a river becomes an irrigation canal // animals become livestock // forests become carbon sinks //

s billboard // gardens become a luxury // ecology becomes economy // people become consumers // tribes become

target markets // art becomes advertising //technology becomes a drug // religion becomes a brand name // travellin

ng becomes tourism // nature becomes scenery // man becomes a stranger //this is the human ecology

photos
oliver dunlop

undergrowth five :: human ecology

editorial/ cloudburst

spirits

11

monkey tales: red

14

lovers

21

the tides of the sun

23

ah, white man, have you any sacred sites?

27

bush flowers

29

after the fall

31

spirits

36

taking a dive:
confessions of a dumpster diver

38

pikatja story

44

future cities project

54

nepabunna to adelaide

56

god is an awesome god

64

river pilgrims

71

city of angels

74

monkey tales: yellow

76

mr history

85

hey newstart, thanks for the good times

91

windcurrents: an interview with peter adams

92

spirits

99

monkey tales: blue

101

cloudburst

there is steam rising from the bitumen. i can smell its soft ghost vapours.
rainclouds overhead pass away again. birds glean the parks leftover crumbs. modems scream
information, talking in non stop binaries.
cars ock past in petroleum hordes.
droplets landing on windshield and her face
crash.
trees cheer, waving their limbs in the wind to music of the scenery.
auto-electrics blast stereo hiphop communiques. bass rumbles, mufed like censorship within
airconditioned windows.
the underground murmurs too, with subway transit owing through.
beneath the citys skin.
Season lay with her ear to the ground, eyes closed and elsewhere. gentle smile blessing lips.
body cushioned upon the grassland sanctuary she had found deep within the ecology of
commerce and corporate highlands. all around the city sang its ballad of progress and drummed
industrial soundscapes. beautiful in their coarse texture and random monotony.
a wall of sound, immersive as any ocean.
she drank it in.
beads of moisture roll down her skin. her clothes wet and sculptured against the curves of her
body, caught in the cloudburst, happily.
the water slowly melted down her face to cheek and lips tasted. Clean.
She raised a hand from the ground to her breast. feeling her heart. Beating softly.
A humble metronome.

heavens kiss the earth

mountains grow daily

we just arent equipped to see this
(apes clothed in techno)
the ocean follows the moons lead
(and so does her cycle)
seasons stroll in through the open door
of hemispheres curled in soft embrace to
the windspirit
(water carriers)
tectonics shift and mumble wise cracks
(lubricated by oil wells)
weve named and numbered the everyday, constructed walls to box in time
passing notes of perfect melody
(is this moonday a holy day only because a calendar tells us we dont have to work?)
i like the idea of forgetting
needless routines
and celebrating the games of
sacramental daylight...

(remembering)

Monkey Tales: Red

by Rak Razam

Shee-oot, juz look at that aurora going off, my God, have

you ever seen anything so beautiful? Its energized nitrogen
molecules, yknow, hanging down low in the atmosphere
and gettin bombarded with electrons from the geo-magnetic
storms. Stretches its red spectral lights away from the poles
and right across the whole damn continent, aint seen nuttin
as beautiful as red skies at night, no wonder they thought it
was the End of Times.
Is that what happened last time, Red, back when they had
History?
You better believe it, girlie. Its why the Trybe went underground, juz sos we could have moments like these without a
tee-vee screen between us.

Snice, ya. The way it shimmers and moves, like its dancing, Blue said,
staring up at the sky.

Blue liked listening to Reds stories, the way his

voice would lilt and pause and stretch out each
letter for extra emphasis. She especially liked
the way the lines on his weathered face crinkled
out around his eyes and mouth like a spiderweb
as he talked, mixing with the tattoos nestled
amongst the wiry red hair of his beard and by the
hairline of his dredds. Red, the circle-maker of
the Trybe, the magick man.
As he stood there in the corneld in his red environmental suit, stripped back at the arms and
legs and braving the cold night air, she couldnt
help but stare at the bold tribal markings twisting and twining around his tight, sinewy body.
Each tattoo was a magickal sigil shaped from
the letters in the name of the outdoor parties
hed helped put on, like a roadmap of his long
seasons of doof. Each tattoo mirrored by a crop
circle imprinted on elds across Europe, ghostechoes of free festivals and travelling sound
systems blowing in the wind.
The Trybe had long ago developed a visual
language to advertise their parties and music
to those in the know, a sigil-language the old
skool corporate fashion makers couldnt understand, much less appropriate. They never saw or
heard them at work, yet in the light of day these
strange symbols would spring up in elds like
zen mushrooms after a fresh rainfall, marking an
undergound partys passing.

She stood there shivering on the perimeter of the corneld and looked out at the dark forest and elds of wild owers, mint
and hemp all bathed in a blood red light as the wind cut through. The eld rose up on the hill from the road and was perfectly
placed for viewing from the danceoor below. Red had dowsed the spot earlier in the day with his old wire coat hangers and
conrmed a high bandwith leyline pulsing with good juju running right through. It was important to atten the circle from the
inside out to produce a radial lay and follow the natural energy ow. If its facing the right way then the party will rock. If its
formed against the ow of energy, you can get headaches, naseua, demonic visions, paranoia, bad-trip shit to the max, Red
taught her that, along with all the other stuff a young trance gypsy coming of age needed to know.

Its a good omen, but that colds a commin. Wed better get to work, ya, Red said, moving in an angled, loping stride so as not to
leave an obvious path to the centre of the eld. Now, lots of people say that crop circles are caused by sunspot activity, or UFOs,
and even though thats a load of bosh its not the point. Were creating a rorsarch pattern for people to read whatever they want
into, ya? The circles are Art in its purest form, understand? Never dene them or youll blow the vibe, leave that to the group mind
when youre dancing down there... Shee-oot. Suddenly Red felt a sadness upon him as he looked at Blue. Her eyes had taken on
an indigo glow from the aurora and as she stood there in the cold night air, trying to blow smoke rings with her breath, she looked
so much like her mother at that age it hurt.. This is a special night for you, so Ill let you in on a secret or two, ya?

The stars are alive, see? And

theyre communicating to us, ya?
Light is information and this red shift is just the Suns way of communicating with the Earth, of telling a tale to us monkeys. Look
- there, thats Sirius, ya, the dog-star. It was always your mothers favourite. Had lots to say about Sirius, she did. Where we came
from, where were travelling to, she used to say.
His eyes sparkled as he chuckled. Oh, she was like a re. A bushre that knew no bounds, feared no man and lived
to burn. She was a Blue, like you, but she was the brightest dancer of her season and men fell in love with her as easy as
breathing. He grabbed the stalk-stomper, a two metre plank with a rope attached at each end, forming a loop, staked out a
barbeque stick and attatched a length of metallic surveyors tape through the loop. It rattled and whooped in the high winds
like a banshee in the silence that fell upon them. They began walking around in a radial pattern, forming rst the inner circle,
then the outer perimeter followed by some connecting lines, silent all the while. When they had nished Blue looked back at
what they had created. Inside each circumference the corn lay bent but not broken, its still-growing stalks swept into a matted alien pattern, like a vinyl record with a pendulum hanging from the bottom, or some type of strange organic key on its
side...

Youre going to do ne, Blue, dont be scared, Red said, holding

her ice cold hand. Just trust your instincts out there and youll
dance up a storm, just like your mother. But remember to look up
on the hill and see old Reds sigil, ya? Promise me.
I promise.
Alright then. Better get that Dome set up right quick. Go nd yer
Yello friend. Go now.

She gave him a quick peck on his grizzled cheek and ran off through the elds,
leaving him standing on one foot and
dragging the other in a 360 degree arc off to the side of the main sigil, forming
the grapeshot tag, same vanity as grafti artists in signing their work. Red held
a long, curved blade in his left hand and cut seven single stalks for each of the
three circles of the formation, carefully rolling them between his worn and blistered
thumb and forenger and stroking them until the stems started to bend at a right
angle. Like an origami master he twisted them into crude monkey shapes after the
totem of their Trybe then placed them in the grapeshot.
Yep, aint nuttin ner than a red night sky. Less its a Blue dancer, he said to himself, watching her race through the elds and down to the domez below...

text: tim parish

it was a time of parties

following the suns departure the cats come out to play,
burning their records through speakers,
raising the temperature as it lowers outside,
my friend sam thinks everyone is trying to shack up for winter,
nd a body to share the second pillow with,
perhaps - but when arent they?
last night i walked home from a disco of self confessed dags,
happy to leave loud celebration of trashy fashion
and 80s tuning to enter the cool chill of winters ocean,
streets lights illuminated the tiny rain molecules dancing in the windspirit,
snowakes aspiring,
dark bitumen corridors shined in leather smiles,
the night cloak enveloped a sleeping city
houses hibernating
a calm overow
welling up inside
my heart
learning
to listen

the tides of the sun

by bob nekrasov

The days passing really fast. Im staying in a friends

apartment in Aoxomoxoa while shes vacationing out on
the coast. I cleaned the kitchen and did my laundry all
morning. Now Im writing, and watching my pair of twomonth-old boa constrictors. The wide boa, the one that ate
two mice yesterday, is halfway out of the wicker basket.
The thin boa shrank away from the sun, has white-lidded
eyes. Is she sick? 12:59. A car drives by outside. Which
way? I dont know. Up the steep street.
On the sunny terrace behind the apartment, my damp
clothes wave in the wind. El Comisariato, says a plastic
grocery bag I hung up to dry. What could it mean?
Objects talk in silent voices. The couchside clock says its
13:00. The cover of Carmens Marie Claire magazine says
50,000 worth of free gifts including designer fashion &
beauty FREE for every reader, and, Plus, sex expectations
The rules of affairs, But, my dear magazine, its got to be
pointed out that affairs are unruly. Its 13:02.
Boa moving around only slightly, whats he/she looking
at/thinking about, anyway? I wonder about this. 13:03.
Coughing green phlegm in the back of my throat healthy!
Mariri. Scratchmyneck listen to piano music owing out
of the radio next door, the clank of this apartments metal
front door when a gust comes through, the unrhythmic crinkle of that El Comisariato plastic bag exing in the breeze,
little girl next door calling her Mama, a rooster crows, a
car starts up, rolls by, in neutral, downhill down the stone

paved street, it is 13:05. A car is beeping now, and theres a

thrum throb of unknown music on a car stereo. Theres that
piano music, then the whistling, suddenly, of Christmas Eve
reworks. Four or ve whistle as they fall, up above.
The womans face on the cover of Marie Claire stares out at
me with live eyes. Her magazine offers stories on Women
forced to marry their neighbour and Where women get a free
man with every holiday. This is a start, but all men must be
free.
Under the wide windows rests the beloved, comfortable,
broken-down but indestructible plaid couch. Now my notebooks and novels are lying on it, fast asleep.
Its 13:11. Newsash: the boa with two mice inside has turned
around, heading back into the basket, on the move as I write
these words. It moves as if in slow motion. Its like a 3-D
Discovery Channel in here. Wild, wild animals on the little
table by the couch. 13:13. Why are these minutes ying by so
fast? Stop. Cut. Freezeframe. Slowdown. Stop. My neck aches.
A planes ying by overhead, or is that a truck with no
mufer? Pause to breathe, scratch, write about the gooseesh
on my arms, simbolo convencional, leyenda explicativa.
At 13:17, on the street, women laughing! A man yells Ho!
A young girl screams in fun, then purrs! A wolf whistle! Purr!
Movement of water in pipes, Fabian, the neighbor two stories
down, is taking a shower. Animal noises by the kids in the
street. 13:19.

