organic national urban event

1. ‘COMMON AS’ & ‘UNIQUE AS’;
AT HOME IN GLOBAL GEOGRAPHY WE PLACE OURSELVES AS NATION IN
COUNTRYSIDE & COAST.
It is a lyrical geography pronouncing identities. and futures.

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3. iii
DRAFT – A
WORK IN
PROGRESS

4. iv
© Monte John Latham 2015
Monte John Latham asserts the moral right to be identified as the creating author of this work,
and its composite parts.
All rights are reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author.
All of value that came before,
in particular this beautiful land
…
PAINTINGS, COVER, PENCIL & SNAP PHOTO
ILLUSTRATIONS ARE BY THE AUTHOR
A FEW OF THE IMAGES ARE DRAWN FROM
GENERAL PUBLICATION & OF UNKNOWN SOURCE.

5. v
THE WRITER
grew up in the outer suburbs of a small scenic capital city in Tasmania
Australia amid abundant countryside and estuary coast. After a lengthy
professional sojourn in town character and matters urban, he now paints,
writes and draws plans in a rural coastal part of home; deep in the islands
immediately
south in The Great Southern Land. At times, such as now, his writing is
loosely waxed edited flow of conscious and subconscious from the evirons
& the mental … lush with psychotropic properties.
Born mid 20th
century he, with wife & their five children, grew near Hobart,
battling its economy with faith in the nurture of familiar locale and this one
in particular.
No author is an island; rather merely another participant and this one with
a very very tolerant participator in Sandy, a very very special piece of New
Zealand and wife. Certainly the kids are triple A + participators too. He is
ten years older than the picture. I hope you enjoy this light hearted and
impassioned piece about his countrymen.

6. 6
Great
Southern
Streetwalking
Nomad
The clouds are charged, anytime bright bolts will brighten the gloom
momentarily for the clouds and with great value to the witnesses. A
bellyful of fresh apricots, nuts and coffee in the presence of a
Gregory Peck western movie, finds union with the charge - and the
time is now as word-based expression transmutes to visual imagery
for a reading witness. The lightening will crack, rumble and awe even
as it is a mere peep in the almighty order … spread like an endless

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canvas intrinsically receiving fresh oil colour sufficiently abundant for
all witnesses to find an interactive story of their own. What is this
colour now this shape this icon, what is this flow, this scene this
signpost?
It’s not that manic depression is needed for creativity but that it may
be useful to communicate in the darkness where pearls fall spat-out
by swine or where the shadows about any reader may need to be
found hopefully in full perspective. Take me don’t take me, let me go
with you away engulfed in your sea of joy - found interactive with a
tribal family and foreigners inter-pollen and play. I don’t want to
stop, simply to flow and break where necessary with a diamond facet
in sync with a quasar edge to let it be the essence that nurtures a
quoll, … whilst shining sanity to a witness who is a prisoner of war or
leach ridden in a jungle ditch formed at the base of a huge fallen tree.
They are loved by many, the brave over-and-done stories of the
hard won victories or the wasted lost battles that were part thereof;
the lovers of the loved lean into the gloom finding a light, a warmth,
an attitude, a valiance and characters to love. The story of a

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chapter of a life, the substance of desperate-sweat, endurance,
genius, determination showing a success that one may like to share.
It was here in the wind of mentality, yours and mine, the sole one but
stopping to manifest it here I face an echo of silence - just an error a
ripple in our fluid; I am now again the pilot, my instrument keyboard
at one time a brush is the glider in our wind. We unfold the wild wind
of our angry hearts and roll out the moist words of our supreme joy.
Retell me foreign gentleman … of the best way to prune the olive
tree and I will explain the tapping of oil from the eucalypt and
together we may see a quasar joining us through its veil.
Enough said; some bowel is now clear as the awesome wonder is
cracked like an eggshell to make a colloquial jibe and some fun at the
pub. This is not gloom nor shadow nor lightning bolt, it is time of day
wizened but innocent chatter, a play and expression in a different
prism simply to say - come what may, we seek not what you say. And
so in frailty the echo of silence whitewashed the lot but only like a
fog that unnoticed faded completely away in the course of a day.

