Wk 7, Sem 1, Yr 3
I sat down this week to write about Ovid's Metamorphoses. I wanted to reflect on the amazing images that Golding conjures up in his explanation of the degradation of the relationship between humanity and nature. As I sat down to do this, I found myself picking at a pomegranate. Besides the fact that the pomegranate is a favourite fruit of mine, I thought my choice of grub to be rather fitting to the reading. Whilst munching on the succulent individual seedy morsels, i believe they’re called 'arils', I connected with the description of the Golden Age in a way that I hadn’t done before.
Almost having an outer body experience, I found myself tasting the golden age of freedom whilst living in the iron age of destruction. With my sense of smell, taste and sight stimulated, I decided to wrote a short little excerpt of my own musings, creatively inspired by Ovid’s Metamorphisis. And so I wrote…
What is this strange fruit? Accompanied by the drone of mechanics, I look out of my coupe window as the last shred of yellow light slides under the horizon. Excavating a pomegranate with an eye on the dying day I see l o n g s h a d o w s cast over the autumnal landscape somewhere south of Lismore. Naming places stamps the authority of human conquest over landscape. All those names give birth to construction, dwellings and populations. Birth. Every birth matched by a death. Those skeletal charcoal trees, limbs twisted against wind with burning orange fruit - I’ve seen so many of them here, somewhere…. Do they have names for the way they stand now and not the fruit they bear? I’d rather they didn’t. Their image alone inspires awe and horror, life and death like Moses’ burning bush, like Boticelli’s Prima Vera.
Almost having an outer body experience, I found myself tasting the golden age of freedom whilst living in the iron age of destruction. With my sense of smell, taste and sight stimulated, I decided to wrote a short little excerpt of my own musings, creatively inspired by Ovid’s Metamorphisis. And so I wrote…
What is this strange fruit? Accompanied by the drone of mechanics, I look out of my coupe window as the last shred of yellow light slides under the horizon. Excavating a pomegranate with an eye on the dying day I see l o n g s h a d o w s cast over the autumnal landscape somewhere south of Lismore. Naming places stamps the authority of human conquest over landscape. All those names give birth to construction, dwellings and populations. Birth. Every birth matched by a death. Those skeletal charcoal trees, limbs twisted against wind with burning orange fruit - I’ve seen so many of them here, somewhere…. Do they have names for the way they stand now and not the fruit they bear? I’d rather they didn’t. Their image alone inspires awe and horror, life and death like Moses’ burning bush, like Boticelli’s Prima Vera.