I'm listening to Ruby's Arms by Tom Waits at the tail end of a long sunny Monday which was dressed up entirely in Sunday's clothes
Quite unlike the Emperors new clothes, this day's garb was high vis
The tell tale Sunday style embellishments of too many coffees, long gas-bagging conversations, back street roaming, of Instagramming the alley cats and the world around us were swinging carefree from my hemlines
Clinking heavy they were, against my best friends equally as truant Monday-Sunday switcheroo
So we bathed, indulgently, in our ability to waste a good five hours just shooting the shit, when we should have been cleaning up the studio, our designated creative space.
We could've, should've, would've cleaned it up too save for not bloody being able to when there is a nagging back log of gas and giggles, girl stories that urgently need to come out first before we can really get down to the more 'serious business' of deciding what art we're going to make and how
Want gets swapped for need
Want for need want for need
Water colours-terrariums-posters-paper mache
Time
Time, which we had once almost too much of, now squeezed into these
adult play dates
The bus, phone, class, tree time... is gone.
Except for the occasional big night out or New Years Eve -here it comes again- which will often warrant some dedicated midnight tree sitting and we'll sway as we once did with the rhythm of the wind, feeling small, wild and aloft
tummies flipping, eyes wide, skin pulsing in a pharmalogical renaissance
But for now and for these days, scheduled scheming in the studio it is
Better than no scheming at all
It's a funny mix we purge in there. Plans for world domination cross hatched with the airing of deeply held insecurities. Confident yet overwhelmed
The wild and the mundane
Arrogance and excitement, me
Ideas too. Lots of them. Too many
Dreams into raging works, she
Thoughts. Feelings
Too many too
Some times we're older and sometimes we're not any older at all
