Loaded the van up, bumpy dirt roads and my ceramic passengers buckled in, wicker baskets and sarongs duelled as briefcases and picnic facilitators.
Craft Victoria, Melbourne the van got way less fragile and chugged down the great ocean road and back up the east coast to home.
Cold waves, record shops, nice shells and some sly spots.
This body of work was drenched in water and branches of new growth.
A well of thoughts
Oh well no one will see them
It’s nice to say, cause it’s something i haven’t
I think I want more.
There are ears that don’t listen, I think you’ll hold it longer
My mind forgets what to remember.
But clay you’ll hold it
Like our minds, do I want to remember?
Let’s just lose the words a little.
Do you feel me?
Do you feel how I move, as actions the saying, do speak louder.
Quietly I’ll tell the truth.
Quietly you’ll hold it
I want more
Forgive me
I want more
