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APRIL 15TH, 1998, THE NATURE OF HATRED
Once his hatred got a grip and started to squeeze on his bony chest there was no letting go, he lay like a bug in the grass, I looked on fascinated, if I had been a child he may have tried to kill me, these were tense moments between us, I felt calm but wary, he went for me once and my blue heeler moved in growling, he withdrew, then later he went for the blue heeler behind the tree making a noose with the choker, he said that the dog chain was too heavy for him to carry, but it was his heart that was weighing him down, I approached him with a big stick and told him to get away from the dog, suddenly he did, he saw the stick and looked up into the windy branches, the big native forest and the gentle misty rain was there to back me up, we all wanted to see an end to hate, but he was giving birth and it was tearing him open, he was giving birth to hate through his heart, small sounds came from his mouth, he thought he hated me because it was easier to hate something outside himself, whilst he directed all his energies outwards towards the 'would be' attacker, his hatred turned and fed on his own guts through his open chest like a scavenging eagle, he was still alive and screaming, The Wombat Forest made him lay down and tried to coax it out of him, but he would have none of that, it was a big part of himself and he was frightened to let it go, hate blinded him until he saw nothing but himself in others, if he had started running he would have ran straight into the trunks, the trees stood close together and watched him, I watched him too with the dogs, there was nothing any of us could do, there comes a point where you can't help another until they help themselves, he was full of hate, the forest tried to rest him but he fought against it, this made him very weary, I call out to him, 'you want to hurt everything around you and what good will that do you, you want to hack it all into pieces,' he now stands always in front or walks in front as if to get my attention, the dogs point their noses and tell me where he is, eyes freshly angry he is basking in hate, it surrounds him like a force field, the sun is trying to penetrate his cheek skin but he has pulled a black beanie down over his eyes, is this what the murdered being looks like, as hate murders them later to turn its hand to the outside world?, how nature tries to cure him, 'go to sleep,' it says, but he takes his hatred further into him,'baby it's hate, how nature cures, go to sleep,' here is the crack of twigs through the uneven mounds of damp leaf litter, red leaves have turned brighter in the rain, the underside of the strips of bark are orange like a desert sky, the contrast of the grey rain has made the forest floor brighter, there are birds here, finches or wrens, they pop in and out of branches fluffing up to shake of droplets as big as their tiny chests, clumps of hair moss flowers up one side of the old local tree, this Victorian moss drinks in the moisture provided by winter and tries to climb to the sun, until summer comes to burn it down or a small bushfire streaking through, naked flame swallowing tall gums whole, eating them up like narrow wooden pencils through a sharpener, here we say is the nature of hatred, moss reaches for the sun and is burnt, the trees sway in the oceans of wind and it's like the planet is swaying when I look into them, if I stood here long enough I would have to sway too, in order to keep my balance, hate edges into the soil like flint marble at the base of trees, how I used to act like this when I was completely pyscho, what if the whole forest suddenly became crazy?, it would be time to get the hell out, does it really help you to try and destroy everything in your path?, the weaker power, you should be saving yourself and not destroying everything else, hatred it's like a wound that's part of you, it's hard to destroy and to heal it, like an operation to remove a tumour from the brain, one cut can wipe out a whole personality, you can't kill self hate by killing the world, how many forests will fall before they can send us to sleep like children, you think this gentle native forest would eat you alive if it could, but it grows things, I still loved him, but I had made a mistake and something had been set in motion, the Wombat Forest took my attention because it was low, cold and damp, burrowing into the ground, close to dirt, we came out of the dark forest into a rainy clearing, it was a forest description: lichen hangs like green barnacles around the coral rim of the dark burnt out trunk, the trunk rests amongst the fern fronts, speckled by splotches of light and feathery fronts, buried in things that brush against the skin sensitising him, but nothing could bring that old tree back to life, it was like dusting a coffin, the crown of leaves as mulch, the ring of a mossy trunk, the uneven floor of leaf litter, the wind hurries the clouds across the fringe of leaves that grow in the sky, they dampen and go deep like fields, as the clouds split and depart and sunlight again travels through the forest like its looking for someone, lighting up the trees with it's lovely searching, this happens in Tasmania, perpentual wind and rain, like a coastline whooshing through miles of forest accountable to no one, lakes of floating huon pine, other trees swaying like weeds underwater, moved by currents of air, it made the same noise as the surf, I have bought you here to taste your hate, it hides in a wet red leaf with shy bright eyes, it's fallen brown, twigs, the dogs snorting in it like bush rats, mist, mushrooms, ferns, stones and flax lily. |
