Conversations with Victoria

Dementia. Those days of blues and greys fading into black are waiting in anticipation just behind my back, gathering momentum before they swoop in to attack my equilibrium and dash and smash my days into the ground. Without a sound they rent the greys to shreds and blood is running red, red, red inside my head. Ribbons of silk and sorrow leaving no trace of who I am or where I've gone, as they erase and conquer the essential me at last. VS March 1 2016.

I love the act of writing whether putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. All of it  - whether I am creating poetry, essays, copy or ghost writing. And I love writing letters  as well as receiving them. I wish this had not gone out of  style or been replaced by the quick soundbite or messaging. I love the process. Writing for me is tactile. Poetry for instance must first be written with pen and notebook. There is something particular about physically connecting to the paper and it must be the right paper. I have many notebooks for this purpose and they are chosen very carefully for size and feel and sometimes for a message they might have imprinted on them. Similarly, the pens must also be special whether by colour, shape or a unique design. How they feel in my hand and how fluidly they write is very important to the process for me.  When I am writing it feels the same as if I were painting with a brush on a canvas. The page is my canvas and the pain...