23 August 2014

Deep South

The only important things 
I have written
were to you

Ada or Ardor
Heirs and Herren
His and Hers, terry towel shorts
The Deep South, the Tasman Sea
Yours and Mine and Ours
Wirey-limbed boys with feet kinda funny out
Rehab man, Frenchman, no man's land

but great dames, chugging down the Mississippi 
and on diesel trains in Eastern Europe, 
all of it, all of it
The Carpathians, the book shelves in apartment blocks, 
the piano lessons
admonitions at train stations
Prayers sewn into our clothes when running from it, 
all of it
Your stupid duvet cover and sitting on the stoop on the upper west side

I don't know where you are now after ten years
but we will make it,
if not as writers or saints,
or women of letters; of note, or standing
then as humans

29 May 2014

you spoke

you spoke—

and you
watched me with a detachment
that can't be learned like

In a basement, the crowd surges
and here we are strictly one mass
suspended in sound, beat
but we're all foreign

bodies. Just 

if you look close enough I bet there's dust and dirt
on your skin

and I'm practising you,
stopping in a bathroom stall
to mouth the words 
and the word you spat at me
'phlegmatic' I became that too

When they say,
you're beside yourself
is it because you can no longer stand to be 
inside yourself

for grief or joy?

I'm no longer here, 
an idiom

Axiom. Axiom.

Varia Karipoff 2014

28 May 2014


I am back from a serious blogger hiatus, in part due to family commitments and a housing crisis. If you are a young artist with a growing family, you can pretty much understand my desperation of late. If you are living in the sky-high rent land of Melbourne, or have thought you would explode before the housing bubble did, you might be on the same page as me.

 photo image2_zpsb5a1e824.jpg
thank goodness you cannot smell the eau de chat and 40 years of tobacco smoke

But we got a house in the end. 

That's what the lounge room looked like before we began its transformation into a library and a study.

The bathroom was an asbestos-filled monstrosity, with the most psychotic moulded-fibreglass shower unit. Space age meets Hitchcock and not in a good way. It took a day to tear it out with all kinds of high-powered devices. 
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fibro sheeting, asbestos, fibreglass, linoleum; dead sexy
Still not in yet, but we are so much closer now to a room of one's own. 

So the neglected blog hung about during all these upheavals, just waiting for a bit of love and I had none to give it. It got to the point where I was considering deleting siberianpepper this afternoon until realising I have had tens of thousands of hits here and that is not to be scoffed at.

I've been all kinds of busy, in short.

I have been making websites. Like this one, for the wonderful artist Anna Rowbury
and also managing this one, for my dear ball and chain.

I have been writing a wee bit. As much as lack of headspace and two children allow. 
Tonight I am modelling teapots. That is apparently, the job of a muse for a ceramic artist.

I have decided it needs to be held like a handbag. And I wish I looked this good being that white.