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20,000 word unplanned flow of on the constructed geography and people of this land.

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  2. 2. © Monte John Latham 2018 Monte John Latham asserts the moral right to be identified as the creating author of this work, Great Southern Street Walking Nomad 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. Debox Publicat ions. PUBLICATION DATE: F 2015 TRIM1524_2286 ISBN .. Homartian for y o u r L i b r a r y , F r i e n d , V i s i t o r , D e s i g n e r , T e a c h e r , D e v e l o p e r , P o l i t i c i a n , C h i l d , C o m p a n i o n ; a s a H o u s e W a r m e r o r t o R e t a i l . Go to Bookshops Hobart Bookshop This is what it might have looked like from Stowell lookinh over the Salamanca warehouses to the Domain; there is a wedgetailed eagle just flew out of the picture. The cappacino sits at Elizabeth Wharf..
  3. 3. iii For; very welcome feedback direct to author, enquiry, to publish, distribute or purchase: M John Latham, Manager Debox Publications 16 San Francisco St, Sorell, Tasmania, Australia 7172 for Great Southern Streetwalking Nomad) (Ask for Great Southern Streetwalking Nomad) Search: debox Tasmania, debox degrid, Monte John Latham, HouseFandango, Homartian, House Essence, Great Southern Streetwalking Nomad ADDITIONAL BOOKS by Monte John Latham • House Fandango “HouseFandango” is a phenomenon – the product of an exuberant creativity, a mind ever restless, fluid, alert to manifold possibility, uncontained. Such an intelligence might change the world. We need to listen to Monte John Latham, then. His is a wisdom that roams wide and free, at the same time as it focuses down upon the most urgent question of our age: how should we live, how should we dwell, how should we be? Here is the dance of people and place – a veritable house fandango, and its dancemaster steps us forth from the very earth, its magic, the bedrock on which civilisation rests, to the place- nurturing, self-nurturing, self-constructing activity that is nothing less than making a home on earth. Come with Monte John – dance his dance of life-affirming love. Pete Hay, POET, ESSAYIST AND PHILOSOPHER OF PLACE, ( 2013 TASMANIA BOOK PRIZE - PEOPLE'S CHOICE) • Wow Hows the House Now (out of print). Old title of the above • House Essence (ebook). An essence of House Fandango. Coming up: The Architecture of Fire, The Shallows Where We Fizz, Nomurbic Office The
  4. 4. MONTE JOHN LATHAM is still growing up in the outer suburbs of the small scenic capital city in Tasmania Australia amid abundant countryside and estuarine 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 the nows (as distinct from ‘the todays’) of the writing of Street Walking Nomad, his writing is a loosely waxed, edited, flow of mind and subconsciousness, drawn from the evirons & the mental … lush and lucid with psychotropic properties matured in a barrel of decades. Born mid 20th century he, with wife & their five children, grew near Hobart and some Wellington, battling its economy with faith in not only the nurture of familiar beautiful locale. I hope you enjoy this light hearted and impassioned piece of seriousness. THE WRITER ACKNOWLEDGES The social spiritual land chemistry that nurtured a people who were once just that, a people - but wait there are others sitting as quietly and more quietly than the land itself. … PAINTINGS, COVER, PENCIL & SNAP PHOTO ILLUSTRATIONS ARE BY THE AUTHOR A FEW OF THE IMAGES ARE DRAWN FROM GENERAL PUBLICATION & OF UNKNOWN SOURCE.
  5. 5. v The writer caught grokking a southernmost chunk of our large heritage object, the Great South Land; at Crescent Bay, an hour’s drive & another on foot, southeast of Frogmore Peninsula. SNAP by Sandy
  6. 6. AT HOME IN GLOBAL-LOCAL GEOGRAPHY WE FIND OURSELVES AS DE FACTO NATION IN COUNTRYSIDE, COAST, CHEMENTALITY & PIXEL. (THERE’S A DICTIONARY IN BACK.) This is an a tad brave, potpourri of consciousness - lyrical, light hearted, edited, patched - reflecting on geographic architecture, identities, futures - pronouncing organic urban event - unexpectedly drawing a serious keypoint that to many may well be merely an annoying break in melody.
  7. 7. Hear me Australians, the writing hand street-sweeps clean our urban-nomadic colour-printed pillow. It sleepwalks our rough edges, for easy-eared simple town hearts; marries those who bind the great infinite intelligent, remembers with the depth of a country in the merging brewing shallows of individual mentalities. There is no movement at this station, yet ‘a colt certainly is getting away’ and here some ‘word is getting around’. On easily the main island of the Tasmania group, this writing is stationed, in or on the third day after say the 2,014th Christmas since the well-known, by name at least, Jesus Christ established a vital path via corrected death.
  9. 9. I am in my own lounge of my ‘owned’ home-ground, in a big big island continent land, of still more islands and which somehow separated be from many more islands and continent close north. Some lengthy swims south to ice and east to oceanic delights. Quietly the national atmosphere is misting outside the writer’s thought here on Frogmore Peninsula, which is an oft forgotten beauty, lying in sheltered shallow waters, animal- nude under its fence-tapestried suburban shawl mindset. Our Australia is tangled and extremely varied in sprawl, country towns, oil rigs, bushland homes, room-kernels, loungerooms, offices, ancient songlines and territories, drifting jet vapour, workplace kitchens, camps, surf, snow
  10. 10. 5 and more and more zero rooms behind pixilated curtains drawn by scatty fatted neurons. Here at Frogmore sky open and watered inland, eucalyptus fragrance and wattle blossom through open windows float. In the quill 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. The time is now, albeit bonded with moments future and pasted past writes, as word-based expression transmutes to visual imagery for a reading witness among others. The lightening will crack, rumble and
  11. 11. awe even as it is a mere peep in the almighty order … spread like an endless canvas intrinsically receiving fresh oil colour sufficiently abundant for all witnesses to find an interactive story in 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 passionate treasured pearls fall spat-out by needy swine or where the shadows about any reader may need to be found in full perspective. Take me don’t take me, let me go with you, away engulfed in your sea of joy; to be there found interactive with a tribal family and foreigners inter-pollen and play. I don’t want to stop word on word, simply to flow and break where
  12. 12. 7 necessary with a diamond facet in sync with a quasar edge, to let it be some essence that nurtures a quoll, … whilst shining sanity to a witness who was a prisoner of war once leach-ridden up north in a jungle-ditch formed at the base of a huge fallen tree whose fate was set by wind, following a bomb fallen at its other side. 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 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,
  13. 13. yours and mine, the sole one. Stopping to manifest it here I face but a frightening echo–cho-ho of silence-nce-ce; in fact this silence is just an error, a faithless ripple in our fluid. I am now again the pilot, my keyboard, at one time a paintbrush, 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, whom was passing by my parents’ gate, of the best way to prune the olive tree and I will explain the simplistic of extracting oil from the eucalypt. 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 on the bar, to make a colloquial jibe about fairyleg lyric in fun at the pub.
  14. 14. 9 This is not gloom nor shadow nor lightning bolt, it is but time-of-day wizened innocent chatter, a play and expression in a pub, a different prism, simply to say - come what may, we seek not what you say. Seek not what I say … ay. ‘We don’t wanna know mate’. 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 … likely faded by the gel of my egoic obstinance heroically supporting this aging. His lifelong darling threw him another very fresh apricot grown only metres away and together the energies flowed. Always a sojourn-away at an echo beach will invigorate the write; bring 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
  15. 15. 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 seriousness of genderbender, inherited agent-orange and clubfoot, something is odd with folly that may make us laugh and look anew - not that laughing and looking anew is askew. The Yaqui shaman, jumping across Mexicana hilltops using some-like electromagnetic energy fingers from his solar plexus, is practicing his art on a fundamental that ‘life is controlled folly’; ah no!; life is a belly full of fresh apricots
  16. 16. 11 and a 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 some cartwheeling with the ‘bug of the world’ into the Great Southern Land colonies where the sun does shine and always has. That old bug of the world, ay!! … always something, somebody, something foiling, hurting, cursing … everywhere and always badly timed. The shine will be on also the feral middle eastern cats eating the endemic fauna, while too the british lambs are requiring for pasture the once fully balanced endemic fauna habitat - followed by a largely friendly north’n not so dist’nt over sea neighbour instant population insurgence to clean up the rest and dissolve cultural identity comforts. Is there preaching among us or is that not kosher; not of lost catholic of islam
  17. 17. of kentucky fried or ferrari, marx, 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 eden-garden. The eden place; where climate no shelter requires and mindsets no clothes need, defecation no paper needs. There shadows lift as the sunlight kilometres above is bending every whichway through a shell of water suspended between gravity and centrifity, holding the air from the seeming vacant deep deep distance deep deep deep deep and starry. No possibility of manic depression here, gloom is physically impossible, not an optimism supreme nor a position frozen - with souls interacting in flight, in fluid ecstasy as music evolving, voice and colour, all uncluttered with counter clacker. In the beginning the big bang sound was that of intelligent articulation then as now .. THERE’S A DICTIONARY IN BACK.
