Writings


It was dawn when I left my familiar home fenced by bushland, overlooking the sky that was slowly changing colour, slowly waking up. My little car humming in the cold early morning air, my old rusty love. It has no heaters so I drove with a hot water bottle and blanket on my lap, but my feet were still frozen through. These little discomforts so dear to me in a strange way, reminding me to appreciate warmth so much more than I would have otherwise. I write these memories down so I have them forever; the sensation of freezing toes, and fingers numb on the steering wheel, the smell of the old leather seats that only ever really have that smell in old cars, little quirks that we all come to love in their imperfection. A fast disappearing time in history, feelings that I have been lucky enough to experience. I cherish them all.

I have been driving for hours along old roads and new ones, singing Iron Maiden songs loudly and so out of tune I’m glad the wind blocks out the sound from the world. I drive over a bridge that looks like it disappears into the sky, upwards and over. I see a bird flying close by and then realise it’s a huge black swan. It flies directly above and to the right of my car keeping pace as I drive along, and then flies away into the sky. “Pffrrawwww!”, I cry, as I keep moving through.

 

I’m running down a street that I have ran down thousands of times before. So close to the bush, the huge gums loom over my life as they have always done, those old trees, those beautiful living giants. Something in the way the wet ground flickers from the street lights catches my eye, and I love the cold air stinging my bare skin; I’m not dressed warm enough for mid-winter. My breath comes out in steam and I want to push it inside someone’s mouth to watch the dance, the giving and taking of breath and steam, whispers and whimpers. I was in the shower earlier and I remembered suddenly, brutally, that I had been having dreams about punching walls. Over and over again I would extend my arm and feel the strength and surety of the movement. There was no blood on my knuckles, no bruises. Just the sensation of punching something hard and unyielding. And I’m running and thinking about how my feet are punching the wet tarmac and loving the pain in my body that has been worn down from months of no movement. I think about the thoughts I have and how they don’t seem to match my face that seems too young for my mind. I crave physical pain that I control so much it aches inside me like a hunger. I am a facet of the whole, a part that seeks acknowledgement. I write to feed it so I don’t starve.

 

I’m driving in my little car again, down freeways so familiar, like a lover’s body. I am lost in my thoughts, past and present, and a lot of what’s to come. I drive past animal’s half dismembered, rotting on the side of the road. A kangaroo that tried to jump at the wrong moment lies on the tarmac, it’s eyes being eaten by a huge raven, and I can’t help but think how utterly perfect that is. I don’t feel horror, or disgust, just a sense of rightness that somethings death can give life to something else. I want my body to go back to the earth, to feed tiny insects as my skin and hair and nails rot away, as my eyes fade from amber to grey. I want a fox to rip me open and feed my flesh to its pups so they can grow strong and old. Bury me under a tree so I can feed the earth with this tiny frame; my body made to stand so close to the ground so that Mother Earth can always hear me when I talk to her. I want to sleep in the wet core of her, cradled by root and bone.

 

My womb is a flame tree Tender and full The pain fuels me Bloody thighs and release To create again

 

August came bringing the winds of change. Some days Spring flies on the wind, warm and soft, others Winter tries to hold on, throwing icy daggers on the breeze. I want to hold on to both. Winter feels like a lost lover. Spring brings renewal. The smell of jasmine and freesia flowers is like an embrace for my aching, grieving heart. Last Spring, I fell in love. This Spring I am alone. I am a leaf, separated from the tree, learning to flow with the gusts. September draws near, and I want to feel the warm sun thaw my numb skin. I will run into the ocean and be held by something that ebbs and flows as I do, pushed and pulled by the moon. I will howl and wail and let my salty tears join with something bigger, something born of the same Mother. I fucking ache, but I will stretch out my torn wings and learn to repair the tiny gossamer threads, I will stitch over my scars until they become stronger.

An eagle flew underneath me as I sat with a kindred soul on ancient earth overlooking spirals of trees and snowy peaks. The wind was cold then, but it fueled me. I found a bird’s wing, still bloody and torn lying on the ground. It will be my crown.


Today is a slow, rainy, sad day where memories beat against the walls of my mind. I woke up in a daze from vivid dreams, where we swam in the water, magically kept afloat by abalone shells that glistened rainbow light into the sun as we held them in our hands. In my dreams, I gently slit the throats of two women, sliding the knife into their veins and letting the blood rush out; a cascade of liquid ruby jewels. I took plant medicine and journeyed out from my body, aware that I was dreaming and telling myself to remember when I woke up. My life was turned into thousands of small square pieces of paper, each one representing a part of my journey, and as I traveled I would colour them in and make my life into art. And then my whole existence was engulfed by green light that spread over me like a blanket and I remembered no more except calm and rest.

The rain is still falling and I am tired; the sound of the wind and water falling from the sky soothes my heart, sore from so much growth. I want to walk out into the rain, walk on top of mountains and be surrounded by mist and cold air. I feel too pressed in, too far from nature. It’s such a time of healing and growth that all I seek is comfort; hot cups of tea, warm blankets the colour of lilac, layers of clothing and thick stockings, cold noses and warm mouths touching mine. At the same time, I want to be alone and swimming naked in the warm, calm ocean; skin sticky with salt and sand. Dreaming of summers spent by the sea in a tiny town that once felt like home, where trains would float along the cliffs in the night. I am a mass of polarities dancing apart in opposite directions. I tried to write this in beautiful poetry, line after line that sang with clarity but it felt like such a momentum of words that needed to leave me that there was no forcing them to fit a structure. Here they lie. A gift to myself when I cannot paint my growth and healing onto a canvas. A gift of words to represent the deep ultramarine void; another world encased in cerulean, emerald dreams, where cobalt violet nights collide with the deepest ochres, the richest viridians. In that in-between space, I dwell. Smiling into the silence at the joy of creation.


I trace lines along the echo of your sighs with glass fingernails that cut and crawl like a cat licking your wounds and tasting the sea in your mouth ~ I seek words to seduce me to force my soul into submission no choice but to feel no chance to disassociate to fall back into control these words scar my small frame; my shell of silent whimpers and soft, soft skin ~ The smoke clouds over my doe eyes always seeking truth, and maybe the tears of trees of the sky the only place that has no expectations only the damp earth and the breath of life ~ In the shallow waters the moon looks on a voyeur as I bathe in tea leaves and dreams where we wander together ~ Always always