else but the swan. She would not believe it was dead. How could anything so special, that was celebrated by hemispheric legends on both sides of the equator, be dead? She gifted the swan with eternal life. She quoted Hans Christian Andersen. Hadnât he written about a swan sitting on a nest of fledglings that perpetually flew off to populate the world with poetry inspired by their own beauty? Now her swan was the Denmark swan, and she wanted to know why it had not come to the swamp to create poetry. Well! Why not? How could a resurrecting swan, with the strongest pair of wings for flying half way around the world, be lost? Perhaps it was always shot dead on arrival? Fallen in sediment. Its poetry condemned. Evading its final splash down in front of her eyes.
Oblivia thought about the invisible swan whose stories occupied every centimetre of their hull. Was it real? Sure! Acts of descendency were important ideas in the swamp; and even, whether it was right to think about stories of birds like a white swan in the swamp.
One day Bella Donnaâs old storytelling voice told the girl: A black swan flies slowly across the country, holding a small slither of bone in its beak. But then she hesitated, perhaps realising she was deviating from the white swan she had been longing for. Her voice stalled, tapered off into whispers that even the girl, now the perfect mimic of the old woman, could not understand. It was as though the old woman had become so old, she was unable to continue either to dither or to go thither in a fantastical story that began not at the beginning, nor at the end, but centrally, in ether. What was it? Ah? Was she unable to comprehend progress? Did she now doubt thewhite swanâs ability to navigate its journey? Or perhaps, she just told stories the way swans fly.
Obediently, Oblivia listened. She had become more interested than ever in the old womanâs stories, even though she thought old Aunty was just facing another storm, and this made it difficult for her to speak. Where was it this time? She wondered if it had always been like this for old wanymarri white woman Aunty. All beginnings, wherever begun, lost? Perhaps even, that the old woman was neither life, dreams, or stories. Just air. The girl looked away and whispered into the steel wall of the hull: She was nothing. It might have been so! Fat plague of loss . The girl accused the old woman of being a victim by telling the wall, You dream like a refugee â of never being able to return. Being lost all the time. Thatâs all you think about. Think about that. The girl had turned examiner of other peopleâs consciences. But what would you expect? She knew old Bella Donna like her own thumb, knew exactly what it was like to be unable to realise one single idea without falling over a multitude of anxieties. In numerous conversations with the wall, she explained the crux of the matter â The old woman was a victim of her own mathematics . She had become lost in senseless tangles. An eternity of trying to calculate the exact weight of a swan travelling from so far away through such a long period of time. How long would it take to reach its destination? There are endless, infinite possibilities, you know. When she thought more kindly, the girl softened her image of the old woman flying around in etherland. Might be as good a place as any to be with her swan.
You could see that the old woman had become a little bit day-dreamy , but she often tried to impress on the girl one single thing of importance: A love story can be about swans, but the swan looks more like death with a bone in its beak. It could be a human bone, or a bone from another swan. Its mate, maybe.
The old ladyâs fearful whisperings like this at night lulled theswamp people in their cradles, cocooning them like machinery rattling away, like swarming bees, and sea gulls squalling for hours on end in the distance, or else remembering hawks piercing the hot air with
Oblivia thought about the invisible swan whose stories occupied every centimetre of their hull. Was it real? Sure! Acts of descendency were important ideas in the swamp; and even, whether it was right to think about stories of birds like a white swan in the swamp.
One day Bella Donnaâs old storytelling voice told the girl: A black swan flies slowly across the country, holding a small slither of bone in its beak. But then she hesitated, perhaps realising she was deviating from the white swan she had been longing for. Her voice stalled, tapered off into whispers that even the girl, now the perfect mimic of the old woman, could not understand. It was as though the old woman had become so old, she was unable to continue either to dither or to go thither in a fantastical story that began not at the beginning, nor at the end, but centrally, in ether. What was it? Ah? Was she unable to comprehend progress? Did she now doubt thewhite swanâs ability to navigate its journey? Or perhaps, she just told stories the way swans fly.
Obediently, Oblivia listened. She had become more interested than ever in the old womanâs stories, even though she thought old Aunty was just facing another storm, and this made it difficult for her to speak. Where was it this time? She wondered if it had always been like this for old wanymarri white woman Aunty. All beginnings, wherever begun, lost? Perhaps even, that the old woman was neither life, dreams, or stories. Just air. The girl looked away and whispered into the steel wall of the hull: She was nothing. It might have been so! Fat plague of loss . The girl accused the old woman of being a victim by telling the wall, You dream like a refugee â of never being able to return. Being lost all the time. Thatâs all you think about. Think about that. The girl had turned examiner of other peopleâs consciences. But what would you expect? She knew old Bella Donna like her own thumb, knew exactly what it was like to be unable to realise one single idea without falling over a multitude of anxieties. In numerous conversations with the wall, she explained the crux of the matter â The old woman was a victim of her own mathematics . She had become lost in senseless tangles. An eternity of trying to calculate the exact weight of a swan travelling from so far away through such a long period of time. How long would it take to reach its destination? There are endless, infinite possibilities, you know. When she thought more kindly, the girl softened her image of the old woman flying around in etherland. Might be as good a place as any to be with her swan.
You could see that the old woman had become a little bit day-dreamy , but she often tried to impress on the girl one single thing of importance: A love story can be about swans, but the swan looks more like death with a bone in its beak. It could be a human bone, or a bone from another swan. Its mate, maybe.
The old ladyâs fearful whisperings like this at night lulled theswamp people in their cradles, cocooning them like machinery rattling away, like swarming bees, and sea gulls squalling for hours on end in the distance, or else remembering hawks piercing the hot air with
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