Friday, 27 July 2007

Anticipation balls inside her
deep and hungry
she slides into her lipstick
dangerous red.
And walks, careless in the night
heels clacking defiant against the cold
hot breath swirling, dissolving.

(will he remember me?)

And there he is, across the room
catching her eye
she catches her breath
and plunges into his unexpecting embrace.

(it’s ok, we’re old friends)

Flirting glances.

(is he watching as I remove my jacket?)

I could get lost in your conversation.
Words dancing between us
from your lips to mine.
All your stories are mine.

(when did desire arrive?)

Wine wraps its languid arms around us.
We meander in the night
lag behind
lost in these moments
so transient.

(if only we knew)

I remember your hands
cupping my face
my averted gaze, blushing.
You’re beautiful, you said.
You’re lying, I said.
I’m not used to such boldness
but I believed you, anyway.

Tuesday, 17 July 2007

what makes me happy:
the colour pink
the smell of coffee
fields sprayed with flowers
dark chocolate
being hugged from behind
being kissed on my neck
laughing with friends
good food
reading good writing
sunsets across the ocean
an unexpected smile
french pastries from Fre-Jac
meeting people of like mind
spontaneous hugs from my babies
garlic roasting
wet sand between my toes
collecting seashells
the smell of books

Monday, 16 July 2007

my fingers tap-dancing across the keyboard

I have been writing a lot lately. It feels so good, so right and natural. But at once it is frustrating, and I spend much of my day pensive and gazing into space; into my imagined reality.
During the day when I am busy at work, i crave writing, but by the time i get home, cook dinner, play with the kids, get them off to bed, eat, tidy up... where does the time go? And all my energy and inspiration is sapped.
How do women do this?

I feel so sad for Sylvia Plath. her poor poor children.

Monday, 2 July 2007

thirty minutes of solitude

this morning i drove to work in silence.

i switched off the radio and stepped into my own thoughts.

i was thinking about the book i am currently reading: 'the unbearable lightness of being' by milan kundera.

a couple of things: to me this book is an ultimate celebration of post-modernism. the author invites you into his story, he tells you it is nothing more than a story. are the characters imperative to the story? the author himself acknowledges that they don't exist beyond the bounds of this book, they are not people, merely tools driving the story (this is especially evident to me in the way that some seemingly important characters have dropped off throughout the story). I kind of wonder if this novel is merely a means for MK to assert his philosophy on love; as conflicted as it may be...on one hand he is exploring the sanctity of marriage and monogomy, and on the other (perhaps a desire to be a part of) the world of adultery.
there is so much subtext.
i love when i find myself staring into nowhere, suddenly seduced by what is unsaid (unwritten).

i love when he uses of words outside my own context. (imperative)

(sorry Peta...there are post-its all through your book :-)

random thought:

i was living with my head in a cloud, eating poetry for breakfast lunch and dinner, when Life sidled up to me, silent and coy, and gently took my hand.
Life brought me back to this reality of work, children, cooking countless dinners, watching tv, shopping, making love.