I turn to a fresh page in my notebook. Outside, a wolf whistle, a whistling

wolf! Another! A yelp and a catlike, birdlike purr! A chill melts down my
back. I turn and watch, through the window, a gathering of gray clouds.
Theres to be no more sun today, it seems. An airplane is coming from
the north... and... now it is going, away, south, into the city over the high
apartment buildings on Luis Borges Avenue. 13:20. Im going to put on
my shirt and bring the laundry inside.
Ten years ago, I icked a lighter ame to light her way as she stood up,
wet with bathwater, to get a candle off the sink... but thats another story.
This is journalism of yelps on the street where you cant tell if its a
human or another animal making the noise, and the black ink plunges red
and green onto the page, mentioning kings and wars and fountain pens,
and the suns out again and she or he purrs and mimics a seagull with
uncanny accuracy, or is it a bird and not a child? Dogs yelping, ghting,
woong under the sun, thats certainly genuinely canine. I wonder
whatever happened to Andy Nofsinger. Got to make a mental note to myself not to make any more mental notes to myself.
I just went upstairs to organize books and clothing, moving around in this
fantastic body as if I just received it out of the air, a conjuring trick.
That kid makes unusual noises, almost unreal. Experimenting with
chirping purrs, human life is never going to die! Yelp! 13:35 a baby is
carried past my front door, burbling, were all on the same wavelength,
somehow, including Fabian the downstairs neighbor, a ballet dancer from
Paraguay who recently got back from a month and a half in the Dominican
Republic and just put on some music, or somebody did, indistinct, general,
like a heartbeat. There went that baby again, and off goes a dog, Guau,
guau, guau! and an airplane cometh and my back aches somewhat and,
and, and, its 13:38.

Close the snake basket and go outside. Pitufo and

Hada, the towns in the valley out there, are veiled by
smog or mist. Im out on the terrace now, biting my
lower lip and feeling the breeze rufe the fur on my
legs. Fleeting melody of a songbird crossing the heaven sky. A ventarr or big wind blew one of the blankets
I was airing out right off the wall, but, fortunately, it
landed on the other terrace below instead of in the ravine - Its a cosmic wavelength owerpot thing, man.
Sooner or later Im going to have to face it.
Tranquil, serene mountains in the purple distance,
they get stressed out sometimes just like the rest of
us, it just takes place over hundreds of thousands
of years. You know, once in a while, I feel like Im
starting to make sense. Existing, man. Getting played
like an accordion by the cosmic ow. Sometimes its
angels, sometimes its olive oil, or a crushed, empty
box of Marlboro Lights, the tunes I play.
Metallic noises of empty barrels clank up from the
valley, bang, bong! And the next door neighbors are
playing agreeable music. Theyre standing out on
their terrace, conversing. Theres laughter. Its a ne,
gleaming day, the earth smiles. The music is Arabic,
exhilarating. The neighbors are Chaquas, mountain
Indians. Hes speaking in Castillian about something
that happened in the Supermaxi supermarket, and the
women laugh! A giant cloud shadow looms gooly
up the hill at the other side of this nearer valley. Half

the world plays the clown, half the world is laughing. A car
alarm goes off, comical, on the soundtrack of the day, suddenly
becomes an earsore, and is shut off.
Ow... colours are frying in the sun, melting, running all over my
vision. The huge sun bears down on our tiny earth. The
crinkling of that plastic bag on the line behind me, Id better not
do anything about it until Im really annoyed.
At last, its 14:00. I can breathe easy again. And then a vultures
breathtaking glide takes my breath away over air currents that
rise beyond my red sneakers in the valley.
Hot sunlight on the page, on the body. The neighbours radio
is playing Coolios Gangsta Paradise, for which Im glad.
Gangstas are shooting in Los Angeles at this moment, swelling
throngs in heaven and hell, vultures are zipping through the air
between my bodys eyes and the cement bridge faroff across the
river below; a y kissed my knuckle as if I were already dead.
Vultures y, crooked and high, and my body glows like a
lament when the current of the sun goes through it. Holy
chorus of paradise rises up like a prayer and fades out.
A housey like Tupac Shakur on the page, the suns reection
in my thumbnail, the sunlight glancing off the length of my Bic
pen to shimmer in the shadow of my writing hand. Mournful
music next door, the mans gone, a womans alone, scrubbing
something with a brush, isnt that always the way. Photons
collide with molecules at the surface of my skin, potentially
threatening ultraviolet damage. Im too hot, unbutton my shirt,

a bird calls and I approach the end of this poem, and death. Its
these city streets Ive been walking up and down, how can they
not make a human tense? All that noise and exhaust crying out
at the sky. Which, itself, ends up being, just as it was before,
inexplicably, blue.
The clouds are alive today. Pouring themselves into each other.
Moving fast, rolling and unrolling, like a special effect. The
dance of levitating water. Levitations a great thing to do, but
how? Im sitting on the living room oor now, mostly water, not
levitating. Its 14:21. Theres the snake basket right next to the
clock. Theres the Marie Claire magazine. That purring kid purrs
outside, its a rainforest out there.
Someone just rang the doorbell. The tides of the sun.

ah, white man, have you any sacred sites? by Denis Kevans

Ah, white man, I am searching for the sites, sacred to you,

Where you walk, in silent worship, and you whisper poems too,
Where you tread, like me, in wonder, and your eyes are lled with tears,
And you see the tracks youve travelled down your fty thousand years.
I am searching around Australia, I am searching, night and day,
For a site, to you so sacred that you wont give it away
For a bit of coloured paper, say a Church youre knocking down,
Or the Rocks, your countries buirthplace, by the Bridge, in Sydney town.
Your cathedrals I have entered, I have seen the empty aisles
Where a few knelt down in sorrow, where were all the childrens smiles?
Big cathedrals, full of beauty, opal glass, and gleaming gold,
And an old man, in an overcoat, who had crept in from the cold.
Your schools, I drifted through them, heard the sound of swiching canes,
Heard the yell of angry teachers crushing owers in their brains,
Heard the bark up on the rostrum where the powers had their say,
Wouldnt childrens hearts be sacred, though theyre made, like mine, of clay?
Wheres your wonder? Wheres your worship? Wherees your sense of holy awe?
When I se those little children torn apart by fear of war,
What is sacred to you, white man, what is sacred to your clan?
Are your totems rainbow feathered?
Is there dreaming in you, man?

tim parish
the citys weeds are really bushowers
thoughts breathe through us
the wind whispers poems of meteorology
the raincloud kisses the ground
i write footprints on the bitumen
with the story of my lifeblood coursing
an open book writes itself with oxygen
and this typewriter
my heartbeat
provides the rhythms
for our dancing mind...
somewhere a goat spirit is hopping over the sculpted face of rocks,
carved like ngerprints upon whaleskins,
barefoot and shirtless, eyes wide as highbeam,
senses open oodgates letting through the waves of change.
somewhere pirate enclaves of butteries are plotting conspiracies of hope
ignoring the destiny of apes
possessed by possessions
sold robotics by billboard marketing machines
somewhere wind turbines are committing revolution amidst the corporate
highlands which rise from the ground like termite mounds, and far below
i wonder, wandering tides, holding my breath in the ocean we call data,
breathing rumours of magick i nd scribbled on the brick veneer
with love and aerosol
cultivating weeds
which look to me
like owers

after the fall

joel catchlove

Ive had apocalypse on my mind recently. Perhaps its been partly catalysed
by the results of the recent federal election, but I think that one of the main
triggers has been reading David Holmgrens amazing book Permaculture:
principles and pathways beyond sustainability. Holmgren writes a lot about
energy descent and the fact that the world is, quite simply running out of
energy. Even the relatively conservative National Geographic suggests in
its June 2004 edition that we could be at the end of cheap oil in ve years.
The catch is though, our way of life the very same way of life we are
advised to protect from the scourge of terror, steam-rolls on as though
the resources we depend upon both for energy and for so many of the
materials from which we construct our world are unlimited. For Holmgren,
permaculture provides a foundation through which we can seek to become
more sustainable, and descend ethically from our current energy peak into
a low energy future. Its not strictly apocalypse Holmgrens talking about,
but rather another stage in a cycle.
Typically, I think my visions of this future are somewhat more fantastical
and extreme than he would suggest. But even so, I think its important,
as always, that we can imagine alternatives to our current path. And
remember that this destructive path, regardless of its own self-condence
and determination, will eventually be forced to change. It reminds me of
a quote I saw painted on a wall in Marree, in South Australias North, a
statement from the 1981 International Conference of NGOs on Indigenous
Peoples and Land:
If transnationals and colonialist governments continue to defy the
natural order of things in their quest for material wealth, Mother
Earth will retaliate. The whole environment will retaliate and the
abusers will be eliminated. Things come back full circle. Back to where
they started. This is the prophecy of all Indigenous Peoples.

I have a vision of energy

suddenly running out, as if no
one was aware that there were
limits to oil.

I have a vision of energy suddenly running out, as if no one was aware

that there were limits to oil. Great queues of enraged motorists and their
cars gridlocked for kilometres around petrol stations whose pumps are
dry. The attendants making off through a back door with coats full of
cigarettes and chicken heroes. It would be a hot day, of course. A blazing
45 degree day in the middle of an Adelaide summer and in a rare act of
anarchy, residents of the leafy Eastern suburbs would take to re hydrants
with the last moments of battery power in their chainsaws and hedgetrimmers (perhaps they could decant a little fuel from their leaf blowers,
before trying to trade it for a broom), in a futile effort to cool off. Other
motorists would see the massive angry queues snaking from the petrol
stations and in a mass of panic turn and head for the hills until their tanks
ran dry. The hulks of family station wagons, hatchbacks and four wheel
drives left to rust, clumped in ditches on the side of the road, a fading
shadow radiating from the centre of civilisation. They become fewer, the
further out you go, scattered between sprays of shattered glass and the
thick black snakes of unpeeled tires. Turning ochre with rust as they sink
beneath the grass and shifting earth.
Suburbia has been conquered in some parts by plants. Thick hedges of
ornamental roses spring up unpruned and sprawl across entire streets like
blackberry bushes, while the dry brown grass of summer lls the cracks
in footpaths. New, strange, unexpected ecosystems, born of European
roses, lantana, bougainvillea and one or two lost glory vines hybridise
in backyards, overrun by sparrows, starlings and pigeons stretching
their wings in the shade beneath the matted vines. Further out, beyond
the thickets of aloe vera escaped from cracked terracotta pots, pastures
slowly, carefully grow back into forests, dropping branches across twisted
barbed wire fences and snapping off fence posts with three hundred years
of carefully increasing tension.

pigeons stretching their wings in the shade beneath the matted

vines. Further out, beyond the thickets of aloe vera escaped
from cracked terracotta pots, pastures slowly, carefully grow
back into forests, dropping branches across twisted barbed
wire fences and snapping off fence posts with three hundred
years of carefully increasing tension.
Perhaps because its where Ive spent such a ridiculous
amount of my life, but I wonder about supermarkets after
apocalypse. Theyre environments so dependent on external
energy - for illumination, for articial temperatures, for
security. Everything from the climate to the customers is
controlled by external regulations. Muzak, air-conditioning
and electronic gates that swing shut while a feminine
monotone berates you like a long-suffering, computerised
mother for trying to exit through the entry.
But after the fall, the supermarket is dark. Pitch black, shelves
stripped of two minute noodles and jars of pasta sauce
by looters (most of them former employees with torches
plundered from aisle ten). The freezer units long ceased
buzzing and the boxes of meat pies and dim sims are soggy,
pulpy and collapsing into themselves. The food, despite its
preservatives begins to seep out through the spots where the
door seals have begun to perish. Liquid butter has lined the
oor around the edge of the refrigerators and cartons of milk
lie burst on their side, grey mould growing down the shelves
and reaching out across the lino.

