Great Southern Streetwalking Nomads 1524 2286

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Great Southern
Streetwalking Nomad
‘COMMON AS’ & ‘UNIQUE AS’; AT HOME IN
GLOBAL GEOGRAPHY WE PLACE OURSELVES
AS NATION IN COUNTRYSIDE &
COAST.
It is a lyrical geography pronouncing identities.
and futures.

The
Sandy Latham
PROFESSIONAL MOTHER, WIFE AND KIWITIAN
iii

© Monte John Latham 2013
Monte John Latham asserts the moral right to be identified as the creating author
of this work,
great
and its composite parts.
All rights are reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or
transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy,
recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author.
Debox Publications .
PUBLICATION DATE: F 2015
TRIM1524_2286
ISBN 9
iv

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
All of value that came before,
in particular this beautiful land
…
PAINTINGS, COVER, PENCIL & SNAP PHOTO
ILLUSTRATIONS ARE BY THE AUTHOR
A FEW OF THE IMAGES ARE DRAWN FROM
GENERAL PUBLICATION & OF UNKNOWN SOURCE.
v

WRITER
He grew up in the outer suburbs of a small scenic
capital city in Tasmania Australia amid abundant
countryside and estuary coast. After a lengthy
professional sojourn in town character and matters
urban, he now paints, writes and draws plans in a rural
coastal part of home; deep in the islands immediately
south in The Great Southern Land. At times, such as
now, his writing is loosely waxed edited flow of
conscious and subconscious from the evirons & the
mental … lush with psychotropic properties.
Born mid 20th
century he, with wife & their five
children, grew near Hobart, battling its economy with
faith in the nurture of familiar locale and this one in
particular.
No author is an island; rather merely another
participant and this one with a very very tolerant
participator in Sandy, a very very special piece of New
vi

Zealand and wife. Certainly the kids are triple A +
participators too. He is ten years older than the
picture. I hope you enjoy this light hearted and
impassioned piece.
vii

Great Southern
Streetwalking
Nomad
Began 28/12/14
This is on Frogmore Peninsula in Tasmania, the third day
after the Christmas of the 2,014th
year since the well-known
Jesus Christ established a path via corrected death.
Quietly misting, here out of thought, Australia is tangled
and varied in urban sprawl, country towns, oil rigs, bushland
homes, loungerooms, offices, workplace kitchens and zero
rooms behind pixilated curtains. Here at Frogmore open
sky, inland water - eucalyptus fragrance and wattle blossom

through open windows float … and in the pen: the clouds are
charged. Anytime bright bolts will brighten the gloom,
momentarily for the clouds and with great value to the
witnesses. A bellyful of fresh apricots, nuts and coffee in
the presence of a Gregory Peck western movie, finds union
with the charge - and the time is now as word-based
expression transmutes to visual imagery for a reading
witness. The lightening will crack, rumble and awe even as it
is a mere peep in the almighty order … spread like an endless
canvas intrinsically receiving fresh oil colour sufficiently
abundant for all witnesses to find an interactive story of
their own. What is this colour now this shape this icon, what
is this flow, this scene this signpost?
It’s not that manic depression is needed for creativity but
that it may be useful to communicate in the darkness where

