July 6, 2013 § Leave a comment

A aa


Aron got a nose bleed at one of our shindigs. He went to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. After, in the kitchen, I noticed there was some still on his hand. He said, ‘This does not matter to Icelanders, but if it bothers you I will wash it off.”


The heart is a lonely hunter

June 13, 2013 § 4 Comments


“Her face felt like it was scattered in pieces and she could not keep it straight. The feeling was a whole lot worse than being hungry for any dinner, yet it was like that. I want–I want–I want–was all that she could think about–but just what this real want was she did no know.”
― Carson McCullers, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter


June 7, 2013 § Leave a comment




Waking up here in Australia is different in just about every way. The sea here is also.


January 14, 2013 § Leave a comment

dirdot fires


Fires. Divisions.

I am thinking about the body as darkroom. The body itself as a house of images. Light impressions pressed into the skin—burnt on our bodies. I am then, part of this cold sea. And it aches. I am then this body of water, and I travel where it travels and we reflect back at you the same face.

January 14, 2013 § Leave a comment


Image of some of my prints on the floor before hanging them for my MFA. Unfortunately I was a bit stupid and took them in black and white, without realising it…


January 14, 2013 § Leave a comment

Snake Island path

This is a picture of a path on what I think is Snake Island in Lake Ontario from 2010.

I don’t understand myself lately. My head is a void. Things are piling up around me, ideas and more physical things, like the clothes and books in my room and files on my desk.If it is in disorder I have an excuse not to look for anything. It is too hard to find. I ache for simpler things/time/ideas. Some people should not live in cities. Today I read about barefoot running. I remember one summer when my friend Becci and I wore bare feet a lot, and the soles of our feet were black. I felt everything then. Maybe the piles and towers of stuff are just cushions that stop me feeling. I bought a video camera month ago and have not taken it out of the box. I don’t want to make anything in case I fail. I think of things to make and it never fails, inside my head.

When you follow a path that someone made you don’t need to think about where to take the next step. Once on holiday I decided to walk through some marshy woods to the sea, which seemed only a few kilometers away. The woods had no paths, and I spent so much time crawling or scaling brambles, brushing webs from my face. I got all turned around, panic, darker and dirtier the further I went. I had to make my way out. I found myself on the edge of a small road and I saw I had made it maybe 100 metres. So slow without the path. Every small decision becomes big. Stuff piles up like cushions.

Where Am I?

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