It’s a difficult thing to come up with an original idea. Sometimes, it can seem as if it has all been done before, and our thoughts are meaningless, for they bring nothing new, nothing that hasn’t been said before.
A photograph I recently rediscovered in my archives. The pinnacle in the centre is a feature called the Kriss and was climbed by J. Ewbank and A Keller in the 1960s.
Once again, I find myself changing the name of my blog, upon discovering that the name I have chosen has been taken by a previous publisher. (Boiling Billy Publications release 4WD-ing guides to outback Australia). Given that this publisher is a lot more prominent than my humble blog of 107 followers, I figured it’s best I change and avoid confusion down the track.
Nevertheless, out of these 107 followers, about 40-60 people click on the emails that I send out each week. This is a reasonable group of people, and it is to these people that I undertake the weekly work of writing for. That is right. This writing exists because of you, the reader. Isn’t that interesting?
And so I return to an old idea which has been just about scrapped. Scribbleton, or Scribble-Town, is a place where scribbles are not only accepted, they are the preferred currency. Scribbleton also happens to be the name of my very first blog, more than ten years ago, which did not survive for very long. Yet today, it returns!
Scribbleton. Snippets, small bits and pieces, strung together into a comprehensive story, landscape, imagining. A collection of impressions, formed into words, written down onto scraggly pieces of paper. Off-hand ideas that would never see the light of day otherwise.
Welcome to Scribbleton.
-A
The Witch’s Finger.
Alpha century
My own star is rising
Not shining
Just rising
A little every day.
Glacial lake near the Frenchman’s Group.
Dear Traveller
Welcome to the wilderness,
To a ‘brand new’ world;
Above you, thousand metre peaks may loom,
Overhanging with snow and ice,
It’s a different world you’ve entered,
Up here, in the kingdom of the clouds,
You can stand on the edge
And look into the abyss from where you’ve climbed from
Look back not in fear, loathing or muttering
But with a brave, and honourable look,
And see what clues you may find.
Stare below and see the path winding,
Spiraling, turning, twisting,
Jolting, falling, resting,
then finally climbing.
Dolerite columns in early winter, Central Highlands.
Buzzing with the rhymes
Dribble dribble
I wait for your knock
Dabble dabble
Why do I feel like this now?
Glaciated Landscape, Frenchman’s Group.
Kia Ora
This, you may have noticed,
Is a work not quite right,
Squiggle, squiggle
I’m writing between the lines;
Jiggle, jiggle
Do you read, do you read?
I’m stewing in the brine.
Fantasy fodder unfolded
Letters swam through the air;
Lurking lumps in shadows
Jumped on ponies at the fair,
Riding down, riding up
Looking through a mirror, I saw
Your bravery, my smile
Rising on the tide,
Aligning watches,
Ticking as one in time,
Your hair, my hands
Folding origami as mimes.
Then the banks crumbled in;
Floating on the froth was a tooth gapped grin,
Riding the river was a faceless chin
Trigger, trigger
I wag my tail and bark
Where is all this noise coming from?
The bone is only half chewed
The king’s crown is on the ground!
Happy to fly and catch the bullet;
While I wait out the tides,
Washing me in, washing me out,
Out to sea and in with the fishes.
Floating with tussock grass;
Drifting through the wind
Was a memory of a melody long gone...
