GREAT SOUTHERN STREETWALKING NOMAD _draft11 4 18

Sandy Latham
PROFESSIONAL MOTHER, WIFE AND KIWITIAN

© Monte John Latham 2018
Monte John Latham asserts the moral right to be identified as the creating author of this work,
Great Southern Street Walking Nomad
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 Publicat ions.
PUBLICATION DATE: F 2015
TRIM1524_2286
ISBN ..
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
Hobart Bookshop
bookstore.bookpod.com.au
deboxdebox@gmail.com
facebook.com/HouseFandango
facebook.com/Homartian
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..

iii
For;
very welcome feedback direct to author,
enquiry, to publish, distribute or
purchase:
M John Latham, Manager
Debox Publications
16 San Francisco St, Sorell, Tasmania, Australia 7172
debogeo@outlook.com
facebook.com/Homartian(Ask for Great Southern Streetwalking Nomad)
facebook.com/HouseFandango (Ask for Great Southern Streetwalking Nomad)
Search: debox Tasmania, debox degrid, Monte John Latham, HouseFandango, Homartian,
House Essence, Great Southern Streetwalking Nomad
ADDITIONAL BOOKS by Monte John Latham
• House Fandango
“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 the above
• House Essence (ebook). An essence of House Fandango.
Coming up:
The Architecture of Fire, The Shallows Where We Fizz, Nomurbic Office
The

MONTE JOHN LATHAM is still growing up in the outer suburbs of the small
scenic capital city in Tasmania Australia amid abundant countryside and
estuarine 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 the nows (as distinct from ‘the todays’) of the writing of
Street Walking Nomad, his writing is a loosely waxed, edited, flow of mind
and subconsciousness, drawn from the evirons & the mental … lush and lucid
with psychotropic properties matured in a barrel of decades.
Born mid 20th century he, with wife & their five children, grew near Hobart
and some Wellington, battling its economy with faith in not only the nurture
of familiar beautiful locale.
I hope you enjoy this light hearted and
impassioned piece of seriousness.
THE WRITER ACKNOWLEDGES
The social spiritual land chemistry that nurtured a people who were once just that, a
people - but wait there are others sitting as quietly and more quietly than the land
itself.
…
PAINTINGS, COVER, PENCIL & SNAP PHOTO
ILLUSTRATIONS ARE BY THE AUTHOR
A FEW OF THE IMAGES ARE DRAWN FROM
GENERAL PUBLICATION & OF UNKNOWN SOURCE.

v
The writer caught grokking a southernmost chunk of our
large heritage object, the Great South Land; at Crescent
Bay, an hour’s drive & another on foot, southeast of Frogmore
Peninsula.
SNAP by Sandy

AT HOME IN
GLOBAL-LOCAL GEOGRAPHY
WE FIND OURSELVES AS DE FACTO NATION
IN COUNTRYSIDE, COAST,
CHEMENTALITY & PIXEL.
(THERE’S A DICTIONARY IN BACK.)
This is an a tad brave, potpourri of consciousness
- lyrical, light hearted, edited, patched
- reflecting on geographic architecture, identities, futures
- pronouncing organic urban event
- unexpectedly drawing a serious keypoint
that to many may well be merely
an annoying break in melody.

Hear me Australians, the writing hand street-sweeps
clean our urban-nomadic colour-printed pillow. It sleepwalks
our rough edges, for easy-eared simple town hearts; marries
those who bind the great infinite intelligent, remembers with
the depth of a country in the merging brewing shallows of
individual mentalities. There is no movement at this station,
yet ‘a colt certainly is getting away’ and here some ‘word is
getting around’.
On easily the main island of the Tasmania group, this
writing is stationed, in or on the third day after say the
2,014th Christmas since the well-known, by name at least,
Jesus Christ established a vital path via corrected death.

3
A PRODUCT OF
THE LAND KNOWN CURRENTLY AS AUSTRALIA;
A LOVELY COUNTRY OF WONDERFUL VARIED
GEOGRAPHY
ONCE ISOLATED & SAFENED BY ITS COASTS
INCIDENTALLY KNOWN BY ITS GENERALLY OVERLOOKED
NEIGHBOURS,
`BY DISTANT FOREIGNERS DISCOVERED AT ITS NORTH &
SOUTH,
STILL MENTALLY ISOLATED BY ITS COASTS,
LIKE MOST OF THE WORLD BLINKERED BY MAPPING
TRADITIONS
LOST IN ITS ANCIENTNESS & YOUTHFUL GLORIES
&
LIKE THE WORLD IS IN AN ADRENALINISED CUSP OF HUGE
CHANGE
WITH THE REINS DRAGGING BEHIND OUR BOLTING COLT
kunanyi irian
jayan
gold

I am in my own lounge of my ‘owned’ home-ground, in a big
big island continent land, of still more islands and which
somehow separated be from many more islands and
continent close north. Some lengthy swims south to ice and
east to oceanic delights.
Quietly the national atmosphere is misting outside the
writer’s thought here on Frogmore Peninsula, which is an oft
forgotten beauty, lying in sheltered shallow waters, animal-
nude under its fence-tapestried suburban shawl mindset.
Our Australia is tangled and extremely varied in sprawl,
country towns, oil rigs, bushland homes, room-kernels,
loungerooms, offices, ancient songlines and territories,
drifting jet vapour, workplace kitchens, camps, surf, snow

5
and more and more zero rooms behind pixilated curtains
drawn by scatty fatted neurons. Here at Frogmore sky
open and watered inland, eucalyptus fragrance and wattle
blossom through open windows float. In the quill 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. The time is now, albeit bonded with
moments future and pasted past writes, as word-based
expression transmutes to visual imagery for a reading
witness among others. 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 in 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 passionate treasured
pearls fall spat-out by needy swine or where the shadows
about any reader may need to be found in full perspective.
Take me don’t take me, let me go with you, away engulfed in
your sea of joy; to be there found interactive with a tribal
family and foreigners inter-pollen and play. I don’t want to
stop word on word, simply to flow and break where

7
necessary with a diamond facet in sync with a quasar edge,
to let it be some essence that nurtures a quoll, … whilst
shining sanity to a witness who was a prisoner of war once
leach-ridden up north in a jungle-ditch formed at the base of
a huge fallen tree whose fate was set by wind, following 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-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. Stopping to manifest it here I
face but a frightening echo–cho-ho of silence-nce-ce; in fact
this silence is just an error, a faithless ripple in our fluid. I am
now again the pilot, my keyboard, at one time a paintbrush,
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, whom was passing by my
parents’ gate, of the best way to prune the olive tree and I
will explain the simplistic of extracting oil from the eucalypt.
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 on the bar, to make a
colloquial jibe about fairyleg lyric in fun at the pub.

9
This is not gloom nor shadow nor lightning bolt, it is but
time-of-day wizened innocent chatter, a play and expression
in a pub, a different prism, simply to say - come what may, we
seek not what you say. Seek not what I say … ay. ‘We
don’t wanna know mate’. 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 …
likely faded by the gel of my egoic obstinance heroically
supporting this aging.
His lifelong darling threw him another very fresh apricot
grown only metres away and together the energies flowed.
Always a sojourn-away at an echo beach 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, 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
seriousness of genderbender, inherited agent-orange and
clubfoot, something is odd with folly that may make us laugh
and look anew - not that laughing and looking anew is askew.
The Yaqui shaman, jumping across Mexicana hilltops using
some-like electromagnetic energy fingers from his solar
plexus, is practicing his art on a fundamental that ‘life is
controlled folly’; ah no!; life is a belly full of fresh apricots

11
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 some cartwheeling with the ‘bug of
the world’ into the Great Southern Land colonies where
the sun does shine and always has. That old bug of the
world, ay!! … always something, somebody, something foiling,
hurting, cursing … everywhere and always badly timed. The
shine will be on also the feral middle eastern cats eating the
endemic fauna, while too the british lambs are requiring for
pasture the once fully balanced endemic fauna habitat -
followed by a largely friendly north’n not so dist’nt over sea
neighbour instant population insurgence to clean up the rest
and dissolve cultural identity comforts. Is there preaching
among us or is that not kosher; not of lost catholic of islam

of kentucky fried or ferrari, marx, 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 eden-garden. The eden
place; where climate no shelter requires and mindsets no
clothes need, defecation no paper needs. There shadows
lift as the sunlight kilometres above is bending every
whichway through a shell of water suspended between
gravity and centrifity, holding the air from the
seeming vacant deep deep distance deep deep
deep deep and starry. No possibility of manic depression
here, gloom is physically impossible, not an optimism
supreme nor a position frozen - with souls interacting in
flight, in fluid ecstasy as music evolving, voice and colour, all
uncluttered with counter clacker. In the beginning the big
bang sound was that of intelligent articulation then as now ..
THERE’S A
DICTIONARY
IN BACK.

