The mangled wounds will heal; sore body parts will glaze in the sun.

We jogged around the perimeter fence that day, dusty blossom got into the corners of my eye. Slowness, heaving the body round and round like centrifugal force drawing inwards, towards the coffee shop, whipped pastry satiates the blood flow, regulates the hearts thud, live another day.

The birds screeched and the subaltern looked up and saw first time a parakeet

They are canny and predate on most other bird inhabitants of the park.

Earlier that day it was plant theory and also notions of public private space that preoccupied.

To be free to inhabit a space yet not truly at liberty, coincides with ideas in lecture about ‘vegetal being’ or the ‘vegetal turn. This shares the same idea as the ontology of non-humans and objects, animals classified here with object I suppose included plant life.

The shamans do not differentiate between the human and non-human; between animals, plants and humans. This is a taxonomy imposed by Empire, the jungle bio-mass is a spirit garden for all too share, this knowledge is not even knowledge as such, it is perceived as a form of secular belief. Where ‘belief’ in this instance has a contextual meaning like its use in the phrase,” I believe it will rain today”. Not in the ritual punishment for non-belief prescribed by Judaeo-Christian religious orthodoxy.

Turn to leopard man, turn to parrot faced god, turn to fungus, turn to stone.

That pesky priest runs around the corner beckoning still, in neon Nazca lines with aerial tracery, come hither fresh jungle dew drops from the canopy you come face to face with no-being no face no replacements here.

The library is cosmic repository for all knowledge, here the maester resides shuffling through all time, carrying the burden of wisdom, where there is knowledge there is guilt and envy.

The face of the night is blind to your envy, the smouldering dung cares not for mine or your woes, the force that drives

The bind weed through the decomposing carcass is not concerned with our being, life is decay, in life we decay,

The shaman’s response to climate change is ’Fuck It’.

Along Nazca lines

Overhead symmetry

Noiseless flight

Call up the summer post, evoke the goddess, the fountainhead

Blossom bursting into a weightless world

Holding the body level, feel the blood flow

Observe your position in the plant matrix   

Scavenge a thought out of the grotesque cattle truck that pulls into and out of the day

The only thing is real is not real the only thoughts that come are no thoughts

We hang on we hold onto our culture as if it was our Nature our sustenance enriching yet at the same time making it ever harder to join in to these daily rituals that dominate life, that are enforced by silent invisible powers that whisper “enjoy, be free, live….”

When all the time the borders close in further, with every breathe out they constrict further in, sharpen your blades boys, it won’t be easy, if you can un-learn, if you can resist you might have a chance.