just over there
face up and expressionless
a blank canvas staring at the sun
I held the brush
but didn’t know where to start
unsure and torn between brushing out her tresses
and draping a sheet over her so I would not be tempted
the mirror is no longer forgiving or as kind as it once appeared to be
even your papery scenery no longer pleases me
I turned my back
and in a moment she had gotten up
grabbed her purse and stormed out of the room
leaving just the whiff of her anger and a scent of burning meteors behind
I lay still
on my side of the bed
and practice saying sorry under my breath
but it is no use kicking as the momentum has gone out of my legs
the water feels as thick as the congealed blood
that has settled at the bottom of my heart
She came back
swept in on a dancer’s rush
tapping her toes and clicking her fingers
admonishing me for being careless with the sharp angles of my words
She set my lessons
and tutored me in the way of the paragraph and the page
and sent me forth like I was a monk on some randomised journey
through pages scattered to the winds before she could be certain and forgive me
not for the artlessness in your words
but for becoming my pet bohemian
-Alexandra J Cornwell
Thursday, 12 June 2014 12:??am
17 July 2014: This is a little something I found from some writing I did in the midnight hour last month. Sometimes it is a creative time.
It was inspired by an artist acquaintance of mine who was the first to refer to me as her ‘pet bohemian’.
Yet if there was anyone who epitomises to me the idea, or ideal, of a bohemian, it is the late Australian artist Margaret Olley.
Coincidentally I took my children to have a look at the newly opened gallery containing the recreation of her Sydney home.
The photograph selected is one that my daughter took.
Photograph Credit: Lauren Williams – Interior View of the Hat Factory re-creation at the Margaret Olley Art Centre (MOAC), Tweed River Art Gallery, Murwillumbah, NSW Australia.