Across the roof
the plum tree
behind wire and gate
ghost fox across the suburban streets
and piles of books on the table
i am wondering what you think at night?
fridge hum frogs croak
(for Simon Leo)
I have been reading the reinvention of work by mattew fox (1994). He offers a vision of work that seeks to move from an increasingly destructive industrialist worldview/paradigm into a spirited ecological one. He advocates inner transformation of consciousness via ritual, communal and personal. The inner transformation is the place where the outer life of work and culture begins. He suggests that artists work to bring transformative ritual into their local communities. He calls this,”participatory art”, that, “unleashes energy” and works to “heal dualisms”. So i am beginning to look for this side of the arts more and more so please help and guide me to deeper understanding.
The Australian writer ValPlumwood also believes that the nature culture split can be changed by the strategies found in Ecological writing and theory. Plumwood believes in giving voice to the more than human as a way of re-spiriting dead matter. In her poetic essay journey to the heart of stone, Plumwood talks about how writers can challenge, “The experiential framework of dead silent matter entrenched by the sado-disspassionate rationality of scientific reductionism” (Plumwood in Beckett & Gifford 2007, p18). The way to do this is to recover an understanding of matter as spirited. She calls for a project that encourages us to, “to think beyond these boundaries, to re-invest with speech, agency and meaning the silenced ones, including the earth and its very stones, cast as the most lifeless members of the earth community” (Plumwood in Beckett & Gifford 2007, p22). The writer can re-spirit matter by work that gives voice to the non-human. By doing this the writer can not only help open up space for the world to talk to human communities, but also they can help the human communities learn how to listen. This is a way of healing a wounded space.
What we saw of the bats
Woke early and kissed you goodbye to lay in bed bleeding menstrual blood and rest your cramping belly
hand in hand with our little girl with plastic pony filled unicorn shape bag
going to the city to see fruit bats by the harbour hanging from trees
past Lidcombe on the train saw blood on the tracks behind blue tape police line and fireman with hose young man with mad eyes cross legs on the platform
made water colour pictures with our daughter on top of magazine collage of handsome ruff hair’d face man with wedding dress model legs and pet pig
went all the way to circular key and leaning off the rails watched jelly fish floating amongst rubbish and huge northern coast turpentine tree ferry pylon structures
noticed rippled shadow of cruise ship big as city buildings
past opera house peaks remember’d sumo wrestling in latex costume with beautiful American girl and photo of a new friend in Spencer tunic naked pile of people
watched seagulls catch imperceptible things amongst the sea weeds
went round to fenced off fig tree giant sculpted rock wave cascade and Gadigal woven stone shield big as a house
moved here by new Zealand artist tip truck and Gosford bulldozer quarry place
heard the laughter of children at wedding party by the pond with eel brushing the surface reflecting black bamboo.
all we saw of the bats was a picture board explaining their eviction by noise wires in list reason’d slope of text laminate
stood there quiet remembering cracking the eggs the broody hen at home had abandoned to find one fine feathered duckling wrapped in translucent sack
blood in the shell on my gloves in the wheel barrow and in the compost bin
remembered emptying the rubbish this morning and seeing a condom full of my ejaculation cover’d in land filled destinies
follow’d tight jean tourists along wave shaped sign wall invasion narrative history ending at a bunch of green bananas hanging covered in bees
a pencil drawing of Bennelong behind us and a plaque description of 1700’s European taste for the sweet and the novel
round spiked cactus at the lion guarded gates the harbour sparkling and jacaranda blossums in the distance
sound of freeway beneath
picked flowers and went to look up at mammoth bronze sculpt’d war horse Sydney basin sandstone plinth
our three year old girl with unknown native flower’d hair ornaments raided from botanic garden plant museum
into the gallery up smooth steps glittering with coastal sand specks to exchange our bags for a white number’d black bit of wood
somewhere in here we can find lin onus hills hoist pattern’d with dots and hanging wooden bats or have they been evicted too?
up and down escalators thru collections of two dimensional wall hanging paintings
Del barton erect nipple’d nature women naked with birds and five breasts in a landscape of blue named dots
told at the information desk of dismantled clothesline bats
Went to see thousand year old ceramic horses from china painted earth colours on spotless white platform behind glass window with legs flying up and warrior polo playing woman fist clenched
Decided to leave and walked out into the arvo sun
Over pedestrian crossing wedding procession cars stopped to let us cross white ribbons flapping and latter almost got run down by another satin sparkling wedding dressed bride
The cameras flashing in the old sydney hospital courtyard past the fountain edge to wild bronze tusked pig
Caught the train back up the mountain
Out the window deep sandstone cliff face gorge and creek glowing orange from western sun
Handprints ancient in the cave overhangs
Looking at the blue mountain horizon a haze of bushfire smoke and full moon rising behind us in the east.
+Sydney mid spring 2012
“Many people do not quite have their own song and dance. Current music is too much a commodity, too much in flux, it cannot dye us. We are not quite sure what our home music is.” Gary Snyder, The Practice of the wild, p24.
Being part of a colonising race, (pure Ozzy mongrel), has given me a legacy of confusion. My own traditional song has been lost. This personal/family/land displacement has come at the cost of indigenous homelands, massacre, theft, the stolen generation. It’s a two-way destruction. I am stuck with the spiritually redundant capatlyst/industrialist culture.
Recently i heard the Australian activist john seed interviewed on the radio. He believes that he is part of an older ancestry, a joint ancestry. The Cenozoic era is our common heritage that we share with the earth as a whole living being. He asks the question, should we throw away that heritage away just so we can buy a new TV or microwave?
These issues are really central to my art.
Art becomes a way of deep enjoyment for the spirit, this is its healing aspect. Don’t need a new TV because we stay up late playing music, songs we write or our friends write, drinking fresh herbal tea from the garden: paintings are dynamic teaching narratives that transform us as we wash dishes, rinse the sprouts, knead the bread…
By its very self-sufficient nature: art making is a form of activism because it feeds the spirit: fulfills that deep human need to sing and dance, to communicate with the whole body: to touch in relationship the tender places.
In 1910, the African-American boxer Jack Johnson knocked out his white opponent Tommy Burns in one round. The boxing match took place in Rushcutters bay on a make shift ring in front of thousands of white Australians: Captain cook discovered Australia! (he didn’t notice that land was already occupied by a cultured people). In the 1790’s Pemulwuy lead the Eora, Tharawal and Darug people in a resistance campaign that almost got rid of the English colony.