13
the thunder voice boom together with the pronunciation a
creation. 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 this
place is at hand; that road any road is an egg taking one
somewhere until it hatches … a place into.
Nestled in tangle some partly earthy red of this vast
heritage object of country and coast, geographic architects
knowing that a chunk of lead is fluid and a volume of oxygen
might be somewhere someday solid, know the world earth is
a spaceship corrupted and that all worlds are likely earth
accessible via a transcendent internal cube, that all stars
react the same nuclear fuel and that the black is what is the

black, the deep ink deep deep deep into which we turn
cannot nor become - even so some souls white robed mill
around black cube. 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 their
constructions is made in our blindness, mars
the country picture and turns our eyes inward
blinkering us further and harder-in-heart, locked by faith in
technological product and glitz interior, unlike those of our
THERE’S A
DICTIONARY
IN BACK.

15
company in the peoples of the land and a dreamtime, whom
we in small part married after ‘they’ and ‘we’, for all inherit of
our fathers’ stuff, had first kicked the heads from some of
their babies we (& alas it is ‘we’ to include the natives also in
respect of our singular sin soaked humanity) we had buried,
standing, to the neck quite soon after coming ashore. The
convicts - indeed a larger portion of the britons - who came
ashore in their own will, were used. The natives, in that part
of them that is not the broader ‘we’, had been maintaining a
spaceship earth in sensible ecopicality, a hard hard
sustaining way – albeit for fewer. At another coast; spanish
named the place la australia del espiritu santo, Southland
of the Holy Spirit. Forgive those european bulldogs and
thus pile hot coals on their heads. ... and thus foster humility
in them .... then seek their hands and say let’s together go ...
remembering that all individuals and cultures have their ugly,

bad and good. The hardest thing to do is to get the central
city indoor comfort-zone slickers to appreciate the vast
profound difference between deep deep deepening room
boom built interior and the land peoples’ wide wide open
space space. In the etchings of, old blackfella, Geogalong’s
visage there is a vague hint of his domicile, quite some
distance back there in.
Here, a thousand miles away in the same land, on this animal
naked Frogmore I sit amid a similar old local domicile.
Pursuing the lines and the light behind his eyes, there we see
his family and his camp half a day away. But there’s
something deeper in; something he welcomes with the grasp
of his feet, which are the base-drums of his ears. This
broad distantly deep psycho-physical realm of ownership, at

17
one with the endemic visage, we see as we startle is headed
by mob, tribe, tribal language territory, country. The light
of his eyes and the sweat glistening dusted in his lines, by
moebius twist join in with both the very daylight shared to
our pupils and the close scent of the land, in which we stand
talking to the blackfella’s ears while he listened through his
feet many miles from his camp and in a time before any floor
was ‘built’ - floors had been levelled, arranged, cleaned,
cleared not built.
Comfort Slicker of course is oblivious; the lines of his
flaking epidermis culminate at a pin of electric light in the spy
hole of his front door. This slicker does indeed have
country … alas merely as the three, realty, power and his own
shark egg hatched. Slicker’s dream-time lies in the
forgotten world that gallops behind the microns of

disinfectant, sweat, mildew and acrylic paint at which he
gazes blind and entranced soggy in his industrial bath.
As the story goes, while still quietly the national atmosphere
is misting outside my own trembling thought where the great
southern gay crashsplash is thoroughly revealed as an
historic national and local event, we are now outside that
eden, undiscoverable over there iraqabouts, behind the
mighty ethereal lock, no way to go back in … there. It’s gone
ppffff whoop now what? That virgin eden spaceship maybe
still runs smooth as apricot nectar, nurturing neuro-electric
humming orgone laser-sharp pure-as men and women social
life. Here outside those ethereal locks it broken is, stinging
and harsh, where we create our own tiny lifeboats and
thereafter mindsets - bruised and sore seeking comfort and
succour and turning at each other, perhaps man laying with

19
man harsh suffering colonial convict-convict prisoner-
prisoner comfort, perhaps with a ‘led zeppelin’ misty
mountain hop, a Trump stir, paedophile purge or covert
organised action made easy with the ultranet. We went, we
go, a sustained way ‘Austroriginal’ dark & swarthy lithe &
family, my legs are my frontdoor, my fire is my television; and
we go sydney box, soft underfoot deodorised poncificated
still under captain cook, now shaking a bit but comfy
electronic indoors, take the car to the bush if I have the time
and money … and enthusiasm. Boats, sails, tents and boxes.
Carts, horses, door knobs and property property property
always with impropriety realty reality and toffeed snobs.
Unabashed; architecture is more than building. Built, it is
powerfully relevant cultural currency; becoming future
imperfect. Oft compromised buildings sit in property

curtilage - in urbia and in country - merging blending lending
and talking with their surrounds. In architecture are planned
urban flavoursome vibe, town and country. Part of building is
sacrifice; of potentially irreplaceable bits of the Southern
Land, our vast object. Bleeding heart chef eggs cracking
for urban omelette.
The currency of tasmanian construction-taste politically
sleeps alongside our big southern island so dear to the
frogmore animal-raw under-street. I am here at Midway
Point and remind them that Frogmore Peninsula is here too.
The sum of all our political home-locales equals a shawl on
our national southern land. Hobart’s Sullivans Cove is

21
same animal-raw, under where a
federation-born city hall sits
adopted and loved as a social
heritage hulk bulk, loved
unconditionally where it sits right there with a dozen long
ironbark legs down punched the banks through, shores and
spiritual heart flowing of the watery broken brooken soul of
its settlement place. A testosterronious cable-born takeoff
from atop this built heritage bulk, riding to the mountain
brow of an ulururian kunanyi, would cause more concern for
the sacred cow socially clothed building bulk; more than for
the browed metaphor shewing raw unshawled the
atmospheric dolerite with eons of piped weathered tunes of
perfect stone presence soaking morning sun sheltered from
well travelled western prahna. These stone organ pipes as
earthling adopted design connection, useful geomorphic

urban design edifice, rare precious opportunity for highly
nuanced architectural currency and future heritage possible
in adaptation of the city hall with the vicinity’s ‘oh so
wonderful right on the doorstep’ natural heritage. Usually
the unseen, and oh so unacknowledged, is the architect’s
vision to make the natural and built heritage connections in
the fabric of renovated currency. The heartfelt butterpaper
sketch breathes not for time blinkered politicians - ‘not
viable’ is the vision so. Due for renovation the town heritage
protocol in all its wonder is. The british bulldog cum asian
‘how are you’ call-centre hegemonetary conservatives need
to be racked by gaians and both gaian and bulldog then
educated by the endemic indi-gentry and ecopically
adapted to a sane beautiful compromise - compromise: a
rational, and therefore perfect, solution … oh dear!

23
While the organ pies play and the ravens thfark fark for the
dollar poisoned dying dolerite Dollersaurus of the Thark
Plane;
corners space shape elbow-room. Reach stride lye meet,
nook hall yard. Cupboard deep mountain high. Handsome

latte view bring alpine village or skyscraper, ergonomic room,
bus aisle, grandfather’s coffin child’s cradle. Knob, rails,
seat, stair-tread, doorway, ceiling and pergola overhead - to
access move be still in cafe and camp. Spy-hole in the front
door. Quick let’s load the commodore wagon and get away
from acres of tar, stuff & cement; through the fragrant sun-
yellowed grass eucalypt belt to the lonesome beach surf,
ionised crystal and clear and campfire friend billy tea and
Billy Thorp with yes ‘it’s almost summer’. Room too in this
place … to fulfil … for a moment … domestic needs house and
camp embered starry glow, ‘making love in the sand to the
rhythm of the waves’. Orientate it our room largely outward
a la Austroriginal communal domestics or enclosed with a
comfort zone lounge lizard ‘view’. A generic word for first
people of a land is ‘aboriginal’ or ‘native’ ‘indigene’ and yes I
am addressing Australians, who simply dignified with an “A”

25
and don’t seem to know if there ever was a name for the
multinational entity of people we & they came to call
'A’borigines. Maybe there are-were names only for each
nation-mob-tribe, some desert lean some coast turtle - aside
a funny thing, like, if all the archipelago islands that make this
‘southern land’ are together “Australia”, then what is the
name of the largest island. Funny thing … like acknowledging
not that a playdough we use in building, say floor-vinyl, is in
fact earth. Vinyl rather than the earth is totally out of place
around an aboriginal Austroriginal domestic fire; their ilk
there lightly taste lightly built ‘interior’ in sleeping-shelter or,
where the land provided expedient resource, a communal hut
…
b u t t h e r e t h e y g o n o f u r t h e r –
where, man o man, the boaties further went big time whoooh o
o o big lot of go they went country-squeezing room boom. Just

bit by bit spreading like perverse loving new age scabies on
discriminated homophobe, generating optic-tube-supplied
pixelled wallpaper compensations, boom boom rooms rooms
roads sewers salons. Room for resident-accumulated
possessions, road access, house-shell, outbuildings and
landscape. Glassglinting anycolourmix rectangle tapestried
hillsides and valley bottoms. The molten ergonomic-
househeart, where there flows the infra-red detected body
heat, leaves dust in redundant corners and hard wear and
patina otherwise. Ssshhh … harken to that quiet ingrained
familiar hard to shake orgone bombardment from the
skyarcing earthen heavens.

