Skree part 23. Pavlov part 1. The revenge on the Alsatian bully’s

https://youtu.be/rFFqTtSIQMo?si=IG6bBCR7GIfjFFm6 Sent from my iPhone

Stairwell moths

Pale tussock

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Stairwell moths

Zanclognatha

Orange swift

Riband wave

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Stairwell moths

The Magpie

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Stairwell moths

Small dusty wave

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chapter 7; Lipton and Christ reunite

Though the steady build up of traffic that began at about 4am had not troubled Lipton a rustling and muttered swearing did. Throughout the night the odd vehicle had spun around his island of safety and Lipton snuggled in to himself and finally as rush hour coagulated into a homogeneous mush of sound he lost consciousness. The crack had been a daft idea and like all stimulants precluded the loss of self most seek at the end of the day. Someone was on his roundabout and an itinerant life had taught him that virtually no one went in amongst the bushes and trees that were scattered around the centre of these islands that had so often provided a safe, untroubled campsite. Only the annual strimming and pruning but the chance of catching this council workers day out were 364 to 1. A stench of rotting flesh overwhelmed the street shaman, so repugnant he involuntarily retched though brought up nothing from his stomach. Lipton had learned to keep down ayuashka, something even the most highly powered of his profession never mastered. Nevertheless the reek of putrefaction was troubling.

Keeping frozen Lipton readied his hunting knife. Rupert Bunsen may well have survived the demonic explosion that saw his Noah project destroyed by the collective he and Skree had drawn together. The Druids and Witches alongside the two shamanic brothers had not all survived but it was without doubt that serious forces would by now be hunting them down. The achievement had been a historic strike against the grey that he and Skree had committed to fighting, both in the full knowledge that they would most likely be ultimately killed. The pagan mystics had their battles and won more than they were due. Someday they would be caught. It was inevitable. Lipton thought Skree may have survived but it was unlikely. The lonely trip back alongside the Druid lad he had grown close to had felt like they were the last two. Only the sackful of body parts they had salvaged, a gruesome jigsaw of a man and Jack of Clun had left him there in Porlock Weir, the only other who may have survived. He knew not even that the meat had made it to the traveller site. And Lipton had no clue if the man he had become something like a freind to, could endlessly overcome death.

“Lipton, you cunt! Show yourself! It’s your old freind, the one and only, son of god! Jesus Christ! I’m back and this time I’m fucking Righteous!”

Oh fuck! Thought Lipton. How the fuck had the lamb of god found him? How the fuck did he do any of his tricks for that matter. There was no sense in hiding given he’d homed in on him despite his best efforts to hide away.

“I’m over here! But don’t think you’re getting a hug! Pleased as I am to see that you’re still alive you’re clearly some way off full reanimation!”

“Ha, ha, ha!” Cackled Jesus, “you don’t look too clever yourself!”

Lipton could see Christ was still on the mend. His matted hair was drawn across his cheek in a failing attempt to see the exposed jaw and rictus grin of teeth. The eye on that side of his face was a milky globe , its mechanism exposed. Choosing to look at the old tramp from his ‘good’ side, Lipton was able to keep a grip on the impulse to vomit.

“What the fuck happened to me! I’ve been on some benders in my time….well I’ve been on one really, but it has lasted over 2000 years. But I have absolutely no memory of what happened. I remember the journey across the sea with all the crew, but from there I have no recollection whatsoever! I came to over a period of months. Stuck in a fucking trailer, back on Crankshafts site. That cunt has never got over the excellent and outstanding performance of a sexual nature to reinvigorate his and his Mrs love life! I wish I’d never bothered for all the thanks I get. Soon as the old physical repair work was done I came out and left them to it. Miserable cunts! You’d think they’d have a few bevvies ready but just like usual. It’s me who has to get the drinks in. Talking of which,” and with a theatrical sweep of his hand, Christ did his famous party piece and swung two unlabelled bottles of wine, “red or white?”

Lipton took the white, plunged the cork using a clipper lighter and took a long , deep draughty.

“Well, Jesus Christ, do you remember a lunatic, armed to the teeth that came in pursuit of our merry bunch?”

Jesus shook his head looking genuinely bemused.