pearls fall spat-out by swine or where the shadows about
any reader may need to be found hopefully in full
perspective. Take me don’t take me, let me go with you away
engulfed in your sea of joy - found interactive with a tribal
family and foreigners inter-pollen and play. I don’t want to
stop, simply to flow and break where necessary with a
diamond facet in sync with a quasar edge to let it be the
essence that nurtures a quoll, … whilst shining sanity to a
witness who is a prisoner of war once leach ridden in a jungle
ditch, formed at the base of a huge fallen tree whose fate
was set by a bomb fallen at its other side. They are loved by
many, the brave over-and-done stories of the hard won
victories or the wasted lost battles that were part thereof;
the lovers of the loved lean into the gloom finding a light, a
warmth, an attitude, a valiance and characters to love. The
story of a chapter of a life, the substance of desperate-
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sweat, endurance, genius, determination showing a success
that one may like to share. It was here in the wind of
mentality, yours and mine, the sole one; but stopping to
manifest it here, I face but an echo of silence - just an error a
ripple in our fluid. I am now again the pilot, my instrument
keyboard, at one time a brush, is the glider in our wind. We
unfold the wild wind of our angry hearts and roll out the
moist words of our supreme joy. Retell me foreign gentleman
… of the best way to prune the olive tree and I will explain the
tapping of oil from the eucalypt and together we may see a
quasar joining us through its veil.
Enough said; some bowel is now clear as the awesome
wonder is cracked like an eggshell to make a colloquial jibe
and some fun at the pub. This is not gloom nor shadow nor
lightning bolt, it is time of day wizened but innocent chatter,
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a play and expression in a different prism simply to say -
come what may, we seek not what you say. And so, in
frailty, the echo of silence whitewashed the lot but only like a
fog that unnoticed faded completely away in the course of a
day.
His lifelong darling threw him another very fresh apricot and
together the energies flowed. Always a sojourn-away will
invigorate the write, bring in something Leunig, musical or
gay but we try to keep the language on track and the owner
of the words that fit the things like snake, rainbow, jazz and
gay. There’s occasionally a whip a quip, abreaking serious
convention, defending the order the wording against the
lackadaisical beckon, the truth against the human vain hope,
the distortion against the same. Break a heart with a
question; are we humans, people, souls-on-fire, animals,
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persons, cobbers and liar. Are we the prints on our fingers
known not on animals but to god who lingers. Grandaughter
loves her daddy when he calls chicken kebab ‘chicken-on-a-
sticken’; the sheer magic of the lightening thunder and the
serious sadness of genderbender and clubfoot, something is
odd with folly that may make us laugh and look anew. The
Yaqui shaman, jumping across hilltops using energy fingers
from his solar plexus, is practicing his art on a fundamental
that life is controlled but ah no what folly; life is a belly full of
fresh apricots and a peel of thunder, a bowl of cherries some
freshly garlicked Christmas fry-up. Wedge firmly the pot
pipe into a rock crevice in Italy the ipad where the sun does
not shine. Take up as a child of God and bear the healing
strain of the wrongs that have sent us cartwheeling with the
bug of the world into the Great Southern Land colonies
where the sun does shine. Is there preaching among us or is
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that not kosher; not of lost Catholic of Islam of Kentucky
Fried or Ferrari, not of vegan, good-doing, hard work and
plasterer’s slurry; but of truth and its flowering wonders of
its railway stations and hair salons sitting skew in a
powerpacked edengarden with climate that requires no
shelter and a mindset that needs no clothes. The shadows
lift as the sunlight is bending every whichway through a shell
of water above the air, no possibility of manic depression
where gloom is physically impossible, not a supreme optimism
nor a frozen position - with souls interacting a fluid evolving
ecstasy as music, voice and colour uncluttered with counter
clacker. Take me don’t take me let me go with you away
engulfed in your sea of joy. When can we go and where will it
be. How can we go and what will we see. Take me true one,
let me go with you where the way is the journey and the
place is at hand.
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Nestled in tangled Australia, any geographic architect
knows that a chunk of lead is fluid and a volume of oxygen is
somewhere someday solid; he knows the earth planet is a
spaceship corrupted and that all planets are earth
accessible via the internal cube, that all stars react the same
nuclear fuel and that the black is what is the black, the deep
deep into which we cannot turn nor become. The gloom is
only our fear and yearning for the tropicana pineapple juice,
coconut oiled muscle and grass skirts. Seems there’s always
that something that only our unabstract maker can know as
we have an edge, a skin, a containment that is in fact our
identity or part thereof. The geographic architect knows
that that arrogant of our building is made in our blindness
and turns our eyes inward blinding us further and harder in
heart locked by faith in technological product and glitz
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interior, unlike those of our company in the peoples of the
land and a dreamtime, whom we in part married after we had
first kicked the heads from some of their babies we had
buried, standing, to the neck. They had been maintaining a
notion of spaceship earth and ecopicality, a hard hard
sustaining way – for fewer. As the story goes, we are now
outside that Eden, over there Iraqabouts … behind the
mighty ethereal lock, that virgin eden spaceship maybe still
runs smooth as apricot nectar, nurturing electric social life.
Here outside it is broken and harsh, where we create our
own tiny lifeboats bruised and sore seeking comfort and
succour and turning at each other. We went, we go a
sustaining way Austr-original, my legs are my frontdoor, my
fire is my television; and we go Sydney box, comfy
electronic indoors, take the car to the bush if I have the time
and money.
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Corners space shape elbow-room, reach stride lay meet,
nook hall yard. Depth of cupboard, height of sill.
Ergonomic room, bus aisle emergency stop button,
grandfather’s coffin and grandchild’s cradle. Knob rails seat
stair-tread, doorway ceiling and pergola overhead. Room to
access move and be still in house and in camp. Quick let’s
load the Commodore wagon and get out of tar, stuff &
cement; through the fragrant yellowed eucalypt belt to the
lonesome beach surf, ionised crystal and clear and campfire
friend. Room too in this place, … to fulfil … for a moment, …
domestic needs house and camp. Orientate it largely
outward Austroriginal communal domestics or enclosed with
a ‘view’ for Sydney’s Western pale. The generic word for
first people of a land is ‘aboriginal’ (small ‘a’) or ‘native’ and
yes I am addressing Australians, who simply dignified with
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an “A” and don’t seem to know if there ever was a name for
the entity of people we & they came to call the
“A”borigines. Likely there were names only for each nation-
tribe; a funny thing, like, if all the archipelago islands that
make Australia are together Australia, then what is the
name of the largest island. Funny thing.
That’s like not acknowledging that a playdough that we use
to build, say floor-vinyl, is in fact earth. The vinyl rather
than the earth is totally out of place around an
Austroriginal domestic fire; these ilk taste interior in
sleeping-shelter, … but they go no further – where, man o
man, others went further, big time they went, going country-
squeezing room boom. Just bit by bit, spreading like rash,
generating synthetic compensations, boom boom rooms
rooms roads sewers salons. Room for resident-accumulated
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possessions, access, house-shell, outbuildings and
landscape. The molten ergonomic-heart will leave dust in
redundant corners and hard wear and patina on traffic
spots; corners, part of the shell form, may even arise
somewhat in the garden.
Previously … unseen in the country; the interior and exterior
shapes become very much part of daily life. In any room, cast
an eye wall top, where ceiling sits. Usually it is three lines
meeting at right angles, being two walls and a ceiling. This
three-planed-corner is a most significant creation - happens
at floor too, usually lost to handy square-fit furniture. Its
creation is owned more by physics and the nature of
playdough, than by us builders. With it is a dichotomy in
built shape with natural land form stamped over by
townplanners grid; sometimes blended bipolar with the
house form as the house relates with it all. Natural forms
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and boundaries by others are married by private house
synthetics, the identity in public dress; in one property
leaning hog-like into the ground and in another against a
boundary and flying eagle to the horizon. Austroriginals
scratch their heads and so some throw more aluminium on
the midden. The traditional Austroriginals may have no
racial memory of permanent house … since the perchance
Ark, there perchance on Ararat. The square-rigger that
delivered the new Sydneysiders was a great unidentified
white flapping object; until they were able to run a smart
craft eye over its wooden hull frames. What was this new
sharply arrised, gabled box, the first sealed light-coloured
interior with eight crisp three-planed-corners at floor and
ceiling. This box, far from ticky tacky, was awash with
novelty and sitting in rich country context … being merely the
first redness of ominous rash. A few totally uninitiated
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Austroriginals, yet to have first time experience of a modern
suburb and a sharp block of flats sitting in red Australian
country … in the box; squares, prisms, right-angles, door,
window, … and a sliding drawer holding a matchbox, … surely
fallen to Earth. So many people, for so many hours of so
many days for so many years, are subject to …. shhhhh quiet
bombardment … shhhhhh by so many three-planed-corners.
The corners challenge to counterplace the circular belt of
sky that blends with the horizon below it and the dome of the
heavens above. That belt is there, maybe shrouded by
depleted over-head forest leaves and life, distant it mooches
warm-warmly present bombarding orgone glow, behind the
flat white ceiling walls and that skewed corrugated roof of
unknowing.
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Austroriginal Albert Geogalong, with a freshly gutted
lizard, nods as he wanders through an egg-shaped lounge to
use a refrigerator. How long has he known this new
geographic event? Some natural spaces in the country’s
bush suit as room for contemplation, lunch, sleep or some
manual work; likewise bush wilderness rampant nature is in
the house … usually unseen by the boat people .
Sydneysider Maggie Pale hermetically seals it out so far as
she can; allowing the ceiled corners to win their challenge.
Geogalong has moved through the kitchen and out the back
door in fluid motion, enjoying the designed ergonomic room-
flow of his visit, whilst thanking for his sharing, the absent
but present custodian; he continues as himself part of
nature’s earthy nurtures on his way out the bared earth back
track through the bush, the Sydneysider lounge-room lizard
still quivering at the thought of his spear and afraid to touch
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the berries the nomad had left on the unlacquered wattle-
