Johanna

Johanna

 

 

  

  Johanna 1                                                                                           15/12/11

I stand upon the brink of these southern seas,

in view the rushing white, and bright aquamarine.

The beautiful chaos, the unknown of old,

fatefully claiming explorers too bold.

I stand upon this rugged southernmost shore,

which plagues the imaginary of those gone before.

The rumbling waters, the warm wind hums her riff,

spritely scaling each lofty sandstone cliff.

 

Johanna 2                                                                                          15/12/11

Dad called him Joe, that little tan dog.

He welcomed us both, wandering up to our camp,

he smiled brightly, the soft breeze ruffling his fur.

Transients we were, but for he this was home, from

the rushing of the waves, to the crisp air on the

sloping hillside. Contented, he lay about the reserve

yet wandered free at will.

Let to ponder, we suspected a life for Joe both filled

with joy, and at once swept with swells of melancholy.

As friends came and formed a temporal place of refuge,

a site upon which old Joe found communion with creatures

of heart. Still, on those evenings cold and grey, when the brutal

gale raged through the vale from the west, when the warmth of

a hand, and the sweet meats contingent upon the human

encampment were long gone – Joe lay alone,

in a dark hollow in the coastal scrub.

He was himself intrinsicly intimate with the space,

inseparable was Joe from the Sheoaks, whispering

tales of folks from times gone by. To the balding heights

Joe belonged, and his was each tuft of grass upon the

ground.

To speak of Joe was to reference Johanna, for he was

a life form elemental to the region. He shifted freely

in a territory uniquely his; characterising place

as the winde shapes the cliff face, and the melody

of the wren is woven into the air, as the people come

and soon have gone – it was all one.

 

Johanna 3                                                                                          15/12/11

We respond.

Golden now, the grass over the dunes shimmers,

alive in the gentle breath exhaled upon the land.

The waves, they do not stop – we relish in what

is an unmitigable constant, beyond the force of our

hand.

It is a fare we watch, sink in the sky – slowly first,

before the sudden passing of the earth into shadow.

It is a corposant above the structures of the world,

from this vessel we set our eyes on that light in

fear and wonder.

Now darkened, the land runs vague in our minds.

Dusk is ever the end, the plunge beyond the known,

it resonates in the deep of our dislocated forms, ever

thrown back and forth on the sea of comparison,

strong, yet weak, large and still so insignificant.

We respond.

For breath – it is not ours, what is within us

is around us. We are the earth, and the waters

hold within us, and the air it is that shifts us.

Waters writhe before us, waters roll above us,

the breeze bears within the slighter, salene

seaspray.

The waves thunder as my blood, as my mother’s

heartbeat, as my father’s spirit.

Ever time evades, a moment gone, it slips

so fast, we cannot grasp it.

We breath the wind, we cry the sea, our complex

structures return to dirt.

And soon enough I shall not sit here, soon five hundred

years shall I have slept in the heart of the earth,

whilst my spirit sings with the perpetual dawn -

for ever the sun is rising on the world, and

perpetually passing around the world is the

morning song.

Let that be my song. As night rests upon me I await

the first melody, echoing in the woods, brought on wing

across the sheer cliff tops. Messengers of the skies sing

to us a new day. We are created anew,

we rise into being once more.

Johanna 4                                                                                            16/12/11

Paths we form – creature who clear a way;

linear, familiar.

Mild morning light reveals one way in the

hillside, a track roughly hewn in earth and

rock. Now wings waver, bodies gliding 

through space; the graceful, sweeping

flight of the black cockatoo, to the speedy,

darting of the splendid fairy wren.

No path is made, their way is limitless,

passengers of the upper strata of

our world.

Yet, here below, we own and possess, crafting

lines, borders, encaspulating space; dividing,

alienating.

The Goldfinch lands breifly on the fence -

to him no more than a moments respite; no modes

of restraint, no means to orient.

The sun now breaks through in the east, 

the dunes are lit and the sea cast gold. Upon the

sand our paths erased, the canvas cleared,

and I dare not descend from these heights and

impress upon the shore my own way.

For the sea has renewed; let that which was been 

reclaimed beyond our touch remain for but a

moment.

The Journey In

Rain falling in the deep of the night.

We lie in the dark.

 

We close our eyes and return

within,

to our genesis, our first home.

