GREAT SOUTHERN STREETWALKING NOMAD

© Monte John Latham 2016
Monte John Latham asserts the moral right to be identified as the creating author of this work,
Great Southern Streetwalking Nomad and its composite parts.
All rights are reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the
prior written permission of the author.
D e b ox P u b l i c a t i o n s .
PUBLICATION DATE: F 2018
TRIM1524_2286
ISBN-13: 978-0-646-99312-6 correct number for nomad
For welcome enquiry or feedback author direct:
Manager, Debox Publications, 16 San Francisco St Midway Point, Tasmania Australia 7171
debogeo@outlook.com, lathamarchitect.com
facebook.com/Homartian (Ask for Great Southern Streetwalking Nomad)
facebook.com/HouseFandango (Ask for Great Southern Streetwalking Nomad)
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iii
ADDITIONAL BOOKS by Monte John Latham
• House Fandango
“House Fandango” is a phenomenon – the product of an exuberant
creativity, a mind ever restless, fluid, alert to manifold possibility,
uncontained. Such an intelligence might change the world. We need to
listen to Monte John Latham, then. His is a wisdom that roams wide
and free, at the same time as it focuses down upon the most urgent
question of our age: how should we live, how should we dwell, how
should we be? Here is the dance of people and place – a veritable
house fandango, and its dancemaster steps us forth from the very
earth, its magic, the bedrock on which civilisation rests, to the place-
nurturing, self-nurturing, self-constructing activity that is nothing less
than making a home on earth. Come with Monte John – dance his
dance of life-affirming love.
Pete Hay, POET, ESSAYIST AND PHILOSOPHER OF PLACE,
( 2013 TASMANIA BOOK PRIZE - PEOPLE'S CHOICE)
• Wow Hows the House Now Out of print. Old title of the above.
• House Essence (ebook Amazon). An essence of House Fandango.
• Homartian. Out of print.
• Homartian, where is your Indigenous City
Coming up:
The Architecture of Fire, The Shallows Where We Fizz, Nomurbic Office.
The

MONTE JOHN LATHAM is near grown up in the outer suburbs of the small scenic
capital city in Tasmania Australia amid abundant countryside and estuarine
coast. After a lengthy professional sojourn in town character and matters
urban, he now paints, writes and draws plans in a rural coastal part of home;
deep in the island(s) far south in The Great Southern Land. At times, such as
the nows (as distinct from ‘the todays’) of the writing of Streetwalking Nomad,
his writing is a loose, edited, flow of mind and subconsciousness, drawn from
the evirons & the mental. His graphics also not too fussed about glitz, rather
a fine art of ‘the drift’.
Born mid 20th century he, with wife & their five children, having some time in
Wellington, dwells in lean economy with faith in not only the nurture of
familiar beautiful locale.
I hope you enjoy this light hearted
and impassioned piece of seriousness.
WRITER ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THE SOCIAL SPIRITUAL LAND CHEMISTRY THAT NURTURED A PEOPLE WHO WERE ONCE JUST THAT, A PEOPLE - BUT
WAIT THERE ARE OTHERS SITTING AS QUIETLY AND MORE QUIETLY THAN THE LAND ITSELF.
PAINTINGS, COVER, PENCIL BY MONT THE AUTHOR.
A FEW OF THE IMAGES ARE DRAWN FROM GENERAL PUBLICATION & OF UNKNOWN SOURCE.
∞

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

FOREWORD
AT HOME IN GLOBAL-LOCAL GEOGRAPHY
WE FIND OURSELVES AS DE FACTO NATION
IN COUNTRYSIDE, COAST, CHEMENTALITY & PIXEL.
(NOTE: THERE’S A DICTIONARY IN BACK.)
This is an intended, ‘a tad’ brave, potpourri of consciousness
- lyrical, light hearted, edited, patched
- the 27,000 word write unintended, yet emerging, as
reflection on geographic architecture, identities, futures
- and as pronunciation of organic urban event
- unexpectedly drawing a serious keypoint
that to many may well be merely an annoying break in
melody.
∞

1
Hear me Australians,
the writing hand street-sweeps clean our urban-nomadic
colour-printed pillow. It sleepwalks our rough edges, for
easy-eared simple town hearts; marries those who bind the
great infinite intelligent, remembers with the depth of a
country in the merging brewing shallows of individual
mentalities. There is no movement at this station;
… yet ‘a colt certainly is getting away’ and here some ‘word is
getting around’.
On easily the main island of the Tasmania group, this
writing is stationed, in or on the third day after say the
2,014th Christmas since the well-known, by name at least,
Jesus Christ established a vital path via corrected death.
of 8

5
THIS BOOK IS A PRODUCT OF
THE LAND KNOWN CURRENTLY AS AUSTRALIA
A LOVELY COUNTRY OF WONDERFUL VARIED GEOGRAPHY,
ONCE ISOLATED & MADE SAFE BY ITS COASTS,
BY ITS GENERALLY OVERLOOKED NEIGHBOURS INCIDENTALLY KNOWN,
BY DISTANT FOREIGNERS DISCOVERED AT ITS NORTH & SOUTH,
BY SLOW AWAKENINGS YET TO BE SUBSTANTIALLY DISCOVERED BY MANY OF ITS OWN.
STILL MENTALLY ISOLATED BY ITS COASTS,
Map by Google Earth, data SIO, NOAA, US. Navy, NGA, GEBCO.
Image-Landsat/Copernicus (14/12/15)
Thanks for all the good things Goog, king of the pixel!
uluru
kunanyi
irian jayan
gold grabs
macdonnells
anti burger
lots of people, islands, water, jungle
eucla
whyalla
arnhemland
plenty
swimming
room
ali carung
various maritime visitations
parliament house mullumbimby
rabbit
proof
fence
kiwi cousins
‘the puddle’ (lobsters
walk all the way
across the bottom)

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

7
and more and more zero rooms behind pixilated curtains
drawn by scatty fatted neurons. Here at Frogmore sky
open and watered inland, eucalyptus fragrance and wattle
blossom through open windows float. In the quill the clouds
are charged. Anytime bright bolts will brighten the gloom,
momentarily for the clouds and with great value to the
witnesses. A bellyful of fresh apricots, nuts and coffee in
the presence of a Gregory Peck western movie, finds union
with the charge. The time is now, albeit bonded with
moments future and pasted past writes, as word-based
expression transmutes to visual imagery for a reading
witness among others. The lightening will crack, rumble and
… local atmosphere is misting

awe even as it is a mere peep in the almighty order … spread
like an endless canvas intrinsically receiving fresh oil colour
sufficiently abundant for all witnesses to find an interactive
story in their own.
What is this colour now, this shape this icon, what is this
flow, this scene this signpost? It’s not that manic depression
is needed for creativity but that it may be useful to
communicate in the darkness where passionate treasured
pearls fall spat-out by needy swine or where the shadows
about any reader may need to be found in full perspective.
Take me don’t take me, let me go with you, away engulfed in
your sea of joy; to be there found interactive with a tribal
family and foreigners inter-pollen and play. I don’t want to
stop word on word, simply to flow and break where

9
necessary with a diamond facet in sync with a quasar edge,
to let it be some essence that nurtures a quoll, … whilst
shining sanity to a witness who was a prisoner of war once
leach-ridden up north in a jungle-ditch formed at the base of
a huge fallen tree whose fate was set by wind, following a
bomb fallen at its other side. They are loved by many, the
brave over-and-done stories of the hard won victories or the
wasted lost battles that were part thereof; the lovers of the
loved lean into the gloom, finding a light, a warmth, an
attitude, a valiance and characters to love. The story of a
chapter of a life, the substance of desperate-sweat,
endurance, genius, determination showing a success that
one may like to share. It was here in the wind of mentality,
yours and mine, the sole one. Stopping to manifest it here I
face but a frightening echo–cho-ho of silence-nce-ce; in fact
this silence is just an error, a faithless ripple in our fluid. I am

There it was in the wind of mentality,
Yours and mine, the sole one,
Stopping . To manifest it here
To face just an echo of silence ……………………………………………
But that’s just an error in a ditty
I’m now a pilot, my instruments the Glider in our wind____________________________
now again the pilot, my keyboard, at one time a paintbrush,
is the glider in our wind. We unfold the wild wind of our
angry hearts and roll out the moist words of our supreme joy.
Retell me foreign gentleman, whom was passing by my
parents’ gate, of the best way to prune the olive tree and I
will explain the simplistic of extracting oil from the eucalypt.
Together we may see a quasar joining us through its veil.
Enough said; some bowel is now clear as the awesome
wonder is cracked like an eggshell on the bar, to make a
colloquial jibe about fairyleg lyric in fun at the pub.
This is not gloom nor shadow nor lightning bolt, it is but
time-of-day wizened innocent chatter, a play and expression
in any pub, a different prism, simply to say - come what may,
we seek not what you say. Seek not what I say … ay. ‘We