2
Geogalong almost animal naked, with a freshly killed lizard,
circumstantially nods as he wanders through an egg-shaped
urban lounge to use a refrigerator box. Almost room-box
naïve, he does know the old natural ‘room-kernel’; some
places in the country’s bush may serve as ‘room’ - for
contemplation, to lunch, sleep or do some hand work. This is
a ‘kernel’ of built room and city hall. Likewise bush
wilderness rampant nature is in the house … usually by the
‘boat people’ unseen. There’s the animal-nude under.
There’s a nomad in every room … kindly leave open the
door. Synthetic materials are set in place by elemental
truths; polypropylene, earth, water and fire. Fluorescent
purple acrylic, earth ochre, pigment and opal. All cultural

29
ideal is amalgamated by some fission. A most innocent
architect, the swallow, arcs its room in a winged roam through
the surrealistic forms and space of artist Dali's residence.
Black fellow Cheekyfella's country-plus-upturned-holden-
hulk dwelling-place melts away the sheikish imported-marble-
and-gold several million dollar Sydney harbour aussie
coastal huge fantastic shack to be outrageously demolished
in the name of that weird inane soulless capitalist profit yet
… and a better shack. The house of the individual is forged
by one’s community culture and sharpened by one’s very
own spirited contribution – one’s citizenship of physical
expression in the city of the simple tolerating oft tar street.
We all can create murals of inherently coloured clays. The
land now has alluring colour from chemical mastery. The
ancient sinophiles’ new china is reflecting . Traditional ways
do weather the rage in places here but not there with global

electronic networks and trade arcing to a common sky.
Shockingly rapid conversion, urbane but challenging valley
neighbours to the lure and foisting of beautiful city flats.
Add synthetic armpit cultured urban nurtures to
perpetually modern raw nature’s nurtures.
There’s an urban room around the nomad. I won’t close the
door, for fear of shutting out the extended open space and
the scent of the street tree. The lanolin in the blanket
blends nicely and there’s a pizza box on the floor. All these
in the great design-conglomerate that is. All three are there,
waiting in balanced utility for the inhabitants’ touches -
1. nature’s naked earthy nurtures,
2. the fingerprint substance of each associated human
person -the very armpit of synthetic aesthetic

31
3. local urbanics -camp, territory, town soul, fabric, stuff,
boundaries.
All three lie around an inner city ground-floor federally
fabricated apartment, draped over the reno-built-in
sandstone-slab book shelves, fluoro-green steel-pipe stair
rail, your own reading room chair climbing slightly damp up
the wall and floating citydust light-dancing in the straight
lines across the air. British bulldogs gradually internalise,
walls and pavements filtering ‘blinkering out’ raw nude
nurtures.
Place becomes culturalfirst,naturalsecondoft blotted by
perverse convenience – yet we know we thrive on nature.
Fill the room. Lift away the stifle and breathe your ancient
breath through even your feet, to greet the hyper-industrial

objects newly born into peoplekind’s home-made room.
There’s some roam in the room. It’s safe to close the door.
sydneysider Caroline Slicker hermetically seals it out;
allowing the three planed ceiled wall corners to win their
challenge against the rich circular belt of sky. Geogalong
has now moved through the kitchen and out the back door in
fluid nomad 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 backyard to the ‘bush’, the comfort zoned
lounge-room lizard still quivering at Geogalong’s spear
afraid to touch the berries the nomad had left on the wattle-
wood dining table. A building inspector finds himself
sharing a psyche of flying ceilings; using the house for no
other than observation, he heads back out the culturally

33
paved front track into a small pixel-tainted mobile interior
and towards his council offices, touched anew away from
folly, noticing people using the laundromat, the community
hall and cafes he sees the ceiling of each joined with that of
every house, and notes that the old aboriginal austrorignal,
he had seen, seemed to utilise some interior whilst rejecting
other. Tight little boxes & psycho-conjoined ceilings were
cracking like egg shells and surprised lounge-lizards were
too slow for the hawks enjoying uncooked omelette; people
rolling embarrassed having been hiding discipline from and
truths social and neighbourly.
There more three-planed-corners mould our attentions into
forms different to those made of the embrace of the dome
of the horizon. Boat-arrivers choose to be self obliged to
move and bend with right angles - if in hand we don’t have a

bowl of soup going to the telecouch we can make a fluid turn
at speed by executing an exhilarating snappy swivel born
from the ball of our leading foot. Evolved boaties happily
face the containment of boxes so as to have ready and
reserved the room for a bowl of cherries and a version of
domestic performance. “Get out of our room, get out of our
face,” say Geogalong hatless woolly of hair smiling, and the
Darwinian city architect, corrugated slouch hat roofed
across his university brow … his feet stirring the sandy floor
of stone broken by eons of frosts, small measure below the
stratosphere remnant of the watery firmament, chatting
peaceably in an open air country nook, in a zipperty do da
songline corridor, nature’s raw nude nurtures bucketing
through galloping too undisciplined by the feng shui, the
three planes and the facebook magazine kosher. They’re
speaking to a couple of cloud-ceilinged larrikin kids

35
impinging the sanctity of their space, crowding their
spontaneous room … and the purpose for which they need
the room. Accommodating curiosity the Darwinian takes a
bucket of the sand demonstrating the art of concrete to
these curious progeny. As the house fandango dances on;
it is clear there is something to be said for the straight edge,
right angle & its box. Among the hunter-gatherers’ world; sit
the rock on the horizontal face, shape the end to meet the
other … cut stone. “Is it square apprentice?” “Yes boss, we
now have 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. (Image ) Gravity along with the dimensional
requirements of our bodies, tools and psyches make our
quadrangular prisms and yards … and our highways … and
rural titles, national parks, open cuts .. are disciplined (ha!)

more loosely to raw.
Likely without converting the ‘kernel of room’ to built
interior, the world would never have been thought of as
‘open air’, external nor outside; except in a sense like
outside a copse of trees. A cave is in, we go out - a
different out, different in.
We have been sharing engagement doing a house
fandango, finding the great southern geographic
architect inside, not a building, city square, black cube,
viaduct, broken brooken heart or endless patched worn
bitumen but the heart somehow within our body. We
have this fandango in geography now with digital
software technological things that are staggeringly
expansive in knowledge and communication … and

37
tending, … oh so tending trending sarcastically always
gasping so oh ‘amazing’ and seemingly mending but
having us propped on spindly legs like Salvador Dali’s
elephants in their own interactive story, 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
quasar wonder edge such that our world will be as a
renewed garment and in the plan of the geographic
architect, 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 body parts and vehicles we cannot renovate
ourselves; nor can Cheekyfella Talkabout, ‘sydneysider
and aboriginal austroriginal’, walking with Geogalong

singular with the country. Shivers …. brrrrr. Room boom,
digital figital, city-country calamity, supermarket ransom,
power-grabbed desperate shmarmy, slimmed down
obesity, 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. O Maker come. Of this all
witnesses will find an interactive story in 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, ultrajets and the cities we
have made, shared-foisted along with grog and cholera
arising with our slush in endemic country and people, in
fact we all are the creative creatures and not the creator.

39
Our seemingly handy connected boxes, electromagnetic
waves and optic fibre are vastly minor compared to our
entrails and the silver thread of life - one for each …
which we might see snapping separate, even your soul,
from loved close unity with uncles, mother, father, sister,
buddy, their de factos and life below or above (to the
side or at fortyfive degrees) or inward and away. Still an
arm of sorts embraces; helpless we are if our heart races
and we long for familiar faces, living in the formed-up
playdust beyond. Ah well, they think that’s old Mont
(me) done and dedusted, parted, silver thread snapped,
oh dear let roll a tear with molecules of water that had
been obliquely twenty thousand metres in the air a few
days ago and part of that firmament before it fell. Ah but
our love for this sunburnt country with the colt getting
away we can speak clearly about pointing and sharing;

the bright company beyond us here in the dust we have
all but lost faded in racial memory genome and blocked
out pretty solid by mobile telephone screening immense
time soak, in-vitro, stolen sperm and defacto genderless -
genomeless ‘unity’ - androgyny improvising creation with
whatever it can grab, plastic black thrusts, rectal
gateways forced against their hinges, complete android
‘partners’ at the mercy of self inflicted thought and
speak police. There is movement at the station but that
colt has indeed got away.
Wilderness edge deep throated synthetic city interior.
Food nature overstepped by slow boat, anarcho-
politically controlled economy and life future looking
gloomy. And still … all witnesses will find an interactive
story in their own; along weedy concrete kerb, plant

41
flourished red 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 and
genome food, Irish roots and abo-looking sri lankans
canoeing across 60,000 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 Emmanuel the Nazarene;
whence we genetically sidestep sort
of via some sort of lysergic amino to
the 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 soules lose their zip. You need to find
me a travellers’ caravanserai where I don’t lose your
journey interaction. Trouble is I don’t have the money, 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

43
love to bump shoulders with the family that I’ve got, 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 this track, makes no difference an old
fashioned shack or glitz lodge Melbourne 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 wholesome leafy salad oozing from your pores.
Together we read and write with strength, Mont’s your
keyboard, mental ectoplasm our line, the space between 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 … I’ll avocado.
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 called just now, if I
wasn’t doing it I’d feel irresponsible; this writing has to be

45
writ.
Let me paste a cut these few lines from elsewhere
written:-
Cities as designing - evolving - happenings can be awesome
in their high spots, glossies, interiors and ephemeral
vitalities. We miss deep jungle ephemerality, desert
ephemerality, deep ocean or icy wilderness. The best of
awesome 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, more of
which we will grow, will make use of the creations of the cities.
The two should flow together.

