I can see colour comics on a kitchen table. Morning sunlight from the windows falling across them. Shadows of suburban leaves. Scent of newly mown lawns. The comics are alive. Pages feel like skin, like a soft screen. The images move slowly and you can be drawn into them through the surface. Title fades in - 'Cathedral Oceans'. One page is torn slightly and the image is caught and bleached out around the tear. The screen is a milky purplish colour and opaque here. There is a line of darker dried material, as if some resinous liquid had oozed from the tear and hardened through exposure to the air. I know the page will heal eventually and the images will move again. When you touch the pages they seem to vibrate subtly. You are never conscious of turning them. Simply emerge from the other end of the story after a while. The sequences are never the same, though the themes are constant and recognisable - like a sort of music. Not linear. Moves across, through, over, under. Connected at every point through into many other directions, not simply in one plane. Like a woven fabric, but infinitely complex - more like a liquid. The comics sense my presence and begin to stir, fragments of images moving as I come near, preparing, adapting material from what they can read of me. Sometimes a grainy black and white movie. Sometimes an old Technicolour film. Erotic sequences of various kinds. Themes from new thoughts and experiences cross-referenced with memories and recurrent images. Going over unresolved sequences again and again until they work out. I like the titles:- 'Grey Suit Music'. 'Infinity City'. 'The Garden'. 'Invisible Women'. 'Forgotten Avenues'. 'My Lost City'. Colour comics from another world. Beautiful intense colours, warm and moving and infinitely detailed. You can look into them deeper and deeper. Infinite resolution. Fragments swirl by in slow motion. Like trailers or samples or glimpses of dreams and images. You choose by touching the surface. Go through imperceptibly into that sunset garden or the grey light of 1955. Find yourself walking towards a café near the park again. The shadow of a woman's hand. Age 25 going through the city with a dog following nearby. Lost somehow, the streets all rearranged. Coming into the cathedral from the empty streets of London. Touching the images as they swirl into focus. Sometimes they are elusive. They slip away. Change shape. Fade quietly into infinity. They can cluster too, pull you in several directions at once, disperse you into simultaneous places. Walking through the city, swimming inside the grey suit. A beautiful house where I can live safely. Moving away into France across tall woodland over a bridge. Swimming in the river. Smell of clean water, ribbons of green weed waving underneath. Fruit and flowers in long evening light. She is sleepy and warm. Winter by the lake. Wood fires. Walking and reading, tired and sleeping. Snow outside. Everyone will arrive in a few days. See them all again. Just perfect. Swift transition of time and place. Torn away. Leaving. Like going away on a train, places dwindling in the distance. Uncomfortable, even painful. Scattered fragments. Reassemble in the abandoned garden age 35, dark hair. Meeting someone on a rainy night across a movie. Opening the apartment door after all these years. You have waited all this time. Someone turning in shadows. Glass vase of flowers. An old science fiction movie. Moving light through the leaves. Place my hand on the surface. Warm, like skin. Moving through. Swimming away. Where to now?

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