Monday, December 1, 2014

On Technology

I can't help but think... 
                              That all of this;
                                                                    social media, 
                                                                                                                  Is our spiritual training wheels. 

Almost telepathically, we 
                                    s e n d  m e s s a g e s 
To the furthest flung places. 
We understand intention, finally, 
                                             As we press return and send
                                                                                 And receive little words and pictures in return, 
To our pockets, 
                   our bedside tables, 
                                               our living rooms. 

When we learn to ride a bike, 
we fall off and injure ourselves

And as we wade through these new technologies
                                                                We hurt ourselves and each other 
By getting too big...
                        ...for our boots
                                              or travelling....
                                                                   further than we should
Or forgetting that sometimes we can't speak our minds
For the benefit of all involved. 
                                           ...We learn to be diplomatic
                                                                                  as we edit and censor and chronicle our lives
But we learn it is best to be just as we are, 
                                                           in this world, 
                                                                            in screen world. 
With all our scars and interests, 
                                            With all our dreams and tunes. 
We lean into it, we  l e a r n  into it, 
We mutate.

Sunday, November 30, 2014

The Risk Is Worth It If You Fly....

Again, time has flown by and busyness makes me neglectful of my writings to nothing.

Projects, projects and prints. Making for market, unusual to have a financially minded venture. 

But the process is progress, 


The work is satisfying, scented of hot lino and ink and spirits...


The garden grows

And grows

And we build things from mud and straw

December will be busy again, and life predictably does not let up until April. Three weddings and two babies to celebrate. 

New lives beginning, new seeds to plant. 

And beautiful music from a human I know... 

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

As I Walk The Streets Armed With The Faith That These Boots Will Be Enough To Get Me Home In One Piece

My how I travel these days. 
A shrunken wardrobe and a suitcase, 
                                         A moleskine and a sensible handbag, 
                                                                         A bed on the floor, with a friend, with family. 

Home is becoming magical, 
Something made up of a fridge to call my own, 
Where it smells of all my things, 
And  the pollens don't make me sneeze and itch.
And the washing machine thumps and spins
And the sheets smell of sunshine. 

The push into Spring is met with a moss carpet
And lilies of the valley poke their tips through soil

And buses and trains and high rise buildings are to be kept far away
For eight weeks! 
The longest time this year so far.

My return is met by a still growing gathering
of pot plants
and happy faces from my housemate. 
Just at the time before the last frost
When seeds are sown indoors for observation
And to promote tenacity. 

And just before my loved ones leave
For far away and ancient lands, 
of saffron, indigo, art and incense. 
A little jealous, 
I will tend their garden. And have fun playing homesteader
And watching the Spring progress up the mountains, 
In wattle 

Home is where my books are, 
And where I can observe the slowest of things. 
Sip black coffee and red wine and make.
Without interruption or bed-time
And rejuvenate. 

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....