“Well, we had a bit of luck! The Clun Witches had summoned up a conger eel, demon hybrid. Like a writhing mass of eels, the thickness of your arm, but en mass something like the length and width of a small train of maybe three carriages. You were blown into a number of pieces just before the action. The crazed copper blew a hole into the Noah spacecraft that housed roughly the thousand wealthiest people on the planet and the demon conger eel hybrid ate the fucking lot of them! Well, a few got away. Bunsen himself I think but in all the chaos I don’t know who lived but I do know most died. Me and Brock, we hung around for a couple of days, we gathered together what we could find of you, then we thought we’d best get out of there. Clearly anyone alive was on Bunsen island and any chance they got they’d be coming to kill us. So we sailed home. I was sectioned and I’ve not long been out of the mental health institution. Good to see you’re on the mend, mind.”

Christ looked at ground before him and shook his head. “Sounds like I missed the party. What about Skree? I take it……”

“Sadly so. There’s no way that any of our lot survived, bar Brock and yourself, of course.”

Lipton had seen Christ off his face. The man was always having a laugh. Never took anything too seriously. It was the character trait that made the man bareable. His personality could be incredibly irritating and he had no concern about the damage and hurt he caused with his endless womanising. His seemingly insatiable appetite for sex and drugs and the desire to keep the party going, forever if he could. The lord of the dance, some had called him. And Lipton considered and could not think of a single instance where the man had been self reflective. But, here, in the centre of a roundabout, outside of Bridgewater, Lipton saw tears. Only the briefest of trickle, but as lorry and car circled around them, invisible through the trees and bushes, Lipton knew that Christ had loved them. Loved those who had risked everything and most had paid the ultimate price, in their collective mission to stop the richest, greediest people. If he had a single value he held precious, beyond all other it was that money, and those who sought it out, those who set up banks outside the temple, money was the least valuable commodity that we have.

Lipton gathered some dried twigs, stirred around in the embers from last night’s first and got flame. And so the two brothers sat opposite each other, drinking their wine in silence, thinking of their fallen freinds.

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Stairwell moths

Pale tussock

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Stairwell moths

Garden carpet

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Stairwell moths have

White Ermine

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Stairwell moths

Common Swift

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Stickleback

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Stickleback

As a boy we would catch small fish; minnows and sticklebacks that instead of having a traditional dorsal fin opted for a run of spikes. From memory I think the ones we caught were three spined sticklebacks though I have some deeply buried dream of a fifteen spined version. This may have been a fantasy, an old wives tale shared by prepubescent boys. But the name seemed appropriate as a title for a piece of furniture I made for an exhibition I took part in. Whilst at college I’d made a table that was something of a folly but came from noticing how plants would grow through tarmac. Men plastered down their dull, black tarry pavement in belligerent triumph over nature but we all secretly knew that they didn’t stand a chance. Men may try to freeze a moment and dictate the direction of pedestrians but true paths form in wayward fashion. The collective mind wove intricate, unruly stray lines that were beyond the reason of a single urban planner. Meanwhile the pavements blistered and burst as life took its own initiative and did as it pleased. The table top I made was in oak and had small black shoots of bog oak that mimicked the growth through tarmac. The table top was a rejected idea but a curious diversion from what I saw as a rule to be broken. Of course I was wrong. Tables have flat tops with good reason. Nevertheless, having recognised my folly and being of a contrarian nature I dug in deeper. My girlfriend of the time was working in a hot glass studio and on a weekend she had access to a great facility. I asked her to make me a run of lead crystal spikes ranging from small four inch to larger ones nearly a foot in length. I carved a top from American black walnut that mitred into side panels. Beneath the top I built a maple box that housed a strip light. The glass spikes were housed into holes that allowed the light to travel up through the glass spikes which worked something like a fibre optic. The piece was of no practical use but worked as a light sculpture that glowed quietly. Who can claim that they’ve never been tempted to make a table with lead crystal glowing spikes bursting out of its back. Like a frozen burst of machine gun fire. Looking back I can still recall the impulse to create domestic monsters. Furniture is largely made to comfort yet sometimes the temptation to terrify is an impulse I have been unable to resist.

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The Fourth Act - Filthy Rich (Official Music Video)

https://youtu.be/K09S0887pU4?si=5QUpGRR7lfW7Fw5E My nephews band’s first single. The sound of summer 2026 Sent from my iPhone

mental health

Sometimes I go through periods of time where my anxiety gets very intense and I experience a deep terror of social interaction of any kind. Even with my closest friends. In fact it is particularly with my closest friends that I find the hardest. I’m not sure why this is. Maybe it’s the person I pretend to be becomes a lie. I don’t want people to think that I’m a failure. The person I present as myself proves to be a fake. A construct created and molded to satisfy what I believe the freind would hold in the highest regard. I can remember my father telling lies to big himself up when the man who he was would have more than sufficed. And I have become the same. What I had always been determined not to be. To learn from his mistakes. Yet I have fallen in to being the same duplicitous deceiver. Whether it be financial security that I don’t really have. Whether it be success in my chosen field. Fear that my home is not as impressive as I imagine the freinds expectation might be. Why would anyone lie about who they are? Why does the fear of disappointing people, people that I love, keep me from seeing them.