We are suspended in a space of safety,

of timelessness

and dependancy.

There is no yesterday, no tomorrow.

Consciousness lying in her depths.

Consciousness sleeping, waking,

dreaming.

 

Rain falls heavily, thundering

heart beats, wrapped in

warmth.

Returning to our home.

Float.

 

Slowly, thread by thread, you are

inscribed in the depths of

the mother.

Her heart lowing over you,

thunder rolling above you,

your rhythm.

The First Chapter

The cumbersome engine lurches, slowing, yet you love it – its stopping and starting, now rushing and racing. Workmen, orange vests, one leaning against the truck, others working. Who are they? Do they have children? Do they mistreat their wives when they return home from the Pub late at night? You know not and never shall. You’ll never know if anyone listened to Father McKenzies’ sermon, and you’ll never know if the graying man leaning against the truck ever hoped for more than digging holes and laying tracks – why waste another moment pondering such?
An old platform at Castlemaine across to the left, estranged from locomotives – once a hub of commercial activity perhaps. Once long ago, someone placed each of the red bricks into that structured pattern; some young man aided the contruction of those archways.
You cannot help yourself, on and on you go, making phrases – yet that is not what draws people to you, no – it would be a repellent, pretentious in every regard. Still, you long to be artless; to be passionate as an artist whilst maintaining the cool patience of a scientist – to draw forth, or else create, meaning. You long to intelligently contribute to the broader discourse, to grab it by the horns and wrestle it to the ground – you’re competitive, aggressive and must win, though you are sensititve and readily observe the delicacies of life. Your words must, and will, bend and clash with those gone before.
A small lake nestled in the folds of undulating emerald slopes that are speckled with the rought tufts of brown, yellow and gold.
Here, another colonial hamlet, we cautiously pull to a halt, the bluestone establishment of Malmsbury Railway Station is splattered with small circular splotches of moss, showcasing in gray, tiel, and aquamarine. Peeling paint signifies once more the previously glorious, now dead and decrepid, world of modernity. You’re momentarily sick with nostalgia, longing to glimpse a world you never knew. Images blur with reality -

A neatly dressd young woman, Richard’s mother, stands on the platform, her small son with his combed hair, beside her. They’re about to board the Melbourne bound train to pay a visit to Nellie’s sister who has recently married and settled in Fairfield Park.
Nellie misses Katherine terribly, there is but eighteen months between them, and in marrying her sister, Mr. Graham has taken off with her confidante and dearest companion. Of course, she is liable to take the blame foremost – Richard now four years old. ‘However,’ she silently begs her case behind well composed blue eyes, ‘Malmsbury was but a stones throw from our family home in Kyneton.’
Seated comfortably, with little Richard between herself and the carriage window, she gazes listlessly at the countryside flying by. The burgundy chimnies of Woodend capture her attention for a breif moment. The exuberance of Richard bubbling in his small body resting against hers – still attached by invisible threads to she, the Mother.

Does Richard envy his father? Is he detaching himself from her through his own personal discoveries of world and body?
No! That’s certainly wrong, she was before Lacan, you’re fairly sure, most likely before Freud – she has to be, and if not, she certainly was not educated in frontiers of psychoanalysis. Nope, you have lost the thread. Your desired artlessness has been the death of you this time; merely an affectation of creative intellect.
You falter, like the engine approaching the workmen. Everyone is jolted in their seats, left gawking about, blinking in the bright of the day – trying to make sense of where you have halted. You have disempowered your reader, who desperately desired to know whether Richard had discovered he was a boy yet, or not.

Gisborne – a young woman articulating in an animated fashion. Hands enlivened, her audience, semingly another woman, listens, head cocked to the side, just slightly. Was the orator shocked, angry, relieved?
A slice of outrageous Gisborne gossip.
Theresa Wallace has been sleeping with Paul Davidson. Alyssa, as you can imagine, is so pissed off – she’s plotting her revenge. Poor girl! Everyone knows, no one will shut up about it, poor, poor Alyssa; everytime someone new mentions it its like a slap in the face of course. I saw Theresa last night, working at IGA. God! We’re all gonna have to see her whenever we wanna buy anything. Gave her the cold shoulder of course – I mean, how could she! What a slut

‘It is time for the Old Woman to be put off, that time has come – ye must be clothed with the New Woman’, you think to yourself. And therefore, Kelly ought not malign Theresa, using the verbal ammunition of men. She must lay aside the social divide, befriend Therese, gain her trust, advise her positively, and influence her for the better.