  18. 18. 13 the thunder voice boom together with the pronunciation a creation. 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 true one, let me go with you, where the way is the journey and this place is at hand; that road any road is an egg taking one somewhere until it hatches … a place into. Nestled in tangle some partly earthy red of this vast heritage object of country and coast, geographic architects knowing that a chunk of lead is fluid and a volume of oxygen might be somewhere someday solid, know the world earth is a spaceship corrupted and that all worlds are likely earth accessible via a transcendent internal cube, that all stars react the same nuclear fuel and that the black is what is the
  19. 19. black, the deep ink deep deep deep into which we turn cannot nor become - even so some souls white robed mill around black cube. 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; that arrogant of their constructions is made in our blindness, mars the country picture and turns our eyes inward blinkering us further and harder-in-heart, locked by faith in technological product and glitz interior, unlike those of our THERE’S A DICTIONARY IN BACK.
  20. 20. 15 company in the peoples of the land and a dreamtime, whom we in small part married after ‘they’ and ‘we’, for all inherit of our fathers’ stuff, had first kicked the heads from some of their babies we (& alas it is ‘we’ to include the natives also in respect of our singular sin soaked humanity) we had buried, standing, to the neck quite soon after coming ashore. The convicts - indeed a larger portion of the britons - who came ashore in their own will, were used. The natives, in that part of them that is not the broader ‘we’, had been maintaining a spaceship earth in sensible ecopicality, a hard hard sustaining way – albeit for fewer. At another coast; spanish named the place la australia del espiritu santo, Southland of the Holy Spirit. Forgive those european bulldogs and thus pile hot coals on their heads. ... and thus foster humility in them .... then seek their hands and say let’s together go ... remembering that all individuals and cultures have their ugly,
  21. 21. bad and good. The hardest thing to do is to get the central city indoor comfort-zone slickers to appreciate the vast profound difference between deep deep deepening room boom built interior and the land peoples’ wide wide open space space. In the etchings of, old blackfella, Geogalong’s visage there is a vague hint of his domicile, quite some distance back there in. Here, a thousand miles away in the same land, on this animal naked Frogmore I sit amid a similar old local domicile. Pursuing the lines and the light behind his eyes, there we see his family and his camp half a day away. But there’s something deeper in; something he welcomes with the grasp of his feet, which are the base-drums of his ears. This broad distantly deep psycho-physical realm of ownership, at
  22. 22. 17 one with the endemic visage, we see as we startle is headed by mob, tribe, tribal language territory, country. The light of his eyes and the sweat glistening dusted in his lines, by moebius twist join in with both the very daylight shared to our pupils and the close scent of the land, in which we stand talking to the blackfella’s ears while he listened through his feet many miles from his camp and in a time before any floor was ‘built’ - floors had been levelled, arranged, cleaned, cleared not built. Comfort Slicker of course is oblivious; the lines of his flaking epidermis culminate at a pin of electric light in the spy hole of his front door. This slicker does indeed have country … alas merely as the three, realty, power and his own shark egg hatched. Slicker’s dream-time lies in the forgotten world that gallops behind the microns of
  23. 23. disinfectant, sweat, mildew and acrylic paint at which he gazes blind and entranced soggy in his industrial bath. As the story goes, while still quietly the national atmosphere is misting outside my own trembling thought where the great southern gay crashsplash is thoroughly revealed as an historic national and local event, we are now outside that eden, undiscoverable over there iraqabouts, behind the mighty ethereal lock, no way to go back in … there. It’s gone ppffff whoop now what? That virgin eden spaceship maybe still runs smooth as apricot nectar, nurturing neuro-electric humming orgone laser-sharp pure-as men and women social life. Here outside those ethereal locks it broken is, stinging and harsh, where we create our own tiny lifeboats and thereafter mindsets - bruised and sore seeking comfort and succour and turning at each other, perhaps man laying with
  24. 24. 19 man harsh suffering colonial convict-convict prisoner- prisoner comfort, perhaps with a ‘led zeppelin’ misty mountain hop, a Trump stir, paedophile purge or covert organised action made easy with the ultranet. We went, we go, a sustained way ‘Austroriginal’ dark & swarthy lithe & family, my legs are my frontdoor, my fire is my television; and we go sydney box, soft underfoot deodorised poncificated still under captain cook, now shaking a bit but comfy electronic indoors, take the car to the bush if I have the time and money … and enthusiasm. Boats, sails, tents and boxes. Carts, horses, door knobs and property property property always with impropriety realty reality and toffeed snobs. Unabashed; architecture is more than building. Built, it is powerfully relevant cultural currency; becoming future imperfect. Oft compromised buildings sit in property
  25. 25. curtilage - in urbia and in country - merging blending lending and talking with their surrounds. In architecture are planned urban flavoursome vibe, town and country. Part of building is sacrifice; of potentially irreplaceable bits of the Southern Land, our vast object. Bleeding heart chef eggs cracking for urban omelette. The currency of tasmanian construction-taste politically sleeps alongside our big southern island so dear to the frogmore animal-raw under-street. I am here at Midway Point and remind them that Frogmore Peninsula is here too. The sum of all our political home-locales equals a shawl on our national southern land. Hobart’s Sullivans Cove is
  26. 26. 21 same animal-raw, under where a federation-born city hall sits adopted and loved as a social heritage hulk bulk, loved unconditionally where it sits right there with a dozen long ironbark legs down punched the banks through, shores and spiritual heart flowing of the watery broken brooken soul of its settlement place. A testosterronious cable-born takeoff from atop this built heritage bulk, riding to the mountain brow of an ulururian kunanyi, would cause more concern for the sacred cow socially clothed building bulk; more than for the browed metaphor shewing raw unshawled the atmospheric dolerite with eons of piped weathered tunes of perfect stone presence soaking morning sun sheltered from well travelled western prahna. These stone organ pipes as earthling adopted design connection, useful geomorphic
  27. 27. urban design edifice, rare precious opportunity for highly nuanced architectural currency and future heritage possible in adaptation of the city hall with the vicinity’s ‘oh so wonderful right on the doorstep’ natural heritage. Usually the unseen, and oh so unacknowledged, is the architect’s vision to make the natural and built heritage connections in the fabric of renovated currency. The heartfelt butterpaper sketch breathes not for time blinkered politicians - ‘not viable’ is the vision so. Due for renovation the town heritage protocol in all its wonder is. The british bulldog cum asian ‘how are you’ call-centre hegemonetary conservatives need to be racked by gaians and both gaian and bulldog then educated by the endemic indi-gentry and ecopically adapted to a sane beautiful compromise - compromise: a rational, and therefore perfect, solution … oh dear!
  28. 28. 23 While the organ pies play and the ravens thfark fark for the dollar poisoned dying dolerite Dollersaurus of the Thark Plane; corners space shape elbow-room. Reach stride lye meet, nook hall yard. Cupboard deep mountain high. Handsome
  29. 29. latte view bring alpine village or skyscraper, ergonomic room, bus aisle, grandfather’s coffin child’s cradle. Knob, rails, seat, stair-tread, doorway, ceiling and pergola overhead - to access move be still in cafe and camp. Spy-hole in the front door. Quick let’s load the commodore wagon and get away from acres of tar, stuff & cement; through the fragrant sun- yellowed grass eucalypt belt to the lonesome beach surf, ionised crystal and clear and campfire friend billy tea and Billy Thorp with yes ‘it’s almost summer’. Room too in this place … to fulfil … for a moment … domestic needs house and camp embered starry glow, ‘making love in the sand to the rhythm of the waves’. Orientate it our room largely outward a la Austroriginal communal domestics or enclosed with a comfort zone lounge lizard ‘view’. A generic word for first people of a land is ‘aboriginal’ or ‘native’ ‘indigene’ and yes I am addressing Australians, who simply dignified with an “A”
  30. 30. 25 and don’t seem to know if there ever was a name for the multinational entity of people we & they came to call 'A’borigines. Maybe there are-were names only for each nation-mob-tribe, some desert lean some coast turtle - aside a funny thing, like, if all the archipelago islands that make this ‘southern land’ are together “Australia”, then what is the name of the largest island. Funny thing … like acknowledging not that a playdough we use in building, say floor-vinyl, is in fact earth. Vinyl rather than the earth is totally out of place around an aboriginal Austroriginal domestic fire; their ilk there lightly taste lightly built ‘interior’ in sleeping-shelter or, where the land provided expedient resource, a communal hut … b u t t h e r e t h e y g o n o f u r t h e r – where, man o man, the boaties further went big time whoooh o o o big lot of go they went country-squeezing room boom. Just
  31. 31. bit by bit spreading like perverse loving new age scabies on discriminated homophobe, generating optic-tube-supplied pixelled wallpaper compensations, boom boom rooms rooms roads sewers salons. Room for resident-accumulated possessions, road access, house-shell, outbuildings and landscape. Glassglinting anycolourmix rectangle tapestried hillsides and valley bottoms. The molten ergonomic- househeart, where there flows the infra-red detected body heat, leaves dust in redundant corners and hard wear and patina otherwise. Ssshhh … harken to that quiet ingrained familiar hard to shake orgone bombardment from the skyarcing earthen heavens.
