about

Hi, I’m Jess Scully. I currently live in Sydney, Australia, and do artsy/creative industry things.

This is a collection of ideas, images and objects I find in my daily web wanderings, and some of the things I do/encounter in real life.

I am interested in urbanism, writing, publishing, design, technology, social media, social justice and politics. I love photography, architecture, fashion, music, documentaries, dorky podcasts, travel and the arts.

For my professional portfolio/blog site, visit jessscully.com

I’m on Last.fm, Twitter, Posterous and Linked.In

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and we stretched out in our beds and rose/in the late afternoons/like millionaires.

- Charles Bukowski, Millionaires

you are the beautiful half/of a golden hurt

Gwendolyne Brooks

Sometimes a piece of sun/burned like a coin in my hand.

Pablo Neruda – Clenched Soul

Meet me at the corner of Yearning and Lack/where the old red trams/rattled and clanked as they/took that last tight curve/where the line crests/the hill — you’ll remember it well — we saw/the coast so far below/reaching for the horizon/almost successfully/and in front of us the track crumbled to a stop in an/embarrassment of rust


Rendezvous
Mary Cresswell

Over the phone your voice has a short delay and the quick-slow/of conversation mingles your words with mine/their beat a morse code calling me home.

Sarah Jane Barnett, Memento


mathias sterner photographs bent wire masks by nor autonom

Distance: Remember all that land/beneath the plane; that coastline/of dim beaches deep in sand/stretching indistinguishably/all the way/all the way to where my reasons end?


Argument
Elizabeth Bishop

oh what an evening is this evening now/together in the light of this one lamp?

Du Fu – Written for Scholar Wei

What falls away is always. And is near.


Roethke – The Waking

Andre Francois

Sean Hart, Yes Future

Talking nonsense is the sole privilege mankind possesses over other organisms. It’s by talking nonsense that one gets to the truth! I talk nonsense, therefore I’m human. Not one single truth has ever been arrived at without people first having talked a dozen reams of nonsense.

- Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime And Punishment

legs extend/lifted by your touch/Plantar Flex, Dorsi Flex/carving circles from the air

when the floorboards creak/i hear the aches of abused amps/up the corridor

brutal knitting

Art is the big door, but real life is a lot of small doors that you must pass through to create something new

- Moebius

wet breath extends/the limits of the room

Martine Franck. Bibliothèque pour enfants, Clamart, France, 1965

She dreams a space where he reads her waggling dance/decodes this mute desire/her bumbling movements clearly pointing/that sweetness lies here/between us and the sun.

- line: Rachael Mead, The sweetness and the sting

a sovereign state of self involvement/adrift in the pacific/impassive as the idle and impassioned alike/drown in the roaring thirties

image: Noemie Goudal line: me

Ian Turpie by Quentin Jones

We are all immigrants to this place even if we were born here: the country is too big for anyone to inhabit completely, and in the parts unknown to us we move in fear, exiles and invaders. This country is something that must be chosen – it is so easy to leave – and if we do choose it we are still choosing a violent duality.

- Margaret Atwood, The Journals of Susanna Moodie

Turn, look up/through the gritty window: an unexplored/wilderness of wires

Photo: Transit, Katrin Koenning.
Line: Margaret Atwood, A Bus Along St Clair: December

I sit and watch it with you/your hair so near/the dark whorl of your ear

Photo: Boogie
Line: Ivy Alvarez

the paper-boy drive-by/cuts a deadly arc/through the sleeping dark

- image by Todd Hido line by me.