Crimson Moon (Mixed media)


Day 98.

Silent orchestra. Silent for now while my ears grow accustomed. New sounds, new melodies but the beat is as old as time.


The Cathedral (Acrylic on card)


Day 93.

Mute, gagged and caged in this invisible holding pen. My ears ring, my jaw clenches from the howling hollow pressure of  it. Silence shrieking in the cavity. Find the valve and release.

Constraint (Soft pastel)


Day 91.

Gregor Samsa like I click and scuttle

My north paws rubbing together in waiting

I’ll cling to the ceiling yet

That I’m certain would more normal seem than any experience I’ve had so far

hollow -hearted whole

leave well alone,

Take me I am ready.

Postcard to myself (Pencil)


Day 82.

Sketches of Spain.

Postcards that got written only to languish on the fridge door

Awaiting what, divine intervention?

Full of best intentions until the steam runs out.

You’re missed!

You’re thought of!

Pangs of distance muted in the echo chamber message side.

More fodder for the procrastinators volumes.

Wish you were here, you get the drift

Probably not or subconscious telepathy I underestimate.

The Crypt. (Oil pastel)


Day 81.

Within the crypt laying undisturbed for centuries is an unknown force of immeasurable magnitude

Sealed off from the outer world to avoid contamination, it undergoes a mysterious process

no trace of it exists,  at surface level all is discreet

Unknowingly waiting in dutiful living the world churns

a hollow is hollowed from beneath

quietly imperceptibly new formations and permutations evolve, dissolve in unobserved fractal dancing

to a droning hum of distant industry accompanied

We wait.

The Egg. (Oil pastel)


Day 78.

Trying to become that thing.

To hatch, to emerge from the egg.

The egg I’ve been in for so long I feared I had become the egg.

Now can I see it for a shell.

A shell I must beat my way out of.

And so I thrust back my head and trust the force of my knowing beak to unleash me.

Evening sun (Pastels)


Day 60.

Evening sun, shadows on the page, the blinds across my hand noir like.

The day, a day, what a thing.

How much it holds, how far it reaches if one really cares to observe it.

Peace now. Light dancing on the leaves creates the appearance of movement.

I’m here once more with my familiar the singing fridge.

My trusted companion and round the clock sentinel of four years standing.

Late afternoon.

The last of the summers offering.

I can feel the mood shifting.

Cogs of change turning.

Hormones alternating in a slow quiet fashion as my evening self clocks in.