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Creative work

• Art
• Poetry
• Schoolwork
• Vignettes

On this page is presented a small sampling of the creative work I have done over the years. I have destroyed quite a lot of it over time due to physical living space limitations – all the large canvas paintings here no longer exist in reality, as do many of the drawings. I go through periods of not creating anything for years on end.

Art

• Cartoons
• Drawings
• Paintings
• Digital

I used to paint a lot as a teenager, but stopped after that. Despite the encouragement of various people I did not wish to attend art school – a feeling of Impostor syndrome, perhaps? Or I felt a contrary resistance to enrolling? Difficult to ascertain. So I had no formal training as the art classes at school were basic.

I am reasonably good at copying things (mainly photos). My style is realistic and I can’t do abstract art (though I can admire that of others); my brain doesn’t seem to work that way.

Art was the ONLY thing I got any admiration for from my classmates at school. I had no interest in (or talent for?) sport and my grades were average, or below-average. I could draw better than anyone in my grade year, and, as I was not popular, this was the only thing I could gain some respect for.

I seemed to mainly like drawing people, though rendering faces is difficult; i.e. getting a convincing likeness. I found landscapes and similar to be rather tedious to do. An analogy is eating the main meal (landscapes) before getting to the dessert (figures)! I preferred drawing small; all the art I have done from my late teens onward is on A4- or A5-sized paper. Lack of physical space is also a factor. As an adult, I also prefer drawing to painting (quicker and less messy).

Too often when doing a drawing I would find some fault in it, then re-do it, then find more faults, then re-do it again until I got sick of the whole thing and destroyed it!

I have gone for years without doing any art, then I’ll spend a few months doing a whole lot. Since 2011 I have done a few digital drawings with a graphics tablet. My Star Warrior worldbuilding project was the focus of my art until around 2018; then my art underwent another long hiatus.

Cartoons

I do have a sense of humor! Some cartoons, mostly spaceflight-related:

• Engine blender, 27 December 1999 (40 KB). Why standing near a jet engine is a bad idea.
• Canned meat, 24 April 2004 (41 KB). Some cosmonauts just landed are greeted by some unwelcome visitors.
• Over the Moon, 26 April 2004 (38 KB). Someone in the Soyuz crew is a bad navigator.
• Shark bait, 28 May 2004 (35 KB). Yet more hapless cosmonauts have an unwelcome encounter during ocean survival training.
• Daisuke dress-up, 15 March 2006 (71 KB). An imagined crew portrait: would-be spaceflight participant Daisuke Enomoto wanted to dress up as an animé character called Char Aznable. (His ISS-14 crewmates aren’t impressed.)
• Orbit insertion, 31 October 2006 (47 KB). Alternate interpretation of the phrase. Furthering international relations.
• Crispy critters, 15 November 2007 (54 KB). Another unfortunate Soyuz landing.

Drawings

Some scanned-in doodles and sketches done on the backs of EFTPOS slips at my former cashier job when idle there in 2001: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. My interest of that time is obvious! I was feverently wishing I was elsewhere.

Paintings

I did a lot of painting during my teenage years. The larger ones were done on canvas-board, and are a bit less than 1 m in size, so I had to take a photo of each. All the large canvases have been destroyed.

Digital art

Poetry

• World’s End
• Darkness Falls
• Martian Odyssey
• Deadly Friend
• There goes the neighborhood …
• Space Burial Eulogy
• Fragments
• Warlord
• Glance
• Ancient One
• Starshine
• Beamship
• Wanderer
• Dad’s passing

Some done during the 2000s, listed in chronological order (latest at bottom). I rarely write poetry as inspiration is only occasional; I hear the rhythm in my head, then try to find the words to match, which can be difficult.

