I was born of pursed lips, averted eyes, closed curtains, rosary beads, white lace doilies, locked doors, don’t make a scene, do as your told, wait till your father gets home, what happens in the house stays in the house.
She throws her head back and laughs, deep and throaty
Pleasure shaking breasts and the roundness of her belly, a riotous calamity of wildness, mischief and joy
Where did she come from?
She is a symphony of beautiful noise in an otherwise silent room, a brightly coloured bird that somehow flew in through the window of my black and grey world.
She is a filthy joke, a belly laugh, a survivor, a sage, a sacred trickster dripping in costume jewellery, her platinum blond hair, adorned by a vintage hat.
We were cut from the same cloth – leopard print, undoubtably.
She began my education in the theatre at the age of 6, and inspired me to be anything but ordinary.
To rage as Lady Macbeth or to grieve as Othello, no human emotion was ugly so long as it was honest.
I learned that conformity was as ineffective a means of preventing persecution as it was a tiresome habit, and so I embraced all the more passionately those things that others tried desperately to hide. And that life was all the more enjoyable when injected with a healthy dose of whimsy.
Those who are determined to hate you, will find a reason. So you may as well live Boldy.
I didn’t go to the funeral. She wasn’t there anyway. And people would tell me she’s at peace. And I couldn’t agree. If anything, she’s at mirth. Always was. But try saying that at a funeral.
I leave her thimblefuls of whisky, the good stuff.
I never miss a curtain call.
And I burst into laughter as often as I can.