The writing style in Homartian is like John’s paintings - and I quote the foreword with a smile in agreement; “a loosely waxed flow of conscious and subconscious expression from the evirons & the mental … lush with psychotropic properties.” Though poetically styled, this book in its journey reminds me of many most pleasant “Homartian” classical music concerts. Somehow both take me to a place in my thoughts, giving me an awareness of beautiful peace, hope & a sense of freedom & dreaming which strengthen my wellbeing. Thankyou to John.
Professional Mother, Wife and Kiwitian
© Monte John Latham 2013
Monte John Latham asserts the moral right to be identified as the creating author of this work,
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.
Publication Date: February 2013
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All that came before, in particular this beautiful place
that has suffered and grows … and the last pound of shelled scallops that was tendered as fare on the tram to North Hobart.
Paintings, cover, pencil & snap photo illustrations are by the author
A few of the images are drawn from general publication & of unknown source.
THE LITTLE LAND
mainland to Bruny
& Whale Rock &
cousin with aotearoa
The writer grew up in the outer suburbs of a small scenic capital city in Tasmania Australia amid abundant countryside and river 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 islands immediately
south in The Great Southern Land. At times, such as now, his writing is like his painting; a loosely waxed flow of edited conscious and subconscious expression from the evirons & the mental … lush with psychotropic properties.
Born mid 20th century he, with wife & their five children, grew near Hobart, battling its economy with faith in the nurture of familiar locale and this one in particular.
No author is an island; rather merely another participant and this one with a very very tolerant participator in Sandy, a very very
special piece of New Zealand and wife. Certainly the kids are triple A + participators too. He is ten years older than the picture. I hope you enjoy this light hearted and impassioned piece.
by Monte John Latham
Hear me Homartians, the writing hand streetsweeps our pillow clean, for easy-eared simple town hearts;
it marries those who bind the great infinite intelligent, remembers the huge swathe of little sparrows nay maybe starlings peak-hour lighted flight evening sweeping the Derwent resting on the bridge, whales calving in her bays making noise enough to keep Battery Point
Thark terrain immediately west of the Mount Wellington Pinnacle carpark. A good place tp throw off your shirt in the sun (in the summertime0. … …
awake, abalone and cray at the shore a mere stones-throw away, very near the Town Hall. No woolled pull over your mountain face. No kowtow to finite currency disgrace; dirty footed intrusion
Blundstone boot-heal broken skin on the Tharkian silken perfect-pad cushion plant billiard green moss hundreds of years in the growing, serious affront across its perfect stone companion presence soaking morning sun for eons sheltered from the western winds, grafittied something akin
a shamefully warped testosteronious connector making obscene contact with this awe. No to clouding the Gondwanic beauty sending stalwart the stoney tracery of winds amillion awonder arichness
of old old old lichen greens all kinda astanding alooking - at us - not awaiting some cabled impost.
Yes no; for our vibrant character of place, small h homartian, simply sitting over yonder, sometimes deep blue slightly hazed dollar-right stone cardboard cutout against the sky, sometimes lush glistening with wetted Spring unburnt for forty years, trading cloud shadows mottling movement foothill to foothill; a very privileged close finite distance from
the red-green-amber beep-
beep-beep electronic abstracts of our urbane pillow. Warm blue sky pure air ancient moss wind whistled erosion industrial silence juxtoed with Collins intersecting Murray arush and North Hobart Central at ease. Nay no distance at all; that mountain’s toenails are clipped at the Salamanca quarry and display gnarled and washed by the salty river, giving gritty homes to individual crabs and others – but only if our children can know of this when they walk the bottom of
Street Canyon blinkered too by poled wires, exhaust and signs … only if the children can know.