Hun, we can’t just do whatever we feel like round here, its just not on. How do you think Alyssa feels, you guys were such good friends – you went to Kinder together for Godsakes. Paul just uses girls for a root, you know that, he’s not the right guy. Don’t let him win by just picking up and dropping girls whenever he wants; if he did so to her, he can, and will, do so to you. Don’t let him get away with it babe, we girls gotta stand up against guys like him, not roll into bed with them.

‘We must unite! We must stand against male dominance. We must move now to proclaim our case – we do not lack anything! We do not need you, and we definitely do not need that objecft you possess that you believe can complete us. We must wage war against phallogocentric oppression!’
But you know Kelly did not say anything of the sort.
You’re sorry you’re so innately oppressive, but what are you to do – turn to men while all the women turn their love to women in order to be rid of patriarchal oppression, ridding themselves of the dangerous weapon used for murder women?
You’re not really sorry, contrition is not to be found overflowing from your heart this time. You are a man, thoughtful and well educated, but a man nonetheless. And you desire woman – you even suggest tentatively that you are lacking without her.
It begins in Sunbury. You have returned – being dragged slowly through the fringe into the body of that tangled concrete mess. Oh stop! turn back – chuck her in reverse, you silently cry, longing to dwell amonst the emerald slopes and small glassy lakes once more. Wandering from here to there for a while, walking about the country all day long with nothing but a biscuitin your pocket, writing, singing, praying, meeting, encamping, discovering, bonding, settling, creating, sustaining, loving. A rustic countrified existence; you rotten idealist – do you honestly believe… this phrase need not even be completed, for it is your heart, and that irrational conglomeration of nerve tissue cannot be made sense of.
Thank God for that! you say, shivering and wiping tears from your non-commital blue eyes.

                                                                           *                          *                          *

I go here and there
I sing songs
Dream dreams
And let my mind run through space and time the whole day through.

‘To the Fledgling Perched in the Gate of the Hen-run’ on 23 November 2010

I wonder if you sit by choice. Why do you not choose to fly?
The skys are your domain, high you will rise,
to gaze down on the earth below.
Little Thrush, it will take courage, to leap forth,
to spread your winds and break free.
Yet, move you do not.
Are you idle, refusing to rise and meet the challnge that awaits you?
You must take up your lot to become what you must,
or forever you will scamper from shrub to shrub, hiding from the world.
Are you caught there, paralysed and unable to escape?
For your breast heaves with fear as ou remain there alone.
Perhaps all you need is a gentle nudge, or so you would think,
a friend to guide you our of your labrynth of uncertainty.
However, this is but your first challenge,
and your character shall be defined by your willingness to set yourself free.

Ode to Warrenbayne

Ever onward goes the rushing river
Rising up to meet the sun, so golden
Gliding down it carves the valley open.
Young feet dare cool places; gasp and shiver,
Bold explorers caught in loves bright fever
Traipse the sandy bed until thereupon
Is found a spot where light emboldens
Swimming, sitting, currents fall soft silver -
Hand in hand they chase a brace endeavour

*                      *                      *

And O here grow the years, flow the tears as
Those near and dear go, then fear does follow.
And no desired clear light, so sheer and bright
Will glow ere, night shadows fright mere
Mortals, yet cheers slow fight will win I know

Havlin Street East

Here I am in this moment. A poet, a wanderer; a cherry blossom and a copy of Calvino’s Invisible Cities in my hand, capturing a moment in the queit backstreets of this city, Bendigo. Galah’s graze, lines of white gums stand peacefully in a row beside a wide, unkempt road. The sun shines, I love a girl, I learn much; I am happy.

Here I am – a man; a tall, white, middle class man. By no fault of my own I am the spawn of imperialism, the product of colonial exploitation, a son not a daughter. I am the antitheses of the minority and their zealously vocalised demands for liberty; the cries they shout at the masses they shout at me! And my heart twinges and I become one who wishes to also be passioantely campaigning behind some cause of such incredible important. I desire to rock the boat, cry out for change, demonstrate the folly of our social customs. With such futility, I – who am undeniably essentially oppressive by nature long to be the oppressed so as I can be swept up in that wave of righteous anger; if only my body could mould to my values, and yet I enjoy myself as I am. ‘Of course you do’, the embittered response I suppose I would receive, with all its negative implications.

