Minnamurra Call Unexpected Fall

Photo 2013-01-11 14.00.23
The sound of birds and water falling

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.

Rust Wreaks

IMG_5375Love 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.

— cjs – jan – 2013

Sea’Scape

The gravity of the massive earth sucked us on our towels into the sand of  the beach.  Our wet skin and shivering arms in the sunlight for the lifeguard to see.  Out of the seawater, streaming green seaweed locks of hair in cascades of ringlets down the side of her face.  An hour of afternoon we lay there and lazily swam from time to time aware of each others metaphoric selves. Lay pressed our arms on crushed sea shells with small sharp pricks. There was a cool breeze blowing across the bay and the scheme of things.

“when will you go back ?” I asked

“soon, I’ll go back and see how the ocean is doing”

“It’s too heavy here for you ?”

“Yes, the sky pushes down on me .. that part is tiring..”, she said.

“Everyone is looking at you… Not surprising really.. by the way it was fun !”

“I might just shift under that umbrella — do you mind ? – The sun is too strong”

“I thought of a poem about you.. want to hear it ?”

“Only if it is about home then. Ok ?”

whenever the sea belle sings

and the seaweed slings

in squeaks of massive waves

I hear your lovely voice

in the noisy shells of time

and seagulls

quark your never never name

“I love sea shells like that..” I said.

Gravito Lug

Ferodo felt the hammer in his trousers drag as he walked toward it. Bright shafts of light bent around the sky and came bouncing of the anvil like kind streams not leaving not a trace of dust behind.  More of a wave of light than the scattering of pain in his head right now. The hammer strong in his pocket was leaning toward a menace of the past being.

Compelled toward the bronze lug landed there protecting it’s history ball, with the ark of the ball sitting in the sky of the dry inner clearing bright.  Rain would not come, it stayed shy in the clouds at night, and in the day, it barely peeked out with droplets on the bronze arms of the ark luggy thing there in the clearing bright.  The pull on the hammer of the gun was strong.  The trigger of the gravitational angle like a compass direction finder, finding the clearing like a gravity lens.  The kind of lens with a focal line, not focal length.  The kind of lens which turned a single point of light above the lug into a set of bright suns scattered around the clearing.  A set of points about the ark geometry of mad men in the world of clearing light.  This lug was a tether point, where sky hooks could bend their cables around the level of the ground on the dreaming point in the clearing.  Where attached at the sky, with satellites whizzing past, were lives in tremblance and shake given up in ecstatic growth of mind. Grown too big for the earth and it’s lives, but passed on the ancient heavens and out, with a mind tether to the lug on the ground.  The lug of conscience and lives past, with a memory permanent in it’s gravitational hold.

Before when the dinosaurs ruled and wandered around in brief despair at the going out of their sun, and hoping that the lug and the tether ball would remain in the clearing once the clearing of their darkening world came.