rose trellis

Rose trellis weighted down with red roses. M’Finda Kalunga Community Garden. Lower East Side, New York City.

Buy “Rose Trellis Over a Garden Path” Posters and Prints here, View my store, email me, or ask for help.

I have a guest blog post up on a blog I love reading today, The Voyage of V. The Voyage of V is written by Vanessa who grew up in the U.S but has been living in Sweden. She is currently in the midst of a move to New York City! She asked several other bloggers to guest-blog this week while she makes her way to NYC. I was more than happy to help!

You can view my guest-blog photo-post about the community gardens of downtown Manhattan here:

The Community Gardens of the LES and East Village

Enjoy :)

The Cottage Maids.  Original painting of two cottage maids in long black dresses standing in an autumn garden. The cottage wall is covered with creeping ivy. They stand near a rose trellis arch and garden gate, wringing their hands, looking rather guilty. I would test the tea pot for strychnine because I think they’re up to something dastardly. Or maybe not. You have to make up your own story.

On The Road

If there was a road that guaranteed permanent safe passage - I wouldn’t step out onto its well manicured path. Sometimes I prefer it when the bridge is crumbling, ropes frayed, body swinging wildly from side to side as I run for my life. Having to leap from disintegrating wooden slats - just managing to grab onto an aptly placed vine as the last remnants careen into the abyss below me like falling domino bricks. Sometimes I just jump straight into the abyss. 

The safety is suffocating. 

Sometimes I need the hint of saccharine death on the tip of my tongue in the morning. Just to remind me I’m still here. Other times I just like to release the fear and curl up in the disarming sunlight. Shadowed by the thorns of rambling roses on white man trellis. Patterned cotton underwear bared to the heavens with nothing else protecting my dignity but the purr of the neighbour’s cat and wet ice-cream running down my fingers, chin and thighs. 

Sometimes I see the angels pleasuring me. Golden beings entering my sacred spaces. Helping me remember my wholeness. Sometimes I’m nothing but the road itself, I’m nothing but the journey. An 8-bit prima donna, decorated in glittery face-paint and overly embellished stories of her travels. Like Jack Kerouac, a lone and poor misogynist, gathering my limbs in sexual trysts with floaty petticoats. Gliding by on other people’s gas and the smell of a one dollar bill that pays for more than it can afford - making ends meet by meeting ends.

Sometimes I’m just wrapped in woolen and scratchy blanket by the fire. Whiskey in hand, pad and pen in clawed clutch. Wishing for the nonsensical ticking clock to bring me more nonsense than I can manage. Just for an instant, within the faint glow of the burning manuka fronds, I see your face. And I feel hate. I long to leave it all behind. Hop on that fraying and falling bridge one last time.

- Samantha-Jeanne

  • Katherine and Antonio have been married longer than the United States has existed (since 1752 to be exact), but they’ve come to the conclusion that it’s better that they keep two separate houses or neither one of them will get any work done and that it’s best that they have a degree of openness to their relationship because, quite frankly, shit happens. Now, that doesn’t mean that Antonio doesn’t show up at her house several times a week, even when she tells him that she has work to do and thus has to try to climb the rose trellis up to her balcony to get in (which has resulted in several dozen falls and twice as many lectures from Katherine) or that they don’t spend quite a lot of their time together. It’s just better to have established spaces just for themselves and time to be alone, as they’ve found out over the years.
  • Though it may seem like Katherine’s emotions were left under a bush somewhere back in England several centuries back, she does in fact have them, though she rations the expression of them more tightly than a camel does its water supply. There are only a few safe people that she would be willing to be more human around, namely Antonio, Aurora, and sometimes Edmund, and if she does in fact get emotional around anyone else that someone else would be better off not remarking upon it, especially if that emotion is anything but pure, adulterated anger. The reason for this and her carefully cultivated facade is that it is far easier to make the objective decisions that she so often needs to make when she banishes her emotions to a far corner of her mind. Sentimentality didn’t rebuild her fortune after she had to spend most of it to get Edmund out of jail, emotional openness didn’t get them through the wilderness or establish a settlement at Ashbourne, so obviously those things have no value when it comes to most of her decision making.