Pillow vitalised in a tannin
touched pure crystalline brew from her chill condensations before they meet the brine. Fighting foul excrement where we
drew drinking water, falling ill not knowing why. Yet glorious fire glows on the brown eyes as the eyes’ hands, comfortable kitchen toes in the leaf crunch soil, turn in the coals a huge dollar-free
crayfish, caught in dive two hundred steps away. That same glow on blue eyes, awakening a pale man’s sleeping pallid indigenuity – a pale man’s indigenuity. Can his hands turnhere such a cray, nay not today: yet, in strange, Elizabeth Mall is more pedestrian affable than the ‘bastard scrub’ called such in this place through which the ship’s surveyor hacked machete-pruned a large felled eucalypt log bridging that crystalline flow. That log a mere
limb in comparison to the tallest of tall tall yes tall, the Regnans gums grown, grown, watered and grown right here. That log a first stitch in the road to Launceston; and the crystalline flow - eventually nuisance and so dealt with by the Homartian civil engineer; covered drains, flow diversion, gone buried, brutalised, modified, collecting new stormdrains from every whichway. This mountain-born brook gave up its ghost: babbling brook buried, town pavements
seeking level walks lay over the napey undulations, riverbanks, overhanging trees, birds, reflections, yabbies, drinking fauna. Today likely will not see dozed wide a swathe of real estate; it to exhume for the children to see. If only they could simply see. Free the ley lines from your kerbs and gutters, remove the traffic fines from your righteous manoeuvres, loose the wombats in your city grids and tiger snakes into your cable car, deliver your food off limbs and wild, break the
three planed corners in your room, a freed motorcycle gets you to the kitchen, loose the electric spirit through the one space between us all, make obsolete the itemised regulation, bring alive unafflicted mutuality and gung-ho joy, bring in a blast of spirit-cosmos to marry the snowy white cadastered cube with gnarl smartened earthen limb, to plan it all together under a wise eternal plan and learn the ultra-vital heart-pulsing crux of why and how a woman loves one man such
ley lines, convict camp
that the worth of a small box of chocolates must be more than her man's most ambitious plan, a tiny gossamer-built thread of web and a pulse of cuttling colour can embrace and rapture a steelen cable but there's ne'er the time to say so in the parliament nor the kitchen.
In undutifully shaped momentum, internalising increment by bit deeper go our citizens great and mere as taller children, internalise, internalise,
internalise, plastered walls, walls, coved cornice, corner here turn there straight along through a door, o’rhead wires signs adverts star blocking lamps, pavements stifle nature’s physical breath, un’rfoot concrete slab. Un’rfoot thyalacine stool, home thrives out of nature, becomes cultural first, … natural second … natural second more and so sat-on in the presumption of huge abundance in the bush. The ecological chickens come home to roost in the enveloped offices of
the sprawling blanket, kosher fashions. Knock, knock … we know you’re home mother of Homart, pulsing in biological, cultural and geological passions, grasping up fist through that crack in the asphalted sociofootpath. An ass was our Homartian politic: even now will it walk o’r its own people’s palm fronds to face the open slather of suspecting society, warped by sharp wit trained at it by special interests and so the resolution for action is not wholly brilliant.
Such a politic won’t be littering the heavenly freedoms, inspiration and that misty blue daytime covering the stars up there, nor in the nightime too the timeless gnarly magma and water geomorph un’rfoot covering the stars b’low and o’course too they’re off to side all around. What future, ‘tween the upper and lo’er stars, of our treasure, hundreds of islands currently called en-conglomerate ‘Tasmania’, leaving the biggest of them bare of a name of its own
and so all the sweeter of fragrance. What future its towns, once cleaved deeply intimate with identity-nurturing local place bounty; a mountain to summit and a footy match with the Huonvillian-children of a boat-load of Irish women. What future is there where the town centre grows and kinda thrives in its dirty ol’ style overtop the old convict camp, but only while choking it muchly away. The town-limits and she-oaked rosellas always near enough; the old
Homartians grew knowing-not to not glaze away with their bodily fluidities the wonder of this place, basically careless that accidentally some remained in town. Campers, shackies, eco-developers, industry; making intimately detailed development limits, epidermis transitions to free wild wonder; make some boldly structured proposals. Unearth the spirit at least of the buried crystalline flow, freeing it to the children. Share with others and cherish Carlton’s bluff for its
nature simply being in a convenient place and Seven Mile’s hill and Snug’s bluff too. In building an 8th Wonder, enhance our 1st, the Gondwanian treasure islands to which blindly and faint of heart we refer as ‘the State’ but really meaning Homartians, Dunaliens, Corinnians too, in awesome place; immune from State are our islands and waters our home and primary potato patch - a foreword by God. Homartians cultivate frame-of-mind, frame-up cultivation of
Carlton Bluff – by Mont. Carlton; once a treasured homartian shack getaway.
