Ravensthorpe

Ravensthorpe road



A paddock of rape stems.



A not-so-beautiful replanting in ravensthorpe.

Mt Barren Ranges from the highway.

Palimpsest

I
Driving back from Denmark on Wednesday morning I recognised for the first time the relevence of the word "palimpsest" in the landscape architecture discourse: along the road corridors, suddenly in the middle of a mound of rocks in a paddock, in the riparian zone suviving under bridges are thin, very thin strips of native vegetation. Perhaps a single line of marri trees, an occassional stand of coastal jarra, a patch of complex riparian community surviving at a river mouth...These are the tiny lines remaining when you rub out a page of writing. Carelessly you've failed to remove a whole line of letters at the side of the page or a few strokes stay where you pressed harder to make a point and the pencil cut a little deeper into the paper; maybe the indentation of the marks remains without the lead.
So it is that a little bit of bush remains in the landscape rewritten as agriculture. Tiny remnants of Australian vegetation - or should it be pre-Australian vegetation? - these thin marks allow you to imagine a forest, a complex of interactions and timeframes and you could dream the dots and lines reconnected as a whole system. Each fragile moment hints at a vast swamp of time that it might be possible to recreate. But the new story written on the palimsest is fences, sheep and tail-docked dairy cows, an old man tinkering under a Fordson tractor, a patch of bright green sub-clover in kikuyu grass, thin and brown come summer. Try rubbing that out with jarrah and marri and Acacia accuminata.

II

...Anyhow, I was talking about writing to create the new story of talking to someone about something, making a story of a happening or an event then constructing a theory of the event, constructing a palisade on a palimpsest. Re-writing a notional contrivance to dredge up a forum of time that could conclude the swampish indulgence of and fulgence in the swamp of morass of tears. Does it come from having nothing to do; or does it come from not having anything to do?

"He told me, I must sit here and do nothing. That is what I am doing."

"I ask you again, have you nothing to say of any use?"

"Nothing doing!"

"There is nothing here."

"I don't think it'll be able to support anything now."

"I sat all day, in the sun, by a window, warm, because I did not have a thing to do."

"I did not have anything better to do."

"I have nowhere I would rather be."

"I am here because I don't have anywhere I would rather be."

"I am sorry for you."

"I wish you weren't."

[But I didn't say "I have nowhere to go," I said I have nowhere better to go.]

Buckets of Rain, Buckets of Tears

I know it's depressing and unproductive to talk about it, but i just need to say how depressed I am and how completely sick of it I am. I thought I could manage it, find a way through it without anti depressants and for about 6 weeks I did feel heaps better, but now I just seem to be back to the old pitch, crying all the time, not able to find a programme to occupy myself with during the day. Etc etc etc. it's so very boring.
Maybe there is a solution. Maybe I just need to wade through the floods of tears and eventually I'll come out the other side. But right about I am just nearly prepared to give up and get back on the drugs.
Hope everyone else is having a better day than me!

Eucalyptus platypus platypus

Have been measuring trees for 4 weeks, and just got back from Ravensthorpe. One of the favourite sites we measured was a large stand of mort, on a farm just below the Lake Magenta Mallee Fowl Reserve.

Last night lasted an hundred years

emptiness found a thread of hopeless desire pull me
from one room to another
following human sounds
while I was not.

But only a hopeless knot of self pity.

Enough! I
will not go down that too-well
trodden path again,
because of my laziness
and self hunger.

I will not tell you how I feel
nor feel like this.
nor return,
trying to drag you along in my wake of tears.

I do not even ask that you forgive me,
I ask that none forgive me.
I practice this act of newness to forget,
and to be new.
This guilt shame is wearing a shirt too thin,
I will simply to be anew
and so the practice of this I will
is to use to simply be

another

self-death for the death of self pity,
this hopeless one whom i disown,
disavow,
and what is it? Excommunicate.

For a church of the new world
I will build from canvas on the shifting sands
that it be strong,
knowledge-renewable
infinitely flexible
and allow the passage of the winds of change
eternal
happy
joyous.

Do not forgive.

I will it.
then I am so
other.

If I could tell you...

