Mirror/mirror
Mirror/mirror“Procul este, profani” – Virgil, Aeneid (“Keep your distance, uninitiated ones”)
Crying for no reason at a life I’ve outgrown. (Despite the smart-arse comment Patrick would make, it’s not that time of the month, although the only effect that ever has is to prompt floods of motiveless, uncontrollable tears.) Photos I remember posing for – summer rhododendrons, genuine smile, teeth scattered like graves on a moor – and those I don’t. Two large portraits on a bone background, aged five, the patented Ria moves: staring into the distance until someone asks what’s wrong, flirting like I’ve never considered how. Round cheeks and strangely sorrowful eyes, she only looks like me in the mirror. Richard mocks my vanity, but although the constant mirror-gazing produces the conclusion that I’m pretty and, occasionally, beautiful, that’s not why. I can’t remember how I look. The self-image comprises a skinny naďf with owlish spectacles, long wispy hair, a mouthful of lead. Each glimpse of myself in glasses wipes out the cumulative effect of every appreciative stare. Do others grow out of this “slydynge” self-image? How do they fix themselves in their minds?
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose leaves
The way I feel today - 10 July 2004
Just seventeen - 17 March 2004
Roads to freedom - 25 February 2004
Confessions of a failed self-harmer - 25 February 2004
Manchester, united - 25 February 2004