wood dining table. A building inspector on his job finds
himself sharing a psyche of flying ceilings; not using the
house for other than exploration he heads back out the
paved front track into a small mobile interior and towards his
council offices noticing people using the laundromat, the
community hall and cafes he sees the ceiling of each joined
with the ceiling of every house, and notes that the old
blackfella he saw seemed to utilise some interior whilst
rejecting other; the tight little boxes & psycho-conjoined
ceilings were cracking like egg shells and surprised lizards
were too slow for the hawks enjoying uncooked omelette.
The people had been using the boxes to hide from
discipline, social and neighbourly truths and now roll
embarrassed. Elsewhere a pyramid-shaped room focuses a
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surprising energy which is more physical than psychological;
the three-planed-corners mould our attention habits into
forms that differ to those made from the embrace of the
dome of the horizon.
Boat-arrivers are not prone to move and bend in accord
with right angles; though they train themselves and are
usually compromised that way; providing we aren’t carrying a
bowl of soup to the television couch we can make a fluid
either-hand turn at speed by executing an exhilarating
snappy swivel born from the ball of our leading foot. We
happily face the containment of boxes so as to have ready
and reserved the room for domestic performance.
“Get out of our room, get out of our face,” say Albert,
smiling hatless woolly of hair, and a Darwinian City
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Architect, a corrugated slouch hat roofed across his
university brow …, his feet stirring the sandy floor of stone
broken by a million frosts, small kilometres below the
stratosphere, chatting peaceably in an open air country
nook, in a song-line corridor, nature’s earthy nurtures
bucketing through, galloping too, undisciplined by the feng
shui and the magazine kosher. They’re speaking to a
couple of cloud-ceilinged larrikin kids impinging the sanctity
of their space, crowding their spontaneous room … and the
purpose for which they need the room. Even so
accommodating curiosity The Darwinian takes a bucket of
the sand to demonstrate the art of concrete to these
curious progeny. There is something to be said for the
straight edge, right angle & its box; sit the rock on the
horizontal face and shape the end to meet the other – cut
stone. “Is it square apprentice?” “Yes boss, we now have
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concise interface sir.” Before shape we have the pragmatic
of the horizontal and vertical planes; children of gravity -
essence of box and parents of the three-planed-corner.
Gravity along with the dimensional requirements of our
bodies and psyches are the first aspects of our
quadrangular prisms and yards.
Likely without built interior the world would never have
been thought of as ‘open air’ nor external nor outside;
except in the sense of outside a realm or a copse of
trees. A cave is in - one would go out of it - but this is a
different out.
We have been sharing engagement with doing our house
fandango, finding the geographic architect inside, not a
building but the heart somehow within our body. We
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have this fandango in geography now with digital
software technological things that are staggeringly
expansive in knowledge and communication … and
tending, … oh so tending trending and seemingly mending
but having us propped on spindly legs like Salvador
Dali’s elephants ready to crumble in self imputed
holocaust … onto the ground that remains immemorial
except for the state of flux like a chunk of coal fluided by
pressure to diamond interface with quaser wonder edge
such that our world will be renewed and the dust of
holocaust merely part of the unwasted renovation.
In this happening our bodies
with our heart cannot be
separate…. hmmm. Other
than dalek style we cannot
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renovate ourselves; nor can renovate themselves;
Sydneysider nor Austroriginal who walk with Albert
Geogalong singular with the country. Shivers …. brrrrr.
Room boom, digital figital, city-country calamity,
supermarket ransom, slimmed down obesity, power-
grabbed desperate shmarmy, all-religions-in-one, global-
warming just another geographic cycle, panic corruption
bug-of-the-world, methamphetamine rotting brains
making broken children crippling dad …
Maker come. Of this all witnesses will find an interactive
story of their own. Swing low sweet chariot. The clouds
are surely charged, deeper darker than any seen; the
bolt will crack cutting between muscle and bone. Despite
our awesome technologies engaging musics and the cities
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we have made in fact we are the creative creatures and
not the Creator.
Our seemingly handy connected boxes and optic fibre
are minor compared to our entrails and the silver thread
of life … which we might see snapping soul separate from
loved ones and life below or above; to the side or at
fortyfive degrees or inward and away. Still an arm of
sorts embraces; helpless are we if our heart races and we
long for familiar faces, living in the formed-up dust
beyond. Ah well they think that’s old Mont done and
dedusted oh dear let roll a tear with molecules of water
that had been twenty thousand metres in the air a few
days ago. Ah but our love for this sunburnt country we
can speak clearly about pointing and sharing; the bright
company beyond us here in the dust we have all but lost
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faded in racial memory genome and blocked out pretty
solid by mobile telephone screening immense time soak.
Wilderness edge deep throated synthetic city interior.
Food nature overstepped by slow boat, politically
controlled economy and life future looking gloomy. And
still … all witnesses will find an interactive story of their
own; along weedy concrete kerb, red, plant flourished,
dusty track or skyflung, powering through solid interior
and traffic. Don’t leave me I’m coming too where are you
going I’m listening to you. Let me read you open your
words, internal dialogue and conscious construction. I’m
reading you, I see you well, you picked me up the moment I
fell. You’re a last guy who looks to be first, a nice girl who
didn’t want to be a nurse. Sorry not you, I can’t read you
all at once but there is that connection through genome
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and food, Irish roots and Sri Lankans boating over
40,000 years ago … kinda getting’ married with some brave
lost Viking sailors coastal of Broome. All those
connections Adam, Eve and down the line MidEastern
Abraham, Noah the goer nobody could stop. What is it
that is said about the quirk of bonding with Jesus the
Nazarene; whence we sidestep sort via some sort of
lysergic amino to the genetic line of Abraham. All pretty
similar in an inner cosmic soup; I can read all that in there in
the old moebius loop de loop. So I’m reading you, your
words are soaking in, … to the fabric of the pixel pages as I
hit high flight with my instrumental keyboard the syllables
begin to sing. Can go on-line after line but the tonsils get
tired and the feet get blisters, the hitech soles lose their
zip. You need to find me a travellers caravanserai where I
don’t lose your journey. Trouble is I don’t have the money,
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I’ll camp by the river, maybe see you there for a scoop of
fresh water and if there’s pizza there and a lounge lizard to
spear. The way is the journey I don’t want to stop but I
love to bump shoulders with family as I go and the
occasional wandering Italian who can tell me my olive tree
how to prune. Be my guest I’ll find some pictures to paste
in the track, makes no difference an old fashioned shack or
glitz Melbourne lodge with a red telephone.
Don’t close off I’m still reading you and so are the
others. We don’t care about your chemical ice, a fact is a
fact, though we should have law to kill you if you provide
it to another. We don’t see your clothes, just your open
doors and the leafy salad oozing from your pores.
Together we read and write with strength, Mont’s your
keyboard, mental ectoplasm our line, the space between
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is no space at all. I know your face I’ve seen it before, just
can’t recall where was it on tv in a Russian crowd – nah
I’m playing with words for sure, taking the freedom of a
painter using tricks of perspective and space.
Are we going somewhere? Well I hear the engine and my
fingers are tired, we’ve come this far and probably have
had some arrivals on the way. Are we going in circles,
doesn’t matter my memory’s not good and anyway things
change as time goes by and I view them in a different light
using a different avatar (Avatar? No thanks … just
adacado.) Yes for sure we’re on the go, we’re building
something that will not be lost to a lifting fog. It’s a
serious thing I do as I was saying to my friend who just
called, if I wasn’t doing it I’d feel irresponsible; this writing
has to be writ.
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Cities as designing – evolving - happening can be awesome
in their high spots, glossies, interiors and ephemeral
vitalities. There is no deep jungle ephemerality, no desert
ephemerality, no deep ocean or icy wilderness.
The best of cities will always require something that we can
find only through the likes of sleeping under the stars to
awaken in still fragrant fully sunned silence by the village
river looking to work nearby without traffic with tools of
craft and fellows of easy laugh. The eternal ephemeral
handcrafted country village will make use of the creations of
the cities. The two should flow together.
Let's be wary of the frontiers of urban planning having us
stand beside ourselves in wonder at what we can create
rather than beside the great creator of all.
It’s the geographic truths I wish to pronounce in
particular the ones being lost to the globaltechno fog
that hangs thick as dirty old nappies for many. Not
everybody in the world can be geographically Australian
a great southern streetwalking nomad belonging to a
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locale called Ballarat, Scottsdale, Oodnadatta or
Frogmore near Writemealetter .. 67km by crow nor-nor-
east of the future bush capital, Lunawanna. Through
the glazed french doors here at Frogmore under
Midway’s cadastred land, across Barilla Bay to the
kanunyan organpipes; pick up google earth to continue
the straight line – close to Melaleuca it passes on the
world famous south west coast, 10,000km to
Madagascar & Mozambique, over the Congo off the
Moroccan coast, over to … yes … New Foundland, to
California, San Jose, across the water over Norfolk
Island to Maria Island Tasmania and now I feel my eyes
on the back of my head (duck and I recall an endless
rolling head from teenage beerical excess). Will a straight
line tangential view over the organpipes show me
Andromeda at this time of day. And is such an endless
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straight line a reality in anything other than mankind’s
mentality; a straight edge made by solid object is a reality
crafted in practicality – but I see no line like it in the
vastness beyond my reach and my imagination cannot
follow such a line as it pierces all things life as it
continues past my civilized detailed delightful life-
ladened destinations (making deep dark draughts in the
invisible places around the periphery of my eyes viewing).
Thumbprints in locale … all combining into nation –so-
called. Identity, identities to do with land and country
local culture in the local hamburger. Something to grasp
and make grow, not to wobble on spindly Dali elephants
in cyberspace man. How many hours a day do we spend
at a screen flat on our bottoms, what’s happening to our
miracle existence. I don’t know what to do where to go
where are you going would I go to? The cyber interiors
29