World’s End

Completed: 1 March 2000

Darkness Falls

Completed: 25 November 2000

Martian Odyssey
Марсианский Одиссея

Completed: 16 February 2001

Deadly Friend

Completed: 5 April 2001

There goes the neighborhood …

Completed: 5 April 2001

Space Burial Eulogy

For someone who is to be buried in space (it will happen, eventually …!)

Completed: 2002

Fragments

Bits and pieces (unfinished poetry fragments/verses). Written around 2002.

Emptiness

EVA

To the ISS

---

Warlord

Inspired by Genghis Khan. Begun 22 July 2008.

Glance

29/2/2020

The tall rock
Turns to look behind at
Its trail in the sand.

Ancient one

24/6/2020

Starshine

20/4/2021

I gaze up into the sky
On a cold clear night
Bathed in the silvery glow
Of ancient starlight.

Beamship

20/4/2021

Wanderer

18/9/2022

Dad’s passing (4/10/2025)

15/10/2025

Schoolwork

• The Men From Outer Space
• Leo the Silver Flying Horse
• My Thoughts About Jesus
• “The Tiger” by William Blake

Below are some surviving fragments of creative work done at school, most of which was destroyed long ago.

These two (very short) stories were the only items I submitted to the Kilvington school magazine, the Kilvonian, in all my years there. They are also the only surviving creative writing I have from my earlier life.

As with art, I tend to focus exclusively on whatever I am obsessed with and not be able to do anything else (an autistic trait). An extract from one of my school reports (Form 7A, 1983) – I was obsessed with horses at that time:

[…] Her horse stories are excellent and show a high degree of originality and interesting style, but she must be prepared to exploit her imagination more fully and transfer this ability to more diverse subjects.

The Men From Outer Space (Make Believe)

This was done in 1979 at 8 years old, Year 3. I felt compelled to add in the title that this was “make-believe,” just in case someone thought it true! (Though it does sound like an alien abduction tale!)

One night when I was walking, I saw a spaceship. It landed, and people were screaming. Then the door opened, and men came out! They were green, yellow and blue. I gave a scream. They took me into the spaceship. Then they flew me to their planet. It was Mercury. They were very friendly. They said to me to stay with them for a few days. I did. When it was time for me to go, they gave me a costume. I was also allowed to take one home.

Leo the Silver Flying Horse

Completed in 1980, 9 years old, Year 4. I also did the drawing – but it was never returned to me! (Yes, that is me riding Pegasus! Mum said that when I was little I wanted a Pegasus of my own.) I have no idea what inspired this tale!

“There he is. Catch him!” cried a cowboy. The others heard him, and started chasing the silvery horse, whose name was Leo. He suddenly spread his beautiful wings and flew off into the sunset. “Phew, that was a hard chase!” Leo said later to his friend. His friend, who was called Lochness, looked very strange. She had wings like Leo, but the strangest thing about her was that she had an eagle’s head. They were both a very strange pair. One day, while they were grazing, they saw a few cowboys. They started galloping. But the cowboys were gaining on them. At last they spread their wings, and flew off into the sunset. The cowboys saw their silvery bodies for the last time, then they disappeared.

My Thoughts About Jesus

A short and somewhat unfocused essay written for Religious Education in Year 10, 1986. I don’t think my views have changed much since then! The religious teacher was Rev. Graham Neilson. (His comments are in brackets.)

I’m not a Christian so I find it a bit hard to believe in Jesus. Actually, I did become a Christian a few years back, but it didn’t satisfy me so I gave up. – Why?

There’s no real evidence for Jesus, apart from the Bible. –This is not true, Suzie This says he was the Son of God, but he could have been an ordinary human with supernatural powers, or anything.

When you read about Jesus in the Bible he comes across as a kind but firm person. He tells many interesting stories with a meaning to them, performs miracles and wins thousands of followers. He taught about loving your neighbor as you love yourself, and loving your enemies amongst many other things. I don’t really believe in loving your enemies – well, it’s almost impossible to, really. I have many people whom I hate. – Worth thinking, why?

