As premature as it is to write much on August, a few things have occurred, so I wish to share. The gorjuss doll on my calendar is on the moon with a single rose. It will be the best month yet. I can smell it.
I've nearly finished the text for my 'Captive Butterfly' canvas. It is my second attempt; and sad as it is to say so, it's synonymous with pain and frustration for me right now. It's not a good time. But still I love it, and will see it through. I hope my next embroidery brings me a bit more joy. But what does make me happy is that Katie and I are planning to start a magazine, filled with our stories, poetry, stitching, photography, musings etc!
And I'm sending another submission for The Thicket Dwellers. There is still hope in my marrow. Or maybe an understanding that there's nothing else for me but to write. That, and to stitch my writing. Perhaps to give it more permanence.
I'm thinking and writing a lot about the twins, Florence and Frida. Their's is a sad story, about flight and falling, a life cut short in a village filled with birds, ghosts and bullet holes. We visited Tyneham with Dan and Joe last weekend. I will share the pictures with you soon. But I've come away with its atmosphere.
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Florence wanted to break the things that she loved. She threw her sparrow and great tit skulls across the room - the ones the cats hadn't got to; the ones that Frida used to feel in her blindness to understand the shape and fragility of a bird. She threw them, and the featherless wing, and the limpet shells from Warbarrow Bay. The skulls fractured against the wall; the shells shattered to pieces. She needed to keep the pieces apart. She couldn't allow herself to heal. She couldn't. How could she ever? How could she ever be whole again without Frida?
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