are to the Sydneysiders what Captain Cook’s ship was
to the Austroriginals. There will be casualties people
not prone to sit and screen, too brave and having no
connection, will be obliged to throw tinnies to a midden
surviving like Mad Max whatever way we can, being a
social category without a constantly refreshed website
to demand. What’s happening Australia do we want to
go too. Can we hook up that great socio-google
machine and tame it as a little helper to haul with us as
the masters; if not nought bodes well for the freshness of
life and the pressures on the misfits held captive by
mindfaked controllers being controlled. Heaven-folk
please bowl me a big juicy orange apricot with reddish
freckles and easy to break in half to share to eat. In that
moment I will jolt to faith that something can open the
way through or by this puzzle that is surely a beast. Bowl
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my father in heaven, bowl me here with our christ what I
need (Already done you say! Thanks mate, thanks,
thankyou – soaking me in spinal shivers and release –
thanks!!).
Something to grasp and make grow, of character, muscle
and countryland. Something to consolidate the locale to
which most of us return before we die; a town with
identity history or even new – a new hitech city but
oozing with country and its fresh air billowing into the call
centres and software creators. Let them unfold
bucketloads of new towns anchored to old highways in
drama with wildlife and history. Lots of new towns as
different one from the other as our creativity vernacular
integrity lets them occur and playing and competing one
with another in village style football and trade fairs.
31

