Machine Brain

A forty minute bumpy ride, with engine rumbles disrupting the air that I hear but don’t listen to and even the voices that fill my diminishing personal space are just white noise in my quiet. Somehow I’d forgotten how to lose myself in thought. I’d forgotten what escape was. I’d forgotten that this time was…

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Sunset at Henley Beach on 35mm film

A gallery of recent film photos I took at sunset at Henley beach, plus some thoughts on the creative process behind them.

Whenever I take my camera to the beach I always feel the need to hold back from taking an entire roll of the same photo, but it seems that even if I feel like I’m doing that, I never actually am.

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not every silence is silent – a poem

an utterance is the heart’s way of shouting
but it does not rupture the enigma of a liminal space,
I am not waiting on the brink of a question, I am only
listening to a smooth swell of musical crescendo

As murmurs become a gentle nudge to fall out of almost-asleep
and into a dream that fills the night silence, not
with noise, but an explosion of colours
and stories we would never think to tell,
infused with (only-imagined) sounds.

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The nature of me – A poem

My words are the leaves the trees grow,
I need them so I can bloom.
To stop writing is to leave me lost
Wilted, withered in the gloom.

I listen to the trees, they help me breathe,
Clear my head when it gets crowded.
They remind me the sky won’t always be blue
And my mind too, will sometimes be clouded.

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Blooming in the rain – A poem

april showers bring may flowers
and there is purpose in the rain
the human heart holds strength in powers
to control suffering when there’s pain

there are only shadows because there’s sun
without light all life would turn dour
with rain, melancholy flowers can bloom
no matter how broken, our heart is still ours

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Illusions of Significance – A poem

You are a chapter of significance enclosed in the story of me,
That was the chapter, and
Sometimes I write words and reread them
And struggle to find who wrote them.
Maybe my poems will never be read by you
Because I didn’t write them for you to read.
You are a mystery I will never solve because I am no detective
And I will never perfectly write you
Because you are not the one I am supposed to perfectly write.
You will always be significant,
Because you are teetering on the edge,
You are a question until I stop asking
But I am deciding to let it remain unanswered.

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Turning out.

Things don’t always turn out as we plan them to. I’d go as far to say that they never do. What is a plan, really? A wish, a dream, a fleeting thought? An idea? We can never truly plan for anything as unpredictable as the future. A plan changes as life does, as we do.…

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