9. 9
His lifelong darling threw him another very fresh apricot and
together the energies flowed. Always a sojourn-away invigorates
the write, brings in something Leunig, musical or gay but we try to
keep the language on track and the owner of the words that fit the
things like snake, rainbow, jazz and gay. There’s occasionally a whip
a quip abreaking serious convention defending the order the
wording against the lackadaisical beckon, the truth against the
human vain hope, the distortion against the same. Break a heart with
a question; are we humans, people, souls-on-fire, animals, persons,
cobbers and liar. Are we the prints on our fingers known not on
animals but to god who lingers. Grandaughter loves her daddy when
he calls chicken kebab ‘chicken-on-a-sticken’; the sheer magic of the
lightening thunder and the serious sadness of genderbender and
clubfoot, something is odd with folly that may make us laugh and look
anew. The Yaqui shaman jumping across hilltops with energy fingers
from his solar plexus is practicing his art on a fundamental that life is
controlled folly but ah no, life is a belly full of fresh apricots and a

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peel of thunder, a bowl of cherries some freshly garlicked Christmas
fry-up. Wedge firmly the pot pipe into a rock crevice in Italy the ipad
where the sun does not shine. Take up as a child of God and bear
the healing strain of the wrongs that have sent us cartwheeling with
the bug of the world into the Great Southern Land colonies where
the sun does shine. Is there preaching among us or is that not
kosher; not of lost Catholic of Islam of Kentucky Fried or Ferrari,
not of vegan, good-doing, hard work and plasterer’s slurry; but of
truth and its flowering wonders of its railway stations and hair salons
sitting skew in a powerpacked edengarden with climate that requires
no shelter and a mindset that needs no clothes. The shadows lift as
the sunlight is bending every whichway through a shell of water
above the air, no possibility of manic depression where gloom is
physically impossible, not a supreme optimism nor a frozen position -
with souls interacting a fluid evolving ecstasy as music, voice and
colour uncluttered with counter clacker. Take me don’t take me let
me go with you away engulfed in your sea of joy. When can we go
and where will it be. How can we go and what will we see. Take me

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true one, let me go with you where the way is the journey and the
place is at hand.
Our geographic architect knows that a chunk of lead is fluid and a
volume of oxygen is somewhere someday solid; he knows the earth
planet is a spaceship corrupted and that all planets are earth
accessible via the internal cube, that all stars react the same nuclear
fuel and that the black is what is the black the deep deep into which
we cannot turn nor become. The gloom is only our fear and yearning
for the tropicana pineapple juice, coconut oiled muscle and grass
skirts. Seems there’s always that something that only our unabstract
maker can know as we have an edge, a skin, a containment that is in
fact our identity or part thereof. The geographic architect knows
that the arrogant of our building is made in our blindness and turns
our eyes inward blinding us further and harder in heart locked by
faith in technological product and glitz interior, unlike our company in
the peoples of the land and a dreamtime, whom we in part married
after we had first kicked the heads from some of their babies we had

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buried to the neck. They had been maintaining a notion of
spaceship earth and ecopicality. As the story goes we are now
outside Eden over there Iraqabouts … behind the mighty lock, that
virgin spaceship maybe still runs smooth as nectar, nurturing electric
social life – outside where it is broken and harsh, where we create
our own tiny lifeboats bruised and sore seeking comfort and succour
and turning at each other. We went, we go Austroriginal, legs are my
frontdoor my fire is my television, and we go Sydney box, comfy
electronic indoors, take the car to the bush if I have the time and
money.
Corners space shape elbow-room, reach stride lay meet, nook hall
yard. Depth of cupboard, height of sill. Ergonomic room, bus aisle
accesses an emergency stop button, grandfather’s coffin and
grandchild’s cradle. Knob rails seat stair-tread, doorway ceiling and
pergola overhead. Room to access move and to be still in house and
in camp. Quick let’s load the Commodore wagon and get out of tar,
stuff & cement; through the fragrant yellowed eucalypt belt to the