3
It’s the geographic truths I wish to pronounce in
particular the ones being lost to the global-techno fog
that hangs thick as dirty old nappies for many.
Not everybody in the world can be
geographically pseudo-indigenous acclimatised culturally australian,
… nay not ‘pseudo’ as this is genuine … geographically
‘hitechno’-indigenous acclimatised culturally Australian
… ie as the natives use technological skill and the
boaties and other newies use hitechnological skill
everybody in the world can bond to this land and
people to be techno-indigenous, otherwise coined as
Austrindigenite ,

49
to honour the elders and avoid vegemite say
Austrariginal
(with the ‘a’)
- say new indigenite of the south land embracing
Austroriginals (Aboriginals who are happy to embrace;
really at this time we have no name for those who might
choose not to embrace) -:
a great southern streetwalking nomad, belonging to a
locale called Ballarat, Scottsdale, Oodnadatta, Ali
Curung … or good old Frogmore near Writemealetter ..
67km by crow nor-nor-east of the future bush capital,
Lunawanna, here.
We need a confirmed right of passage .. any ideas?

Here through the gaze glazed french doors at Frogmore
under Midway’s cadastre tapestried nude-under land,
across barilla bay to the kunanyin organpipes …
whom just incidentally sit shouting at Hobart, with its
distant aussie friends interactive participationne a la nationale
with designs urbane de la geographique architecturale,
as a precious gift,
a wilderness threshold,
on its back doorstep,
to the world heritage area,
not 40 kilometers behind across mixed land parcels
classified as public land interest. I picked up google
earth to continue the straight line projection; it passes

51
close to Melaleuca in this world famous Tasmanian
south west coast visitation attractor, onwards 10,000km
to Madagascar, over the Congo off the Moroccan
coast, over lots of brine to New Foundland, to
California, San Jose, across the so-called Pacific brine
body, over Norfolk Island and, wow, to Maria Island
Tasmania and … now, closing a tiny cosmic circle, I feel
my eyes seeing the back of my head. The head ducks …
and I recall an endless, very well regretted, rolling head
from teenage excess beering.
Will a tangential straight line, in the same direction, over
kunanyi’s organpipes pierce Andromeda at this time of
day and season. And is such an endless straight line a
reality in anything other than mankind’s mentality-ity-ty-
y; a straight edge made by solid object is a merely a

fractal edged reality crafted in practicality – but I see no
line like it in the vastness beyond my reach and my
imagination-ion-on-n cannot follow such a line as it
pierces all things life where it continues passed my
civilized detailed delightful life-ladened destinations -
making deep dark draughts in the invisible seeming
limitation edge places around the periphery of my eyes
viewing that projection.
Thumbprints in mere locales, by identities-ies-s, persons,
towns, companies, groups … all combining into nation –
so-called ‘nation’ mere nation among others limited
merely in time and place … stars around and strings, silver
threads and golden needles.

53
Identity, identities to do with land and country local
culture in the local hamburger - once corner shop
identity, now sterile invited foreign impost. 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 stepping into zero rooms, quieter
even than the three planed corner quieter even …, in fact
flat on our bottoms, what’s happening to our miracle
existence … local café, Pat & Brenda’s Greasy Spoon,
is no internet cafe. I don’t know what to do where to go
where are you going would I go to? Grab some
Millennials to come too.
Playing in dirt and … the cyber interiors are to the
Sydneysiders what captain cook’s ship was to the
Austroriginals (with the o). There will be casualties.

People not prone to sit and screen, (shivers are you
reading from a screen … I’m typing at one), 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 by demand; being taught managed trained and
optionally free to be the rejuvenated Austroriginal (with
the o) at home in this uncomfortable place and free to
either opt in or let die techno wonder factor; being
content with just the perpetually modern geo-wonder of
that which is free already with us, be it just an ‘edenic’
garden shard garment. What’s happening Australia do
we want to go too, with the ‘first’ world baaabaaa. Can
we hook up those few great socio-google-mcdona-
colesworth machines and tame them as entities together,
a mothers little helper to haul with us as the masters; if

55
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, my father out of
sight in that heaven, bowl me here with our christ what I
need - the initiated may miss the C that makes no
difference to many. 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
democracy’s insistent call-centres and software creators.
Let them unfold-old-ld-d:
Bucketloads of new towns anchored to old highways in
drama with wildlife and history - each unique and real like
say a painting - a drysdale, namajera, boyd or any
archibalder. Lots of new towns as different one from the
other as our creative vernacular integrity let them occur
…. and playing and competing one with another in village
style football and trade fairs … and passions for the
childhood waterhole in the gully well away from all over
ultraviolet tanning rooms … long local histories and
reputations for manufacture, song and place.

57
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 campsites naturale
with: no signs bins barriers or any form of public
construction that is aimed at stopping strewn toilet
paper broken beer glass and vandalism.
Our prime realty, this is our prime realty:
Camp sites, read ‘endemic places’, are not just the
leftover strips at the coast or the edge of town. The

campsites, they are the domestic capitals of our dwelling,
being ideal for children too and so are a first priority
- linked down track to national parks jetties and town
centres and industrials maybe mostly offside.
The town centres may be hitech little cities with satellite
country villages nested into wi. ‘No-banks-on-the-
street-corners’ rather anything but – bad health for the
dollersaurus; say some potters’-hub food-joint movie-
theatre seagull-roost, urban camp site, play zone or
wombat hideaway. Get my picture; inner bitumen access
but the inner-inner is all footway. Service access is made
invisible. Footways and buildings to address the locals
not the banks. This is our geographic architects cooking
up as necessary for social vitality; as it works for the
particular ancient new great southern Australia, with

59
some new ‘naked-under’ ancient name interfacing the red
white blue southern-cross blended trauma, with our own
conglomerate of social ingenuity, adaptability, history,
ownership, vernacular, ecopical, morally populated
responsibility.
So simple it is; but current vestige mindsets greeds have
almost perma-locked it into current global style cities -
outside the edenlock, remember. But; there are no ba
bas for us in the naked-under Australia - we’re hoot
hoot wise owl, keeping the banks in the order of our own
day to day greedless snideless purse clarities.
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 the native people to
regain their ancient footings dreaming google time as in
today, the ancient-mix Sydneysiders and they will
accidentally meet nomurbically in
harmonious embrace in places on the
move between the biggest cities and the deepest bush.
The key and substantial part of this architecture is here
already, repeat,
here already,
in the geography of this wonderful object the
countryland coastal and people.
Dictionary
in back

61
Let’s go a bridge to Indonesia too and the other way,
grasp Kiwiland like we used to do. Perth and Adelaide
are a tad different - g’day there.
It’s true indeed that the bug of the world, greed,
arrogance, panic driven need to stay elected, selfishness,
foolishness and vice is a filth that needs be cleansed. We
fix it in Australia and it will come from overseas,
will come from overseas even if we fix it here,
spanner in the works,
woe what will we do.
Write us a song sir Peter Garret of 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 aboriginal austroriginal and
briton gene lines muchly very savagery and plain
dastardly controls and West Papuan inhuman grabs.
How can it be fixed?
The Australian european settler government formed on
1/1/ 1901 without the participation of the aboriginal
people, native people, without a treaty and without trade
or purchase from Aboriginal people …… it was stolen,
usurped, torn away -
where anything else failed, … by gun!
a blind eyed immorality … a political hiccup, formally the
way of the times - those ways of those times themselves

63
inexcusable blind eyed immorality, crime, oft savagery -
punishable.
By pooling the greatest logical resources the vast
treasure trove of created opportunity and miracle
existence ... I’m sounding like a leadup to sell you a
vacuum cleaner, ah! … a set of encyclopaedias, 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 bug 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
lately often faceless potato on the couch. Guilt.
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 shawl, 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’.
Is it a thing of the hands at work?
… feeling a bit frustrated that the answer has not yet come
as it has I think ado with the guilt and time to act. It is,
though, what we’re plagued with today; delays frustratingly
idle funding resource. Letting down the team not able to

65
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 moment we
yet again hear the echo of silence. I think it’s because I’m
Tasmanian isn’t it; not a Bruny Islander but - or from
Chigwell. … getting sociologically lower I mean more
playful as we step the places of abode.If we are not careful
we build a harness instead of dynamic facility, a trap
instead of a journey. Purge the bug of the world from our
construction development.
More often than not it’s all by accident, a
muddled dud vestige becoming romantic
history. What fundamentally was it that happened here:
Ellen Kelly, Mick Jag… sorry … Ned’s mother, whom
died at 79, a well respected citizen of Greta, said ten
years after federation, “People blame my boys for all that
happened. 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 we have - our children. Yet they took
me away, and I had to stay in prison for years. And for nothing
- nothing at all.“ Of course … there are plenty of
Blackfella stories like this too.
Across the globe, subject to gravity-wave science … the
realities not the science … gravity is gravity.
Our great southern biodiversity is forged only in adaptation with the
elements and country, and this is how our natives and boaties become
austroriginal-australian - adaptations to our boatie artificial environments
are merely variously questionable enhancements. Natives the most
Boaties the least. Barring the non-biodiversity aspects, industrial
product and foreign mentalities, our Blackfellas are far and away the
elders.
Blackfellas undisplaced unsociopathed and likely in
Arnham Land are far and away the biodiversic elders.
Ecological sustainability is, in the democratic politics of
today (when?), the most urgent and profound issue we bear
- we should check our mentalities-ties and the product
therefrom with these Elders."

