The ground beneath is soft, sponge like, we tread with care, placing each foot with precision. My movements draw me further into a grided terrain. Around I hear the call of birds, but in this space they do not live, for I am in a cancer, a disease imposed by foreign traditions on this delicate land.

So why am I here? What has drawn me into this space? Others where repelled or blocked by themselves and by the forest, others myself included weren't. I desired this space; I lusted after it, not for what it is, but for what it is. In me and in my life a divorce has happened. In the city a relationship is ending, two people once in twined are slowly unravelling the complex structures that held them together. Here in the pine forest that has engulfed me I have disconnected the politics of this space and its cause and effect, to instead embrace the atmospherics and its texturality.

Beneath though, running in a sub routine I am thinking about the girl with whom I have spent so long, and also the politics of this forest and the consequence for indigenous life. I understand that this sub routine is circling into my consciousness, directing and informing a narrative search.

Through the forest our divorcee walks, passing an intervention left by another. The form of this intervention is a continual composition of decay. Through the catalyst that is death, the form shifts, revealing new tensions and textures. In discussion with Laurene, the creator of this structure, it’s revealed that there is an embrace of this changing form, that the subversion of nature has revealed a new poetic taking the design away from the formal constraints that the first iteration had. This embrace of the cycle it seems frees us from the didacticism of purity, perfection, linear and solid.

I am not saying that we should not have a desire, even a purpose; though this scares me and I would like to avoid the Neal effect of this statement. It has to be clear that the aforementioned design, or iteration of a design, served a purpose. But I feel that within the designer’s desire was the affection of the next iteration and the one after, after, after...

Step after careful step we move on, in their minds the yellow fabric and its tangled bondage with the trees is clear. Their focus has been switched.

Beneath the skin words ring, a catalytic move by one has sent these people off into the wood. What defines a wood from a forest, from bush? I used live opposite a wood. So the notion of catalyst surfaces again-its becoming a reoccurring theme, a question-is there a start, an end, what came first, the catalyst or the catalysts catalyst, yeah fuck the egg. With each word I write I create a catalyst, some work backwards, others through, some left, others up, down, forward, behind.v

The response to the words that have been placed within my head is as unimportant as the outcome that is created in the response. This response becomes a catalyst for me and for others, the actions of making a response has many catalysts, so does the movement and conversations that our intrepid explorers have within the situation they find themselves. So in this light is there ever a didactic, a singularity of action or idea? Is subculture not a reaction to an action, I think of Maggie and Jonnie and the mow-hawk movement?

This text stops


And starts

The greater property where a group stays has soft boundaries, fences that can be passed. The signs that orchestrate these actions are not made by people; they are made by the stocky brawn of the local wombats. These creatures, among others, leave pathways and trails that provide access to otherwise inaccessible spaces. Craters alert us to their homes, whilst holes in the fences show us that these creatures view this subdivision of land differently to those responsible for its segregation.

So driven by catalyst I reach a fence, it’s a shock. It’s hard and ribbed with barbs that scream of laceration. Fuck you fence, why are you here, what is your purpose?

To keep you out, you insolent bastard, I will protect my owners land; He does not want you to move any further, I am here to destroy your journey, to ward you off, to subject your poetry.

- But can't we -


- What, but everywhere else we can -


- So you are a barrier, a blockade within an undefined space -

- PISS OFF will ya -

We agree to disagree; actually there is no agreement, just barked order. Following the line of metal up the hill, I smirk when I see the fence below a fallen branch. See, your system is going to break, your boundary will be destroyed, and all that is needed is time, time and patience.