Wednesday, July 16, 2014

I've Got A Heavy Heart To Carry But A Very Strong Will

Precious magnolias of the Inner West, stayed somewhere different and strayed to new places. 
The kids these days love a bar with no name on the door that serves fried chicken and craft brew, and I have grown old and turned to whiskey and wine, to seed and twine.

 Projects continue all the time, little things here and there, the ever continuing curation of life, which is at the end of the day about what you allow into your head. 
The weeks run fast and cold, and time is spent with those of the like mind. 
Something b r e w i n g

 Agnes De Mille speaks truth, words from a dancer of the past and the words come thick and fast from my hart to my hands, can write, but not read for great lengths of time, and wake in the night with ideas. In the best possible way. 

Pegs and thread and shearling hides, waiting for the deer to arrive. Scrubbing and glycerin. 

 There are rainbows in the paddocks above the tropical grasses and the rosellas leave their feathers in the machinery sheds for me to collect,

 Persimmons, jelly fruit of winter, with their pretty flowered tops and clouded bodies give delight with Whiskey in the Kitchen. 

And a good treatment for the old boots,to get them through the frost

 One of the chickens believes itself to be a quail, and lays tiny eggs. 
And finally it is Winter.

Monday, June 2, 2014

I Need A Fix, Bitter and Sick

This Summer is dry and never ending.Good for basil pesto, bad for Winter vegetables. 
                                                                                                                        But mushrooms are encouraged fourth everywhere.

Two days of wet, combined with sickness have put me up to another writing... 
                                                                                                              My major lesson for the year:
                                                      that givers must set boundaries, because takers will not. 

This is why I have had no time, no money, and no fuse for five months.  

Feels good to tend my roots again.

There is not much better than camping, and it is taken very seriously in these parts. 
                                                                                                                      Treasures are collected....

Feet are bathed in new bays,
                                          and with new waves each moment  

 Canvas castles are constructed and lit for evening games of balderdash with dip and Riesling.

Shorelines inspected for signs of alien life

 And mapped out at later dates in the imagination

And when we get home again, the lichen is still growing slowly on the fence posts, 
                                                                                                                   forgotten fencing wire sitting shiva.

And at last, in May, the leaves drop, tannins marking wood, 
                                                                                   turning to humus, 
                                                                                                            enriching the earth again.

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

I Looked Into Your Eyes And Saw A World That I Wish I Was In

I collect clouds...
                          Cirrus, Nimbus, Fronts and Cumuli, 
                                                                             I love them all ...
                                                                                                       The sky gives me vertigo...

And flowers bring me back 
                                        to the beauty of the earth. 

I have been painting sticks and sewing bits
                                                              and pieces
                                                                                to make things. 
My sewing basket contains inherited bits,
                                                         From Mother,
                                                                                         and Granny ...

The treasures of my hoard, 
                                         and of the women of my blood before me...

And the essences they carry 

push forth soft things

Like pillows of linen
                               and cotton
                                               and foraged buttons
                                                                             and beads

And in jars I keep a myriad of ephemera, 
For use in future projects. 

I preserve cicada shells in shellac and PVA, 

Feathers and flowers in my freezer, 

Broken threads and necklaces

And Bits of Christmas Wreaths

I Plan For The F U T U R E....

One day, at 45 degrees, I went to observe the locked swimming pool...
The sign lies, 
                         It was September when they closed it. 
                                                                                Concrete gets cancer as well.

Country Music Festival Time
                                         for picnics in the park, 
A glass of white wine, 
                               and barely cooked broccoli with piles of ginger
                                                                                                  with miso paste dressing

And for jealousy over the collection of crochet blankets owned by camels.

There is treasure in the grass.

And the four o'clock flowers blossom 
                                                                    well into the evening
in front of the bowls shed.

The clouds tease, 
But no precipitation comes

And I purchase an everlasting daisy for my handbag-pot

Then a morning front provides cooler days
                                                             For sweatless bluegrass breakfasts

 And drum circle joy

The heat does not bother the baby black-birds

But this, 
                third clutch of the season
                                                      Bothers my seedlings immensely...
                                                                                                           (in fact, they are metabolised....)


My feet walk, 
On concrete, 
Through the flowers, 
On grass, 
Brown and 
                 C r u n c h y....

The grapevines, 
                                                                     is upon us.
                                                                                      (despite lack of cool change or rain)

Then a long drive, 
                            with good friends
and terrible music, 

To deliver love and flowers to a new
                                                   Mother and Baby

And for a few days, 
I will eat the fruit of cactus

and tiny fruit tarts

 And read Artlink with my legs in the sun
                                                                   And a list of lovely people to see. 

More to come....

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

A Cry To Help My Country

I don't normally preach, but this is a dismal situation. 
Please, help, its just a signature and a postcode, you could save a koala, a gecko, a bat, a million trees.

This is my country, these are my people. We are farmers, we are teachers, we are artists, doctors, nurses, students, indigenous, business people, clergy and retirees.

We are normal people.

And we are desperate, locking ourselves on to bulldozers as Whitehaven coal company bulldoze a State forest to enlarge their pit.

Its The Pits.

Wherever you live, please just fill in this tiny form, and direct your friends to do the same. 

I Want To Save Leard State Forest 

It will take a moment. You can help. And I hope you do.

Monday, January 6, 2014

I Got My Feet On The Ground & I Don't Fall Asleep To Dream

Many sleeping. 

I am inherently bad at sleep. 
                                             Until some wall is hit, and I go down for two days. 

Two days where if I wake to use the toilet 
                                                                 my body feels like glue 
                                                                                                       and my feet are simply rocks attached to other rocks...

And now, after one such sabbatical, 
I find     
              m  y  s  e  l  f   
                                       back again.

I have been wandering again.

& have seen many creatures 

& places

& fringe lives 

Pressed flowers

& poked anemones

& wondered at the 
                                b  i  g  n  e  s  s 
                                                             of it all

Caught sunsets

& collected clouds

& played with the gifts of the Earth

Now home again,  
                            Away from tessellating rock platforms....

Back with my dry grass and red dirt. 
I pot up pups



& eagerly watch the pink dye giving berries form.

& learn that my pot-plants are psychoactive.
This year, I shall be a Shaman of my own division.