  32. 32. 27
  33. 33. 2 Geogalong almost animal naked, with a freshly killed lizard, circumstantially nods as he wanders through an egg-shaped urban lounge to use a refrigerator box. Almost room-box naïve, he does know the old natural ‘room-kernel’; some places in the country’s bush may serve as ‘room’ - for contemplation, to lunch, sleep or do some hand work. This is a ‘kernel’ of built room and city hall. Likewise bush wilderness rampant nature is in the house … usually by the ‘boat people’ unseen. There’s the animal-nude under. There’s a nomad in every room … kindly leave open the door. Synthetic materials are set in place by elemental truths; polypropylene, earth, water and fire. Fluorescent purple acrylic, earth ochre, pigment and opal. All cultural
  34. 34. 29 ideal is amalgamated by some fission. A most innocent architect, the swallow, arcs its room in a winged roam through the surrealistic forms and space of artist Dali's residence. Black fellow Cheekyfella's country-plus-upturned-holden- hulk dwelling-place melts away the sheikish imported-marble- and-gold several million dollar Sydney harbour aussie coastal huge fantastic shack to be outrageously demolished in the name of that weird inane soulless capitalist profit yet … and a better shack. The house of the individual is forged by one’s community culture and sharpened by one’s very own spirited contribution – one’s citizenship of physical expression in the city of the simple tolerating oft tar street. We all can create murals of inherently coloured clays. The land now has alluring colour from chemical mastery. The ancient sinophiles’ new china is reflecting . Traditional ways do weather the rage in places here but not there with global
  35. 35. electronic networks and trade arcing to a common sky. Shockingly rapid conversion, urbane but challenging valley neighbours to the lure and foisting of beautiful city flats. Add synthetic armpit cultured urban nurtures to perpetually modern raw nature’s nurtures. There’s an urban room around the nomad. I won’t close the door, for fear of shutting out the extended open space and the scent of the street tree. The lanolin in the blanket blends nicely and there’s a pizza box on the floor. All these in the great design-conglomerate that is. All three are there, waiting in balanced utility for the inhabitants’ touches - 1. nature’s naked earthy nurtures, 2. the fingerprint substance of each associated human person -the very armpit of synthetic aesthetic
  36. 36. 31 3. local urbanics -camp, territory, town soul, fabric, stuff, boundaries. All three lie around an inner city ground-floor federally fabricated apartment, draped over the reno-built-in sandstone-slab book shelves, fluoro-green steel-pipe stair rail, your own reading room chair climbing slightly damp up the wall and floating citydust light-dancing in the straight lines across the air. British bulldogs gradually internalise, walls and pavements filtering ‘blinkering out’ raw nude nurtures. Place becomes culturalfirst,naturalsecondoft blotted by perverse convenience – yet we know we thrive on nature. Fill the room. Lift away the stifle and breathe your ancient breath through even your feet, to greet the hyper-industrial
  37. 37. objects newly born into peoplekind’s home-made room. There’s some roam in the room. It’s safe to close the door. sydneysider Caroline Slicker hermetically seals it out; allowing the three planed ceiled wall corners to win their challenge against the rich circular belt of sky. Geogalong has now moved through the kitchen and out the back door in fluid nomad 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 the bared earth back track through the backyard to the ‘bush’, the comfort zoned lounge-room lizard still quivering at Geogalong’s spear afraid to touch the berries the nomad had left on the wattle- wood dining table. A building inspector finds himself sharing a psyche of flying ceilings; using the house for no other than observation, he heads back out the culturally
  38. 38. 33 paved front track into a small pixel-tainted mobile interior and towards his council offices, touched anew away from folly, noticing people using the laundromat, the community hall and cafes he sees the ceiling of each joined with that of every house, and notes that the old aboriginal austrorignal, he had seen, seemed to utilise some interior whilst rejecting other. Tight little boxes & psycho-conjoined ceilings were cracking like egg shells and surprised lounge-lizards were too slow for the hawks enjoying uncooked omelette; people rolling embarrassed having been hiding discipline from and truths social and neighbourly. There more three-planed-corners mould our attentions into forms different to those made of the embrace of the dome of the horizon. Boat-arrivers choose to be self obliged to move and bend with right angles - if in hand we don’t have a
  39. 39. bowl of soup going to the telecouch we can make a fluid turn at speed by executing an exhilarating snappy swivel born from the ball of our leading foot. Evolved boaties happily face the containment of boxes so as to have ready and reserved the room for a bowl of cherries and a version of domestic performance. “Get out of our room, get out of our face,” say Geogalong hatless woolly of hair smiling, and the Darwinian city architect, corrugated slouch hat roofed across his university brow … his feet stirring the sandy floor of stone broken by eons of frosts, small measure below the stratosphere remnant of the watery firmament, chatting peaceably in an open air country nook, in a zipperty do da songline corridor, nature’s raw nude nurtures bucketing through galloping too undisciplined by the feng shui, the three planes and the facebook magazine kosher. They’re speaking to a couple of cloud-ceilinged larrikin kids
  40. 40. 35 impinging the sanctity of their space, crowding their spontaneous room … and the purpose for which they need the room. Accommodating curiosity the Darwinian takes a bucket of the sand demonstrating the art of concrete to these curious progeny. As the house fandango dances on; it is clear there is something to be said for the straight edge, right angle & its box. Among the hunter-gatherers’ world; sit the rock on the horizontal face, 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. (Image ) Gravity along with the dimensional requirements of our bodies, tools and psyches make our quadrangular prisms and yards … and our highways … and rural titles, national parks, open cuts .. are disciplined (ha!)
  41. 41. more loosely to raw. Likely without converting the ‘kernel of room’ to built interior, the world would never have been thought of as ‘open air’, external nor outside; except in a sense like outside a copse of trees. A cave is in, we go out - a different out, different in. We have been sharing engagement doing a house fandango, finding the great southern geographic architect inside, not a building, city square, black cube, viaduct, broken brooken heart or endless patched worn bitumen 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
  42. 42. 37 tending, … oh so tending trending sarcastically always gasping so oh ‘amazing’ and seemingly mending but having us propped on spindly legs like Salvador Dali’s elephants in their own interactive story, 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 quasar wonder edge such that our world will be as a renewed garment and in the plan of the geographic architect, 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 body parts and vehicles we cannot renovate ourselves; nor can Cheekyfella Talkabout, ‘sydneysider and aboriginal austroriginal’, walking with Geogalong
  43. 43. singular with the country. Shivers …. brrrrr. Room boom, digital figital, city-country calamity, supermarket ransom, power-grabbed desperate shmarmy, slimmed down obesity, 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. O Maker come. Of this all witnesses will find an interactive story in 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, ultrajets and the cities we have made, shared-foisted along with grog and cholera arising with our slush in endemic country and people, in fact we all are the creative creatures and not the creator.
  44. 44. 39 Our seemingly handy connected boxes, electromagnetic waves and optic fibre are vastly minor compared to our entrails and the silver thread of life - one for each … which we might see snapping separate, even your soul, from loved close unity with uncles, mother, father, sister, buddy, their de factos and life below or above (to the side or at fortyfive degrees) or inward and away. Still an arm of sorts embraces; helpless we are if our heart races and we long for familiar faces, living in the formed-up playdust beyond. Ah well, they think that’s old Mont (me) done and dedusted, parted, silver thread snapped, oh dear let roll a tear with molecules of water that had been obliquely twenty thousand metres in the air a few days ago and part of that firmament before it fell. Ah but our love for this sunburnt country with the colt getting away we can speak clearly about pointing and sharing;
  45. 45. 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, in-vitro, stolen sperm and defacto genderless - genomeless ‘unity’ - androgyny improvising creation with whatever it can grab, plastic black thrusts, rectal gateways forced against their hinges, complete android ‘partners’ at the mercy of self inflicted thought and speak police. There is movement at the station but that colt has indeed got away. Wilderness edge deep throated synthetic city interior. Food nature overstepped by slow boat, anarcho- politically controlled economy and life future looking gloomy. And still … all witnesses will find an interactive story in their own; along weedy concrete kerb, plant
  46. 46. 41 flourished red 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 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 and genome food, Irish roots and abo-looking sri lankans canoeing across 60,000 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
  47. 47. Jesus Emmanuel the Nazarene; whence we genetically sidestep sort of via some sort of lysergic amino to the 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 pixel 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 soules lose their zip. You need to find me a travellers’ caravanserai where I don’t lose your journey interaction. Trouble is I don’t have the money, I’ll camp by the river, maybe see you there for 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
  48. 48. 43 love to bump shoulders with the family that I’ve got, 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 this track, makes no difference an old fashioned shack or glitz lodge Melbourne 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, though we should have law to kill you if you provide it to another. We don’t see your clothes, just your open doors and the wholesome 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
  49. 49. 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. 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 … I’ll avocado. 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 called just now, if I wasn’t doing it I’d feel irresponsible; this writing has to be
  50. 50. 45 writ. Let me paste a cut these few lines from elsewhere written:- Cities as designing - evolving - happenings can be awesome in their high spots, glossies, interiors and ephemeral vitalities. We miss deep jungle ephemerality, desert ephemerality, deep ocean or icy wilderness. The best of awesome cities will always require something that we can find only through the likes of sleeping under the stars to awaken in still fragrant fully sunned silence by the village river looking to work nearby without traffic with tools of craft and fellows of easy laugh.