Jesus taught many new ideas – mostly about love and forgiveness. He died on the Cross, as the Bible says, to free us from our sins.

There are many millions of Christians in the world today, and churches are being built everywhere.

I often think of the unimaginable vastness of the Universe, and our planet is virtually nothing compared to it, not to mention humans. You feel – how do I put it? – a bit overwhelmed and think how insignificant we are, and our religions.

I am both fearful and not scared of death. It’s my belief that we humans are not meant to know what lies after death until we do die.

I do have my personal beliefs, but I can’t say them here. – Pity you didn’t feel free to continue, Suzy. – G.N

The remark about “my personal beliefs” was a reference to my inner fantasy world of then, and me just trying to sound somewhat mysterious.

Poetry analysis: “The Tiger” by William Blake

An essay done for English Literature in 1987. Reading it makes me cringe a bit now as I sound a bit overly pompous! If I can ever be bothered I will transcribe it as my handwriting is nearly unreadable.

Pages: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

Vignettes

• Wild Woman
• Himalayas
• Survivor
• Cloistered
• Endless Blue
• Field of Flowers
• Autumn
• Campfire
• Recluse
• Reunion
• Landscape lost

Vignettes: very short stories, scenes, snippets and scenarios of a few paragraphs, some written in a day and listed in order of creating. Some scenes are places in my head where I go for self-comfort; imaginings that calm me.

Wild Woman

The wild woman awakened at dawn, as she had every day out in this boreal forest of the north, to the chorus of birdsong and passing foraging creatures. She lay wrapped under her skin blanket – a brain-tanned reindeer hide – enjoying a few minutes of tranquility, the coals of her nightly fire radiating warmth nearby.

She had spent a part of each year in this wilderness for decades, learning and honing her primitive bushcraft as each season passed. Her wood-and-bark shelter, her animal skin clothing, her tools – all were foraged and crafted from the land around her as she relearned the skills of humanity's remote Stone Age ancestors for which this was their daily life. No modern survival gear tainted her possessions.

Hers was not an easy life choice. Fire, shelter and food were constant priorities and making or finding each could be difficult and exhausting. The woman had learned both from others with similar skills, and by trial-and-error. She was middle-aged now, her body no longer young, and she had to pace herself. But there was peace and contentment to be found in this primal landscape of birch and pine; a feeling of connection to a way of life long lost to civillization.

Outside of the natural world, there was an eerie silence where human sounds, sights and technology once intruded: the faint rumble of aircraft overhead; the electric glow of distant townships. When night fell on one evening weeks ago, the horizon was dark where artificial light had once intruded. No human had been past since then. Something had happened in the world outside; some great catastrophe perhaps. The woman had no cellphone or radio to keep in touch; a deliberate omission.

She could now survive out here until old age, an accident or illness claimed her. Always solitary by nature, she had retreated more and more from the chaotic modern world as the years went by. She had felt increasing foreboding in recent times, particularly in the last year before she set out for her latest camp.

She had not been born in this land, but her ancestors were, and she felt compelled to return here, from the New World to the Old, in these times of turmoil. Humans had dwelt here since much of the north had been deep under ice, incalculable seasons ago, and returning felt like coming back to her true home.

Begun in 2021; last updated 1/10/2021 (inspired by Lynx Vilden)

Himalayas

A childhood memory of long ago, now recalled as if from a dream.

My family is en route to its second and last holiday in England. I am very young, around 7 years old, and am in a window seat of the 747 on which we are flying. I gaze out the window at a vast, rugged landscape far below of high snowy mountains, stretching endlessly to the horizon. The pilot announces that Mount Everest is somewhere in the distance.

I am suspended in time, floating over this exotic view as though visiting from another world.

Survivor

The man stood in the ochre-red desert under a vast azure sky.

He was tall, lean and dark-skinned, his ancestors having lived in this ancient land since time immemorial. His eyes, however, were a strikingly intense blue, a legacy of a long-dead relative who had been one of the Invaders.