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lonesome beach surf, ionised crystal and clear and campfire friend.
Room too in this place, … to fulfil … for a moment, … domestic needs
house and camp. Orientate it largely outward Austroriginal
communal domestics or enclosed with a ‘view’ for Sydney’s
Western pale. The generic word for first people of a land is
‘aboriginal’ (small ‘a’) or ‘native’ and yes I am addressing Australians
who simply dignified with an “A” and don’t seem to know if there ever
was a name for the entity of people we & they came to call the
“A”borigines. Likely there were names only for each tribe; a funny
thing, like, if all the archipelago islands that make Australia are
together Australia, then what is the name of the largest island.
Funny thing.
That’s like not acknowledging that a playdough, floor-vinyl, we use
to build is earth. The former rather than the latter is totally out of
place around an Austroriginal domestic fire; these ilk taste interior
in sleeping-shelter, … but go no further - where man o man others did,
big time they went, going country squeezing room boom. Just bit by

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bit, spreading like rash, generating synthetic compensations, boom
boom rooms rooms roads sewers salons. Room for resident-
accumulated possessions, access, house-shell, outbuildings and
landscape. The molten ergonomic-heart will leave dust in redundant
corners and hard wear and patina on traffic spots; corners, part of
the shell form, may even arise somewhat in the garden.
Previously … unseen in the country; the interior and exterior shapes
become very much part of daily life. In any room, cast an eye wall top,
where ceiling sits. Usually it is three lines meeting at right angles,
being two walls and a ceiling. This three-planed-corner is one of
peoplekind’s most significant creations - happens at floor too,
usually lost to handy square-fit furniture. Its creation is owned more
by physics and the nature of playdough, than by us builders. With it
is a dichotomy in built shape with natural land form stamped over by
townplanners grid; sometimes blended bipolar with the house form as
the house relates with it all. Natural forms and boundaries by others
are married by private house synthetics, the identity in public dress;
in one property leaning hog-like into the ground and in another

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against a boundary and flying eagle to the horizon. Austroriginals
scratch their heads and so some throw more aliminium on the midden.
The traditional Austroriginals may have no racial memory of
permanent house … since the perchance Ark there on Ararat. The
square-rigger that delivered the new Sydneysiders was a great
unidentified white flapping object; until they were able to run a craft
eye over its frames. What was this new sharply arrised, gabled box,
the first sealed light-coloured interior with eight crisp three-planed-
corners at floor and ceiling. This box, far from ticky tacky, was
awash with novelty and sitting in rich country context … being merely
the first redness of ominous rash. A few totally uninitiated
Austroriginals, yet to have first time experience of a modern suburb
and a sharp block of flats sitting in red Australian country … in the
box; squares, prisms, right-angles, door, window, rectangles, … and a
sliding drawer holding a matchbox, … surely fallen to Earth. So
many people, for so many hours of so many days for so many years,
are subject to shhhhh quiet bombardment shhhhhh by so many
three-planed-corners. The corners challenge to counterplace the

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circular belt of sky that blends with the horizon below it and the
dome of the heavens above. That belt is there maybe shrouded by
depleted over-head forest leaves and life distant it mooches warmly
present bombarding orgone glow, behind the flat white ceiling walls
and that skewed corrugated roof of unknowing.
Austroriginal Albert Geogalong, with a freshly gutted lizard, nods
as he wanders through an egg-shaped lounge to use a refrigerator.
How long has he known this new geographic event? Some natural
spaces in the country’s bush suit as room for contemplation, lunch,
sleep or some manual work; likewise bush wilderness rampant nature
is in the house … usually unseen by the boat people .
Sydneysider Maggie Pale hermetically seals it out so far as she can;
allowing the ceiled corners to win their challenge. Geogalong has
moved through the kitchen and out the back door in fluid motion
enjoying the designed ergonomic room-flow of his visit whilst
thanking, for his sharing, the absent but present custodian; he
continues as himself part of nature’s earthy nurtures on his way out

