• Musings

    Hyde Park HotelNot fussed.
    Ink it up and toss it through the hole. There’s an itchy wind lifting feet in a flash of winter sun. Looks as if a draw-card pull of 10s in all suits would face no better time than the very latest fragments. It’s the little hip and tuck to the right that hosts some fresh steps. Maybe, baby. We’ll wait and see to see if that cat will come to drag us in.

    For now, more ink. There’s the exploits of confined seafoods to contemplate. Another serenade of these wee black hours. Percussive trickle of digits on keys that pull faces. More hours. Bring me the new moon, severed and sliced fine on a pitted silver platter.
    The hunger for the dawn of an empty day is yet long distant.

  • Musings

    Wet paint

    Seaweed and slipstreamNew brushstrokes amidst the book fight. The gaps between the fragments is where a little paint can seep in. Unsure of the vision’s origin. Perhaps, despite these chill threads webbed about streets and eyes, within the blood is something that longs for submersion. A quiet forest wafting like smoke, above which a flashing blade tattoos arcs in jest under the nose of a great lumbering surge.
     

    There’s another sheet of white awaiting stimulus; dormant, sleepy and vague, unprepared, but not unwilling, to yield its frost to the smiling pretense of winter’s step-sibling sun – a laugh without teeth or mirth or sound.

    Where is the space for the Seaweed and the Slipstream?

  • Musings

    Fire and ice

    Beans are chilli. Indeedy so. Caught out is a tickle of single digit celsius mornings and falling far too shy of a progressively heavy Weather Report. Dusted the merino-mail in favour of fancy. Snapped dragons and got stung when a post-prac evening hitch-back went cryogenic. But for Al Di Meola, ablaze and tearing the Hymn to strips, there’d be a body on ice at the local. Pity this isn’t on tap any more.

  • Musings

    Amidst the pines

    There was the lilt of something soft setting the mind adrift; a rudderless waft past crumbling pillars into a lost space, forgotten now even by the looters and vandals. Great pines stretched into the chrome, up and away from the needle discards scattered about the floor beneath them. High and terrified. My footsteps, soft and languid, inaudible beyond the Barron’s intimate nuances. On the scene. Time slows all a-sudden and the accompanying audio swiftly becoming inappropriate – this set needs silence.

    Tall and tense are the fences which hem this scene in. Beyond, the vast Mount Pleasant Laboratories where work continues in earnest to shed some light on the cancerous disease threatening to decimating the Devil. But here in circumference.. mort, macabre. Bodies snatched away, leaving… we, alone. Time limps by unnoticed. Any connection must surely be coincidence. Surely…

    Dans une terre grasse et pleine d’escargots
    Je veux creuser moi-même une fosse profonde,
    Où je puisse à loisir étaler mes vieux os
    Et dormir dans l’oubli comme un requin dans l’onde.

    from, “Le Mort joyeux”, Charles Baudelaire.

  • Musings

    Solace and the new fruit

    Solace gets fruity

    Solace gets fruity

    Though try, try, try as you might sometimes, things can’t always be coaxed out. Let go a little and most times I find the fruit uncovers itself. The ‘do’ enzyme in ‘doodle’, the kitty-catalyst that brings the purr.

    The lads at Solace needed some visuals for their advertisement in the Noosa Festival of Surfing events programme.“Yeah, free reign mate”. Nice call, I do love those ones. Its since found its way onto a range of postcards for the shop and sports fresh on their new business cards. They’re stoked, I’m stoked. If you’d like one of these postcards, get onto Solace here and hassle ’em out – I’m sure Josh or Zac would be only too happy to oblige…

  • Musings

    Submersion & a weight of words

    There’s issues more important to busted flash uploaders; another nest of frustration with uploading images. Song and dance about the latest versions but if they don’t function, why release? Testing, testing… take a tip from the roadies and don’t make the fool in front of the fans. But if automation picks your twigs, and so by default your delegations have delivered stones instead of sticks, note the 3:1 ratio of the pointed finger.

    Still… bugger.

    Days and nights play tennis with temperatures making preemptive measures for appropriate attire fiddlier than a three-peanut pick-up with chopsticks. Ahh, let the chills descend heavily with all haste! I’ve merino-chain-mail for the struggle and well mustard to get armored.