11
don’t wanna know mate’. And so, in frailty, the echo of
silence whitewashed the lot but only like a fog that
unnoticed faded completely away in the course of a day …
likely faded by the gel of my egoic obstinance heroically
supporting this aging.
His lifelong darling threw him another very fresh apricot
grown only metres away and together the energies flowed.
Always a sojourn-away at an echo beach will invigorate the
write; bring in something Leunig, musical or gay but we try to
keep the language on track and the owner of the words that
fit the things like snake, rainbow, jazz and gay. There’s
occasionally a whip a quip, abreaking serious convention,
defending the order the wording against the lackadaisical
beckon, the truth against the human vain hope, the
distortion against the same. Break a heart with a question;

are we humans, people, souls-on-fire, animals, persons,
cobbers and liar. Are we the prints on our fingers known not
on animals but to God who lingers. Grandaughter loves her
daddy when he calls chicken kebab ‘chicken-on-a-sticken’;
the sheer magic of the lightening thunder and the
seriousness of genderbender, inherited agent-orange and
clubfoot, something is odd with folly that may make us laugh
and look anew - not that laughing and looking anew is askew.
The Yaqui shaman, jumping across Mexicana hilltops using
some-like electromagnetic energy fingers from his solar
plexus, is practicing his art on a fundamental that ‘life is
controlled folly’; ah no!; life is a belly full of fresh apricots
and a peel of thunder, a bowl of cherries some freshly
garlicked christmas fry-up. Wedge firmly the pot pipe into a
rock crevice in Italy, the ipad where the sun does not shine.
Take up as a child of God and bear the healing strain of

13
the wrongs that have sent some cartwheeling with the ‘bug of
the world’ into the Great Southern Land colonies where
the sun does shine and always has. That old bug of the
world, ay!! … always something, somebody, something foiling,
hurting, cursing … everywhere and always badly timed. The
shine will be on also the feral middle-eastern cats eating the
endemic fauna, while too the british lambs are requiring for
pasture the once fully balanced endemic fauna habitat -
followed by a largely friendly north’n not so dist’nt over sea
neighbour instant population insurgence to clean up the rest
and dissolve cultural identity comforts. Is there preaching
among us or is that not kosher; not of lost catholic of islam
of kentucky fried or ferrari, marx, not of vegan, good-doing,
hard work and plasterer’s slurry; but of truth and its
flowering wonders of its railway stations and hair salons
sitting skew in a powerpacked eden-garden. The eden

place; where climate no shelter requires and mindsets no
clothes need, defecation no paper needs. There shadows
lift as the sunlight kilometres above is bending every
whichway through a shell of water suspended between
gravity and centrifity, holding the air from the seeming
vacant deep deep distance deep deep deep deep and
starry. No possibility of manic depression here, gloom is
physically impossible, not an optimism supreme nor a
position frozen – all with souls interacting in flight,
in fluid ecstasy as music evolving, voice and colour,
all uncluttered with counter clacker. In the beginning the big
bang sound was that of intelligent articulation then as now ..
the thunder voice boom together with the pronunciation of a
creation. Take me don’t take me let me go with you away
engulfed in your sea of joy. When can we go and where will it
be. How can we go and what will we see. Take me true one,
THERE’S A
DICTIONARY
IN BACK.

15
let me go with you, where the way is the journey and this
place is at hand; that road any road is an egg taking one
somewhere until it hatches … a place into. Some hit the
endless loops of bitumen surf, riding not driving connected
techno bliss to any of many populated communities or
solitary ‘out here’ moments or campfire nights; choosing not
the dusty red track fork, where the rubber tread eventually
naked feet becomes, the track spring grass shoots little
creature scurries and the communities smaller uncluttered
bonded structured eldered and local be. And it seems the
‘indigenous’ skinned black is and the ‘hitech’ skinned white
from the northern ‘europe’ area.

Nestled in tangle, some partly earthy red of this vast
heritage object of country and coast, geographic architects
knowing that a chunk of lead fluid is and a volume of oxygen
might be somewhere someday solid, know the world earth is
a spaceship corrupted and that all
worlds are likely earth accessible
via a transcendent internal cube,
that all stars react the same nuclear
fuel and that the black is what is the
black, the deep ink deep deep
deep into which we turn cannot nor become - even so some
souls white robed mill around black cube. The gloom is only
our fear and yearning for the tropicana pineapple juice,
coconut oiled muscle and grass skirts. Seems there’s always
that something that only our unabstract maker can know as

17
we, who creatures be, have an edge, a skin, a containment
that is in fact our identity or part thereof.
The geographic architect knows that; that arrogant of their
constructions is made in our blindness, mars the country
picture and turns our eyes inward, blinkering us
further and harder-in-heart, locked by faith in
technological product and glitz interior, unlike those of our
company in the peoples of the land and a dreamtime, whom
we in small part married after ‘they’ and ‘we’, (for all inherit of
our fathers’ crap), had first kicked the heads from some of
their babies we (& alas it is ‘we’ to include the natives also in
respect of our singular sin [that bug of the earth] soaked
humanity) we had buried, standing, to the neck, quite soon
after coming ashore. The convicts, indeed a larger portion
of the britons and not coming ashore of their own will, were
THERE’S A
DICTIONARY
IN BACK.

used. The natives, in that part of them that is not the
broader ‘we’, had been maintaining a spaceship earth in
sensible ecopicality, a hard hard sustaining way – albeit for
fewer. At another coast; spanish named the place la
australia del espiritu santo, Southland of the Holy Spirit.
Forgive those european bulldogs and thus pile hot coals on
their heads. ... and thus foster humility in them .... then seek
their hands and say let’s together go ... remembering that all
individuals and cultures have their ugly, bad and good. The
hardest thing to do is to get the central city indoor comfort-
zone slickers to appreciate the vast profound difference
between deep deep deepening room boom built interior and
the land peoples’ wide wide open space space. In the
etchings of, old blackfella, Geogalong’s visage there is a
vague hint of his domicile, quite some distance back there in.

19
Here, a thousand miles away in the same land, on this animal
naked Frogmore, I sit amid a similar old local domicile.
Pursuing the lines and the light behind his eyes, there we see
his family and his camp half a day away. But there’s
something deeper in; something he welcomes with the grasp
of his feet, which are the base-drums of his ears. This
broad distantly deep psycho-physical realm of ownership, at
one with the endemic visage, we see as we startle is headed
by mob, tribe, tribal language territory, country. The light
of his eyes and the sweat glistening dusted in his lines, by
moebius twist join in with both the very daylight shared to
our pupils and the close scent of the land, in which we stand
talking to the blackfella’s ears while he listened through his
feet many miles from his camp and in a time before any floor
was ‘built’ - levelled, arranged, cleaned, cleared - built not.

Comfort Slicker of course is oblivious; the lines of his
flaking epidermis culminate at a pin of electric light in the spy
hole of his front door. This slicker does indeed have
country … alas merely as the three, realty, power and his own
shark egg hatched. Slicker’s dream-time lies in the
forgotten world that gallops behind the microns of
disinfectant, sweat, mildew and acrylic paint at which he
gazes blind and entranced, sogging in his industrial bath.
As the story goes, while still quietly the national atmosphere
is misting outside my own trembling thought where the great
southern gay crashsplash is thoroughly revealed as an
historic national and local event, we are now outside that
eden, undiscoverable over there iraqabouts, behind the
mighty ethereal lock, no way to go back in … there. It’s gone

21
ppffff whoop now what? That virgin eden spaceship maybe
still runs smooth as apricot nectar, nurturing neuro-electric
humming orgone laser-sharp pure-as men and women social
life. Here outside those ethereal locks it broken is, stinging
and harsh, where we create our own tiny lifeboats and
thereafter mindsets and bodily reflections of same - bruised
and sore seeking comfort and succour and turning at each
other, perhaps man laying with man harsh suffering colonial
convict-convict prisoner-prisoner comfort, perhaps with a
‘led zeppelin’ misty mountain hop, a Trump stir, paedophile
purge or covert organised action made easy with the
ultranet. We went, we go, a sustained way ‘Austroriginal’
dark & swarthy lithe & family, my legs are my frontdoor, my
fire is my television; and we go sydney box, soft underfoot
deodorised poncificated still under captain cook, now
shaking a bit but comfy electronic indoors, take the car to

the bush if I the time and money have … and enthusiasm.
Boats, sails, tents and boxes. Carts, horses, door knobs
and property property property always with impropriety
realty reality and toffeed snobs.
Unabashed; architecture is more than building. Built, it is
powerfully relevant cultural currency; becoming future
imperfect. Oft compromised buildings sit in property
curtilage - in urbia and in country - merging blending lending
and talking with their surrounds. In architecture are planned
urban flavoursome vibe, town and country. Part of building is
sacrifice; of potentially irreplaceable bits of our vast object,
the Southern Land. Bleeding heart chef eggs cracking for
urban omelette.
The currency of tasmanian construction-taste politically
sleeps alongside our big southern island so dear to the

23
frogmore animal-raw under-street. I am here at Midway
Point and remind them that Frogmore Peninsula is here too.
The sum of all our political
home-locales equals a shawl on
our national southern land.
Hobart’s Sullivans Cove is
same animal-raw, under where a
federation-born city hall sits
adopted and loved as a social
heritage hulk bulk, loved
unconditionally where it sits right
there with a dozen long ironbark legs down
punched the banks through, shores and
spiritual heart flowing of the watery broken
brooken soul of its settlement place. A testosterronious
urban
room
♪╠
land
identity
$
$
$
♪
♪
♪
$
∑
♪ Grayscale version
Mont painting.

cable-born takeoff from atop this built heritage bulk, riding
to the mountain brow of an ulururian kunanyi, would cause
more concern for the sacred cow socially clothed building
bulk; more than for the browed metaphor shewing raw
unshawled the atmospheric dolerite with eons of piped
weathered tunes of perfect stone presence soaking morning
sun sheltered from well travelled western prahna. These
stone organ pipes for some earthling adopted design
connection, useful geomorphic urban design edifice, rare
precious opportunity for highly nuanced architectural
currency and future heritage possible in adaptation of the
city hall with the vicinity’s ‘oh so wonderful right on the
doorstep’ natural heritage. Nay some no ears have. Usually
the unseen, and oh so unacknowledged, is the architect’s
vision to make the natural and built heritage connections in
the fabric of renovated currency. The heartfelt butterpaper
organ pipes
kunanyi
… to the mountain brow of an ulururian kunanyi …
A face of uluru is pasted to scale behind the meehan
hills in the same vertical plane as the kunanyi organ
pipes … & at authentic height above sea level .

