It’s like trying to find the end of a roll of sellotape, you know, you go round and round trying to feel the ridge where the end is, sometimes you get it first time, other times you can spend forever, going this way and that, your nail will catch the end eventually won’t it? So you hold the roll up to the sun, desperately wanting the light to catch that tiny lip. She glared at me across the senses and wiped the butterknife clean on the edge of her marmited toast. But they’ve got those spunky blue things gadgets so it’s dead easy to tear off strips now. I started a hole in my scrambled eggs, made plaits out of my fingers and frowned a cloud. I hate this, I never got the hang of those things. I mumbled, new fangled bits of plastic and waste. It’s like trying to find true and everlasting happiness through the lonely parts pages. It may be convenient, a handy way out of trying, but it doesn’t matter, never will take the place of finding the end of the sellotape with your fingernail, too much to go wrong. People want ease and convenience but it’s no substitute for hard work. Anyway, it just ends up in the bin when that blue spigot breaks off, like it always does. Cynic! Hey, don’t knock it girlie, I’ve had a roll of tape in my desk for years now, never got the hang of those blue things, that’s why I let the nail on my left hand thumb grow just to make finding the end easier. Like J.M.W Turner used to do so he could scrape paint off dead easy. Us artists always find good uses for body parts. You and your goddam artists. She wiped a bit of stray marmite from her mouth and sucked it off her finger, a move that gave to toast making and eating an instant X certificate. I find my legs crossing themselves involuntarily, big scary animal, your always going on about this L word thing, the big L, you are the only ones to get so hung up with it all. Can’t you just put the pastels away, lie back and enjoy it? You don’t understand that we do the best work we ever do when we are in the arms of the big mother L. It’s like having a constant concrete muse to work with. But your work’s ok at the moment, she picked the last crumbs off the plate, took at dainty sup of tea, leaving lipstick on the rim and you’re not emotionally tied down, so what gives. It may look ok but to me it has no soul. I can look at pieces done in the lap of love and it all comes flowing back, the feelings, the pain, the egg whisk. It’s just not the same without it. But she cupped the drink, cuddling its’ warmth, why must you tear at your heart so much, all the time. Because there’s no one at the moment to do it for me. And I need the angst, it gives me a reason to be miserable, anyway all part of being an artist. People expect the furrowed brows, the clenched fists, veins showing all that stuff. You only pretend it’s a pretence though don’t you. It’s convenient to do so you really mean it, feel it don’t you, erm, it’s true isn’t it, you really mean that sellotape stuff, you’re terrible she grinned again I knew to be dangerous, a nice haircut on legs, I’ll give you something to really feel. Come here..

Jo Burt (199?)

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