Film Noir evokes rain drenched streets, femme fatales with a gun in their purse, and most of all, the cynical, perversely honourable men who populate these black and white films. George Raft, handsome, sexy and just this side of civilised leaning against a lamppost in 1930s Shanghai; Humphrey Bogart cradling the Maltese Falcon in his… Read More Men of Film Noir
In My Dark Places, James Ellroy’s brutally honest memoir of his journey into his mother’s unsolved murder, he writes “he learned some things about murder early on. He learned that men killed with less provocation than women. Men killed because they were drunk, stoned or pissed. Men killed for money. Men killed because other men… Read More The Black Dahlia and The Writer’s Imagination
He did what he did every evening. It was a complete violation of protocol but he never varied from this pattern. It was his moment of silent rebellion, something he would never explain even if someone had asked him about it. No one ever asked him to explain. At 8.30 he walked from his room… Read More Chronos 8
If I could turn your walls into stained glass, I would show you how beautiful you are, Even when you cannot see it, I can. My friend, who is afraid to speak, to smile How can it be that I can see your beauty from a thousand miles away Scented with lilacs, brushed with pollen… Read More A Poem for the One Who Thinks of Suicide
My grandfather loved fountain pens. He collected them, testing each potential new one carefully in the shop before he bought it and then, carrying it home wrapped in tissue paper, already anticipating which ink he would use first . He slipped out in the evenings, leaving the noise of his eight children and many grandchildren… Read More My Grandfather’s Fountain Pen
It was cool that evening, the soft summer breeze touching lightly along the treetops, the flowers by the walkway, winding towards the door. She often stood outside in the early evenings, just for a moment or two, reflecting on the day’s events. Some days were good, some days were bad, but mostly all the days… Read More All the Boys of All the Wars
here are many languages – a language of words and text, of sound and presence, but beneath that there is a language of emotion and senses of sacred and profane, of tone and vibration the way bees dance in the summer light dusted with pollen intoxicated by the scent of flowers. yet another layer deeper… Read More languages
I know your face in all the snow that falls in Siberia I know your breathe in the sound of jasmine growing In willow leaves, in elements too rare to name I know your eyes when the sun strikes the sea when cranes twist the air into eddies, swirls It is unknown to you, that… Read More Islands in Green Water
hollow places 