Page 19 - Waltzing Mathilda

We sleep on the park banches
Kelmscot and Ruskin to
I walk in jungles that exist in the crumbling ruins of a previous world.
Sultry, shifting and inpenetrable
We are drawn deeper in to these deep tunnels of dream where the humidity brings memories of Ruskins' imagined madness, his
Eels in the sky
The only escape, your only way in, is to dissolve into it, to reach for that 'other'.
There are so many different worlds. We had travelled across the dreamlike savannahs not even thinking of leaving the cabin Voyages of delusion
Waltzing Matilda
In Herat, before the Russian war, we grew a magic garden.
The swimming, suffocating closeness produces a desire which is intoxicating, it is the viision of a dream within which lies a delirium,an erotic intensity.
Laudunum
Ophelia
Yellow potatoes
Flies in the gun shops
The war is always outside of the dream
When I stop moving, the absolute abscence of bodily movement actualises the surrounding space.
Against the backdrop of this non-action the slightest motion of the body is as expressive as a tiny drop of black ink on the surface of white paper.
The mythic narrative distorts, becomes an inflection between the true and the false, sometimes seemingly making a direct mark. Like the traces of human movement in the moonlight.
Myth turns into memory
Electricity pulses through meat and blood
Images become memories; forgetting a crucial part of remembering.
Moonlight Midsummer Mathild
Jane Franklin, Sarah and the South West of Tasmania, QF9 night flight Heathrow to Melbourne
top for fuel in Singapore