Musings

Perhaps the only thing worth anything are thoughts and memories, sketches of the consciousness – certainly not worth much economically, but worth recording, even for myself and the very few people whom they might interest. It follows then that writing is one way of translating and recording these thoughts and impressions.

It seemed like a regular day. The sky was blue, freckled with clouds and a cool, fresh breeze sharpened the surface of his skin. Cars moved here and there, as they normally did. Really there was nothing that signalled it was different to any other unvarying and ordinary day.

The tightness in his c...

Soderbergh’s version of Tarkovsky’s film, Solaris or Stanislaw Lem’s book, or both (whatever way you choose to look at it) could be read on many levels. It’s referred to as ‘science fiction’ and a Hollywood version of a somewhat difficult rendition by Tarkovsky of Lem’s text. My personal take is tha...

How could he explain this ongoing sensation of being in limbo?

Does time pass by from the present to the future, leaving behind a past, with a linear flow; or does time accumulate all experience and moments into a mass of which we each stand on the edge, drawn by gravity back to the centre of all...

I didn’t see many bicycles in my time in Korea. The severe congestion, combined with air pollution didn’t make it a safe proposition.

And yet, this image has two bikes in the frame. The image doesn’t seem to be Korea to me. The mature trees on the street; the architecture; the lush green within th...

There was almost always that feeling of things not being right, an unsettling sensation that meant the present moment was uncomfortable and a source of agitation. The feeling was there in the background, always. It emerged in the pauses in life, and especially during those times when it was possible...