" I dreamt of this place over
and over - for years and years.
There must be a well worn trail through the night sky.
My bare feet walking across the treetops, sinking into clouds, scattering small stars.
I wanted to paint my dreams.
Paint my stories.
Paint my strange memories.
Paint the past. Paint the future.
I want to paint it in reds.
The colour of passion and the heart.
The bed will be included. The time travelling bed. The magic carpet bed.
There will be the ghosts of my pets; my horse, the dog, the birds and calves.
The paint goes on and is scraped back.
Scrape back through time."
"… as stories tend to do, they link and wrap themselves
around each other.
They weave like a vine sending tendrils out in new directions.
So one story becomes another, grows a new shoot,
flowers and sets seed.
And so on; another person, another time, another story.'