How could it not be that things keep happening all at once.
Constant waves, the tumult of action. Repercussions awash.
Smashing explosions of surf blasting force into rockfaces.
Eroding, barrels upon barrels curl and grip at sand with clumsy fingerless effort.
As the surfs retreats into the great body it folds and kicks up.
Explosions in the sky. Whitewash. Salty multidirectional pulses.
Blood tasting, eyes rolling, humans, cattle, the ocean.
Only for a time are we still, forgetting the tempest. Soaking up peace until the rush begins, all over again.
Idetect – as a utility of representation, can be used in reference to negative speech. For example, it may be used to describe this example’s definition of ‘Gallantry’…
Polite attention or respect given by men to women.
“no young man offers to carry this burden for her: such gallantry is out of fashion”.
“No young man” implies something, but does not state something as fact.
idetect – invisible I
detect – visible I
IDETECT – The miscarriage A
I detect is the unseen presence of letters in every action. While this presents a similar difficulty to that of representation, the meaning highlights the dissembling nature of subjective unawareness. All the while an instance of Idetect, misses its meaning through inferred absence, whilst acknowledging that anything perceived as cryptic or mystic are, self described in their presentation.The written word then, is a script of pre-informed meaning. Once agreed upon, this evokes what the authors and readers can be made aware of, which is always the ‘other’ the presence of a similar self of infinite iterations and stances. Usage of text and the run-on of symbols, allow for regressive and transformational inaccuracies. So common are these discursive practices that when asked to trace thoughts the warren of reason draws out a gaze and demands the script of idetect. This task, in and of itself, floods with imperfection and poor copies. Flavours and significance are then devoid of extra-lateral symbolic inference. Idetect is all that is missed in writing. A lost letting, both symptomatic of cultural differences as well as historic mistaken identity. An excavation here is required, to dig down into the layering, and then finely brush through the dust. As all you would need to miss a letter, or lose your fitting in the wrung of a ladder. A moment, a mistake are all that it takes to run an mis-errand.
So which letter is missing?
When I get the opportunity to speak to people about Tasmania, there’s always a common thread, some recurring topics that resurface time and again.
1. The lifestyle/standard of living/quality of life; and
2. The close proximity to the bush.
3. The beautiful natural surroundings, clean air, fresh water and friendly community.
4. In Tasmania you aren’t a small fish in a big pond – You have a voice that can make a difference. People will listen to you and remember your name.
5. The local sense of adventure. Each of us have a willingness to explore, but our tolerance is different depending on where we are from and where we live. In Tassie we have perfected the balance. Free-time, Safety and Convenience are the trinity that welcomes everyone to explore the world they live in. In Tasmania you are welcome to explore the land, delve into it’s deep history and challenge yourself and grow in ways you didn’t know were possible.
Stats are booming- treaties, toilets, bellies and rooming. Bubbling pipes break and splinter entrenched fellows, dugouts and drops. Running taps. Evil explosions that make your glands ache. Ebbing pain flaunts it’s way across your face, turning your teeth, grinding and hollowing. Dried bones of my humanity scatter along the old highway routes. My dollars are worth so much.
Your time and energy is robbed by my priori. Second class. Toilets smelling of polished brass. Brash attempts to flatten nature. Gurgling harrowing screams that hollow me out. Pipes and all.
I shan’t be present at the meeting.
I won’t be there I’m afraid.
I can’t find the time, sorry
I don’t want to take up space
He broke his back the usual way by falling down some stairs. His coccyx, or tail bone had been a source of some pain for months after landing awkwardly the day of Anne and Pete’s wedding.
He’d been polishing cutlery in the main dining hall and been asked to deliver them outside, out through reception. After an hour of polishing he’d slipped on the thick maroon carpet and thrown glittering blades of polished metal clattering off the walls.
He’d landed plumb on his buttocks and had the wind knocked out of him, sliding once and then rolling into face down position. Knives and forks gently poking into him as he moaned an inward breath and pressed his face into the cold marble floors.
The cutlery that he had laced with poison was somewhere among the jumbled reflective metal. He worried that perhaps he was laying on them and that he may have opened himself up in falling.
In the time it took to worry, people emerged from some of the adjoining rooms. He was helped to his feet, though the stood at an obtuse angle, bent at the tail like a poor impersonation of a duck.
He waddled from the room, after unbinding himself from the helpful arms and white gloved hands that had picked him from the floor. Swiftly he escaped somehow managing to prop himself in such a way that he could drive.
Phyllis and Errol both guest of the groom experienced heart attacks that evening and subsequently passed away. A strange occurrence of misfortune, especially bizarre to the guests, as they had all eaten and drank much the same contents, from much the same utensils. And so the coincidence stood and the marriage went ahead.