White Light

Image

Lots of things seem to be taking shape these days. Including the future. I was shocked to realise how reluctant I had become to plan. How afraid I had grown of imagining what the future might hold in store. I remember times when closing my eyes on the day was a relief and all the morrow held was dread. No more. Oh, definitely not anymore.

It takes an effort to change your mind. Open up. Take a chance. Believe that yes, there is brightness in the future. Lots of it.

A name was coined in those days of dread. One that despite everything kept coming back. Demanding its due. Asking to be seen. Considered. Its truth realised. Its perfect fit accepted.

Two days ago after an engagement with my beautiful Italian hairdresser (who loves the colours I wear and my ‘expressive personality’, so there), I was cycling home and stopped for a while to listen to the birds chattering in the twilight. So lovely. The street lighting switched on and I was just slightly… miffed… at the bright light just behind me, wishing it would go out. Pffft, off it went. Just that one. For a little while I enjoyed the twilight that had returned, laughter bubbling up. When I was ready, I looked back over my shoulder at the lantern in question and said laughingly: ‘Oh, come on!’

Will you believe me if I say it lit up, quite happy to comply? It did.

Magic is a welcome, happy companion in my life these days.

So. There it is. The name by which my creative endeavours will be known:

The White Light Studio.

First used in 2001 (or was it 1999?) when Silence, a collaborative work with my then partner combining photography and poetry, was published. At the time I did not see how good a match it really was. Scoured clean by the years and hopefully a little wiser, it now fits me like a cherished, comfortable old glove.

I’m sure it will only get better.

Yellow is a rose…

Yellow is a rose...

Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
Loveliness extreme.
Extra gaiters,
Loveliness extreme.
Sweetest ice-cream.
Pages ages page ages page ages.

(Gertrude Stein, 1913)

My lovely heirloom tea rose is blooming. Every year I am reminded what roses are supposed to smell like – nothing like the vapid non-scent produced by most greenhouse-grown modern varieties.

The complete poem, by the way, is totally weird. Just so you know 😉