Mouse rides the fishing cat

“If comedy is a full stop. Does that give people nothing more to wonder about?”
“I didn’t see them as comical, I saw them as snide and attacking men and women both at different times for no reason in particular other than you could.”
“How do you deal with an attack?”
“I saw you saying back off too, yes, I understand. But that’s not what we’re into. It’s a grave. People get it once, then laugh and have their cheese sandwich and leave. They need to dream.”
“Comedy not a dream then eh? Art-laughing is just about snide attacks eh? No, ha-ha I enjoyed that so much I want to put it up on my wall and shock my guests.”
“It’s not shocking. It’s just old tory and gold digging bla.”
“I find that attitude bizarre. I’m more crafty than tory. But if that’s the angle I could go for the golden circus stuff, rather than the gore. Put them together and I’ll get some bawdy palace or something eh? Call it Madamoiselle.”
“No way.”
“Don’t want the female sex play eh? Not been done this way before. All men, or weeping picked apart women. Can’t handle me? Ah that’s it, too much of a channel change. You’re easy.”
“Bastard.”
“My mother would be offended by that.”
“I’ve always wanted to say how whatever you do whatever you ask and what ever is out there is a play as long as you don’t let it get into the ways of which to do and think around how it is you play.”

Wind-up

Bugger all. Your life loser. So sorry to have had to have lived it for you. Na. Tis okay, just a wind-up. Pop. Get a lid on things.

Jesus craft

Polly wants the nut cracker sweets

Just forget about what is written in the draws. It doesn't matter. Maybe you don't even want to know. The places to go that are red. Like that colour.

Bit of rocky garbage canning

And it's a wrap.

Nature

The fire of nature doesn’t want to be controlled. It wants to burn to the point where the area can be renewed, by the tune the wind plays on a certain day. Nature doesn’t care about peoples’ houses. It only cares about the health of its skin and its hairs that are growing. When humans try to control nature, this just makes organic order messy. The humans are just being hyper critical about the place they are settling. But that's the hippycritter doing its scuttle skidder eh? and then peddling its non-sequenced shares and negating the eclairs.

While the hippo goes in circles in a zoo of someone else’s making and only escapes into a hypotenuse when it learns how to break free from the captive inside its own sense of sublime ridicule which criticises a state of mind that is trying to encouraged hype to the point where it can wear a stripe. Waking up is important, circles can be hypnotic. So those who preach what they cannot teach at least should collect their straight and curl them to the point where they don’t make such a scar in those they anoint. Although if done artistically branding might be the way to go! Slash and burn only works for some.

Mirrored

People reflect so much of what is around them. My fingers get nicely calloused from the guitar strings. And when I say “Get Stuffed,” to the Lammington, that pink fluffy thing thinks I said I wanted it to fck itself or something. So it starts multiplying. And then there’s all these Lammingtons around me saying the same thing, “We love the Lammington/ Have you seen the Lammington?/ I wish the Lammington was in.”
But that’s not my thinking, I can’t stomach such things. They upset me and distract me from what I’m doing. Then try to blame me for their pussy getting hit by a car.
Question is how do you get a Lammington to go away when you’re trying to concentrate on writing? Mash them.

Tigercork

“Don’t mind me. I’ll guard your door,” says Tigercork. “I’ll keep them out and at bay, won’t let them touch any delicates. I’m armless, but I know enough about the world to know who’s who and sort out which ones spit out their gum in the bin and those who leave it on the floor for you and I to step on. I won’t let anyone through who you don’t want there. They can stare me in the eye all they like, and I’ll just stare back as they look at me cork and pins, but I’m not stepping out of the way, until I know they’re okay. So no worries. I won’t let them get a foot in edgeways.”

Smothering

I'm allergic to most kinds of smothering. I think most people are. Can't go far when you're being gradually suffocated to death by cupcakes and honeypies.
I also have a tobacco allergy that means I swell up, can't sleep and I want to pluck up my eyeballs and scratch the sockets to get the itch away, when I've been exposed to a room full of puffers. (Is it the GM tobacco?) Anyhow, that generally means no parties. However, since June last year, I've been able to go out to pubs.