I tried my best to be good at what I do and maybe I became a competent craftsman. Deep down I know that I have made far more decent furniture than just about any of my peers yet it still feels like I failed. I never had the mental strength to be successful. The more I learn about narcissists and sociopaths the more I see the pomposity of the game I chose as a career. The last stint of work was a five year blast that left me broken. My life is punctuated with periods of intense energy and work that careen out of control and crash into a mental breakdown. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve had now. Maybe five. Each time worse than the last. The first serious one came in the years after university. I’d mastered that system and qualified with a first. What a fool I’d been. Competing in a narrow system for three years. Each project we’d see who could score the highest marks. I’d been one of the top in my year. I recall the pompous swagger as I’d strut around, glowing in seeing my name top or close after a project. What a stupid idea to put the marks up like the football league at the end of the workshop. And I remember the excitement that Ian Douglas had when he rang me to let me know that I had a first. I was alone in a cottage in a part of the country where I knew virtually no one. How hollow I felt. Realising how fully I had fallen for a myth. No group any more where this would have any meaning. And I have never been asked what I got by anyone. Admittedly I never got seriously into academia where it might have been of some consequence.

I’d seen one part of the myth at my first college. The generation of designer makers who I had admired and aspired to be like were not able to support themselves without a rich family, a rich spouse or a teaching position at one of the universities that perpetuated the myth. So knowing this I tried to become a lecturer. I had various places where I worked; Shrewsbury College, university of Wolverhampton, Buckinghamshire college, Swindon, guest spots at Parnham, Jacob Kramer and others. But I was not good at communicating with people on the whole. I couldn’t sell them a product I did not believe in. And the pressure I felt led to my first serious breakdown. My girlfriend at the time, in who I had put total belief, abandoning my home community to join her. Or so I believed. She bought a derelict cottage that I renovated. She told me that she would be moving there once she had finished the glass course she did after completing her fine art degree. But she never came. I was alone, working on the cottage, making ways to live in an inward looking county that had little interest in incomers. The support of a network of friends and a partner was not there. So I turned to drink. Having no training as a teacher I was asked to be a lecturer at Wolverhampton, I applied for a job at the University of central England and finally the last day was taken up by the only college that I felt even remotely comfortable at Shrewsbury. Five and a half days a week. I was paid more then than I have ever got since. Of course my girlfriend decided to go work in a glass studio instead of coming to live in the cottage she had bought. What ever gave me the idea that she would buy a cottage, have me restore it and come live there.

So I drank until I broke. I ran away down to Somerset where she lived and tried to recover. In the end I was just in the way to her now. I went to work for Fred. He saved me then. Along with Gareth. But I can’t bring myself to see them now.

I managed to compromise on what I would do. A connection I got through my girlfriend’s father became my patron. Other makers I knew thought I had it lucky. Perhaps I did. I found I could make decent quality furniture and make a living at it. But I was still deluded. What I now understand is narcissistic and sociopathic behaviour seduced me. I believed that I had a magic touch. That I was somehow special. There’s a spectrum and perhaps Tracy Emin is at the apex. A belief that you are special. That the emotion you invest into the creation of objects invests them with magic. That an unmade bed is a great work of art. That so important are her feelings, above and beyond the feelings of common people, that any presentation of matter is of great value. Fine furniture may be a few degrees of self delusion below the work of conceptual artists but essentially it is the same thing. To succeed in that world. The world of exhibitions of pure narcissistic sociopathy that the creators of this stuff are exceptional beings. To succeed the artist must have a self belief of complete conviction. They have to be able to talk to collectors fully believing that the objects that they sell are invested with magic.

But I knew deep down, even though I dare not admit it to myself, that I am not special. Further than that, I know too that my peers in that world are also delusional narcissists.

And so again I crumbled. My girlfriend was long gone. I’d followed her, abandoning my home, family and friends till the world I had left had disappeared. Evaporated as all circles of people do after a time. And I found myself stranded. Not really accepted in the world I now found myself in and lost from my home.