67
We should check our mentalities-ties and the product
therefrom with these elders.
Our australian particular character is the sum of our
unique endemically active and productive souls each in
their own unique dynamic local stamping grounds. Politics
is a part of same. The game provision is sufficiently
abundant for all witnesses to find an interactive story in
their own.
Something to grasp and make grow; geographic
development-over and naked-under underpins
architecture, partly ‘is’ architecture, and is handy for
spuds, colleagues and inspiration.

A search in the Tardis interextra realms of knowledge
imaginative yards miles microns seeking across muddy
potato patch in the joint mini-infinity of every point and
every english word. The tiniest yet known subatomic
particle is likely
sensitive to being observed,
it may change on being seen - many of us have felt
somebody’s eyes seeing us. There’d be millions of god-
particles in everybodies viewscope right now. Are they
dancing to continuous widespread multiminded
articulating big bang perceptions or are they shrouded in
solitude by electromagnetic fields, mother of pearl
substances, assorted subatomic and extro-atomic items
such that they feel nothing from those eyers, or perhaps
an overkill filter mitigated comfortable perception, being

69
not traumatically intrusive as might be a hitech
microscopic device … and is digital perception inert.
Regardless some perception-based response is there;
something ado mentality-ity-ty. To me we approach a
threshold where we should be giving place to mentality-
ity-ty into astro-atomic mapping. Mentality is as
substance in fact of contagion as emotions ideas habits
attitudes desires love hate spread good bad or ugly
usually subconsciously. This phenomenon among
phenomena may be the warp that allows the stars to fall
to earth… mentality. It was more than any ordinary
conscious search and as it turned out …. my fairer
gender kissed my flickering eyelids some 40 years ago
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
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 in that 40year old day; 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 twenty
five million of us plus visitors, flora and wombats in our
assorted momentary and long term bubbles. All of us are
saturated richly with unique identity. Knowledge of this,
outside the bubbles, maybe rests in the trees or the soil
or the air or the heavenly host - certainly it rests on
observation, being seen and seeing.
The complex coordination cooks, making a civilisation
awaken to a fully shared self-activated moment; not a

73
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 nation’s architectures in this
severely ravished steeply climbing curve of environmental
destruction.

4
Our geographic architectures will grow in
some semblance of national unified
character.
Indeed doest the Great Southern Street Walking
Nomad in fact belong to a nation? As its etymology
imports, ‘nation’ originally denoted a family or race
descended from a common progenitor, like tribe, but by
emigration, conquest and intermixture of families, this
distinction is in most countries lost.

75
Good old paul keating said; that when aboriginal art and
culture become so integral and so central to ‘australian’
art and culture that each becomes indistinguishable from
the other, we’re all at home.
The baseline of ground and country: it was still there last
I looked;
… this wonderful old land mass of ours.
This massive heritage bulk of detailed land substance
that we pragmatically adapt and renovate;
we all touch its broader earth and then join hands,
beautiful natured places, vast cloud roofed kernel-rooms
and forest walls, valleys and coves;
all filtered intrinsic with sunlights and moonlights
flickering eyes resting, through another clear sheet of

rigid melted sand, on the shadows of eucalypt leaves
falling to those leafs in their shadowed 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 colour and reflecting the same light albeit a
moment later onto the curtain-fold again of similar tone.
But there’s nought much similarity in the fragrant
fragrance, not odour, scent, or smell but blended
fragrance finely varied leaf with leaf tone with tone, hue
with 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. Can
we should we not do without all of some or some at least.

77
It is this base environment home of the austroriginal-australian
that we renovate, adapt, enhance, filter, tap, cut & shunt, into
quarries, mines, forest coupes, range passes, building footings,
sewer ponds for public realm, workplace, residential
geographic place, houses, very large constructions, highways
and air strips.
We still usually sit our city halls where we will, only to
stifle a critical soul of place in our little towns room-
booming sprawl.
What will we do where will we go as we renovate the land
onwards with established demo-geographic prevail and
impost?

Ye olde handsplit timber slab will rarely or never now be
built – or will it indeed?! The Abo’s made no steelen
blade; for twas it needed at all.
A eucalypt plantation with silicon clever splitting
mechanics might produce perfectly split undamaged
surface grain timbers that will weather long-time in uncut
grain natural resilience to rain and rot, going silver gray
and needing not chemical sealant. Maybe we haven’t
seen the last of this delightful architecture. (delmore
shed pic
The glowing red-orange tick tick tick of the automobile
traffic turn indicator likely will be around for a while in our
public architectures though enhanced to facilitate
driverless silent technology. For many such audio-visual

79
functionings have daily often subliminal parts in our
sensory melee.
Great Southern and anywhere global share … so what is
our great southern uniqueness and or special characters
from which we grow - red desert and abundant gray-
green and sand coastal with people of wilderness that
was is in fact home of endless outdoor indoors meeting
with people of the sea and back-home foreign vast
cadastered indoors and above all … guns bang bang.
Between your Ayres Rock back to uluru then across to
the opera house, streetsweep clean the australian
ugliness pillow built on prime lands …. Woooops feeling
sick again about to melt off the chair here today is it too
late hey hey. Is there hope while we play, Vinegar and
brownpaper the order of the day; I have to rely on others

to carry that day. Making do with some adhoc
computeroid ticker-tape clues: the genome is the
concentric centre of the atom-star-gravity triangle.
That’ll do give me some soul that I can breathe.
Streetwalking nomad finds focus in country soul, as he
walks down Sydney Lane, no sideways into fluorescent
void like Geogalong walking through the house utilising
some space-floor and not other. There are parts where
people don’t need to go. There are people still … a tad
too many, and looking for our sunny beaches to blend
with their own culture, and so the agony-joy of
Austroriginal-australian adaptations. They are there:
here with us now together and apart. Our dance is
disjointed and some disappointed with the future that
has evolved from their past. How many know and how
many presume; which do and which don’t: gold in the

81
rabble, rabble about the gold. So so many: so so few
know and do. Vietnamese just o’er there, such lovely
people as a pair of their own shoes humble. Humble and
lovely but still bicker and lean on the body that will fall at
the beginning that they see as an end. Quy Nhom town
by some water a salty shore with waves abubble and the
fisherman’s oar. We surge as a team as a crew tasting of
salt and bite on the meat drawn from the net. Looking to
the left and to the right thinking of the centre as our self,
of the writer as someone else. Taking off the shoe
because it’s become all wet, both foot and shoe are
better off drying in the warmth of the breeze blown sun.
The fishhook snags the little toe and her blood watered,
as it met on her skin the brine; was no worry at all, not at
all, take me home fishing pal, take me to shore, we have a
fish and my shoe is wet, take me home to the mat woven

floor and the hot little firebox that grandpa bought and
uncle installed. The young women remembered by the
glowing wood, now orange embered and saw in her vision
a hint of dangerous fission, not at all far, in fact touching
her skin and her mother’s, in this vision. It was more a
thought at the closeness of it all, all the seething
productions of many people other than her or hers, an
ocean away but fallout washing up on board and
splashing in from the oars.
We care so we know: it’s there splashing in from the oars,
feeding the gulls on the shores festering the oysters with
microscopic sores. The Frenchman and the Yank, the
Pom and the Kiwi, the politician and the headbanger:
they all drank too much and simply flushed their oars.

83
It’s all too big, too big, too big to manage to see:
sometimes all we see is damage shining light on what was
good, that once kept company with what is good and
remains, remains waiting for the good to come and join it
in a complete wholistic hum of awesome answer devoid of
question. Simply something that is simply fantastic
everyday where there is no disaster for the mind to
mention.
Mention to whom? The eyes out there looking in here.
Or the mind of the dancer collapsed ecstatically
exhausted on the disciplined wooden chair – many miles
from any oar or fission, with that awesome answer
reclining comfortably in her hair.