25
sketch breathes not for time blinkered politicians - ‘not
viable’ is the vision so. Due for renovation the town heritage
protocol in all its wonder is. The british bulldog cum
gentleman cum asian ‘how are you’ call-centre hegemonetary
conservatives need to be racked by gaians and both gaian
and bulldog then educated by the endemic indi-gentry and
ecopically adapted to a sane beautiful compromise -
compromise: a rational, and therefore perfect, solution … oh
dear!
While the organ pipes play and the ravens thfark fark for
the dollar poisoned dying dolerite Dollersaurus of the

Thark Plane; corners space shape elbow-room. Reach
stride lye meet, nook hall yard. Cupboard deep mountain
high. “A coffee please … milk, 1 sugar & 2 views (back to the
rocks one view looks)”. Handsome latte view bring alpine
village or skyscraper, ergonomic room, bus aisle,
grandfather’s coffin child’s cradle. Knob, rails, seat, stair-
tread, doorway, ceiling and pergola overhead - to access
The dieing kunanyington
Dollersaurus
of the Thark Plane
Grayscale version
Mont painting.

27
move be still in cafe and camp. Spy-hole in the front door.
Quick let’s load the commodore wagon and get away from
acres of tar, stuff & cement; through the fragrant sun-
yellowed grass eucalypt belt to the lonesome beach surf,
ionised crystal and clear and campfire friend billy tea and
Billy Thorp with yes ‘it’s almost summer’. Room too in this
place … to fulfil … for a moment … domestic needs house and
camp embered starry glow, ‘making love in the sand to the
rhythm of the waves’. Orientate it our room largely outward
a la Austroriginal communal domestics or enclosed with a
comfort zone lounge lizard ‘view’. A generic word for first
people of a land is ‘aboriginal’ or ‘native’ ‘indigene’ and yes I
am addressing Australians, who simply dignified with an “A”
and don’t seem to know if there ever was a name for the
multinational entity of people we & they came to call
'A’borigines. Maybe there are-were names only for each

nation-mob-tribe, some desert lean some coast turtle - aside
a funny thing, like, if all the archipelago islands that make this
‘southern land’ are together “Australia”, then what is the
name of the largest island. Funny thing … like acknowledging
not that a playdough we use in building, say floor-vinyl, is in
fact earth. Vinyl rather than the earth is totally out of place
around an aboriginal Austroriginal domestic fire; their ilk
there lightly taste lightly built ‘interior’ in sleeping-shelter or,
where the land provided expedient resource, a communal hut
…
b u t t h e r e t h e y g o n o f u r t h e r –
where, man o man, the boaties further went big time whoooh o
o o big lot of go they went country-squeezing room boom. Just
bit by bit spreading like perverse loving new age scabies on
discriminated homophobe, generating optic-tube-supplied

29
pixelled wallpaper compensations, boom boom rooms rooms
roads sewers salons. Room for resident-accumulated
possessions, road access, house-shell, outbuildings and
landscape. Glassglinting anycolourmix rectangle tapestried
hillsides and valley bottoms. The molten ergonomic-
househeart, where there flows the infra-red detected body
heat, leaves dust in redundant corners and hard wear and
patina otherwise. Ssshhh … harken to that quiet ingrained
familiar ‘hard to shake’ orgone bombardment from the
skyarcing earthen heavens.

Don’t need holographic wallpaper in the bush.
Colesworth
potting wheel
The most devoted penthouse-owner boggles at the
indigenous nomadic everywhere-man and cannot
imagine exchanging his well-rooted street-alligator
address for a pair of legs with muscles wiser than a
satellite navigation box. What is he doing this jetting
homo superior? He is not being 'a settler' - there is
some cheek smiling from Geogalong Mr gazing
fascinated by an odd star, ah but a mere satellite,
crossing his beloved red-earthed sky.

31
earthen heavens.2Geogalong
almost animal naked, with a freshly killed lizard,
circumstantially nods as he wanders through an egg-shaped
urban lounge to use a refrigerator box. Almost room-box
naïve, he does know the old natural ‘room-kernel’; that is -
some places in the country’s bush may serve as ‘room’ - for
contemplation, lunch, sleep or do some hand work. This is a
‘kernel’ of built room and city hall. Likewise bush wilderness
rampant nature is in the house … usually by the ‘boat people’
unseen. There’s the animal-nude under. There’s a nomad in
every room … kindly the door leave open. Synthetic
materials are set in place by elemental truths; polypropylene,
earth, water and fire. Fluorescent purple acrylic, earth
ochre, pigment and opal. All cultural ideal is amalgamated

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

33
electronic networks and trade arcing to a common sky.
Shockingly rapid conversion, urbane but challenging valley
neighbours to the lure and foisting of beautiful city flats.
Add synthetic ‘armpit cultured’ urban nurtures to
perpetually modern nature’s nurtures raw.
Urban room shell around the nomad; closing the door will
disconnect the extended open space and the street tree
scent. Lanolin in the blanket blends nicely and on the floor a
pizza box. These all in the great grand design-conglomerate
that is. All three are there, waiting in balanced utility for the
habitantion touches -
1. nature’s earthy nurtures,
2. the fingerprint substance of each associated human
person -the very armpit of synthetic aesthetic

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

35
objects newly born into peoplekind’s home-made room.
There’s some roam in the room. It’s safe to close the door.
Sydneysider Caroline Slicker hermetically seals it out;
allowing the three planed ceiled wall corners to win their
challenge against the rich circular belt of sky. Geogalong
has now moved through the kitchen and out the back door in
fluid nomad motion, enjoying the designed ergonomic room-
flow of his visit whilst thanking for his sharing, the absent but
present custodian; he continues as himself part of nature’s
earthy nurtures on his way out the bared earth back track
through the backyard to the ‘bush’, the comfort zoned
lounge-room lizard still quivering at Geogalong’s spear
afraid to touch the berries the nomad had left on the wattle-
wood dining table. A building inspector finds himself
sharing a psyche of flying ceilings; using the house for no
other than observation, he heads back out the culturally

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

37
bowl of soup going to the telecouch we can make a fluid turn
at speed by executing an exhilarating snappy swivel born
from the ball of our leading foot. Evolved boaties happily
face the containment of boxes so as to have ready and
reserved the room for a bowl of cherries and a version of
domestic performance. “Get out of our room, get out of our
face,” say Geogalong hatless woolly of hair smiling, and the
Darwinian city architect, corrugated slouch hat roofed
across his university brow … his feet stirring the sandy floor
of stone broken by eons of frosts, small measure below the
stratosphere remnant of the watery firmament, chatting
peaceably in an open air country nook, in a zipperty do da
songline corridor, nature’s raw nude nurtures bucketing
through galloping too undisciplined by the feng shui, the
three planes and the facebook magazine kosher. They’re
speaking to a couple of cloud-ceilinged larrikin kids

impinging the sanctity of their space, crowding their
spontaneous room … and the purpose for which they need
the room. Accommodating curiosity the Darwinian takes a
bucket of the sand demonstrating the art of concrete to
these curious progeny. As the house fandango dances on;
it is clear there is something to be said for the straight edge,
right angle & its box. Among the hunter-gatherers’ world; sit
the rock on the horizontal face, shape the end to meet the
other … cut stone. “Is it square apprentice?” “Yes boss, we
now have concise interface sir.” Before shape we have the
pragmatic of the horizontal and vertical planes, children of
gravity - essence of box and parents of the three-planed-
corner. Gravity along with the dimensional requirements of
our bodies, tools and psyches make our quadrangular prisms
and yards … and our highways … and rural titles, national

39
parks, open cuts .. are disciplined (ha!) more loosely to raw.
Likely without converting the ‘kernel of room’ to built
interior, the world would never have been thought of as
‘open air’, external nor outside; except in a sense like
outside a copse of trees. A cave is in, we go out - a
different out, different in.
We have been sharing engagement doing a house
fandango, finding the great southern geographic
architect inside, not a building, city square, black cube,
viaduct, broken brooken heart or endless patched worn
bitumen web but the heart somehow within our body.
We have this fandango in geography now with digital
software technological things that are staggeringly
… creation of a diamond …
Grayscale version
Mont painting.

expansive in knowledge and communication … and
tending, … oh so tending trending sarcastically always
gasping so oh ‘amazing’ and seemingly mending but
having us propped on spindly legs like Salvador Dali’s
elephants in their own interactive story, ready to crumble
in self imputed holocaust … onto the ground that remains
immemorial except for the state of flux like a chunk of
coal fluided by pressure to diamond interface with
quasar wonder edge such that our world will be as a
renewed garment and, in the plan of the geographic
architect, the dust of holocaust merely part of the
unwasted renovation. In this happening our bodies with
our heart cannot be separate…. hmmm. Other than
dalek-style body parts and vehicles we cannot renovate
ourselves; nor can Cheekyfella Talkabout, ‘sydneysider
and aboriginal austroriginal’, walking with Geogalong
Spindly Wagon by Mont (Ah!
A tin too many; it’s back left
is about to trip over its back
right!!! Uh oh!!