We have some ghastly horrible mentalities, ugly gore
whore selfish thieveries and lazy bummed deceitful
attitudes to wash out clean, in order to maintain too,
pristine clean our prime realty; our natural campsites with
no signs bins and barriers or any form of public
construction that is aimed at stopping strewn toilet
paper broken beer glass and vandalism. This is our prime
realty, camp sites are not just the leftover strips at the
coast or the edge of town. They are linked track to
national parks jetties and town centres and the town
centres have ‘no-banks-on-the-street-corners’ rather
anything but; say some potters’-hub food-joint movie-
theatre seagull-roost or wombat hideaway. This is our
geographic architect cooking up as necessary for social
vitality; as it works for Australia with our own
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conglomerate of social ingenuity, adaptability, history,
ownership, vernacular, ecopical responsibility. So simple
it is but current vestage mindsets greeds have almost
locked it into current global style cities. We’re looking at
it sensibly, starting in Melbourne and mixing it
Mullumbimby. Australians with feet on the ground can
make this movement not an act of the bowels but of the
hand and heart. Eventually given time for Austroriginals
to regain their ancient footings as in today, the ancient-
mix Sydneysiders and they will accidentally meet in
harmonious embrace in places on the move between the
biggest cities and the deepest bush. The key part of this
architecture is here already in the geography of
countryland coastal and people. Let’s go a bridge to
Indonesia too and grasp Kiwiland like we used to do.
33

