'call it winter of the heart, the time between...'
been reading and sleeping mostly these last few months. Hanging on to the threads of my work with a bit of life drawing and a few words written in my sketchbook.
But I have finished these wax poems so now I can reclaim the garage, get out there and do something new. I was reluctant to finish them and say 'this is it'. I am unsure of them. The words, the lack of image, the gentle mist that wax throws over everything. Unsure. But they are mine and they are done.
... there is always the one inside that screams at me, and reminds me that I am am not dead'