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the back track through the bush, the Sydneysider lounge-room
lizard still quivering at the thought of his spear and afraid to touch
the berries the nomad had left on the unlacquered wattle-wood
dining table. A building inspector on his job finds himself sharing
the psyche of flying ceilings; not using the house for other than
exploration he heads back out the front track into a small mobile
interior and towards his council offices noticing people using the
laundromat, the community hall and cafes he sees the ceiling of each
joined with the ceiling of every house, and notes that the old
blackfella he saw seemed to utilise some interior whilst rejecting
other; the tight little boxes & psycho-conjoined ceilings were
cracking like egg shells and surprised lizards were too slow for the
hawks enjoying uncooked omelette.
The people had been using the boxes to hide from discipline, social
and neighbourly truths and now roll embarrassed. Elsewhere a
pyramid-shaped room focuses a surprising energy which is more
physical than psychological; the three-planed-corners mould our

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attention habits into forms that differ to those made from the
embrace of the dome of the horizon.
Boat-people are not prone to move and bend in accord with right
angles; though they train themselves and are usually compromised
that way; providing we aren’t carrying a bowl of soup to the
television couch we can make a fluid either-hand turn at speed by
executing an exhilarating snappy swivel born from the ball of our
leading foot. We happily face the containment of boxes so as to
have ready and reserved the room for domestic performance.
“Get out of our room, get out of our face,” say Albert, smiling
hatless woolly of hair, and a Darwinian City Architect, a corrugated
slouch hat roofed across his university brow …, his feet stirring the
sandy floor of stone broken by a million frosts, small kilometres
below the stratosphere, chatting peaceably in an open air country
nook, in a song-line corridor, nature’s earthy nurtures bucketing
through, galloping too, undisciplined by the feng shui and the

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magazine kosher. They’re speaking to a couple of cloud-ceilinged
larrikin kids impinging the sanctity of their space, crowding their
spontaneous room and the purpose for which they need the room.
Even so accommodating curiosity The Darwinian takes a bucket of
the sand to demonstrate the art of concrete to these curious
progeny. There is something to be said for the straight edge, right
angle & its box; sit the rock on the horizontal face and shape the end
to meet the other – cut stone. “Is it square apprentice?” “Yes boss,
we now have concise interface sir.” Before shape we have the
pragmatic of the horizontal and vertical planes; children of gravity -
essence of box and parents of the three-planed-corner. Gravity
along with the dimensional requirements of our bodies and psyches
are the first aspects of our quadrangular prisms and yards.
Likely without built interior the world would never have been
thought of as ‘open air’ nor external nor outside; except in the
sense of outside a realm or a copse of trees. A cave is in, one
would go out of it, but this is a different out.

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We have been sharing engagement with doing our house
fandango finding the geographic architect inside not a building
but the heart somehow within our body. We have this fandango in
geography now with digital software technological things that are
staggeringly expansive in knowledge and communication and
tending oh so tending trending and seemingly mending but having
us propped on spindly legs like Salvador Dali’s elephants ready
to crumble in self imputed holocaust … onto the ground that
remains immemorial except for the state of flux like a chunk of coal
fluided by pressure to diamond interface with quaser wonder edge
such that our world will be renewed and the dust of holocaust
merely part of the unwasted renovation.
In this happening our bodies with our heart
cannot be separate…. hmmm. Other than
dalek style we cannot renovate ourselves; nor
can renovate themselves; Sydneysider nor

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Austroriginal who walk with Albert Geogalong singular with the
country. Shivers …. brrrrr. Room boom, digital figital, country
calamity, supermarket ransom, slimmed down obesity, power-
grabbed desperate shmarmy, all-religions-in-one, global-warming
just another geographic cycle, panic corruption bug-of-the-world,
methamphetamine rotting brains making broken children crippling
dad …
Maker come. Of this all witnesses will find an interactive story of
their own. Swing low sweet chariot. The clouds are surely
charged deeper darker than any seen; the bolt will crack cutting
between muscle and bone. Despite our awesome technologies
engaging musics and the cities we have made in fact we are the
creative creatures and not the Creator.
Our seemingly handy connected boxes and optic fibre are minor
compared to our entrails and the silver thread of life that we might
see snapping soul separate from loved ones and life below or

