Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter… And Spring

A pearl has no meaning to the pig, says South Korean director and writer Kim Ki Duk. His 2002 film Spring Summer Autumn Winter …and Spring is an anecdotal portrayal of time. Phrases, movements, events and conflicts circle back on themselves. People are shown as unwitting participants in a world with its own logic. Buddhist and mystic symbolism underpin and overlay the action. We learn about the characters through their actions, not what they say. The film requires little dialogue to convey its meaning.

In the opening sequence a young boy teases a frog, a snake and fish by tying a rock to them. The little creatures struggle. His grandfather – we can only assume they’re related – watches the kid torture the animals. That night while the kid is asleep the grandfather ties a rock to the boy. When he wakes up he’s distressed and is told the rock can be removed once he has seen to it that the rock is removed from the frog, snake and fish. If, by this time, any of the creatures have died then the boy will live with this burden. The boy drags the rock around the great lagoon where they live. The frog is alive. The Fish is alive. The snake has died overnight. The boy is distraught. The boy has a heavy heart.

If the grandfather had not disciplined the boy then we can assume he would have continued on in life thinking torturing animals was okay. We have seen already that it is in the boys nature to be cruel. Discipline is a way of altering that nature.

Later on in the film, the grandfather paints the heart sutra on the deck of the house that floats on the lagoon. The young boy, now a man, has returned, a fugitive after having fled the home with a girl who was visiting. Viewers do not witness this, but the young man murdered the woman one night when she sleeps with another man. The boy returns home and when detectives find him the grandfather requests that before he leaves the boy carve out the heart sutra with a knife.

The rationale of the film dictates the Buddhists wishes are respected and the detectives wait all day until the boy has finished carving. Only then can the boy begin healing his heavy heart, that began with the murder of the snake, some fifteen years before the murder of the woman. The return of the heart motif shows that the master played a small part in the boys downfall. As Phillip Larkin wrote: Your parents, they fuck you up, even if they don’t mean to, they do.

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On Witnessing ‘On Witnessing With Many Others the Destruction of Remaining Bushland Alongside Malvolio Road, Coolbellup’

The state wants you to think you are them, and you and they have won,
and that winning is important, that peeling wallpaper
is a win for rising damp, leaking parapet drains
and paint that prematurely cracks in 21st century sun.
The state wants you to know they love you and that if
you stand naked in the sun that’s your choice
and as your largest organ reddens and thickens
and the moisture evaporates in your blood, that new hospitals
with lead pipes are being built for you, post-haste.
The state comes marching in the gate and up the wound
passed the mounds of dead balga and banksia and tuart
and salmon gum and karri and marri and agonis flexuosa
and teak and casuarina and beech and blackbutt and forest red gum
and myrtle and acacia and mounds of kangaroo paw, the state emblem
spontaneously deciduous in the middle of summer:                                                                 the state has decided shade is obsolete.
The state will not deliver the media alert that says dust health fears
exist in the areas around the asbestos riddled bushland in Coolbellup,
that children with asthma and other respiratory diseases
are at higher risk and if you feel your mouth and lungs clogging up
then you should contact this number immediately.
The state will allow their own militia to stand twenty feet
from the ‘Wood Hog 3800XL’ mulching monster while The Doctor
blows the entrails of ancient xanthorea and fine asbestos fibres
onto their high-viz uniforms, their bullet proof vests
built to ping off malignant mesotholomia.
The state has shown you must not sing and will arrest
anyone caught reciting say don’t worry, ‘bout a thing,
      cause every little thing, gunna be alright.
The state will not let you stop the Warratah’s pincers, or the excavator,
or the mulcher and if you do there are highly trained
hackers and horses and German Shephards who will break your spirit
one by one they will wear you down, targeting those who seek to organise.
Alone, the state will marry you.

 

 

Written in response to: ‘On Witnessing With Many Others the Destruction of Remaining Bushland Alongside Malvolio Road, Coolbellup’

On Witnessing With Many Others the Destruction of Remaining Bushland Alongside Malvolio Road, Coolbellup

A New Ode to Westralia: Anthem for All Future Sporting Events, by John Kinsella.

The state is killing our souls

The state has murdered the people — some they murder over and over

The state has deployed vicious antibodies to kill the good cells

and let the infection thrive

The state has equated work with destruction and manipulated

the outcome — remember, the state has no love for unions.

The state deployed its shock troops who watched on as poems were yelled

at them, their commander marshalling attitude, saying: how can we

shut this one up? Poets of the world, take notice. They will close

you down the moment you break free of your anthologies,

your safety in pages of literary journals, the comforts

of award nights.

The state shapes itself out of the dust rising from underforest

which is its soul exposed to a caustic, toxic atmosphere

made by so many other such actions of malice — the shape

is cartoonish to start with, then like a Hollywood effect

then just terrifying ectoplasm feeding on sap and blood and grit.

The state chips and mulches because it has heard rumours of Plato’s

theory of forms and thinks it needs a new translation full of local

business inflection, full of their own brand of ‘civilisation’.

The state has no intention of letting traditional owners maintain

traditional places of worship of culture of belonging — it’s always

been about the twin poles of denial and deletion.

The state has reservoirs of species names and the odd pressed sample

of a flower they wish only to remain as a Latin name and

a collectible, gathering in worth, which is the essence of market

economics, rolling on through the bushland with gung-ho

in-your-face finality.

The state wants you to gasp as the tall tree cracks and is brought down fast,

the pair of tawny frogmouths lifting to nowhere, dazzled by daylight.

John Kinsella

TWELVES FOR THE TWELFTH NIGHT: POEMS IN SUPPORT OF THE BEELIAR WETLANDS

Similar to The Other Report: Poems Against the Destruction of the Beeliar Wetlands, Twelves for the Twelfth Night is a rapid poetic response to the 100 hectare desecration of natural bushland for the Roe8 highway.

From the introduction: Traditionally, the twelfth night of Christmas falls on the fifth or sixth of January and signals the eve of Epiphany, or Epiphany itself. Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night and ours were written in the spirit of twelfth night entertainments, and Malvolio figures large, whether as an antagonist come to grief through greed, delusion and crazy ambition, or a here-to-now quiet road in Coolbellup that woke to find a major highway mapped across its vitals.

Our Twelfth Night was triggered by the wonderful and occasionally bizarre use of Shakespearean characters as street names in Coolbellup, including Cordelia Avenue, Romeo and Juliet streets (which never meet) and Malvolio, poor Malvolio, which only ever wanted to be left in peace, adjoining the best bush block there is.

Each of the twelve poems in our Twelfth Night contains a four-line stanza by Wendy Jenkins, John Kinsella and myself.

Please press on the image below to download the free book.

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Inside View: Save Beeliar Wetlands

In June of 2014, I took two buses and a train from my home in Fremantle to the trail head of the Bibbulmun Track in Kalamunda. In rain and a leaky jacket I walked for three hours to Hewitt’s Hut, arriving in the dark. Already at the hut was my friend, his brother and two friends of theirs I had never met before. My friend was walking the entire track. His mates had driven in as close they could to the hut. They had brought eskys full of alcohol, meat for the bbq and mobile phones to watch AFL on.

Read the rest of this article here.