The Last Mandala

photography

The last one of the year, in any case. Goodbye, 2014.

It took about a week to draw, but it’s finally finished… or maybe not.

I don’t even know anymore. MY EYES

 

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x

 

 

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Mined Earth

living, photography, rhymes and rhythm, travel

 

We eat the cows that eat the grass

We mind the cows to eat their ass

We cheat the vows we made to last

We mined the earth in ages past

 

We beat the chimps to bigger brains

We wine and dine upon the trains

We fleeting people on the plains

We find it’s dry until it rains

 

We eat the grass and smoke it too

We kind of care but so do you

We sweetly love the food we chew

We pine for more, the lucky few

 

We treat the earth alike a buyer

We sign a contract: No to Fire

We greet the desert then perspire

We line for food and eat food prior

 

We earth the cable into ground

We mine the minds that come around

We mirthful creatures safe and sound

We shine when eating from plates round

 

 

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An artwork in response to an amazing, earthing trip to the Australian desert in 2012.

The photographic prints were blown up, huge, on the wall.

The poem sat by their side,

eating away.

 

 

 

peace

xx

 

 

 

 

Let’s Hear a Story

living, loving, noteworthy, photography, travel

 

 

 

As promised, I went to the arid and dry.

Only, something had changed in the landscape of late.

Great plains, always salty, cracked and creeping on for miles sat below a liquid surface.

Here upon the plains a quiet; something stirred in ghostly waters.

Badger Bates, respected elder, told of slaughter on the flood plains; how the killing of native people echoed on and on for years.

It was then we heard the students who’d been present here before us often came to tears; unsettled in this place of darkened desert.

It was not until the elder smoked the students through a fire, and he spoke to spirits settled in this place of violent past. And what followed was a calm; a lifting light, a subtle sigh. The feeling of the landscape changed, no more they felt the morbid weight and felt no need to break the camp.

For my part, there I stood and felt with heart the toiling on the soil. My science told me “silly!” but my instinct knew much more. Who am I to judge from outside that the spirits were not haunting? There indeed existed much more than my sweeping visit told.

 

peace x

 

 

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Lost little girl in Argentina

living, noteworthy, photography, travel

For those of you who missed my doodled scrawl about going overseas, I´m currently in Salta, Argentina (that´s in the North);  a place I´m going to pop the bubble of silence surrounding absent posts.

I´ve had a blocked ear the last week. In all its seemingly trivial beauty, the stuffiness with which I feel I´ve been off-balance and walking underwater has undermined many an mighty experience, and even threatened to numb one of the most exquisite sights known to mankind; Iguazu Falls.

Self-imposed exile from serious writing was employed; surely I couldn´t capture with concision the surreal feel of unfathomable falls of water, nor the endless toil of buses, night after night after night, with this hideous handicap.

Today, my friends, I enjoyed two whole minutes of clear hearing. So I´ll indulge you with a little story from a bus ride.

There I was, on a 7 hour stop in Posadas, backpack swaying, precariously positioned on a local bus back to the station. The little bottle-blonde girl sitting next to her mum kept looking fervently at the young dark-haired boy behind her (who in turn stared out the window), eyes wide with an intensity of still nervousness that seemed strange for her age. Of course, the first thing that struck me was not the look on her face but the look of her face – dark kohl eyeliner rimmed her young eyes, red lipstick stained her lips and foundation smeared across her chin compelled me to stare. For a few long moments, she stared back at me, utterly concerned. Promptly, she turned back to her store-bought goods and dove in, pulling out a pink sequinned mirror.

She checked her face, then checked again, with the demeanour of an aged destitute dear trying to cling to some semblance of youth… not a 6 or 7 year old.

Unsatisfied, she began applying more mascara, shitloads of shimmer, (checking behind to stare at me, aware of me) then finished her session with lashings of lipstick. I felt deep disappointment in her dismissive, disinterested mother; perhaps even perplexed incredulousness at this saddening scene.

You might argue it´s just the whimsical wants or a fanciful phase of a young girl´s childhood – but if you´d have seen the fierce focus with which she ¨needed¨more make-up, you too would be unnerved. What this spells for her future is not foreign to me – I see years of yearning for a prettier tomorrow, for bolder beauty, for something. Once again, the inane engendering of girls is evidently failing a child.

 

That one I will remember. More to come.

 

peace

 

x

 

Street beauty in Valparaiso, Chile

 

 

 

 

Connection – project statement

living, rhymes and rhythm


 Helen War

 

For every window opened there’s a person closing blinds

and for every piece of wisdom there’s a stale set of minds

But the technologic system that exists in every home

Can connect you to the people that have itchy feet to roam

In a way this makes it easy, and the challenge is at stake

Rest assured I’m troubled often, ‘til resolve begins to shake

And the distance is a blackness, where a single woman walks

In a flurrying of footsteps, sure that every shadow stalks

Then a pressing urge that peers into the dark and sees a light

Starts to confidently grow and creepy creatures lose their bite

For I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve been saved by a café

That connects me to my family when foreboding comes my way

It’s the reason keyboards hang above in printed brick-like wall

As they’ve built me up and wiped my tears and made sense of my scrawl

So repetition rips apart the righteous sense of real

I love the unoriginal with borrowed sense of zeal

The place you run to blows away stagnation in the trade

Art starts to house the wounded and they’re whinging they need aid

Now I don’t forget the reason I am running from the rest

I’m afraid they’ll draw my curtains for a personal conquest

The dilemma is I push away the ones who love me most

In a constant candid manner like the careless burn their toast

But for every blind that’s closed, unwilling wider world won’t wait

And the myth of work for happiness creates a tasty bait

Meaning those that close their eyes to all surprise are most sedate

With excuses so depressing they don’t dignify debate

My assertions hold me ransom though you’d likely never tell

I’ve begun to take a dark delight my mother named me Hell

 

 

Ya Flaming Galah