Opening a channel into a place like Dylan's birthplace felt prophetic and dangerous. Uppermost was the incongruity of the rooms and general sense of order in the house and what we were all doing there. We all crashed in, sweeping memorabilia off tables, curling into the assortment of period furniture, quaffing tea and coffees from Mother Ann's kitchen. The house I am sure would have felt the insult. Wires and people akimbo, laptops live, we all sucked the goodness out of the wireless hub in a desperate bid to converse with foreign collaborators or simply access webmail.

Building up to the event there had been an intense round of emails. Each delving deeper into squeezing the Dylan stanzas for all they might mean, a religious reference here a sexual note there, and it was from observing this culmination that I prepared to create an all day stream of email and twitter - grandstanding 'visible to all' messages for the situation.

Surfaces in the house were sombre, not at all good for light projection, a white sheet hanging at the window offered no real benefit other than shading the room for the laptop screens of others. I settled for a splay across the wall and up the ceiling of the lounge as a make shift projection screen above everyone's heads.

Here was a changing cloud of information. My other contributions were conversations and small comic asides with around half of those working in the house - a muted MC role of sorts, though I cannot say I had any real control of the soup happening all around. Later my message cloud included images, later still a skype session in which a lovely Italian woman appeared. Dylan from what I have learnt here, would have approved.

Two poems were exposed to the gathered translators. One could see in the mass of email content running across the roof the difficulty and pure wonder of the task, this was an opportunity, a game of creating one's self, out of someone else. And the assembled poets did well enjoying their challenge, set for them by the amazing Mr Nouss.

All artists know 'On no work of words'... that place is constructed out of contradiction, how poor is 'my poverty' and rich my 'craft', the question ever to labour or labour not. And how true that 'ogre'! . 'Once it was the colour of saying' places us and 5 Cwm Donkin Drive, Dylan's poem is caste on the hill where the house is and the school children play, the slant of landscape out the front window threatens to slide all down into the sea.