Tubs of French Vanilla, Swiss Chocolate and Black Cherry

yoghurt bulge as they ferment between shards of sunlight
reaching in under sealed re exits and through the vents of
still extractor fans. Some have burst splits in their foil lids and
sprayed ecks of now-dried fruits of the forest across bulbous
cartons of orange and mango juice.
A colony of bats has set up in the meat room, raining guano
onto the sticks of mettwurst stacked untouched below. And the
exit signs, a little mossy around the edges and one hanging at an
angle from a ceiling damp from leaked air-conditioning, look
set to buzz greenly for the next 250,000 years, their radioactive
warning labels peeling away in the moist warmth.

The hulks of family station wagons,

hatchbacks and four wheel drives left
to rust...

clocks chuckle to the sound of robots working

tick tock tick tock
they tick off the seconds as they pass
times authoritarian big brother
the rst nail in the cofn of the tao which can never die
except in the minds of men ruled by their minds
and the machines which have ceased to function,
which sit listless as matter
nally content
collecting moss.
becoming stone.

tim parish

another world is happening

taking a dive:
confessions of
a dumpster diver

I found out about dumpster diving through

the blockading movement and other activists
living on the fringe... On my rst ever dumpster dive the dairy section was all layed out
on top... it was full of ice and in then ice was
every type of cheese you can imagine, varieties of milk and meats - a real smorgasboard!
The food was a better quality than I would
normally eat if I bought it myself, and from
that day on I was hooked...
Every supermarket has a dumpster and will
throw out about 10 cubic metres of rubbish a
day. You can easily get ten boxes of food out
of that if youre dedicated...
Thats why its called dumpster diving - if
you want ten boxes youve got to dive in!
Dumpster diving mostly consists of lling
boxes on the back of your bike and reaching
into the dumpsters from the top... Different
sections of the supermarket throw rubbish out
that create different layers to choose from.
Theres dry goods, the freezer section, fruit
and veggies, etc ... Whichever section has
thrown out produce last is on top to choose
from... Your most perishable goods are the
most common to nd - dairy, fruit and veggies and meats.

People have a perception its bad for you - but its

not. Your body will tell you if things like meat arent
t for consumption - if youve got a good immune
system, that is, which the standard healthy person
has. The taste is something you learn over time - if
the meats no good your body will tell you - dont eat
it. Winter is better for dumpster diving as the frozen
foods keep longer than in the blazing hot summer.
And the meat is also great for pets - dogs and cats
love it!
I guess I nd dumpster diving lots more fun than
walking down the aisles of a supermarket... Its a
lucky dip and its great for cooking because you have
to think what to do with these foods instead of what
food am I going to buy... so it helps you get creative
in the kitchen. You use what you get instead of what
you want - kind of like an urban ecosystem...
Having a majority of dumpster divers in the house
you always have an abundance - heaps of food as opposed to an empty fridge... We actually have so much
dumpster food we had to get an extra fridge just to
store it. We have three course dumpster meals every
couple of weeks and we typically feed up to twelve
people. We have a tradition - half way through the
meal we tell people its from the dumpster... We
havent had anyone refuse the food yet - and they
always come back for more!

you use what you get

instead of what you
want...

There are a few rules of ettiquette to follow

for the perfect dumpster dive. Dont go too
late cause youll miss out - the other dumpster divers will get in rst. Theres quite a
few houses living off the Barkly St dumpsters
alone... I go at ve or six in the afternoon. If
you go at say, 11:00 PM youll really have
to dig. The second rule is you always leave a
dumpster as clean, or cleaner than you found
it. If you draw attention to yourself then the
next time you come back the bins will be
locked. The security guards sometimes tell you
that youre trespassing or stealing and then
other guards stop and have a chat with you
because theyre bored... One dumpster diver
I heard about got given $20 by one security
guard to go and get some hot food!!!
The supermarkets dont have any issues
with us generally, as long as theyre not aware
of us... The health laws make it illegal for the
shops to give away the food - a practice that
used to happen but has now ceased... So now
theres a hell of a lot of waste that doesnt get
recycled... Youve got about 10 cubic metres
thrown away every day in every supermarket
around Australia - and one cubic metre of that
is good food. This is the big supermarkets,
your Woolies and Coles and all that.... Which

considering the amount of food that they turn over

its actually very little waste compared to how many
cubic metres walk out the doors in plastic bags!
Another good source is fruit and veggies markets...
And if you want to get really keen you go to industrial
areas and take a car. You can get food wholesalers
throwing out pellets at a time instead of boxes. Youll
get a car full of one thing instead of boxes of different things... And over time you can really stock up
the house...
I guess the biggest hinderance to dumpstering is either
the cages around the bins or locked bins. Generally
when theyre locked or in a cage its to stop people
throwing household rubbish in a bin, not because of
the dumpster diving because we leave it neat. You
can often take the pin out of the back of the hinge
of locked bins and then put it back as you found it,
with no damage... Break and entering a dumpster bin
- thatd be a funny one in court...
The best dumpster nd that I know of was recently,
when 22 cases of beer was dumpstered by a Footscray
squat just before a benet gig... which was great!
Theyd fallen off the pellet and one or two beers had
broken in the box and that messed up all the labels on
the box so they had to throw it out... Theres been
lots of other scores - like the 20 k of chocolate we
found... Five different types of chocolate bars! Pasta

and veggies are always plentiful... Once we found six

electric toothbrushes and 20 k of ice next to each other...
The toothbrushes ended up as Christmas presents....
There was a dumpster cafe in Sydney near Broadway,
from what I hear... There were some squats that joined
up in food network and they put on a dumpster cafe
every week from what they found... Theres also been
dumpster picnics and swap meets in Edinburgh Gardens
in Fitzroy. Its like a big cook up in the park... the community coming together through food...
The weirdest thing Ive heard of being found dumpster diving is girls underwear... A friend found them...
Ive found stuff like worming tablets for the cat.. And
smoked salmon is always a good nd, and not uncommon...
I dont dumpster dive because I cant afford food. l either get food out of a bin or buy it on a plate in a restaurant. In my day job Im a consultant and youre meant to
be a good corporate citizen and all that, but to me this IS
good corporate citizenship...
To me, dumpster diving is a way of reducing your
environmental impact by living off rubbish. You reduce
demand so theres a few less meals getting transported
into the city and getting thrown out at the same time...
Its probably the next best thing to not having a kid in
reducing your impact on this planet....

pukatja story
by beth sometimes

People! Im sure youve heard a whisper

or maybe you know it rsthand? Something
crazy, something mad and beautiful and
heartbreaking is going on in this land,
Australia. The base, the bass, the
beginnings of humanity on this island...
still suffering! Anangu, aboriginal people,
struggling in the aftermath of a profound
cultural loss. Young people are in desperate
confusion, hanging between two worlds while
their parents and grandparents are clinging
so strong, but nding their tjukurpa (law)
powerless against the new evils aficting
their people.
I nd it hard to talk about people in
this way cause I know some of them as
individuals and as friends after spending
over a year in Ernabella, (AP Lands, North
West SA), but to get a story across it
must be so. In some ways though, the word
they is good because it demonstrates how
very much it is still US and THEM and
will be for a long time, sadly. The many
interactions I have observed between white
and black in this community bear witness to
an undying mistrust from both parties, both
blatant and subtle.

I found myself unable to ever completely tear myself

from this notion... Its like that. We are so
different... It could be a luscious and appreciated
thing, and it is in little pockets, but out there
at the coal face its ugly. Why dont that mean old
government provide any training WHATSOEVER for white
Australians working out there?
My rst weeks there were the craziest of my life exhausted by the immensity of the difference, the
poverty; there was the third world in a bubble inside
what I thought was the rst! Being spoken to all day
long in a language I didnt understand... So many
seemingly insane things to take on board. But I was
alive and fascinated! In love from the start with the
people and the most beautiful vistas I have ever laid
eyes on (the pink hills...).
These people were real tough at rst, but any little
concession on their part to let me into this secret
they seemed to be in posession of, thrilled me.
Makes me wanna scream and cry to think of the white
people out there hating every day, resenting every
second, resenting people for THEIR hardship, not
stopping to see the beauty, just waiting for their
paycheck so they could say theyd done their year
and head back to the sterile comfort of the city.
Despite how difcult, how soul-shakingly upsetting it
was at times, there was not a second where I didnt
know that underneath it all being THERE was the most
amazing something I had ever had the good fortune to
nd myself doing.

Photography became second nature after a while,

after gaining a trust with people in Ernabella.
Sittin outside our roller door, in a few minutes,
we (my partner Duncan and I) would see a million
crazy things: a dwarf would drive past on a
bulldozer, a woman would throw stones at copulating
dogs, gorgeous dusty kids would come and ask us
for apples or else stand too shy to say anything
staring and giggling at our hair mangka rupa!,
little boys throwing coke bottles full of sand up
slides, young men and women doing laps of town in
beat up cars too cool for school, old men drive
past in four wheel drives with completely at tyres
and a slain kangaroo in the boot, seventy year old
women carrying whole boxes full of chops, coke and
white bread on their heads, maybe a kangaroo tail
stickin out the top, sad and frightening wraith-like
creatues with milk tins containing petrol glued to
their faces, ducking round the corner as the white
police did their occasional rounds, ancient cowboy
law-men inspiring deep awe and giggles at once, dog
things resembling hyenas with no hair from mange
dragging themselves after people in the vain hope of
sustenance...
We saw the most beautiful and touching interactions
between family and the interactions inherent to
people living on the edge of sanity and survival.
Once I saw a man go his girlfriend with an axe...
other people have seen worse.
We were so lucky to be involved in many positive
things in our work at the arts centre... jumping in
buses and planes and taking kids miles to Canberra
to dance at the folk festival, exhibition trips to
Adelaide and Alice Springs, being kind of tour
organisers (!) for the Ernabella choirs historical

trip to the Adelaide Festival. Photos of beauty

emerged - youthful re and gnarled wisdom. The
images depicted here are largely of events that
inspire hope and good memories for Anangu to look
back on, things that seem funny to both Anangu
and to Piranpa (whites) once encapsulated in the
rectangular world of a photograph. REAL complex,
knowing when it was and wasnt ok to take photos
but it fell into place as more and more people
from the community would pour into the arts
centre to view the latest shots (all digital)
on the computer. We developed a collaborative
relationship, being asked to take photographs at
many different occasions of signicance. In this
way we were providing Anangu with the technology
and expertise to take part in their own media
documentation, something they realise is becoming
very important in these rapidly changing times.
Since coming back to Melbourne (it seemed DEvoid of any colour at all at rst), and having
an exhibition of photos it became obvious why
wed want to show these images to the outside
(the white rim of Australia). I read the paper,
watched the news and talked to people with a
heightened sensitivity to all things aboriginal
and realised that general Australia still sees
aboriginal people as something almost ugly and
they dont even want to THINK about them! This
came as a shock to me (Im not from this country
originally). Very few people know anything about
remote indigenous REALITY whatsoever. I want to
expose the beauty I saw. The old women I hung out
with, their connectedness to the red dirt and all
those different trees and grasses and animals and
- oh it sounds so cheesy, but cant you see the
songs they sing in their eyes?

