A strange kettle of frozen fish, though a welcomed and much needed trip around this triangular mass we call Great Britain. I was sober, and am still, and will continue to be for the duration – 24 days and counting. This was always going to be a trip unlike the others.

Absent strangulation as gothic pretties passed safely by, less the drugs and the drinking and the stealing and soul stripping. Stomach cramps and mid morning gargling of guilt skipped softly under my watch. 7 years since these eyes of mine have been so carefully calculated and acute, yet the observatory perch welcomed me back, no questions asked,  just pleased I had returned.

With mind pad and nylon guitar I went watching the ways, the loads off and on of our friendships, the fault lines and fractures that this past year has built between us, in us, of us, and yet broken us, like bridges and borderlines. Nevertheless, night after night, we burnt like no other fire before us, 60 minutes of sparks that bled, and because we knew, like lovers, that others don’t, it meant more to us than anything ever could.

Either side of our stage time, the frost bit down like a dying dog on a brittle frozen branch, but I drew breath. By the bell, we had tore into the carcass and ate the remains, licked and sipped from the cup of each other’s wounds. Family matters, after all. Fitting then that nature white washed the path we were pursuing, from Lands End to the Northern Souls, the weather wore the details away, rubbing out, revealing nothing but fresh opportunity.

Somewhere I have found this ice temple of tranquility. Peace in a time of turmoil and testing.

Everything in its right (dis)place(meant).

x Crow/OK

If you happen !!! Too stumble upon that part of the street you will find something tugging at your senses; the smell of delicate poverty arises from the gutters baked in paint fumes turning your head into a spin cycle of delirium and catastrophic confusion. One might say an ethereal delusion presides over that Unawarehouse. And if by chance one glimpses through the broken vision of its entrance you shall find words and truths hung by their neck as the hangman stands guard over the skeletons already packed away in his closet. Daytime begs night to be its companion as the brushstrokes torment the walls and lights beg for forgiveness. Canvases stand by awaiting orders form Mrs Crook and the paint rallies around organizing its troops, ordering them to stand by in serried anticipation.

Here’s a painting of the Mrs at The Unawarehouse. xxx

A little “remix” of babies, weddings, and text from Sunday’s Daily News.  Awww.

So sweet that my teeth hurt.

Glue and scissors and sticky fingers,

Craig xo