online, i tend not to stay in one place for too long. i’m told i have Romani heritage. i certainly moved around a lot as a child. across cities, to new continents and back again.
i’ve settled in this city for almost three decades now. i stay rooted here because the people i’ve gathered around me are worth standing still for. but standing firm does not mean not growing. i stand, i grow tall, and sometimes i twist in the wind. usually that’s a good thing. i don’t break, see.
the footprints of my nomadic childhood are now the nomadic digital footprints that have led me here. from the old space, filled with heavy words and stories i grew tired of telling. there, my voice fell to a hush. i tried to stem the drying up of words. i redecorated. look! shiny! but i knew, even while the paint was still wet, that i was done there.
there was no room among the cumbersome clutter of discarded stories for the whimsical nature of my paintings.
i wield paintbrushes dripping with purples, turquoise and neon pink.
those colours are the perfect complement to dark, inky words. just not the words that came before.
those colours make the words flow again. because of the art, the words are back. back, but different, even when they tell of the hard things. they are messy and splotchy ink blots, and written wrong-handed, not right-handed, with brush and pen and whatever is within reach.
they are handed down from others who are wiser. they are gifted. they are found.
they are found.
they are whispers spilled among the whimsy.