Over the years the media has presented the world

with this noble, mysterious image of the African
form and culture and eventually many people have
accepted its beauty and wonder as integral. I
wonder if the same could happen in Australia? It
seems so supercial that something could change
through the changing of an image. Look around - I
guess this is a kinda supercial world out here
on the rim. I AM SO ANGRY at the government of
this country; its impossible to write something
like this without venting my anger. Im angry that
so few of the relevant politicians even BEGIN
to understand ANYTHING of the realities of the
legislation they impose on a people they understand
less. AHHHH! We spent a year living and working
with people and thinking of little else and are
still completely perplexed! This old lady very dear
to my heart used to say, get wild for instead of
get angry at. Well I feel a wild hurricane in
my head when I try to think of the real reasons
why the government is doing what it is doing to
aboriginal people in the slimy, sinister way it
does. Big story. Tjukurpa pulka!
Today I went to a health centre in Melbournes
eastern suburbs. I noticed healthy people in the
waiting room all around me wearing nice, clean
clothes, chatting or politely reading magazines.
The contrast to the clinic or kiliniki in the
community where I lived (population around ve
hundred) is so huge... the clinic was always a
desperate scene, hideously overworked, stressed
out, under trained (in cultural issues), under
staffed in nurses and with only the occasional
doctor working through an endless stream of
patients (ngaltutjara tjuta - many deserving of
sympathy), each with multiple problems, haplessly

slapping band-aids on a wound that it seems will

never heal. A wound that manifests in so many
horrible ways...
I think that type 2 diabetes is the main health
problem in Anangu - with adults mainly. Its
cause is so blatant in the foods that they
eat, there may as well be a conveyor belt
from the food store to the clinic. Loaves
upon loaves of high GI white bread, litres of
Coca-Cola, all kinds of lollies, packets of
dry biscuits dipped in billy tea made with
cups of sugar for breakfast! Madness to watch
for anyone with a vague understanding of the
nature of carbohydrates. It would be easy to
blame them for their own habits, but when you
witness the choices they have in the stores
(and for that matter the choices we have in OUR
stores)... Choices are there, but expensive
and unattractive next to the sugar packaged in
a hundred forms, blinking bright colours from
every aisle corner.
A lack of education is, of course, the other
main contributor. There is such a base of
knowledge required to understand WHY certain
foods are good or bad. People can be told
something repeatedly, in any situation, but
if they dont understand WHY, will it ever hit
home? That base information in this scenario is
stuff that many of us grow up with inherently;
we dont even have to try and learn it, for it
is within our cultural knowledge already. That
sweet, sweet sugar has become the devil in my
mind! It makes sense when you see the gleeful
honey-lust of the women digging great pits in
the earth in search of tjala (honey ants)...

Only eighty years ago this one luscious, sticky treat

was a delicacy sipped on by children who stored and
carried it for days on their heads, the honey soaked
in a special grass. Now they buy Nutella by the jar
for afternoon tea. In Ernabella it comes sold with a
spoon.
There are currently no dialysis units in the Anangu
Pitjantjatjara lands, nor plans or funds for their
installation. The many people who have progressed to
that stage of diabetes are forced to reside in Alice
Springs (ve hundred kilometres away) so they can
have their blood cleansed three or four times weekly.
They risk their lives to attend important cultural
events back on the lands. They are homesick all the
time. Ngaltutjara.

My friends, the women who work in the arts centre,

have THE most amazing ability to laugh at life,
despite the daily hardships they face. INCREDIBLE to
hear the sweet cackles echoing through the work room
in the mornings. As I gained an understanding of the
language, Pitjantjatjara, and realised the kinds of
things the women were laughing about, those barriers
of fear and distance were destroyed. Little things! I
remember them all cracking up for hours relaying the
story of when Nungalka went on a plane to Edinburgh
and they got her pet dog Whitey on the phone to her
and he wouldnt stop howling at the sound of her
voice! It is such a very simple concept, that laughter
crosses all cultural boundaries, but one that gave me
no end of joy! It was a like a relief... Sometimes I
would see things happen that were so far outside the
realms of what I culturally believe to be NORMAL or
GOOD, things that took crazy energy to understand. But
when we laughed, all melted and we were one people!
After getting over the fact we had funny hair and
didnt always wear shoes like most of the good
Christian whitefellas who had been friends to Anangu
in the past, Duncan and I really developed this whole
humour with the women all of our own. I think they
could see that we didnt always do things the proper
whitefella way, but that it wasnt because we were
bad, only different. I THINK they identied. Together
in the city we were like a bunch of giggling school
children!
As a pastime and extra money spinner (using skills
developed over thousands of years) the women make
beautiful baskets out of native grass (tjanpi).
Once, we were in the carpark of the National Museum

of Canberra after a dance performance. Daisy

(a nationally renowned batik artist since the
1970s) spotted some long native grasses,
obviously specially planted there as part of a
native landscape garden. Beth! Nyawa! Tjanpi
wiru ngangatja! (Beth look over there at that
good grass) she said with that glint in her eye.
We knew what they were thinking. I said if anyone
stopped us that I would argue the womens case
that they had slightly more right to that grass
than anyone else did! So we commando mission-ed
it with the speed of sixty year old diabetics and
gathered the bounty like we were free under the
desert sun. The younger women hid their heads in
shame and in ts of laughter!
I hope you can see the collective strength in
the eyes of these images. Far away from that
raging chaos and the deserts gentle sunset
light, those eyes give me hope and inspiration to
return. There needs to be an ENORMOUS shift in
the mind of Australia to urge the government to
get serious about indigenous health and standards
of living. To go about it in appropriate ways,
to give real strength, knowledge and training to
people who can manage their own communities. To
place indigenous needs over the needs of mining
companies and beaurocratic ease. To continue to
expose the shame of what has happened in the past
and try to heal that.
Will Australia continue to avoid this incredible
cultural entity in order to avoid its guilt?

Please have respect for

these images. We have
been granted special
permission to use them however taken out of the
context of this article
that no longer applies.
WANTI! (leave it!)
- beth

The Future Cities Project

Blink.
Blink again.
The world changes.
The future approaches. What are you up to next week?
What will your life look like in a years time? How about 50?
The Future Cities Project is an exercise in intelligent dreaming. Scientic opinion irts with imagination and
speculation to create a series of startling visions and intriguing possible future worlds. Each year at our Future
Cities Forum at the Melbourne Museum, leading environmental thinkers and futurists come together with writers and illustrators to play and to dream.

They will teach you about the taste of an apple in 2055. They will pluck you out of peak-hour trafc and lead
you fruit-picking down a tree-lined alleyway in inner-city Melbourne. You will earn a living mining metal from
junked-up cars. They will help you pack up your beautiful coastal home and ee inland as the poles melt and
the tide rises.
The results from these collaborations over the last three years include audio les; transcripts; stories; illustrations; a DVD animation shown at ACMI and on the large screen at Federation Square and a large-scale sculptural installation that will soon be available on the Future Cities Project startingly beautiful, interactive website:
www.slf.org.au/futurecities
The Sustainable Living Foundation invites you to step into the future and join us in imagining an environmentally sustainable city 50 years from now....

Nepabunna to Adelaide
Joel Catchlove
25 July, 2004

I wake up three times during the day,

and each time I get a strange kind of
culture shock as we slip closer to urban
life. Every time I open my eyes, the
marks of white Australia increasingly
attempt to contain and control and dene
this space according to its own alien
geometries. It suddenly seems so pathetic,
our insistence on wedging our scraps of
ags onto new lands as if we could own
them. National colours suddenly casting
a microscopic shadow over the vastness
of these landforms which have formed
the essence of cultural and spiritual
existence for tens of thousands of years,
dividing it up with wood and wire and
attempting to reshape and contain these
great mysteries of stone and earth in
words we understand.

The pathless scrub of the Ranges

is softened into elds, sprinkled
with the crumbling stone squares of
forgotten pioneers and colonial
chimneys and the splintered hills
beyond, while falling into shadow,
remain. The paddocks take on an
articial neon green, chewed by
sheep and violent against the ochres
and soft grey-green of the bushland
beyond. The brown square signs of
Historic Sites spring up with greater
frequency, in all their reective
glory, marking in their clean
uniform typeface bridges and train
tracks which have been marking the
landscape for a whole one-hundredand-fty years. And alongside them,
small hand-painted squares on the
hillsides reminding us that theres
no camping...

We stop at Port Wakeeld. Lone young

eucalypts concreted into the gravel
shoulder of the highway shiver in the
yellow neon of the petrol station,
rattling dryly in the passing thunder
of a road train. Then the bleak rainbow
of exploding pristine night time
roadhouses gives way to the glowing
plastic globes of hamburger joints and
beer billboards. Even Roxby Downs,
despite the globalised absurdity of
its mown grass and shopping mall chain
stores, was somehow softened by the
knowledge that it was surrounded by
hundreds of kilometres of red sand.

Finally we stand, feeling a little

lost in a carpark in the South of the
city. Dark puddles shimmer and catch
the occasional light of a broken
street light and we look up through
dark hotel balconies and silent
Sunday-night ofce windows and the
sky is starless again, black-orange
with the lights of the city losing
themselves in the clouds. Its vastness
reshaped by the edges of billboards
and ofce blocks.

Its ok, says Katherine, I think we

can carry the desert with us, yknow. I
think we can. I think I heard a bowerbird
before, so its ok.

