Fingers & thumbs

December 23, 2012 at 12:56 pm (Uncategorized) (, , , , , , )

I’m appallingly nostalgic.

A Boy George barbie doll slumbers in my bedside drawer, and a dark ball of fur from my first cat is still on my windowsill, nestled in a tiny china cup. I have every love letter ever written to me even though I can’t quite recall the faces of the men who wrote them, and the front door key of a five hundred year old house in Brussels that’s still strung along a red ribbon necklace, even though I know I’ll never slide it into the lock again.

I remember things.

God damn writers, hey?

So December is such a lovely, indulgent, bittersweet time, a month to pull out the notebooks, pour the whiskey, and put some Bessie Smith on the stereo as I climb down the tail of a Y or the curve of an S, and slide back into my memories.

Some of the pearls I got to polish this year: twenty-seven stories submitted to editors, with twelve accepted, four recorded for the ABC, and five still pending. Brand spanking new website to throw my ink all over: one. Deep breaths before I made it live: you don’t want to know.

poison berries

Thirty-eight swing dance classes, three social balls, countless new cocktail frocks to keep up with them all, and so many amazing new friends to swirl around the dance floor with that I’ve well and truly run out of fingers to count them.

Cowboys to write about: too many for my own good, and yet, strangely, never quite enough.

One hundred and eleven quotes in my little red notebook.

Nine U.S. states visited, one approaching hurricane, forty-six degrees in the Mojave Desert, dozens of tears in Graceland, countless lurid purple daiquiris in New Orleans, two voodoo charms, four Louisiana gators, and one slice of coconut cream pie so luscious and divine I can almost still taste it.

Poems written for me in Bourbon Street, outside Tennessee Williams’ favourite bar: one.


Things to do in Jackson, Mississippi: about…oh, three. And they don’t take long.

Pierogi in the Polish section of Brooklyn, smothered in butter and salt: a dozen or so. Smiles from the waitress: none. Minutes it took until Lisa made us flee the freak show at Coney Island with her head in her hands: eleven. Nightmares she had afterward: unknown.


Nine paper letters written to penpals around the world, three Kafka books bought, too many pairs of red stilettos added to the collection snaking around my bedroom walls. Times I listened to Elmore James’ ‘My bleedin’ heart’, blues dancing in my head: about 1300.

Times I spoke, wrote or dreamt about serpents, cowboys, moustaches or German: do I really have to answer that?

New red notebook to record 2013 and all its jewels: one.



  1. Lisa said,

    Oh my Darling woman, I’m in tears, this is such a beautiful 2012 memory…what a year, I still can’t believe my good fortune, in being a part of your world and you a part of mine. I adore you xoxo

    • inkymouth said,

      What a 2012 it was – so worthy of being written about! Travelling across the world with you was undoubtedly the highlight, my love, though 2013 seems to be shaping up a treat too. Here’s to Russia, more dance classes and as always, the ink with which to describe it all x x

  2. Dia Holly Hemlock said,

    My biggest new years resolution is to start reading your stories finally!! (since my tarot and astrology blogs are also on wordpress, my comments will come through under this alias! *wink*) LOVE to you and your stories, past present and future!

    • inkymouth said,

      Let’s hope that some of my stories over the next few years will involve us sitting down and clinking glasses together…it’s been far too long! Blow the moon a kiss for me on your part of the world…she’s looking beautiful tonight.

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