Kings and queens

Distressing dream last night.
I spent a long time walking through a fictional area of Ireland. Somewhere coastal, cold and grey.

I rounded a corner. A boardwalk, houses and shops, village feel.
A group of locals, mostly men, similarly dressed in drab vests were singing. Somewhere between singing and chanting. Not a song as such, but something sombre, traditional and known amongst those gathered.
There were no observers. All present aside from myself were actively involved in some way. One or two were beating simple drums. The rhythm was energetic but measured. One man sang and danced alone with simple steps holding his hands palms inward, before his face. Late thirties at most, straw blond hair. Both age and grief creased his face in parts.

I felt out of place and ducked into a shopfront. The interior was like an old bookshop but held a sense of reverence, like a chuch. A young woman was there. I described what was going on outside to her. She understood and recalled that she had something important to do relating to the gathering outside.

She gathered up a statue of sorts – a longsword held horizontally on a small stand. From two short chains, a small shield hung from the centre of the blade. She placed this on a brick pillar in front of the shop. She explained that this was to help protect the (soul of the) child that had died.
I understood now that the man who danced alone was the childs father.

On a parallel pillar she placed a simple, spiked golden crown.
She explained that this was also for the child. She explained that those who die as children never come of age to become the kings and queens of their own destinies.

I wept at this. Both inside and outside the dream.

Honestly my morning was pretty unhappy being filled with this dream.


Progress on Kanye


I know its not super realistic. If you don’t like it then grab a spoon and eat my smelly socks. Its Kanye. I’m a genius.

Patch 2




Still need to wash off residual lines, you get the idea though.

Turn that crown upside down


After developing a patch addiction, here is my first proper attempt at embroidery.

Lost shoes 26



Above on Antill street median strip, below just around the corner from Dickson College on the # 2 bus route.

Blanket Snake

Yep, more poetry. Sorryish.


The hospital blanket is a stop-motion snake.
It strobes across the floor to this sleeping carcass at varying shutterspeeds to knot my ankles together.

My legs are rubber hoses.
My legs are shoelaces and ribbons,

The snake unrolls
And unrolls and unrolls
And unrolls until the blanket fills the corners of the room and spreads to the horizon.

Cooling, clean, comfortably worn and impossibly white.
An ocean of soft woven cotton.

Under its surface I am choking,
With my legs tied together, quietly drowning.

Progress (sooo slooow)