SEE GLOSSARY: Seven Mile’s hill, Snug Dunaliens, Corinnians
place, discretionary responses, common sense. Face the limits, oiled epidermis unscathed and doing that now; does the boundary to starvation one day face right aback alooking agawking – the rationing of energy having been merely a foolish negligent wool-over.
This Homartian village is awesome in the high spots, glossies, interiors and ephemeral vitalities; but I long there for deep jungle in my ephemera, and desert too; I
soak-up the vague deep ocean and icy wilderness returning the exhilaration like fulfilling camping. My best of homes always requires that tingly awe of the likes of sleeping under stars en plein air en rooted ground warmed by stars and magma below awakening by the village river, off to trafficless work nearby, home happy gnome rather not fume depleted. Eternal ephemeral handcrafted country village making use of the creations of the big big cities and in a big big cleave the two must flow flow together little backyard big politics.
Focus the nurture; wild natural fresh and briney estuary - a natural edifice lapping near your heart, tiny pretty city, tickling the toes of an opposite natural edifice - a hillhipped mountain. Tween the two, sat in there, hand machine-built smites ingrowing many of our own and blinding them with dead air, plastic, stunned minds, fluorescent lights and boring plain expressions of economic priority. That’s the quandary of Homartian-sullied nature. The population is not as pure as crystalline water flow. Culture that spoils our culture -
politics we deserve. Campers unite. Have the planners forgotyas!!? M’sweetie m’daughta
few days up the coast; y’know the scene, exuberant exhilarated primal warrior unleashed, good old fashioned nameless-island camping; not likely fogotten: just small increments:-
vehicle barrier logs moved in; first phase heritage barrier, smelly toilets, commercial management all fire banned caravan encouraged. The pale of the office-stunned could love it. Perhaps mysterious neighbours over access will preside; leaving a
thin strip for illegal camping. All just poetic politic response to piggies leaving little fly-ridden paper streamed pats incremental excrements blended with broken beer glass and junk, aesthetic and choleric fouling to any crystalline rivulet while we look to camping heritage in healthy community lifestyle around a crayed fire not a gas lamp not a pixel. Save our soul our camping here our potatoes for sure - charred coal cooked jackets or stainless steel mash, hmmhmm. Nurture our
suburban interior loungerooms too, in community and countryside, key to healthy everything; elation by individual and shared ownership and rightful place is the cable-free pinnacle of our politic. Courteous nameless-islander countrybodies agree any householder being inconvenienced by innocent socio-politic receives compensation of personal public apology at least. Land-intervention momenta tangle values different to today’s; British Bulldog grants and class-consciousness laid over the ways of the likes of woolly headed endemic brown man King Billy and those of his cousin kind who lived in this, their Nibalunic locale. All this a part of the diverse valuables, social, historic, mineral, aesthetic, untouchable, honourable or whatever - owned as place by local community; all this is supreme. Local ownership with political supremacy is modified by agreements in regions and beyond.
Properly fundamentally your yard - not your federation - beats the heart of healthiest community.
Homartian sweep the pillow global complementary amid local village always free of orgone damping warped testosteronic connection. Slow the McDono-cable over-ride.
Some doings are significant to the whole of the islands; all affect small locale and so are regionally significant and of local intimacy; the healthiest way - local cultural characteristics suiting finely for home interactivities and visiting Visitartions. Avocado?... no thanks just had one; Triabunna then, no just had a bagel. Lounge supreme up-to-the-minute keyboard evaluations in Homartian voices at home.
