The Scream

In search of a quick snack, I went out to the kitchen in the half dark and cut a slice of bread. When I saw my plate in the light, I didn't really fancy it.*



And in bed later, I swear I could hear the scrape of the bread knife against the carpet as the tiny evil Bread Man pulled himself up, stair by creaky stair.

Ree! Ree! Ree! Ree!


*Unlike the time Johnny Cash, or possibly Beethoven, appeared on a corn fritter, which went down just fine.

The face of Jesus in my soup

This image appeared on the inside of the glass door of our logburner this evening, written in smoke.



Not wanting to make too big a deal about it or anything, but it did remind me quite a lot of this:

Jason Greig, Homer 2006, monoprint. Darren Knight Gallery, Sydney.

I think I may have been back in Christchurch too long.