Piano Hands

Those are not your hands that play -
they say things that fingertips could not say.
Dismembered, they are spiders
that frolick, scatter, crawl
as you sit upon your piano stool
and watch the worms that wriggle
down the throat of a black and white bird
that sings the most beautiful song I have ever heard.

AR

Soon to be ...

... published! Yay! :)

Okay - so I'm perhaps making it sound more glamorous than it is, but a short story (if 300 words warrant a term that implies any kind of narrative or structure) and my art work are going into a magazine, that will be SOLD. Which means I'm practically a professional. Scoreage. It's going to the print in two weeks - if I'm honest, I haven't actually done the illustrations for it as of yet - but maximum yay. :) I'll maybe scan in some pages when it's done.

Here's la new camera. Am off to the botanical gardens on valentines day to have much fun with it. I have such a patient boyfriend.

Standing Female Nude.

A beautiful thing - "Standing Female Nude."
You sketch, paint, carve - capture every curve.
She is not naked - do not be so crude!
She is simply bare - a body to serve
as Muse for man, and food for eyes so lewd
that trap her shape in cold, stagnant preserve
of cosmetic gloss, veneer and ink
and conceal her soul in black, red or pink.




Miss Reynolds.

Tower

Some good news. I'm hopefully an artist for The Tower - the Girton creative writing magazine. Yay! :) At least - that's what I'm taking being told to turn up to the meeting means. Would be pretty cruel otherwise. Good good good. Has been a most artful week. Artful in the wrong sense of the word. Full of Art. Got my SLR camera :D Most excited. But the weather's been awful, and I've had no time to go out and play with it, and it's hard and confusing. But I will be a near professional photographer in no time. A friend and I are also planning to re-begin the Girton Art Society (GAS) that fell into disrepair this year. Good times ahead.

O Rose, thou art sick!

I'm really struggling right now. The nature of my studies provides daily offerings of inspiration - thoughts and words are stacked up to the ceiling of my mind - but the nature of my studies provides with no time in which to drain this fluid. Last week, as I sat an listened to the Czech recital of song and piano in Newnham's Old Labs, and gazed upon the warm black and white photographs of beautiful women (whose grey hairs and worn faces spoke of a beauty of mind and strength), words ebbed and flowed as Virginia Woolf's waves. But instead I must sit and rigidly adhere to the constraints of time and subject of my course. Instead, this week I must perform the fourth draft of an essay on Milton (the sight of which now makes me feel sick), and on Johnson and Empson and Freud. I dream of the time (that is always summer) that I will lay and read and write and read as I please.