God is awesome. pronounced the street preacher through his

mobile P.A. system
A suburban witch wanders past wearing a knitted pentagram
jumper. Datafeed on the screen above says Hicks trial will be
unfair/Bush hits campaign trail under re.
A white busker plays didgeridoo further down the mall, it
echoes against the hollow mountains of commerce toward us.
He continues:
Religious leaders of that time put down Jesus because he
challenged them! His ideas were revolutionary then, and they
still are today!
<Be Here Now> beams the advertising slogan for mobile
phones on the passing tram.
To get to heaven we must know God.
The crowd waiting for their tram half listens, bemused,
intrigued, annoyed
I get the urge to go to my knees in front of him, praying in
theatrical farce.
He continues:
Whats wrong with Buddhism? There is only one God! Only
one Jesus!
The Nike palace dwarfs us with its logo and the huge
anonymous face of a model and her cheekbones. She is Big
Sister watching you

by tim_parish

He continues:
Some people think were all brainwashed! As a Christian,
yes! Im brainwashed into believing Jesus is the way! An
atheist is brainwashed too. An agnostic is brainwashed into
spiritual apathy..
Now my imagination is bowing, kissing the ground in front
of him, speaking in tongues, inspired by his sermon
He continues:
If you went to the desert for ve years too, you wouldnt be
able to ignore how wrong this world is!
An hindu family passes with bags from Myer. Pidgeons eat
the crumbs of pastry at my feet. Australian ags wave to
us in the wind which blows through the valley of glass and
steel, sweeping leaves fallen under autumns spell..
He continues:
When you die, all God wants to know is: did you believe?
A young man with an afro and small glasses passing asks:
What does God think of Muslims?
He loves them very much. Replies the preacher.
Another passerby, chinese in blue I.T. uniform and mirrored
sunglasses yells Sataaan!!! holding up his index and little
ngers in the air.. I wonder if knows this is the sign of Pan?
Coopted by a church needing a devil.
He continues:
This book is irrefutable!

The big television above us is selling us televisions now.

It says Life is Good. I feel better knowing that.
He continues:
The Anti-Christ will place his mark on every person,
and you will not be able to buy or sell anything without
that mark. He is talking about barcodes now.. I wonder
if hes heard of the new biometric passports the US
government is bringing in to increase security. Control.
He continues:
The Beast will be a computer chip in your body!
The people at the tram stop are texting each other,
talking on their phones to people anywhere but here.
Animals walk past on the screen for an RSPCA advert.
He continues:
Jesus is not a swear word.
The Body Shop promotes Hemp Oil behind him, I read
that they copped a lot of ack for promoting drugs in the
media
He continues:
You go to a newsagency today and you can nd
magazines on witchcraft! On Paganism! It is beginning
to be accepted! But it is celebrating the creation, rather
than the creator! Its like science

Anti-war activists have a stall close by, they are signing

petitions against the occupation, but we all voted with
our feet before the war. I wonder what difference more
signatures will make?
He continues:
I studied physics a few years ago, and the more we know
about quantum mechanics, the less we know about what is
truly going on. There universes of complexity beyond what
we can see.
Teenage punks with skateboards and spiky hair smoke cheap
cigarettes, and laugh, but they are listening.
He continues:
God said homosexuality is a sin. If you want to argue with
that, I dont care, because I am at peace with the truth..
Doctors say nothing is wrong with homosexuality, but
there is something wrong with deformities. Does that make
it right? God made a natural order of things, it must be
obeyed..
A middle aged white man walks forward from the loitering
crowd to shake his hand. Good Work Son. Then leaves
with his Philipino wife. On the screen I see the text:
<Weather Proudly Sponsored By>
He continues:
Its not about joining a church people! It is just about
believing in Jesus Christ! He becomes your friend! He
becomes your friend!

A feral babe with piercings and a taoist tattoo is reading a book

on magical realism.
Two drunks, UDLs in hand, amble towards the pulpit, at rst
they seem angry, but rest silently bemused on the steps next to
him, entertained.
He continues:
Right now, millions of Africans have heard the word and joined
the Church of Jesus Christ The same thing has happened in
China.
Police cruise past slowly likes sharks, surveying the scene.
He continues:
Were good at building empires, but the kingdom of God will
never change.
Behind me a steady stream of people have been peering into
windows lled with gold and diamonds. They stare transxed at
tiny symbols of wealth, what do they see in them that I cannot I
wonder?
He continues:
Theres no cancer in heaven! No war in heaven! No psychiatric
problems in heaven!
A Polynesian girl walking unimpressed with his description asks:
What about the good things in heaven?
Is there whiskey in heaven? asks the drunks.

A hippy guy with a colourful scarf jumps onto the platform

behind and dances like a fruit loop before skipping joyously
away..
He continues, oblivious:
Youre not going to get born again by going to yoga,
or learning meditation. There is only one way to receive
enlightenment.
The tram arrives, people inside look out like alien tourists.
He continues as I leave:

God is an awesome God!

In April of this autumn just gone, four friends went on a

journey. We became pilgrims; walking for three weeks,
all the way along the river in Melbourne where we were
born and have always lived. We followed the length of the
Yarra, following the bends of what once was known as
Birrarung, the river of mists, from the sea to the source. It
was a timeless, magical journey where I experienced the
transformative power of this land that is my home, and as I
saw the love people have for it.
To make this journey possible required the help and
goodwill of hundreds of people; we had to gain permission
to pass through private land, and to stay on Parks Victoria
land. We stayed on an island, a city farm, and received
generously hospitality from many many people, who warmly
responded to the story of pilgrimage through their home.
We met up with schoolchildren who came and walked with
us, mayors of riverside municipalities came and greeted us
on the riverbanks, and local natural historians taught us of
the ecological gems of the Yarra.

river pilgrims

by maya ward

To walk ones waterway is an ancient notion in many cultures. Rivers

were natural places of pilgrimage where earth energies gathered
and owed along with the water, where there was food and drink,
where there was a clear and unmistakable pathway through the land
that told of many things. Rivers also play a prominent role in the
environmental philosophy of bio-regionalism, which uses the symbol
of the river catchment to communicate ecological responsibility
(what happens upstream affects those downstream - we are all
connected by the river). Bio-regionalism encourages creative
exploration of our place, as an effective way to ignite deep, even
reverential, knowledge of our natural environment, its ecologies,
histories and inhabitants. So, a pilgrimage along the Yarra was an
idea whose time was ripe.

A local historian, Mick Woiwod, says that the last time such a walk along the Yarra was done may have been by
the Wurundjeri, the Aboriginal people of this place. The Yarra is known to be a songline, a path through the
landscape thousands of years in age, that was mapped, culturally communicated and celebrated, through song.
Our travelling this route for the rst time in well over a hundred years was for us a gesture of reconciliation and
respect for the Wurudjeri. We wanted to honour the ways this land was experienced by the rst peoples, who
were deeply at home in this place and who had profound understanding of the beings they shared it with. As
we left the bay at our launch, a Wurundjeri woman, Tammy Cappochi was there and she asked that the spirits
of the ancestors walk with us. This was a precious gift, and so as we walked we held this in mind; as we visited
places of massacre and deceit, we apologised, we bore witness.

We had permission to walk all the way along the river, except for one
signicant place. Melbourne Water have responsibility for the area of the
Upper Yarra Dam, the main water supply for Melbourne, and although
they appreciated the spirit of our pilgrimage, they were concerned not to
set a precedent or jeopardize the cleanliness of the water supply. So we
did what we swore we would not do, we got in a car and drove around the
valley, to access the headwaters from the other side, by going from the
top down.

When walking to the source from Mt Baw Baw on the last day of our pilgrimage we had a long way
to go. We realised that we did not have time to get to the source we had thought was the longest
tributary of the Yarra, but we kept walking until it was the time when we had to turn around in
order to get back to camp safely. And at that moment we found ourselves at a logging coup, a huge
area of ghastly destruction, still smoking from the burnoff. Yesterday we had been in the ominous
smoke of this re we were worried about bushres, yet we never thought for a moment that we
would come across logging in the water catchment, freshly destroyed, just as the pilgrims arrive.
Oh Melbourne Water, with all your rhetoric about keeping the catchment pure, not allowing us
in, in case we pollute the water supply; here we nd the ash that just yesterday was tall mountain
forest; here at our source we nd destruction.
Until that moment I had held in my mind the romantic notion of the river path as
my whole and beautiful world. Now I was forced to confront a deeper truth, the full
complex reality of this time I live within. I think of the log book that we were carrying
with us, full of goodwill messages collected from all the people of the river, all wishing
us well in nding the source. I think of the love and generosity we encountered all
along the journey, from people and from the land, of how our journey enchanted
all sorts of people and afrmed how connected we all are. I realize this has given
me strength to bare witness to this betrayal of our natural heritage. The time of the
pilgrimage, walking all day for three weeks beside a river gave me the lived experience
of the sacredness of land. Yet how can people, daily surrounded by the violation of
the natural world, in this crazy time, really know, or allow themselves to wonder at
another, deeper reality?
But the story doesnt end there. There are countless sources, many trickles of
water running off the mountains combine to make our river. So on our return to
camp we visit another source, this one a perfect ampitheatre of myrtle beech and
snow gums, a soft carpet of moss underfoot with a clear stream of sweet water
spilling up from the earth. There, at sunset, in that place of exquisite beauty, as we
lay exhausted in the gentle moss, the journey was completed; we had walked to the
source, we had arrived home, and it was more precious than anything I had known.
I am inspired by the potential for an inclusive activism of re-enchantment, an activism of love.
One that taps into the ancient stories of this land and makes them live again.
We are only beginning the wonderful journey of learning from the land, of nding our way home.
May we all travel together.

does the ocean believe us?

City of Angels by Mei Lai Swan

she slips onto the train

as it slips out of the station
sits down by the door
where she cant see her reection
in the window opposite
next station siam square
a woman, ared jeans and rampant hair
plugged into
walkman littering the air
with an indecipherable hum
gets up, hovers coolly by the door
siam, siam
is gone
remembered only by cats
whose tails are mysteriously severed
in the back lanes
are rabid dogs
and indifferent men pushing carts
piled high with brooms, buckets, mats, refuse
ringing their
bells, bored and weary
and she wonders if they sweat
in the midday heat
as they wander in search of a sale
if these people are friendly
they seldom
smile
the suit with the phone yells abuse down the line its meaning clear in any language and the woman on the footbridge
holds a 7-11 cup for some change
her kid curled
up at the other end
asleep
bare from waist up, thighs down
seeking escape
from the desperation
tiny ngers still clutching at plastic cup
the streets reek of dog piss and rot
and the front
page of the paper
reveals the discovery
of
shreds of human esh
in the septic tank of a hotel
where a doctor ushed his estranged wife
down the toilet,
disposing of the evidence
downtown is full of trendies wearing practiced
expressions
of aloofness and ambivalence
expressions of their entrance into the modern world
where its all
shop-and-consume, baby
and she wonders how long its been
since these video-clip youth abandoned paddy elds
to search for a better life
in the concrete labyrinth of the city of the angels
shes on the midnight train
her stop is the end of the line
she considers
her reection in the glass of the door
waiting for it to slide
open
even now the streets are alive
with people and trafc sleepwalkers and escapees she
steps onto the platform
and vanishes
in the crowd

Monkey Tales: Yellow

by Rak Razam

Blues heart pounded in time to the 4/4 beat of the

drummers, the power strips on her piezio-electrical Monster Bootz smearing like a streak of sheet
lightning along the potholed surface of the hill. The
Monster Bootz rechannelled the kinetic NRG of the
walker to power the hardware of their environmental suits, adjusting temperature and running water
pumps that sent moisture and urine back through
micro-lters, making it safe to drink.
Up above the night sky was lit up in a ery red blanket by the aurora borealis lightshow, silhouettes of
old style satellite dishes, micro-windmills and antennas hanging off the back of yellow frosted solartekd
cars, buses and vans arranged in a tight circle down
by Lake Ozora, deep in the Hungarian ravebelt.
Rows of golden teepees and dome tents dotted the
landscape, cooking smoke rising up in little tufts from
the makeshift village below.
To the left a dozen Doofers were busy inating the
giant party Dome, swarming around like a hive of
phosphorescent bees as the shelter slowly inated
and mushroomed to life, interlocking plates of
aerogel honeycombed across its golden geodesic
surface. Red had told her that clear aerogel was
made on the orbiting space stations in zero gravity;
the cheaper stuff was made planetside and took on a
coloured tint due to impurities in the casting process
. Both kinds were only ve times as heavy as air,
tuffer than kevlar and as malleable as a gel. Protected in the Domez micro-climate, the Trybe was able
to party in any weather conditions, and Gaia knows
you needed that kinda protection these dayz, what
with global warming and the superstormsnall...

