Unreasonable Rendezevous

It was late evening as I picked my way over the rocks on the shoreline. Often I would have to hoist myself over particuarly large boulders, wincing at the rasp of barnacles under my fingers. A mumbled rosary of curse words escaped my breath when my shoe came off my foot ignored by the balmy complacency of the night air and drowned by the invertebrate symphony of the creatures in the treeline. Using one hand to steady myself, I switched my torch on revealing the rocks sullen and grumpy like mutants caught having sex in a cave.

The torchlight gleamed on the slick skin of large amphibian creatures, bigger than a dog. Silently they scrambled for cover as the torch beam hit them-bright orange, red and blue webbed feet frantically scrabbling for purchase.

Where the hell is Nick? can't we just have dinner in the city for once? what the hell was with that restaurant in the warehouse he took me to last time?

An empty patch of sand is illuminated up ahead by the floodlights used in TV studios. Nick was there, standing in the middle of it, microphone in hand. If there was a curtain behind him it would look like he was about to introduce a ventriloquist or a troupe of midget acrobats.

I was calm and composed. I spent most of the ferry ride calmly directing my anger to a quiet corner of my brain, ignoring the old fisherman mumbling to himself behind me. I would step into the light, happy and pretty and then hug him and give him a peck on his stubbly cheek. I stumble on a rock protruding from the sand. My composure evaporates completely

"What the hell are you doing all the way out here? do you know how long I waited for a ferry? And what the hell are you doing holding a bloody microphone?"

He smiled sheepishly "Sorry honey, I was supposed to interview someone here"

"Interview someone? what about us having dinner"

"Don't panic. I haven't forgotten" He turns in a different direction, addressing people I can't see "Okay guys! looks like he isn't showing up tonight, let's wrap it up. Remember the tarpaulin because he's going to be bringing a lot of fish"

The camera crew was nowhere to be seen, the camera itself lying unattended on its stand staring blankly ahead, the boom mike lying on the sand.

Nick was indifferent and linking his arm in mine he lead me up a sandy path through the woods. Small impish creatures with white sheets over their heads began to gather around our feet.

"Where are you taking me?" I whispered

"Don't worry baby, I know a place"

Fierce Nights: Our Blood Was Red Wine

Eulogising the parties of 2009

Leave Your Inhibitions at the Coast

Wandering along assorted beaches, Jan '10

Wetland Ingress

These photos represent a journey taken through the dark hinterland of southwestern Sydney by Will Treffry, Jasper Rice and a mysterious individual under the alias "Otter". The aim of the journey was to seek out a figure named the oracle who resided in a tract of wetlands outside of Liverpool. The journey was long and arduous. At one point the trio were enslaved in an industrial complex, and suffered indentured labour making copper wiring. They visited the midnight Analog Synthesiser black market in an abandoned bus depot, and were able to acertain the oracle's whereabouts from a bearded man. They wandered through gazebos overgrown with vines, eventually rafting through the wetlands until they came across the oracle's dwellings. He was a pretty cool guy.

A Thin, Brittle Wall of Mother Of Pearl

People always say that they would love to write but can never "just sit down and do it"-like its something they have to force out.

For heaven's sake- you're writing, not taking a shit.

The process is entirely different. Rather than squeezing creativity out of yourself, writing is more an exercise in listening to yourself. The creativity is all there: the challenge is actualising it. How do you do that? its easy. The first step is to carry a notebook with you all the time. Whenever you leave the house, make it part of your checklist. Wallet. Keys. Phone. Notebook.

A great idea will always take you by surprise so make sure you have close at hands some means of bringing to life. Another thing-never ever let a good idea get away. Don't think you can write it down later: you'll just forget it.

For me inspiration is always in a state of flux. My thoughts are like a turbulent river, with memories, worries and fantasies writhing against each other. An Idea is a minute gleam in the midst of chaotic coginition. That gleam is the signal for you to spring into action. I always liken the process to smashing through a thin brittle wall of mother of pearl. That's just me.

When you get to the other side, the world suddenly explodes into brilliant colours of inspiration. This is what constitutes an Idea. Break down that wall and you'll have written six pages before you know what's happened.

The other concern that people have is that they won't produce anything "good" when they write. A fundamental flaw in the fabric of our society is how undervalued creativity is. We appreciate the finished products of musicians and artists, but are quick to stereotype the lives they lead as lazy and wasteful, and the people themselves as unbalanced and melodramatic. The dichotomy however between "work" and "creativity" is entirely false.

Exercising ones's creative potential is perhaps one of the most mentally healthy activities one can do. Everyday life (in most cases) does not require any kind of rapport with the more abstract realms of the mind. By being creative you are able to deeply scrutinise your immediate reality and see the surreal lurking behind the shallow facade of the real.

Creative people aren't an elite caste of painters and writers. They are everybody. Unfortunately we are products of a society where the opportunity to be creative is afforded to a few. Furthermore one is confronted with the aforementioned ultimatum of being creative and earning money. You should endeavour to dispel any angst relating to the quality of your work. Write because you want to, write for the joy of being borne away by a passionate idea.

So cancel your appointments, lock your office door and write.

Movement in Your Brain

Just some stuff I was playing around with

The Motel By The Highway

I lay in bed, completely unable to sleep. I am kept awake by two things, the first being an over abundance of light. My motel room overlooks a busy highway, and the headlights of cars spill into the room. The kitch Australiana on the wallpaper is briefly illuminated and then vanishes, eucalypt motifs and rural scenes dissappearing into the void from whence they came. I'm a light sleeper, so the constant oscillation between states is more than enough to keep me in the realm of consciousness.

But there is also a second factor. Over the noise from the highway, I can hear her sobbing. She cries every night, and has for the last year. It happened one night when she came home from work, and is yet to cease. We've discussed it, and even fought over it to no avail. It was as if some unknown stimuli opened a vast emotional floodgate, and perhaps the turbulent waters will never subside. What provoked it will remain eternally unknown, but it seems to be an expression of past failures and present discontent-both merging into a grey, themeless emotional performance.

She didn't seem to yearn for comfort either-quite the opposite. She was tense in my embrace, and certainly didn't want sex. I often wondered whether she wanted a partner at all. It seemed that I was fulfilling a role that any man could-a desire for human presence. To her, I was merely another of the routines and practices that people blanket themselves in to distract themselves from the emotional burdens of life. I was like the blue glow of a TV screen in a darkened loungeroom, or the inane chatter of FM radio in peak hour traffic.

At first it made me deeply depressed, and for a time I even resented her for it. But now I seem to exist in limbo between emotional categories. I still hear her crying-it fills every neuron of my waking thought, but it completely fails to rouse any sort of emotional response. I am a passive conduit for her anguish.

She stops and comes to lie down on the bed; near me but not beside me. I take several deep breaths and turn to face her, words of comfort on the tip of my tongue-but she is already asleep. Her face, even though blotchy and swollen from crying, is still beautiful. It fades in and out of vision, illuminated by the light from the highway.