L A U R I E D U G G A N
the nathan papers: 4
the glare edging into summer. underbrush. what are the genes of words and
a certain redundancy.
Noosa , or Style over Substance. though I don’t mind.
a man runs with a block of ice.
we will be leaving all of this behind.
green sail, white sand, blue sky.
mountains up north. this is the Coral Sea.
lawn meets native grass.
Sheoaks – trees that give no shade.
a peninsula (the Head), rainforest in the dips.
the notebook as a record of failure. I mean in the sense that only a few words
what happened to the young man in that photograph? Petersham 1972.
the main problem for older writers must be boredom. But boredom can also
the words ‘bored’ and ‘writing’ overheard from an adjacent table.
storms that skirt the city
people are turning into product. their organized (for them) soundtracks.
the slight azure.
backdated milk in the common room.
the kookaburras are sated. and the shining owls have no effect.
Discussing poetry with W_____. His justification for writing it is – in a sense –
the differing textures of all these trunks. the strands and components of a world.
x & y, the pier
a tropic world
misread: tall boy
there is too much philosophy
the language stumbles
already it’s summer. slight deformity of a crushed toe (impossible to ‘point’ on,
my Florentine notebook
‘The sensation of needing to construct one’s relation to the foreign reality is
(what have I learned on the weekend? the ‘Oxford comma’, before ‘or’ and ‘and’)
a crowd panicked by difference
the nathan papers: 6
a slight stain on the binding, possibly sun-screen.
In the 19 th century art became too self-important and we have to rescue
‘I didn’t sleep at all last night’ (Bobby Lewis)
dead wood cut down
odour of underbrush
designs on sleeves appear as tattoos
‘What landscape waits for is never eyes’ – Yang Lian, 2003
parrots in the rain
the whole thing unravels from the edges
The ‘I’ is a function. It’s the locus (almost wrote ‘locust’) of what purports to
Songs that don’t end; they just stop. Is this faith in invention? Or its opposite?
Our letters crossing in space. Civilization and its discontents.
It’s nearly 2pm Eastern Standard Time as I write this. Brisbane resuming its subtropical regime. Downpours at intervals (like ones I remember being drenched by, aged 16, when the trams were battleship grey – and still existed).
fake wood grain
Brisbane / Cambridge, April 2006