top of page

Process of research into 'The book of shadows'

the work with contemplation is unseen and not presented as such, as the artist escapes time and the machine and enters into a sexual intimacy, an unravelling of ego, a willingness to die a little and be ready for creative expression



The Book of Shadows

Time has slid and bumped and hurtled along inside my veins, with every period, with fitful sleeps, with midwifing death and squinting in the light. I am currently on a trajectory that feels a little like an alchemist–in the traditional sense of a renaissance alchemist–tending to bottles of colour, scripts, inks, and yes..even gold leaf.


For me the project has been in an intense research phase since July this year. I have been devouring books and following bread crumbs–sometimes falcon droppings–to get to source materials, to historical accounts, original texts and subsequent literary criticisms–all in the name of my obsession with the cross over, pollination, palimpsests of occult-esoterica-and a conversation with monotheistic religions–in particular Christianity, Judaism and Islam through prose, image, and eventually sound. I’m having a lot of fun. The picture above is me mapping out a skeleton of images– what I hope will be an heretical homage to the word(s) of god(s).


It is going to be filled with philosophical musings, collage, symbolic rabbit holes and shouts from beyond the graves of many a pagan philosopher, burned at the stake, buried under Vesuvius, uncovered under the writings of monks.

owl catching a mouse_edited.png

touch me


Pornographic Pregnant Garden


NOW...did you know that some weeds you keep pulling out are actually good for you? Don’t be so quick to judge the dandelion as a weed.

You can pluck the leaves  and eat them just as they are.

Some of my favourite flowers are weeds,

those with names we never learn, but succulent weeds

hiding in abandoned industrial estates.

My garden once had an orchestra all dressed up in wigs and costumes like something from

‘Dancers at The end of Time’, and a maze of roses that bloomed in the spring. Yes they were painted red. And in the middle of the

maze was a glass house, with red velvet chairs, the most comfortable possible, cats everywhere, and books. I sometimes fell asleep

in the glasshouse in the afternoon, the sun dropping

behind the high hedges.  I also had a big cool fountain


                                                           with fat goldfish

               swimming in delight amongst the blue lotus.



And at night I had parties, orgiastic nonsensical parties, people in frills and fru-fru,

feathers, coming as they are. The garden also had an arbor where the smell of apple blossom mixed with the smell of rain coming.

I had steps of stone, perfectly positioned leading up to my Yurt. A yurt more like a circus tent, where I lived, with a trapeze and

a net trampoline that I would sleep in. That’s how I’d get to sleep, just swing myself on the trampoline and in mid-air disrobe

and land in the comfort of my fine net trampoline.

I also had a whole set of hot air balloons, for friends to use at their leisure. They were in the shapes of titties and cat faces and fun

things like that. We especially like to go hot air ballooning in the early morning and land in a field of green where a long table is

spread with breakfast and billowing sails of red and blue. After breakfast we put on our riding gear and ride horses home, stopping

to eat dandelions and drink from clear running rivers. The garden of my house is so big that you can get lost in it, occasionally

friends have gone missing for months, years, and despite disorientation and a lack of human company they seem none the worse

for wear. I say I had the garden, because for a while it had gone missing. I woke up a while ago and couldn’t find it no matter how I

tried to retrace my steps. I remembered the way the bees fucked the flowers and the flowers in turn fucked the bees, I remember

wind rustling the leaves of the oaks, a little foreplay before noon. I remember the sticky pollen and the milky sap of weeds. I tried

to recall the way the grass would let me sink into it, the smell of crushed lemon, chocolate, clay, nettles.

I would wake in a panic and look upon a barren plain of red sails billowing in the distance.  Only recently have I found my way

back to my garden of delights.

I literally stumbled









plummeted down my own rabbit hole, down  with no end in sight

And I awoke in my dreams one night and knew I was dreaming and said, ‘Well how peculiar, when it is hard enough

to know when you are just dreaming in the waking life, and here I am awake in the dreaming’

My cat Babooshka danced on the end of my bed with a top hat and cane to Eartha Kit’s ‘ Old Fashioned Girl’ and my other cat

Medbh’s head was floating above me with the curious look of all curious cats.

And with that I woke up and found that I was pregnant with nettles and dandelions, and the maze of roses, the orchestra, like

clockwork automatons that just needed winding up, the bees heavy with pollen, flowers that were giving up their scents, giving up

their secrets.

me painting copy_edited_edited_edited_ed
me painting copy_edited_edited_edited_ed
MK_Painting_A2(approx)_01 (boosted)_edit
2016-02-12 07.44_edited.png
2016-08-13 13_edited.png
hot air balloon_edited.png
boob balloon_edited.png
male nude_edited.png
blue lotus_edited.png
Screenshot 2023-02-08 at 8.30_edited.png

the howling wind

Screenshot 2023-02-11 at 4.47_edited.png
2016-08-13 13_edited_edited.png

 am experiencing lag and wonders in the same moment. I lag behind the other technologies that put people

                                                                    into information trances and wonder if they know where they are when they are texting.