If I could tell you
the laws of my longing
you would be here
on behalf of your greed
the witness of a hungry man
who does not care
if you are naked or shy

Because now that I
can't use it or feel it
I know for a fact
that I am beautiful
and more than anything
you want a beautiful slave
to make you cry

And long after that
whenever I touched you
whenever you undressed
you would need to know
what I was thinking
and you could be as treacherous
and you know you are
you would be a spy

And then something would happen
that would crush us
and free us
and destroy completely
whatever had been
and we would have begun
to signal one another
each time before we lie

p46 Leonard Cohen, 1972, The Energy of Slaves. Jonathon Cape Ltd. London.

Disintegration to find it, I.

An inability to write is an inability to write is not having anything to say no not having nothing to say but without the words to write down what is on my mind, to hear what is on my mind, to see it and translate it into words not having the language that can make it sound like it sounds in the sounding shell of my mind. My cunt is on my mind.

But without words to write what I think it is to hear what is on my mind, to see and translate the words which have no language which can make it sound like it sounds in the shell of my skull. My vagina is on my mind but did not write it down, what is it seems to me that what is heard as I can remember,

to see it and load it is not a language

can here but be achieved
but did not write it down, then what is my impression that what is heard as I can remember,
Can not write can not write, is not no no no no say, my vagina is my thoughts.
Inability to write is not able to write is nothing
to say anything, nothing
to say but no
words to write

what I think is what is heard on my mind, to see and those without language, which can make it speak but did not write it down, it seems what is for me that which is heard as I can remember, to see it, tell someone what to say, but not the words to write what I think is what you hear of my mind, see, and without the language, which can be done. Cunt

mind.

(I went to the vivid desert for a drive and came out dry, too dry,
I've been too dry too long, far too
long. I'm going back to the coast to get rained on.

Tall trees.

I want to get wet.

I want the sting of cold rain on my face and in my heart, grey clouds and soft light breaking through all over me. I want to stand on my skin and wash the dust out of my veins, stand on the streaming streets water courses drains rivulets running through the lines in my face, my hair, swim down the street, flow down the drains into the glassy harbour.)

I would like to be a thorn coast, was Rain. My face and in my heart, grey clouds and soft light to break the All I.

flow in the street
river runs through the line rains, my face, my Hair, swimming, in the street drains flow down to the glassy harbour
grey clouds and soft light breaking through all over me
I want to position your skin, wash the dust off my veins and streaming on the street run through the lines of your face, my Human hair, bathe the street, the flow down the drains into the harbour. and the light on all questions. I want your skin, wash the dust off my veins and on the city roads I

Human hair, bathe in the street, the flow down drains into wine.

(I have vivid desert, drive, and left the dry, very dry. I was too too long, too long. I will return to vein and urban roads sewage water rivulets running through the lines of my face, I Human, swimming in the street, drainage flows into the vitreous port.)

Long tree. I want to get a drink. I want a cold rain and a bitter
all questions. I'm your skin to place.

There's only enough room for one in here, you and me. Back here, again, drinking flowers,

but better listening, listening this time to the soft music, gentle chords lightly on the tendons in my neck, my throat, the breathe in my throat, soft pause. Each string buzz is a caress on the nerve centre spinal messenger of flesh, warm blood flow, flow, buzz, shiver and shift in my seat. Neither of us knows what the sound of your fingers sliding down the strings is called.
Only enough space here, you and me. water flowers, only better
Listen, listen to the music this time, gentle chords of the tendon gently on my neck, my throat, breathing in my throat soft suspended. Each string expression is a messenger caressing the flesh nerve spine, the warm blood flow, flow, word of mouth, trembling and change behind. Neither of us unknows
theunvoice of your finger
s down the string.
How it feels! under particular my epidermis, I know the coordinates. It is nerve stroking, running fingers under my string, lips, your teeth? How did the teeth of Jimmy Hendrix call it?
Back here again, water flowers Listen, listen to the music this time
Back here again, but better
listening, hearing this time, soft music, gently chords lightly on the tendons in my neck, my throat, and breath in my throat, the soft break. Each string buzz is petting us, central, nervous, spinal messenger flesh, warm blood flow, flow, buzz, shiver and shift in my place. Neither of us knows.
Not only enough for a room here. listen, listen
time,
skinware, music, chords gentle light
on the tendons in the neck, infringe each line is bothering happy,
scarred Not all of us knows
what is the sound scald
I only enough for me here.
How to feel! I know the coordinates. This is a touch nervous, run the string in my fingers, lips and teeth?
feel
He is stroking my cheek, running his fingers in my string, lips, play it
It feels like! It is stroking the cheek, running his fingers in the string, each, that?

