'Green Fire' is a multi-media project - about creativity. These paintings, drawings, videos, poems, writings are leaves, twigs, branches, fields, furrows, mountains, and light breaking through, and divine and demonic creatures, real and imaginary. A surreal multiplicity. An organic creativity. Towards an ecology of earth and imagination.

LANGUAGE IS THE CAGE THROUGH WHICH I EXPRESS MY PASSION, 21cm x 29cm, 8" x 11.5", 2011, India and acrylic ink, gel pen, oil paint on Moleskine Folio Sketchbook A4 prepared with a base of acrylic matte medium.

'Fluid Dreams in Green: The woman who is trying to break free. Rising.' 21cm x 29.5cm, 8.25"x11.5", India and acrylic inks, oil pastels, acrylics, Moleskin Folio Sketchbook A4.

'Wing of Chrysalides,' 2011, 20cm x 27cm, 8" x 10.5", India inks, oil paint, oil pastel, watercolour pencils, Moleskine sketchbook.

He stands between two worlds; he is about to leap. His wing, of chrysalises. In his hand, a green butterfly. He is nearly undifferentiated in the green as he straddles the blue where he is clear.

On him, glued, a piece of a shopping bill: 'Please retain receipt for purpose of completing the online survey.'

Another piece of the receipt, which hangs like a white fish, or perhaps only a rhythm.

• The green fury of Spring is nearing like a virescent bush fire. The sumacs are pregnant with multiple bud births.

• Rain the colour of green seaglass falls far inland.

•  ...it was a dawn of phosphorescent algae, coming in from the ocean, drifting overland,
   
  a green sun hung in icicles.
  

• My wandering thoughts crumble in the reflections of a mirror placed between landscape and white sky.

• out of the continual hum, I grasp my fragmentary words, speaking, momentarily, before they slide into the murmur that is everywhere

• Slow, meticulous cutting of patterns, sewing. Each second is a stitch; each hour a finished seam. Our lives are the garments we wear. 

• Rain pounding, my sticky heat-riven body wet-soaked, like the laughing people passing by. Water criss-crosses the drought-white grass. 

• The plum, dark purple skin, pearl yellow flesh, firm, a sharp juice, releases sweetness to the tongue, like swallowing the moon. 

• I stare at Inca stonework. We carve away at sections of ourselves, until we fit, until you couldn't drag a knife through us. 

• On my walk tonight I saw men flying sideways through the air in overcoats and bowler hats, graphite pencils gnawing on their shin bones. 

Haiku-like images for AROS

'Lady of Green Fire,' 20.5cm x 29cm, 8" x 11.5", India inks, Waterman sepia ink, acrylic inks, gel pens, oil paint, oil pastels, watercolour pencils, Moleskine sketchbook.

A Venus arising from a sea of leaves. A green garden goddess. Perhaps she is Spring welcoming the sun. Not fully clothed yet. Or the Woman Clothed with the Sun. Yes, I like that.

direct link: The Dinosaur Book is Green Fury

And the dinosaur’s book is green fury. Promethea's curls and flanks, her energy, combustible. Promethea has been dancing on the 200 billion year old dinosaur skull in the glass box that hangs on the wall since the beginning. Petrescent, converting into stone, from water. What isn't liquid suddenly flows. Like lava. Boiling. Ancient skull without skin, or legs, or beating organs. Body without organs. The body whose. Stone. Whose bones are petrified. In fine volcanic ash, for billions of years. I can read pathways on your bones, a scored map of the earth, embossed hieroglyphics. Your garrulous breaking voice in the sparking dust of fireworks, like millions of dancing fireflies, an exploding outwards. Your carapace is prophecy, what bends time in on itself, grounding. You are earth stilled to wisdom. Ancient, shell of secret signs, messages from the eons. Mesozoic creature. Who lived happily on the banks of the stream that was blocked by volcanic mud creating a 12 mile lake that lasted for another 80 million years before volcanic eruptions buried it.

Where is your riverbank? Slow mulching of sweet  grasses, sipping freshest of fresh water, dear ancestor.  Another bit of corporeality in the drama that began billions  of years ago when we all, our possibility, came to be in  the expanding light and the fiery dust that settled  into our solar system, and into the earth, and into your  exoskeleton, with its oracular markings, star charts,  which is now rock, condensed history.  "I am writing it just behind the burning bush, by the light  of your blaze," says Hélène.1 And I see you, remembering the warm fertile lush land  of 200 million years ago, growing a body, organs beating,  a fury of blood, following Promethea across invisible  mountains, down hallucinated valleys, into the heart  of the volcano that continually explodes,  bursting you forth.

Daphne, 20.5cm x 30cm, 8" x 11.75", dip pen with India, acrylic and fountain pen inks, Moleskine Folio Sketchbook A4.

I lay in the park sketching the tree; though invisible to the biological eye, she was there. Neither did the lake exist, nor the rocks. It was sunny and yet I found a sliver of a moon and a star on the paper. The child in me saw her. She is like a paper cut-out, drawn as a child would draw; she is Daphne. Look at her laurel crown. Her arms are turning into branches with leaves. I found her ghostdrawing her myth in the green dreaming imagination of the woman drawing in the book on her lap.

This Daphne is caught, perpetually transforming, as night falls. Apollo, the god of light, long gone. No sign of Cupid's arrow, if it ever flew.

Green Fire, 2011, 21cm x 29.2cm, 8" x 11.5", Moleskine, pen and dip inks.

'Follow the green fire that's in your life and in mine. Billow. Float through green streams of smoke. Remember to look under the burning leaf.'

'waiting for spring in the emotional subconscious'

Who are we in our shadows? Explore a darker terrain. Welcome complexity, seething underbed where spring is already generating below the frozen ground, snow-filled land of ice. The green, the brown rising. Darkly. Look at the half-seen and explore the invisible. Does mystery make us apprehensive? Go deeper. Plunge.