    Somewhere here this week a hustle of snowflakes threatened the devil. Back on yer toes son. Book in those flights for the tropics propper quick mate, they’re wheeling in the ice queen.

  • Musings

    Whirlwinds in the North & South

    I heard about the cyclone, the points at Noosa firing & recently of the container ship, Pacific Adventurer, shaking loose 31 containers, vomiting oil & other toxic contaminants into the ocean off Stradbroke Moreton Island on Australia’s East Coast on Wednesday of last week. Fiends! Lock em up, nail em up.. be they drawn & quartered alive & have their offspring rendered barren before their eyes as they teeter agonisingly over the brink & into oblivion.

    A bit harsh? Decide for yourselves. The full extent of the damage is yet to be measured but concern over the Government’s reaction time has raised some eyebrows…

    Further south, the course of conservation is turning out to be far more than I ever expected. It appears very well planned & this is readily apparent by each subject’s incestuous intergration into the course as a whole – this has made the workload, which though extreme (for myself, no doubt!), is a deliciously thick morass to plunge oneself into as I duly am. The hours I’ve alloted as ‘free-time’ on the study schedule delightfully co-incide with my sleeping habits – which have been truncated to 5-6 hours per night. It’s odd.

    Dreams of invertebrates being ravaged by parasites before being consumed by avian pursuit-divers, themselves soon afflicted by debilitaing contaminants delivering the parasites to their intended terrestrial hosts… and more!

  • Musings

    Lean to Launceston

    Collaborations. Conspirations. Serendiputous culminations of inevitable eventuations. I’m short of breath but not for long. There’s no time for hyperventilation now. A new timetable has sprung with an offer come, several years late but bang on time, or even in the nick of time; enough notches hatch good grip to grasp & swing…

    Three sheets as fey gifts to exhalations from all directions. Opportunity raps, barely audible, upon flimsy flyscreen doors at the jaws of great gaols & without a keen ear or curry to meet & greet may, indignant, turn a heel. Signal fires lit, furnace stoked – the implications of ignoring a call to arms surely folly.

    ( yet another disregard of obligations from current web-hosts again leaves me fuming in the absence of any consistency in hosting ‘service’ )

  • Musings

    Down the rabbit hole…

    “Sure it’s rabbits”

    “Yeah, yeah, rabbits. For sure, saw ’em m’self…”

    Riiiight. I’ve to box up the directives of a lover before she’s gagged & bagged with webbings of all shades are alike tossed in scout-response for an impending mercury fall-out. “You can tell her, I’m livin’ on the Islands..”, more or less so is it to be. I’m to the belly of a steely eagle for 7am come the morrow; ready or not, here I come.

    The excesses paid may turn out to be insufficient. There’s a lot of gear to shift with the box sporting more shadows than definite shifts. Along with some standard social texts, there’s a case of keys which may come in handy to jack those weighty loads.

    Waves for friends this afternoon. They’d bid well & shushed any shadow-pouts with promise of word-ins submitted to their southern siblings. Come on down, g’wan with yeh. They’ve just bought fresh caps for the starter’s gun so toes on, tuck in & breathe…

  • Musings

    Fool; don’t look down.

    Blacker I

    Head up, chin up, step up.

    The initial scratchings on copper plate to be etched. A tribute to the man behind a Ted Deerhurst Lightning Bolt pin-tailed single fin which slumbers awhile till the next opportune visitation of over-sized oceanic undulations.

    The image is based on a series of snappings taken during the initial invocations in his shaping bay in North Devon. The image is to be the first in a of a series of three etchings.

    With current relocations immanent, the proposed printing dates will fidget in limbo’s cafeteria with coffee & a few selections from a cream-assorment tray while I find a suitable solution for their reset. Bath-time & roll-ons of appropriate heavyweights should deliver some interesting results.

    Is it cold out in space, Bowie?

  • Musings

    “Kick start my heart…”

    BlackerWas ever there a return of a prodigal Parent? It is to become apparent with the collection of the now beardless One & delivery thereof back unto the homestead. Time to pace yourself there now you’re fully wired into the mainframe. The jolts rippled wide & echoed back waves of compassion. Beautifully tight pull the fibres to bring strength when required. Ground Control to the Major; ch..ch..changes, now obvious, now a necessity & now a package to roll out across the Firm in the hope that it can become firmer – cash in yer bonds.