Your voice on the back of my neck I'd call pulling each tendon string and playing chords that tingle a vibration that loosens the sense from my brain cells. I don't know. But in some language I'm sure they do.
Your voice in the back each string playing chor'ds that tingle a vibration that loosens mind my brain
I do not know. But in some language I’m sure.
In a language where the sun turns skin to silk, silk to honey and you lick down to raw blood cells in a landscape of hot moist deep green big leaved ancient trees, where you could open my chest and place the light of the moon inside there, to tide cast my moods in a flood of pleasure tears, wet and sticky, creamy and hot.
An old wet hot tide, merging in my blood. Rising up in that language where they bring you pleasure on a platter and smear it all over your face, one day I'll find the century of that language.
A language of the sun to the skin of silk, silk, with honey and you to primitive blood cells in the hot and humid landscape of dark green leaves of the big old trees become, where you open my chest and place it in view of the moon, through the I feeling happy to cast a flood of tears. Heat the old trend, the integration in my blood. The rise of the language, they bring you pleasure and smear it
one day I will find the language of the Century
A language of the sun to the skin of silk, silk, with honey and lick you to primitive blood cells pleasure all the disc and smear your face, one day
The purpose of a language, where you suck down the raw blood cells
you can open and place the light inside the moon, the tides cast my feelings in the pleasure of the flow of tears, wet and gooey, creamy and hot.
Old wet hot tides, the merging in my blood.
pleasure to have and smear the whole of your heart
honey raw blood cells hot wet deep
inside the moon the tides cast emotions of joy flows tears

Old hot wet flood, a combination of the blood. The mass obtained by the language, if it will be fun bowls and smear the whole of your face, one day, I see the age of this language. Arse.
( expulsion vivid desert-dry, too dry, been too dry too long, too long. go back to the coast of Rain. Tall trees. be wet. be a thorn in my face and in my heart grey clouds and soft light to break the dust from a vein, the flow from the street, swimming. Just enough space here, you and me. Neither Your voice, my neck nor I. Climb the language. )
older, where you can open
and set it
in view of the moon
through feeling like
my tears flood,
wet
sticky
hot
hair,
to music from the vertebral line, the hot blood flow, the flow of breath, chills, and change.
is called the line. How do I know! I know. Worried?
the chain of my fingers, and it?
when can you
in the light of the moon through a sense of how to cast my flood (I intended to send vivid dry desert, very dry, I too long, too long was established. I went to go coastal rain. Uzun trees. Went to be wet. (To face my heart, grey clouds and soft light are all violations. To me your skin from the dust takes. Wash the vessels, the river goes to the streets over the street rivulets, wire, face, hair, baths, glass, drain all time into the curve of the flow.) enough! There’s space for me here. Here again, sandalwood, patchouli just the music now, flesh tones, and light tones, in my throat, to listen to listen to my soft suspension. If a string expression is a message from the vertebral line to tender cheek, warm blood flow, breathing, chills, and site of the flow it is not. We all have these fingers. How do I know! the brain cells are shaking. I do not know. Language Sunday silk, leather, silk, honey and hot and humid, dark green, open when you smydalthen this month how to light in a sense through the old blood cells to colours’ tears, wetness, stickiness and my master’s songs. Heat former tendency, blood integrity. Language is climbing, you scratch your face to bring joy and one day you can find the art of English.)


What do you think of me, however, to want
not to write something for someone
my mind to hear you to impotence, a look and language
which can be done without. I explained my idea of the vagina.
Can not write, as I remember Can not write a no no no no, not to speak, write, not what it is for me to hear what he, like seeing
is accessible. I think my vagina is.
Rain in months.
Long tree.
I want to get a drink. I want a cold rain and a bitter
On my face and heart, grey clouds and light
all questions. I'm your skin to place, I want to wash the dust
and urban roads and
sewage water running I
flow into the drain.)
flowers
,
He is coming! Under the skin, I know the coordinates. This is runningfingers his fingers Stroking the cheek
raw honey skin and blood cells you and the moon light sea joy to open the dumb feelings, my tears flow, PG, creamy wet and hot. The old hot wet flood, a combining of blood. Achieved with a collective language, it will be fun and a bowl scratch parchment, one day, this.
I call back in a voice, tone and each line and the game pulled tender vibration to lose my brain's memory cells tingling. I do not know. However, some languages, we believe that for this.