Pantone 186C

I had made a promise to myself and my new place of residence to never buy furniture on demand.
I had a dream to fill my home with items that were stumbled upon, reupholstered and laquered with characterer.
For too long I have lived under a banner of Ikea and through desperation my warped white table had travelled with me.
And on Sunday the day of my twenty seventh birthday I wandered into a beautiful old warehouse. My eyes lit up seeing chairs hung high against an old brickwall. I felt at home standing at the entrance of the house of modern retro scandinavia. I knew then it was time to redecorate. There were two red chairs stacked in the corner in a natural light timber and red cloth seats. I dusted off the seats and turned them on their feet. He always told me to check underneath. There were minor markings, strong Danish legs and labelled original vintage. I flipped it back over sat down and knew I needed this classic armchair. I finally understood the real joy of original pieces of furniture. I was happy to age a year as long as I had my red chairs by my side.

Six Hours Facing North

I am not so systematic in thinking its too late to get a good nights rest. Six hours facing north will not be enough to get me up without a stumble in my crooked knee and a squint in my tired eye. The top of my head keeps telling me to go to bed. But my fingers are stubborn, so Ill wait until my tired eyes are heavy enough to not see black symbols on my white screen. 

I had believed that I had forgotten what an empty road is like to drive at midnight. But after slowing down to rolling kilometres I knew I had not mistaken myself for someone who forgot the journey home but rather the time. He waved me down with his traffic controller instrument, or rather his tools of trade and convinced me to break and move to the left. 

I remembered that morning when I found myself in that same lane but a little more distressed. My car screeched to a halting stop with a smell of burnt rubber around the edges. I looked up and found the nearby bush caught in my windscreen.  I knew I had stopped but something reckless had happened. I looked around for other signals that would help reconstruct what happened in the last minute. But I couldn’t quite make out the time and nothing would move. I looked down below at my feet and could see bare toes staring back. I distinctly remembered my mother. I always tend to remember my mother at stressful times. I knew she wouldn’t jump to say anything but she would give me a look. Her face would hide concern and the lines around her eyes would comfort me. 

I left home early today, offering my sister a twenty minute lift north in a blurred state and a hurry. I left without any footwear and wearing abstract circles on my pants. I looked over at the passenger seat of the car but I had nothing, no shoes, no phone and a dead ignition. A car pulled up seconds after and I winded down my window with a shaking palm. After hearing my fathers words being uttered by two strangers I called home. 

I wanted a grey Beret large enough to hide my face. I wanted to go to sleep.  In my room, he went through the emotions for me and explained how lucky I had been.  I tried to feel as though I had a near death experience but I could only squeeze out three watered down tears.  He needed the emotions and I think he wanted to feel something real. I did not feel saved or lucky but ever so thankful to the strangers in the left lane this morning. I called my sister she was a lot less dramatic than me.  She questioned, advised, smiled, hugged me and laughed.  

I went back to my room put some socks on my feet and went back to sleep.

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A Lonely Travel Guide

I leave a strange and peculiar place with the words computer-whizz printed on my yellow plastic carry-bag. I have finally made the decision to 'Back-up' my ten year computer life.  Wes as he's name badge reads , explains to me 'external drives are the way to go'. Ninety Nine dollars later I have the capacity to store 320GB on my 'Expansion Portable Drive'. My new friend Wes explains to me that I will barely use a tenth of the storage capacity. I am saddened by this, ten years is a long time. I leave with my yellow bag in hand and make an awkward promise to Wes that I will back-up. I spent the afternoon rummaging through files with the intention to save 'externally'.
I came across my travel notion from two thousand and three. My ideas may not be as optimistic but I enjoyed the read.


Your Journey beings here..

By following the earths path paved out for you below, you will find yourself submerged half way across the world only to get lost.  Lost means you are a free agent.  Because now your actions are finally your own, with only your body to scowl you for your dumb-founded ideas.  Seeing lost as an agent of release or a state of freedom. Where you actually do hold the controls of power as a piece of equipment in the palm of your hand.  Transmitting signals only you are aware of and transporting you through channels of continuous magnetic vibrations.

