On 3 July 2012 18:01, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com>
wrote:
>Bush telegraph reporting,
A diurnal journal. Smoke signals lost in the mist. Resort to gorilla tactics.
Hope your mega bites are healing. Answered the door to a young fella with a clip board. "You got our letter we would be calling?" Cork Co. Council. "Oh yes, what's it for? Is it anything to do with money, like putting the rent up maybe? "No." Oh that's good, anything to do with smart meters? "No, you can apply for them if you want."
"It's just that a lot of people are moving and we're doing a survey to make sure every house has got what it needs so we can attend to needs more efficiently, i'm not the council i'm just on a 'fas' course. OK come in.
A noteworthy example of how the imagined list of worst case scenarios is so often due solely to a conscientious consensus minded secretary being unable to write an informal and transparent letter of notification that acknowledges the obvious, that we're both equally human. Easy to forget that when you're paid to sound as if you're doing 'a job'.
Steamy July, under a mist grey overhang of jacuzzi drizzle and no shadows. Walk to shops for organics and chat. Proceed through a string of consecutive synchronistic conversations all on the same page.
First, from a doorway, where i once caught my foot in a handbag and rolled head first downstairs and out into the street totally unscathed and nearly knocking over a passing pedestrian.
From this door steps my writer friend of many wonderful imaginative books. Most notably, 'Tilly Greenway and the Secrets of the Ancient Keys'. So we hit off on a humorous rap about imagination and how they covered over our idyllic childhood world with tarmac and forgot to get to know the neighbors. A most uplifting updraft on a corner kerb in the misty drizzle, bidding a soft day with a mutual turn of dry wit.
Vision is alive and magic is afoot in wet green munster.
Around the next corner, my fellow friend and Rainbow Warrior , of past medicine circle gatherings, with a copy in hand of his ongoing project book and board game full of colourful diagrams and details of The Medicine Circle and our rambling spontaneous rap echoes mutually where the previous one left off, with simple and obvious practical radical solutions to the dying dinosaur's collective red tape catastrophe.
And we simultaneously notice that, beyond the wet street of shop fronts and chimney tops with the ever present swooping black crows, and in a field beyond the market square, on a green hillside sloping to the harbor is a string of large white letters spelling out 'Bantry 2012' and the 'one' has fallen over! And we banter about why and how these surrounding fields are not used for growing ample vegetables for the town, so the coke swilling kids with their baseball caps backward and nothing to do but swagger in baggy pants and trainers could happily hoe their frustrated warrior energy and cultivate food free for the taking like they are actually doing in the north of England and elsewhere.
You don't need money to grow food. It grows by itself.
All you have to do is care for what's there. So i continue on my meander, buying a few basics. Water for example. Since what comes out the tap is poison. Without a single word of exaggeration. Bleach to keep you white on the inside. Fluoride to finish you of slowly, lowering your IQ if you've got one. Producing a list of ailments to keep 'pharmas' in business, ailments all down the list, physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, nervous system imbalances called 'normal human behavior', and total amnesia to anything else.
Whether you're septic or just skeptic, Google it! Don't just gargle it.
Passing by the supermarket before returning home to a garden full of food to light a fire and settle in to my next native american painting, titled, 'A Love of Leaves' (13 letters), and sighting a certain person from afar and cutting up a side street, leaving the pieces to fall where they lay, i then see Annie approaching, her broad brimmed leather hat in the rain, who straight away says, "I just got back from California where i stayed with american indians". "!woW", says i backwards. We must get together over coffee and tell me about that.
This is just a shorthand sample from a diurnal journal from a short shopping trip on a uniform grey soft wet day on the seaward side where the rolling folds and hollows of rumpled carpets of lush wet Munster green slope and slide down of course to the sea. The Atlantic sky a distant wash of grey salt mist across the bay to the Beara in a mad scattering of soulful gulls above rooftops.
A diurnal journal. Smoke signals lost in the mist. Resort to gorilla tactics.
Hope your mega bites are healing. Answered the door to a young fella with a clip board. "You got our letter we would be calling?" Cork Co. Council. "Oh yes, what's it for? Is it anything to do with money, like putting the rent up maybe? "No." Oh that's good, anything to do with smart meters? "No, you can apply for them if you want."
"It's just that a lot of people are moving and we're doing a survey to make sure every house has got what it needs so we can attend to needs more efficiently, i'm not the council i'm just on a 'fas' course. OK come in.
A noteworthy example of how the imagined list of worst case scenarios is so often due solely to a conscientious consensus minded secretary being unable to write an informal and transparent letter of notification that acknowledges the obvious, that we're both equally human. Easy to forget that when you're paid to sound as if you're doing 'a job'.
Steamy July, under a mist grey overhang of jacuzzi drizzle and no shadows. Walk to shops for organics and chat. Proceed through a string of consecutive synchronistic conversations all on the same page.
First, from a doorway, where i once caught my foot in a handbag and rolled head first downstairs and out into the street totally unscathed and nearly knocking over a passing pedestrian.
From this door steps my writer friend of many wonderful imaginative books. Most notably, 'Tilly Greenway and the Secrets of the Ancient Keys'. So we hit off on a humorous rap about imagination and how they covered over our idyllic childhood world with tarmac and forgot to get to know the neighbors. A most uplifting updraft on a corner kerb in the misty drizzle, bidding a soft day with a mutual turn of dry wit.
Vision is alive and magic is afoot in wet green munster.
Around the next corner, my fellow friend and Rainbow Warrior , of past medicine circle gatherings, with a copy in hand of his ongoing project book and board game full of colourful diagrams and details of The Medicine Circle and our rambling spontaneous rap echoes mutually where the previous one left off, with simple and obvious practical radical solutions to the dying dinosaur's collective red tape catastrophe.
And we simultaneously notice that, beyond the wet street of shop fronts and chimney tops with the ever present swooping black crows, and in a field beyond the market square, on a green hillside sloping to the harbor is a string of large white letters spelling out 'Bantry 2012' and the 'one' has fallen over! And we banter about why and how these surrounding fields are not used for growing ample vegetables for the town, so the coke swilling kids with their baseball caps backward and nothing to do but swagger in baggy pants and trainers could happily hoe their frustrated warrior energy and cultivate food free for the taking like they are actually doing in the north of England and elsewhere.
You don't need money to grow food. It grows by itself.
All you have to do is care for what's there. So i continue on my meander, buying a few basics. Water for example. Since what comes out the tap is poison. Without a single word of exaggeration. Bleach to keep you white on the inside. Fluoride to finish you of slowly, lowering your IQ if you've got one. Producing a list of ailments to keep 'pharmas' in business, ailments all down the list, physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, nervous system imbalances called 'normal human behavior', and total amnesia to anything else.
Whether you're septic or just skeptic, Google it! Don't just gargle it.
Passing by the supermarket before returning home to a garden full of food to light a fire and settle in to my next native american painting, titled, 'A Love of Leaves' (13 letters), and sighting a certain person from afar and cutting up a side street, leaving the pieces to fall where they lay, i then see Annie approaching, her broad brimmed leather hat in the rain, who straight away says, "I just got back from California where i stayed with american indians". "!woW", says i backwards. We must get together over coffee and tell me about that.
This is just a shorthand sample from a diurnal journal from a short shopping trip on a uniform grey soft wet day on the seaward side where the rolling folds and hollows of rumpled carpets of lush wet Munster green slope and slide down of course to the sea. The Atlantic sky a distant wash of grey salt mist across the bay to the Beara in a mad scattering of soulful gulls above rooftops.
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artwork : Unknown Planet, martin law, March 2005
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