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above; to the side or at fortyfive degrees or inward and away. Still
an arm of sorts embraces, helpless are we if our heart races and we
long for familiar faces, living in the formed-up dust beyond. Ah
well they think that’s old Mont done and dedusted oh dear let roll
a tear with molecules of water that had been twenty thousand
metres in the air a few days ago. Ah but our love for this sunburnt
country we can speak clearly about pointing and sharing; the
bright company beyond us here in the dust we have all but lost
faded in racial memory genome and blocked out pretty solid by
mobile telephone screening immense time soak.
Wilderness edge deep throated synthetic city interior. Food
nature overstepped by slow boat politically controlled economy
and life future looking gloomy. And still … all witnesses will find an
interactive story of their own; along weedy concrete kerb, red, plant
flourished, dusty track or skyflung, powering through solid interior
and traffic. Don’t leave me I’m coming too where are you going I’m
listening to you. Let me read you open your words, internal

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dialogue and conscious construction. I’m reading you, I see you
well, you picked me up the moment I fell. You’re a last guy who
looks to be first, a nice girl who didn’t want to be a nurse. Sorry not
you, I can’t read you all at once but there is that connection
through genome and food, Irish roots and Sri Lankans boating
over 40,000 years ago … kinda getting’ married with some brave lost
Viking sailors coastal of Broome. All those connections Adam,
Eve and down the line MidEastern Abraham, Noah the goer
nobody could stop. What is it that is said about the quirk of
bonding with Jesus the Nazarene; we sidestep to the genetic line
of Abraham. All pretty similar in an inner cosmic soup; I can read all
that in there in the old moebius loop de loop. So I’m reading you,
your words are soaking in, … to the fabric of the pages as I hit high
flight with my instrumental keyboard the syllables begin to sing.
Can go on line after line but the tonsils get tired and the feet get
blisters, the hitech soles lose their zip. You need to find me a
travellers caravanserai where I don’t lose your journey. Trouble is I
don’t have the money, I’ll camp by the river, maybe see you there for

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a scoop of fresh water and if there’s pizza there and a lounge lizard
to spear. The way is the journey I don’t want to stop but I love to
bump shoulders with family as I go and the occasional wandering
Italian who can tell me my olive tree how to prune. Be my guest I’ll
find some pictures to paste in the track, makes no difference an old
fashioned shack or glitz Melbourne lodge with a red telephone.
Don’t close off I’m still reading you and so are the others. We
don’t care about your chemical ice, a fact is a fact, we should have
law to kill you though if you provide it to another. We don’t see
your clothes, just your open doors and the leafy salad oozing
from your pores. Together we read and write with strength,
Mont’s your keyboard, mental ectoplasm our line, the space
between is no space at all. I know your face I’ve seen it before, just
can’t recall where was it on tv in a Russian crowd – nah I’m playing
with words for sure, taking the freedom of a painter using tricks of
perspective and space.

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Are we going somewhere? Well I hear the engine and my fingers
are tired, we’ve come this far and probably have had some arrivals
on the way. Are we going in circles, doesn’t matter my memory’s
not good and anyway things change as time goes by and I view
them in a different light using a different avatar (Avatar? No
thanks just adacado.) Yes for sure we’re on the go, we’re building
something that will not be lost to a lifting fog. It’s a serious thing I
do as I was saying to my friend who just called, if I wasn’t doing it
I’d feel irresponsible; this writing has to be writ.
It’s the geographic truths I wish to pronounce in particular the
ones being lost to the globaltechno fog that hangs thick as dirty
old nappies for many. Not everybody in the world can be
geographically Australian a great southern streetwalking nomad
belonging to a locale called Ballarat, Scottsdale, Oodnadatta or
Writemealetter. Thumbprints in locale all combining into nation.
Identity, identities to do with land and country local culture in the
local hamburger. Something to grasp and make grow not wobble