41
singular with the country. Shivers …. brrrrr. Room boom,
digital figital, city-country calamity, supermarket ransom,
power-grabbed desperate shmarmy, slimmed down
obesity, all-religions-in-one, global-warming just another
geographic cycle, panic corruption bug-of-the-world,
methamphetamine rotting brains making broken children
crippling dad. Maker come. O Maker come. Of this all
witnesses will find an interactive story in their own. Swing
low sweet chariot. The clouds are surely charged,
deeper darker than any seen; the bolt will crack cutting
between muscle and bone. Despite our awesome
technologies engaging musics, ultrajets and the cities we
have made, shared-foisted along with grog and cholera
arising with our slush in endemic country and people, in
fact we all are the creative creatures and not the creator.

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

43
the bright company beyond us here in the dust we have
all but lost faded in racial memory genome and blocked
out pretty solid by mobile telephone screening immense
time soak, in-vitro, stolen sperm and defacto genderless -
genomeless ‘unity’ - androgyny improvising creation with
whatever it can grab, plastic black thrusts, rectal
gateways forced against their hinges, complete android
‘partners’ at the mercy of self inflicted thought and
speak police. There is movement at the station but that
colt has indeed got away.
Wilderness edge deep throated synthetic city interior.
Food nature overstepped by slow boat, anarcho-
politically controlled economy and life future looking
gloomy. And still … all witnesses will find an interactive
story in their own; along weedy concrete kerb, plant

flourished red dusty track or skyflung; powering through
solid interior and traffic.
Don’t leave me I’m coming too where are you going I’m
listening to you. Let me read, you open your words,
internal dialogue and conscious construction. I’m reading
you, I see you well, you picked me up the moment I fell.
You’re a last guy who looks to be first, a nice girl who
didn’t want to be a nurse. Sorry not you, I can’t read you
all at once but there is that connection through and
genome food, Irish roots and abo-looking sri lankans
canoeing across 60,000 years ago … kinda getting’ married
with some brave lost viking sailors coastal of Broome. All
those connections Adam, Eve and down the line
mideastern Abraham, Noah the goer nobody could stop.
What is it that is said about the quirk of bonding with

45
Jesus Emmanuel the Nazarene;
whence we genetically sidestep sort
of via some sort of dna lysergic amino
to his line with Abraham. All pretty
similar in an inner cosmic soup; I can
read all that in there in the old
moebius loop de loop. So I’m reading you, your words are
soaking in, … to the fabric of the pixel pages as I hit high
flight with my instrumental keyboard the syllables begin to
sing. Can go on-line after line but the tonsils get tired and
the feet get blisters, the hitech soules lose their zip. You
need to find me a travellers’ caravanserai where I don’t lose
your journey interaction. Trouble is I don’t have the
money, I’ll camp by the river, maybe see you there for a
scoop of fresh water and if there’s pizza there and a
lounge lizard to spear. The way is the journey I don’t want

to stop but I love to bump shoulders with the family that
I’ve got, as I go - and the occasional wandering italian who
can tell me my olive tree how to prune. Be my guest I’ll find
some pictures to paste in this track, makes no difference
an old fashioned shack or glitz lodge Melbourne with a red
telephone.
Don’t close off I’m still reading you and so are the others.
We don’t care about your chemical ice, a fact is a fact,
though we should have law to kill you if you provide it to
another. We don’t see your clothes, just your open doors
and the wholesome leafy salad oozing from your pores.
Together we read and write with strength, Mont’s your
keyboard, mental ectoplasm our line, the space between is
no space at all. I know your face I’ve seen it before, just can’t

47
recall, where was it, on tv in a russian crowd – nah I’m playing
with words for sure, taking the freedom of a painter using
tricks of perspective and space.
Are we going somewhere? Well I hear the engine and my
fingers are tired, we’ve come this far and probably have
had some arrivals on the way. Are we going in circles,
doesn’t matter my memory’s not good and anyway things
change as time goes by and I view them in a different light
using a different avatar.
.... Avatar? No thanks … I’ll avocado.
Yes for sure we’re on the go, we’re building something
that will not be lost to a lifting fog. It’s a serious thing I do
as I was saying to my friend who called just now, if I
wasn’t doing it I’d feel irresponsible; this writing has to be

writ.
Let me paste a cut these few lines from elsewhere
written:-

49
written:- 3“Cities as designing
- evolving - happenings can be awesome in their high spots,
glossies, interiors and ephemeral vitalities. We deep jungle
ephemerality miss, desert ephemerality, deep ocean or icy
wilderness. The best of awesome cities will always require
something that we can find only through the likes of sleeping
under the stars to awaken in still fragrant fully sunned
silence by the village river looking to work nearby without
traffic with tools of craft and fellows of easy laugh. Travel
aside avails.

The eternal ephemeral handcrafted country village, more of
which we will grow, will make use of the creations of the cities.
The two should flow together.
It’s the geographic truths I wish to pronounce in
particular the ones being lost to the global-techno fog
that for many hangs thick as dirty old cloth nappies on a
rotating cloths wire.
Not everybody in the world can be
geographically pseudo-indigenous
acclimatised culturally australian,
… nay not ‘pseudo’ as this is genuine … instead …
geographically ‘hitechno’-indigenous
acclimatised culturally Australian
… ie as the natives use base-technological skill and the
boaties and other newies use hitechnological skill
everybody in the world can bond to this land and people to
be techno-indigenous, otherwise coined as

51
Austr-indigenite ,
to honour the elders and avoid vegemite say
Austrariginal
(with the ‘a’; ie not ‘Austro’)
- say new indigenite of the south land embracing
Austroriginals ( are Aboriginals who are happy to
embrace).
Austrariginal:
coined in this book to describe: indigenous aussies of any background who love the
intimate countryland & its life; great southern streetwalking nomads; ie. those natives &
newies who are today geographically acclimatised - low-tech Aborigines shoulder to
shoulder with hi-tech Euro-boaties, embraced, valuing together indigenuity (… subject to
Euro-boaties toeing the line of ecopical sustainabilities – including aboriginal & Boatie
social values);
Really at this time we have no name for those who might
choose not to embrace … they might be native - Aborigine
called, they might be boatie, bit of each … maybe named

‘ancients’, ‘party poopers’, ‘loners’, ‘unique breed’, ‘white
australian’, ‘freemasons’, ‘foreigners’, ‘another country’ -:
whatever they’re a great southern streetwalking nomad,
belonging to a locale called Ballarat, Scottsdale,
Oodnadatta, Ali Curung, … I wonder hmmm may prefer
being as ancient native Austroriginals whom choose not to
embrace Boaties and so West Arnhem or East Arnhem
… or good old Frogmore near Writemealetter .. 67km by
crow nor-nor-east of the future bush capital,
Lunawanna, here.
We need a confirmed right of passage .. any ideas?

53
Here through the gaze glazed french doors at Frogmore
under Midway’s cadastre tapestried nude-under land,
across barilla bay to the kunanyin organpipes …
whom organ pipes just incidentally sit shouting at
Hobart, with its distant aussie friends interactive
participationne a la nationale with designs urbane de la
geographique architecturale,
as a precious gift,
a wilderness threshold,
on its back doorstep,
to the world heritage area,
not 40 kilometers behind across mixed land parcels
classified as public land interest. I picked up google
earth to continue the straight line projection; it passes
close to Melaleuca in this world famous Tasmanian

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

55
crafted in practicality – but I see no line like it in the
vastness beyond my reach and my imagination-ion-on-n
cannot follow such a line as it pierces all things life where
it continues, passing my civilized detailed delightful life-
ladened destinations - making deep dark draughts in the
invisible seeming limitation edge places around the
periphery of my eyes viewing that projection.
Thumbprints in mere locales, by identities-ies-s, persons,
towns, companies, groups … all combining into nation –
so-called ‘nation’ mere nation among others limited
merely in time and place … stars around and strings,
snapping silver threads and golden needles.
Identity, identities to do with land and country local
culture in the local hamburger - once corner shop

identity, now sterile invited foreign impost. Something to
grasp and make grow, not to wobble on spindly Dali
elephants in cyberspace man. How many hours a day do
we spend at a screen stepping into zero rooms, quieter
even than the three planed corner quieter even …, in fact
flat on our bottoms, what’s happening to our miracle
existence … local 60’s café, Pat & Brenda’s Greasy
Spoon, is no internet cafe. I don’t know what to do
where to go where are you going would I go to? Grab
some Millennials to come too.
Playing in dirt and … the cyber interiors are to the
Sydneysiders what captain cook’s ship was to the
Austroriginals (with the o). There will be casualties.
People not prone to sit and screen, (shivers, are you
reading from a screen … I’m typing at one), brave and

