I started writing this on Facebook would you believe. I was tring to write a story in other people's voices. The competition is about homelessness and I think what it means to be homelessness its to not to have a modern house. Because that's cultural. Homelessness means not feeling at home anywhere.
Grant writing live on Facebook this morning.
My story is called "I dream of Uluru."
About: The voice of anger, the voice of Africa. Homelessness in Africa 1. The Bush Man's story connects with one Aboriginal's experience.
I dream of Uluru (DRAFT)
We have always been homeless in a way but this is how I lost my temporary shelter. The concept of having a home never seemed real to us. Not really like it does to others. Within our culture we have always thought we shared the land. We have always thought that this land is our land. With the empasis on our, on sharing, do you white fellas remember that. So long as we were under a sky, of whatever color or whatever hue, we have felt at home. If you were under that canopy with us, that tent shaped by countless stars we have always seen you as part of pour extended family, as our brothers, sisters and cousins. Other families turned their houses inward, turned away we turned our circle (facing) out. Including all of this great, great land as everyone's we knew that as far as the eye could wander, no as far as our feet could take us could be part of our home, if we learnt to be truly mobile and run fast enough from the great lions that preyed upon us, that lay in wait all around. But several generations ago that dream was teken from us, bit by bit our vision were stolen and our dreams were not kept. Now we dream dreams of isolation and despair. How I love to escape from this chaotic modern world just for a moment, even inside my minds inner eye I can see myself back in that boundless terrain, running, forever free. How to get there now, how can I go walkabout and feel good about it, in this world of broken bottles, plastic shit, sharp metal. What's your favorite color people ask. I love black why wouldn't I. I am black. But I also like white, I want to be a writer, I see all of the little tiny figures, in all their differnt shapes and sizes, there's big ones and little ones, the white fellas call them letters, I see them set against a white background. I learnt to read their them signs, and it taught me something, they call that stuff reading, and then once you (understand) learn the (their) language, we can learn to writes, to tell our stories, our hopes and dreams of little happiness, but we are going to need a lot of help. I want to take my family... (back home) Generations, homelessness, the new born baby of this hopeful man has a story too. It's a pretty short one. They would call this shit a poem. It goes like this. Title: Kuki's Poem Are you ready now, here's the story the white man wrote foir me a two line poem. The first line has three words, the second line has one. This is the story they wrote for my little girl, Fucking god help my little girl, sorry just said a little prayer, the only one I've got right now, but here's my poem. The heart beat. Stopped. Well fuck them, fuck life sometimes, but I try not to give into despair, I won't let anyone take away the best parts of me, not them, not life, not even god him or herself. I am for my little girl's life and other people's babies too. I wish my little girl had made it,, even into a world as broken as this I have a life that a lot of other people wouldn't want. But it's mine, and the only one who can take that from me is myself. And I will get threouh this, and come out the other side, the same oldErnie. I believe in that. I have a name but no=one wanted to know me, no-one wanted to do anything real. My name is Ernie Cookson, but people call me Cook or sometimes even Bertie. I have what those Fu Keira called a pseudonym too, here's the one they wrote for me. I. M. Nobody. Can someone give me some cigarettes, or a dollar. I want to bury my little girl in Arnham Land, right at the foot of Uluru right where that other white ladies baby girl was taken by the dingo. Because someone took mine too. got a dollar bro.
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