Same spider

This spider has been my deskside companion for three summers in a row. I believe it has been the same spider since it has for three summers appeared on the same door.
Same spider, three summers, same door.
One summer I saw a spider on the door beside my desk. That was three summers ago. It couldn’t have been the same spider as this one if I had not seen it before.
Same spider twice, three summers, same door.
This summer the spider is on the door beside my desk. It couldn’t have been here three summers ago if this summer isn’t a summer ago.
Same spider twice, two summers, same door.
One summer ago I saw the same spider
that wasn’t the same one two summers ago.
This is the spider that’s been my companion
for three summers now, in a row.

Third Rock War (2008)

White light in fright fled the virtuous mean
Upon gathering mist laden shrouds,
Donning bright colours and offering hope
With an arc through insidious clouds.

The promising blade then withdrew to its sheath,
Replaced by a streak of milk chocolate
Suspended below a dark blanket of hate
That groaned with intention to slaughter.

Scuttling into the Banksias high,
Armies of natives retreated.
A breeze tugged the collar and licked away tears
From leaves that would soon be defeated.

A pitter, a patter, transformed into clatter,
As sleet suffocated the earth bound.
Sonic fists punched at a trembling crust.
Lightning forks plucked at the high ground.

Relieved of the tension that led to the war
Between heavenly nation and Third Rock,
Survivors surveyed the remainders …
And promised to honor the shell shocked.

Red String of Fate

When heat huddles by white-hot horizons
and puddles black bitumen blue,
you don’t stop for water poured into a cup
to become cup before it is in you.

When white-hot horizons burn into the wind-
screen and ghost the glass over with ghost-skies,
you’re up to your nose in the end of a road
you’ve been driving so long you’ve gone cross-eyed.

When a breeze cold as glass can be cold in the heat,
and puddles of blue on black bitumen meet,
and plenty of dry leaves and dust are about,
and your eyes are on straight, and the ghosties are out,

the invisible Red String of Fate will rise up
like water still spinning is not yet the cup.

Cylindrical Hexplorations

Cylindrical Hexplorations: An exploration of juxtaposition, layered transpositions of pixelated and pre-pixelated hexadecimal image data ‘pressed’ together with a digital cylindrical effect. A personal response to Jim Rosenberg’s essay ‘THE INTERACTIVE DIAGRAM SENTENCE: HYPERTEXT AS A MEDIUM OF THOUGHT’ in which

The most basic elemental structural act, the most fundamental micromaneuver at the heart of all abstraction, is juxtaposition, ‘structural zero’: the act of simply putting an element on top of another, with no other structural relation between the two elements except that they are brought together.

with an unexpected, but welcome counter-response from the spirit of Piet Mondrian.

Problem: Is the use of a cylinder (or printing press) an “act of simply putting an element on top of another”, or does the use of the cylinder constitute a “structural relation between the two elements” which does more than simply bring them together? And what about the choice of orientation for each layer? Is that a structural relation that goes beyond the simple act of placement?
—Click on gallery to view full size—

Three Impressions Of A Writer’s Waste Basket



The forest is closing in
black and white, twigs snap
underfoot ghost stories
told in the night. In those days
at least you could tell
your stories from ghosts
and see the confusion
of laughter and fright
in the glow of her face.

As for these days you have
grown to know how to use now
to locate her glow
in the face of your art,
though surely you know
she would doubtful consider it that
or see the confusion
of laughter and fright
in the rock-steady glow
of the black and the white.

First meditation on object-oriented philosophy

      There are two tables in this spare room at the back of my home. One is a large computer desk repurposed from what was a dining table. Along with my tower, printer, monitor, and various other peripheral objects it occupies fully the length of one wall. The other table has a smaller working area, is a couple of inches closer to the ground, and is also a repurposed dining table. It is in the centre of the room, and it serves as my indoor writing desk. When I am at my indoor writing desk the sliding glass door to the lounge room is closed in front of me and the large computer desk is at my left. I can see my coffee table through the sliding glass, and the bulk of my books and records on shelves along the wall beyond that. Half a dozen books are on the coffee table at any given time. At the end of the computer desk that isn’t in the corner is another door. This door leads to my outdoor desk when weather permits and from it when weather does not. Currently, weather permits.
      I saw my brother working at my indoor writing desk in the hours leading to daylight. I noticed a spider had woven a wide, thick blanket extending between my computer desk in the corner and the centre of the room at the ceiling. Before I could point the spider web problem out to my brother he’d vanished, then a large wasp with a stinger the size of my thumb flew in from outside and went for the spider. The spider dropped to the table below, ran around the edge, and went into hiding beneath it. The wasp turned on me. I had a can of Mortein at hand so I sprayed it, and sprayed it again and again until it had dropped to the floor. I started to lower the base of the can over the wasp to contain it but then its back split open like a cicada shell does when the cicada inside is emerging, and from it a glorious pair of glistening lorikeet wings unfolded. As I reached out to touch it my brother emerged from under the table holding the spider, and as he was gently returning the spider back to its blanket he told me it just goes to show you—not every thing is connected.