Whimsical Musings of a Loon

Deviate outwards, of the sphere, Part inevitable, causes fear. Amble past, rows of glassy Rectangled puzzles, in their chassis. Time itself she cannot postpone, She knows that once, she'd have known. A forlorn object on the shop flaw: The old woman, in the TV store. Phosphorescent and shiny, they overwhelm, Her clockwork dark, in a cybernated realm.

Twenty four years ago this month, I was sat in the back living room of my childhood home watching the TV. It was early tea-time, just having got back from school. I was filling my ruddy pouches with ribena and crumpets. This scene wasn't a rarity, given how many hours I used to spend with my eyes attached to the screen by visual telebox adhesive, watching Australian soap operas, learning and mimicking the accents to annoy my siblings with. But what was about to happen in front of my eyes was one of my earliest and most vivid childhood memories, and one that has haunted me ever since. There came a sudden change in tone by the presenter, and the BBC kids' show Newsround - one of the main staples of my early televisual diet - appeared with breaking news. I can still hear the tinny, 1980s retro dot-dash-theme tune that sounded like it was created on a fisherprice keyboard accompanied with bongo drums. The Space Shuttle appeared on the screen. It was a familiar sight of sorts. For ...

Yuletide gaping void of lack, Causes recollecting back. Imagination, rampage wild, Transformed into, wretched child. Tis season jolly, bright and gay, But rotten, forgery, and cliche. Seeking Ghosts, threads entwined, Hidden in corners, of the mind. Intense stillness hangs around, Suspending body, quiet sound, Stinging cold, yet inside warm, Want tomorrow, yet feeling torn, For arrival fast, is such a boon, Yet means all is dead, far too soon. Bombarded with, seasonal finesse, Overwhelm draining, to excess. Suffocating spend, gorging glee, Leaves me polar, numb, empty. Cheer tarnished, excitement dent, Expectation greater, than event. Sudden dawning, sharp like knife, Innocence lost: lachrymose life. Despite all efforts, to re-create. Gasping for air, reluctant, too late, Like a drowning soul, struggling for breath, We cling to memories & fade to death.

On the first day of Christmas, my true love sent to me A cartridge in a sharpie. On the second day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Three sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Four Thora Hirds, Three sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Five DOODLE-INGS! Four Thora Hirds, Three Sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Six words a-playing, Five DOODLE-INGS! Four Thora Hirds, Three Sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridge in a sharpie. On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love sent to me Seven Wainwrights singing, Six words a-playing, Five DOODLE-INGS! Four Thora Hirds, Three Sharpie pens, Two Hounds of Loves, And a cartridg...

Photos

I remember the day I became interested in Photography. I had always been engrossed by art and film, always finding them rather magical in a way that almost seemed sordid. As if receiving such pleasure from a film screen or canvas was somehow naughty in its frivolity. But it was not until I was visiting MOMA in New York during my year out before University, that a fascination in photography ignited instantly. There was a Cindy Sherman exhibition, her untitled film stills, and it captured my imagination so strongly, that I left New York that snowy January in 2001, dreamily determined to purchase an SLR manual 35mm film camera as soon as I got home. It was like someone had switched on a light in my brain, or rather, pressed a shutter release and captured the split second my life had been opened up to a whole new world of expression. Only this image of myself did not upset me at how fat my brain had gotten around the intrigue zone. Despite Cindy being one of my early main influences, I bec...

I grew up with books. They were like little bound and papered siblings. Officially my childhood home was made with bricks, but it may as well have been built with 1960 retro Penguin paperbacks (with terribly convoluted undecipherable titles and communist russia style graphic design covers). I thought all families had their tea alongside shelves of Lenin's biography, all washed down with a sip of Pinter. But one particular book series I grew up with, both confused and delighted me more than any other. My parents had few graphic novels, but being stalwart Guardian readers, they did have the wonderful work of Posy Simmonds, the Guardian cartoonist, illustrator and writer extraordinaire. Posy's books captivated me. One on level, they were cartoons, even a child could read and enjoy the drawings. On another, they were highly satirical accounts of the political/social climate in the 1980s. It wasn't until I re-read them as an adult that I really appreciated how ingenious the joke...