57
having no connection, will be obliged to throw tinnies to a
midden surviving like Mad Max whatever way we can,
being a social category without a constantly refreshed
website by demand; being taught managed trained and
optionally free to be the rejuvenated Austroriginal (with
the o) at home in this uncomfortable place and free to
either opt in or let die techno wonder factor; being
content with just the perpetually modern geo-wonder of
that which is free already with us, be it just an ‘edenic’
garden shard garment. What’s happening Australia do
we want to go too, with the ‘first’ world baaabaaa. Can
we hook up those few great socio-google-mcdona-
colesworth machines and tame them as entities together,
a mothers little helper to haul with us as the masters; if
not nought bodes well for the freshness of life and the
pressures on the misfits held captive by mindfaked

controllers being controlled. Heaven-folk please bowl me
a big juicy orange apricot with reddish freckles and easy
to break in half to share to eat. In that moment I will jolt to
faith that something can open the way ‘through’, or ‘by’,
this puzzle that is surely a beast. Bowl, my father out of
sight in that heaven, bowl me here with our christ what I
need - the initiated may miss the C that makes no
difference to many. Bowled. Already done you say!
Thanks mate, thanks, thankyou – soaking me in spinal
shivers and release – thanks!!
Something to grasp and make grow, of character, muscle
and countryland. Something to consolidate the locale to
which most of us return before we die; a town with
identity history or even new – a new hitech city but

59
oozing with country and its fresh air billowing into
democracy’s insistent call-centres and software creators.
Let them unfold-old-ld-d:
Bucketloads of decentral new towns anchored to old
highways in distant red dust drama with wildlife and
history - each unique and real like say a painting - a
drysdale, namatjira, boyd or any archibalder. Lots of new
towns as different one from the other as our creative
vernacular integrity lets them occur …. and playing and
competing one with another in village style football and
trade fairs … and passions for the childhood waterhole in
the gully, well away from all over ultraviolet tanning rooms
… long local histories and reputations for manufacture,
song and place.

We have some ghastly horrible mentalities,
ugly gore whore selfish thieveries and lazy
bummed deceitful attitudes to wash out
clean, in order to maintain too, pristine clean
our prime realty; our campsites naturale with:
no signs bins barriers or any form of public
construction that is aimed at stopping
strewn toilet paper broken beer glass and
vandalism.
Our prime realty. This is our prime realty:
Camp sites, read ‘beautiful endemic places’, are not just
the leftover strips at the coast or the edge of town. The

61
campsites, they are the domestic capitals of our dwelling,
being ideal for children too and so are a first
Pryority
- linked down-track to national parks jetties and town
centres and industrials maybe mostly offside.
The town centres may be hitech little cities with satellite
country villages nested into wilderness. ‘No-banks-on-
the-street-corners’ rather anything but – bad health for
the dollersaurus; corners are say some glossed display
window replaced by light filtered potters’-hub food-joint
movie-theatre seagull-roost, urban camp site, play zone
or wombat hideaway. Get my picture; inner bitumen
access but the inner-inner is all footway peddleway
peddlerail peddlehydrofoil. Service access is made
invisible. Footways and buildings to address the locale

not the banks. In the deepest local synthetic city identity
realm nurture there will be the freshness of countryside
the deepest of natures nurture but not all in the one
moment of course. This is our geographic architects
cooking up as necessary for social vitality; as it works for
the particular ancient new great southern Australia, with
some new ‘naked-under’ ancient name interfacing the red
white blue southern-cross blended trauma, with our own
conglomerate of social ingenuity, adaptability, history,
ownership, vernacular, ecopical, morally populated
responsibility. We can use deep deep urban and
economical compact boxes but with it we debox degrid
decentralise decentralise decentralise …ise …ise …ise,
letting the fabric and vaste awe of our heritage country
breath through.

63
So simple it is; but current vested mindsets greeds have
almost perma-locked it into current global style cities -
outside the edenlock, remember. But; there are no ba
bas for us, baaaa, in the naked-under Australia - we’re
hoot hoot wise owl, keeping the banks in the order of our
own day to day greedless snideless purse clarities.
We’re looking at it sensibly, starting in Melbourne and
mixing it Mullumbimby.
Australians with feet on the ground can make this
movement not an act of the bowels but of the hand and
heart. Eventually as a base to us all growing further,
given time for the native people to regain their ancient
footings dreaming google time as in today, the ancient-
mix Sydneysiders and they will Dictionary
in back be.

accidentally meet nomurbically in harmonious embrace in
places on the move between the biggest cities and the
deepest bush. The key and substantial part of this
architecture is here already, repeat,
here already,
in the geography of this wonderful object the
countryland coastal and people.
Let’s go a bridge to Indonesia too and the other way,
grasp Kiwiland like we used to do. Perth and Adelaide
are a tad different - g’day there.
It’s true indeed that the bug of the world, greed,
arrogance, ‘panic-driven need to stay elected’, selfishness,
foolishness and vice is a filth that needs be cleansed.
We fix it in Australia and it will come from overseas,

65
will come from overseas even if we fix it here,
spanner in the works,
woe what will we do.
Write us a song sir Peter Garrett burning Midnight
Oil; spanner in the works we’re awake to your perks,
iced up thug in Redfern and multinational commercial
banker in politics, spanner in the works we’re awake to
your perks … and on we can sing and shout - problem
remains they’re immune to our consultations by mental
capacity, greed and choice. This has been with us time
immemorial going back pre captain cook along
aboriginal austroriginal and briton gene lines muchly
very savagery and plain dastardly controls and West
Papuan inhuman grabs.
How can it be fixed?
The Australian european settler government formed

the first day of 1901 without the participation of the
aborigines, native people, without a treaty and without
trade or purchase from Aboriginal people …… it was
stolen, usurped, torn away -
Where anything else failed, … by the ironsteel
blackpowder gun!
a blind eyed immorality … a political hiccup, formally the
way of the times - those ways of those times themselves
inexcusable blind eyed immorality, crime, oft savagery -
punishable.
By pooling the greatest logical resources the vast
treasure trove of created opportunity and miracle
existence ... I’m sounding like a leadup to sell you a
vacuum cleaner, ah! … a set of encyclopaedias, a new

67
facial cream or the 2015 iphone ... But …
I mean G O D… the real one.
Trouble is it’s not finger-flickin’ good … because we’re
all the original guilt bug and so involved in the suffering
… oh no my head has melted onto the floor and I’ve
accidentally dragged my federation-design wooden
chair across it …. aaghhh what a mess. That’s it, story’s
over, can’t write my way through my own guilt. I was so
wanting to get on with the geographic architecture spiel
but here’s a bridge I cannot cross – my face dragged
over by a federation chair using my own energy. Maybe
I’ll lounge lizard awhile with a cup of billy, no a guinness;
with luck my wife might clean up the floor, hopefully
recognising the mess and why I’m not doing it myself,
instead of being flaked as lately often faceless potato
on the couch. Guilt.

With Sandy’s help and God’s I am resurrected, face
carefully rinsed in warm soapy and draped in the sun shaded
by her gentle lace shawl, sprayed with olive oil, vinegar and
brown paper, it has become serviceable again. Thankyou.
In parallel I am making enquiries about a particular meaning
of the word ‘today’.
Is it a thing of the hands at work?
… feeling a bit frustrated that the answer has not yet come,
as it has I think ado the guilt and time to act. It is, though,
what we’re plagued with today; delays frustratingly idle
funding resource. Letting down the team not able to find the
steam, sometimes particularly nasty feather. Trudge on, it is
true the resource will avail if your trudge is true.
If not in earnest we must, so we do, or surely we will fizzle.
Sometimes the plague dastardly is locked-in as sure as the
ground and if it’s muddy there’s boots to be found. But at
this moment we yet again hear the echo of silence. I think it’s
because I’m Tasmanian isn’t it; not a Bruny Islander but - or
from Chigwell. … getting sociologically lower I mean more
playful as we step the places of abode. If we are not careful

69
we build a harness instead of dynamic facility, a trap instead
of a journey. Purge the bug of the world from our
construction development.
More often than not it’s all by accident, a muddled dud
vestige becoming romantic history. What fundamentally
was it that happened here:
Ellen Kelly, Mick Jag… sorry … Ned’s mother, whom
died at 79 a respected Gretan citizen, said ten years
after federation, “People blame my boys for all that
happened. They should blame the
police. They were at the bottom of
it all. Oh, you can't imagine what I
have suffered. You can't imagine
what it means to us poor people in
the bush, to be taken away from all
we have - our children. Yet they
took me away, and I had to stay in
prison for years. And for nothing -
nothing at all.“ Of course …
there are plenty of Blackfella
stories like this too.
This old shot of old
technology I discovered in the
public domain. I’m feeling it
should be accredited to Ned’s
next of living kin. A very
tender image from a ‘today’
of another time, showing
(dna aside) surely three of the
most innocent Boaties (or
were they all three born in
the southern land, also the
centre of the Natives’ life). I
wonder what Cheekyfella
might say.
Note the old slab timber
behind.

Across the globe, subject to gravity-wave science … I mean
the realities not the science … gravity is gravity … insofar as
we may be right to assume it an entity rather than a muscle
of termite.
Our great southern biodiversity is forged only in adaptation with the
elements and country, and this is how our natives and boaties become
austroriginal-australian - adaptations to our boatie artificial environments
are merely variously questionable enhancements. Natives the most
Boaties the least. Barring the non-biodiversity aspects, industrial
product and foreign mentalities, our Blackfellas are far and away the
elders.
Blackfellas undisplaced unsociopathed and likely in
Arnhemland are far and away the biodiversic elders.
Ecological sustainability is, in the democratic politics of
today (when?), the most urgent and profound issue we bear
- we should check our mentalities-ties mentality ties and the
product therefrom with these Elders."
We should check our mentalities-ties and the product
therefrom with these elders.