From alcohol I drifted off into harder drugs. My business lasted a couple of decades.

In a broken state I gave up on everything. Left only with my trade skills I understood what it means to be working class. Having only your labour to give until you fade away.

A couple of years of mental illness where I was unable to work followed. The only friends I had were the other broken people whose common denominator is drugs and drink.

There’s more. Other bits of work like the museum fitting and more complex drug addictions.

I became a failed artist. Still delusional and narcissistic but with no evidence to support my belief in the magic I had thought was in my touch.

There is another chapter. The humility I faced and became the maker for a much younger boss. I can say how I took his business, through my skills to a new level. How I helped him design his workshop and together we fine tuned his business to create the objects for another narcissistic sociopath who had a greater self belief than either of us. I worked too hard. Continued with some of my own work. Pushed myself until again I broke. This time doctors and mental health professionals told me that I had to stop if I wanted to live much longer.

And in this broken state I have too much pride to admit that it was all for nothing. That I’m isolated and ashamed to talk to my closest friends. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I don’t have the strength of character to show you just how broken I’ve become.

And I think I’m just about done now. I’m sorry for letting you all down.

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Russell Brand & Other Famous Narcissists: An Expert Analysis by Psychopa...

https://youtu.be/6OGewZeI86s?si=K7gR0hSiZMbaYOYb Best breakdown of Brand following his recent two interviews promoting his new book with Piers Morgan and another. I found it similar to the Emily Maitliss Prince Andrew interview in that both believed that they had been successful in clearing things up when in fact to any impartial observer they had clearly dug a deeper hole. Further I found it eye opening into myself and other ‘artists’ who I have always thought they were engaged in a kind of, what we would have called ‘showing off’, a term I seldom hear these days but this is a far more articulate explanation than I have ever managed. Sent from my iPhone

Stairwell beetles

A couple of may bugs just outside the back door. Nice big beetles. Always amazes me how they can find each other.

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Stairwell moths

Pug. Common Pug maybe but it’s a guess. Usually a less homogeneous marking but I could well be wrong.

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Stairwell moths

Bee moth

Light brown apple moth

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Skree part 22. Wellsway Colliery accident 1838

https://youtu.be/CWOnpS6NbtU?si=YSgjwp8WFR2vBK64 Sent from my iPhone

Holly Blue

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Grey Squirrel

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2009-09-27

https://youtu.be/H_1DP62_TGA?si=-Oy8YyuTfJhk-TbQ Sent from my iPhone

Water tower

2009-09-27 https://youtu.be/H_1DP62_TGA Sent from my iPhone

2009-09-27 https://youtu.be/H_1DP62_TGA Me and Lipton on top of moortown water tower in Leeds on Sent from my iPhone

Lipton returns

I don’t know how many people read the two books that I posted on my blog a few years ago. I kept the ending of the second one to myself with a view to having it published. In a sense you have to read the first one to understand the second though it stands up on its own. It requires serious rewriting and editing and is very much a first draft but I have never read anything like it. My character is Skree but also Peter. Lipton is the costar and is based on a freind. His name came when the predictive texting wanted to put Lipton instead of his real nickname despite me spelling it correctly. I also didn’t want him to know that I’d used his character in a story. Maybe I’ll tell him one day. A lot of the scenes were real and actually happened but we aren’t really shamen or archangels. We did sneak past security and climb the last gas silo frame in Bath. We did drive up to Leeds and climb moortown water tower. We did psychedelics on cley hill and watched a partial eclipse. We did a lot of things that are in the first book but there’s a layer of fantasy on top. We never met up with Jesse Presley in the underground tunnels we explored and there was no subterranean rock and roll empire of which he was king.

