18. May 2026

Well… Fark. Guess I Better Sell My Shit.

There’s a moment in life where the universe gently taps you on the shoulder and says:
“Hey mate… maybe it’s time.”
This was not that moment.

My moment came more like a flying dropkick through a flaming window while someone screamed “ACTION!” in the background. I took a proper tumble on a movie set. One minute I’m doing my thing, painting worlds and helping build cinematic realities… next minute my body folded itself like a broken camping chair and my brain decided to reboot like an old Windows 95 desktop.
Post-concussion syndrome, they called it. Which sounds kinda fancy until you realise it mostly means:

• headaches
• dizziness
• memory fog
• staring blankly at walls
• forgetting why you walked into rooms
• and wondering if your soul has quietly left your body and moved to Byron Bay.

Then, just as I’m beginning to wobble my way back toward normality…my car explodes.
Not metaphorically.
Not spiritually.
Not “the engine needs work.” I mean full cinematic betrayal.
Smoke.
Chaos.
The whole deal.

At this point I’m beginning to suspect I may actually be living inside a low-budget cyberpunk comedy written by the gods after too many beers.

But wait. The universe wasn’t finished. A little while later I almost died from appendicitis. Now let me tell you something strange about nearly dying...It cleans the static out of your brain real quick.
You stop thinking:
“I should probably do that someday.”
And start thinking:
“Well… fark… if not now, when?”

Because suddenly the clock gets loud.
Not in a scary way.
In a real way.
You realise you’ve spent years making things.
Painting worlds.
Carving symbols.
Building strange little relics from dreams, films, music, memory, heartbreak, punk rock, sacred geometry, and whatever cosmic radio station your soul accidentally tuned into at 3am. And half of it’s been sitting in boxes. Hidden away.
Waiting for “the right time.” Meanwhile your body’s out here trying to speedrun the collapse of civilisation.

So here we are.

This isn’t just a store.
It’s not just merch.
It’s not just paintings or prints or weird robot patches.

This is the archive.

Fragments from years of surviving, creating, stumbling, rebuilding, laughing through the chaos, and trying to turn pain into something beautiful… or at the very least… interesting.

Some of these works were born on film sets.
Some came from hospital recovery.
Some from late-night existential spirals.
Some from moments of absolute joy.

All of it is real!

Handmade.
Human.
A little damaged.
A little sacred.

Honestly, I don’t think art is supposed to come from perfection. I think it comes from surviving things.
From getting back up.
From carrying your weirdness proudly.
From making something anyway.
Even when life punches holes through the roof of your plans. and you face!

So yeah…

I’m selling my shit.......Finally.........So grab somefin' and live a little be for the hole shit show wipes us out!

Because life is short.
Art matters. Art soothes the soul and makes you 'feel' once again.
And you and I still got worlds to build.

Welcome to the transmission archive.