Reader my own interactive position: there came again
time to write and it’s this one right here. What for who for
in the middle of the night. A fragment of a person
receiving a nobel prize, the wind drifting through the
sleeping caverns left by the university’s air system and
the more-cosmic dust forming the genomic pattern-
balding of her consciousness. There are times to read
even though it’s only the feel of the book suiting your
interactive ionteractionand the anticipation of a cosy
realm neutralizing the urban storms that bring one to
ingest the first of the endless string that rests as the
finger reverts the file to its folder. The nudger who
nurtured the movement to write may not have intended
one reader to ingest. The reader was not as
apprehensive nor as bewildered at what is written and in
fact converted the write to fit the psychedelic heal,

85
sought to repair the caverns that had formed only that
evening when a news headline collided with a loving
notion - this to the highly inappropriate celebration of a
group of youths strolling traffic-defiant attired in a new
traditional array of cultured fabric and colour, itself
nurtured by the same nudger as part of the eternal
canvas. Are there people who know and people who
don’t. Of course the reader, the writer, the prize winner
but not the nudger; for the nudger must know all to allow
the wine glass to ring resonate as the aging cuff link
chinks the rim. Is a Rolf Harris broad brush painting that
starts a mystery and comes up clear out of the artists
impressionistic squint or is a largely accidental paint-
dripped singlemind rationale that can be pointlessly
named Blue Poles and so be celebrated and
perpetuated sufficiently to steal from the nudger the

copyright that creates still many a cerebral joy. Oh our
people of shallow smiles that appear full and complete to
the viewers propped up by windblown caverns and bones
dissolving in coke. The writer knows he has caverns but
he knows not where. His eyes sting and close, he’s about
to fall face to the keyboard but a nudger puts it to bed.
It rises eight hours later bright eyed and bushy tailed eyes
resting through another rigid transparent sheet of melted
sand in city glory. The best of cities will always require
something that isn’t an emotional motionfull rushed rash of
unattached people; the eternal ephemeral handcrafted
country village and nomurbic nomads may use the creations
of the cities - okay but if there are devices we need
personalised zero room screens; especially for the children.
The two should flow together.

89
5
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 that of the great creator of all.
There was always at least a person of character, nearby
in a far off memory of friendly connection, enhancing the
appreciations with a wily wit, himself a nudger needing a
nudge. This one in mind is now a writer also. Like the
leafy shadows and interplays of light the writers of our
people are read in vocational relativity; the language
grows, the genres, the wisdoms, the turns of tongue.
Some are stolen, the reader doesn’t know. Some are
revelation, the reader doesn’t notice.

A writer writing of writing is
floundering and flapping for takeoff. The flounder is a
fine fish, beneath its wings is a brine of its locale. Not the
same precisely as the brine cut by a surfboard fin at
some Lion Rock locale offshore the Melaleuca
wilderness where the waters wear the minutia from the
local creek and the droppings of the local fish diet. We
are finding lift-off where the eagle is relative to the
flounder; as go the creaturely locales merging local
creature types in the life acids and simple mechanics of
bone flesh and muscle. We are away. Going somewhere.
Vietnamese sea, village, city awe, manmade threat, simple
nature, trendy set. Cultural persuasions local like brine

91
and spoiled as easy. The god particle, feeling us looking,
awesome canvas and masterpiece in one. The internet.
The binaried nano circuits. Awesome seductions
powerful goods. The trap of built interior, the new trap
of cyber interior. The light of day irrelevant to the
cyber-adapted eyes, the hunter’s reflex irrelevant to the
zeroroom gameplayer’s handeye. He needs the food
from the light of day but manages that, then in to play.
The doctor will visit oh yes for sure. He can come
through the cyber door and post the medicine in the mail
to keep him going ‘til he falls headfirst downstairs
thinking he’s in his chair. The flounder has no idea we
think but we wonder about the squid and printing inks
now simply pixel colour.

The date in time, the tools that accrue; enough to send
the robot to mars and leave a slimy sludge at the factory
pipe. From the african plains, wild animals, insects and
birds; we see them aplenty in the digital screens that
helped to cause their demise, by industrial footprint: the
screens are a pinnacle on the industrial rampage that
drains energy, pollutes and over-runs. While this is
happening the cat at the corner, as he can, tells his mates
that he eats the same food as humans and stretches at all
positions in front of their fire while the alleycats go the
bins outdoors in the ice of winter; reminds me of the
billionaire cows sitting sublime with lush food joy so close
as to require only the most convenient of movement
reach and munch. We celebrated from our narrow windy
bitumen ribbon, tree-overhung in the most aesthetic of all
rich long thick choice-green grassy ravined, delled, hilled,

93
sunned near enough to a battling aussie homemaker.
The holy spirit with the great creator comes by, passes
and returns to dwell, on invitation, making the reasoning
of it all obvious though invisible. Humour is ours, ours at
least. Funny stories and circumstance lowered us to a
gut wrenching laugh unable to stand but only to lay on
the floor laughing so hard that all thought maybe they
might die. It was refreshing; we hadn’t done this since we
were nine.
There was nothing better than that laughter, that I could
see. In it the lushest, richest of colours and music were all
bound. The laughter needed the context though; be it
light-mottled eucalypt leaves or refined plaster ornament
in a victorian era house. It needed company, whether an
audience or fellow laughers. It needed an opportunity,

for one doesn’t partake when in stealth with a bow and
arrow pointed to a pheasant for the family, nor when
giving thanks to the supremely gracious saviour - for
indeed the bug of earth is contagious inherited and
usually ultimately deadly.
A number of momentary circumstances afterward came
another patch in the quilt of shared lives; seemingly
unrelated little patches of events and circumstance, of
people and activity, of weather and screen. Patch by
patch and many forgotten until the topic of another
patch when we reach the bottom. Is there a passion in
there; ah that’s something we like and if we don’t have
one there we may dim in envy and wonder at that which
we don’t have. Microscopic views, macroscopic too,
passing conversers in black shiny shoes. Little bits and

95
pieces, but my picture is in my own stride not that of the
passers-by nor a patch of weather nor even the hole in
my shoe. I know where I am going, you were coming too;
and when I lost my way, it was me who went with you. It
has become a storey of walking in place in our world, a
story of identity and preference and wondering about
what we’re told. If you ever left would I come too? I’m all
right when I’m with you. Maybe yours is one of the fat
people or I almost was. Maybe she was one of our few
prone gay who felt to fight it away. Let there be aces
where once you sought diamonds while in prayer for
deliverance from thieves in the middle of a night.
It’s relative to the eagle and the flounder, the vietnamese
and the street kids; to shakespeare and john the baptist. A
plunge into the sea near shore from the top of a head high

wave, bubbles all around and positive ions in the foam,
massages full body with a powerful energy born way out at
sea small at the base of an ever so huge atmospheric
downdraft. Up you come fresh with zest impassioned and
kinda new, not even wondering what you should do; doing
the same as being. For the man who grows his fingernails
into his clenched hand, for the woman who bursts with vigour
with her family; doing is being is doing. Beingdoingbeing,
doingbeingdoing. There are billions who have been and
done, here in this earthy patch; this patch of rich and
wonderful vegetated abundance and serendipic comfort and
company. This patch oft times I have wished eternal,
forgetting the dissipation of unconscious zest, the outwash
of feral nuclear radiations and the small murders of
emotional distortion and fouled genomes. Where was I now,
where are you… and the ones beside you – in the company

97
of your zest and drive; and us in theirs. There are those with
us in there’s; there really are.
Our buildings and constructed realms are not there to be
garnished by our culture selves countryside neighbours but
rather are there to shelter, foster, embrace and celebrate all
of these things. Let be and make all these things vibrant and
giving love to same will in a moment of unified time create the
wombat shop at the bank corner with all its accompaniment
our buildings and constructed realms.
Nomurbics is the architecture to do it. We don’t know it
exactly yet but it starts with an ulururian parliament house
and grows to fit our songs - free nomadic roam, hunting
and camp options on t h e r i p p e r c o u n t r y
r o o f o f o u r h o u s e o f n a t i o n a l p o l i c y

c h a t t e r – but bug’o the would foiled, right there in the
country above parliament house, with no security (for either
politic), shamefully didn’t but could have picnicked in
celebration and elaboration of an epic event and intent,
peter cosgrove governor general, malcom turnbull prime
minister and clinton prior aboriginal ‘citizen’
having freshly arrived at the end of his walk from Perth via
the likes of uluru, desert and communities the long way to
Canberra.
I think some need to review their idea of what is primitive and
that hitech is not mandatory for good life. Some know
perpetually modern nature ,
which is not subject to obsolescence, pollutions and the trap

99
of interior. One can’t manage papers and keyboards in the
wind. Mobility and ultraviolet are great antiseptics. Hunting
beats supermarket aisles. Their legs are their front door,
campfires the bush television, the sounds of the weather
their symphony, a spear in the leg their law, natures limits
their contraceptive.
The mindset/cultural differences that didn’t gel into a
country parliament picnic are vast yet all are terrestrials -
pathetic, sublime british bulldog aussie banker syndrome,
lousy, near as immoral or rather stupid as sodomy. It is
obvious here that the geographic architectures to suit each
mindset will vary greatly. Various parts of any city various
peoples don’t walk. Some don’t want casinos, stupidly large
houses and city centres starved of the breath of the
country. When we plead for some country vitality in street

canyon we plead
firstly for the children
who have not developed an economic rationale for such
places along with a mentality that knows to get in and out
again, to hold the breath and not fear the absence of the
shy subliminal sky-blue orgone … but maybe fear the
absence of air purity. Back in a day the natives of this land
before sugar, alcohol, bullets and displacements would have
suffered if expected to stay at all in a modern city street
canyon … being away from the songs of the land drove many
to sad ends.
There ought be places and there are, like the camels
caravansering the Areyonga settlement supplies base,
smack bang geographically central in the Great South

101
‘Island’, nornoreast of uluru, well west in the MacDonnell
Ranges,
trucks and cars put camels out of supply work; they went on
the dole slowly feral. The real locals, the Pitjantjara,
continued using camels to travel and connect. Let’s say a
veteran cameleer, austroriginal Cheekybugga Talkabout,
travelled out from the base to capture and grow their
domestic camel herds. Papunya, even more city remote,
three days’ walk away,100km by crow, same distance as
kunanyi’s organ pipes to Bathurst Harbour.

