Conversations with Victoria

January 2019 Boxes Moving house and home, which I have done far more times than the average person, and packing boxes of stuff made me think of all the boxes I have packed and unpacked in my life and what they have represented; change of lifestyle; change of status, from single to married; to divorced; change of countries and jobs. Life changes packed into boxes. Boxes that have contained everything from normal household items, linens, pots and pans, clothes, sometimes furniture and all the other small things which we collect: photographs, books, art work and then those small most precious items, those made by my children in school projects, some identifiable, others perhaps not but all made specially for me. But more than just being items, they are bits and pieces of life, my life and my memories. Boxes - there are many types of boxes, the real, physical cardboard ones into which we pack those bits and pieces; then there are the mental and emotional ones, the ones we pu...

I am perched precariously on the knife edge of my life. Razor sharp it cuts me every day - can’t find my way to safety. Any minute I could fall Or fly. Either way up or down only empty air.

Empty Air Like time, like sand, like air in my hand your image falls away. Fingers open in a prayer but there is only empty air in my empty hand.

Life after menopause - letting go and living! "I'm late, I'm late for a very important date" said the White Rabbit to Alice. My 77th birthday has just arrived albeit with a whimper rather than a  bang but I am determined not to be late for the date with the rest of my life. Although the numbers are meaningless on their own and have absolutely nothing to do with how I think and feel, there are two realities: one, is how people react, even one's own family and friends and their perception of how I should now be (more on that subject later);  and two, the real issue of maybe running out of time before I get to do or experience a whole lot of things which still  interest me. I have been married and divorced twice; have two grown children and a grand daughter. I have lived and worked in five different countries and made a variety of career choices and changes. Perhaps more significantly, I am authentic and speak from the point of experience: I have, like e...

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...

Creation or Destruction. Poets and writers are thieves, designing private worlds which they inhabit. They build houses with many rooms constructed from the bits and pieces stolen from your life. Silently they suck the marrow from your bones and leave you dying in the street.