I come from a Land Down Under.

Hey.
You’re not supposed to be here.
better move
better shake it
(show me how good you a-are)
you’re not supposed to be here.
but under the shade of a coolabah tree
exactly. precisely.
so i’ll sing. and i’ll watch. and i’ll wait
till the billy boils
you’ll come… over here. (by boat?)
what boat? you ARE the boat.
you were MY boat
this IS my boat. and it floats
like a brick doesn’t
and the bricks pile up (build build build)
and around the fire
so I can watch you melt
The boat rocks, and i’m off, fresher than ever
singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’. with me.

You’re not supposed to be here.
this place?
any place.
I’ve been displaced to replace something and feel space
to breathe.
and freeze.
and breathe and see
for the first time, that I am here (again)
breathing.
and you’re not supposed to be here
and the box we’ve been thinking outside of has grown.
am I on it? am I in it? I don’t want to be in it
It moves over the seas and IT floats (for now) (like the boat)
but for how long?

I float, but sometimes I don’t know the difference between
the air and the water; whether i’m between
or in; it’s a thin skin.
(some people say they’re thick skinned, but it can’t be true)
because
the tent is shaking.

Hey. The tent. It’s shaking.
have you pegged it down enough?
it’s hard to always remember… the tent.
the boat… the tickets, the presents, the cards,
the food, the decorations, the ice…
(don’t forget the ice)
but I do. I forget all the time
I forget how many hours your banana took to grow
I forget how many farmers worked to sow
the seeds I eat ever. single. day. (it’s almost boring)
so. I forget.

the dust. and dust. and ashes and ashes.
and I don’t even like cricket that much, except when
we play it at Gran’s house on Christmas Day and when
people asked me if I love Ricky Ponting in India
I just smiled and nodded even though I don’t, but I like
Adam Gilchrist because he had cute ears and I always
have sympathy for wicket keepers, and goalies too
and ashes haven’t concerned me much but I have built
some pretty hot fires lately so some thoughts
have come up. or down.
and I’d like to be burned when-I-die-when-I-die
and become ashes in the sea. not the Indian dream
of the Ganges,
but a glacial river maybe
because there is already so much sediment
all that sediment. filling the dam.
and I forget.
the sediment.
it clouds the view
I can’t see clearly now
it’s snowing and winding and the sky is radically challenging
what I know of space void continuum
existence.

seven times.
I thought I knew; and what’s the deal with numbers anyway
(and I’m)
lifted, placed, and taken to where I shouldn’t be
you too.
maybe we should think about our places more often.
seven times. How many? too many.
It melts when it touches the water. I mean
the opposite of melts
and I think I’m still floating. and the
tent still shakes.

step by step (gathering moss)

she stood still. not really because she wanted to, but she couldn’t not.
(there’s a double negative)
doubling her doubt
as the parade she wasn’t in pushed past her.

dragged backwards by the the motion discrepancy,
still. and the wave is not phased by anyone’s presence.
she needs more strength to resist and choose than to follow.

follow follow. (will you) follow?
normally there is a leader,
like Simon, who says put your hands on your head
but heads are rolling, and
moss is gathering
where we won’t look.
marchers are marching
drummers are drumming
(5 gold rings?)
(and swimmers are drowning)

confetti streams glory over something misunderstood
confusing the street sweepers who
cannot sweep or scrub or scratch away
the questions asking who, when, where, why?
all the w’s, tripling and tripping down over and out.

why not wonder. wonder who painted the town before it was red.
wonder what your mother nature gave you.
why not wonder. and wander
the mossy stones, forgotten
behind the banners and signs
still flashing at 2am, just incase
we don’t see where our feet are taking us.

but foxes make tracks step by step
and they don’t look at their feet or
worry about the cracks in pavements
in fear they’ll hurt their mothers.

she wondered how.
the parade doesn’t stop. or look. or wait.
she wades instead.
step by step
in the direction she wasn’t pushed.

how to build a compass (and find your way):

  1. caitlin hespe, 2015magnetize a needle. -stroke it 50 times on a magnet or iron
    horseshoe or silk or fur
  2. stick the needle in something that floats -some cork or
    a leaf
  3. put it in water so the needle is horizontal
  4. wait until it is still. the needle is now pointing North to South

 

now find North.

 

(stars help)

(this is a metaphor by the way)

 

I will prelude with the proverbial ‘it’s been ages since I have updated this blog’…  for both the saying and the reason, I apologise.

Here are some little sketches, some from Iceland, to fill in some space.

I hope to present some more resolved things soon…