Electric Rococo Recollections of Jam Tree Gully from Afar

From the upper southeast windowthe cross on the church is stark—light-globes mark its outline, contrastthe twilit harbour. It wants moreout of symmetry than is on offer.

Tomorrow, the Guru is going overto Jam Tree Gully to clear the guttersof dead, dry leaves. They congestwithout style, embellish with urge,the pragmatism of making a growthmedium: in summer easterlies’ red dustfalls as the true rain of modernityand tumbles into the leafy bedalready set in aluminum conduits.If fire comes, a stray ember or sparkwill make rocket fuel of this process.

No ember or spark has cometo ignite dry-leaf coffins;No ember or spark has cometo make heat that can melt steel;No ember or spark has cometo leave soft beds of grey ash;No ember or spark has cometo the gutters, though it might; No ember or spark has comebut you will clear leaves in case.

Deadzone is where dead treeslose their shadows, fail to flowershade. All that brocade of less-than-light vanquished, all designleveled out. As pat as a hot bedof ash, the terror of boot-prints,the flickers of flame that willburnt he dead again and again.

But don’t think fear has groundart out of the picture: down the roada house done up like Fred and WilmaFlintstone’s: a pebbledash of pride,a B-52s/Koons in-joke with raisedflowerpots for alien species,raised beyond the grindingteeth of kangaroos.

With double-glazed windowssealed to the ‘‘beautiful view,’’breathing stale, trapped airto escape the cascades of coal smoke,I make memories of what hasn’thappened far away at Jam Tree Gully.Anxiety governs the use of proper nouns,though I frequently listened to Rocococomposers, their dancing feet tackywith Baroque foundations. FrançoisCouperin tinkled galante in the background(I first heard Mum play the harpsichordwhen I was too young to picturethe rural as quaint). Playfulin the background. That ‘‘who gives a damn while the peasantsstarve’’ music. As if I could latchon to the fertilisation image: an earthhungry for the starving. Here, the faminepits, and there, plasterwork repaintedbrightly in colonial houses, those standouts.

From the upper southeast windowthe cross on the church is stark—light-globes mark its outline, contrastthe twilit harbour. It wants moreout of symmetry than is on offer.

It’s obvious to think of Fragonard’s The Swingat times like these: those layers of garment.A swing from a tree at Jam Tree Gullywould bring down the branch it hungfrom: termites working strength illusory.And even if it swung for a while,you’d need to wear camouflagelest shooters grew attractedto the moving target.

Hear ‘‘Les lis naissans’’ . . .Hear ‘‘Les Barricades Mysterieusis’’ . . .Hear the clarity of electricity,the warmth of synapses,the global chatter: grey wagtail,golden whistler, maybethe tek tek in the cirquesof La Reunion . . .

As my baroque infrastructurecollapses into glimpses, the ironiesof being attacked by a neighbourwho is angry with the effete,the exquisite channels of death—gullies— formed by angry runoff sluicing the hillside,the filigree of spray downhillingfrom Shire ‘‘weed prevention,’’neighbours flourishing, those sweetrococo rememberings, the cutsof the harpsichord; ooze, pout, flourish,flare, flutter, festoon, leisure, pleasure . . . warmth.The blood-warmth of paradox,listening through light of sun on hills,decadence of feet up on the verandah,fire in the belly of the world.

No ember or spark has cometo ignite dry-leaf coffins;No ember or spark has cometo make heat that can melt steel;No ember or spark has cometo leave soft beds of grey ash;No ember or spark has cometo the gutters, though it might;NO ember or spark has comebut you will clear leaves in case.

Consider the radioactive spillat Ranger uranium mine in Kakadu:‘‘mud, water, ore and acid.’’

Consider praising...