Cheeky talking , “You know Monte, not just Arabs but the
comfort slickers should eat their heart, we’re out here in the
red heart. We don’t mind some internal combustion in the
ambience and the Levi jeans, checked shirts and hats that
come with it; but do we want a five star wind/water/solar
powered litter spitter with ovens, verandas, helipad, airstrip,
electronic music and some of our fundamental needs? Nah …
ah well maybe, if it’s limited in size outa respect for red and
the stars, yeah that’d be great. We nomadic types don’t
mind bumping shoulders with the air-travelled hypertech
urban people if they don’t mind bumping with us by throwin’
this goanna straight in the oven there. We can call it the
nomurbunya; it’s in our place, you build it - ta! If you want to
dig into the mountain cool out of sight too, you can make it
big enough for us to wander into the town square with our

103
camels to trade and talk, stay if want and move on … yeah
that’d be nice. Only one though, no more. We’ve got 600
centuries under our belt, so they say, as a continuous
cultural thang yknow; I tell y but, there’s likely none alive
anywhere in the world who don’t have rellies that far back.
The silly boatie pollies even so are pretty silly like ingrown
toenails … from shoes; they say that we’re ‘in the Regions’
here; that’s their sense of demographic geography. Maate,
this is the heart of the life here, not the bitumen nourished
boxes and airterminal cattleruns that they live in ... bouncy
bouncy all go bizzie trip, holiday, tour package, rubber-neck
photo ops, sabbatical, pilgrimage out we go back we come,
ego sustained, hankering for the next run. Do you get my
drift; they are saying that they are not in a Region
themselves and that they’re all over everything anyway … of
course they’re in a region, it’s the country there nude under

their cadastral giant 3D printout in concrete and tar ink and
they are blind to it; they don’t even understand that the
architect design o’ parliament has the countryside intently
retained and enhanced above their low little ceilings. That
shows how cut-off they are bro’, bring ‘em out we’ll tell them
and show them, then they’ll grow their constructions
ecopically (that’s a word you taught me monte - found it in
the dictionary in back of this book). Our life and country is
well sustained; the comfort slickers make good movies but
they’re going down man, down - by their own leaderships and
politics.“
How do we look via sea, to other nations nz, anglo, kiwi,
coconut, ching, nip, indo, sri lankin, canada, coming in coastal
by boat, seeing our neighbour lands on the way and
choosing a bit of terra australis to come ashore, or by

105
internet search, how do we look - gday mate, nice choice bit
of realty and easy pickins, we’re moving in stealth - we love
you but you’re a pack of clowns. Maybe not as raw as that
but our locale and national cultures are have changed
radically by immigration, economic coercion, commercial
identifications, mismanaged microchip technological options,
especially selling our potato patch and importing it all back
… mus’ be some sort of moneypower cabal. Nothing left but
to sell our very countryside and/or to work for new
landlords. And really does that all matter …. S’only the bug
of the world that we need the big help to rid.
Sorry for that rant package courtesy of Cheekybugga. Bit
irrational largely poetical; I’m looking to future options. Key
point is we’re all in an interactive story of our own. The
state of carousel is often our communal glue and our

distraction and deviance that leads to our awkward
sometimes agonising embarrassments and teetering on the
edge unsustainable and stifling. As the eonic centurial
sojourns roll, where are we going or what of our conditions
all. Huge impacts from global cultures, huge impacts on our
individual gospelic interactive stories. That written or
invited or developed in any reader’s heart, for survival not
only but also peaking eternal momentary interactive joy, as I
said characterised by the pain of unstoppable ground
rolling body curling belly laughs the like of memories of many
nine year olds - except in street canyon. If only all food was
as healthy as that; not bread alone says the bread of life
unleavened and not even vegesmited. Knock knock heart of
uluru, kunanyington, of every house, town, city, locale,
business deal, cultural creation; we know you’re there raw-
under the bitumen footpath and the white demarked

107
carpark, the blinkers of hopeless ceremonies and welfare
excuse for apology and charity. Come out and shake your
fist not at a foreign neighbour, visitor or pollie but at the
enemy of pure vitality of individual communal lifes and
people old, young, quiet rowdy tall short smooth dowdy.
Shake it all by the one simple logic that fits all minds and
souls, no unsettled disputes all interlock working in harmony
in accord with personal passions and predilections and
talents.
Great southern bush-embracing architect, wilderness is
robust but still our poisons spread, people are locale minded
easily blinkered by wires poles signs walls. Hearts know
while minds rebel, that the islanded broadscale and myriad
zoom-ins to fractilian endemics in fragrance, matter, colour,

sounds, vegetations and creatures. The joys of great
travels within and dwelling endlessly in locales of character
with architectures as friendly as shells, accessed by paths
and roads as gentle as pademelon trails and as pungent as
kookaburra kookas. Built interiors as delightful as abalone
shell interior existing only where they can be in fair place-
loving reason, laden mother-of-pearl wealth in visual creative
delights equally oozing music and loudest of all wonders of
lover, mother, father, children, tribal, family, parliamentary
vocal merging indoors with out.
This word 'ecopical' is basically about that but includes the
aspect of social personality - as people, we do best what
people understand, love and are correctly prone to do – and
so politics is part of ecopicality also. Ecopicality is not yet
in our consensus dictionaries, but its imprints belong in our

109
frames of mind when we develop our public realms, grids,
offices and factories.

6
Evidence from before the advent of agriculture shows that
we as gathering hunters have enjoyed excellent health,
societies of man-woman mutuality, light workloads, leisure
and freedom from any form of government and using
traditional, nonindustrial, energy resource efficient building
technique. The book, ‘The Biggest Estate on Earth’, shows
the complex systems of Aboriginal land management in the
now naked-under rather than the wholistic everywhere that
received the boatie rash. The first euroboaties noted
frequently that the land evoked park-like anglo country
‘estate’, paths, extensive grassy patches, open woodlands,
abundant wildlife; the people managed the land supremely

111
systematically locally sustainably. The boaties 200 years
later still hadn’t noticed the daisies nude-under their
caroused backsides.
Boxlocusts swarm our national estate; more than anything
does. Through their birth and catylistics, they absorb and
transform far beyond their local geography. Gurgling the
earth, stamping the psyche and spawning new things.
Cheekybugger Talkabout meets nexus with the boaties.
Nomad minima, boulevard bold. Albert Geogalong is of
the same land, but a of a people who generally have seen
only simple thoroughly modern nature – no boulevards and
no park-like ‘estates’. Hunting, manipulating and gathering
in sparse country involved a lot of walking. They value a
strong pair of legs over and above any front door, or gush-

laden view-window. Their value of home and society is very
rich without brick veneer, physical trappings scant. Heading
from home sydney where he artfully enjoys short sojourns of
cross-cultural jibes and dance as to what the boaties are
missing, including, the boxlocust and the academic
protagonists of ecopian activity, Talkabout throws off his
shirt wrap before reaching his simple house by preference
with his family and the country.
Child of the West, nomadic urban altruist Low Carl
forewent penthouse life for city tumble-weeding because he
felt the rooms humming harder. We note that a joyful walk in
nature is definitively impacted where boxlocusts blend with
this world.

113
Just like we find room-kernels in the bush Cheeky finds
bush-kernels in the urbia including in houses.
A Redfern austroriginal mind warp … a plastic toilet brush
dragging on the spear, a halfway nomad still makes his shot
at the pizza-lizard scurrying across his path hence as
intended it was taken to the 40th floor reception for
executive lunch. For greens, he reaches for the supermarket
tucked under his belt. On the shelf he finds an architect’s
house blueprint; “In the trade we call this ‘the comic’!”, smirks
his builder. Tumbleweeds roll, roots anchor, city antennae
dissolve roots and make shuttle and rooms, rather than
strides, in space. The house sees both intra and cross
cultural smirk.