71
Our australien particular character is the sum of our
unique endemically active and productive souls each in
their own unique dynamic local stamping grounds. Politics
is a part of same. The game provision is sufficiently
abundant for all witnesses to find an interactive story in
their own.
Something to grasp and make grow; geographic
development-over and naked-under underpins
architecture, partly ‘is’ architecture, and is handy for
spuds, colleagues and inspiration.
A search in the Tardis interextra realms
of knowledge imaginative yards miles
microns seeking across muddy potato patch in the joint
Dictionary
in the back

mini-infinity of every point and every english word. The
tiniest yet known subatomic particle is likely
sensitive to being observed,
it may change on being seen - many of us have felt
somebody’s eyes seeing us – we of any backgound are not
subatomic particles yet composed with them we are. There’d be
millions of god-particles in everybodies viewscope right
now. Are they dancing to continuous widespread
multiminded articulating big bang perceptions or are they
shrouded in solitude by electromagnetic fields, mother of
pearl substances, assorted subatomic and extro-atomic
items such that they feel nothing from those eyers, or
perhaps an overkill filter mitigated comfortable
perception, being not traumatically intrusive as might be
a hitech microscopic device … and is digital perception
inert.

73
Regardless some perception-based response is there;
something ado mentality-ity-ty. To me we approach a
threshold where we should be giving place to mentality-
ity-ty into astro-atomic mapping. Mentality is as
substance, in fact as contagion, as emotions ideas
habits attitudes desires love hate spread good bad or
ugly, usually subconsciously. This phenomenon among
phenomena may be the warp that allows the stars to fall
to earth… mentality. It was more than any ordinary
conscious search and as it turned out …. my fairer
gender kissed my flickering eyelids some 40 years ago on
a gardened hillside near the chrysanthemums causing
them, my eyes, to open on impulse to find the fascination
of a new day’s early light shimmering broadly behind her,
each side of her, above, below and that in front too of

her vibrant part of this day in her facial expressions
dynamic fruitful and fulfilling in the absolute, such that
there was no scope to wonder what the day would bring
or why it is we call it today – let alone why we call current
times ‘today’ also. Something that isn’t merely ‘now’.
Choosing to identify wholly with this rapture I had left
the centuries floating loose and disassociated with this
small point in the fullness of universe. The supportive
remnant that we would be seeking tomorrow but for which
we simply have no need to even imagine right now. The
sunwatered trees may have been aware of our innocent
compulsive bubble

75
Away go we,
Now to Heaven,
from our blue-green
bubble.
Detail grayscale
at half real size.
Mont painting.

of total adequacy in that 40year old day; they may have
nurtured, nourished and compensated a smooth return
to the hard light of day – it wasn’t us; we had it all and
just knew it’d be okay.
Today in the Great Southern Land there are twenty
five million of us plus visitors, flora and wombats in our
assorted momentary and long term bubbles. All of us are
saturated richly with unique identity. Knowledge of this,
outside the bubbles, maybe rests in the trees or the soil
or the air or the heavenly host - certainly it rests on
observation, being seen and seeing.
The complex coordination cooks, making a civilisation
awaken to a fully shared self-activated moment; not a

77
prime minister’s best photo but a company of mutual
heartbeats.
It is all vivid meaningful backdrop and fallback for our
workaday toil setting the lace curtain, out with the wheely
bin and the professional devotion to task and earnestly
needed coordination of a nation’s architectures in this
severely ravished steeply climbing curve of environmental
destruction.
Grayscale version
Mont painting.

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

79
Good old paul keating said; that when aboriginal art and
culture become so integral and so central to ‘australian’
art and culture that each becomes indistinguishable from
the other, we’re all at home.
The baseline of ground and country
… this wonderful old land mass of ours.
(It was still there last I looked);
This massive heritage bulk of detailed land substance
that we pragmatically adapt and renovate;
we all touch its broader earth and then join hands,
beautiful natured places, vast cloud roofed kernel-rooms
and forest walls, valleys and coves – the awesome
minutiae as much as and singular with the broad awe;
all filtered intrinsic with sunlights and moonlights
flickering eyes resting, through another clear sheet of

rigid melted sand, on the shadows of eucalypt leaves
falling to those leafs in their shadowed light lee, all of
them wafting and waving in the moving airs with the
colours of photosynthesis, whitish reflected light, grayed
at shadow and merging with fleshy fickled limbs and their
fractal-like dissemination to the fine line entering each
leaf. All this cut off straight by the window-sill painted
similar in colour and reflecting the same light albeit a very
tight moment later onto the curtain-fold again of similar
tone. But there’s nought much similarity in the fragrant
fragrance, not odour, scent, or smell but blended
fragrance finely varied leaf with leaf tone with tone, hue
with hue and insect armpits too.
This is in country not a lot in town let alone city and
megalopolis, huge railway yard or open cut impost. Can
we should we not do without all of some or some at least.

81
It is this base environment home of the austroriginal-australian
that we renovate, adapt, enhance, filter, tap, cut & shunt, into
quarries, mines, forest coupes, range passes, building footings,
sewer ponds for public realm, workplace, residential
geographic place, houses, very large constructions, highways
and air strips.
We still usually sit our city halls where we will, only to
stifle a critical soul of place in our little towns room-
booming sprawl.
What will we do where will we go as we renovate the land
onwards with established demo-geographic prevail and
impost?

Ye olde handsplit timber slab will rarely or never now be
built – or will it indeed?! The Aborigines no steelen
blade made; truly was it at all needed.
A eucalypt
plantation with
silicon-clever
splitting
mechanics might produce perfectly split undamaged
surface grain timbers that will weather long-time in uncut
grain natural resilience to rain and rot, going silver gray
and needing not chemical sealant. Enhance the new
mechanical advantages with new forest breeding & we
may well have a beautiful fine detailed building material.
Slab roof .. never
known a liquid coat
other than rain &
melting snow.
Photo from old glass
slide: J&M Grist

83
Maybe we
haven’t seen
the last of this
delightful
architecture.
The glowing red-orange tick tick tick of the automobile
traffic turn indicator likely will be around for a while in our
public architectures though enhanced to facilitate
driverless silent technology. For many such audio-visual
functionings have daily often subliminal parts in our
sensory melee.
Great Southern and anywhere global share … so what is
our great southern uniqueness and or special characters
from which we grow - red desert and abundant gray-

green and sand coastal with people of wilderness that
was is in fact home of endless outdoor indoors meeting
with people of the sea and back-home foreign vast
cadastered indoors and above all … guns bang bang.
Between your Ayres Rock back to uluru then across to
the opera house, streetsweep clean the australian
ugliness pillow built on prime lands …. Woooops feeling
sick again about to melt off the chair here today is it too
late hey hey. Is there hope while we play, ‘vinegar and
brownpaper’ the order of the day; I have to rely on others
to carry that day. Making do with some adhoc
computeroid ticker-tape clues: the genome is the
concentric centre of the atom-star-gravity triangle.
That’ll do give me some soul that I can breathe.
Streetwalking nomad finds focus in country soul, as he
walks down Sydney Lane, no sideways into fluorescent

85
void like Geogalong walking through the house utilising
some space-floor and not other. There are parts where
people don’t need to go. There are people still … a tad
too many, and looking for our sunny beaches to blend
with their own culture, and so the agony-joy of
Austroriginal-australian adaptations. They are there:
here with us now together and apart. Our dance is
disjointed and some disappointed with the future that
has evolved from their past. How many know and how
many presume; which do and which don’t: gold in the
rabble, rabble about the gold. So so many: so so few
know and do. Vietnamese just o’er there – part of the
picture frame of our heritage chunk of land, such lovely
people as a pair of their own shoes humble. Humble and
lovely but still bicker and lean on the body that will fall at
the beginning that they see as an end. Quy Nhom town

by some water a salty shore with waves abubble and the
fisherman’s oar. We surge as a team as a crew tasting of
salt and bite on the meat drawn from the net. Looking to
the left and to the right thinking of the centre as our self,
of the writer as someone else. Taking off the shoe
because it’s become all wet, both foot and shoe are
better off drying in the warmth of the breeze blown sun.
The fishhook snags the little toe and her blood watered,
as it met on her skin the brine; was no worry at all, not at
all, take me home fishing pal, take me to shore, we have a
fish and my shoe is wet, take me home to the mat woven
floor and the hot little firebox that grandpa bought and
uncle installed. The young women remembered by the
glowing wood, now orange embered and saw in her vision
a hint of dangerous fission, not at all far, in fact touching
her skin and her mother’s, in this vision nor-east. It was