That time of the Invasion, a period lasting a couple of hundred years, was now barely-remembered stories. A time of great trauma and displacement for his people, their culture and ancient heritage almost destroyed. The society the Invaders had brought with them, though replete with technological marvels, had ultimately proved unsustainable and had self-destructed, in this country and worldwide. His people had been able to salvage their time-tested knowledge of the land, returned to the old ways of their nomadic ancestors, and now lived in harmony with the land and its creatures.

Cloistered

I sit beside the one window in my small room, gazing beyond the flowers and phoenixes of the elaborately-carved wooden screens into the secluded garden. Every day, for years since my arrival at the Imperial Palace, I have sat here for a time, enjoying these moments of peace.

I keep my hands occupied with my current creative work: sometimes a lavish embroidery of flowers and mythological creatures that shimmers with gold and silver threads amongst the rainbow of colors, or perhaps a small painting of my country's landscapes and creatures that emerges from the delicate washes of the pigments and brushes I wield.

Endless Blue

Begun in 2017; completed 10/12/2017

I come to awareness as I walk along a tropical beach, the sand beneath my feet white and fine-grained. Iridescent seashells glint here and there, half-submerged in the sand.

On one side the calm ocean laps gently at the shore, its jade shallows merging into turquoise and indigo depths. The susurrus of the advance and retreat of each wave is the only sound reaching my ears, soothing my internal agitation. The morning sun is a brilliant point of light in the cloudless azure sky, my chilled body reveling in its balmy warmth. I have been cold for so long.

Further out in the bay, slanted rock formations jut above the horizon, covered with lush green vegetation. Along the shoreline on the land side, palm trees sway in the faint breeze. The beach stretches to seeming infinity before and behind me. The Moon – or a moon – floats low in the west, greeting the early sun.

My surroundings are Earthlike, but I know of no location like this on Earth. Time seems to have stood still; the sun has not moved in all the moments I have been aware.

I stoop to pick up one of the seashells. It is a beautiful spiral shape, like that of an ancient ammonite, its nacreous shell flashing a rainbow of colors in the sunlight. I have not seen its likeness in the world I come from.

Holding the shell, I continue walking, sometimes wading ankle-deep through the shallows. I am alone here, wherever I am, but do not feel lonely; instead I am at peace.

Field of Flowers

Written 26/7/2017.

I awaken lying in a meadow. Around me wildflowers sway in a gentle breeze. The grass beneath me is soft and luxurious.

Above me is an infinite clear sky. Its color is extraordinary, unearthly: brilliant azure shading into a deep indigo at its zenith. I feel I can see into eternity.

The sun is warm but not harsh; the time of day seems to be mid-morning. I sit up slowly, enjoying its healing golden light.

The boundless field is a sea of green grass and colorful flowers extending to the far horizon. I can discern mountains in the distance, undulating shapes almost lost in a blue haze.

The delicate flowers are various species that I can’t identify in many colors and forms: white, reds, oranges, yellows, blues and violets. Their sweet scent is almost overpowering.

I feel I am in a dream, or perhaps somewhere in the Next World. Time stands still here. I know somehow that I am safe here; this is a place of refuge and peace for me.

Autumn

Written 12/5/2017.

The harsh heat of summer has passed. The sun on this hazy afternoon is kind, its light golden and cast shadows blue. I turn my face up to it, bathing in its gentle warmth.

The deciduous trees in my neighborhood are turning their vivid Autumn colors at last in response to the chilly mornings. The liquidambars display bright reds and yellows, the claret ashes a deep burgundy, the golden ash brilliant yellow, the ornamental pears all shades of green and fire. Only the faintest of breezes stirs the leaves.

