Last night I came back to my studio. It was like an Aesop tale in horizontal: Embryonic fleas clinging to my pusscats back, pusscat clinging to my back, me clinging to Humphrey my bears back, he clinging to several Amazon box carcasses, they interlocking with the Guardian, they wrapping piles of my paintings, all of us wrapped in duvet.
An ex-boyfriend wrote in a song:
” Bel’s bed is full of magazines, bras and broken pencils”