How did I first find I had this allergy? Four years ago when I was going to a poetry gig at The Dan O'Connel hotel, I drew a series of pictures in my sketchbook. Automatic doodling while I listened to the many brilliant poets on stage. Some of these pictures ended up being about the heavy smoke around me. My automatic pen knew what was going on before I realised why I was getting sick and had a talk to a GP. She said stay away from places with smoke. I insisted that I couldn't do that. So I got steroid nasel spray. It worked for a bit then na... besides steroids have problems of their own, even in small doses. (And I'm not talking about hairiness. That sort of thing doesn't bother me.)

Anyway, I got used to the idea of not socialising and made a really rough animation out of the automatic sketches.

Tinsycat & Goldi: Gaining sense

Kittens are generally curious. But they shouldn’t walk into a sleeping dragon’s mouth, unless they want their whiskers singed.

Four faces of the Ig-lot

There's Igniter, Ignitron, Ignoble and Ignore. (I've chosen not to show the Ig's bottom end it's really just an extension of Ignore.)

Tree’s language

Did you know,
That poetry was the first writing.
Written down on bits of bark,
The lines were short
And of different lengths
According to the skin of tree
It was written on, see.
Charcoal on the sheddings
Of mysterious ancient beings
Whom seemingly stood still,
Yet tapped the earth’s resources,
Root listening for pulse and chime,
Learning the deepest secrets
That Gaia told.
So when writing the poem
The thought was with
The giver of both pen
And paper
And the human writer was no more
Than the medium to the tree’s
Prescribed directions
In this recorded speech
Of sound-sense finding meaning.

Shoreline

Leaks

Listening in, waking up to the waiting. Always asking what’s going on, for there is always more, to underscore what’s understood as known and fact, even if it isn’t that.

Beings: Bunny basket

Best if I type out the words. Otherwise my script will deviant from one font to another and just won't be consistent. Messy. Shouldn't be such a mess of so many different influences. Got to be clear about what is what. Not too many blurring of boundaries. That confuses people.

Beings: Ladybird party chat

Automatic art? Well, the original sketches are and the words these beings say are; and they were drawn in a sequence of pages in my sketch book with a pen. I feel like a pen is automatic in origin, because I can't erase anything until I put it into digital space. So I'd say this is a digitally edited automatic. I consider it automatic because I have no idea who these characters are, as yet. Never met them, except as "energy" nagging for a space to speak on the page. And I just think, okay, that's great, I don't mind at all, I like sketching EMFs. At least "beings" don't tell me off and make me feel guilty for making art out of them. In fact I feel they want me to draw them and if I don't, they tend to make me feel bad until I get them down there doing stuff I have had no idea about.

So where is the cunning plan? Ah, I can't assume to be privy to that just yet. That would take the excitement of the draw away.

Electric build up and gwtfing

I have reasons to believe that everything you do is more than something else that we’ve gotten into. I have all these things inside of me that raise-up the ride and take themselves on the streams that gaze at meaning where laws wake and begin the dreams you can’t fake. That’s the hope there. I want that. I want this and your reckoning in there, so it can be shown that automatic is a nuance of reasoning. It isn’t just a witch’s seasoning.
With you, there is a flow through. I can see how things are being marked down and made to stretch at a point which someone graved. And you’re aching with needs that don’t warrant a closure for any other reason than that something too strong is going to ruin the ribbon that warms the ways we share.
[That’s an automatic write. It flows in a rhythmic tap of keys without a point of pause between: it’s also what I call gwtfing.]

To create, I am listening to what is going on in the external world, feeling and sensing the differences, similarities and how they all add up. That is where the automatic arrives. And then must be somewhat edited, so it has a place with which to play that has something to anchor it and make it relevant to current understanding.

It is often the affirmation of society that often makes a project worthwhile continuing. However, it can take a while to sort out a way to present it so that it meets the needs in society.

Art inspires and brings out a new ideas in many fields. So it is important to be confronting and seemingly irrelevant at first. Because that’s what it is to be looking at a current which has not yet had its story told and sold. The current never disappears. It’s always there if you want to listen and tap in. And the results of sensing these electro-magnetics, will depend on who you are, where you are, and what is surrounding you.

When I draw half asleep

Holding pinkies

Sometimes it's as far as you want to go. Sometimes, you just don't even want to go there. But since there is human history to draw on, little fingers often aren't enough of link. So, best get the feeling down in ink and ignore the possible touch kink.

Hidden stories

Minute details within the face of things, like footnotes to the main image.