Well what am I to do? Shall I grovel for who I am? Ought I give up all m innate modes of existance that, so unfortunately, subjugate the afflicted so effortlessly?

Pardon my ignorance and neglect, but for today I shake the guilt that hovers over me, the burden that my being unwittingly invokes due to to its physical classification. Before the great cloud of aggreived activits for the rights of those I perpetuate inequality and inferioirity upon due to the history I find myself in, I say that I will relish today for its delightful simplicity. And I shall not deny the aggreeableness of who I find myself to be today.

Our Place

 

Its one sixth of an acre fenced in by monotonous dull palings. The two-tone, seventies brick-veneer is caged in tightly on its block; an image akin to Howard Arkley’s depictions of suburban Australia. It certainly isn’t a cosy, mudbrick cottage surrounded by green space, in fact, the folks from number 17 next door can get a nice glimpse right into my bedroom anytime the blinds open.

As a child, the little bit of space we had in Healesville seemed endless. The multitude of different trees, the grassy slopes, the red brick path and the small two-story mudbrick all came together as a veritable playground for my overactive imagination. We rode our bikes all about, picked grass to make soup, we climbed trees, made cubby houses, picked fresh fruit to eat and simply played pretend in the back yard for hours on end. It was all home-baked goods and second hand clothes, yet as kids we were clueless as to this intentional way of life our parents had chosen – it was normal.

The Mud-Brick Home I grew up in

 

We moved to this tiny clump of suburbia, Coldstream, when I was nine – it was more practical. If only I had known then how much we lost leaving our old place.

——————————————

Since finishing school I have had time to think and learn a great deal about the way Westerners are living. It is now I compare our simple upbringing with the consumer culture we are stuck in and long for those easy days to return. I guess I ought to save my anti-capitalist rant for another day, but may I say the competition that is resultant of this economic system has seen product advertising become so enmeshed with our day to day lives that we have lost much autonomy in our own decision making and even in the maintainance of a healthy identity and perspective of ones self.

My Mum in her Vegie Garden at our old place

Industrialisation and mass production of food stuff has meant that our diets are severely affected, and deviated from what they ought to naturally look like. And this ugly, 21st century diet of convenience can only lead to a great variety of other conditions we find ourselves subjected to. This is beyond affluence, its just damn unhealthy.

I don’t write all this as an outsider looking in criticising the failure of the mindless masses to take action - for this is me too. Yet, I see the way we live as problematic and I long for some simpler, healthier; something a little more fresh and organic.

I know there is no return for me, at least for the moment, to a spacious block of land with a whole lot of native vegetation and no fences. Perhaps I will be fortunate enough to reside in such an environment in the future, but for now its suburbia, and I have understood my mission and chosen to accept. Therefore, I have, over the last little while, worked diligently to try and ‘green-up’ the place as much as possible. It is my parents home, and hence I cannot my self invest in rainwater tanks and renewable energy, nevertheless, I have taken on several projects that appeal to me as important in pursuing a healthier, happier, more natural way to live.

——————————————

Allow me to introduce you to our place.

Oscar takes one of many merry jaunts about the back yard

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Composting fruit and vegie scraps is a great way to return organic materials straigt back into the soil on your own block, and avoid shipping more unnecessary waste to landfill sites

Spring is certainly about with the Apple Trees blossoming. Dad establised several fruit trees on our block not long after we moved in.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This Myer Lemon Tree was rescued from my Grandparents house in Blackburn, and it really seems to love the soil out here as it provides us with endless amounts of lemons!

Growing your own vegies is, of course, an excellent way to monitor the journey of your food before it is eaten - and it encourages one to eat healthier foods. These Cos Lettuces are going to be great in our salads this summer.

