Feb 2006 Washing one’s hands of the conflict between the powerless and the powerful means to side with the powerful, not to be neutral. – Paulo Freire.
“I remember a hundred lovely lakes, and recall the fragrant breath of pine and fir and cedar and poplar trees. The trail has strung upon it, as upon a thread of silk, opalescent dawns and saffron sunsets.”
foto – new baby 2010
Unlike puppets we have the possibility of stopping in our movements, looking up and perceiving the machinery by which we have been moved. In this act lies the first steps towards freedom.
Peter Berger Sociologist
foto – clown from the rathgar opshop ulmarra 2009
In the middle of Swanston Street
in wires of rain, cross-walk lights,
a puppet skips over puddles.
In a cache of strings, a jiggled turn, a rise of torso.
The wooden man is small, barefoot, slightly
hidden under quivering shadows. The puppeteer
assures him there is no danger, as he guides
his puppet through the sidewalk crush,
lifting his blue tattoos to the sky.
Under the death of winter’s leaves he lies
who cried to Nothing and the terrible night
to be his home and bread. "O take from me
the weight and waterfall ceaseless Time
that batters down my weakness; the knives of light
whose thrust I cannot turn; the cruelty
of human eyes that dare not touch nor pity."
Under the worn leaves of the winter city
safe in the house of Nothing now he lies.
His white and burning girl, his woman of fire,
creeps to his heart and sets a candle there
to melt away the flesh that hides from bone,
to eat the nerve that tethers him in time.
He will lie warm until the bone is bare
and on a dead dark moon he wakes alone.
It was for Death he took her; death is but this;
and yet he is uneasy under her kiss
and winces from that acid of her desire.
foto – new years blue moon 2010
Well he cried and laughed and shook his head then put the truck in gear,
Shut his eyes and hugged his dad in a vision that was clear,
Dropped the cattle at the yards, put the truck away
Filled the troughs the best he could and fed his last ten bales of hay.
Then he strode towards the homestead, shoulders back and head held high,
He still knew the road was tough but there was purpose in his eye.
foto – ulmarra paddock new year’s eve 2009/10
There is nothing you can see that is not a flower; there is nothing you can think that is not the moon.
fotos – moon in ulmarra dec 09.
God saves the moon from the wolves. French.
foto – new year blue moon 2010
I starred that night, I shone:
I was footwork and firework in one,
a rocket that wriggled up and shot
darkness with a parasol of brilliants
and a peewee descant on a flung bit
foto – blue moon new year 2010