I wrote this piece 5yrs ago, and whilst the artist hasn’t changed her slap dashed typo and run ways, she certainly survives…

I am endlessly twitching art into tight spaces- it copes- it survives and in some ever learning and growing way thrives in the dark damp tight places.

Like moss and butcher boys and worms.

The art does, but, I am not sure the artist does.

The mother does- her goal is fortified by all those bigger things that the wonderfully dense archetype arouses and for all the history and future of reasons, she copes.

And not without her fair share of hiccups and tolerances:
The friend.
The artist, (squeezed between fetching lunch, between a squeal, between a glance at a newspaper  (between piggy backs and a miniature train track being invaded by play dough aliens) between an appointment in a broken car, between a broken cup and a grazed knee and a cold coffee) rushes into blogs and comps and public attempts and regrets her lack of research, the spelling mistakes, the typos and endless missing bits.
Guilt ebbs the churning mess of everything else untill she picks up the pen and pours and draws and leans and dozes into the paper and
Thank Fuck
It boils down to this
She breathes

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