She wrapped a scarf of blue winter around her hair, looped her lobes with golden sun and kissed the mirror with warm blood.
She winked, a smirk in her crow’s feet and a dare in her flare.
She looked like a rainbow.
But indeed she was the pot of gold.
She wrote about another half: baked in chardonnay and smooth tunes.
She wrote about another half: full to the brim of ideas and opportunity, colours and numbers.
She wrote about another half that never bothered to write about her.
She stopped writing.
He thought she was a disco ball: a spinning beauty.
He waited for her to turn to him.
The bounce has lost its affect. Swiped shoulders and bumped heads no longer carry an aftermath of sweet apologies, cuddles and laughter; now it’s all raised eyebrows and blame. The cost is higher, the line is longer and the time is shorter.
The jumping castle is gone, deflated and packed away.
The pavement rocks a rainbow of greys and the bounce has left our heels.
Oh, to be a kid again.
He turned water into wine; of course he did! Yet here I am replacing my wine with water in the hope to eradicate the leftover baby weight that shimmies on my hips. If I thought it would do any good, I would give up eating altogether; replacing food with wine. Like a fly, I could float to the tops of glasses on the bubbles of Champagne, flutter in a delicious frenzy amidst a dry Chardonnay or allow the fruity essence of a Sauvignon Blanc to cause my eyes to turn inwards and my body belly up; sigh.
He turned water into wine; of course he did.
“The universe buries strange jewels deep within us all, and then stands back to see if we can find them.” ― Elizabeth Gilbert, Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear
She moved paint around the canvas the way a toddler moves spaghetti around it’s cheekbones; instinctively sloppy. She flicked matches as she danced, lighting small fires under the feet of others; burning up the beats. She performed on street corners, to the applause of none. She wrote, perhaps to her own self-destruction.
She exposed herself honestly, creatively.
That alone, made her an artist.
She rolled herself in double sided tape, webbed her fingers with mesh and smeared glue under her feet. She screwed hooks into her back, latched loops onto her fingertips, strung webs across her body and stood, arms wide towards the world, waiting and waiting.
She just wanted to catch a break.
They say a picture paints a thousand words, well these certainly forgot a few words…curse words.
These pictures didn’t mention how he fell asleep just as we parked at the gym, and that those two minutes of sleep would be all he would require for the rest of the day.
These pictures didn’t mention the heart attack I had in the grocery store when I couldn’t find my son because he was actually just in my blind spot, (my butt) hiding behind me.
These pictures didn’t mention that despite his apron and holding of a spoon, he was actually no help at all in the kitchen and that cooking with a toddler is a joke…a non-funny, only Ricky Gervais could make it seem funny, type joke.
These pictures didn’t mention that despite him rubbing his tummy and saying ‘Mmm yummy, Banana bread’, he refused to taste the banana bread and it’s now just a beautiful loaf of my blood, sweat and tears that my husband and I won’t eat because banana bread can’t be enjoyed when we know it’s going straight to my arse.
These pictures didn’t mention how quickly he turned his water colours into what I can only assume is a picture of Satan’s lair and potentially where my son was trying to send me today.
These pictures didn’t mention the rebellious drawings of absolutely non-creative, downright ugly marks that now live on every. single. wall in my house, which he managed to do in the two minutes that it took me to get dressed in my room.
These pictures didn’t mention the refusal of a nap that led to me having to parent ALL day.
These pictures, however, may have mentioned wine, but definitely not in detail.
I think my camera is broken?