Google maps is one thing, but it doesn’t really tell you where you are.


It’s a point on a military satellite navigation system.


I don’t think this kind of system is going to


tell people where they are.

leading to horses- a letter


Please become a crazy cat lady. Make a house of hay bales that haven’t been rendered properly. Please build a moat without a castle. Yes a moat that leads to a house made of scraps of metal you have soldered together and made into a house whose walls are made of broken mirrors and animal furs. You have learnt out of sheer desperation and curiousity to hunt and eat your kill. You have learnt to cure furs and they decorate your body. You look magnificent by the way. You still have clean feet and no lice in your hair and are proud of your more than adequate book collection. If you are going to have children, teach them the ways of making castles, of cobbling horses, of inspiring animals into conversation.

What convinced so many of the suburban dream of boring looking house and tired and overworked friends, fresh from the dungeons of office blocks? Ok…I don’t have any friends who work in office blocks per se, but I know they are out there because I see them.


I see dead people.


I should probably get off this high horse. But what is wrong with a high horse? I mean what do you want to ride?  A low horse?  A horse with stumpy legs– an overworked mule? A camel might be nice though. They have bad tempers and spit. We would probably get on. I could buy my camel nice carpets and I’ve even got some camel tassels I bought last time I was in Pakistan. Ten years ago. I may have even bought them, hanging as they are from every house I live in on a door somewhere,  knowing somehow I would have a camel to hang them from.  I would like a horse though. A lovely horse. But I would be afraid to change its shoes, which I know you have to do. So I would need a cobbler*, but I would still want to be a horse whisperer. Whispering sweet nothings into my horse.

Ok so not too high as a horse, because I don’t want to have to get a step-ladder to reach your ears so I can whisper sweet nothings. You could be eating carrots, nom nom nom, and I would be whispering to you. Maybe I will call you Epona, or Pegasus.  But I won’t get too crazy into horse mythology, because there is a lot. I just read about how prophet Mohammed from Islam, tested the love of his horses, whereby he starved them of water, and then just on day 3 when he lets them drink, he sounds a battle cry and only five of the hundred horses follow him into battle and these five are his legendary pure bloods.

And then there are the Kelpie figures that pose near waterways only to take you on their backs and drown you. 

Screen Shot 2022-03-10 at
Screen Shot 2022-03-10 at 5_edited.png
Screen Shot 2022-03-10 at 5_edited_edite
Screen Shot 2022-03-10 at 5_edited_edite
female nude_edited.png
male back_edited.png


all the fucks and shams

all the delicate spider web catchings of dewy love in the early hours and all the heated skin rippling


the sticky fingers

vintage horse_edited_edited.png

So I love you

Screenshot 2023-02-09 at 9_edited_edited.png
Screenshot 2023-02-09 at 9_edited.png

had to cut my way out of my hair to get out the door this morning.

How did I get to this moment?

Once I had showered I attempted to get dressed.

I combed my hair, moisturised my face, deodorised, under-weared, stockinged, holstered my tits,

encouraging their reluctant round smooth gravity entranced shape to align themselves to order and stasis.

As I put my shoes on, I realised one of the buckles was broken, just after my lover had re-glued the soul to the body. And I collapsed on the bed and could not get up.

female nude_edited.png

Free spanks. Instead of free hugs. Dominatrix Queens in leather offering spanks for those of us who really want one.


Free hugs, free love–urgh-it all seems so incredibly like a Mac application.


Oh and stop with the random ‘love you’ to everyone and everything.


when I do say ‘I love you’, listen and understand I am saying ‘ my whole heart sings for you, my whole being is in a spin for you, I am pure love, I have

                                                   dissolved like a sufi mystic in my love for you’.

Screenshot 2023-02-09 at 9.48_edited.png
Screenshot 2023-02-09 at 8.33_edited.png
Screenshot 2023-02-09 at 9.55_edited.png

To live in fear of things, events, moments that might happen is very much a half-life.


A life of scuttering because of unidentified shadows passing across one’s vision.


It is to be a slave to one’s own thoughts, so I am a slave to my self.


                               This is terrifying. Who is this self? Why have I constructed her this way?                                 Have I?

These are not the westerly winds,

heat and bulls on heat and heated trains sucked into the distance.

These are not the westerly winds that bring memories of

warm cheap wine smuggled into the Brisbane showgrounds and cowgirls from elsewhere. Where do they sleep, these cowgirls?

Above the cows, like
a Gurdjieff cure for TB,

            but I don’t think these cowgirls are anywhere near the literary splendour of Katherine Mansfield.

But she followed Gurdjieff until the cows came home, but they never came home and she died.

                                              These are not the westerly winds,

bottom of page