  51. 51. The eternal ephemeral handcrafted country village, more of which we will grow, will make use of the creations of the cities. The two should flow together.
  52. 52. 47
  53. 53. 3 It’s the geographic truths I wish to pronounce in particular the ones being lost to the global-techno fog that hangs thick as dirty old nappies for many. Not everybody in the world can be geographically pseudo-indigenous acclimatised culturally australian, … nay not ‘pseudo’ as this is genuine … geographically ‘hitechno’-indigenous acclimatised culturally Australian … ie as the natives use technological skill and the boaties and other newies use hitechnological skill everybody in the world can bond to this land and people to be techno-indigenous, otherwise coined as Austrindigenite ,
  54. 54. 49 to honour the elders and avoid vegemite say Austrariginal (with the ‘a’) - say new indigenite of the south land embracing Austroriginals (Aboriginals who are happy to embrace; really at this time we have no name for those who might choose not to embrace) -: a great southern streetwalking nomad, belonging to a locale called Ballarat, Scottsdale, Oodnadatta, Ali Curung … or good old Frogmore near Writemealetter .. 67km by crow nor-nor-east of the future bush capital, Lunawanna, here. We need a confirmed right of passage .. any ideas?
  55. 55. Here through the gaze glazed french doors at Frogmore under Midway’s cadastre tapestried nude-under land, across barilla bay to the kunanyin organpipes … whom just incidentally sit shouting at Hobart, with its distant aussie friends interactive participationne a la nationale with designs urbane de la geographique architecturale, as a precious gift, a wilderness threshold, on its back doorstep, to the world heritage area, not 40 kilometers behind across mixed land parcels classified as public land interest. I picked up google earth to continue the straight line projection; it passes
  56. 56. 51 close to Melaleuca in this world famous Tasmanian south west coast visitation attractor, onwards 10,000km to Madagascar, over the Congo off the Moroccan coast, over lots of brine to New Foundland, to California, San Jose, across the so-called Pacific brine body, over Norfolk Island and, wow, to Maria Island Tasmania and … now, closing a tiny cosmic circle, I feel my eyes seeing the back of my head. The head ducks … and I recall an endless, very well regretted, rolling head from teenage excess beering. Will a tangential straight line, in the same direction, over kunanyi’s organpipes pierce Andromeda at this time of day and season. And is such an endless straight line a reality in anything other than mankind’s mentality-ity-ty- y; a straight edge made by solid object is a merely a
  57. 57. fractal edged reality crafted in practicality – but I see no line like it in the vastness beyond my reach and my imagination-ion-on-n cannot follow such a line as it pierces all things life where it continues passed my civilized detailed delightful life-ladened destinations - making deep dark draughts in the invisible seeming limitation edge places around the periphery of my eyes viewing that projection. Thumbprints in mere locales, by identities-ies-s, persons, towns, companies, groups … all combining into nation – so-called ‘nation’ mere nation among others limited merely in time and place … stars around and strings, silver threads and golden needles.
  58. 58. 53 Identity, identities to do with land and country local culture in the local hamburger - once corner shop identity, now sterile invited foreign impost. Something to grasp and make grow, not to wobble on spindly Dali elephants in cyberspace man. How many hours a day do we spend at a screen stepping into zero rooms, quieter even than the three planed corner quieter even …, in fact flat on our bottoms, what’s happening to our miracle existence … local café, Pat & Brenda’s Greasy Spoon, is no internet cafe. I don’t know what to do where to go where are you going would I go to? Grab some Millennials to come too. Playing in dirt and … the cyber interiors are to the Sydneysiders what captain cook’s ship was to the Austroriginals (with the o). There will be casualties.
  59. 59. People not prone to sit and screen, (shivers are you reading from a screen … I’m typing at one), 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 by demand; being taught managed trained and optionally free to be the rejuvenated Austroriginal (with the o) at home in this uncomfortable place and free to either opt in or let die techno wonder factor; being content with just the perpetually modern geo-wonder of that which is free already with us, be it just an ‘edenic’ garden shard garment. What’s happening Australia do we want to go too, with the ‘first’ world baaabaaa. Can we hook up those few great socio-google-mcdona- colesworth machines and tame them as entities together, a mothers little helper to haul with us as the masters; if
  60. 60. 55 not nought bodes well for the freshness of life and the pressures on the misfits held captive by mindfaked controllers being controlled. Heaven-folk 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. Bowl, my father out of sight in that heaven, bowl me here with our christ what I need - the initiated may miss the C that makes no difference to many. Already done you say! Thanks mate, thanks, thankyou – soaking me in spinal shivers and release – thanks!! 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
  61. 61. identity history or even new – a new hitech city but oozing with country and its fresh air billowing into democracy’s insistent call-centres and software creators. Let them unfold-old-ld-d: Bucketloads of new towns anchored to old highways in drama with wildlife and history - each unique and real like say a painting - a drysdale, namajera, boyd or any archibalder. Lots of new towns as different one from the other as our creative vernacular integrity let them occur …. and playing and competing one with another in village style football and trade fairs … and passions for the childhood waterhole in the gully well away from all over ultraviolet tanning rooms … long local histories and reputations for manufacture, song and place.
  62. 62. 57 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 campsites naturale with: no signs bins barriers or any form of public construction that is aimed at stopping strewn toilet paper broken beer glass and vandalism. Our prime realty, this is our prime realty: Camp sites, read ‘endemic places’, are not just the leftover strips at the coast or the edge of town. The
  63. 63. campsites, they are the domestic capitals of our dwelling, being ideal for children too and so are a first priority - linked down track to national parks jetties and town centres and industrials maybe mostly offside. The town centres may be hitech little cities with satellite country villages nested into wi. ‘No-banks-on-the- street-corners’ rather anything but – bad health for the dollersaurus; say some potters’-hub food-joint movie- theatre seagull-roost, urban camp site, play zone or wombat hideaway. Get my picture; inner bitumen access but the inner-inner is all footway. Service access is made invisible. Footways and buildings to address the locals not the banks. This is our geographic architects cooking up as necessary for social vitality; as it works for the particular ancient new great southern Australia, with
  64. 64. 59 some new ‘naked-under’ ancient name interfacing the red white blue southern-cross blended trauma, with our own conglomerate of social ingenuity, adaptability, history, ownership, vernacular, ecopical, morally populated responsibility. So simple it is; but current vestige mindsets greeds have almost perma-locked it into current global style cities - outside the edenlock, remember. But; there are no ba bas for us in the naked-under Australia - we’re hoot hoot wise owl, keeping the banks in the order of our own day to day greedless snideless purse clarities. We’re looking at it sensibly, starting in Melbourne and mixing it Mullumbimby.
  65. 65. 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 the native people to regain their ancient footings dreaming google time as in today, the ancient-mix Sydneysiders and they will accidentally meet nomurbically in harmonious embrace in places on the move between the biggest cities and the deepest bush. The key and substantial part of this architecture is here already, repeat, here already, in the geography of this wonderful object the countryland coastal and people. Dictionary in back
  66. 66. 61 Let’s go a bridge to Indonesia too and the other way, grasp Kiwiland like we used to do. Perth and Adelaide are a tad different - g’day there. It’s true indeed that the bug of the world, greed, arrogance, panic driven need to stay elected, selfishness, foolishness and vice is a filth that needs be cleansed. We fix it in Australia and it will come from overseas, will come from overseas even if we fix it here, spanner in the works, woe what will we do. Write us a song sir Peter Garret of 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
  67. 67. immune to our consultations by mental capacity, greed and choice. This has been with us time immemorial going back pre captain cook along aboriginal austroriginal and briton gene lines muchly very savagery and plain dastardly controls and West Papuan inhuman grabs. How can it be fixed? The Australian european settler government formed on 1/1/ 1901 without the participation of the aboriginal people, native people, without a treaty and without trade or purchase from Aboriginal people …… it was stolen, usurped, torn away - where anything else failed, … by gun! a blind eyed immorality … a political hiccup, formally the way of the times - those ways of those times themselves
  68. 68. 63 inexcusable blind eyed immorality, crime, oft savagery - punishable. By pooling the greatest logical resources the vast treasure trove of created opportunity and miracle existence ... I’m sounding like a leadup to sell you a vacuum cleaner, ah! … a set of encyclopaedias, 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 bug 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
  69. 69. 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 lately often faceless potato 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 shawl, sprayed with olive oil, vinegar and brown paper, it has become serviceable again. Thankyou. In parallel I am making enquiries about a particular meaning of the word ‘today’. Is it a thing of the hands at work? … feeling a bit frustrated that the answer has not yet come as it has I think ado with the guilt and time to act. It is, though, what we’re plagued with today; delays frustratingly idle funding resource. Letting down the team not able to
  70. 70. 65 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 a Bruny Islander but - or from Chigwell. … getting sociologically lower I mean more playful as we step the places of abode.If we are not careful we build a harness instead of dynamic facility, a trap instead of a journey. Purge the bug of the world from our construction development. More often than not it’s all by accident, a muddled dud vestige becoming romantic history. What fundamentally was it that happened here: Ellen Kelly, Mick Jag… sorry … Ned’s mother, whom died at 79, a well respected citizen of Greta, said ten years after federation, “People blame my boys for all that happened. They should blame the police. They were at the bottom of it all. Oh, you can't imagine what I have suffered.