    New applications are made under oath to plug back in to the matrix. Old dogs, though happy in their habits, have always a nose keening for fresh flesh.

    Let us get get down to finites, dust the broom so to spring these halls of their old wheezy echoes in prep to manifest an atmosphere of glorious harmonics. Tragic such an amphitheater be abandoned for the feeble jarring jangles of the watchman’s keys on his periodic nose in.

    HungThis Hall should be swollen with the exhalations & adorations entwining, uplifting in tryst to flit & swirl thick about in an atmosphere buoyant & precipitous, electric with colour & sound, all above & about the en-awed audience.

    Tickets have been on sale for years but finally there shall be a theatre worthy of this venue.

  • Musings

    a little bit, yeah.

    Innards

    Cursivetherein vaporises its beautiful chorus with a whirling effervescent maelstrom about the bodies in play for such it is a play & at play both, elemental archetype exploding in unison, this visceral, cacophanous orchestra of fluidity, no specific shape nor form nor sound or direction, all alive & a-rushing within & without itself, its-selves & it, as the same, another name, as all here is with this delirial euphoria sapping at anything resembling comprehension or definable characteristic – all here without name nor label, without static for just joy & motion here are permitted & so in themselves, these sporting figments dance devoid of any aprehension or calculation, neither conscious of their vibratous motion, toward nothing, a void in its place to allow all to slip into & share unlimited spaciousness, resplendant vacancy, to fall translucent in any & every direction, all at once, pure senseless detachment, no skin to hold it in, no surface to feather a brush of the faintest touch or suck at some delicately supple tension, a union this is or at least apparent, peaceful realisation, release & in that instant of comprehensible infinite nothingness… freedom.

  • Musings

    Terminal | Operator

    Three EyesThe fun never stops. What? Yes it does, of course it bloody well does. But if you’ve a wrangle on yer wizens enough, you can fool Ego off its alpha-cycle to no-mind the matter which lifts the dust in blinding storms betwixt the seasons.

    Then again the fun doesn’t come, but becomes apparent it was with you all along!

    It happens by metaphoric bug or speck, that an eye will close to in shielding. And if, indeed, long enough squeezed in squint, a habit happens with cyclopising effect. There goes the depth of sight you had & all appears unreal upon just one plane – which really is no way at all to fly.

    So gently with a little coaxing lifting, we can effect a crack enlightening us once again to a true depth of field, double vision, honest viewing, & thus with this proper appraisal apparent, dismiss one can the funk of bunk.

    Turning away from the burning cathode ray gun, close the door & with a tune or twelve in gentle liltation I can maximise the profits manifested from the oozings of my internal creative leisions.

    Meeting of Minds

  • Musings

    Hop, skip

    So Far

    Dig deep with those spurs, into the moment, deeper through into the next. Offer neither mercy nor hesitancy. A foot was put firmly down & for thousands of kilometres a pulse of lines with a lifting swiftness pushed a quivering tin-full of heavy sliders, threaded understatements propped with a glory of course markings packed nice, pack tight.

    Tags

    Whip branches past the window, flit the trunks of raspy vocals, whip wet & heat, whipped for too far gone past breakpoints and return.Evening Glass

    Motion. Lovely.

    An eclectic-aesthetic is the bouncing buoy glimpsed fleetingly on the way down, around & up to back down again. Urges the sloth to hunt, beckoning but briefly & only in response to an independent wink of inkling. Great cities & wee villages rose & fell away behind without much of a fresh breath bar one or two mints. No such suckers, check all angles – we have work to do if the level reads true.

    EnvelopedThere’s the ambassador from Donabate along for the ride & with a firm grip, the reins are commandeered through a 5 hour stint to belt headlong into the fall of heavens; great gusts buffet & tease the remnants of rubber on front tyres, tongues flick the cracks for decay & slide in to soak feets & foam. Seats swapped & some fresh eyes are set solid on invisible horizons – we’re fed on a vague motion-toward, some general forward direction at high speed, plaque is ground fine betwixt an aching platoon of once-white molars.Mr. Collins, the Ambassador for Donabate

    Miracles? No miracles. Determination & fear. Lust & promise. Hope &/or oblivion. We made a pass at the continent’s most easterly protrusion. Peace & grace, little steps. For a series of cojoined fleeting fragments of moments, life was that of a phantom limb; rejoicing in the self-acceptance of it’s detachment.