During your movements you will learn to escape the monotonous translations of everyday life, empowering you to captivate your actions.  Spontaneity and impulsiveness will be your tour guide, spotlighting your mental and physical imagery, of which you are both excited and naive to.

Do not pack your bags with preconceived outfits, but..

leave room for empty shoeboxes, for which you need not explain.

A travel notion from the Drifters by James Michener suggests,

five rules for successful  travel.

one. Never eat in any restaurant called Moms.

two. Never play poker with anyone called Doc.

three. Get your laundry done at every opportunity.

four. Never refuse sex.

five. And order any dish containing wild rice.

Now, to back-up.  My bags will have to wait patiently for another few months to come.

My First Robot turns 1 too.

Saturday 15th May 2010

I painted 'Flame-red' across the edges then smudged and left.

I see her paintings up against the walls. The few piled on the floor aren’t easy on the eyes. They will sell for less. The brush strokes are too impartial and heavy on the canvas. There is strain in the details and you can see she was impatient at the time.  I am no art critic but I have a good eye (she tells me).  Favoritism is interesting.  But if I were to say biasedness is interesting we have a problem.  The correct word is ‘bias’ but I will justify my sentence by reason of style. At least I am not in politics. 

I see she painted her chipped nails black. She pointed towards me. She gestured waving to come over and meet people, she knew people. I scratched at the skin around my nails and waited. It is commonly told that people who tend to bite their nails are nervous or upset. I was neither but I was restless.  I turned my shoulders down as though I was concentrating on something on the floor.  I could see from the corner of my eye she was still in the distance and continued to gasp at her words and wave her hands about in delight.  I always thought she bubbled her words.  I am not sure if you can say that?  But it was like each sentence began with the bottle cap of a soda popping off while bubbles and sound floated up towards the surface. Odd analogy I know but this was it, it was always a little odd.

She started to sound a bit muffled as she paced around the room.  I looked around, she had gathered a crowd of people around her. I watched her black ponytail bob up and down as she explained something I couldn’t quite hear.  I moved slowly around the room with my head tilted towards the right.  I watched a group of students on a guided tour, stroll past each painting with one or two stopping to scratch down notes and show their appreciation.  Do we pause to acknowledge that we have been affected by what we see? I am not sure I have always walked a little aimlessly concentrating more on the blurb below. I stood there in the corner reading her descriptions I have always needed the summary of words.

We were slowly ushered into the second room. The temporary plasterboard walls were painted ‘prime-time’ blue. I stood close to the edge of what soon became a passage way from the back of the room to the stage. There was a track of metal halide lights suspended above the stage. I was happy to notice no flickering of red and blue beams but a constant warm white. As I stood on my tip-toes I could see instruments sitting up against each other but nothing else. I moved closer to the right wall to avoid the constant stampede of liquid filled cups and shuffling feet. I watched three people to the left of me, they stood three abreast. They wore plaid vests, dark green pullovers and a look that gave a feeling of not trying. Their movements kept me looking to the left, a constant nodding of the head, rigid back and swaying knees. Strange but oddly suitable. After eighty minutes all three walked down the corridor three abreast and sat outside on the grass patch. I ambled along behind the rest and waited outside, there was a gathering of groups sprawled across the open grass.

I still had one of her paintings clutched under my arm. It was bulky and the squared corners keep prodding me in my ribs. I kept it covered with an old sheet from my car and then left with the painting.  The next morning I found the painting on the floor pushed up against the side wall. Her fingers had stained the edges a dark orange.  I found a trail of ash and chain-smoked cigarette butts left in a broken coffee mug outside. I liked this painting. I climbed up and left it leaning against the wall high on top of a chest of draws.  I locked the door behind me, left the keys under the coffee mug and left for work.

I have an intense craving 'for'.... something.

I am an 'avid reader'. No but I wish I read more.  I like to walk in and out of bookshops making little or no noise. I take comfort in seeing novels that I have flipped through and finished. I sometimes will press my index finger over the hard-back covers. A mental record of things we have wanted to complete or maybe just to feel more familiar in a place filled with words, language and speech. I leave with a recycled paper catalogue. I wish to read more.

