I haven’t written to you in almost two months, have I?
If its any consolation-
No, I’m not sorry enough for that. I will say this though – I have been a pensive bee – not a busy one (that’s a lie, I’m always busy), but one doing lots of thinking and evaluating. And you know. I did a performance at Spill, and a performance at Lush for Mental Health Week. But I have been moving house (I live in a princess house now. It’s full of light, and there are roses in my room, roses and jasmine), and spending time with my family, and re-evaluating my life a little – It’s very work heavy, boys and girls! Too work heavy, there was little else to it. So I am trying to shift that balance, and enjoy my twenties, and shift from a mindset that defines itself on what it has achieved, rather than… well. I’m figuring that out! I’m 23, I don’t need to know the answer to that yet. I just need to be thinking about it. Or rushing headlong into it.
Anyway, this is dull – I just wanted to give you a little hint into why silence, before I resume the NOISE that is my jabber about arts and farts.
Spill was beautiful. Here is a picture of it:
If you’re interested, that basque is from Gok Wan. Sometimes I wear it and a high waisted skirt on a night out, and people judge me, cus even with a jacket on, my boobs and my belly are all up in their grill. Bad times for them. Much like Honey Boo Boo, I’m a fan of the big belly (I love that little girl, it’s so weird) as well you know.
Presently, I have to begin work on taking forward the three new pieces I made (with your silent, implied support) over the past year or so. Sigh. This terrifies me. Having taken a break makes it more terrifying. But I was terrified of everything I did over the past year, before it, and as I was doing it. And they happened. So I must buy some wine, and get on with it.
I’m also working on some new bits.
A bit about hair, and rites of passage, and patties. Parties, and loneliness, and the concept of a Bounty. A piece about what it is to be Black and British and Living in Leeds, and buying a weave. I don’t know much about it yet, except I’ll probably ask my mum to cut my hair while I tell a story, and it will be boozy, and it will be based around Chapeltown road.
A bit about mothers. And eggs – fried and boiled and benedict and scrambled and poached and all up in your takeaway and omlette-ed. About envy, and ageing, and where your child begins and you end, and protecting a body that is spilling into adulthood, and envying that body and and how much boob is too much boob and the fact that if you talk to a woman about her body for long enough, I give it 6 sentences before her mum comes up. 6. I’m being well generous with that figure.
So that’s the plan, I suppose. I’m off to do a sort of evaluation thingy, to make me feel more confident about things. Cus I’ve learnt some things over the last year, I’m sure of it.
Next week, I’m in Stockton with Invisible Flock, being a Golden Mole. That will be nice and fun, and I’ll do my best to tweet loads, but I probably won’t, because going on twitter makes me feel like my insides are being dissolved in acid.
And on that note –