Writing|Ocean Collaboration.

Where eight catalogued balconies oversee the peirs of mohogany, history has cast off, jumped down on the deck, letting it's bound sheets sail ahead and steer another voyage, inside this room the mind's rudder busts loose, the sails become soaked so heavy, the mast it breaks.


Sculling, feeling the stern unbending, yet soft as silk flow, water rushing against my silent-creaking oars, the weight of the water, the crushing sea, my legs against the stern, ripples thrumming gently in the still-night, moonlight shafting down by way of the cloud covered skies, my only thought the task at hand, my present mind of the moment-only, the moment, the wood against the grain of my work-worn, rough-tough hands shifting in a rythym as I draw, nearer, slowly sculling.

Silence until I begin to listen; the wear-polished rowlocks working into their sockets, the always lapping, always tapping, like the pattering of rain-sky, dropping down on a cozy cabin, snug against the tearing, hard-blown night, but not so now, another night, a moment, as the moon breaks again, through, and picks up, even the reflection of the candlelantern amidships on the object of my oarsmanship, the water, a black-clad mirror passing none into, and not one out, the tight tight water keeps me above, in dryspace, away from the crushing blackness of the underdark, the endless, perilous weight, pushing, pounding in my ears, peircing ploughing intoo me, the never-finished, under, the strength of everyone ever, never could hold it in, a whimsical powerful never sated never saming morass of elemental, unedifying, uncompromising and always actual, collective (un)concious...

I glide above this existence, untroubled by and over al of it, and, nearing the aft of the woman, the haven of my half-life, the wife who is at once myfreedom and binding, I know, as I crafted her, so was I crafted into her, held to her, my life tied into hers.

Photography|Partyville

Writing|Ice Flow Blues

Full moon panic as the black dogs howl,

I'm silver-spoon manic with the soft-black cowl,

The mindless antic of a cat on the prowl,

Feeling frantic 'cause the odours are foul.

Big eyes glaring from a face full of fear,

Straight wide staring, sharp shocking and clear,

Running through the dark while the sticks behind crack,

Something's in the park, something's on my back.

The moon howls quiet and the cloud hangs low,

It's a minimal diet in 20 foot snow.



-ICE FLOW BLUES|CANT FEEL MY SHOES-

-ICE FLOW BLUES|THERE"S A LOT LEFT TO LOSE-

Concept Art|Photography

-from here...



















...to here-

-A photograph of the paradox that is illuminated darkness, as lit by your very own screen.