87
more a thought at the closeness of it all, all the seething
productions of many people other than her or hers, an
ocean away but fallout washing up on board and
splashing in from the oars.
We care so we know: it’s there splashing in from the oars,
feeding the gulls on the shores festering the oysters with
microscopic sores. The Frenchman and the Yank, the
Pom and the Kiwi, the politician and the headbanger:
they all drank too much and simply flushed their oars.
It’s all too big, too big, too big to manage to see:
sometimes all we see is damage shining light on what was
good, that once kept company with what is good and
remains, remains waiting for the good to come and join it
in a complete wholistic hum of awesome answer devoid of

question. Simply something that is simply fantastic
everyday where there is no disaster for the mind to
mention.
Mention to whom? The eyes out there looking in here.
Or the mind of the dancer collapsed ecstatically
exhausted on the disciplined wooden chair – many miles
from any oar or fission, with that awesome answer
reclining comfortably in her hair.
Reader, my own interactive position:
There came again time to write and it’s this one right
here. What for who for in the middle of the night. A
fragment of a person receiving a nobel prize, the wind
drifting through the sleeping caverns left by the
university’s air system and the more-cosmic dust forming

89
the genomic pattern-balding of her consciousness.
There are times to read even though it’s only the feel of
the book suiting your interactive interaction and the
anticipation of a cosy realm neutralizing the urban storms
that bring one to ingest the first of the endless string
that rests as the finger reverts the file to its folder. The
nudger who nurtured the movement to write may not have
intended one reader to ingest. The reader was not as
apprehensive nor as bewildered at what is written and in
fact converted the write to fit the psychedelic heal,
sought to repair the caverns that had formed only that
evening when a news headline collided with a loving
notion - this to the highly inappropriate celebration of a
group of youths strolling traffic-defiant attired in a new
traditional array of cultured fabric and colour, itself
nurtured by the same nudger as part of the eternal

canvas. Are there people who know and people who
don’t. Of course the reader, the writer, the prize winner
but not the nudger; for the nudger must know all to allow
the wine glass to ring resonate as the aging cuff link
chinks the rim. Is a Rolf Harris broad brush painting that
starts a mystery and comes up clear out of the artists
impressionistic squint or is a largely accidental paint-
dripped singlemind rationale that can be pointlessly
named Blue Poles and so be celebrated and
perpetuated sufficiently to steal from the nudger the
copyright that creates still many a cerebral joy. Oh our
people of shallow smiles that appear full and complete to
the viewers propped up by windblown caverns and bones
dissolving in coke. The writer knows he has caverns but
he knows not where. His eyes sting and close, he’s about
to fall face to the keyboard but a nudger puts it to bed.

91
It rises eight hours later bright eyed and bushy tailed eyes
resting through another rigid transparent sheet of melted
sand in city glory. The best of cities will always require
something that isn’t an emotional motionfull rushed rash of
unattached people; the eternal ephemeral handcrafted
country village and nomurbic nomads may use the creations
of the cities - okay but if there are devices we need
personalised zero room screens; especially for the children.
The two should flow together.
Grayscale version
Mont painting.

flow together. 5Let's wary be
of the frontiers of urban planning having us stand beside
ourselves in
wonder at what we can create
rather than with that of the great creator of all.
There was always at least a person of character, nearby
in a far off memory of friendly connection, enhancing the
appreciations with a wily wit, himself a nudger needing a
nudge. This one in mind is now a writer also. Like the
leafy shadows and interplays of light the writers of our
people are read in vocational relativity; the language
grows, the genres, the wisdoms, the turns of tongue.

93
Some are stolen, the reader doesn’t know. Some are
revelation, the reader doesn’t notice. A writer writing of
writing is floundering and flapping for take-off. The
flounder is a fine fish, beneath its wings is a brine of its
locale. Not the same precisely as the brine cut by a
surfboard fin at some Lion Rock locale offshore the
Melaleuca wilderness where the waters wear the minutia
from the local creek and the droppings of the local fish
diet. We are finding lift-off where the eagle is relative to
the flounder; as go the creaturely locales merging local
creature types in the life acids and simple mechanics of
bone flesh and muscle. We are away. Going somewhere.
Vietnamese sea, village, city awe, manmade threat, simple
Grayscale version
Mont painting.

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

95
The date in time, the tools that accrue; enough to send
the robot to mars and leave a slimy sludge at the factory
pipe. From the african plains, wild animals, insects and
birds; we see them aplenty in the digital screens that
helped to cause their demise, by industrial footprint: the
screens are a pinnacle on the industrial rampage that
drains energy, pollutes and over-runs. While this is
happening the cat at the corner, as he can, tells his mates
that he eats the same food as humans and stretches at all
positions in front of their fire while the alleycats go the
bins outdoors in the ice of winter; reminds me of the
billionaire cows we saw, sitting sublime with lush food joy
so close as to require only the most convenient of
movement reach and luxuriant delicacy munch. We
celebrated from open windows on our narrow windy
bitumen ribbon, tree-overhung, in the most aesthetic of

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

97
audience or fellow laughers. It needed an opportunity,
for one doesn’t partake when in stealth with a bow and
arrow pointed to a pheasant for the family, nor when
giving thanks to the supremely gracious saviour - for
indeed the bug of earth is contagious inherited and
usually ultimately deadly.
A number of momentary circumstances afterward came
another ‘patch in the quilt of shared lives’; seemingly
unrelated little patches of events and circumstance, of
people and activity, of weather and screen. Patch by
patch and many forgotten until the topic of another
patch when we reach the bottom. Is there a passion in
there; ah that’s something we like and if we don’t have
one there we may dim in envy and wonder at that which
we don’t have. Microscopic views, macroscopic too,

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

99
plunge into the sea near shore from the top of a head high
wave, bubbles all around and positive ions in the foam,
massages full body with a powerful energy born way out at
sea small at the base of an ever so huge atmospheric
downdraft. Up you come fresh with zest impassioned and
kinda new, not even wondering what you should do; doing
the same as being. For the man who grows his fingernails
into his clenched hand, for the woman who bursts with vigour
with her family; doing is being is doing. Beingdoingbeing,
doingbeingdoing. There are billions who have been and
done, here in this earthy patch; this patch of rich and
wonderful vegetated abundance and serendipic comfort and
company. This patch oft times I have wished eternal,
forgetting the dissipation of unconscious zest, the outwash
of feral nuclear radiations and the small murders of
emotional distortion and fouled genomes. Where was I now,

where are you… and the ones beside you – in the company
of your zest and drive; and us in theirs. There are those with
us in there’s; there really are.
Our buildings and constructed realms are not there to be
garnished by our culture selves countryside neighbours but
rather are there to shelter, foster, embrace and celebrate all
of these things. Let be and make all these things vibrant and
giving love to same will in a moment of unified time create the
wombat shop at the bank corner with all its accompaniment
our buildings and constructed realms.
The gossamer delicate nomurbic harmony between
becomes steelen joy.
Nomurbics is the architecture to do it. We don’t know it
exactly yet but it starts with an ayre-ulururian parliament-
house and grows to fit our songs - free nomadic roam,

101
hunting and camp options on t h e d e s i g n -
p u r p o s e d r i p p e r e a r t h e n c o u n t r y
r o o f o f o u r h o u s e o f n a t i o n a l p o l i c y
c h a t t e r – but bug’o the would foiled, right there in the
country above parliament house, with no security (for either
politic), shamefully didn’t but could have picnicked in
celebration and elaboration of an epic event and intent,
peter cosgrove governor general, thoroughly hilaried malcom
turnbull prime minister and clynton pryor (Prior to most!)
aboriginal ‘citizen’
having freshly arrived
at the end of his walk
from Perth via the
likes of uluru, desert
and communities the long way to Canberra. The air was still
Arrived to..
Traced by Mont

in an echo of silence-nce ... nobody daubing anything to
near match the Clynton fresh.
There’s a palatino linotype willy-willy intrusion right here dropping in the
writing page from some weeks hence. The scene on the rooftop is now one of
the heritage landbase; dozers having pushed the earth back over the interiors
carcass parlimentaire, now on the roof the gums and sedges of local seeding
and airs have grown and there is no surface construction yet. This is what is
granted by the early hours and settles through my morning bath dust to water
into type. Melted faces of hopeless self-disgust humiliated native-boatie
visages frozen in the actionless moment melted in the leaf crunch beetled
earth dragged across by a thoroughly unfederated ungutted roo carcass to be
thrown by Cheeky across the flaming dry eucalypt limbs set in the occasional
ephemeral eternal fire. The fire is set nomurbically in granite open chimney-
free fireplace with polished shoulders unengraved with british font similar to
this. While the carcass scorches from fragrant dry limbs with gumnuts
collected nearby and the adrenalin is built for the footy-instead-of-chatter-
match, the willy willy makes its way funnelling the smokes, quite poetically
blokes, thinks the women secretly, emu winks obliquely. It is a nomurbic
thing, this willy-willy, out of its dust and smokes appear some minimal
architecture landscape – some half-western-height ironbark bench seats and
not much else, the refreshment of tapped water gurgling yabbied into a little
lake glistening when the wind settles more polished than any urban gloss
even as it flows over and between the stones of a formed creek it runs agurgle
asmile in its way to the level land and a little billabong it forms astill agloss
reflections of local eucs and a parliament construction piece. The oval is
nomurbic for all thought it great and fit for the cultural interface of such vast
difference in some regards; in the end we all are winners, that’s why we call
us mates. The spirit that arose was one of many local peoples in the fertile
ground of dismantled imperialism and pompous whole of land big nation.
The nations are all asmall and abright of locally weathered characters. The roo
asizzling asmoking is on a million four barbies and camps amalgamating
quite a few hundred local shires; all united nbn with and slick hitech travel
legacy of the imperial age coordinated by a lot of friendly bickering across the
council’s shire – not quite the pommy shire-bicker for fear of a spear in the
leg. You may recall this … wait a minnie! … ah! … from a few pages ahead,

