23. PINK SAND AND HAND HELD IMPLEMENT OF ISLAND LAGOON
below the mesa plateau, the resistant outcrops that bake, rested in winter, the sweet pink sand of the salt lakes, for days and years on end of glitter in the sun, where do we chose to spend our lives?, we look out upon an environment, and strike out in an instant, like a young butterfly turning on its side, the powdery wings flash and then, i have lived all my life looking out of windows, when island lagoon was baking inland, there seemed such a barrier to cross to get to it, to stand on its edge, when all it took was a two day drive in an EH holden, and a few scrapings of salted surface into a bucket to make me happy again, i have spent all my life trying to get here and now i am here, i think how easy it all could have been, if only i had known the simple way to sand, we stopped the car at island lagoon, john found an smooth aboriginal mortar and pestle, it felt good in his hand, out of all the places to stop, but it was because he said, 'stop now, right here,' without speaking out loud, then he simply wandered over and picked it up, i don't know exactly how it happened, there was this intimate encounter, his eyes leading his hands to the land, then the stone and the stone-made tools, leading themselves into his hearing heart, that had always reached for stones and shrubs, now we watch them as they come to him, this time it was two stones lying amongst the gibbers, they felt good in john's hands, with his sympathy, his understanding, this writing is all about his favourite place, which is the pink salt of island lagoon, it was right that he should explore this area, it was right that he should keep the stones, hold them close to him and travel further, i drove home on my own, i stopped the car often and each time i switched the engine off there was such an enormous silence, there was the fear that the engine wouldn't start back up, but still i slammed the doors to make a sound and hung around for hours on end, on the edge of lakes i'd dreamt upon, i stayed simply to collect sweet pink salt in a bucket, the underlying material exposed by etching, the pink flats of salt from island lagoon moved under my fingernails, upon my peace and into the wounds, i came back to my senses, cleansed bright by salt and salty surfaces |
