Before I was here, I was there, hidden by choice, though I swore it was design. We've all been there, right? Behind the curtain I wandered to and fro, listless and untethered before circling back to where we meet now, standing at the crossroads of my fault lines and bloodlines. Welcome.

If I'm honest… I just want to be art and tell stories. Yours and mine. Mine and yours.

Put the kettle on and settle in. I'll make you a brew so you can stay a beat as I offer you a story. Or two.

Let me tell you about how the phrases I’d put up on the shelf lifetimes ago tried to slip my guard. And slipped my tongue, too.

I had to stop, and put them on paper. I had to give in and give them breath and a life of their own. And now, enveloped in the lick of temptation, here I am.

Inquiry seeks to fall from my pen (and my mouth).  Sought to be seen, heard… acted upon. Posed to friends and strangers alike.

Like temple dancers under a full moon, the art of my articulations turn seductively. Hips and vowels roll, gyrations demanding my full and honest presence.

Now, after so long on the bench, these words, contemplations, and questions of mine are being given breath and space to roam away from the scrappy bits of paper they first planted their feet, descendants of utterances from decades long gone.

Rummage through everything. Listen for the beat. Close your eyes and look into the soul of anyone who’ll let you… go to the depths and edges and find every last one of us, they command, we’ll linger on your skin like a thick summer’s eve until you do.

And so, here’s how I do: Splay the fabric of my pondering mind over the pages of my journal (to be shared with you here very soon) and probe the hearts and minds of Other People in conversation.

Sweet and savoury phrases tumble and curiosities fall, thick and fast from my fingertips, begging for your witness and introspection.

Asking me to chase them over the valleys and hills of my heart, and topple, elated and cackling, from the soft cushioning of lips no longer pert from holding back classified intentions. Asking you to keep your wits about you, sharp but soft, as you let these sentiments sink into an open heart.

Though the refusal to be lured back to their tidy crate is crystalline, these questions of mine, their demands are simple – lively accompaniment, a vast and glowing dance floor, and my hand to grace it with. Yours too, if you want.

A tenderfooted wordsmith and wonderer, I’m here as a muse and scribe. An oracle. An ally.

Some days, I’ll be adamant none of this is for you. But I’ll let you watch. Listen. Feel. Receive.

And others, well… I’ll want you to sit before me and my guests of honour, and allow the aimless wondering and wandering of our expression to reach into your bloodstream, sink in your bones and rewire parts of you so minute, so hidden and forgotten that you barely notice. A little unnerved, you’ll arch your brow and cock your head firmly in my direction and question.  Did you hear that? Did someone just call my name?

I want you to be so affected by my presence in your sphere that you go home and make different choices, use different language, sing different songs. Say yes to new experiences that open you to possibilities you never thought available to you.

To understand, finally, why lovers write the songs they do. Why the painter used that particular hue, the chef that spice, the potter that glaze, and why the writer nestled that comma there instead of here. And then, I want you to give in to the whispers that are calling your pen to paper, too.

I don’t want you to know why or how it happened, our paths crossing at just the right time. There is a time and a place to rummage through that data, but on the whole please trust me when I say Why’s and How’s are mostly a distraction designed to delay your unravelling, and unravel you must.

I want to pierce your charade so precisely that you’re aghast I found the keys you thought you hid so well (under the pot plant, to the left – practically an invitation) and ask me to get the fuck out.

Lofty goals, I realise.

But I’m seeing you and I’m not flinching or expecting you to pick the dirty laundry of your heart up off the floor. Holding you in my gaze for a split second, I believe that whatever’s in there is perfect, and tell you exactly that. I’ll speak reverently and curiously of the beautiful things and beautifully of the hard things. With us, in this moment, it’s personal. I don’t do it any other way.


Like many would-be wisdom keepers and artists who spend too much time with a thesaurus, and seem wholly incapable of brevity and getting to the point... I fancy myself as a writer and storyteller, and have created a conversational podcast called Other People where I speak to, you guessed it, other people about their worlds.


Journal being revealed soon