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,
                                                                             Nanna,
                                                                                         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, 
                        inexpicably, 
                                           decide
                                                        Autumn 
                                                                     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



Pollinate 


 


& 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.







Thursday, January 2, 2014

Around Here, We Serve Beer - Not Purpose

Melancholy hip hop and swirling into a puddle.

This time of year pulls me apart.

All I want is to create and care for plants,

But instead I hold hands, scratch heads and try my best to make conversation.

I am not built for socialisation.

I am built for dirt and calloused hands from needle pricks.

For counter coffee stains and paperbacks,

Ink pens and staple guns and shovels.



hidefromtheheat,hidefromdefeat,hideunderthesheets.