Cool, but not cold to the touch it was. The damp darkness of it. The rough readiness of it being hard on the skin and bones of his skull which suddenly felt even heavier on it. Sleeping on the carpet of sharp rocks and dust of years all trudged and worn away by small animals scampering by in a past time of shelter.
It takes time to make that kind of black. The black of a cave out of sight of the world. So black that your eyes can only see nothing real, only see what they imagine to see. There is no light further back, but there is sound.
There is a vibe in a cave, if only you could hear it.
be quiet enough, and still your breathing…
solid until the vibe sound came through it.
Came through your chest instead of oxygen to hear it.
the solid sounds of the earth below it.
and the struggling sound of water trickling kindly in it.
through the cracks of stone above it.
He woke up thinking..
” Yes it’s quiet, but I keep all my data down here, my memories my private ‘cloud’ my stuff that I did in the past. No disk drives, no wires, no access, no one can actually get at the data except me. On the off chance that in a million year, way past my lifetime, I need it. It might be found. Found down here in the dark recesses of my terrestrial mind, down in the dark where the terrestrial vibe sounds.”
“Yes it is quiet, but why do I need to keep it ? Why keep it when I sleep to forget it, why keep it longer, than my own mind would need it. Emails, Data gone by, links once useful, now dissappeared and irretrievable. Why keep it, if no one can get it or use it or understand it or need it.”
The bird – I don’t know what bird – maybe a lyrebird mimic was there. In the gully just down by the falls. A bush rat ran past in a hurry. Old cold blocks of rock hemmed us in between the west cold mountain and the sea. We’d climbed 400 metres up along the elevated walkways and rope bridges straddling the rivulet. Past giant strangler figs and stinging trees. Past ancient red cedars, the survivors of past logging trails. A native rainforest in a sandstone slot gorge carved out of the old dividing range with a view of the pacific ocean to the east over Kiama. Now we had arrived, a long walk up to the top where the falls are found. Here though the long curtains of lighted water falling are thin and scarce into the pool below.
I just wanted to see it, having heard it. With no cautionary thought, I had jumped over the railing and landed heavily in the bush below the viewing platform. Jane cried out, “What are you doing !!!”.. but too late, as I started sliding down into the gorge, trying to grab something but moving down fast. Rocks and sandy bits came raining down on me as I clung onto a gum tree branch overhanging the falls gorge below.
“It’s nothing” – I called back, listening to the sound of my voice bouncing off the rock walls.
Jane muttered something about stupid and moronic – how I could have killed myself. The wind was up, and I carefully thought through the sudden kind of stuck predicament I was in. I’d shoved my phone in my pocket before clambering over the fence, so I should be ok. My clothes were kind of ripped up and I worried about how dishevelled I would appear once I got back the platform. How exactly since I had only a grip on a branch hanging down with the slippery rain forest ground cover between me and the platform.
I was hanging on this branch, I was ok. No clue now how to get back up to the platform.
“Jane, can you see if someone has a rope ?? and throw it down ?? . I can’t get up.” – I called again… loudly… More echoes.
“Why can’t you just pull up on that branch, and get up here that way ?”, she said.
“Look, just go get one from somewhere quick.:” – I said, and then with that the branch broke. No need for a rope anymore I thought tumbling down through space and straight down into the slot – basically free fall, until I hit the side of the gorge and bounced all the way down into the water below… which hurt and suddenly the noise of the birds was replaced by the frigid cold murk of the rock pool at the bottom.
COLD COLD WET COLD LONELY COLD WET SLIME COLD WET BUBBLES GREEN AND ROCKS AND THINGS
PAIN PAIN AHHHH – blood coming out — my knee hip and elbow seem to have got hit on the way down into the pool. I clambered onto the rocks and lay there for a bit. Coudn’t hear anything – too preoccupied with the body signals coming from all over me.
After I bit I tried to get up – Jane was way up there, about 100 feet or more up calling frantically.
“You ok, Where are you ?, Where are you ? John ! : “where are you “. she called.
I had landed below a ledge somehow and could not see directly up to the platform.
“I’m down here below .. I’m ok but I don’t know how to get out of here.” – I yelled again.
It went quiet , quiet like the birds wanted to know what just happened. Quiet like I did as well and Jane must have run off to get a rope [finally] or help of some kind.
Love the feel of iron to the touch. It’s genetic for sure. You touch it’s cool metal and watch it shine or glow. You feel the temperature, so slow to rise and catch your own. Heft the weight of it and understand it’s hardness for something mind bending and banging down wrought your Imagination. When it comes to rust though, it’s the weather and age that starts it’s decline. A red mirage of it’s strength remains.
Remember machine how you art rust and unto rust you must return. Long forgotten machinery. Sitting there, with no oil, no attention, and no care. The machine’s work is gone. It’s lonely there, rusting slowly to a death of red.
Red rust is the outback of Australia, how the oceans rusted bad back before it all began, where the watery iron ions sat waiting and came out as red dirt for the land to occupy. A land occupied by iron tools on a red horizon full of flakes of past imaginings, past hopes, past dreams.
How my mind feels like that steel trap, which one day will lose it’s sparkle and spring. Which one day will be there rusting in spots and flaking off into the dirt of the past, for others to tread all over.
How my mind is a field of red rusty dirt just waiting for outback rain ready to bring sparkle and surprise to an ancient wandering.
On entering the room, there it was, a submarine so it seemed, all big round and rusty as I recall, and really filling the space, standing tall close to the ceiling, and wall to wall, almost corner to corner. It looked more like a massive piece of war junk, a bomb perhaps, long not exploded after being left behind. A modern day artist had found it and installed it in this rather white room of the art gallery. How long had it been there ? How did they get it in ? Not sure – it looked familiar, yet impossible to really comprehend as something of any use whatsoever. How heavy was it ? It kind of looked solid, but I should have been too heavy if it was solid all the way though maybe.
The room seemed too small for the object and you could not the whole thing from where I stood near the entry. I started over to the left side, and tried to crab my way down the side wall – trying to see behind the thing, to see if there was a nameplate or something.
“Excuse me Sir”, came the command of the supervisor.
-mm.. but there was no line on the floor indicating the viewing limits — I thought..
I tried a bit further in, just a peek behind it is all I wanted..
“Excuse me Sir” !!
I backed out, oh well – I would just have to imagine it, since I could not see behind it.
How will the egg remember it’s me
(who backed out with care in the gallery)
when it has to remember
a rusty old chicken
It’s laid there to be
Later I ventured into another small room, an alcove hidden from view and the only thing in it was a square hole in the wall. The hole in the wall was pitch dark. I poked my head in. There was nothing in there. Gradually my eyes became accustomed to the dark inside the hole in the wall. I still could not see much. I closed my useless eyes.
It smelled rusty !
“Excuse me sir !” I yelled into the void. A dark metallic echo came back !
Now I remember what I imagined.
A short recollection – written in response to a experiencing the sculpture MEMORY of Anish Kapoor.
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