Annika Ho

“The white wall confronting me, aged with scars of old tape and childhood. This space cleared out and wiped clean, clutter, clutter free. Instead they are stowed away, hidden and packaged, into the white square shelves that match the carmel desk. It used to have another life, a coffee table used not for coffee but for the knick knacks lost to everyday life. Items, items they all float outwards. Leaving their cubby hole homes. World map, dented and colourful, crooked and inaccurate. The hue of wood blends with the ground, a serendipitous match of cheap paneled furniture, the landscape terraced. Pieces and pieces of pictorial riddles float above my head, storm clouds abrew. Many times I have found that their rain in my hands, a puzzling experience. Mulling, mulling, while the rest of the house circles around. Note after note the dishes produce, the slow hum of the dryer. My shoulders rise as I feel the presence of eyes watching me, the craning necks to observe. Long snakes of power cords coil by my feet. Fingers stained white, the table cut up by the lack of attention to the neat and orderly. I find the assorted items crawling out of their hiding, wild and waiting, one teetering on the edge looking wild and unruly.”