Currajuggle Dreaming

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From 22 to 29 March Justina and I travelled to Braidwood, NSW. We spent Easter 15ks from town at Currajuggle, a property owned by friends of ours who have cared for all its 600 acres for some 20 years or so. “Currajuggle Dreaming” is dedicated to David, Geraldine, Murray, Lyne, Rob, Ernie and their dogs with whom it might be just that little more difficult to survive in such remote a place.


Currajuggle Dreaming

We dropped into Braidwood,
the weigh station fill me up town before the three gates of Currajuggle –
the land that time remembered from a world humans forgot…
Birds their breasts red from Eucalypt branches,
charged by the Sun to enrich the soil with its treasure of bark ‘n’ leaves
breakin down, down, down
its crown openin up, up, up
a conduit for the sun to reach the inner earth
that man must plunder, plunder, plunder
cause he ‘n’ she, there’s no denying it,
in their genes they must populate to raise armies of tyrants, rapists and cowards
that fear their own species
that tremble with lust for the sun beneath the surface
where false riches punch through the womb
out of them gaping holes and sunken pipes,
thrusting hard deeper into the belly
stealing life from all who walk and slither and suck and wriggle,
who swim and fly and buzz and climb,
who swing ‘n’ crawl ‘n’ stomp ‘n’ scamper, scamper, scamper…

It ain’t so long this night,
Moon burns fiercely white through dusk trees,
a Eucharist raised into marble heavens
a handful of humans aware of its fantastical beauty,
tending the fires that warm their flesh and sear their corn,
their tantrums fuelled by the many who greed ‘n’ feed the greed,
who deny hope the nourishment to sustain the masses
who have come to know fear as their Christ,
who would strike the Eucharist from the sky and expose the Earth to its mother Sun…

We shall all perish,
nothing left to be remembered by,
nothing left to forget us…

And that is the point at which we depart,
for the lesson of Currajuggle is to be known that we are not to be remembered,
we are to live with both the leeches at our feet and blood on our hands…

A ride-on mower in the scrub,
clearing all the fallen muck
if only it would clear the fuckin muck beyond the gates 1, 2, and 3
the Pollies in their cock-tie suits carving up the valley 1, 2, and 3
Vets and their investors,
seven on the hill poisoning the local milk,
panderin to their dreams of bullions…

The Troll gives them curry,
the women articulate in detail
the common voice of resistance to the felling of space and one less gate,
the catchments there for all,
not just seven pairs of balls
with dicks that salute their wallets,
just like them cock-tie collars,
go(!) skitch em Crackles, Canasta, Hena ‘n’ Spike,
just a few of them Braidwood hounds
to keep them struttin greedy cobbers honest
so yoos can build your rammed earth humpies that face the end of the road,
far from the sprawl,
consuming till naught is left but a whisper in the free flight of a cockatoo,
in the free fall of a tree,
in the free flow of a creek,
three gates collapsed and rotten…

Listen… a lone ride-on mower clearin up the muck,
turnin it round n round,
mulching that liveable mess,
oblivious to all that have fallen,
dreaming Currajuggle with the few that have not forgotten…

And the Troll gives them curry,
the seven wrestle with guilt
whilst a single ride-on mower,
amidst the snipping seedlings for forests yet to be born
the muck scattered and burnt,
the Moon full beaming at them all,
silent in their beds,
dreaming Currajuggle they’ll wake until they too will fall,
gently, gently…

Andrew Garton (29-31 March 2005)

Photos: Andrew & Justina

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