Extreme Twister Part Dos

The top of a building is not the top.

Last year 4 people decided to stop thousands of city dwellers on the highway to have an extreme game of twister. The meaning behind this is for every individual to interpret as they want.

April 20

Extreme twister went to the top of a building and ended on the edge of a counterweight hanging above the street below. No photoshop, no tricks, just a game with the rules of gravity should someone lose.

The following images are part 2 of the 'Extreme Twister' project, finishing with the photograph from last years highway halt.



Ink and paper for the creation of words. Pixels and blogs... It's just not as poetically romantic... So how do we create the same intimacy with Internet inks and pieces of data paper?

Do you have to print the words off or write them out yourself, order a latte and tell the barista to fill the cup creating certainty in spillage disaster?

Is it the element of sticky tape on the corner of  images and deliberate messy childlike writing with scribbles that need to be present?

Why is it that tapping letters are not as beautiful as gripping a pencil and scratching them?

The answer...

I don't have of course...

But I like tapping letters and filling the web with pixels of my own thoughts. I think it matters where I write and not what instrument I use in the orchestra.

I wrote this in bed with a heater, music and a candle in a jar.

Photographs... If I feel that way about words don't even get me started on photographs... I simply cannot, pencil or pixel, write enough to come close to feeling.

2 Photographs



If I write:
Fire on a beach
A bottle of Wine
and 2 friends

You've probably made up your own imagery of this situation, as it is something we have all done multiple times. Why I'm sharing some photographs of this typical experience?

Well I guess the next few times I get on my blog to write up new entries I'll catch a glimpse of those photographs and will probably feel on top of the world like you do when you're on the beach with a fire, 2 friends, and a bottle wine.

Plus a random shot...which I will not describe so there is no preconceived images in that brain, inside your skull, underneath your skin, where your hair protrudes from.


The sound of a piano is heart breaking if the keys no longer work in a lock that used to lead into a room with a couch and a rose bush.
I choose to sit amongst the roses and smell the couch for a reminder of home.
I choose the silent corner instead of the one with the sound of a beautiful moment.
I choose one window but the girl in the view leaves me no choice but to choose another.
Therefore I do not choose, instead I trust.
I trust that the dusty window I now stand in front of will present a view where a violin is only broken so the strings can be used to puppeteer my movement from the stage, through the crowd and out the doors.
To go further requires the detachment from strings, for this, I must admit I'm a real boy and not a puppet set to end up in a whales mouth.

Words from my head, in the morning, when I woke up.

3 photographs
3 friends
1 house