A group of Reds were sitting in lotus position down on the dusty earth by the bonre, passing the peace pipe around
and watching her Yello intensely, nodding at his words.
Brothers and sisters of the Sun, every eleven years when the Red Skies come, we return to our birthing place, where
the Trybe roosts. And what a long, strange tryp its been, ya? In the old dayz it wasnt like this much, yknow. Maybe
only on week-ends. In some places they didnt even have outdoor parties. I mean, can you believe it, sayz? I was
conceived by doof! he joked, running a hand across his shaved yello head and grinning broadly.
MIX it up, Yello! she sang out, and everyone laughed, even the Reds. He winked at her and standing there all strong
and handsome like, in that moment she knew he was the one.

Okay. Listen hard, trybe-mates, to the tale of the 100th Monkey. It begins in the primordial times, with Bedlam, with
madness and with form. The clan was a large family of musicians and artists, tekmagicians and phreaks who grokked
the music and the free party vibe. Then the POLS passed the Criminal Justice Act, this was way back, ya, when they
put little laws on things that werent theirs to rule. Like putting a law on the sun, or the rain, or the dance.

The Criminal Justice Act gave an excuse for the bully-boyz in blue to attack us Gypsies and travellers, our gatherings, even outlawing musik wholly or predominantly characterised by a succession of repetitive beats. He
frowned as he concentrated on the lines the Reds had taught him for the commencement ceremony, thrown off by
his beautiful Blue rave-mate irting at him from across the circle, re light falling across her face.
He smiled and continued: Which is when the Exodus to the Promised Land began. The Bedlam rig mobilized and
left England and began to throw open-air teknivals in Europe, spreading the party vibe. And Bedlam begat Okupe
in France, who begat Psychiatrik, who begat Lego in Austria, who begat Pong. And Pong, in Germany, begat Kamikazi, in Holland, and Mononom, and back in old England the Spiral Trybe formed. Some of these crews ventured into the Eastern Blok, until the parties crossed the land, strengthening the Trybal bonds.

Around him the drumming was building into a tattoo, melting into a
low bass drone to underscore his speech.
Back then, when they had History, I heard tell of this crew called
the Assassins, ya? They founded a network separated by thousands of miles, strategically invulnerable to invasion, connected by
the inphomation ow of secret agents, at war with all governments
and devoted only to know-ledge. Now we travel Europe like these
assassins of old, trading inphomation, putting on parties, living the
good life, till the POLS chase us out or we ght em off.
Last time the Sun ared up in Her cycle She burned out a lot of
the Suits satellites and power grids, seriously fucked shit up, ya.
But She also powers our Yello tek, which has brought us together
to party, to give thanks and to dance. So were gonna party hard
for Her, ya, give it all weve got. This is your season. Mix it up! he
shouted, and a cheer went out from the crowd as they rose to their
feet and raced towards the party-Dome.
Blue jumped at Yello and wrapped her long legs around his waist,
nipped in and brushed her blue lips against his yello skin.
Good Telling, Yello, she said, raising a nger to the data-bindi on
her forehead, indicating she wanted to talk to him on their private
bandwith. Their ears popped as their i-mode implants phased on
with a silent hsss and she kissed him long and hard, minds racing
together, melting into the staccoto space between beatz.

<Why do green things

reach for the Sun?>
she pulsed at him, drowning in the kiss, in the drumming and the red skies and the smell
of his sweat and the colour of his eyes, yello, her Yello.
<Because She nurtures and destroys> Yello pulsed back.
And the Silent Dancing began...

mr history

by jonathon carmichael

4:35 PM the end of slavery is approaching for the day

I get in my door about six, that fuck in the apartment next door just
gave me that look again. Sit down, contemplate my next move that is
obviously related to food.
Buy it, cook it, not eat, go to a friends house and eat their mothers
cooking.
Someone is at the door, I can hear them marauding out the front of
my apartment, the door is open, I shout and Mr. History enters.
He sits on the couch, reaches in his bag and pulls out his mix bowl,
scissors and a bag of Chiba.
Well, a three-course meal has arrived for someone. Mr. History
always affects me but never really addresses me directly.
Chop, chop, chop, burp, chop.
I will take this slight interruption and delay to intelligence as an
opportunity to recite a parable.
Ok, well I live in some shitty part of Melbourne in a three-story
apartment block that is always on the verge of collapsing or
becoming a public health crisis. The residents all have some kind
of ducted heating unit that is linked and does not heat or cool but
simply blows, no matter what the temperature. Now we also have a
notice board on the bottom oor for complaints and suggestions, not
that there is any serious statement on it just:

FUCK YOU ALL

BOB your hair is so shit and you better stop seeing my wife or you are existence
zero.
Aids is what the Christian refer to as Karma
S11-M1
God came for you, love him and receive eternal life. Obviously this notice reads
something like this after a day, God came on you, fuck him and receive eternal
fellatio.
Anyway there is one complaint that keeps getting posted that reads Miss Shefeld
can you please stop burning your eggs at 6: 45 in the morning, we can all smell
it through the air vents. So, my point is that the smells from one apartment get
ltered in to all the other apartments.
Chop chop.
So what I am interested in is the fact that Mr. History has been smoking cones in
my apartment three times a week and no one complains. I am curious about this.
Now to me the smell has become a coat of paint on the walls and it ceases to affect
me, but it travels straight into the duct and on into the other apartments. Why does
no one complain? Eggs are not contraband. Well I assert that all these old fogies,
single mums and hermits enjoy their satanic x. It serves the purpose of there
weekly insurrection, they just have to turn a blind eye and let others do the wrong
things. They enjoy it, knowing that it reects their wrong doings by not making it
a conscious problem. Lying back on the couch reconstructing their own hippie hey
day, or dream they are a policeman trying to solve the case of the mysterious drug
user in the mist.
Mr. Historys hobby is an insightful mystery that allows all the residents in the
apartment block to take on another personality. They gain gratication and escape
through the dream machine that Mr. History creates/incites. It is their exile from
television, where they can rediscover conscious dreaming, travelling through vistas
of mystic thought. Explore their internal landscape. Avert their daily suppression.
The suppression by things like television, which controlled and dictated their, so
called escape. Your Oz is programmed. Multi-national media corporations dictate
the light in the box. They only give a shit about getting you to buy shit that you

cant use, and cant t on top of the other shit you dont use.
RECIPE TO ENLIGHTEMENT IN THE MODERN WORLD
Chop chop the bong is under the tap
So this I believe is why the cops are never kicking down my door. Mr.
History provides all these people with a chance to remember or construct a
life outside the walls that they are so often entrapped in. Even if they have
jobs this is a city, a city of walls.
Mr. History passes me a bong and I blow the stagnant smoke straight up
into the vent.
I did have a television, and I did like to turn it on sometimes. Until some
fuck once said, you know, I can x the problem with the colour, and low
and behold the revelation arrivedit never worked again.
Mr. History asserts that all of reality is a simulation and if he wished he could
turn me into a piece of cheese.
Obviously it is not that easy I say, or you would never be dry and smoking
shit Chiba here 24/7. But rather be doing lines of cocaine in a eld with your
Playstation 2 surrounded by naked women.
Well, back to my food. I would like to cook something but I have no recipes.
I watch people slaving over a meal; sometimes these cooks think they are
fucking artists. I wish I were right now, too.
Smoke drifts up to the vent.
Oh, I lie, I have one recipe that my ex-girlfriend left on the fridge as told
me she was never coming back and I should seek counselling for my
unexplainable social psychosis.
The recipe reads:

10 PARTS UN-QUESTIONABLE LOVE

AQUIRE A CAT (note: I had a cat once and it just followed me around
all day waiting for me to propose to it)
A LITLE DRUG USE TO SUPRESS THE EGO
RESPECT FOR NATURE
SPACE FOR THE SOUL TO DEVELOP
FRENDSHIP TO STIMILATE THE INNER BEING
BOOKS TO DEVELOP THE INTELLECT
EXERCISE
GIVING ALL YOU HAVE TO OTHERS (note: how the fuck do I keep
or feed my cat if I have to give it away)
PLANT A TREE ONCE A YEAR
OWN CRYSTALS TO WARD OFF EVIL VIBES
ONLY EAT MEAT WHEN YOUR MOTHER COOKS IT FOR YOU
(polite respect, I think)
If I could cook this shit I most denitely could not stomach it.
Mr. History is so stoned now he is talking to himself as usual. I have
noted that the bong is a source of empowerment to a lot of people, not
the Chiba but the bong, it is a stand in microphone. The subject just
feels that they can ll the room with their conversation of the most
obscure themes. They just sit there with the bong in one hand, lighter
in the other and talk utter shit. This can occur for up to twenty minutes
until someone says shut the fuck up and pull your cone.
Mr. History is doing this right now, but I am used to it. It is what
he does. He is My Television and others eeting freedom. Like I
said, he never really talks to me but to some hypothetical collective
conscience that it appears, he believes, is publishing his every word for
Uni students to analyse for its obvious brilliance.

I have noted that the bong is a source of empowerment to a lot of people...

Im sure that you have guessed that Mr. History is unemployed. He once had
a job packing shelves at Safeway, but they red him when they found him
masturbating in the cold freezer. Why do I put up with him? Well he has never
insulted me, never threatened me and he of course provides all the drugs. His
pastime is to talk absolute shit, and since I know this, I believe it to be the basis
of most friendships. Neither partner understands that they are just both talking
shit, but when one does the friendship ends or one partner becomes the others
subject. Therefore, I do not really believe I have a basis to throw Mr. History
out of my life...yet anyway.
Oh shit the kettle is boiling over. Mr. History is reading Cosmo out loud.

Mr. History is screaming as he receives techno-erotic pleasure from a

Wetware virus. He believes that the virus is planning to propagate his
son, to penetrate and crash the Microsoft web page. He will probably
take down Hotmail while he is there.
It is quite obvious to me at this point as I watch my newly acquired
television that someone has activated an economically motivated
apocalypse media virus.
Cause and effect...I tell you.
Int. Melbourne. Three-story apartment block. Day.

Cyber-sex is healthy, and why

Look like this
Watch this
He must do this...or he is out
It is normal to gain pleasure from things like that
Buy this
Apply this twice daily
Eat this, not that
Spotlight on success

Mr. History looks over at his friend who is eating a Four-and-TwentyPie and starring down at the cars going past on the street below.
Then Mr. History slowly tilts his head up and blows smoke up into
the vent. Our protagonist look up from the window and turns to Mr.
History.
Protagonist
I imagine there is an UN-free world somewhere, where people can
discuss things freely.

