in which the fish looks at things with her hatchling

I take her by the arm.
I say: we are going out today.

To the other side of town: this here is part of my landscape, as you know. I show her tracks invisible to the naked eye.



Here in this market, I tell her, I used to sell strange jewellery.
A kind of collision between Elizabethan miniature and the remains of a car smash: I was well known for them.
At the end of the day my eyes would be full of the fluff from the pods of the trees, which was sprinkling down as I told her this in the silver sunshine. Just like always.

It used to be more edgy then, I tell her.





Then there was cockatoo Island: I thought I may have to defend the Biennale Artworks. This could be tiresome if so.
But it wasn't necessary, and I was surprised.
William Kentridge a favourite of hers, as it happens.
Despite the potential for the site to completely engage all thoughts, the works spoke intriguingly enough within them.

It was hard to emerge from a dark space in which one was immersed in an enactment of the 1984 Coal Riots in Northern England into the shining day here on Cockatoo Island.



Soon I shall post at length about cockatoo island. Tomorrow I will paint and I will not think about anything but that.




At the end of the day she was holding my hand.