Martin Poppelwell
besides for me the question of wether to call her ma, mag or countess caca, she having for countless years been deaf as a post. i think she was quite incontinent, both of faeces and water, but a kind of prudishness made us avoid the subject when we met, and i could never be certain of it. in any case it can't have amounted to much, a few niggardly wetted goat droppings, every two or three days. the room smelt of ammonia, oh not merely ammonia, but of ammonia, ammonia. she knew it was me, by my smell, her shrunken, hairy old face lit up, she was happy to smell me. she jabbered away with a rattle of dentures and most of the time didn't realize what she was saying...pp15, 2020
acrylic and beeswax on brown paper
