Coral Hull: Prose: Notes From The Big Park: December 12th, 1997, Central Victoria

I MACKENZIE KNIGHT I A CHILD OF WRATH A GOD OF LOVE I FALLEN ANGELS EXPOSED I

CORAL HULL: NOTES FROM THE BIG PARK
DECEMBER 12TH, 1997, CENTRAL VICTORIA

I have lost my appetite for everything but slate, the black flies were so many that words formed from their sounds, strange worlds that began like musical notes on sheets and ended up like wings, the dogs were all electric with enthusiasm as the bush rushed past their tails, we picked up the grey muddy slate that broke like plates around the edges, I do not want to climb that hill tomorrow, it is riddled with birds looking down into holes from slate mining, I just want to sit in this one place in the shade and gather up shapes of earth, why does it rush forward all the time?, when often I just want to stay the same, I would rather love with my mind, I would rather gather rocks than food, I have lost my appetite for everything except the earth, I was taught about the earth out in the sky, I was told that they were planets because they do not twinkle, the flame doesn't leap from their spheres, it is only our sun reflecting off them that gives them fire, tonight the kookaburras, the full moon, the bird that sings in descending notes just after the sun has gone down, the manna gum dragging its long leaves like hair through the grass, weeping long and dry like a hollow, the tree that wore a eucalyptus dress, drags her olive green acidic skirts, Victoria is flatter more subtle than New South Wales, the noises are of the low bird in the low scrub, snakes created this country, the rivers sink lower that the rock, that holds the catchment like two cupped hands, as if very slowly the rocks absorb it, Victoria is a land of absorption whereas New South Wales is flight, everything is seen through the eyes of a white cockatoo, even the rivers gallop through the gills of the Murray Cod, it's all moving somewhere and is not still and calm like this country down south, where the idea of love is squeezed between two slates and somehow gains its freedom, these states request certain periods in a person's life, pink galahs retire in gums that shed their bark in Victoria, and golden wattle seeds rattle in the breeze on their way north, they will launch shortly, this land has tried to have me trust it by making me love it, I loved it until it hurt, the rain shines on the sheep skull, the fastigale scuttles along the cabin sill, the dawn in my heart, but too late.

    

This website is part of my personal testimony that has been guided by The Holy Spirit and written in Jesus' name.

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