What is it with little boys and their obsession with gathering sticks?
Phallogocentrism?
An innate yearning for creative destruction?
Instinctive warlike tendencies?
A fondness for sticks?
Answers on a postcard…
I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral...
Comments
I guess my sticks are a little larger. They are logs.
Though he did end up putting most of the wood to good use when he taught himself to build cubby houses.
And yes Roddy...your sticks are bigger. I have seen the photos!!!
Sue, has he been sending you those photos too?
Thrilling stuff...
The gathering possibly arises from our need to build shelters for our families.