GLINT ON THE HORIZON – by Mont
Peel off the wrapper, hope it’s a liqueur, pop one in the pocket for a street born soul; or are you alien - perhaps not so much now having easy-eared this voice of pillow-sweeping type, but if you have to leave can we come too; away from this quiet little town, even this nameless island where the gummy she-oak colour greens hang in slow moving time shape and merge for the poets eye across the gentlish ochred grass
hills cawing with deep black crows; ‘thaaar thaark thark’ they caw c a a w freshened by the lightening green lorikeets flirting sweep the dappled limbs flown in wattle to casurana from the deep deep heart away from the sea nestled in crackling bark ground litter a blue tongue lizard in sheltered hollow probably unaware of the prahna from Melaleuca and faraway ice continent. Just like we quiet Homartian, mind-antennae withdrawn half conscious of but
in fact enjoying the energies from an Antarctic storm lapping the local beach near the icecream shop,
preferring your country roots, loving our industrial antennae.
The following is
simply the author’s generic elucidations.
Abalone: popular rock shell fish akin to Kiwi paua. Once abundant in easy reach around Homartian shores; where they thrived with muscles, crayfish and a particular cute little starfish now being consumed to extinction by the arrival of an alien starfish. … as if the slippery green rock coating from industrial runoff wasn’t enough. (when I was aboy even a long time ago, I vowed to clean up the river – this’s as far as I’ve got.)
aboriginal: original people; origin of the name ‘Aboriginal’.
Aboriginal: the native people of the Australian continent & its islands. Blackfella; Harmoninni. Likely floated over from India among other. These original ‘Tasmanians’ copped from the British the common cold and a lot of shocking abuse, disrespect and horror. Also some would child-care for the palefaces. King Billy I think from the centre northwest is an iconic name. It is beautiful that contemporary culture is adopting Aboriginal place & topographic names – mount Wellington/ kunanyi.
Corinnians: residents of Corinna, north west Tasmania.
Cray: local Tasmanian rock lobster also enjoyed in faraway lands as is the abalone.
bastard scrub: term for scrub that’s resistant to human passage.
blue tongue lizard: another Tasmanian icon growing rarer.
Blundstone: local boot maker of some pride to Homartians.
buried brook: we bury the drawcard of our settlement and its urbane link – mountain top to cove.
cabled impost: people with assorted large twigs in their eyes want to build a cable car in the wrong place. If it does politically go, as did the Iraq war, it should be conditional that it begin from the roof of the City Hall – that way the built heritage lobby could stop it whereas the natural heritage lobby carries nowhere near the cred. Obviously natural heritage carries no ego and only comes from God. Following cable to the Pinnacle (Mt Wellington) comes a resort in Thark.
Carlton bluff: an hour east of Hobart; a beautiful bonded bookend to ParkCarlton Beach land-granted to the army and handballed to someone else, barely productive land, zoned to be given a patchworked skin rash jewelled with window squares, tinsheds, headlights amid rectangle fences & lawnmowings to drop of leprosy from the soul of the beach.
convict camp: the first tents here were set-up: executive on the rise at the end of Elizabeth & the convicts down in mid mall. Good surveillance from the executive area over the convicts on one side & the water highway on the other.
Dolerite: the stone of the gondwanian pre kunanyi geomorphic thing west of Hobart – challenged by the dollar, right?
Dolersaurus: rhetorical creature with dolerite as flesh often seen resting quietly like an old gray elephant trunk tucked under crouched blocking the fierce westerlies from the little settlement by the Derwent.
Dunaliens: residents of Dunalley, south east Tasmania.
fighting foul excrement: the ‘buried brook’, the local rivulet, like most if not all in global settlement, was used as a sewer and the locals copped cholera. … drew drinking water, falling ill not knowing why.
geomorphic: land/water form, characteristics, developments & change. May also be assumed to relate biomorphic; the same in flora & fauna
Gondwana: in my mind is an ancient land lush with all and awesome creatures and plants unadulterated by people yet the perfect place to live.
