Iris knows she’s about to stir up a whole lot of hornets nest whether she goes on the run or not. May as well run. She might just have a chance.
(Read how her story unfolds on Inkitt)
A beautiful short film, AMA by Julie Gautier, I thankfully stumbled on during research for a new batch of work. Enjoy!
My first piece of published fiction is here… http://robindunn.com/bairn74.html
If you like the more experimental and lyrical, then you might like this. I hope so, Dx
An appropriately stark poem I stumbled across by JULIA KOLCHINSKY DASBACH, via Frontier Poetry
A new painting in progress. And while I juggle with a few writing projects, Nick (of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds notoriety) is giving me a bit of much needed meditation…
I’m going to try and leave this one partially undone, as it’s not a commission and I can just please myself (much like the one behind… being painted on an old internal door, my new favourite surface).
Artwise I’d already made the decision to just paint for myself, as the fiction writing will invariably have to be tampered with by others, and that’s fine, I’m happy with that. It’s something that requires me to be at the mercy of outside forces. Beta readers, editors, publishers. The market. And I’m prepared for that, but only because I still have something that nobody can touch and I don’t have to care if anybody else likes it, or ‘gets’ it. No artist ‘statement’ required… Not for this kid
It’s raining quicksilver blankets speaking of whimsy but I know what they are thinking as I, slowly drawn into the clouds drifting over my little nest of wood and glass
and scraps of fabric
wish my wings visible, insolent children pleased to escape the confines of my eyes from which memories trail ghostly fingertips across the rolling sky like fine wool put to the skein so easy to turn a mind like the mourning billow of sheets on a craggy moor
where the fire’s lit
heralding damp winter days to come when you’re not quite ready for all that yet. Not willing to resign yourself when
the beauty is still too resonant to slip like eels into the melange of melancholia’s weave and become embroiled in far away glances and gauzy sighs, so maybe
I should take down that painting
hanging there and finally commit those remaining trails of paint to its questioning fibres or maybe I should just lay in the pools of bright colour forming little skins on the palette, I am not quite sure
and perhaps that is what it is to exist on a day like this