Undercurrents

There is something foreboding about power lines.
They are at once drawings in the sky as if a giant hand took to illustrating in space. And at the same time they speak of currents we can see, if we look up, yet some may not feel or contemplate. They are the undercurrents overhead. We can hear their hum if standing close enough to a power station, or even their static sparks can be heard from an inner city backyard, but how much notice do we give them?


Within the home we use these currents constantly in our modernity. Their power lines make a spiral within each of our homes. We stand upon grids of electrical wiring. The city is built on spiral grids. We are connected you and I.

This photo was taken at an intersection in Shanghai where the sky was cut by wires starting from each of the 4 corners. It was an honest portrayal of the intensity of the currents that surround us. It's hum danced over my head and down my spine....The little red flags that hang from the wires translate DANGER.

The clouds, the clouds....

I have often wondered when in a plane traveling at such astronomical speeds, if my body, being made not to fly, should be up there at all.But then I see the clouds and they are the most amazing things that I forget just how crap my body feels...
I imagine myself diving into their white fluffy body and curling up to dream up some stars...




I recently returned from a 3 week trip in China. it had been 5 years since being above the clouds in an airplane. It felt like the first time. I could both see and feel the curve of the world whilst up there closer to the stars. A body in space colliding only with the clouds.Clouds which seemed only there for my imagination in their complex manipulation into shapes recognised by my mind.

The sky has a way of beckoning our dreams towards the clouds. The clouds in their infinite forms speak to me of the shapes of my desires and my fears. The tension of my dark boding; the fear of death, the potential fall and the sweet rest..

On filling the pages of books..

When I close my eyes i am carried to a corridor of infinite shelves of books. These books are bound with incandescent tungsten filaments, their contents a thousand pearly blank pages awaiting completion.
And here my life; my thoughts, what I see through these eyes and the eye that sees when they are closed, my every feeling and experience are written with the delicate thread of the sillk worm.On reading them only those that can fly will be able to take a glimpse of the silky thread that will not be still long enough for any word to form and yet here an image will dance up.
Unrehearsed, impulsive, showing a certain amount of extemporaneousness will come the scribing of these pages.

On other writings one may find the edited swirls of my thoughts, but only because I fear that I at times must research, explore, contemplate and dive into the river of literary flows.