These still afternoons evoke a kind of nostalgia for me, of a childhood long passed when days seemed to last forever and I had no concerns; where I could live in my own fantasy worlds and where the future was barely conceived of. Where my older ancestors – my grandparents and their relatives – were still alive, and I thought things would remain the same forever.

I gaze up at the eggshell-blue sky and into infinity. Time seems to stand still in this dreamlike moment; I wish this afternoon could never end.

Campfire

An ancestor of mine, somewhere in northern Europe, during the last Ice Age, 11,000 years ago. Written 2/5/2017.

The cold season is coming. I huddle near the campfire with the rest of my clan as we impatiently wait for the day’s hunt to cook.

The weakening sun casts a path of glimmering light across the lake as it sinks towards the horizon. The sky is streaked with lavender and golden clouds, and snow dusts the mountains beneath it. Dark pine and fir forests clothe their lower reaches and surround the lake, casting blue shadows.

I have lived here since I was born; it is my home and territory. My clan has roamed the lands around here as far back as my ancestors can remember. The land is as much a part of me as my blood.

Mother and Father, now elderly, sit nearby. They are frail and slow, but the clan looks after them. My sister and her husband and children are also here as usual, as are various aunts, uncles and cousins, and a few strangers from a neighboring tribe who helped with the hunt. The presence of my blood-kin is, as always, reassuring. I myself have not paired off and am too old now, but I contribute in other ways: child-minding while others go hunting, finding berries and tubers with the other women, tending the campfire, looking after my parents and others. Some of my blood will continue in my sister’s children.

The wind from the north, where the great ice wall looms, is chill. I pull my furs tighter around me, comforted by their warmth.

The landscape is far from silent; the song of birds, bellowing of reindeer, trumpeting of mammoth herds and eerie howls of wolf packs fill the air. My own clan adds to the clamor, recounting the day’s hunt, and gossip conveyed from other clans – who has partnered whom, who is with child, injuries and illnesses, what game is in the area, the weather and the approaching cold season, a time dreaded by all.

We at least have shelter: our ancestral cave extending within the nearby mountain, its inner walls covered with countless generations of paintings. Hand-prints of those who lived before me, spirit animals and hunt scenes, rendered in red ocher and black charcoal.

I tilt my head to look at the darkening indigo sky high above; the first few stars – the distant campfires of those who have passed into the Next World – are being lit in their familiar patterns. One day we will all join them and look down upon our descendants to watch over them.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply of the chill air, its scents many: of the sharp tang of pine tree sap, of the smoky wood from the fire, of the various people around the fire, and the delicious aroma of the roasting reindeer.

At last the meat is ready, and the carved-up carcase parts are dragged off the fire. Everyone grabs their bone-knives and cuts themselves slices. Despite the seeming chaos, there is a hierarchy: the elderly and infirm are given the best cuts first, then the rest of us, from senior to youngest, takes their turn. I stuff myself till I am almost bursting; the success of the next hunt is not guaranteed, though the land here is bounteous and we are in little danger of starving. The cold season, however, will be harsh as always. We have stocked up our cave in preparation.

I sit and watch the others. I am content; life continues as it always has and, as far as I know, always will. Our lives are not easy, but they are rich and full. We have each other and that is all that ultimately matters.

Recluse

Written 19/2/2017.

I sit cross-legged on the floor in front of my PC, as I do for most of the day everyday. My internet connection is my sole social link to the world outside.

I have lived in this small basic apartment room for many years and only venture outside to replenish my supplies and to have a daily morning coffee at a nearby cafe. I have no social life, no job, no friends; I have retreated from the world as there is nothing for me out there. I live in the constructed worlds of my imagination, and simply keep my body functioning in this real one.

My room is filled to the brim with my hoarded possessions: childhood memorabilia; my books; clothing and food supplies. I have a microwave and portable stove; my food needs are simple. There is a tiny bathroom nearby. I am insulated here and comfortable.

I rarely see the other residents, most of whom are just as reclusive and quiet, and I am comfortable with this. I am shy and do not thrive on social interaction.

