Summoning inspiration

The older I get the more I realise that either
a) I walk a fine line between creativity and madness or
b) I have the courage to do things I wouldn't have done when younger.

So, I took my healing bowl up to the top of the hill and played. The sound of the bowl out in the wild is something that would lift the heart and soul of any who hear it. To see pictures travel across to the cat blog.
I have to paint. 

So, I painted all day Sunday and then I sat back and looked and what I had painted was ugly and clumsy so now I have to do it all again. Only this time, better.

 

 

 

 

So far today I have found a moth, and a wonderful bog where soon there will be a river of irises, helped to organise schedule for October when I will be at the Norfolk Childrens Book Centre and Madelaine Lindleys in Manchester and Southend on Sea and the Starlit Festival in Hackney. Beautiful moth, soft winged and sleepily blinded by daylight.

Things that are yellow

Primroses, palest blush with dark centre. Delicate petals, each year a few more flowers soften the stone wall.

Celandine stars that herald the coming of spring, gaudy yellow.

Gorse that scents the air to honey coconut texture of warm summer days.

Cowslips standing tall above the grass where skylarks rise into clear blue.

Golden grasses like Rapunzel's hair.

And a field of fading daffodils, grown for bulbs, not flowers, looking beautiful still but ragged and worn in the dry dusty field.

Walking with the dogs I think of how with a single word you can summon a whole story to mind, and if you know that story the whole tale will tell itself in seconds in your mind. And I am thinking of Rapunzel, and all these golden things touched by King Midas when I find, in the grass, the footsteps of a strange diaphanous creature, caught in the grass.

 

The Bone Man

In the butchers I asked if they had bones. Daughter wants roast pork and applesauce and a dvd evening. No bones they said, the bone man came and took them. He comes every Thursday. The Bone Man. Every Thursday he comes to St Davids to gather the bones. What does he look like, The Bone Man and where does he live? Perhaps with Baba Yaga in her small house that runs on legs of chickens, with an avenue of firelit skulls that lead to the door. What does he wear, The Bone Man? Perhaps a twilight cloak of stars, dark. And what does he do with the bones, The Bone Man? 

People ask me where I get my inspiration. Today I would answer, "at the butchers".

 

 

Later, while I moved too slowly through the painting for All the Pretty Horses, the postman came.