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on spindly Dali elephants in cyberspace man. How many hours a
day do we spend at a screen flat on our bottoms, what’s
happening to our miracle existence. I don’t know what to do where
to go where are you going would I go to? The cyber interiors are
to the Sydneysiders what Captain Cook’s ship was to the
Austroriginals. There will be casualties people not prone sit and
screen, too brave and having no connection will be obliged to
throw tinnies to a midden surviving like Mad Max whatever way we
can, being a social category without a constantly refreshed
website to demand. What’s happening Australia do we want to go
too. Can we hook up that great socio-google machine and tame it
to haul with us as the masters; if not nought bodes well for the
freshness of life and the pressures on the misfits held captive by
mindfaked controllers being controlled. Heaven please bowl me a
big juicy orange apricot with reddish freckles and easy to break in
half to share to eat. In that moment I will jolt to faith that something
can open the way through or by this puzzle that is surely a beast.

27. 27
Bowl my father in heaven, bowl me here with our christ what I
need.
Something to grasp and make grow, of character, muscle and
countryland. Something to consolidate the locale to which most
of us return before we die; a town with identity history or even new
– a new hitech city but oozing with country and its fresh air
billowing into the call centres and software creators. Let them
unfold bucketloads of new towns anchored to old highways in
drama with wildlife and history. Lots of new towns as different one
from the other as our creativity vernacular integrity lets them occur
and playing and competing one with another in village style
football and trade fairs.
We have some ghastly horrible mentalities, ugly gore whore selfish
thieveries and lazy bummed deceitful attitudes to wash out clean,
in order to maintain too, pristine clean our prime realty; our natural
campsites with no signs bins and barriers or any form of public

28. 28
construction that is aimed at stopping strewn toilet paper broken
beer glass and vandalism. This is our prime realty, camp sites are
not just the leftover strips at the coast or the edge of town. They
are linked track to national parks jetties and town centres and the
town centres have ‘no-banks-on-the-street-corners’ rather
anything but; say some potters’-hub food-joint movie-theatre
seagull-roost or wombat hideaway. This is our geographic
architect cooking up as necessary for social vitality; as it works for
Australia with our own conglomerate of social ingenuity,
adaptability, history, ownership, vernacular, ecopical
responsibility. So simple it is but current vestage mindsets greeds
have almost locked it to into current global style cities. We’re
looking at it sensibly, starting in Melbourne and mixing it
Mullumbimby. Australians with feet on the ground can make this
movement not an act of the bowels but of the hand and heart.
Eventually given time for Austroriginals to regain their ancient
footings as in today, the ancient-mix Sydneysiders and they will
accidentally meet in harmonious embrace in places on the move

29. 29
between the biggest cities and the deepest bush. The key part of
this architecture is here already in the geography of countryland
coastal and people. Let’s go a bridge to Indonesia too and grasp
Kiwiland like we used to do.
It’s true indeed that the bug of the world, greed, selfishness,
foolishness and vice is a filth that needs be cleansed. We fix it in
Australia and it will come from overseas, spanner in the works, woe
what will we do. Write us a song Sir Peter Garret Midnight Oil;
spanner in the works we’re awake to your perks, iced up thug in
Redfern and multinational commercial banker in politics, spanner
in the works we’re awake to your perks … and on we can sing and
shout problem remains they’re immune to our consultations by
mental capacity, greed and choice. This has been with us time
immemorial going back pre Captain Cook along Austroriginal
and Briton gene lines muchly very savagery and plain dastardly
controls and West Papuan grabs. How can it be fixed? By
pooling the greatest logical resources the vast treasure trove of