103
“… dwelling endlessly in locales of character with architectures as friendly
as shells, accessed by paths and roads as gentle as pademelon trails and
as pungent as kookaburra kookas. Built interiors as delightful as abalone
shell interior existing only where they can be in fair place-loving reason,
laden mother-of-pearl wealth in visual creative delights equally oozing
music and loudest of all wonders of lover, mother, father, children, tribal,
family, parliamentary vocal merging indoors with out.” As agreed by the
local reps on the federated council for ‘national’ developments: We’re left
naked of missiles to invasion again by choice of the true love; just wasn’t
worth it as we all came to see. True to the holy synchronisation, the willy-
willy came down in Auscopia as the New Jerusalem, more dramatic a lot,
came down to its home locale, where blood a lot had been spilled. All afalling
together in the almighty cosmic logic as it turns to compost the sludge of the
bugs of the earth. The palantino willy-willy is lifted and the written old
present is returned.
I think some need to review the idea of what is primitive and
that hitech is not mandatory for good life. Some know
perpetually modern nature, which is not subject to
obsolescence, pollutions and the trap of interior. One can’t
manage papers and keyboards in the wind. Mobility and
ultraviolet are great antiseptics. Hunting beats supermarket
Grayscale version
Mont painting.

aisles. Their legs are their front door, campfires the bush
television, the sounds of the weather their symphony, a
spear in the leg their law, natures limits their contraceptive.
The mindset/cultural differences that didn’t gel into a
country parliament picnic are vast yet all are terrestrials -
pathetic, sublime british bulldog aussie banker syndrome,
lousy, near as immoral or rather stupid as sodomy.
Absolutely foolish stupid mind feebling physical horror. It is
obvious here that the geographic architectures to suit each
mindset will vary greatly. Various parts of any city various
peoples don’t walk. Some don’t want casinos, stupidly large
houses and city centres starved of the breath of the
country. When we plead for some country vitality in street
canyon we plead
firstly for the children
Grayscale version
Mont painting.

105
who have not developed an economic rationale for such
places along with a mentality that knows to get in and out
again, to hold the breath and not fear the absence of the
shy subliminal sky-blue orgone … but maybe fear the
absence of air purity. Back in a day the natives of this land
before sugar, alcohol, bullets and displacements would have
suffered if expected to stay at all in a modern city street
canyon … being away from the songs of the land drove many
to sad ends.
There ought be places and there are,
like the camels caravansering the Areyonga supplies base,
smack bang geographically central in the Great South
‘Island’, nornoreast of uluru, well west in the MacDonnell
Ranges and a fair haul by crow from the Alice.
Grayscale version
Mont painting.

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

107
Cheeky talking , “You know Monte, not just Arabs but the
comfort slickers should eat out their heart, we’re out here in
the red heart. We don’t mind some internal combustion in
the ambience and the Levi jeans, checked shirts and hats
that come with it; but do we want a five star
wind/water/solar powered litter spitter with ovens,
verandas, helipad, airstrip, electronic music and some of our
fundamental needs? Nah … ah well maybe, if it’s limited in
size outa respect for red and the stars, yeah that’d be great.
We nomadic types don’t mind bumping shoulders with the
air-travelled hypertech urban people if they don’t mind
bumping with us by throwin’ this goanna straight in the oven
there. We can call it the nomurbunya; it’s in our place, you
build it - ta! If you want to dig into the mountain cool out of
sight too, you can make it big enough for us to wander into
the town square with our camels to trade and talk, stay if

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

109
giant 3D printout in concrete and tar ink and they are blind
to it; they don’t even understand that the architect design o’
parliament has the countryside intently retained and
enhanced above their low little ceilings. That shows how
cut-off they are bro’, bring ‘em out we’ll tell them and show
them, then they’ll grow their constructions ecopically (that’s
a word you taught me monte - found it in the dictionary in
back of this book). Our life and country is well sustained;
the comfort slickers make good movies but they’re going
down man, down - by their own leaderships and politics.“
How do we look via sea, to other nations nz, anglo, kiwi,
coconut, ching, nip, indo, sri lankin, canada, coming in coastal
by boat, seeing our neighbour lands on the way and
choosing their bit of terra australis to come ashore, or by
internet search, how do we look - gday mate, nice choice bit

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

111
sometimes agonising embarrassments and teetering on the
edge unsustainable and stifling. As the eonic centurial
sojourns roll, where are we going or what of our conditions
all. Huge impacts from global cultures, huge impacts on our
individual gospelic interactive stories. That written or
invited or developed in any reader’s heart, for survival not
only but also peaking eternal momentary interactive joy, as I
said characterised by the pain of unstoppable ground
rolling body curling belly laughs the like of memories of many
other nine year olds - except in street canyon. If only all
food was as healthy as that; not bread alone says the bread
of life unleavened and not even vegesmited. Knock knock
heart of uluru, kunanyington, of every house, town, city,
locale, business deal, cultural creation; we know you’re there
raw-under the bitumen footpath and the white demarked
carpark, the blinkers of hopeless ceremonies and welfare

excuse for apology and charity. Come out and shake your
fist not at a foreign neighbour, visitor or pollie but at the
enemy of pure vitality of individual communal lifes and
people old, young, quiet rowdy tall short smooth dowdy.
My childhood vision: shake it all with the one simple logic
that fits all minds and souls, no unsettled disputes all,
interlock working in harmony in accord with personal
passions, predilections and talents.
Great southern bush-embracing architect, wilderness is
robust but still our poisons spread, people are locale minded
easily blinkered by wires poles signs walls. Hearts know
while minds rebel, that the islanded broadscale and myriad
zoom-ins to fractalian endemics in fragrance, matter, colour,
sounds, vegetations and creatures. The joys of great
travels within and, shining this back to that page past, now dwelling

113
endlessly in locales of character with architectures as
friendly as shells, accessed by paths and roads as gentle as
pademelon trails and as pungent as kookaburra kookas.
Built interiors as delightful as abalone shell interior existing
only where they can be in fair place-loving reason, laden
mother-of-pearl wealth in visual creative delights equally
oozing music and loudest of all wonders of lover, mother,
father, children, tribal, family, parliamentary vocal merging
indoors with out.
This word 'ecopical' is basically about that but includes the
aspect of social personality - as people, we do best what
people understand, love and are correctly prone to do – and
so politics is part of ecopicality also – we cop the truth of
our failings. Ecopicality is not yet in our consensus
dictionaries, but its imprints belong in our frames of mind

when we develop our public realms, grids, offices and
factories.
Grayscale version
Mont painting.

115
offices and factories.6Evidence predating the advent of agriculture
shows that we as gathering hunters have enjoyed great
lifestyle excellent health, societies of man-woman mutuality,
light workloads, leisure and freedom from any form of
government and using traditional, nonindustrial, energy
resource efficient building technique. The book, ‘The
Biggest Estate on Earth’, shows the complex systems of
Aboriginal land management in the now naked-under, rather
than the wholistic everywhere that received the boatie rash.
The first euroboaties noted frequently that the land
evoked park-like anglo country ‘estate’ - paths, extensive
grassy patches, open woodlands, abundant wildlife. The
people managed the land supremely systematically locally

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

117
society is very rich without brick veneer, physical trappings
scant. Heading from home sydney where he artfully enjoys
short sojourns of cross-cultural jibes and dance as to what
the boaties are missing, including, the boxlocust and the
academic protagonists of ecopian activity, Talkabout
throws off his shirt wrap before reaching his simple house by
preference with his family and his eastern country
abundance.
Child of the global West, nomadic urban altruist Low Carl
forewent penthouse life for city tumble-weeding because he
felt the rooms humming harder. We note that a joyful walk in
nature is definitively impacted where boxlocusts blend with
this world. We note that a joyful walk in nature is definitively
impacted where boxlocusts blend with this world.

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

119
We have nanotech surveillance, robotics, medical. We have
the christian basis being scoffed and dismantled out of our
constitution and political correctness, children empowered
by sociotech and newly searching to replace what is scoffed.
We have tribulating with that and the tributary of
microplasticated fish we eat, a tribulation currently flowing
toward an expanding sea of extreme discomfort and agonies
with wings of extinct eagles. To many all this remains
invisible under a sea of seeming caroused joy gods and
somas.
What we lose is not only the naked-under tapestry but the
whole wilderness outback countryside vibe water sky flora
fauna and air; when we hermetically seal ourselves or our
people into boxes or even egg shapes, ie a little less
hermetically, even with windows, courtyards, David

Rabbitbourough (sorry Steve Irwin is more ours)(now
there’s a pommy-aussie shift), indoor plants and clear road
to the bush.
Our anticipated geographic architects’ cultural heritage
conservation plans should be applicable in principle to all all
all of our developments mines roads dams towers pizza
shops mcmansions. The professional planners accept this
idea and enforce it … a little. The same crew refuse to
understand that the daisy we sit on is comparably and more
significant and ultimately supremely significant over cultural
heritage … “even abo heritage monte” (steady up Cheeky
don’t get cocky).

GREAT SOUTHERN STREETWALKING NOMAD

GREAT SOUTHERN STREETWALKING NOMAD

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