It’s true indeed that the bug of the world, greed,
selfishness, foolishness and vice is a filth that needs be
cleansed. We fix it in Australia and it will come from
overseas, spanner in the works, woe what will we do.
Write us a song Sir Peter Garret Midnight Oil;
spanner in the works we’re awake to your perks, iced up
thug in Redfern and multinational commercial banker in
politics, spanner in the works we’re awake to your perks
… and on we can sing and shout - problem remains they’re
immune to our consultations by mental capacity, greed
and choice. This has been with us time immemorial going
back pre Captain Cook along Austroriginal and Briton
gene lines muchly very savagery and plain dastardly
controls and West Papuan grabs. How can it be fixed?
By pooling the greatest logical resources the vast
treasure trove of created opportunity and miracle
34

existence. I’m sounding like a leadup to sell you a vacuum
cleaner, a new facial cream or the 2015 iphone. But I
mean GOD; the real one. Trouble is it’s not finger-
flickin’ good … because we’re all the original guilt and so
involved in the suffering … oh no my head has melted
onto the floor and I’ve accidentally dragged my
Federation-design wooden chair across it …. aaghhh
what a mess. That’s it story’s over, can’t write my way
through my own guilt. I was so wanting to get on with the
geographic architecture spiel but here’s a bridge I
cannot cross – my face dragged over by a Federation
chair using my own energy. Maybe I’ll lounge lizard awhile
with a cup of billy, no a Guinness; with luck my wife might
clean up the floor, hopefully recognising the mess and
why I’m not doing it myself, instead of being flaked as
often faceless on the couch. Guilt.
35