Anyway last week the character I based Lipton on who I hadn’t seen for years turned up and he stayed and we talked and drank. His son is in the village next to ours, less than two miles away. Lipton wants to be in his life and has pulled himself out of addiction and is doing all the right things to be a part of his life and watch him grow. This means he’ll be here a lot. It was me who got the daft ideas like breaking into sealed tunnel networks and climbing industrial buildings. But without him I don’t have the bravery. We egg each other on and he’s always up for an adventure, say a drive deep into wales to explore slate mine tunnels. He doesn’t get why I am drawn to doing these things but he always has the bottle. There’s so much work we need to do now he’s back. We did used to buy action man figures for our missions. Two were hung from the water tower and were still there last time I passed it. We also buried an action man each, two feet beneath the soil at the stone circle Michael Evis had built. It was our signature. On all serious adventures we would choose an action man each and hang them, bury them, burn them; use them up to mark our work in appropriate ways. The figures represent us and we sacrifice them to seal the hoodoo of our exploits. The last two were put to sea at a beach near us and we watched the small figures in the boat we had made for them slowly grow smaller until our eyes saw two dots before they disappeared completely. There are some great water towers ear here and we will be getting our action men ready for our mission. Because now he is back in my life our competitive nature will no doubt have us up to our ritual exploration again and testing each other as to how committed to ridiculous endeavours the other is. It’s something that we can’t not do. Lipton is now in his mid fifties and I am sixty so we won’t be able to do what we used to. We are older men now but both still have a yearning for ridiculous missions. Readers may have read the first chapters of book three that picks up in the aftermath of our destruction of Rupert Bunsens Noah project and the Witchfynder general is hunting us down. We are separated having been flung off in different directions. Both of us know that not everyone has survived. Lipton has so far left the mental hospital following his sectioning, Jesus has reanimated having been smashed in to many pieces. Of course he can’t be killed and has been reborn many times since his heyday covered in the New Testament gospels and is back living on traveller site in Somerset. I am not yet written about but spoiler alert I survived the carnage of the conger eel demon hybrids. Only one of the Clun Druids survived and there’s no sign of the coven of witches who summoned up the sea goddess who is the group mind of the conger demon hybrid shoal. My friend Jason Feddy has just had his book published and you can put in a preorder on Amazon now. So I think it’s time that I sorted out my book and get it out there. It’s a lot of work but there is nothing like it and I believe it would be a popular cult book. There’s so much to do. I’m already following the characters in the aftermath but I need to go through all of the first two books and tidy them up. Welcome back into our lives Lipton.

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The Fourth Act - Filthy Rich (Official Music Video)

https://youtu.be/K09S0887pU4?si=un-wnUxHStBdAr4a my nephews band Sent from my iPhone

Skree part 21. At home waiting for Lipton

https://youtube.com/shorts/rDuyIU1aLho?si=h27jbrZTgJkKn2yt Sent from my iPhone

Stairwell moths

Streamer

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Restoring Calum’s ice cream rickshaw with Tom and Paul

https://youtube.com/shorts/S7vEq9vN4mI?si=1QyxQWKDp-mu8pwR Sent from my iPhone

Zinc sink

Door

Four bay dresser

Four bay dresser

Oak chest with slate panels

Lichen

Calum and Toms ice cream rickshaw

Here we see the vehicle head on. I have had no input in to Toms designing and creation and no input in to Calum's boundless energy and motivation in creating a niche for himself in a world he might otherwise not have found. Nevertheless I can't help but feel a little proud in mixing two elements that have caught fire. For over five years now Calum has been a well known and interesting spark of illumination that in straighter towns might not have had the same impact.
But like all vehicles that are on the highway, wear and tear through every day use takes its toll. Alongside the complex gearing and chassis, its motor, indicators and other lights, the suspension system pedals and brakes there is the paintwork and Perspex, a freezer box and various shelving that all can deteriorate through every day use. And being honest about it all, Calum can find himself frustrated and perhaps not being as careful as some might be. Consequently, as Spring slowly edges towards summer their incredible creation requires some TLC. A few maintenance issues and a fresh motor are required. And being a unique vehicle there really is only one place able to work on the vehicle. Were it so simple, Tom might have seen his happy customer cycle away and never see his client again. And being unique and essentially a prototype based on the successful conventional rickshaw design that is the backbone of Toms business, there has been a fair bit of extra work Tom has had to carry out. Tom must have given thousands of hours free to Calum who can be hard at times to communicate with. Lovable though he is, Calum can sometimes not be as aware of the suffering of others. That's not to say he takes Tom for granted at all, but at times it has been difficult for Tom to be able to afford to carry out repairs.