    It made that remaining miles homeward hum, dispersing silently unnoticed in the trailing slipstream.

  • Musings

    Shop u

    Ahh, so this is a little rough around the edges at the moment but an amazing fully-integrated shop will soon follow. For now, what you see is what’s currently in stock. For orders or more info head over to the contact us page.

    Guys Tees : Standard AU$40.00 / 100% Organic AU$45.00

    Guys tees are currently printed on a super-soft 150gm 100% cotton. Available in small, medium, large & extra-large.

    UnderworldRed DropsVan ManGettin Fishy Wit ItNudin it UpCountry

    Girls Tees : Standard AU$40.00 / 100% Organic AU$45.00

    Girls tees are printed on a super-soft 150gm 100% cotton. Available in small, medium, large & extra-large.

    UnderworldVan ManS Bends

    Art Prints

    Lino-cut prints are printed individually by hand. The process can be time consuming however this ensures each print is unique. All prints are signed & numbered in limited editions. They can be sold as simply as the print itself, as a mounted print or as a framed print.

    See Linocuts for images.

  • Musings

    Ch..ch..changes

    Did you really have something to say or were you just making conversation? He talks with his mouth full, with a mouthful, it’s awful, what an earful. So pleasantly spoke we before the tension, for surely  it was the pre-tension which preceded my mis-demeanor.

    She whined, she moaned. I could hear nothing at all. However, he was a worse precursor with nothing to share but his wounded moan; beleatingly non-descript as on pier-stranded potential long lamenting, missing the boat long years gone. Better a confession of acknowledged abject insignificance.

    Was it the small-talk or something I said?

  • Musings

    Summer Reigns

    Deep ThoughtCacophonous hushings rush through the high-set louvers at the apex of an A-frame. Spring thunder mumbles distant & throaty after brief illuminations of banksia men, screw-pine palm fronds, telegraph pole.Spring Rain

    There’s work to be done but the distraction is too much. Storm springs like a bad punctuation marking these droll lulls of sun, clear skies, sun, clear skies, sun, clear skies… I’m buckling the screen door to get out on deck, get the rail in my fists & lean out.

    A wee tripod for a wee camera is propped up & with a finger on the button I’m half breathing in anticipation – I’m itching to catch a flash so settings are tweaked to gape the shutter open for the snippet. Nothing.

    Trawler FloatTen, twenty, forty minutes out in the misting. Half breath, half breath… / flash / come on, come on, take it. But the broken finger bones of electro-luminescence tease only with a glow bulb bust behind the curtains.

    UndercoverDownstairs I’m shifting to steal a different angle. Night thief & willing risks are flirted to catch that glimpse. Spied in a blur, baloonius orbs dripping the lust of fickle faux drought-break. It or my mind vibrates, but maybe neither. I need more.

    Salivating, gnash & twitch, the nearest pop-up is comandeered, had enough of these in-doors. Wet slick underfoot, Michelle was shocked as I was steppin’ out.

  • Musings

    Root down

    There’s a big deck out the front. New place, new space, new steps, new steps, new steps. Grand so.

    Two new lino-cuts are about to hit the OD shelves. Prints onto stretched watercolour paper & caressed with gouache hues. There’s an odd tilt to the latest. Growth, somewhat. New angles. A slow reach for the gun – there’s no rush; he’s been there all along. Very understanding & gladly nothing at all.

    There’s dogs surrounding the oils & acrylics out on the acreage. Apparently I’m missed. My girls. It is nice to missed by dogs. Time must be jockeyed to return to both.

    Shirts to be released, on the shelves by the 7th of November. I hope to have the site’s shop up & running by then.

    Higher up here. Is it rain or just the wind? The rush of hushes is lovely regardless.

