Blue rinse  and set
home done.
Meant the colour changed every time,
from shades of pale lilac...
to electric neon light.
Always wave set never permed.
Hair too fine.

She was what they,
termed politely,
in those days:
"a large ***** woman."

Corseted nine to five,
in matrons whites.
Jiggly in a flambouyant orange muu muu by night.

A spinster, devoted to work and extended family,
large of heart and appetite.

A soft place to fall,
when the stonelike,
stoicism of my mother, became to harsh to bear.

I was flummoxed,
when in my teens,
I found a dog eared,
Kama Sutra,
in my blue haired aunts cupboard.
I can honestly say....

I learnt a lot... about a lot ...that day.

overnight my beloved became a stranger to me
Another man took him away
disappointed me with his empty eyes
horrifying me with his brutal silence
his soft and tender heart replaced by a stone wall
That shuts me out
And trapped away from us all the beautiful and enchanted memories we created together
This new man doesn’t feel anymore
Stonelike embodiment of fearful thoughts
That cast out the great mysteries of love
It seems he doesn’t remember me either
And so then my beloved
To whom I shared so much of myself with
Never wrote words and smiled upon my heart
I am wrapped up with grief

I grew up with the idea that you aren't supposed to love yourself
Who taught me this?
Myself

Why do I find it so stonelike to obey and cooperate with my literal self?
I'd rather be liquid
So I can freeze my intentions into place and melt it as I choose

These days, I often imagine myself
Lying in my bed, dead.
With nothing but the "Little black book"
On the table beside me-
-a rather non toxic version of me.
A sculpture once hot,
A painting once wet.
The "Little black book" written with a black ink
(except one little bluestar).
A sculpture now cool,
A painting now dry.
Finally - matured, ripe and stonelike.
Ready to be exposed to the people:
Family, friends, loved ones, strangers.
Chaos to words.
A cooled down notebook.