  71. 71. You can't imagine what it means to us poor people in the bush, to be taken away from all we have - our children. Yet they took me away, and I had to stay in prison for years. And for nothing - nothing at all.“ Of course … there are plenty of Blackfella stories like this too. Across the globe, subject to gravity-wave science … the realities not the science … gravity is gravity. Our great southern biodiversity is forged only in adaptation with the elements and country, and this is how our natives and boaties become austroriginal-australian - adaptations to our boatie artificial environments are merely variously questionable enhancements. Natives the most Boaties the least. Barring the non-biodiversity aspects, industrial product and foreign mentalities, our Blackfellas are far and away the elders. Blackfellas undisplaced unsociopathed and likely in Arnham Land are far and away the biodiversic elders. Ecological sustainability is, in the democratic politics of today (when?), the most urgent and profound issue we bear - we should check our mentalities-ties and the product therefrom with these Elders."
  72. 72. 67 We should check our mentalities-ties and the product therefrom with these elders. Our australian particular character is the sum of our unique endemically active and productive souls each in their own unique dynamic local stamping grounds. Politics is a part of same. The game provision is sufficiently abundant for all witnesses to find an interactive story in their own. Something to grasp and make grow; geographic development-over and naked-under underpins architecture, partly ‘is’ architecture, and is handy for spuds, colleagues and inspiration.
  73. 73. A search in the Tardis interextra realms of knowledge imaginative yards miles microns seeking across muddy potato patch in the joint mini-infinity of every point and every english word. The tiniest yet known subatomic particle is likely sensitive to being observed, it may change on being seen - many of us have felt somebody’s eyes seeing us. There’d be millions of god- particles in everybodies viewscope right now. Are they dancing to continuous widespread multiminded articulating big bang perceptions or are they shrouded in solitude by electromagnetic fields, mother of pearl substances, assorted subatomic and extro-atomic items such that they feel nothing from those eyers, or perhaps an overkill filter mitigated comfortable perception, being
  74. 74. 69 not traumatically intrusive as might be a hitech microscopic device … and is digital perception inert. Regardless some perception-based response is there; something ado mentality-ity-ty. To me we approach a threshold where we should be giving place to mentality- ity-ty into astro-atomic mapping. Mentality is as substance in fact of contagion as emotions ideas habits attitudes desires love hate spread good bad or ugly usually subconsciously. This phenomenon among phenomena may be the warp that allows the stars to fall to earth… mentality. It was more than any ordinary conscious search and as it turned out …. my fairer gender kissed my flickering eyelids some 40 years ago causing them to open on impulse to find the fascination of a new day’s early light shimmering broadly behind her,
  75. 75. 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 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
  76. 76. 71
  77. 77. of total adequacy in that 40year old day; 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 twenty five million of us plus visitors, flora and wombats in our assorted momentary and long term bubbles. All of us are saturated richly with unique identity. Knowledge of this, outside the bubbles, maybe rests in the trees or the soil or the air or the heavenly host - certainly it rests on observation, being seen and seeing. The complex coordination cooks, making a civilisation awaken to a fully shared self-activated moment; not a
  78. 78. 73 prime minister’s best photo but a company of mutual heartbeats. 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 nation’s architectures in this severely ravished steeply climbing curve of environmental destruction.
  79. 79. 4 Our geographic architectures will grow in some semblance of national unified character. Indeed doest the Great Southern Street Walking Nomad in fact belong to a nation? As its etymology imports, ‘nation’ originally denoted a family or race descended from a common progenitor, like tribe, but by emigration, conquest and intermixture of families, this distinction is in most countries lost.
  80. 80. 75 Good old paul keating said; that when aboriginal art and culture become so integral and so central to ‘australian’ art and culture that each becomes indistinguishable from the other, we’re all at home. The baseline of ground and country: it was still there last I looked; … this wonderful old land mass of ours. This massive heritage bulk of detailed land substance that we pragmatically adapt and renovate; we all touch its broader earth and then join hands, beautiful natured places, vast cloud roofed kernel-rooms and forest walls, valleys and coves; all filtered intrinsic with sunlights and moonlights flickering eyes resting, through another clear sheet of
  81. 81. rigid melted sand, on the shadows of eucalypt leaves falling to those leafs in their shadowed light lee, all of them wafting and waving in the moving airs with the colours of photosynthesis, whitish reflected light, grayed at shadow and merging with fleshy fickled limbs and their fractal-like dissemination to the fine line entering each leaf. All this cut off straight by the window sill painted similar in colour and reflecting the same light albeit a moment later onto the curtain-fold again of similar tone. But there’s nought much similarity in the fragrant fragrance, not odour, scent, or smell but blended fragrance finely varied leaf with leaf tone with tone, hue with hue and insect armpits too. This is in country not a lot in town let alone city and megalopolis, huge railway yard or open cut impost. Can we should we not do without all of some or some at least.
  82. 82. 77 It is this base environment home of the austroriginal-australian that we renovate, adapt, enhance, filter, tap, cut & shunt, into quarries, mines, forest coupes, range passes, building footings, sewer ponds for public realm, workplace, residential geographic place, houses, very large constructions, highways and air strips. We still usually sit our city halls where we will, only to stifle a critical soul of place in our little towns room- booming sprawl. What will we do where will we go as we renovate the land onwards with established demo-geographic prevail and impost?
  83. 83. Ye olde handsplit timber slab will rarely or never now be built – or will it indeed?! The Abo’s made no steelen blade; for twas it needed at all. A eucalypt plantation with silicon clever splitting mechanics might produce perfectly split undamaged surface grain timbers that will weather long-time in uncut grain natural resilience to rain and rot, going silver gray and needing not chemical sealant. Maybe we haven’t seen the last of this delightful architecture. (delmore shed pic The glowing red-orange tick tick tick of the automobile traffic turn indicator likely will be around for a while in our public architectures though enhanced to facilitate driverless silent technology. For many such audio-visual
  84. 84. 79 functionings have daily often subliminal parts in our sensory melee. Great Southern and anywhere global share … so what is our great southern uniqueness and or special characters from which we grow - red desert and abundant gray- green and sand coastal with people of wilderness that was is in fact home of endless outdoor indoors meeting with people of the sea and back-home foreign vast cadastered indoors and above all … guns bang bang. Between your Ayres Rock back to uluru then across to the opera house, streetsweep clean the australian ugliness pillow built on prime lands …. Woooops feeling sick again about to melt off the chair here today is it too late hey hey. Is there hope while we play, Vinegar and brownpaper the order of the day; I have to rely on others
  85. 85. to carry that day. Making do with some adhoc computeroid ticker-tape clues: the genome is the concentric centre of the atom-star-gravity triangle. That’ll do give me some soul that I can breathe. Streetwalking nomad finds focus in country soul, as he walks down Sydney Lane, no sideways into fluorescent void like Geogalong walking through the house utilising some space-floor and not other. There are parts where people don’t need to go. There are people still … a tad too many, and looking for our sunny beaches to blend with their own culture, and so the agony-joy of Austroriginal-australian adaptations. They are there: here with us now together and apart. Our dance is disjointed and some disappointed with the future that has evolved from their past. How many know and how many presume; which do and which don’t: gold in the
  86. 86. 81 rabble, rabble about the gold. So so many: so so few know and do. Vietnamese just o’er there, such lovely people as a pair of their own shoes humble. Humble and lovely but still bicker and lean on the body that will fall at the beginning that they see as an end. Quy Nhom town by some water a salty shore with waves abubble and the fisherman’s oar. We surge as a team as a crew tasting of salt and bite on the meat drawn from the net. Looking to the left and to the right thinking of the centre as our self, of the writer as someone else. Taking off the shoe because it’s become all wet, both foot and shoe are better off drying in the warmth of the breeze blown sun. The fishhook snags the little toe and her blood watered, as it met on her skin the brine; was no worry at all, not at all, take me home fishing pal, take me to shore, we have a fish and my shoe is wet, take me home to the mat woven
  87. 87. floor and the hot little firebox that grandpa bought and uncle installed. The young women remembered by the glowing wood, now orange embered and saw in her vision a hint of dangerous fission, not at all far, in fact touching her skin and her mother’s, in this vision. It was more a thought at the closeness of it all, all the seething productions of many people other than her or hers, an ocean away but fallout washing up on board and splashing in from the oars. We care so we know: it’s there splashing in from the oars, feeding the gulls on the shores festering the oysters with microscopic sores. The Frenchman and the Yank, the Pom and the Kiwi, the politician and the headbanger: they all drank too much and simply flushed their oars.
