Posted on Saturday, April 30, 2011


Posted on Saturday, April 30, 2011

fucking love this guy

Posted on Tuesday, April 26, 2011

York Street, Mornington Peninsula:

This is where my mum + dad + sister lived 30 years ago.

This is mama bear 

And this is what happened next ...

What a guy.

Posted on Monday, April 18, 2011

Little buddy cool-guy

Chester 'they beat me' Draws

Posted on Wednesday, April 13, 2011

l o v e

Posted on Saturday, April 09, 2011

One thing is for sure: you will never be prepared. I heard the news through an ex lover and now old friend. A tribute to a life lost, tragedy lay in its wake. Pinch myself to see if I am actually awake. Sentiments swapped down a phone line, of thoughts of love and sadness and a chance to rewind. 

You just never see it coming.

Things like this make you turn inwards and count your treasures. Blessings in the shapes of friends and family trees, the truth that it was them and not me. The sadness creeps in. Thoughts roll back to my kin. I could not take a blow like that any time soon, my throat swells of broken bones and messages on phones, telling them that lives like that are not easily forgotten.

You always hear old people say that they'd give anything to relive one day of their youth, to feel the energy and possibility of not knowing, to keep going, discovering nothing and everything is a monument in its self. An ageing self, of sore veins and dusty brains and crosswords as exercise. Pass me my eyes. Thick cuts of glass become a laugh as the frames sit awkwardly on wrinkled faces. Time paces. Broken up by breakfast, lunch and dinner. Tablets to get you thinner. And here I am worrying about a dint in my thigh. How I will laugh in decades to come, life willing, at how I saw myself. What wealth. Youth cast as a burden of indecision and lack of vision. Not mine. Eyes cast towards seas and decoding messages in DVD's and mix tape Cd's and dog-eared novels to remind myself to yearn. To want to learn and to teach. 

Keep yearning and believing that the seasons have some meaning and that you feel the way you do because you are alive. Be happy to be apart of the hive. Old eyes stare knowingly and flicker not with judgement but jealousy of what was once theirs, is theirs no longer. And ponder. And question every ripple of emotion. An endless devotion to something bigger than what you have made so far.

I discovered that in my bones are the makings of stars and that by itself is enough for me to disconnect from the shit that I collect. These are just things. Unlike human beings, are unable to unscramble your mind late at night, unable to hold you tight and tell you a truth that it's going to be alright. 

Invite the chaos in. And keep yearning.


Posted on Saturday, April 09, 2011

'intellect is like a major city
laden with concrete and metal
advanced modes of transportation
shining buildings and fenced in parks

spirit is the mountains,
forest, wilderness
and vast countryside
that surrounds it

too many people live in the city
struggling day to day
for mere existence

most have forgotten
how to live off the land

they only experience nature
on class trips and short term vacations

for those who live in the country
cities are like amusement parks
with high prices and temporal satisfaction

at the end of the day
they are tired
ready to go home
to relieve their ringing ears'

Saul Williams SHE

Posted on Saturday, April 09, 2011

Chester Draws x

Posted on Saturday, April 09, 2011

'Sometimes you are aware when your great moments are happening, and sometimes they rise from the past. 
Perhaps it's the same with people.'
James Salter, Burning the Days

Posted on Saturday, April 09, 2011

done did in lilac

Posted on Saturday, April 09, 2011

'She philosophically noted dates as they came past in the revolution of the year;...her own birthday; and every other day individualised by incidents in which she has taken some share. She suddenly thought one afternoon, when looking in the glass at her fairness, that there was yet another date, of greater importance to her than those; that of her own death, when all these charms would have disappeared; a day which lay sly and unseen among all other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annually passed over it; but not the less surely there. When was it?'

Thomas Hardy, Tess of the d'Urbervilles