by Carol Adams
I have left the grandsons in bed rather than wake them. My daughter texts to say there are tears. The plane takes off.
As we hover over Alice Springs, I note a maze of brown twisting threads.
I look at m own body and it is a map of my journey. It shows I have lived and loved and am not ready to give it up yet.
Poetic fragments from the journal of an artist, spanning the closing months of a year in a remote desert town. With a new set of bold paints, life unfolds.
‘Astute observations of her immediate environment, together with literary pickings, shine through Carol’s diary. Her healthy self-doubt is balanced by agile and sure prose that has an inviting and chatty confidentiality.’ Rod Moss
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