ecologies of practice, place and body
Slow, immanent, seeping permeation of relation with place and each other (whisper, ripple, shimmer, rumble); nourished by deep listening and field work.
[I confide in your texture]
Soundcloud
Vimeo
ecologies of practice, place and body
Slow, immanent, seeping permeation of relation with place and each other (whisper, ripple, shimmer, rumble); nourished by deep listening and field work.
[I confide in your texture]
Soundcloud
Vimeo
Wurundjeri Biik: Woodlands Historic Park
The objects I picked up on my roam were the fallen limbs of trees and shrubby plants. These objects remind me of a history much larger than myself, and the cycle of life, something I grapple with daily. It was a relaxing process, seeing nature, and existing within it. I found myself drifting off into thought outside of my usual headspace. I began to breathe more deeply and look up. It’s an entirely different place, far enough from the city to make a difference. The fallen timbre and dryness of the place are calming and familiar, and a reminder of how this world is changing. The smell is familiar all the same, undeniably home, home to many. When I collect things in nature, I should think about what those things mean to me. I don’t think they should travel home with me. When I think of the material nature of wood, I think about paper, the growing population of this place and what I can do to help. There is always more I can do. I think of my mortality and what will happen to my body and soul when I die. I think, does it matter? It’s nice to think that we all end up in the earth. I think about what it means to consider nature a friend.
In relation, I am sitting and relying on this earth to hold me up, the stones to sit me down, the bones to anchor me. And I am singing, internally, and learning what the imprint is as I am getting close. Getting close is core, central, it is the intimacy that I know deep in me is waiting, the dirt, the shards, the reflective and translucent spacesplaces of my hand extended, my skin coated, the palm of my hand is dirt, is pink stones reflecting light. The sun breaches me too, pink, white, reflecting, interacting, taking it in. The moss has been scraped up off the dirt already - the moisture barrier destroyed, some footstep or some creature scratching, the hidden nourishment beneath. I have been seeking this + now listen for the information - how do I access this nourishment? Be here, fully. Be engaged not distracted. Be present for the broad world asking for you, and here, right now, with the brown snake and the raven and the cricket, the ants and the grass seeds saying I am here, and all of us saying we are here, we were here, where are we, what do we know, feel? The tree is held by the earth, the bank of the creek; the fabric is held over the tree’s hollow branch, the small fragment holds the fabric in place, the lost pieces and when the wind blows I did not notice - now it is a message indecipherable - I do not need to translate. It’s a hollow-bone feeling, it’s an ant-on-the-leg feeling, a time of noticing + allowing, opening, expanding, receiving, considering, a reflection quartzite or granite echo on the blue, the water deep deep in the ground, the old story chasing slowly, with each seasons.