intermediate reading

"When I first caught sight of the girl, i didn't believe she was real. I thought it was a mirage, or maybe some kind of Brocken spectre, one of those tricks of the light or the gloaming that hill walkers tell you about. I mean, what else could I think ? One moment, I was alone and then, suddenly, she was there, walking beside me, step for step, through the wet peat. She had her head down - she didn't look at me, not once - but she knew I was there. She knew I was there from the first - and that was why her head was down, because I was there. She didn't want to look at me, she was desperately trying to pretend I wasn't there - and it came to me, why I cannot begin to think, but it came to me that she was frightened. I frightened her. And, God knows, she frightened me too - but what frightened me most, at that moment, was her fear. Because, at that moment, as we walked in step through the driving rain, I felt like a monster, or an apparition. "

- John Burnside/ The Deer Larder

See that? From witnessing an apparition to becoming one, in one paragraph. No-one is real, we are all ghosts.

"Let your dream in this terrestrial life be, that you are standing in a temple, and God is  all that you see, all you desire. "

- Arthur van Schendel/ Of Courtly Love and Beauty

Becoming The Forest

Honoured to have been able to contribute to this most luxurious of zines, Una Hamilton Helle's & Lotte Brown's exploration into aspects folkloric, Black-Metallic & otherwise of the forest  - 'Becoming The Forest.' My presence in this magnificent volume was requested through the gracious intercession of Amelia Ishmael, to whose prose-poem "Here the repellent harpies make their nests" my contribution offers humble accompaniment ( it also inspired a full-blown visual adaptation that has yet to find a home for publication ).

Get your copy of BTF here:


Because i did not want to overburden my ancient laptop, i scanned the pages at relatively low resolution. 
This has caused some of the text to be a bit faint, so below each page is a transcript of the captions.

It took some figuring out.

It's not something we talk about in our community, you know.
Although i'm sure i can't have been the only one to be thinking about it.

It was smells, at first.

Saffron and incense behind the disused synagogue on Coach str.

Then, the configuration of birds in a pre-dawn courtyard

Graffitti bleeding new and sudden meaning.

However, i soon realized i was snatching glimpses from across the border, and that if i wanted to see
more, i'd have to cross that border.

Now, free as our tribe might appear to be, there's not a lot of travel we can indulge in;
relentlessly chased out of all public areas especially associated with travel, we hide,
scurry, shuffle in the dark.

We minimize our movements for fear of detection.

Brutalized by the state, we still subsist in states of our own.

States of immobility.
States of stasis.

So i decided to challenge Hob, and dispute him his 
ridiculous one-lane kingdom.

- and let him beat the last vestiges of citizenship out of me.

I turned to look back, but in the turning, the one who had turned had gone.

What rose in his place navigated homeward with the ease of birds.

keep seeing white people everywhere

A late but welcome review of my White People effort from a few years back, by mr. Longhorn of the superior Supernatural Tales blog & magazine:

& the inimitable Rob Clough, reviewer for The Comics Journal, wrote an insightful overview of my output ( obscure zines included) leading up to and circa The White People on his own High Low Comics blog:


Selection of distastefully coloured versions of the WJNMN drawings prepared for a reading of the text by Elfie Tromp.


or, people taking the time to read Eloise & write kind things about it (in Dutch):

(& in English)


Get it, here: