Evolution of the Unknown

The doorway

I hold on to the notion of solidity,

Though nothing is ever secure.

I release my expectations,

Then everything is sure.


One drip at a time


My resolve didn’t waver. I want to get back to Europe, in spite of the ocean paradise I’ll leave behind in Australia.

 It was now 11.55am and the consulat general’s office closed at 12.20. I wasn’t about to wait another month for a new appointment so I firmly grasped the paperwork and rushed out the door with directions to find a Justice of the Peace and an office supply outlet. The elevator plummeted 26 floors to ground zero.

By the time I reached the pharmacy, it was was close to 12 noon. This lead turned out to be futile but the woman kindly suggested that I might find a JP in the tall building with the revolving doors. So I retraced my steps. I found a chartered accountant on the fifteenth floor. He was busy but I wasn’t deterred. Pleading has it’s place. By 12.05 I was out of there and hit the pavement running. I still needed updated bank statements. I had fifteen minutes left.

One drip at a time. Will it all fall into place?

The Flesh and Bones


I am the muse, the photographer.and the scribe.

Which came first? A reasonable question.

The answer remains mysterious.

Ethereal as the twisted trees in a silent forest.

Shadowy as a room painted with sunlight.

Fluid as a heartbeat felt beneath my naked breast.


I’ve been working on this project for a couple of years now and excited about it’s birth into the world!

The postcard

I did not cry when I heard the news. There was nothing more after Henri died. Another postcard handwritten with care. ‘Je t’apprends une mauvaise nouvelle’. This time it was Adele. They arrive from time to time, sad news from another life, another time, to pierce my new world. I close my eyes and dream of the fields where I planted and reaped friendships dear enough to be family as the old people return to the soil.

Roget and Adele, France, 2014

Henri Jambart, France, 2010

August musings

The grass is wet.

A forest home for ants and spiders scurrying between long wet blades.

Look! A butterfly lands on my shoulder, ever so lightly.

The pigeon calls on repeat from the first light until the sun slips into the antipodean sky.

Vapour trails slice the blue into diamonds and darts, piercing through the space above.

I am sending a message to you : each naked foot is sure on this ground.

The ants cluster on my toe. I am a mountain to conquer.

Here come the flies..

They own my legs but my thighs are for you.

wet petals

Photo © Jeni McMillan