeks before I see flowers, but there is change in the air, and I feel like I am waking up from a very long dream. There are things to be done, to be seen, and to be loved.

All these memories like ghosts. Haunting. Knocking on walls in the night.

Poltergeists of the mind.

She shivers and shimmers, crystals sparkling in the light, soflty dim under the blacksness of the sky. Eyes like coal in the dusk, gold trimmed, not black holes, but galaxies.

In a breath, clouds of dust move through the air, settle slowly. Nothing has changed. Paper planes and a sun drenched porch, letters written under an oak.

Acorn kisses

And all the knocking, pounding and banging of the world

We're all made of china bones really. Breakable, delicate. I have being thinking a lot recently, about big things. Blitz hearts trapped in wax, lost feathers and black holes. Always black holes, Oskar thinks that they're lonely. Oh to be lost in the universe. 



Daylight burns the grove where you once turned my knees to dust. The stone-statues and headstones become lurid soliloquies at dusk; the crows and blackbirds perch, silent as the buried below. A resonance in the violin strings of your voice; seems I can't part my own lips for poems. Scribbled over black velvet are the Ides of March (softer still than Winter's ghost). Feels as though I've unraveled; twine between restless, shaking hands.
Footsteps, unquiet, counted on heartbeats. Hands shaking and frantic of untold lips; three steps forward. Our breath is short and dulcet, wild thoughts of the furtive and the breathless. We're aching; caught like deer-fawn in a glorious and ephemeral moment of solitude. Nothing but us and the woods. Thirty seconds, maybe less...

Feign insouciance, guard our warmed thievery.
Keep our secrets sheltered as skeleton-keys to dust.