A single window faces out onto the cityscape: tall grey buildings and blue sky during the day, a neon landscape at night. I don’t spend much time looking outside.

For exercise I pace relentlessly at intervals during the day; I can cover many kilometers in this manner. I am rather like a zoo animal pacing around its cage.

I am not happy, but am oddly content. Rather like an old monk meditating in a cave, I spend much time looking inward. Whatever happens in the outside world no longer concerns me, as long as my immediate surroundings are not affected. I am nobody and nothing; I cannot change the world and my existence will have no impact on it. I merely exist for a while. I grow older and will perhaps die in here, my body discovered days, weeks or even years later.

Reunion

A wistful imagining of meeting my Gran again. Begun 13/12/2016; revised 26/1/2017.

I awaken from darkness and find myself standing in front of a familiar white picket fence and gate. I am at 14 Bridge Street Elsternwick, as it used to be; before me is my maternal grandmother’s home.

How did I get here? What year is it? I have no memory of what happened before I awoke. I have a suspicion that I am not in the reality I previously existed in, but decide not to dwell upon that for the moment.

Gran’s home. There it is before me, apparently as real as I remember it from my previous life. The old Edwardian-style white weatherboard with its red-tiled roof was sold and demolished in 1997, after Gran had to go into care; a time of distress as she had lived there since 1941. I have missed her and her home increasingly as I got older. She was the grandparent I was closest to, and saw the most of, and her home was like my second home, being only a 20-minute or so drive away from my parents’ home.

I breathe in the familiar air and move towards the waist-high black iron-bar gate, lifting the latch and pushing it open to enter the front yard. The old white letterbox is next to it; I automatically lift the lid to see if there is any mail, but none today.

The day is fine and sunny, not too hot or cold. I can’t discern what season it is. The time feels like the 1970s or 1980s in a way I can’t explain; some quality about the atmosphere.

I decide to go down the side asphalt footpath and round to the back door. The garden is lush and well-tended, unlike the unkempt property it became in the months before its demolition.

I push open the tall white picket gate that divides the front yard from the back. The old plum tree is still standing there, and the small one-bedroom bungalow or sleepout is now in front of me, with the main house and outbuildings to my right. I walk along the concrete paving to the low steps leading up to the back door, feeling increasingly nervous.

I push open the back door; it is not locked. In front of me is the small kitchen with its old cupboards. Gran’s little radio is blaring away, with the afternoon football playing; Richmond, Gran’s favorite team, is competing. The musty smell of the old house is comfortingly familiar, evoking an aura of a time long before I was born. A lot of the decor has been there for decades, dating from the 1940s or so.

Apprehensively, I walk through and into the dining room, and there, seated at the round table, is Gran herself.

I stop, staring at her disbelievingly. She is the Gran I remember, with short white hair and intense blue eyes, which light up upon seeing me, her wrinkled face smiling. She gets up from where she was sitting by the open fireplace. “Suzanne! I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”

“I’ve missed you, Gran!” That’s all I can say as I choke up with tears and move towards her. I am not usually physically demonstrative, but I embrace Gran tightly, as she does me, inhaling her familiar scent. She is a little shorter than me, wearing a cardigan and dress.

In real life, she was cremated after her funeral and there is nothing left of her; her ashes were scattered at her family burial site in Clarendon. It is almost as though she never existed – her corporeal body vanished into the earth and environment – and this distresses me greatly.

We sit down on the padded wooden chairs, Gran holding both my hands firmly. I don’t want to let her go either. “I don’t know how I got here or where everyone else is …” I say.

“Well, we’re not in the world we came from anymore,” says Gran, a little hesitantly.

“Does that mean we’re dead?” I ask bluntly and fearfully.

