Lulu gets medieval on my art

So, I was chatting on Twitter with Milla and Lulu and we were doing the usual ‘we must meet up’ thing (which we do periodically) and then Lulu got medieval with me and threw down the challenge.
‘Your place. This weekend. Right?’

Aaaghh. Errrr.....
I’m such a hermit nowadays. I make vague plans and then never follow through with them. I just don’t think I’m very good company right now. I’m trying to rewrite Samael but it’s sheer torture. Words have turned mean and are bullying me; they really are. They’ve got me pinned in the boys’ loos and are shoving daddylonglegs down my jumper. They’re throwing my books in the nettle patch and laughing.

‘You’re not doing anything, are you?’
Um, no.
‘Great. I’ll be with you at 9pm and we’ll grab supper at the pub.’
Um, okay.

Of course, 9pm was nearer 11pm by which time it was too late to eat but not too late to talk. And we talked, and talked, and talked. I swear, I spoke more in 24 hours with Lulu than I have in the entire last six months (since I last saw her, come to think of it). See, Lulu is one of the VERY few people in this world to whom I can say Absolutely Anything However Mad and she will just shrug and go, ‘Yeah. Of course, sweetie.’

So we talked by the fire and we talked up the stairs (where she identified the tricksy thing that always tries to trip me up) and we talked in the bathroom and we talked in the bedroom. Eventually we got to bed and the next day we talked as we walked the dogs (by the river, in the big open fields) and we talked so much we didn’t even realise we’d lost the SP until someone returned him, looking a bit flustered (the SP, not the woman). And we talked about infinity and beyond infinity, and death and oblivion and whether the universe is Good or Bad or Both, and about love and fear and madness.

And she said she’d never had her tarot done. So I pulled out one of my packs and she dealt and I told. And we laughed our heads off as the exact same phrases we’d used earlier in the day came up again and again. And then I showed her the report I’d had on Samael, the one that said I had to pick it to pieces in order to make it saleable. And she went, yes, and yes, and no, and yes and no, no, yes, yes. And then she put me straight, she really did. And for the first time in months, I felt like maybe I could do this. Maybe I really can. Only now I’m scared. I have the images in my head, so clear, so strong. But will those damn words play nice? Will they fall into line, however straggly a raggle-taggle line? Or will they just lie in wait, on the stairs, and trip me up yet again?


PS - you have to be a really sad film buff to get the (atrocious) pun in the title.  Anyone?