At certain times of the day shadows slide over rock walls walking in a determined direction like thoughts striding across the mind as if late for an appointment. Although set against a coarse surface, they themselves are not substantive, yet their journey carries the compass of disparate migrations.
How shall I name you, immortal, mild, proud shadows?
I only know that all we know comes from you,
And that you come from Eden on flying feet.
As mist spreads over the mountains, I am lost in a present spun from threads of a past woven together in diverse rhythms. Here, even the dead have their dance. It is with this in mind that "we are witnessing a shift from
validation to signification, from attempting to secure archaeological statements firmly in the past to the way systems of discourse make sense of the past. This demands a pluralist discourse that will be troubling to many: archaeologists constructing different but equally meaningful constructions of past reality through artefacts, monuments and documents."
This morning the trees practice an intense yoga, holding themselves in an asana until moved by the wind. Do the walls shudder slightly as these shadows slip past them? Unlike Australia's Dreamtime ancestors who stopped to shape the land into their own being, these spirits begin as an unknown adventure in an unknown space. It is at the moment of completion that in a flash of recognition, they are seen to have the quantity and function which mark their passage with the nameless beauty of an irreconcilable antiquity.
I arrive at the end of the path I’ve been walking for a long time. It is a verdant place,
and to my astonishment it makes a tight turn back in the direction from which I've just come. In addition, other people are walking ahead of me. The mundanity of all this is very disturbing. At this point I awake.