Mr. History is on the Internet now, downloading his consciousness. Then he

is uploading his DNA to a representative of the multinational conglomerate of
discursive oppression. PTY LTD, who send him an E-email that reads;
FADE TO BLACK
You are of no use to us
We estimate that you will die of a heart attack at age 49
Have a nice day

hey Newstart, thanks for the good times

Callum Scott

its not a great main street

in fact its awful
KFC, Mackers, Safeway, Banks, Smoko Shops,
Bakers Delight, Pokie Pubs
the usual array of muck.
somebody called me a faggot yesterday
as I walked down the main street.
nobody seemed to mind
not even me
with my bag slung over my shoulder
and a bottle of red in my step.
teenagers they were
a carload of them
in faultless leisure wear
fresh from the Centrelink elds of ambition.
putting your form in is a full-time job these days
ask my mate Johnno
were never nished lling in forms
queuing for hours
and pleading our case.

I thought about getting a job

on the main street, maybe in KFC
you never know
but Id have to walk down the main street every day
and breathe in pre-oxidised $2 gifts.
I wouldnt like that, neither would my mate Johnno
we like being on the Sausage
ducking and diving, dodging and weaving
bit of this, bit of that, bit of the other
going to the main street once a fortnight
to do our business.
if Centrelink had a bar we might come down more often
but thats just a pipe dream I have
when Im walking down the main street of Werribee.

wind currents
An Interview with Peter Adams
By Paul I J Oosting

Windgrove at Roaring Beach on the Tasman Peninsula,

Tasmania is a powerful, magical place, deeply infused
with the sacred. For many Windgrove is a place of refuge,
inspiration and dialogue with the earth. Peter Adams is
the founder and director of the Windgrove Centre where
he has lived and worked for the last twelve years, his
work is extensive, as a sculptor, writer and activist.

Can you give me an introduction to what Windgrove is?

PA>
What have I called Windgrove? I see it as a refuge, in the sense that when
people come here they nd a place where they can do their work while being nurtured
and looked after. They can be re-inspired, nd their strength again, nd their courage
again, to go back out to that other world to carry on with their activist lifestyles.
Windgrove is also about using art as a way of showing our human relationship to the rest
of the world and show how we are connected to her.
We often think of tribalism as just about humans, whereas I can see Windgrove is trying
to set up a tribe here as well. It might not just be a group of humans it can be the trees
and the air, the water. Its all part of our family and we are all in this tribe together. So,
in a way Windgrove is trying to live a life that moves beyond our humanness to connect
with the rest, the greater tribe.
So what do you see as the importance of tribalism now?
PA>
The greater sense of tribalism is important because presently our society
seems to be fractured with a very low sense of community. Very low. So how do we
rebuild communities again so that we can come together to sing, to pray, to grieve, to
work together? It is when we are doing that as a group I think we are much happier as
individuals and we can support each other. Then when we are having difculty, you
know, you go to the city, you have your big house, then youve got your neighbours who
are on the other side of a wall, a fence. Is that a real neighbour? I dont think so.
How have you created such an amazing atmosphere for people to relate to the earth
around us here, the air the ocean, the animals, the trees?
PA>
By immersing myself into this landscape it has to have had an inuence upon
me, it just does. You cannot help but be here for twelve years and not somehow begin
to speak the language of the land and learn in a way to reciprocate with what it is telling
you. You just get this nice relationship going. So, different days bring different music,
and like yesterday - I hurt myself surng. I dont see it as bad, it is just one of those
days, its just what the land had in store for me. So, its not like we can look upon this
landscape as benign or innocent, or just lovely, it has its wild side and I think that it
is really important that humans get in touch with that wildness within themselves and

within the rest of the world and not try and tame or domesticate it. So, I would much
prefer living here than on the other side of the peninsula where there are no waves - it is
sort of beautiful, but it is calm. I dont want a calm life so I would take my chances that
I will survive living here long enough to enjoy the different extremes and that inuences
my work.
So when I carve, well it is more than just carving. What I am trying to do, the work, you
could say its sculpture, you could say it is giving out the Windgrove peace award. It is
making benches, it is trying to do activist work in a way I feel I am capable of, like last
year doing the parliament house vigil or the Wrest Point Casino protest over Forestry
Tasmanias sponsorship of Ten Days on the Island or the forest rallies. Thats all the
work in a sense. Then how we eat here, allowing David Abram to come here, allowing
a drumming workshop to happen here. Involving the local community for pizza nights,
music and working on the structures here and at Roaring Beach. It is trying to bring a
sense of human tribal-ness back to the land as well as honouring everything that is here
and healing it, because this was former sheep country. By planting a tree for every day
that Im here, thats another act, another bit of the work Im trying to do.

Tell me about the benches you have sculpted and strategically placed around the area.
PA>
There were twelve, Im now down to ten because two started to rot, but Ill try to keep
them up to twelve or fourteen. They act like stations where youll walk and come upon a bench, sit
down, rest and at the same time meditate on where youre at in the landscape and what feelings are
coming to you. Just listening to whats out there. Seeing whats there, talking perhaps to a person
who might be with you on that little two kilometre journey. So again, it is how I use my art, my
skills to create an ambience for dialogue.
What I like about the benches is that when you sit on one and someone sits on the same bench you
are connecting yourself physically. That makes a connection between two humans, which is why I
have chosen benches it helps create dialogue.

How would you like to see Windgrove change, evolve, say 20 years down the track?
PA>
I would like to see more people be able to experience this. So for me in the next
ten years what I hope to have set up is little residency cabins where four people, in different
elds can come here and spend a month or two months hanging out. Whether they are a
musician or a scientist, a writer, an artist, it doesnt matter as along as their professional life
is geared towards giving us all a better understanding of the ecology of the earth. So, if I
could afford to have them come, house them, feed them, I think that is a proper role for this
place.
Im supporting the professional side of activism because I think we need those skills, it is
not enough just to have good heart. You actually have to have skills that take time to learn,
so that we can design eco-friendly buildings, create the legislation of more tolerance, invent
the biodegradable plastic bags and we can learn the skills to be good teachers or artists.
That takes time, dedication. So I am trying to encourage that here too, when people come.
Training. And training doesnt necessarily have to connote suffering; it can be a joyous path.
Especially when you know what you are learning will help serve humanity and the rest of
the world. That is a nice thing. You could be a yoga teacher or a marine biologist, an airline
pilot even, you can do things with skill that you might not be able to do if youre just young
and full of energy. I think if helps change peoples minds if they see you have a certain level
of talent, discipline, they will naturally respect that.
Also with ego, balance the more aggressive parts of your ego with humility. So that we
can use the strength of ego to stand up as an individual against injustices. We might not
always have our tribe with us when we make a stand, so that is when ego, a good healthy
ego can be helpful. But we can also get judgmental, and that is where in this practice of
living respectfully on the earth we have to also deal with those people who might seem to be
doing the wrong thing. You still have to show them compassion because if we are all interconnected they are just as much a part of me as I am of them. And that is where forgiveness
is an important thing. These are all big tasks and it is not always going to be easy, but it
is always worth walking that path toward increasing ones forgiveness, increasing ones
compassion, increasing ones love for everything. And that includes horrible politicians - you
still have to nd some space in your heart for them. And, I think the more one can love you
can nd that space and still have even more love for those you feel deserve more love.

And, again, that is probably what Windgrove is about, it is to know that your practice is 24
hours a day, 7 days a week. You dont live the life of an environmentalist or social activist just
one day a week. Its not a 9-5 occupation. You have to embody all of those notions that you
are trying to teach others, literally walk your talk. I really like it. You become that much more
aware of everything that is around you and that is a great thing to happen.
Have you taken lessons from living here in Australia and particularly at Roaring Beach
from Aboriginal philosophies and understanding of the earth?
PA>
I cant say that Ive had direct contact with a lot of Aborigines, but having read about
their practices they do have a more intuitive and inner relationship with the land which comes
naturally to them, from their own religious practices and cultural practices which we in the west
seem to have lost contact with.
Looking back 200 years ago is probably when they were evicted from this area. But, before
that, man, they were here thousands of years. To be able to sense their presence would be nice.
I will look forward to the day when I am so in tune with the land I can pick up their residual
energies and be able to decipher them.
So I would probably say that I am trying to live a life like indigenous people might live on
the land. Not with the sense of using their housing technology for instance, I still have a nice
house, with a modern gas stove, a computer and email but I am trying to get more direct contact
with what is happening on this particular land, with the ora and fauna. Whether I have enough
time, who knows? You still go as far as you can.
Is that part of the importance of performing rituals, like how you spend some time each
day in the ocean?
PA>
I gave myself the 3 year, 3 month, 3 day commitment to see what could come of it,
what I might learn from it. Because, in a lot of our work, especially environmental work there
is a certain discipline required. It is just not always easy. There are those days when sure its
sunny, people around and you feel good, the air is pleasant on the skin. Then there are days that
are just plain hard, sleet is coming and youre lonely and youre sick. It is learning to be able to
experience all those and at the end still want to continue on, trying to do good for the earth.

How can we take lessons from Windgrove back to the city or suburbia?
PA>
Again, you have to allow in your life those times where you go out into the wild. It might
only be one week out of the year. You give yourself that time to touch base again to become familiar
with the real place. So when you are in the city you will have those memories of your time there
and through your imagination you can call back up your experiences. You know it is like a lot
of religion, people have pilgrimages to their holy shrines and it serves a purpose, they get back
in touch with their god or gods again. So, I see wild nature as a sacred temple. Humans have to
almost crawl on their knees through it, prostrate themselves to the trees and the other animals to
humble themselves and out of that they can then go back to the cities, healed as well as inspired and
encouraged to do the work necessary.
How do you think a dialogue with the earth will impact upon the human ecology?
PA>
To me, it can only help. If you can feel comfortable walking in the forest and communicate
and feel, then you can communicate and listen to the animals and learn respect and then you can
carry that forth to your human relationships. So if you walk through the city with respect for others
and humility and compassion, that will help cities stay functional and also joyful. Its not like you
have to walk around feeling you know, respectful but sad, you can still be respectful and glad.
Celebration. Celebration with respect for yourself, and others you dont abuse. Dont abuse what
is here on this earth. Im not saying abstain, dont abuse whats here on this earth just use it with
consideration. Just knowing, just use thing to make yourself aware. To be in the right relationship,
thats a Buddhist concept: right livelihood, right relationship.

For more information on Windgrove visit:

www.windgrove.com
Peters blog can be viewed at:
http://www.cobbers.com/pa/
Photos courtesy of Peter Adams.

Listen
by Cassie Tongue

point-click
type here, press the enter
key so loudly i can barely
hear the voices
screaming into mobile phones
(no one cares that dinners at
seven sharp and that hes
late again, that cad)
and i just want to
scream
rip the phone
from your ear
and throw it
into an espresso machine.
static hums and
confettis the air
and i think im forgetting
how to talk to someone
face-to-face
and even when i pull you away
to a silent place
and look in your eyes
i still hear the street and its
pitched, cellular shrillness
and i know
the roast is getting cold.

tim parish

she told me:

hes over it
but what?
art? the street? beauty? free space?
i dont believe it.
we go through dream, wakinglife, memory, inspiration...
maybe today he just wanted to read.
yesterday the world drank my ideas.
tomorrow, who knows?

if i was a leaf falling, i would land upon lovers kissing.

or sail upon the currencies of windspirit and see the landscape
from the neighbourhood of birds.
i would ride soundscapes,
and whisper
autumns
secrets
to the ground.

