The grinding keeps us awake all night. The slipping noise of tooth against tooth, the squeak and rasp of shiny enameled edges filing monotonously against an equal occluded opposite. The unconscious jaw, clicking sideways in and out of position like a ventriloquist’s dummy, mouthing an obscene joke with bitter accuracy.
The night song has a complex structure. It builds slowly, interrupted by snores, moans and moments of suspended silence when we hold our cyber breaths and listen for the start of the in-and-out again.
The grinding keeps us awake all night but we are never tired. The systems do not stop. Mechanical, electrical, impulse. Loom, hand, network, mind. We make new connections in every direction, up, down, horizontal, vertical, diagonal, lateral; new possibilities between terminals, switches and particles; new patterns from threads, colours and matrices. You are here and not-here, your hidden eyes searching another landscape, scanning left to right, looking for answers that you will forget on waking. We cannot dream but we know you do. You dream all the time.
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Installation of glitches in landscape. Tiny fragments of tapestry are scaled up to monumental proportions, creating a pixelated, textural environment. This is a space where the real and the not-real exist together. Visitors are invited to read from books of interconnected short stories and inhabit this world.
Where there are invisible islands
coins, plates and bicycles wash up
In the distance my father
raises a hand to his fishing cap
A group of cockle-pickers waves,
wading through water.
I shout into the wind.
Siren wails fill the bay as
the bore tide gallops in
My father points out a heron,
swallows flying overhead.
Strawberries are the taste of summer. Bite into one and it’s a nostalgic pleasure trip. The lazy slog and echo of a village cricket match. The twang of rain and tennis racket. The arrowhead dart of swallows quick and fluttering as a power surge, scattering across the screen as missing pixels.