With Sandy’s help and God’s I am resurrected face
carefully rinsed in warm soapy and draped in the sun
shaded by her gentle lace scarf, sprayed with olive oil,
vinegar and brown paper, it has become serviceable
again. Thankyou. In parallel I am making enquiries about
a particular meaning of the word ‘today’ and feeling a bit
frustrated that the answer has not yet come as it has to
do with the guilt and time to act. It is what we’re plagued
with though today; delays frustratingly idle funding
resource knowledge. Letting down the team not able to
find the steam sometimes particularly nasty feather.
Trudge on it is true the resource will avail if your trudge
is true. If not in earnest we must or surely we will fizzle.
Sometimes the plague is locked in as sure as the ground
and if it’s muddy there’s boots to be found. But at this
36

moment we yet again hear the echo of silence. I think it’s
because I’m Tasmanian isn’t it; not Brunyan but - or
from Chigwell.
… sufficiently abundant for all witnesses to find an
interactive story of their own. Something to grasp and
make grow; geographic underpins and partly is
architecture and is handy for spuds, colleagues and
inspiration …
.
Today II Cor 6.2
Hebrews 3.7, 14,
ELLEN Kelly lived out the last of her life as a much respected citizen of
Greta (Victoria), but she never forgave the police for the devastation of her
37

family.
'People blame my boys for all that has happened,' she told the Sydney Sun
newspaper in 1911, when she was 79. 'They should blame the police. They
were at the bottom of it all. Oh, you can't imagine what I have suffered. You
can't imagine what it means to us poor people in the Bush, to be taken away
from all that we have - our children. But they took me away, and I had to
stay in prison for years. And for nothing - nothing at all.
That house is a harness – we cannot delay!
A search in the Tardis interextra realms of knowledge
imaginative yards miles microns seeking across muddy
potato patch in the joint infinity of every point and every
English word. It was more than any ordinary conscious
search and as it turned out …. My fairer gender kissed my
38
FINISH

flickering eyelids causing them to open on impulse to find
the fascination of a new day’s early light shimmering
broadly behind her, each side of her, above, below and
that in front too of her vibrant part of this day in her facial
expressions dynamic fruitful and fulfilling in the absolute
such that there was no scope to wonder what the day
would bring or why it is we call it today – let alone why we
call current times ‘today’ also. Something that isn’t merely
‘now’. Choosing to identify wholly with this rapture I had
left the centuries floating loose and disassociated with this
small point in the fullness of universe. The supportive
remnant that we would be seeking tomorrow but for which
39

we simply have no need to even imagine right now. The
sunwatered trees may have been aware of our innocent
compulsive bubble of total adequacy; they may have
nurtured, nourished and compensated a smooth return to
the hard light of day – it wasn’t us; we had it all and just
knew it’d be okay. Today in the Great Southern Land
there are more than twenty million of us in our assorted
momentary and long term bubbles – all saturated richly with
unique identity and knowledge of this outside the bubbles
maybe rests in the trees or the soil or the air or the
heavenly host such that coordination making a civilisation
40

awake to a fully shared moment; not a prime minister’s best
photo but a company of mutual heartbeats.
It is all vivid meaningful backdrop and fallback for our
workaday toil setting the lace curtain, out with the wheely
bin and the professional devotion to task and earnestly
needed coordination of a nations architectures in this
severely ravished steeply climbing curve of environmental
destruction.
41

Our geographic architectures will grow in some semblance
of national unity. The baseline of ground and country,
beautiful natured places, vast cloud roofed rooms and
forest walls, valleys and coves; all filtered intrinsic with
sunlights and moonlights flickering eyes resting through
the rigid clear sheet of melted sand on the shadows of
eucalypt leaves falling to those leafs in their light lee, all of
them wafting and waving in the moving airs with the colours
of photosynthesis, whitish reflected light, grayed at
shadow and merging with fleshy fickled limbs and their
fractal-like dissemination to the fine line entering each leaf;
all this cut off straight by the window sill painted similar in
42

colour and reflecting the same light albeit a moment later
onto the curtain fold again of similar tone. But there’s little
similarity in the fragrant fragrance not odour, scent, or
smell but blended fragrance finely varied leaf with leaf tone
with tone, hue wit hue and insect armpits too. This is in
country not a lot in town let alone city and megalopolis,
huge railway yard or open cut impost.
It is this base environment home of the Austroriginal that
we renovate, adapt, enhance, filter, tap, cut & shunt,
cunning stunt into quarries, mines, forest coupes, range
passes, building footings, sewer ponds for public realm,
43

workplace, residencial geographic place, houses, very large
constructions, highways and air strips.
What will we do where will we go as we renovate the land
onwards with established demo-geographic prevail and
impost? The handsplit timber slab but will rarely now be
built – or will it indeed? Aeucalypt planantion with clever
splitting mechanics might produce perfectly split
undamaged grain timbers that will weather for longer in
uncut grain resilience to rain and rot, going silver gray and
needing to chemical sealant. Maybe we haven’t seen the
last of this delightful architecture. The glowing red-orange
44

tick tick tick of the vehicular traffic turn indicator likely will
be around for a while in our public architectures though
enhanced to facilitate driverless technology.
45

