yes, I have a question. what are you doing here.

you do realize that showing your body like that in your “art” willcause judgement. do you think it is worth it. when you.
I isdo but i listent ot the bird this time because i do it so i can hear the bird song.

He explained that the movement is in the elbows: inward and out. this is how to scoop the air beside you.

do you understand this is pastoral land.

I am sitting in my car in a carpark in port Adelaide – a fella is walking towards the car – he stumbles and as he stands back up, he looks straight at me and yells: fuck you – you white dog – get out – the fuck out – of my country.  After that, he takes pause and continues walking – while I keep my head down – once he had cleared the car I turn back and he is standing there also looking back – we look at each other in the eye – unsteady and quiet – then we both turn back around.

I say to him: I do not believe we are achieving anything.
he says back: the words spoken at protests are heart-felt.
I reply that I do not believe that the government of this country has heart. our words become empty as the government rolls them around on their tongue. throwing them backward and forward over and over until the language turns inwards. the language turns back upon itself.***

It moves like a broken dog. like a dog that has been broken. is what he said to me as we watched it.

He explained that the movement is in the elbows: inward and out. this is how to scoop the air beside you.

Isaytohim:Idonotbelievewea reachievin ga nything.hesays back: thew ordsspokena tprotests are heart-felt.Irep   lythat I do notb elieve that the governmentof this coun tryhas heart.ourlanguagetur ns b ack on itself.o urwordsbecome empty as the governmentro llsthe maroun d on t heir tongue.throwingthembackwardandforward overandov   eruntilthel anguageturn sbac kuponitself.

*** ‘Headed towards death, language turns back upon itself; it encounters something like a mirror; and to stop this death which would stop it, it possesses but a single power: that of giving birth to its own image in a play of mirrors that has no limits’ - Michel Foucault (1977)