“I am – but I’m not sure if you are,” Gran replies. She squeezes my hands reassuringly. “But all your relatives who passed away are here – I’ve seen my Mum and Dad, and brothers and sisters again, which is wonderful! Bill is here also.” The last name is that of my maternal Grandpa, whom I did not really get to know as he died in 1982, when I was 11. I was always a bit shy of him. Gran came from a big family of 13, and she was the last to pass away from our world – a lonely place to be in – so I am happy she is reunited with them.

“Maybe I had an accident and I am having a near-death experience,” I surmise, though I still have no memory of this. “Are Mum and Dad here?”

“No, they must still be alive, thank goodness.”

“Do you know where we are? Is this place real?”

“Well … as best as I can understand it, this place is made from our memories, which are stored somewhere outside the reality we know. You’re seeing me as you remember me, but I see myself as younger. My house is as we remember it. I’ve also gone to see my home in Clarendon, which is still standing there as it did when I was little.” That house – a small cottage – had long fallen down and vanished even when I was young.

“Wherever this is, I just want to be with you again, Gran,” I say, my voice quavering. “And to see everyone else here.” Perhaps it is a hallucination, but my surroundings feel real, unlike the hazy dreams I’ve had of visiting her home. I recall reading about a metaphysical concept called the Akashic Records, where all experiences are stored in a realm outside of the corporeal world we know. There’s no scientific evidence for it – as there isn’t for an afterlife generally – but a part of me has clung to a belief (or wish) that our reality is not the entirety of our existence.

“Yes, they all want to see you! I don’t know if you’ll stay here if you are not dead, but we have all the time in the world here.”

“I failed at life – I don’t want to go back if I’m still alive, though I want to see Mum and Dad again, so I don’t know … at least I know I won’t fear death so much if this is what is beyond it.”

“No hurry, we’ll just sit here a while,” says Gran reassuringly. She is still holding my hands and I don’t want her to let go. A low fire is burning in the open fireplace beside us, crackling and popping as the flames dance hypnotically.

Somewhere out there
In the Second Air
Gran’s voice can be heard
Forever preserved.

Landscape lost

Written 17/6/2016.

Sometimes, when walking around my neighborhood on a bright sunny day, I try to imagine what the landscape I tread on might have looked like hundreds of years ago, before European settlers arrived at Port Phillip Bay in 1835 and inflicted their environmental and cultural devastation.

The indigenous people who lived here before were the Boonerwrung. They and the other communities who comprised the Kulin people had lived here for tens of thousands of years, an astonishingly long span of time compared to the relatively brief industrial civilization I live in – yet they did not bring the harm upon the landscape that my society has.

The hilly land might would likely have been forested with eucalypts and paperbarks; perhaps firestick farming by the indigenous people would have thinned it out in places. Instead of the ugly roar of traffic and machinery, the only sounds would have been those of Nature – birds, animals, the wind sighing through the trees, and the voices of the people who had been part of this landscape since time immemorial, singing their traditional songs and dances. The air would have been clean and full of natural scents and nectar, with the occasional burning and smoke from campfires. A few thousand years ago, volcanoes were still active and are remembered in indigenous stories.

From the top of a nearby hill, looking westwards when the air is clear, I can just make out what are the Brisbane Ranges on the other side of Port Phillip Bay, nearly 70 km away. A sprawling, polluted urban landscape blights the view. A long time ago nothing but a vast canopy of trees would have extended into the distance, and the bright blue of the bay itself shimmer in the sun.

To those who once lived here, the land would have been timeless; it had existed forever and would continue to do so forever. They had adapted their culture and skills to live in harmony with the environment rather than try to force change upon it. Their oral culture was deep and rich, passed down through countless generations. They could not have imagined the devastation that would come.

I wonder if the ancestral ghosts of those people still wander here, through a vastly changed land, paved and built over with foreign materials, the landscape cleared of much of its forests and native creatures almost wiped out. I feel a wistfulness for what was lost.

FWednesday, 15 October 2025 at 11:27:43 am