Posted on: May 29th, 2015


This seabreeze/mist hurts my freshwater sensibilities.

I yearn for the protection of my swampy redgum valley. I cry for your blood redness. The mere mention of that totem tree makes me yearn.

The exploded cliffs, that flat place of manmade shore down there.

We search for the shoreline. The REAL shoreline. Where is it?

The white cockatoo? Black cockatoo? Flapping and screeching. Redgum landing place, no more. Nowhere to be seen or heard.

Bjorn is reborn. Willarai sings homage to the black cockatoo. She rides up the stairs backwards like Thunderbolt’s horses. Or were they going forwards? Or backwards? Like time. Looking forward, thinking back. Looking forward to what?

The women go into that deep dark place. They go in. Lucy and Kim, they say to us:

“Touch this Place”

“Feel the walls”

Her softness.

They sing and they speak. They vibrate this place into being.

Caroline tells us a story. Another tent stage performance. Looking over to the distant shore. That place of schools and nuns and childhood memories. Of hidden identities. Of women and girls.

Colin takes us to the rust and iron. The man’s product. The cold hard stuff. We lay our fingers onto the block. We hum. The accidental lopping of working men’s fingers. A disgraceful sacrifice. What price a digit? What price?

Ghenoa finds the perfect stage and backdrop. Near the tall grass. She rubs ideas all over her face, her body, her legs. She rubs it off. Good and bad has happened here for women.

Warimah. The cockatoos echo. The freshwater seeps, filtered and empowered.   Layer upon layer. Blood layer. Redgum layer. Sandstone layer. Sweat layer. Horror layer. Ghost layer. Workers layer. War layer. Chemical layer. Detox layer. Protest layer. Landclaim layer. Gentrification layer. Artists layer. Bloody Artists!

All heaped one upon the other. A sickly cake.

Art reveals. Art brings us together. And apart. Here on Warimah. We pay our respects.