I decided to do this task at night, sitting on a wooden stool at the top of my drive. Looking out into the night. Yet again it seemed more like a bart task, more psychogeographical than artistsic...

I rather imagine that most completions of this task will be done in busy places, where observation is almost impossible to avoid, the trick being in deciding which pieces of imformation to prioritise, but I decided that a more stripped back version would be the way to go.

I didn't write as much as I thought I would, thoughts seemed to flow quickly, yet deeply, affecting my perception of time. What follows is what I wrote as I sat in the dark, unable to see the pad I wrote on.

I notice stars. The Southern Cross and the pointer stars, signifying south. The strange warm half-light of the sodium lamp, bathing everything in an odd glow. The rose leaves sillouetted against the starry sky, as they climb the trellis up the sides of shist columns at the front of the house. They're an odd yellow, and every leaf can be seen distinctly, almost as if they have their own inner glow. They seem to have been painted onto the sky.

The sound of an approaching car - going from a far off mutter, like the sea on the shore, to a low roar. and then passing.

The COLOUR of the stars. I'd never really noticed , but they shine LITERALLY like diamonds, like little prisms that throw each colour in turn rather than being WHITE.

A cat walks across the road - orange and fluffy. It belongs to some neighbour, but also to anyone who will feed and pet it.

The blossoms of the Cherry tree. What colour are they? Yellow? Pink? Copper? They look mettalic one moment, and like snow (under a strange light) the next. The tall tree/shrub, like a black tower against the sky and flowers. Only it's front edge gives off refracted light - the rest a black blot against the luminous sky.

Underneath the veranda - why do they have metal hooks on the underside. To my knowledge nothing has ever hung beneath them.

Another car, louder this time, going from one street to the next.

The heads on the bush in front of me, showing white on one side, glowing. I want to say "like fingers" but there's nothing fingerlike about them. Why would I say "fingers"?

My hand cramping, and the sound of tinitis - or is it insects? Tinitis I think, too cold for insects.

The front of Dad's car, peeking between columns, can't read it's licence plat, even at the distance of feet... Sodium lights.

A car comes up the street. It's headlights shining, throwing up bright edges on cars and objects as it approaches. The edges shift and fade as it passes. It's a taxi. A man gets out and says "thanks very much". You can hear his raised hand in his voice, as he waves farewell, though you cannot see him in the darkness.

The cold - Caressing the cheek which faces the wind. Seeping up my trousers from the ankle and burning my left hand. Crisp. The smell I associate with home, and the farm I grew up on. Pollen and smoke, the smell of rock and gravel, and freshly turned earth...

The carrot pots I grew. The matted thick head of hair. More passing cars.

The opposite neighbour's letterbox catches the light somehow, drawing the eye. I can't even tell it's shape, can't read the numbers, it's top arches up and over.

The sound of water somewhere in the middle distance? A garden?

Nighttime, peace and room to think deep thoughts. The sound of the pen scratching on the pad I cannot see...