We have nanotech surveillance, robotics, medical. We have
the christian basis being scoffed and dismantled out of our
constitution and political correctness, children empowered
by sociotech and newly searching to replace what is scoffed.
We have tribulating with that and the tributary of
microplasticated fish we eat, a tribulation currently flowing
toward an expanding sea of extreme discomfort and agonies
with wings of extinct eagles. To many all this remains
invisible under a sea of seeming joy gods and somas.
What we lose is not only the naked-under tapestry but the
whole wilderness outback countryside vibe water sky flora
fauna and air; when we hermetically seal ourselves or our
people into boxes or even egg shapes, ie a little less
hermetically, even with windows, courtyards, David
Rabbitbourough (sorry Steve Irwin is more ours)(now

115
there’s a pommy-aussie shift), indoor plants and clear road
to the bush.
Our anticipated geographic architects’ cultural heritage
conservation plans should be applicable in principle to all all
all of our developments mines roads dams towers pizza
shops mcmansions. The professional planners accept this
idea and enforce it … a little. The same crew refuse to
understand that the daisy we sit on is comparably and more
significant and ultimately supremely significant over cultural
heritage … “even abo heritage monte” (steady up Cheeky
don’t get cocky).
Our conservation plans are to inform our development limits
and character; we desperately need to make them as
‘Natural (natural natural) and Cultural Conservation Plans’

and these too should be informed into our building science
regulations, as fresh air and identity of place and at the
household workplace door step - wilderness: it is the primo
life that Cheeky knows is good for his children and the child
in him + the zap of hitech and city culture and avarice
ignorance social disease is what blocks it. Please read that
aloud three (3) times …
on the bus,
on top of uluru, kunanyington, …
or just quietly to yourself or whisper it into preshus’s ear.
That is the nutshell of our development sustainability town
and country planning architectures industrial design … the
nutshell that is ecopicality for a land called Auscopia where
the streets are loved by nomads hunters gatherers joggers
toff-toff lovers army bands, children in care and kids with

117
cricket bats and iphones too… always to be embraced are
the souls lost behind the pixel curtain, club foot, warped
physical inheritance and those frozen by deep deep built
interior. You wonderful departed soul Albert Namatjira
thankyou for the painted images of your
great deep deep continental interiors.
The mood to build or not, wander or not. The desire to
move on for food, joy or whatever weighs against the desire
to settle for different food. There is the nub of something
there; a critical point in belief, psychological inclinations,
intuition, discipline. Surely the crest of eco-social truth.
Geogalong and his mob may never make a choice to
substantially build or farm as have his coastal cousins of

abundant locales. What are the actions that make the
difference with the nomad and the settler; accumulating
trappings, preparing to cook, making seclusion? One action
is that of permitting substantial physical barriers, screening,
between inhabitant and neighbours, and indeed inhabitant
and nature; allowing the loss of immediate social contact with
the encampment and the loss of wind on one’s back.
Another, the acceptance of some environmental
intervention, say, ploughing, building, permanent change and
no indifference to barriers formed by interior.
An attitude; whatever - it’s in the roots of our cultural
acclimatisations. It is safe to note that within all
reasonability there is some middle ground where people may
build without disruption of any of extreme nomadism,
delicate environment or, indeed, caring settlers. Middle

119
ground … where the hunter-gatherer is content to accept
contained horticulture, and where hyper-industry is hyper-
ecodisciplined … where natural selection is merely
supplemented by contraception.
Nomadic, urbanic; nomurbic, don’t panic.
Auscopia is nomurbic, and as yet a figment township at the
nomurbic crossroads – barefooted berry traders coming
from there, a huge road train and a bicycle from there.
Auscopia is a modicum of building that is extremely sensitive
to ecological extrapolations and respectful of extreme
nomadism … sharply disciplined … spirited by the flighty
nomurbic nub butterfly.
Universal nomad-cum-settler domestics. Nomurbics.

Ecopicality is the creative attitude fostered by the
nomurbic nub butterfly – the waft between deep urban and
wide open.
Auscopia - physical multi-domestic contraptions, towns,
linked uproad to camp places arranged about the nomurbic
nub. I think Paola Soleri was making a kernel of such
Arizona, but he has not been as successful as was Noah.
Low Carl sees the potential of wholistically good city-life as
he wanders the globe, knowing it to be non-existent; an
urban nomad, in his pack a little methylated-spirits cooker
and a shower borrowed from a corporate stairwell - a distant
friend rubs sticks and steps freely into a billabong.
Traditional wiles and newly learnt resourcefulness.
Domestic survival, food included. Domestic survival can

121
certainly be equally tough for the settled housed soul.
Poverty can make it tough. The way in which we manage,
even within the breadth of tradition, when tradition is
effective, is unique to each; nomad and settler.
Of course this doesn’t all matter in the slightest except that
variously it takes our various variably sequential variety of
self activated consequences to acknowledge that the best
move is to roll with the armtwist rather than against; lots of
taoisms and grasshopper quandaries however have us
swimming upstream and some of us up waterfalls just to lay
eggs.
In both nomadic and settlic social environment three
aspects at times seem to be of equal importance in domestic
motives. -

finesse,
shelter and
cultural protocol … involving tradition, and domiciliary - cum
- municipal layout.
Lying within the amino acids of our psyches is the origin of
our mode; tumbling tumble plants or rooted forests. The
nub butterfly flitters or lands. The three aspects manifest
to suit the lifestyle.

7
The Boatie ‘sorry’ … when further embellished
+
The rarely seen but well needed Blackfellas’
‘ it’s okay, we forgive’
embrace of the boaties
+
mutual ecopical ‘adaptability’
=

125
The basis of Auscopia.
ie a potential future of ecopicaly minded and acted
Austrariginals.
Maybe there’s a kingdom above the weather or not.
Those in pursuit of the luxuriant forget the nurturing
purpose of the luxury.
Those in pursuit of the raw organic countryside forget its
purpose.
This disconnect
is so not only in the land between Bali and Wellington,
Port Moresby and Mawson.
Pace of life.

Child care.
We need huge quantities of wilderness but far less if our
pace of life allows us to enjoy our breath. Talk to the
horse for two hours over the fence like the old Irish farmer
used to time and time again.
Settlic culture grows … dream-house-city-globalnet.
Nomadic culture grows … in the time that is not spent in
being settlic … dream-time, natural bounty, and in the nature
of the simplest of domestic-arrangements.

127
As was noted in D’Entrecasteaux’s visit couple centuries
ago quite near Southport’s blast-off café. He said that ‘if
only his people at home in anglophile land could know of the
fantastic natural university that the Tasmanian aboriginal
mobs embody’.
Uluru and the Opera House need to marry in fair-go -
because the Parliament House doesn’t get the test; a test

that can barely occur given the population imbalance and
the mindless momenta of the several dastardly machines.
Is there something about putting our greedy enthusiasm into
hot cars, to the extent that we bloat, while our enthusiasm - if
it must have greed - could be into our families, animals and
our fantastic neurologic and spiritual personal social
machinery.
Instead we will have the true creation … being corrected by
its true creator.
How we manage the doings is unique to us each, while in
part it is common like the dressings of tradition, culture,
place and language.

129
What could we be doing in the i n t e r i m - we are
definitely facing an i n t e r i m (This interim would
seem a part of the limited ‘Today’ discussed ahead) ay? We could, as
some do, be entertaining ecopicality, whether or not they
know it by any sort of name ... but is any of that enough?
With the newness of the day it is wise to be ever ready to take
stock and renovate or even transform, ecopilise and or
christianise, your mind's inherited architecture and lifestyle.
Sending our ceilings away, awakening us to beating not
repeating hearts that justify love easily counterbalancing the
loss of what we thought was our life. He had ignited a small
ecological bomb in his corporate property-development
workplace. He still walked the chequered vinyl floor, but it was
now, clearly, converted ‘playdough of the earth’ with a twist of
dying culture.
Here I am in a world with two brains, one thinks civilisation is
technical potential, personal power and mobility and the other
one thinks it’s good neighbours, family harmony, knowing he
creator and homely countryside. Are civilised and social

coordinations just like the winds, sands and gravities that
shape, weather and shake? The oyster surely would not live
but for the mother-of-pearl. Cheeky tells of the perfect
refinement of perpetually modern nature. Your friends might
remember when you were young, your face would just shine;
shine on you crazy diamond. Why were you born so beautiful
why were you born at all … you had no say in it, no say in it at
all.
There’s some eco wisdom; a step towards an ecopian urbanity
- nomurbics. Embracing ethos’s ay! …nomadic land-living
embracing settled interior-valuing. Doing it at the nomurbic
crossroads. Bush tucker and the flat tyre inflated with the red
dust in lieu of hot air.
Am I locked into some dream-house mode?
Taking a serious look at our limitations, no, I have no time
unless the lamborghini house and locale are not being created
on my account and are simply offered in free spirit.
No other is made to replace it.
Limitations - we need them – they are the fences and walls of
true domestic space.
‘True’ – that which is our best medicine.
The limits of our true world are what fit … we respect them.

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