Calum’s ice cream bike

The things we are most proud of outside of our own creations can be the connections and the interweaving of people and their potential. They are often the most difficult and beautiful at the same time. Our legacy is something that happens despite ourselves and rarely comes about through pure intentions. When I moved to Somerset I knew very few people here. I arrived surfing the wave of perhaps my worst mental breakdown and I'm forever grateful to Gareth Neal and Fred Baier for putting me back together again. Gareth introduced me to Fred and I found myself making furniture for one of my heroes in the field. This introduction, this interweaving by Gareth helped me reestablish my self esteem whether it was his intention or not.
Whilst at university in High Wycombe my partner at the time was at art college in Cheltenham and we would alternate our weekends. Consequently I got to know my girlfriend's freinds and their partners. This is how I got to know Tom Nesbitt. He is a designer most well known for the rickshaws that can be seen everywhere from Soho to Scotland though the highest density of them is in Bath and Frome where Tom has made them for something like two decades now.
A chance meeting shortly after I had moved to Frome was with an old friend from my mid teens. I had lived with Ron Tree when I was about 16 having found myself homeless. I had no family to turn to but being part of the counter culture I was fortunate to be able to find a roof for me and my girlfriend of the time. After some months there we moved down to live in a communal house in Cornwall and I lost touch with Ron. Move forward nearly twenty years and I am walking through the town centre when I bumped into Ron. I recognised the tattoos on his hands. In a strange twist of fate he had become the frontman and singer for Hawkwind. Hawkwind were our band in our teens and I was blown away by how he had found himself fronting what had been probably our favourite band.
Soon I got to know him again and I got to know his partner and his son, Calum. Calum is autistic though I'm not knowledgeable enough about his condition other than to say he is a remarkable person. Back then he must have been between five and ten and somehow we connected. He'd come walk my dog with me and we have remained close as he has grown into a remarkable young man. His enthusiasm is infectious though it can run away with him and he can lose a clear sense of what other people are feeling.
Having grown through various obsessional periods where he would become engrossed in the police. He would produce drawings, repeated in great detail of police. He would dress as a policeman and collect police related clothing and items. At some point he became obsessed with becoming an ice cream man. He created a bicycle with chimes and began operating as an ice cream vendor. The thought of him driving an ice cream van was a step too far but something in my head connected and I knew he would be fascinated by Toms rickshaws. So I arranged a time for him to go down to Toms workshop which at the time was in Frome. It was only meant as a way of showing him what might be possible were he to focus and work towards it. Ron came down and he had a weary look which I didn't understand but do now. This lit a spark and I think I gave Tom a heap of work. As I said his obsession can be overwhelming but he can achieve incredible things and sees no boundaries where I might see problems. I also feel some guilt towards Tom in that he has given Calum an unbelievable amount of time and energy.
Having made the connection I lost touch with them both for a couple of years as life took me down some strange avenues. The cost of one of Toms rickshaws is in the low to mid thousands. They are a sophisticated and well designed vehicle that Tom has developed over many years. He doesn't do one offs. The cost in time and research and development is too great. Yet one day I saw Calum riding an electric, bespoke ice cream rickshaw. Tom made his dream come true and has given Calum a chance at a career no one could have predicted.

Skree part 19. Research chemicals

https://youtu.be/AO-PXcgANs0

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Tree surgery

Stairwell moths

Common Plume

The Mushroom Man | A Psychedelic Documentary on Gordon Wasson & Sacred F...

https://youtu.be/EUyvWZrSagU?si=e2wKtRDcrF0EynYz

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Stairwell moths

Shoulder stripe

Stairwell moths

Twin spotted Quaker

Stairwell moths

Shoulder stripe

Stairwell moths

Shoulder Stripe

Stairwell moths correction

Early moth

Stairwell moths

Early Thorn

Peacock

Peacock

Skree part 16. 10 economy bin bags and an oak beauty

https://youtu.be/diUYd0_KE2c?si=nqIySh8XWImvgM96

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10 economy bin bags

Remember Richard

Richard revisited
https://youtu.be/04OdxHcgrpo

Sent from my iPhone here is the block of wood mentioned in the YouTube series Skree part 16. Though no plaques or commemorative gravestones are permitted the green burial site of Lawnswood Cemetery I made this block as a marker of where Richard and his dad are buried. Following Richard's death I went through a psychotic phase of grief was drawn to make something for my friend who died way too young. If you can hear me I miss you every day. You were my closest friend and you always will be. Love to you my brother.

Stairwell moths

Oak beauty

Skree part 15. The death of Woofy and reflections on the death of Turps ...

https://youtu.be/2V8HpfPRooY?si=0XWSwiDhoUGkhnXo

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The change in pot between 82 and 2000

https://youtu.be/PC_Ayqt38dU

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Introvert

Big block of oak with blue holes

Wired and twisted

Wall cabinet

Hyperbolic parabaloid doors with silver handles and hinges. Inside are two drawers with dovetails cut at compound angles