I am an avid adventurer. I have had a bite of bungee at victorious heights (Vic Falls) but no I am not an avid adventurer.  We sit in numerous white-wall rooms throughout our lives having to sum-up our greatest feats in less that ten words.  I sit tenth in-line of a room filled with brash uni students, waiting for my tutor who is no older than myself to ask me to share my greatest feat. I pause for a moment and then remember oh yes, "I bungeed". It is easier to have the answers ready to questions that will determine who we are, what we do, and where we are going. I am fearless? No I am terribly scarred of heights.  And on that nice day waiting for my legs to be tied together and nervously trembling my life away he yelled, "One Two Three Bunjee" And I jumped.  However, the balls of my feet cannot claim to have travelled much further than the truth.  I will go away this year, I want to clock more hours on my feet while I can. I am twenty-seven. I am still not an avid adventurer.

I have an avid ambition to live each day to the maximum. It feels as cliche to type the words as it does to say it out loud.  But I still find myself reading glossy resolutions that are designed to help you truly achieve a satisfying life in the New Year : Learn yoga with a group of girl-friends, join a network of food enthused individuals, find time for myself, unclutter your life starting with you wardrobe. I have questioned the effects a polaroid on my fridge would have to my health? I have a weakness to writing lists and find myself drawn to reading up on others.  I bullet note items when I leave home even the simple ones such as: phone adaptor, shower cap, empty fridge. I am untrusting of my memory or terrified to forget.  I am a creature of habit with no time for yoga on my list of things today.

I have an avid need to things. I need a Diana F+ Camera. (http://www.lomography.com.au/)  'Dating back to the early 1960s, the all-plastic Diana camera is a cult legend - famous for its dreamy, radiant, and low-fi images'. Ten Golden Rules quoted:

1. Take your LOMO with you wherever you go

2. Use it all the time, at any time - day or night 

3. Lomography does not interfere with your life, it's a part of it 

4. Get as close as possible to the objects of your lomographic desire 

5. Don't think (William Firebrace) 

6. Be fast 

7. You don't have to know what's going to be captured on your film

8. You don't have to know what's on the film afterwards either 

9. Shoot from the hip 

10. Don't worry about rules

Yes I am sold. The golden list says it all. 

Lets not wake before 3am.

Lets not wake before 3am.

Simon is awake before 3am, drifting in and out of his sleep.

It generally occurs both in fantasy and in flesh before the sun dawns upon this untamed creature. It embeddes itself  somewhere deep within your insecurity.  Weaving and twisting through your insides, slowly it becomes visible and grasps at your moist flesh pressing through the wasted sides.  Uhuh 'cough' Uhuh 'cough'. And then it reveals itself, not as a mythical creature but as remnants of last nights activities.  The words 'Simon are you asleep?' echoes from one ear to the next.  And you lie there trying to string the scenes together and then it all slowly starts to make sense. 'Promise me next weekend will be different' says your head to your limbs.  But promises between such parts cannot be made.

Simon!

Simon is asleep again, but Simon believes he is driving. And so he is driving and feeling anxious that he is being followed.

In this whipping motion swerving to the left it happend. 

He watches the side and rear mirrors for those that follow you two steps behind.  I know from my collection of mystery novels that followers drive with tinted glasses a uniform moustache and a slouched driving manner. 

Is Simon being followed? Or is he being suspicious of a persons actions.

If I were to disguise the identity of the 'other' driver would Simon be suspicious of an unidentified moustache, tinted glasses and a slouched driving manner? Maybe not as quickly.

There are ‘those’ who walk only around your shadows.  They move swiftly whilst floating above the pavement that you and I walk back and forth, without stopping.  They travel without leaving traces of battle scars left beneath or below.  A small percentage of radical travellers are able to do this. And we all believe that we are in this minority.   I am not, and nor are you. 