This is one of several tomato plants in the second vegie patch I just established. Its companions are: sweet corn, pumkins, snow peas, capsicums, zucchinis and eggplants - when we get a bit more sun things will really get growing

This is the front yard vegie patch. Whilst not ideally located during winter in terms of sunlight, it has grown a whole lot since day light savings. In here we have: potatoes, rhubarb, strawberries, snow peas, carrots, onions, lettuces, broccoli, silver beat, spinach, zucchinis, tomato berrys, garlic, parsley, coriander, rosemary, oregano, thyme and sage.

I certainly inherited my Dad's love for antiquated old lanterns. While pretty much irrelevant, these may be seen hanging here and there about our place

These 3 keep us sorted in the egg department daily!

Enjoying a good dust bath - they healthily free range rather than being trapped in a cage or a shed their whole lives for mass production of eggs

Once you're used to fresh home baked bread - the stuff from the supermarket just doesn't cut it anymore!

 

Come round some time!

Ode to the Yarra

Now here beside us river’s voice compounds,

My mind now sees the real; it is absurd,

For many folk your song have never heard.

And it would seem that soothing sights and sounds

Most dismally are ‘ere long now unfound.

Yet nigh to nature youth here have wandered,

Beauteous place where young folk have pondered,

And only here does such freedom abound.

Hidden - night lays on our restful vale,

Safely sister slumbers sailing streams song.

Lamp glows steadily, peace grows verily,

And lo! Western wonts are an ill, I know;

Ample flows, but greedily goes our thirst.

It is for me to decide

Flicking through the final pages of Simone de Beauvoir’s novel The Blood of Others succeeded in drawing back into the consciousness the messy network of thoughts associated with Sartrean philosophy, primarily  that of an individual’s responsibility for their personal decisions.

Fascist Poster stating that members of the French Resistance were criminals

Hélène is dying after choosing to engage in a risky, undercover mission against the Fascist forces occupying France in order to save an old friend.

 In doing this not only does she finally validate her love with Jean Blomart, but she distinctly exercises her freedom to decide for herself regardless of him, the man she loved, and whom she had long centred much of her life around in the past.  

de Beauvoir passively explores the ethics of choosing through the dialogue of her characters throughout the text.

                                                          

Temporarily assuming truth in the primary existentialist premise that ‘man is nothing else but what he makes of himself,’ it is possible to understand each person as entirely free to make decisions for themselves.

Sartrean philosophy insists that the subjectivity of the self must be the starting point, with a person existing prior to their essential self, which is created through the individual’s decisions. In the words of Sartre – ‘first of all, man exists, turns up, appears on the scene, and, only afterwards, defines himself.’

Without becoming too heavily engaged in existentialist philosophy, Sartre makes the point that though one chooses for oneself,  simultaneously, in this choice, one ’[chooses] all men.’

In this sense, Sartre insists that an individual is not only responsible for their own individuality, but is responsible for all of humanity in decisions made.

                                                          

This way of thinking is present in the character of Blomart, who, from the beginning of the novel, is illustrated as being weighed down with the burdensome responsibilty of his own choice. He is only too aware of the impact of his decisions, when in the early pages of the novel he acknowledges his fault in the death of his friend Jacques Ledru. 

Murderer! Murderer! I walked in the night, I staggered, I ran, I fled. He had been there, so quiet, in the midst of his poems and his books. I took him by the hand, I gave him a revolver and I pushed him into the track of the bullets. Murderer.

Hélène lives life ignoarnt of the responsibility of her choices. One of the first episodes in which she is involved consists of her theft of a neighbours bicycle. Her then boyfriend Paul berates her, telling her to ‘put [herself] for a moment in that poor creature’s shoes when she can’t find her bike.’ To this she simply responds that the thought delights her.

Certainly by the end of the story Hélène has changed. She is aware of the power of her choices, and her self-sacrifice is a demonstration of a decision in which she chooses not only for herself but for others.

‘My only love,’ [Jean] said. ‘You are here, and through my fault.’

‘Wherein lies the fault?’ she said. ‘It was I who wanted to go.’

‘But I could have forbidden you.’

She smiled. ‘You had no right to decide for me.’

The same words. He looked at her. It is indeed her.

She used to say, ‘It is for me to decide.’

 

Sitting in the Shade

The hidden river moves

Somewhere I know

Children all believe

Mothers say they know

Sorry we got lost

I liked the forest when we first arrived.

We sit under shady arbors

safe and unsafe

we wander through the wood

climbing, we fall

again again again again;

the puzzle mystifies.