Saturday, July 22, 2017


Punk bands that had the desire and energy to take to the stage but once there having nothing to say. Orange juice. I said: even when people appear to have something to say it’s the being on stage that is the satisfaction they seek. He said: it was the ‘nothing to say’ that was the point of the being on stage, bringing our attention to the emptiness.

How we use memory and personal stories to communicate importance, making sure we actually exist. Authenticity is the new black and the making and eating of food a lifestyle statement rather than a preparation of available produce to fill that space inside or celebrate the seasons. If I can tell you why something is important to me then maybe you will take the time to listen and it will become important in the telling. Is anything so important though, in the fleeting, and regardless of experience now past? And do we celebrate this non attachment or question an inability to contact and communicate the attachments we actually have? ‘There will always be haters’ he said.

Without precedent or invitation I tell her about the beautiful scenery in the TV programme I’ve been watching set in New Zealand and how everyone used to ask me whether I had travelled there when I was living in Australia, it being so close, and I tell her that I hadn’t and how I would like to go there someday. On top of the lake. Behind those floated and thin words I wonder why I am making this conversation when even I am not convinced, only more aware of our worlds apart.




Thursday, June 1, 2017






a pure change happened


I had returned home to find one of our neighbours had put a sofa onto the street outside the houses as an offering to passersby in need of a place to lounge for free. Resting on the sofa was a large sheet of glass (my own length if I were lain down sideways) which I leant against a lamp post so that I could sit down for a testing. From outside this casual moment a loud and penetrating crack like thunder, clap, brought me to my senses. Instantaneously an intricate network of tiny cracks flashed across the sheet of glass. For a short and arresting moment the rectangular shape with it's singular outline remained intact, shot through with a thousand branching fissures. The next moment a thousand tiny pieces of glass fell separately yet simultaneously to the ground in a grand whooshing. My mind was stopped, stopped thinking, and all my attention held in a sequence of rare and slow moments where one thing changed into another.