  88. 88. 83 It’s all too big, too big, too big to manage to see: sometimes all we see is damage shining light on what was good, that once kept company with what is good and remains, remains waiting for the good to come and join it in a complete wholistic hum of awesome answer devoid of question. Simply something that is simply fantastic everyday where there is no disaster for the mind to mention. Mention to whom? The eyes out there looking in here. Or the mind of the dancer collapsed ecstatically exhausted on the disciplined wooden chair – many miles from any oar or fission, with that awesome answer reclining comfortably in her hair.
  89. 89. Reader my own interactive position: there came again time to write and it’s this one right here. What for who for in the middle of the night. A fragment of a person receiving a nobel prize, the wind drifting through the sleeping caverns left by the university’s air system and the more-cosmic dust forming the genomic pattern- balding of her consciousness. There are times to read even though it’s only the feel of the book suiting your interactive ionteractionand the anticipation of a cosy realm neutralizing the urban storms that bring one to ingest the first of the endless string that rests as the finger reverts the file to its folder. The nudger who nurtured the movement to write may not have intended one reader to ingest. The reader was not as apprehensive nor as bewildered at what is written and in fact converted the write to fit the psychedelic heal,
  90. 90. 85 sought to repair the caverns that had formed only that evening when a news headline collided with a loving notion - this to the highly inappropriate celebration of a group of youths strolling traffic-defiant attired in a new traditional array of cultured fabric and colour, itself nurtured by the same nudger as part of the eternal canvas. Are there people who know and people who don’t. Of course the reader, the writer, the prize winner but not the nudger; for the nudger must know all to allow the wine glass to ring resonate as the aging cuff link chinks the rim. Is a Rolf Harris broad brush painting that starts a mystery and comes up clear out of the artists impressionistic squint or is a largely accidental paint- dripped singlemind rationale that can be pointlessly named Blue Poles and so be celebrated and perpetuated sufficiently to steal from the nudger the
  91. 91. copyright that creates still many a cerebral joy. Oh our people of shallow smiles that appear full and complete to the viewers propped up by windblown caverns and bones dissolving in coke. The writer knows he has caverns but he knows not where. His eyes sting and close, he’s about to fall face to the keyboard but a nudger puts it to bed. It rises eight hours later bright eyed and bushy tailed eyes resting through another rigid transparent sheet of melted sand in city glory. The best of cities will always require something that isn’t an emotional motionfull rushed rash of unattached people; the eternal ephemeral handcrafted country village and nomurbic nomads may use the creations of the cities - okay but if there are devices we need personalised zero room screens; especially for the children. The two should flow together.
  92. 92. 87
  93. 93. 89 5 Let's be wary of the frontiers of urban planning having us stand beside ourselves in wonder at what we can create rather than beside that of the great creator of all. There was always at least a person of character, nearby in a far off memory of friendly connection, enhancing the appreciations with a wily wit, himself a nudger needing a nudge. This one in mind is now a writer also. Like the leafy shadows and interplays of light the writers of our people are read in vocational relativity; the language grows, the genres, the wisdoms, the turns of tongue. Some are stolen, the reader doesn’t know. Some are revelation, the reader doesn’t notice.
  94. 94. A writer writing of writing is floundering and flapping for takeoff. The flounder is a fine fish, beneath its wings is a brine of its locale. Not the same precisely as the brine cut by a surfboard fin at some Lion Rock locale offshore the Melaleuca wilderness where the waters wear the minutia from the local creek and the droppings of the local fish diet. We are finding lift-off where the eagle is relative to the flounder; as go the creaturely locales merging local creature types in the life acids and simple mechanics of bone flesh and muscle. We are away. Going somewhere. Vietnamese sea, village, city awe, manmade threat, simple nature, trendy set. Cultural persuasions local like brine
  95. 95. 91 and spoiled as easy. The god particle, feeling us looking, awesome canvas and masterpiece in one. The internet. The binaried nano circuits. Awesome seductions powerful goods. The trap of built interior, the new trap of cyber interior. The light of day irrelevant to the cyber-adapted eyes, the hunter’s reflex irrelevant to the zeroroom gameplayer’s handeye. He needs the food from the light of day but manages that, then in to play. The doctor will visit oh yes for sure. He can come through the cyber door and post the medicine in the mail to keep him going ‘til he falls headfirst downstairs thinking he’s in his chair. The flounder has no idea we think but we wonder about the squid and printing inks now simply pixel colour.
  96. 96. The date in time, the tools that accrue; enough to send the robot to mars and leave a slimy sludge at the factory pipe. From the african plains, wild animals, insects and birds; we see them aplenty in the digital screens that helped to cause their demise, by industrial footprint: the screens are a pinnacle on the industrial rampage that drains energy, pollutes and over-runs. While this is happening the cat at the corner, as he can, tells his mates that he eats the same food as humans and stretches at all positions in front of their fire while the alleycats go the bins outdoors in the ice of winter; reminds me of the billionaire cows sitting sublime with lush food joy so close as to require only the most convenient of movement reach and munch. We celebrated from our narrow windy bitumen ribbon, tree-overhung in the most aesthetic of all rich long thick choice-green grassy ravined, delled, hilled,
  97. 97. 93 sunned near enough to a battling aussie homemaker. The holy spirit with the great creator comes by, passes and returns to dwell, on invitation, making the reasoning of it all obvious though invisible. Humour is ours, ours at least. Funny stories and circumstance lowered us to a gut wrenching laugh unable to stand but only to lay on the floor laughing so hard that all thought maybe they might die. It was refreshing; we hadn’t done this since we were nine. There was nothing better than that laughter, that I could see. In it the lushest, richest of colours and music were all bound. The laughter needed the context though; be it light-mottled eucalypt leaves or refined plaster ornament in a victorian era house. It needed company, whether an audience or fellow laughers. It needed an opportunity,
  98. 98. for one doesn’t partake when in stealth with a bow and arrow pointed to a pheasant for the family, nor when giving thanks to the supremely gracious saviour - for indeed the bug of earth is contagious inherited and usually ultimately deadly. A number of momentary circumstances afterward came another patch in the quilt of shared lives; seemingly unrelated little patches of events and circumstance, of people and activity, of weather and screen. Patch by patch and many forgotten until the topic of another patch when we reach the bottom. Is there a passion in there; ah that’s something we like and if we don’t have one there we may dim in envy and wonder at that which we don’t have. Microscopic views, macroscopic too, passing conversers in black shiny shoes. Little bits and
  99. 99. 95 pieces, but my picture is in my own stride not that of the passers-by nor a patch of weather nor even the hole in my shoe. I know where I am going, you were coming too; and when I lost my way, it was me who went with you. It has become a storey of walking in place in our world, a story of identity and preference and wondering about what we’re told. If you ever left would I come too? I’m all right when I’m with you. Maybe yours is one of the fat people or I almost was. Maybe she was one of our few prone gay who felt to fight it away. Let there be aces where once you sought diamonds while in prayer for deliverance from thieves in the middle of a night. It’s relative to the eagle and the flounder, the vietnamese and the street kids; to shakespeare and john the baptist. A plunge into the sea near shore from the top of a head high
  100. 100. wave, bubbles all around and positive ions in the foam, massages full body with a powerful energy born way out at sea small at the base of an ever so huge atmospheric downdraft. Up you come fresh with zest impassioned and kinda new, not even wondering what you should do; doing the same as being. For the man who grows his fingernails into his clenched hand, for the woman who bursts with vigour with her family; doing is being is doing. Beingdoingbeing, doingbeingdoing. There are billions who have been and done, here in this earthy patch; this patch of rich and wonderful vegetated abundance and serendipic comfort and company. This patch oft times I have wished eternal, forgetting the dissipation of unconscious zest, the outwash of feral nuclear radiations and the small murders of emotional distortion and fouled genomes. Where was I now, where are you… and the ones beside you – in the company
  101. 101. 97 of your zest and drive; and us in theirs. There are those with us in there’s; there really are. Our buildings and constructed realms are not there to be garnished by our culture selves countryside neighbours but rather are there to shelter, foster, embrace and celebrate all of these things. Let be and make all these things vibrant and giving love to same will in a moment of unified time create the wombat shop at the bank corner with all its accompaniment our buildings and constructed realms. Nomurbics is the architecture to do it. We don’t know it exactly yet but it starts with an ulururian parliament house and grows to fit our songs - free nomadic roam, hunting and camp options on t h e r i p p e r c o u n t r y r o o f o f o u r h o u s e o f n a t i o n a l p o l i c y
  102. 102. c h a t t e r – but bug’o the would foiled, right there in the country above parliament house, with no security (for either politic), shamefully didn’t but could have picnicked in celebration and elaboration of an epic event and intent, peter cosgrove governor general, malcom turnbull prime minister and clinton prior aboriginal ‘citizen’ having freshly arrived at the end of his walk from Perth via the likes of uluru, desert and communities the long way to Canberra. I think some need to review their idea of what is primitive and that hitech is not mandatory for good life. Some know perpetually modern nature , which is not subject to obsolescence, pollutions and the trap
  103. 103. 99 of interior. One can’t manage papers and keyboards in the wind. Mobility and ultraviolet are great antiseptics. Hunting beats supermarket aisles. Their legs are their front door, campfires the bush television, the sounds of the weather their symphony, a spear in the leg their law, natures limits their contraceptive. The mindset/cultural differences that didn’t gel into a country parliament picnic are vast yet all are terrestrials - pathetic, sublime british bulldog aussie banker syndrome, lousy, near as immoral or rather stupid as sodomy. It is obvious here that the geographic architectures to suit each mindset will vary greatly. Various parts of any city various peoples don’t walk. Some don’t want casinos, stupidly large houses and city centres starved of the breath of the country. When we plead for some country vitality in street
  104. 104. canyon we plead firstly for the children who have not developed an economic rationale for such places along with a mentality that knows to get in and out again, to hold the breath and not fear the absence of the shy subliminal sky-blue orgone … but maybe fear the absence of air purity. Back in a day the natives of this land before sugar, alcohol, bullets and displacements would have suffered if expected to stay at all in a modern city street canyon … being away from the songs of the land drove many to sad ends. There ought be places and there are, like the camels caravansering the Areyonga settlement supplies base, smack bang geographically central in the Great South
  105. 105. 101 ‘Island’, nornoreast of uluru, well west in the MacDonnell Ranges, trucks and cars put camels out of supply work; they went on the dole slowly feral. The real locals, the Pitjantjara, continued using camels to travel and connect. Let’s say a veteran cameleer, austroriginal Cheekybugga Talkabout, travelled out from the base to capture and grow their domestic camel herds. Papunya, even more city remote, three days’ walk away,100km by crow, same distance as kunanyi’s organ pipes to Bathurst Harbour.
