Wound (March)

Instead of the gift of life, they ask for the release of criminal ephemera, the robot Barabbas and all its short-term thrills. The gift that kept on giving, their hope for tomorrow, is betrayed. Money can buy them anything. Beaten and mocked, the gift absorbs the shocks, even as it keeps giving the gifts of water, food, light and space. Wounds appear, either side of the March Equinox, as the gift is foolishly wasted, taken for granted, treated as fixed goods. They pour forth, wounded earth, wounded sky. We gaze upon them from afar, wondering how it came to this. 

Trending (March)

Little grasses shoot in the rainy ground. First brown leaf falls from immense tree. Seedlings primp the surface. Evaporation brocades the clouds. A singing magpie descends from a bridge. And another. Flowerhead tightens to burst. And another. But what happens next will amaze you. Ice particles melt off the floe. Seawater drowns eon-old beaches. Ocean writhes in plastic archipelagos. Species drop like flies. Salt rises to ground level. March snow buries cities. Heat treatment tickles volcanoes to action. Lagoons freeze. Cathedrals flood. Pigeons cry. Lions topple. Internet turns into fog. Your computer will close down after 15 uploads are complete.

Team (March)

Team Climate Change was happy with its overall performance and looks forward to spewing more fossil fuels into the atmosphere at Monza in April. Less happy was Team Arctic Melt, who felt new rules penalised their Hot Club of Paris style. Team Driverless Uber caused a sensation, ploughing into the crowd, killing five punters in a manner reminiscent of truck terror attacks, before hurtling ignominiously into Albert Park Lake. Team Ecological Degradation took line honours with a race described as “studied indifference”. The winner this March (again!), Team Empty Vessels, lived up to its sponsor’s elitist motto: ‘Brainless and Thirsty’.

Prix (March)

And the Big Prize goes to high visibility officials telling people where to get off; bouncers with lanyards ‘exit all areas’; installers of tall fences blocking access to people’s parks; movers of barricades isolating whole suburbs; flag waving chequered careerists; exhaust pipe merchants and pit stop pit bulls; great pricks who fill blue atmosphere world over with tumult and fumes; eye-glazed brain-numb petrol heads paying the ultimate privilege for entertainment signifying nothing; March madmen spool drooling over wheeling dealing speed toys; drones drugged with droning droning of ground bound drones; gung-hos in din bins; fiery colliders who walk away anti-heroes.

Sunrise (March)

That unearthly dark blue, fade-out stars, its dependent crescent moon. That black, a side street cold despite another warm promise. That dark brown, phased in by unseen fires below Dandenongs. That clotting of grey cloud pink cloud, then zigzag flocks. That grey turning pale blue, placid as its Yarra reflections. That primrose tinge, extending to a line merging light particles. That blue, affirming anew the calendar: Morning, Thursday, March, Lent. That gold, all might all majesty, shadowing our familiar flesh. That red, tiny flames at the very edge of imagination. That green forgotten all night, pattern patterns of ancient resolution.

Analytica (March)

March, when the links crystallise, great draughts of profiles seized, sized up, sussed, their contents psyched over for greed need fear. Millions provide their Likes Wows Angries, unwitting data dates with destiny, as the trip-wires of convenience register faultless the faultlines of electorates, the levels of uncertainty mood hate. Shady dachas fuel the propaganda of rigged crooked fake, a war game without boundaries conventions declarations. Controlled confusion reigns. It’s 24s section the future of planet Analytica, because they can, it’s a way to show off, while 71s, clueless to losers, slap 24s on the back with “you’re a rock star!”

Stimulation (March)

Our March of Stimulations will be succeeded by an April of Stimulations. Ruth Burrows in 2006 writes that one of the lures away from a dedicated life of Love is “in stimulating mental and emotional awareness of the world’s sorrows.” Our pushed existence of memes, posts, news, opinions stimulates never-ending reaction, emotions that come and go. We end again before our nothingness, our false selves, only to return for a May of Stimulations. Goaded and spurred, our nerves adapt to new sorrows. Our responses tire us out. Shall we respond or ignore? Withdraw entirely? Retreat until a June of Stimulations?

Detrain (March)

On the train this morning a man presses his screen until the apples line up. A woman gazes at an email picturing her four-year-old child. A woman checks which day of March is today, the time and forecast temperature. A woman flicks through ‘this autumn’ clothes catalogues. A man is plugged into a nuclear disaster movie. The driver announces this is express to Jolimont and people wanting stations in between should “detrain at Clifton Hill.” Why can’t he just say “get off”? “Exit”? A man is refreshing the file for this morning’s meeting. A man glares repeatedly at news feeds.