I discovered Portishead at the wrong time of my life — which turned out to be exactly the right time. Glory Box was the first. Then Sour Times. Then I was gone.
Beth Gibbons sings like someone being honest in a room full of liars.
Essential Tracks: Glory Box · Sour Times · Roads · Wandering Star · Machine Gun · The Rip · All Mine
I am drawn to nature at its quietest and most unsettling — fog on morning fields, the underside of leaves, lichen spreading slowly across stone as if the stone itself is dreaming.
Fungi especially. The way they exist between worlds — neither plant nor animal, decomposing death into life. There is something philosophically vital about that.
My ideal walk: overcast, cold, somewhere with old-growth trees and the sound of water nearby.
Film is the art form I return to most. Not cinema as spectacle — cinema as atmosphere. The films that live in my head are ones where the environment itself is a character.
I love slow cinema: Tarkovsky, Bergman, Lynch, Akira Kurosawa, Agnes Varda, Wim Wenders. Films that trust the viewer to sit with discomfort, with ambiguity, with silence.
Cats are proof that the divine exists and has excellent taste in hosts. They are ancient. They remember things we have forgotten.
My cat's name is [name]. They are gravity — everything orbits them. They have opinions about my taste in music and they are not always flattering.
Black cats especially. The universe's sense of humour made physical.
The moon is the only thing in the sky that looks back. It has watched everything — every war, every love, every person who looked up at 3am and thought at least you are there.
I track moon phases. Not for any mystical reason — just because it grounds me to something ancient, to a rhythm that does not care about the news cycle or my inbox.
The new moon especially. The dark moon — when the sky is fully itself.