King Billy: Aborigine; member of these island’s aboriginals, known as the Aborigines of the continent that now supports Australia. Circa 1835-1869, last surviving male of the Oyster Cove clan, Following his death his body was dismembered and used for scientific purposes.
ley lines: The concept of "ley lines" originates with Alfred Watkins who also drew on earlier ideas that alignments might be oriented to sunrise and sunset at solstices. In 1921he had been driving along a road near a village. Attracted by the nearby archaeological investigation of a Roman camp, he stopped to compare the landscape with features on his map. He saw, "like a chain of fairy lights" a series of straight alignments of various ancient features - standing stones, wayside crosses, causeways, hill forts, and ancient churches on mounds. Checking this potential discovery from higher ground he noticed many of the paths seemed to connect one hilltop to hilltop in a straight line. He coined the term "ley" partly because the lines passed through places with ley in the name. He believed this was the ancient name for the trackways, preserved in the modern names. The ancient surveyors who supposedly made the lines were given the name "dodmen". He believed, in ancient times when Britain was more densely forested, the country was criss-crossed by a network of straight-line travel routes, with prominent features of the landscape being used as navigation points.
lorikeets: brilliant green small parrots always plural but never crowded.
Melaleuca: A small settlement at the far southern coast – nothing much but wild bushland, plains and fresh air between it and Hobart.
McDono-cable: Never did want those hamburgers here to stifle the corner burger shop with big juicy homemade local grown economy healthy and hearty locale.
Nibaluna: this may be something like the Palawan-I think- (local people) name for the stretch of water about the Homartian docks – maybe it’s mountain waters.
Orgone … putative energy … assumed universal life force … anti-entropic principle, creative substratum in nature… massless, omnipresent substance, … luminiferous aether … living energy more so than inert matter … coalesce across microscopic to macroscopic , organisms, clouds, galaxies…. held bodily orgone deficit root of many diseases…
Prahna: I think of this as blowing with the air pollinating as we breath it; the sum total of all energy that is manifest in the universe & the specialty of locale.
Seven Mile Hill: similar Carlton bluff of Hobart a virtual wilderness beach about to be degenitalled – what a waste of such a treasure so close to the capital city – what a gain to those who join the fait accomplish and build the glassed loungerooms.
Snug bluff : similar Seven Mile Hill but 20minutes south and of a different intimacy and value.
Regnans : Eucalyptus regnans, known also as mountain ash, Victorian ash, swamp gum, Tasmanian oak or stringy gum known to attain heights over 114 metres one of the tallest in the world and the tallest flowering plant.
Street Canyon: a place where kiddies are lost; full of trouser cuffs, hubcaps, exhaust pipes, stockinged legs, pole bases, steps, trampled floors, pavement and with walled sides higher than the sky; where children are easily totally blinkered away from natures, the simple natural joys lost to our constructions but sometimes plainly present to their parents who may be blissfully ignorant of their plight and drown away their objections with an icecream.
Tharkian: having qualities like The Thark, an area barely trodden west of the kunanyi Mount Wellington pinnacle.
Tiger snake: common local poisonous snake.
Whales: there were 1000s of them in the Derwent and the estuary, 1000s teeming with black whales up to sixty feet long with young alongside in winter to calve. Smaller varieties too and porpoises.
Zzzzzzz: sorry if I put you to sleep.
Watch this space
Watch this space
Watch this space
http://www.wiser.org/group/HouseprintsLocglobal Maybe Adam and Eve’s Eden had natural housings. Ideal places to play house, to utilise for liaisons, eating, making contact or whatever. We don’t know about the daily consciousness of these two unique forebears. ...
Biocities - might be our only hope. Correction, surely; it is our only hope – improved by the cultural sensitivities of simple ecopicality and supporting ecopical ecological principles. There is a psyche thing with this. You are very likely to have a plastic switch in a wall near you at the moment; to make an electricity flow. The flick of a switch is a reminder of industry, invention - capacities generally beyond the individual or small community. It is also a bread and butter thing - a r