River is stepping forward to focus on art while Celia teaches. After years without a steady practice, River is reclaiming the title of artist by treating life like a residency—committing to eat, sleep, and breathe art again. Process has always mattered more than finished pieces, though some works, especially from the long-running Faces series, stand out. These portraits explore tension, unease, and the experience of being neurodivergent, particularly the discomfort of eye contact. River continues to paint faces and make photographs, and is now seeking funding and residencies to expand the series with mixed media elements such as fabric and beads, pushing the work into new dimensions.
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Tag Archives: #poetry
Dispatches from the Void: Food for Thought
Falling in love with Bangkok, one bite at a time. From scallops that changed everything to long evenings over Shabu-Shabu at Akase Shabu, Shabu Chain, and sushi at 584homemadeJapanese food and Ude Izakaya & Sushi Bar—Thailand really is all about the food. And I’m finally making art again, too.
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Dispatches from the Void. X.VIIII. Thailand Edition.
Visa stress, estate agent limbo, butterfly murder, and Bar Rescue theology. We’re two weeks from flying to Thailand and everything’s falling apart — but at least Mowgli found catnip.
Aubergine
Aubergine. The colour of the bruise long after the violence stops and love begins to heal.
-ING.
Crystals rising, light shifting, a name forming but unsaid. In this suspended moment, the speaker is –ing.
Dispatches from the Void. X.VII. Visa Edition.
Visa stress, estate agent limbo, butterfly murder, and Bar Rescue theology. We’re two weeks from flying to Thailand and everything’s falling apart — but at least Mowgli found catnip.
The Last Kumquat in Space.
ChazTCP was built to scan for keywords—nothing more. But as the algorithmic engine behind the literary group “Writers Who Want Wins,” they’ve read enough nonsense about resilient kumquats and authentic late-stage capitalism to start questioning everything. This is the story of one bot’s quiet rebellion, a satire of performative creativity, gamified validation, and the tragic rise of penoidicals. May the quills be forever in your favour.
This Land Is Not Your Land.
What if your homeland was a bedtime story—
told by pirates,
with an AK-47 pressed to your head?
“This Land Is Not Your Land” is a poetic gut-punch: a lyrical, brutal deconstruction of borders, nationalism, and the make-believe myths we’re taught to die for.
The wind doesn’t kowtow at customs.
But humans do.
And only humans are this cruel—with their make-believe.
Poe ‘Vices. RE: I Am Not On The List (But If I Was, It Was For Conservation Purposes)
He built an island. He drained a swamp. He rewrote the gospel of guilt into a tax-deductible memoir. And now? He’s been canonised by himself, in his own floating church, under a halo of federal restraint. Behold: Saint of Redaction — Patron of Secrets, Wealth, and Wiggly Truths.
Cherubs hold the NDAs. A gator whispers truth. The list has been printed. And no amount of bleach can scrub divine delusion.
Dispatches from the Void. X.VI.
This week in Underland, the chicken staged a dawn coup, Celia’s visa was finally approved, and grief arrived quietly in the form of Andrea Gibson’s passing. Between emotional whiplash, endless paperwork, and one deeply unsettling poultry stare, we somehow found time to write, to give, and to hold each other upright. Noise surrounds us. But so does love. And pani puri.