  106. 106. Cheeky talking , “You know Monte, not just Arabs but the comfort slickers should eat their heart, we’re out here in the red heart. We don’t mind some internal combustion in the ambience and the Levi jeans, checked shirts and hats that come with it; but do we want a five star wind/water/solar powered litter spitter with ovens, verandas, helipad, airstrip, electronic music and some of our fundamental needs? Nah … ah well maybe, if it’s limited in size outa respect for red and the stars, yeah that’d be great. We nomadic types don’t mind bumping shoulders with the air-travelled hypertech urban people if they don’t mind bumping with us by throwin’ this goanna straight in the oven there. We can call it the nomurbunya; it’s in our place, you build it - ta! If you want to dig into the mountain cool out of sight too, you can make it big enough for us to wander into the town square with our
  107. 107. 103 camels to trade and talk, stay if want and move on … yeah that’d be nice. Only one though, no more. We’ve got 600 centuries under our belt, so they say, as a continuous cultural thang yknow; I tell y but, there’s likely none alive anywhere in the world who don’t have rellies that far back. The silly boatie pollies even so are pretty silly like ingrown toenails … from shoes; they say that we’re ‘in the Regions’ here; that’s their sense of demographic geography. Maate, this is the heart of the life here, not the bitumen nourished boxes and airterminal cattleruns that they live in ... bouncy bouncy all go bizzie trip, holiday, tour package, rubber-neck photo ops, sabbatical, pilgrimage out we go back we come, ego sustained, hankering for the next run. Do you get my drift; they are saying that they are not in a Region themselves and that they’re all over everything anyway … of course they’re in a region, it’s the country there nude under
  108. 108. their cadastral giant 3D printout in concrete and tar ink and they are blind to it; they don’t even understand that the architect design o’ parliament has the countryside intently retained and enhanced above their low little ceilings. That shows how cut-off they are bro’, bring ‘em out we’ll tell them and show them, then they’ll grow their constructions ecopically (that’s a word you taught me monte - found it in the dictionary in back of this book). Our life and country is well sustained; the comfort slickers make good movies but they’re going down man, down - by their own leaderships and politics.“ How do we look via sea, to other nations nz, anglo, kiwi, coconut, ching, nip, indo, sri lankin, canada, coming in coastal by boat, seeing our neighbour lands on the way and choosing a bit of terra australis to come ashore, or by
  109. 109. 105 internet search, how do we look - gday mate, nice choice bit of realty and easy pickins, we’re moving in stealth - we love you but you’re a pack of clowns. Maybe not as raw as that but our locale and national cultures are have changed radically by immigration, economic coercion, commercial identifications, mismanaged microchip technological options, especially selling our potato patch and importing it all back … mus’ be some sort of moneypower cabal. Nothing left but to sell our very countryside and/or to work for new landlords. And really does that all matter …. S’only the bug of the world that we need the big help to rid. Sorry for that rant package courtesy of Cheekybugga. Bit irrational largely poetical; I’m looking to future options. Key point is we’re all in an interactive story of our own. The state of carousel is often our communal glue and our
  110. 110. distraction and deviance that leads to our awkward sometimes agonising embarrassments and teetering on the edge unsustainable and stifling. As the eonic centurial sojourns roll, where are we going or what of our conditions all. Huge impacts from global cultures, huge impacts on our individual gospelic interactive stories. That written or invited or developed in any reader’s heart, for survival not only but also peaking eternal momentary interactive joy, as I said characterised by the pain of unstoppable ground rolling body curling belly laughs the like of memories of many nine year olds - except in street canyon. If only all food was as healthy as that; not bread alone says the bread of life unleavened and not even vegesmited. Knock knock heart of uluru, kunanyington, of every house, town, city, locale, business deal, cultural creation; we know you’re there raw- under the bitumen footpath and the white demarked
  111. 111. 107 carpark, the blinkers of hopeless ceremonies and welfare excuse for apology and charity. Come out and shake your fist not at a foreign neighbour, visitor or pollie but at the enemy of pure vitality of individual communal lifes and people old, young, quiet rowdy tall short smooth dowdy. Shake it all by the one simple logic that fits all minds and souls, no unsettled disputes all interlock working in harmony in accord with personal passions and predilections and talents. Great southern bush-embracing architect, wilderness is robust but still our poisons spread, people are locale minded easily blinkered by wires poles signs walls. Hearts know while minds rebel, that the islanded broadscale and myriad zoom-ins to fractilian endemics in fragrance, matter, colour,
  112. 112. sounds, vegetations and creatures. The joys of great travels within and dwelling endlessly in locales of character with architectures as friendly as shells, accessed by paths and roads as gentle as pademelon trails and as pungent as kookaburra kookas. Built interiors as delightful as abalone shell interior existing only where they can be in fair place- loving reason, laden mother-of-pearl wealth in visual creative delights equally oozing music and loudest of all wonders of lover, mother, father, children, tribal, family, parliamentary vocal merging indoors with out. This word 'ecopical' is basically about that but includes the aspect of social personality - as people, we do best what people understand, love and are correctly prone to do – and so politics is part of ecopicality also. Ecopicality is not yet in our consensus dictionaries, but its imprints belong in our
  113. 113. 109 frames of mind when we develop our public realms, grids, offices and factories.
  114. 114. 6 Evidence from before the advent of agriculture shows that we as gathering hunters have enjoyed excellent health, societies of man-woman mutuality, light workloads, leisure and freedom from any form of government and using traditional, nonindustrial, energy resource efficient building technique. The book, ‘The Biggest Estate on Earth’, shows the complex systems of Aboriginal land management in the now naked-under rather than the wholistic everywhere that received the boatie rash. The first euroboaties noted frequently that the land evoked park-like anglo country ‘estate’, paths, extensive grassy patches, open woodlands, abundant wildlife; the people managed the land supremely
  115. 115. 111 systematically locally sustainably. The boaties 200 years later still hadn’t noticed the daisies nude-under their caroused backsides. Boxlocusts swarm our national estate; more than anything does. Through their birth and catylistics, they absorb and transform far beyond their local geography. Gurgling the earth, stamping the psyche and spawning new things. Cheekybugger Talkabout meets nexus with the boaties. Nomad minima, boulevard bold. Albert Geogalong is of the same land, but a of a people who generally have seen only simple thoroughly modern nature – no boulevards and no park-like ‘estates’. Hunting, manipulating and gathering in sparse country involved a lot of walking. They value a strong pair of legs over and above any front door, or gush-
  116. 116. laden view-window. Their value of home and society is very rich without brick veneer, physical trappings scant. Heading from home sydney where he artfully enjoys short sojourns of cross-cultural jibes and dance as to what the boaties are missing, including, the boxlocust and the academic protagonists of ecopian activity, Talkabout throws off his shirt wrap before reaching his simple house by preference with his family and the country. Child of the West, nomadic urban altruist Low Carl forewent penthouse life for city tumble-weeding because he felt the rooms humming harder. We note that a joyful walk in nature is definitively impacted where boxlocusts blend with this world.
  117. 117. 113 Just like we find room-kernels in the bush Cheeky finds bush-kernels in the urbia including in houses. A Redfern austroriginal mind warp … a plastic toilet brush dragging on the spear, a halfway nomad still makes his shot at the pizza-lizard scurrying across his path hence as intended it was taken to the 40th floor reception for executive lunch. For greens, he reaches for the supermarket tucked under his belt. On the shelf he finds an architect’s house blueprint; “In the trade we call this ‘the comic’!”, smirks his builder. Tumbleweeds roll, roots anchor, city antennae dissolve roots and make shuttle and rooms, rather than strides, in space. The house sees both intra and cross cultural smirk.