  • Musings

    Home beyond Range

    Sea of GreenValley LandThreading through the hinterland steeps & drops reawakened a reverence for this kind of country. Far enough flung from the hubbub, gilt & gaudiness of the burning beaches roll these mountainous seas of emeralds, beautiful chaos of thick proud trunks stretching to the heavens, sprays of ochres, flashing smiles of things aflower; the graceful natives to the tart bursts from the new-comers.

    Work saw me out to the country over four days this past week to make an appearance for the Kenilworth Arts Festival. I can’t recall the last time I was this far west. Kenilworth is only about an hour & a half in from the coast (two and a bit in my lovely Juanita).

    Quaint little country town she is with the pub, the servo, post office, newsagent, a hairdresser, general store and that’ll about do it for Kenilworth. Nice to visit a place that is comfortable with it’s own self-identity, not needing the garish peversions of big business. Keeping it family.

    The start of the week we’d bustled up early enough to jumble together our make-shift shop inside the local school’s manual arts building. After a half hour of brisk morning trade before the classes started there was bugger-all to do but drink tea, play cards & paint.

    InsiderLoversWatercolours & gouache for the first two days and began slapping on the foundations for a larger oil canvas on the last. First time for the watercolous & gouache but its certainly something I’ve wanted to play with for a while. It was odd to keep white-space in mind as you wash in the colours – really jags the awareness to maintain focus on light sources & reflections in the composition.

    I found mixed results & mixed emotions in the bold & delicate swabbing; there’s a lot to commit when laying down the shapes. Sure you can ‘lift’ somewhat the colours that may have slid awry but layers left to dry and layered over and layered over and over… Focus! Keeping track proved a challenge for the stroking. Such lovely soft washing colours; they lend themselves very well to the ideas I’ve in mind. A lot more time to play is looked forward to.

    The hills are trying to seduce me & the week’s flirtations may kindle a further affair.

    Flora 1Flora-3Red BackFlora-2

  • Musings

    First Impressions

    Printing Nudes

    Out to dryBag the lootGlen K  - gives good inkDrive it home

    Words, all slippery fishes, elude the tongue’s fingers & dance to tunes for the deaf. An ache of ticks with sibling tocks have weathered this project along to this point.

    Not notable in the progression to warrant more than a bar or two, it’s further along that comes things with a far more lent toward melodic whilstling to comfort the onward march. I’m pleased with the progress to the point; smiles drove Juanita south to the homestead in possession of fresh-packed prints, pressed with an ache for shoulders to hang from. Children, your hosts will come, be patient.

    Oh, for were it not for the son of Kirkpatrick…

  • Musings

    Jump suits

    There’s light. A freckle of illumination winking little smiles.

    Settled on six designs for the sample range. Six mens tees & three girls tees in some lovely colours. The order is in & shirts are due in about 10 days. From there it’s on the road to seek the right little nooks to stash them in. Have to coax Juanita into feeling like she needs road-tripping down that old coast trail. Make it seem like it was her idea all along.

    Hmm. Nice to get Carties big & chunky this morning with two or three others out. Heaving & shifty was it with some whomping sling-shots past the rock wall. The fish fins were singing sweet harmonies. Clocks to be set to be sure (to be sure) to catch worms; hoping that a stiff offshore will groom the amphitheater for another opus.

  • Musings

    There’s debate on the spelling

    aah such embraceable speakers billowing diaphanous vibrations. These delicate electrics march upon ear canals utterly submissive. Droll licks mesmerise to shift comprehensions all a-haze in stop-motion avalanche of almost-grasped recollections or recognitions. It’s so slow and tremeloguous encroachment shivers in reverse cascades up the spine, thoroughly unfamiliar yet coursing mute spasms, effervescent semi-conscious reflex. Magicians, willful witchery. I care not to keep up or track of the undulating noted matrices; too many levels of invocation and all with guile enough to maintain elusivity.

    Upon the fade of the audible come the physical tender-shook, the in-vain shudder of hopeful discharge… but there’s no release, the energy lingers for want of an earth. The spells have hooked beyond the tactile, far beyond the comprehensible. Luckily there’s no time to recap before the next tide surges in to envelop and distill bewilderment to levels far fathoms beyond reason… and not a moment too soon.

    “Behold, the sisters of mercy!”