30. 30
created opportunity and miracle existence. I’m sounding like a
leadup to sell you a vacuum cleaner, a new facial cream or the
2015 iphone. But I mean GOD; the real one. Trouble is it’s not
finger-flickin’ good … because we’re all the original guilt and so
involved in the suffering … oh no my head has melted onto the floor
and I’ve accidentally dragged my Federation-design wooden chair
across it …. aaghhh what a mess. That’s it story’s over, can’t write
my way through my own guilt. I was so wanting to get on with the
geographic architecture spiel but here’s a bridge I cannot cross –
my face dragged over by a Federation chair using my own energy.
Maybe I’ll lounge lizard awhile with a cup of billy, no a Guinness;
with luck my wife might clean up the floor, hopefully recognising
the mess and why I’m not doing it myself, instead of being flaked as
often faceless on the couch. Guilt.
With Sandy’s help and God’s I am resurrected face carefully
rinsed in warm soapy and draped in the sun shaded by her gentle
lace scarf, sprayed with olive oil, vinegar and brown paper, it has

31. 31
become serviceable again. Thankyou. In parallel I am making
enquiries about a particular meaning of the word ‘today’ and
feeling a bit frustrated that the answer has not yet come as it has
to do with the guilt and time to act. It is what we’re plagued with
though today; delays frustratingly idle funding resource
knowledge. Letting down the team not able to find the steam
sometimes particularly nasty feather. Trudge on it is true the
resource will avail if your trudge is true. If not in earnest we must or
surely we will fizzle. Sometimes the plague is locked in as sure as
the ground and if it’s muddy there’s boots to be found. But at this
moment we yet again hear the echo of silence. I think it’s because
I’m Tasmanian isn’t it; not Brunyan but - or from Chigwell.
… sufficiently abundant for all witnesses to find an interactive
story of their own. Something to grasp and make grow;
geographic underpins and partly is architecture and is handy for
spuds, colleagues and inspiration …

32. 32
.
Today II Cor 6.2
Hebrews 3.7, 14,
ELLEN Kelly lived out the last of her life as a much respected
citizen of Greta (Victoria), but she never forgave the police for
the devastation of her family.
'People blame my boys for all that has happened,' she told the
Sydney Sun newspaper in 1911, when she was 79. 'They
should blame the police. They were at the bottom of it all. Oh,
you can't imagine what I have suffered. You can't imagine what
it means to us poor people in the Bush, to be taken away from
all that we have - our children. But they took me away, and I
had to stay in prison for years. And for nothing - nothing at all.
That house is a harness – we cannot delay!
T
h
e
t
h
a
a
a
a
r
r
r
r
k
k
e
d
D
o
l
e
FINISH

33. 33
A search in the Tardis interextra realms of knowledge imaginative
yards miles microns seeking across muddy potato patch in the joint
infinity of every point and every English word. It was more than any
ordinary conscious search and as it turned out …. My fairer gender
kissed my flickering eyelids causing them to open on impulse to find
the fascination of a new day’s early light shimmering broadly behind
her, each side of her, above, below and that in front too of her
vibrant part of this day in her facial expressions dynamic fruitful and
fulfilling in the absolute such that there was no scope to wonder
what the day would bring or why it is we call it today – let alone why
we call current times ‘today’ also. Something that isn’t merely ‘now’.
Choosing to identify wholly with this rapture I had left the
centuries floating loose and disassociated with this small point in
the fullness of universe. The supportive remnant that we would be

34. 34
seeking tomorrow but for which we simply have no need to even
imagine right now. The sunwatered trees may have been aware of
our innocent compulsive bubble of total adequacy; they may have
nurtured, nourished and compensated a smooth return to the hard
light of day – it wasn’t us; we had it all and just knew it’d be okay.
Today in the Great Southern Land there are more than twenty
million of us in our assorted momentary and long term bubbles – all
saturated richly with unique identity and knowledge of this outside
the bubbles maybe rests in the trees or the soil or the air or the
heavenly host such that coordination making a civilisation awake to
a fully shared moment; not a prime minister’s best photo but a
company of mutual heartbeats.

35. 35
It is all vivid meaningful backdrop and fallback for our workaday toil
setting the lace curtain, out with the wheely bin and the
professional devotion to task and earnestly needed coordination
of a nations architectures in this severely ravished steeply climbing
curve of environmental destruction.