  118. 118. We have nanotech surveillance, robotics, medical. We have the christian basis being scoffed and dismantled out of our constitution and political correctness, children empowered by sociotech and newly searching to replace what is scoffed. We have tribulating with that and the tributary of microplasticated fish we eat, a tribulation currently flowing toward an expanding sea of extreme discomfort and agonies with wings of extinct eagles. To many all this remains invisible under a sea of seeming joy gods and somas. What we lose is not only the naked-under tapestry but the whole wilderness outback countryside vibe water sky flora fauna and air; when we hermetically seal ourselves or our people into boxes or even egg shapes, ie a little less hermetically, even with windows, courtyards, David Rabbitbourough (sorry Steve Irwin is more ours)(now
  119. 119. 115 there’s a pommy-aussie shift), indoor plants and clear road to the bush. Our anticipated geographic architects’ cultural heritage conservation plans should be applicable in principle to all all all of our developments mines roads dams towers pizza shops mcmansions. The professional planners accept this idea and enforce it … a little. The same crew refuse to understand that the daisy we sit on is comparably and more significant and ultimately supremely significant over cultural heritage … “even abo heritage monte” (steady up Cheeky don’t get cocky). Our conservation plans are to inform our development limits and character; we desperately need to make them as ‘Natural (natural natural) and Cultural Conservation Plans’
  120. 120. and these too should be informed into our building science regulations, as fresh air and identity of place and at the household workplace door step - wilderness: it is the primo life that Cheeky knows is good for his children and the child in him + the zap of hitech and city culture and avarice ignorance social disease is what blocks it. Please read that aloud three (3) times … on the bus, on top of uluru, kunanyington, … or just quietly to yourself or whisper it into preshus’s ear. That is the nutshell of our development sustainability town and country planning architectures industrial design … the nutshell that is ecopicality for a land called Auscopia where the streets are loved by nomads hunters gatherers joggers toff-toff lovers army bands, children in care and kids with
  121. 121. 117 cricket bats and iphones too… always to be embraced are the souls lost behind the pixel curtain, club foot, warped physical inheritance and those frozen by deep deep built interior. You wonderful departed soul Albert Namatjira thankyou for the painted images of your great deep deep continental interiors. The mood to build or not, wander or not. The desire to move on for food, joy or whatever weighs against the desire to settle for different food. There is the nub of something there; a critical point in belief, psychological inclinations, intuition, discipline. Surely the crest of eco-social truth. Geogalong and his mob may never make a choice to substantially build or farm as have his coastal cousins of
  122. 122. abundant locales. What are the actions that make the difference with the nomad and the settler; accumulating trappings, preparing to cook, making seclusion? One action is that of permitting substantial physical barriers, screening, between inhabitant and neighbours, and indeed inhabitant and nature; allowing the loss of immediate social contact with the encampment and the loss of wind on one’s back. Another, the acceptance of some environmental intervention, say, ploughing, building, permanent change and no indifference to barriers formed by interior. An attitude; whatever - it’s in the roots of our cultural acclimatisations. It is safe to note that within all reasonability there is some middle ground where people may build without disruption of any of extreme nomadism, delicate environment or, indeed, caring settlers. Middle
  123. 123. 119 ground … where the hunter-gatherer is content to accept contained horticulture, and where hyper-industry is hyper- ecodisciplined … where natural selection is merely supplemented by contraception. Nomadic, urbanic; nomurbic, don’t panic. Auscopia is nomurbic, and as yet a figment township at the nomurbic crossroads – barefooted berry traders coming from there, a huge road train and a bicycle from there. Auscopia is a modicum of building that is extremely sensitive to ecological extrapolations and respectful of extreme nomadism … sharply disciplined … spirited by the flighty nomurbic nub butterfly. Universal nomad-cum-settler domestics. Nomurbics.
  124. 124. Ecopicality is the creative attitude fostered by the nomurbic nub butterfly – the waft between deep urban and wide open. Auscopia - physical multi-domestic contraptions, towns, linked uproad to camp places arranged about the nomurbic nub. I think Paola Soleri was making a kernel of such Arizona, but he has not been as successful as was Noah. Low Carl sees the potential of wholistically good city-life as he wanders the globe, knowing it to be non-existent; an urban nomad, in his pack a little methylated-spirits cooker and a shower borrowed from a corporate stairwell - a distant friend rubs sticks and steps freely into a billabong. Traditional wiles and newly learnt resourcefulness. Domestic survival, food included. Domestic survival can
  125. 125. 121 certainly be equally tough for the settled housed soul. Poverty can make it tough. The way in which we manage, even within the breadth of tradition, when tradition is effective, is unique to each; nomad and settler. Of course this doesn’t all matter in the slightest except that variously it takes our various variably sequential variety of self activated consequences to acknowledge that the best move is to roll with the armtwist rather than against; lots of taoisms and grasshopper quandaries however have us swimming upstream and some of us up waterfalls just to lay eggs. In both nomadic and settlic social environment three aspects at times seem to be of equal importance in domestic motives. -
  126. 126. finesse, shelter and cultural protocol … involving tradition, and domiciliary - cum - municipal layout. Lying within the amino acids of our psyches is the origin of our mode; tumbling tumble plants or rooted forests. The nub butterfly flitters or lands. The three aspects manifest to suit the lifestyle.
  127. 127. 123
  128. 128. 7 The Boatie ‘sorry’ … when further embellished + The rarely seen but well needed Blackfellas’ ‘ it’s okay, we forgive’ embrace of the boaties + mutual ecopical ‘adaptability’ =
  129. 129. 125 The basis of Auscopia. ie a potential future of ecopicaly minded and acted Austrariginals. Maybe there’s a kingdom above the weather or not. Those in pursuit of the luxuriant forget the nurturing purpose of the luxury. Those in pursuit of the raw organic countryside forget its purpose. This disconnect is so not only in the land between Bali and Wellington, Port Moresby and Mawson. Pace of life.
  130. 130. Child care. We need huge quantities of wilderness but far less if our pace of life allows us to enjoy our breath. Talk to the horse for two hours over the fence like the old Irish farmer used to time and time again. Settlic culture grows … dream-house-city-globalnet. Nomadic culture grows … in the time that is not spent in being settlic … dream-time, natural bounty, and in the nature of the simplest of domestic-arrangements.
  131. 131. 127 As was noted in D’Entrecasteaux’s visit couple centuries ago quite near Southport’s blast-off café. He said that ‘if only his people at home in anglophile land could know of the fantastic natural university that the Tasmanian aboriginal mobs embody’. Uluru and the Opera House need to marry in fair-go - because the Parliament House doesn’t get the test; a test
  132. 132. that can barely occur given the population imbalance and the mindless momenta of the several dastardly machines. Is there something about putting our greedy enthusiasm into hot cars, to the extent that we bloat, while our enthusiasm - if it must have greed - could be into our families, animals and our fantastic neurologic and spiritual personal social machinery. Instead we will have the true creation … being corrected by its true creator. How we manage the doings is unique to us each, while in part it is common like the dressings of tradition, culture, place and language.
  133. 133. 129 What could we be doing in the i n t e r i m - we are definitely facing an i n t e r i m (This interim would seem a part of the limited ‘Today’ discussed ahead) ay? We could, as some do, be entertaining ecopicality, whether or not they know it by any sort of name ... but is any of that enough? With the newness of the day it is wise to be ever ready to take stock and renovate or even transform, ecopilise and or christianise, your mind's inherited architecture and lifestyle. Sending our ceilings away, awakening us to beating not repeating hearts that justify love easily counterbalancing the loss of what we thought was our life. He had ignited a small ecological bomb in his corporate property-development workplace. He still walked the chequered vinyl floor, but it was now, clearly, converted ‘playdough of the earth’ with a twist of dying culture. Here I am in a world with two brains, one thinks civilisation is technical potential, personal power and mobility and the other one thinks it’s good neighbours, family harmony, knowing he creator and homely countryside. Are civilised and social
  134. 134. coordinations just like the winds, sands and gravities that shape, weather and shake? The oyster surely would not live but for the mother-of-pearl. Cheeky tells of the perfect refinement of perpetually modern nature. Your friends might remember when you were young, your face would just shine; shine on you crazy diamond. Why were you born so beautiful why were you born at all … you had no say in it, no say in it at all. There’s some eco wisdom; a step towards an ecopian urbanity - nomurbics. Embracing ethos’s ay! …nomadic land-living embracing settled interior-valuing. Doing it at the nomurbic crossroads. Bush tucker and the flat tyre inflated with the red dust in lieu of hot air. Am I locked into some dream-house mode? Taking a serious look at our limitations, no, I have no time unless the lamborghini house and locale are not being created on my account and are simply offered in free spirit. No other is made to replace it. Limitations - we need them – they are the fences and walls of true domestic space. ‘True’ – that which is our best medicine. The limits of our true world are what fit … we respect them.