Johnspeak
GLOSSARY
T h e f o l l o w i n g i s
s i m p l y t h e a u t h o r ’ s
g e n e r i c e l u c i d a t i o n s .
________________________________
_____________________
Abalone: popular rock shell
fish akin to Kiwi paua. Once
abundant in easy reach around
Homartian shores; where they
thrived with muscles, crayfish
and a particular cute little
starfish now being consumed to
extinction by the arrival of an
alien starfish. … as if the
slippery green rock coating
from industrial runoff wasn’t
enough. (when I was aboy even
a long time ago, I vowed to
clean up the river – this’s as far
as I’ve got.)
aboriginal: original people;
origin of the name ‘Aboriginal’.
Aboriginal: the native
people of the Australian
continent & its islands.
Blackfella; Harmoninni. Likely
floated over from India among
other. These original ‘
fouling the purity of the total
universal wonder by putting
46

your youness connection in a
wrong place.
Tharkian: having qualities
like The Thark, an area barely
trodden west of the kunanyi
Mount Wellington pinnacle.
Tiger snake: common local
poisonous snake.
Whales: there were 1000s of
them in the Derwent and the
estuary, 1000s teeming with
black whales up to sixty feet
long with young alongside in
winter to calve. Smaller
varieties too and porpoises.
Zzzzzzz: sorry if I put you to
sleep.
Z i p p i t y d o d a h
z i p p e r t y a a y …
m y o h m y w h a t
a w o n d e r f u l d a y
… … . .
I t ’ s t h e t r u t h …
48

It was actual …
e v e r y t h i n g
w a s
s a t I s f a c t u a l

This is what it might have looked like from
Stowell lookinh over the Salamanca
warehouses to the Domain; there is a
wedgetailed eagle just flew out of the
picture. The cappacino sits at Elizabeth
Wharf..

PURCHASE
DISTRIBUTE
PUBLISH
Homartian
for
y o u r L i b r a r y ,
F r i e n d , V i s i t o r , D e s i g n e r , T e a c h e r ,
D e v e l o p e r , P o l i t i c i a n , C h i l d , C o m p a n i o n ;
a s a H o u s e W a r m e r o r t o R e t a i l .
Go to
Bookshops
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facebook.com/Homartian

CONTACT
For very welcome feedback direct to author,
enquiry, comment or purchase:
M John Latham, Manager
Debox Publications
16 Sanfrancisco St, Sorell, Tasmania, Australia 7172
deboxdebox@gmail.com
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Search: debox Tasmania, debox degrid, Monte John Latham, HouseFandango,
Homartian, House Essence

ADDITIONAL BOOKS by Monte John Latham
• Housefandango
“HouseFandango” is a phenomenon – the product of
an exuberant creativity, a mind ever restless, fluid,
alert to manifold possibility, uncontained. Such an
intelligence might change the world. We need to
listen to Monte John Latham, then. His is a wisdom
that roams wide and free, at the same time as it
focuses down upon the most urgent question of our
age: how should we live, how should we dwell, how
should we be? Here is the dance of people and
place – a veritable house fandango, and its
dancemaster steps us forth from the very earth, its
magic, the bedrock on which civilisation rests, to the
place-nurturing, self-nurturing, self-constructing
activity that is nothing less than making a home on
earth. Come with Monte John – dance his dance of
life-affirming love.
Pete Hay, POET, ESSAYIST AND PHILOSOPHER OF PLACE,
( 2013 TASMANIA BOOK PRIZE - PEOPLE'S CHOICE)
• Wow Hows the House Now (out of print). Old title of
HouseFandango.
• House Essence (ebook). An essence of HouseFandango.
• There Are (ebook) . A short few words: identity, people, place.
Coming up
 The Architecture of Fire
 Spirit in the Sky

 The Shallows Where We Fizz.
 Nomurbic Office



Should be
Regnans in
this too, but
then Kananyi
likely wouldn’t
be visible; this
from down
Rosellas (not
correctly
coloured) like
Lorikeets
sweeping in
mutual
embrace with
Stand yourself
at the top of
Kelly’s Step
and cast your
mind back to
one ripper
dawn blazing
This is how it
might have
appeared
looking to that
island from
where the Lord
mayor now
This is what it
might have
looked like
from Hunter
Island before it
was named
such looking
This is what it
might have
looked like
from Criterion
Street looking
by the future
Town Hall site

Great Southern Streetwalking Nomads 1524 2286

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