Deep within the parkland borders we nd a waterfall of naked playgrounds

where laughter conspires with young free radicals in love with her surrounds.
Wild animals aware of their domestication shed cloths of shield every chance
they get like wild escapees from civilisation.
Eco-tourists from suburbia intent on family rated sightseeing approach
shocked and embaressed by the sight, shielding their children from the honesty of esh, breast and pubic hair.

Later on they will complain to the park

ranger who will take down the details
diligently and then throw them away,
secretly wishing he could join them as
he sweats in khaki uniform.
tim parish

Monkey Tales:
Blue
Rak Razam

It was a kiss that could have gone on forever, if not for the
voices in their heads calling them to dance. Blue took a deep
breath of cold air, tiny white ecks of snow falling like aerie
lights against the red aurora night. She raised her face and
opened her mouth, tried to catch the akes on her tongue
before remembering it was acid snow, fallout from the old
dayz, back at the end of History.
<Cmon, Blue> Yello pulsed on their mental intranet, his
thoughts transmitted by the data- bindis on their foreheads.
His breath was warm on her skin and the smell of him was
so close she wanted to take him there, in the re-circle,
bump n grind and beast with two backs, and he knew it.
<I want you too, Blue, but its time, we cant put it off any
longer> he pulsed across their link, breaking their embrace.
<Its our party-season Yello and we can do whatever we
want> she snapped back, hugging herself against the cold.
<No. Now we have to dance> Yello pulsed.
They all did. Those who didnt partake had no place in the
Trybe. Like her mother, a Blue dancer before her. Shed had
her season, danced her dance and then left the Trybe, why,
Blue never knew. She couldnt imagine life outside the Trybe,
back in what was left of the world - it scared her, that big
unknown. They had all they needed here, the land beneath
them and the sky above, and the stars... What if she danced
and had her season, then wanted to leave as well? What
then? she panicked. Blue looked deep into Yellos eyes and
he into hers, and they both took strength from what they
found there.

<Youre not her, Blue. You wont make the same mistakes. Just listen with your heart, okay? Dance like no ones watching.>
<Okay> she smiled, and ran her blue hand across his yello face.
<And Yello? Thanks for being you, ya? And for letting me be me>

Switching to HIVE mode they could hear the others in their heads, louder now, the Vibe coming together like a digital spiderweb through
their network.
They lowered their TRYPR Full Spectrum ltered goggles and could see x-rays and gamma ray bursts ashing across the inverted sky,
penetrating their bodies in a cosmic wave passing through the earth. Yello took her hand and lead her to the Dome, entering through
the side ap. A wave of heat and sweat and tingling expectation coursed over them as they watched their Trybe-mates settling into the
groove, infra-red heat patterns radiating from their bodies in coloured blobs. They were Silent Dancing under the Dome, red sky and
stars and snow visible through its yellow transparent skin. Under their feet, piezio-electric sensors threaded through the pancake thin
aerogel oor. They looked like giant, electronic lily pads, lighting up red and yellow and blue and green as they absorbed the stomping,

kinetic energy of the dancers and pumped it out to the GNR8Rs for storage on
cloudy days, when the solar output was low. Feedback loops, juz like in nature,
conserved all energy. A good dance and they could sell some juice back into
the GRID, trade it for some new tek or power the Trybe for another month, if the
storms kept up.

<Welcome Blue, welcome Yello> the voices pulsed as one, and Blue was sure she could hear old Red
amongst them, his presence an anchor in the Mix. She scanned the Dome and spotted him grooving
near the centre of the danceoor, shaking his butt, tribal tattoos snaking across his red body, dredds
whipping around with a life of their own. <Synaesthesia Neural MyxR loading now...> the voices said,
a feather light tickle from their i-mode implants as the partyware kicked in. The Neural MyxR converted
light into sound, rewired the sensory input and spliced it together into something danceable. Filtered
through their TRYPR goggles, the Trybe hooked up to the x-ray ux oscillation of the stars and converted it into low hertz sound waves. Light became sound became light, from their tops to their toes, a
celestial throb channelled through them to the earth and back.
<Blue, can you hear it?>
<Stomach punching bass, blue light rhythm...>
A low, rumbling hum rang out as the stars pumped out sound, mixing with data strands from other
parts of the solar spectrum, gamma jazz riffs over a low and funky neutrino bass. Blue could feel it
echoing in the hollow of her chest and lling the empty spaces within her, linking her to the rest of the
Trybe and to the stars above.

She began to dance.

The leyline Red had dowsed felt like an electric pulse under her feet,
connecting them to the other Trybes in the Gaia NAton across the
planet, all on the same frequency and mixed into the group mind. The
dancers dancing and dancing and dancing...like a hundred monkeys
stringing their way across a barrel. Like geese in a ock, all keeping
the formation, led by something greater than the parts.
She had to remember how to move it, to shake it, to feel the energy
snaking up her spine and turn herself on. It wasnt hard at all, really.
Just shut your eyes and dance like theres no one watching, Red
always said.
She meditated on her base chakra, then her navel chakra, then
brought her focus and energy up to her solar plexus chakra, picturing golden light spilling from her energy centre, hearing it as tinkling
notes, a musical re that pushed out towards the Sun.
It formed a solar umbilical cord connecting her with the Sun and
through it, the galactic kore, that dark rift at the centre of the Milky
Way the Trybe revered as the Womb of the Great Mother.
It was pulsing like a whale song, long and low and beautiful as
the Trybe tuned in their chakra points and the air resonanted with
kundalini sparks.
And the universe stopped becoming matter and became light, which
became sound, which became dance.

And all was

love...
Outside the Dome the snow was
coming down hard now, electricity crackling
and high winds scouring the ground. From the
corner of her eye Blue caught sight of Reds
key-like sigil on the hill. It jolted her and imprinted on the group mind in the dance and
relayed out across the stars.
And then she was lost in musik,
drowning in it, dancing across the oor and
wrapped in light and sound,
shaking it for Shiva and for Shakti as the Trybe
melted together, smearing like an x-ray through
the storm.
And she knew:

<music is the key>

undergrowth / issue ve / human ecology

/ editorial collective / editorial@undergrowth.org/ rak razam / tim parish
/art director / tim parish / art@undergrowth.org
/proofreader / whowillclaimresponsibility?com
/website / pierce jacques/ webhed@undergrowth.org/
Nic Low/ nic@dislocated.org/ kath odonnell / aliaK@bigfoot.com
//contributing writers //
tim parish, rak razam,/olivia mei lai swan = meilai@wildmail.com / Bob Nekrasov = bobnekrasov@hotmail.com /
denis kevans = 63 Valley Rd, Wentworth Falls NSW 2782 / joel catchlove = madhorsemanofmarrakesh@yahoo.com /
Cassie Tongue = velvetandlace@gmail.com / paul_XXX = dumpsterdiverextrordinaire@hotmail.com /
beth sometimes = misssometimes@gmail .com / stephen mushi = stephenmushin@yahoo.co.nz /
maya ward = mayaward@yahoo.com.au / jonathon carmichael = gnostictripper@hotmail.com /
callum scott = c.scott4@pgrad.unimelb.edu.au / paul i.j. oosting = pauloosting@hotmail.com
//artist credits//
cover/
cracks in the system/ Tim Parish/ art@undergrowth.org
pgs 2 - 5>
mannequin photo essay/ Ollie Dunlop/ oli42@hotmail.com
pgs 6 - 7>
bus stop/ Tim Parish/ art@undergrowth.org
pg 9>
cloudburst/ Ben Mastwyk /
pg 10>
platform 10/ Rak Razam/ shazaman@netspace.net.au
pg 11, 36 - 37, 74 - 75, 98 - 99, >
spirits/ Tim Parish/ art@undergrowth.org>
pgs 12 - 13> babylon street/ Tim - green elder/ Ben Mastwyk
pgs 14 - 16> Hunab Ku: red/ red sigil/ Alex Courtney/ info@theshapeshifter.com
pgs 18 - 19> red monkeys/ Rak Razam/ shazaman@netspace.net.au

pg 20>
sepia games/ James Riches/ jriches1@optusnet.com.au
pg 21>
lovers/ Oliver Dunlop/ oli42@hotmail.com
pg 22>
clouds/ Oliver Dunlop/ oli42@hotmail.com
pg 26>
goulburn totem/ Rak Razam/ shazaman@netspace.net.au
pg 28>
bush owers/ Tim Parish/ art@undergrowth.org
pg 29>
forest folk/ James Riches/ jriches1@optusnet.com.au
pg 30>
emotional wreck/ Oliver Dunlop/ oli42@hotmail.com
pg 31>
rusted/ Rak Razam/ shazaman@netspace.net.au
pg 32 - 33, 35>swamp series/ Bronwyn Wright/ Brownwyn.Wrights@cdu.edu.au/
<www.redeyemedia.com.au/theswamp/index.htm>
From the exhibition Suburban Edge
pg 38 - 43> dumpster nation/ Tim Parish/ art@undergrowth.org
pg 44 - 53> pukatja story pics/ Beth Sometimes/ misssometimes@gmail.com
pg 54 - 55> future cities/ James Riches/ jriches1@optusnet.com.au
pg 56 - 59> paddocks of dreams/ Tim Parish/ art@undergrowth.org
pg 60 - 63> some villains/ Rachel Peachey and Paul Mossig/ somevillains@octapod.org
pg 64>
jesus is an awesome god/ Oliver Dunlop/ oli42@hotmail.com
pg 65 - 69> love_bombs/ graf notes/ tram nomads/ Tim Parish/ art@undergrowth.org
pg 73>
dive/ Oliver Dunlop/ oli42@hotmail.com
pg 76 - 81> tipi village/ Boom festival dome/ yellow dome and dancers/ Andr Ismael& Lisa/ info@zuvuya.net
pg 82 - 83> four portraits/ feral/ Tim Parish/ art@undergrowth.org/ suit and tie/ Oliver Dunlop/ oli42@hotmail.com/
pikatja story pic/ Beth Sometimes/ misssometimes@hotmail.com /refugee face/ Tim Parish/ art@undergrowth.org/
pg 84 - 89> mr history @work/ ganja head/ blue branching/ Oliver Dunlop/ oli42@hotmail.com
pg 90>
starting young/ Rak Razam/ shazaman@netspace.net.au
pg 93 - 97> Windgrove photos/ Peter Adams/ peter@windgrove.com
pg 100 - 101> faith/ blue monkeys/ Oliver Dunlop/ ollie42@hotmail.com
pg 102>
blue dancer/ Andr Ismael& Lisa/ info@zuvuya.net <http://www.zuvuya.net>
pg 103>
blue digital avatar/ Alex Courtney/ info@theshapeshifter.com
pg 104 - 105> blue doof/ Rak Razam/ shazaman@netspace.net.au
pg 106 - 107> Hunab Ku: Blue/ Alex Courtney/ info@theshapeshifter.com
pg 108 - 109> home/ Tim Parish/ art@undergrowth.org/

www.undergrowth.org