Love Letter to a Trapeze

The following is a script I’m working on for a low trapeze piece;

You are the only one that doesn’t tell me I’m fat or my hair’s gone wrong and lifts my weight,
At least when you bruise it stains and isn’t changed by do-gooders saying I should give you up- which would only bring me down,
You never mind what I wear,
I don’t mind if you’re not washed as long as rope doesn’t Tear.
You are there every night I come home,
Faithfully you hang around waiting my return without boredoms or moans.
I tell you anything- I tell you everything!
And you always listen and say, without words, tell me again.
And I hang off every word.
I think someone called it dance once.
What would you say if you could say?
Would it spoil our silence as you hold me up?


Of London: Fantastic Reality

‘Excuse me Squire, you couldn’t spare £900 for a night in a swanky hotel?’ The homeless man asks the businessman in a tight alley of Dickensian shops.

This is the place Jack the Ripper adjusted his hat, so they say,  and stores seem dusty and perpetually closed. The passage doesn’t offer space to reveal the names. It is a clotted vein between a throbbing haste to the station and faceless brick silence; the street the developers forgot or took pity on and left behind.

In a confused, short way it leads to a grey square of polished shoes of post work gatherings. A herd of skateboarders circle a square with faces covered in black scarves like little terrors on wheels.

Beneath rolling noise echoes a whistled tune. La Vie en Rose slowed? The whistler pulls around a short white dog that matches his hair. All together man,dog and song match a figure that whistled by a lake, weeks before, miles away. Can they be the same..

The lake here is concrete slates, the benches are concrete block but they appear the same.

Essay pages curl, photocopy papers read clamped to a bent knee. The last words are Baudelaires.

.the fantastic reality has become singularily diluted.’

Of London: Cafe

tumble past the window. A man steps off the night bus with a vintage suitcase and pleated old face. He impatiently flaps a Chinese fan against no heat but exhaust warmed air.

Those behind have what I am having unable to decipher the coffee menu. Mocha, mocha and a folded corner woman studying small books, tables for one and empty cups. A
paused place in metropolis.

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Sweet Thames Flow softly until I end my song

Theres is thick salt from a million tides under my wet fingernails. A brown pebble with fossil dents drops in a pocket. For nearly a decade I have watched people on the the river bed from the path above. Some drink, walk in hunches for treasure or scrap art in the sand.

Steep flights of metal take my feet down, finally down to the stones and mud a city rose from. Black bricks are wedged in the sand by rusted spikes, dog shit and broken glass.

The river pretends to be the sea today in a fuddled drizzly haze. The randomness of debris starts to take kn patterns; artworks of tidewash neglect. There is a piece of Thames in my pocket










Ropes and Yarn

Hello readers here are some glimpses of trapeze and my begrudging knitting.

My first finished thing is a stripey draught excluder.


Knitting with pure silver silk on bamboo needles has been very pretty and theraputic. I made these arm warmers and am taking orders on making them for others. Silk is so light and lustrous and will keep you warm without thick heavy gloves on cold hands. The buttons are little silver shells.
Please contact for more details and variations.


This is another arm warmer in the making for tough and rustic pure linen, wet blocked to flatten out.

Must go, studying Jekyll and Hyde, Poe and Fritz Lang for my return to uni.

Ta ta


Trapeze No Butoh? Disco?aerial dance, trapeze, expression, movement,

Today has been a strange one. I came across a spider in my den; my biggest fear, I finished Villette and ate pain au chocolate in a convent. For those that have read/seen Jane Eyre, Villette is the most epic, cynical self depricating mourning of lonliness and love through one womans eyes-just epic!

Joan Rivers has died today and horrifically a pensioner has been beheaded in the city of ours. I have met a brilliant tenant and laughed with my dad.

But my mission today was to hold my own weight in my arms again. The trapeze has kissed me black and blue but I got there, assisted by the ropes, blink and you’ll miss it.

This video is the moment I feel I finally got my ‘trapeze’ back, unexpected, only a few seconds but there. And I’m talking to you’s although living alone I do talk aloud way too much.
trapeze triumps

Then I wanted to get back to movement over tricks so took up the idea of moving to whatever the radio played. I chose Absolute 60s.

I have no idea where my Butoh intentions went but fast music doesn’t mix well. It’s interesting to see how like a girl I am with the bluegrass song. I grew up in rural England and throughout the first song all I saw was golden hay bales in my imagination.

The second song I sort of disregard any timing to and theres hesitations and calculating rather than hay and hey-hoy

Here you are readers:

trapeze to unknown music