We leave traces that can be easily identified: what is left behind closed doors, left over bread crumbs swept underneath Persian rugs (from foreign places with unbearable temperatures). And more importantly the accidental errors one makes in secrecy without even knowing it.  We leave traces and scratch the surface engraving our foot prints.  We (you and I), we etch our way through our dirt, rubbing our heels into the soil and pressing our toes firmly on the daisies that push us up higher on this platform of ours.  We fame those that get up on both feet and dance the uncovered dance.  

But a character that leaves no trace is not as specific as such and cannot not be described by a name labeling him to his actions. 

Simon clenches the wooden steering wheel and swerves to the left, cutting through the main road and steering onto Boundary Road. He heads in further towards the back roads which appear to be discrete: a winding road, a green canopy and a hushed numbness.  

It did not occur to Simon at the time but 'followers' in these films are famed for their insight of side roads, left turns and narrow alleys.    

Simon stops the car, turns the engine off and waits nervously.

He stares at the numbers on the clock, Its 3am.  He watches a crowd of bodies strolling by the shop windows (signed 'closed'). 

There are self loving creatures who crawl in and out of mirrored windows reflecting their bodies to the eyes of those awake when all else is slumbering.  We appreciate the beautiful when our forty winks serve us a three course meal before the kitchen is closed, and before the lights burn our eyes with a 3am rise.  

Tomorrow finds us where we fell, with an overdose of self-indulgence.  

Quickly waitress serve me up an entrée. I need to taste a little of yesterday on my lips to get through the early hours of today.

Simon finally wakes.

He crawls out of bed and slams his right heel into the side of the wall.  He Misses the wooden beam by a painful inch, but cracks through and destroys the chipped green plasterboard. 

Simons landlord is knocking on the door. 'Simon?' he waits, 'We have arranged for an inspection. 

The scheduled planning we begin our day with assures nothing is left astray.

'Dzz, Dzzz, Dzzz' I hit the snooze button. I am now awake at 6am.

Pen, Paper & 24 White teeth- A Mouth Full of Words

Before I began folding I was a little obsessed with all things descriptive. 

I love words, sentences and the jumble they create when strung together.

Heres my paper mess in words.

I have a problem with this pen.  

And still I continue to misplace my pen. 

And my problem is simply that no correct attire can solve my dilemmas as promptly as you suggest it may.  We cannot simply avoid by turning towards an alternate direction.  So do I lie down with disfigurement drilling in my ear waves or do I act on them, as they waffle one beat at a time.   

Then thud! The screams in the other room force me to gather my thoughts and act as one would when the curtains are drawn open, signalling a time to leave.  But to move on from yesterday is as straight forward as any poser.  To bind the latter as though it were as simple as creasing the edges so that they fit tightly into the starch envelope then seal, address and send.  Would this lift the burden from my ‘accepted wisdom’ which forces me to remain awake, and solve these tight spots?  

I require a need to conceal all evidence that may evict the assumptions looming foot first.  Then delve into the unsolved and correct the passages from the past so that the theory relates to the now and not the news spread in the weekly paper.  Laid out openly after a gossip columnist circulates famous trash theories as though they were her own.  

We cannot invent from new ideas as equally as we cannot believe the reporters that film their characters every move.

We must clear the air with political gamble as though some sense can be made of it all.

Time is a commodity that we often trade for an easier escape.   

So I will quickly move on from it all.  And slowly gain riches in the seeds that have not yet been soiled upon.  I will nourish the thoughts that live vividly, in my imagination tonight and attempt to console any feeble thoughts lurking the day after.  In order to regain any preciseness left in what is unseen and left to the blinding eye.  

Here..

A blur of my fragments that cannot be bound together.  

I will slowly make sense of these pieces blown sideways.    

Starting to Unpack...

My miniature Verdis Vase. I find replicating the models into bite sizes very delightful. Origami in your pocket, oh so comforting.  

Mini Verdis Vase

From the book Ornamental Origami (Meenakshi Mukerji) I wanted to make Blintz Bouquets. 

I created the Mini Blintz Unit from six individual units. And the Large Blintz Unit from twelve individual units. I am yet to try the thirty unit assembly. 

Mini Blintz Unit with Inserts

Large Twelve Unit Assembly with Inserts

Origami treasures

Here are my little treasures...