Tuesday, May 12, 2015

In My Blood, There is Dust, That Dust is Who I Used To Be, Before The River Swallowed Me...

 We all hope that we are good, do we not, that the things we do in our daily lives amount to a general 'goodness', something more than our tiny transgressions against our past selves and against others, those ethical dilemmas, those decisions we make that hurt for the greater good, of one, of many, of ourselves. Sometimes it is better to walk away, causing injury, than to stay causing carnage, and there is no good explanation. Sometimes there is no good way out. Sometimes life is messy and plans unclear and we all must muddle along, teacups in hand, waiting for the next down-time to come, the new soundtrack, the wind to change and bring with it clarity. A good night's sleep in a clean bed is in order.

Asero Rubra spring from the mulch, stinking starfish growing and disappearing at an alarming rate. Fruiting bodies that colonise the surface for a few days before once again going about their secret, underground business, reminding us that there are many things we do not know, do not notice, never understood.That there is much yet to learn. 

The stewards watch over The Championship, the sheep are wrangled, clipped and turned away, thirty sheep in twenty minutes to win, and the Showgirls here are very different to the ones in the City. The air smells of lanolin, sweat and dung and the hum of shears and skitter of hooves on wooden boards feels like ancestral ground. Shearer's leather boots are always in good knick. Every fleece comes off whole.

The long neglected inks and paints were sorted and made accessible, in hopes that the long winter days will lead to some creative work. If bureaucracy permits. 

And I fish for sentiment among granite and kurrajongs, chase and listen to lichen and moss, notice the tiny changes as they maple keys fly away and the silvereyes twitter in the grass. I have lost a layer of the pyramid, as I do at this time of year. But keep on, keep on, as I say to others, it will come back.

I like to pick apples by the side of the road, and begin a lonely process my grandmother used, and put them in vacola jars, to make pies and stewed fruit to have for times to come. 
                  These feral trees, beside the highway make me wonder why the supermarket fruit needs to be sprayed to death, 
                                 ....their only fault is some spots and irregular size. 

Some rain finally came and with it more fungi, more reminders, and I ate some and admired others, like these, beautiful gilled dancing girls beneath the callistemon.  

It seems the more resignation one feels, the more simple things matter, homemade seed bread and a fancy fresh pulled radish, a new hot water bottle, the growth of pricked out seedlings, bath time, earl grey tea with lots of bergamot. 

Simple home improvement projects like changing the colour of a shelf, because being irritated by your furniture is something that can be changed with a three dollar sample pot of paint, a day at home, soup and a good playlist.

Between flowers, there is foliage to decorate with, and basil seeds to dry, and bay leaves from the pruning to hang up, and a million tiny garden tasks to get the organic matter levels back to where they need to be before a new set of plants go in, 
          Until then, its radishes and silverbeet and the basil which survived the first frost. 
                          Heads to hold up, beds to get out of, even if to migrate to the couch, mail to respond to, calls to make, hot drinks to drink, things to wash, an never ending stream of work to be done, 
                                        We must get on. And will. 
                                                              Because that is the way of things. 
                                                                          Because the battles we fight are fought alone, 
                                                                                          and alongside others simultaneously.

 Frida knew. Keep On Keeping On. 

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