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I acknowledge the Wurundjeri People of the Kulin Nation as the First Nation in whose country I now live.
I also recognize the 2017 Uluru Statement from the Heart. The petition in support is here.

Welcome to my table...

Sit. Put your feet up. Let’s chat about something important.

Before we have books, we are cultures of art and story, weavers, singers, makers of magic to call the herd, to summon the bear. We are the architects of Stonehenge and, with antler bone, diggers of thirty-foot-deep chalk ditches. For the acoustics, for the singers and the musicians. We decorate our hair with the thin bones of our mother’s and father’s winter whale hunt, that massive old elk who gave herself up for the kill, to protect the young. We craft jet or turquoise into beads to decorate our boots of soft leather. Carve jade into figurines. We waste nothing because tomorrow might bring the return of the Howler, spoken of softly, venerably, to appease this ancestor into passivity. Into leaving our elders and children alive.

How did we learn what was edible and what would kill us? That this mushroom is for supper and this, for initiation; for the visions? All of us, before the advent of books, tell each other stories, remind ourselves of ancient wisdom through chant and repetition. We dance the memories of direction and wellsprings, the building of boats and the reading of starlight to guide us across the sea.

Story is how. Word of mouth. It still works even though not all of it is true. Some stories seek to drag us into religious cults. Careful of them, puppies.

Have we lost the ability to survive beyond retail? I have no answer. I know we must remember words like fern and otter and dandelion, even though the Oxford Junior Dictionary considers them passé to the children of today’s world.

I could tell you my stories, but we can’t always sit together around the fire in the deep dark nights. So, I also write books (and facilitate the occasional workshop, somewhere). Everything I write has a strong current of myth. Oh, and myth is never fallacy. Its etymology is a story, so deep within memory and culture, that the creator is unknown. And even the stories I write, set in the theoretical year 2156, or a winter 13,000 seasons around the sun from now, are not made up. That would be impossible.

I’m glad you came. And I wish you good health and great excitation. And love. That’s the biggie.

 




Visit www.crazycrow.com.au and think about writing us a story. There’s guidelines, mind you, but only so none of us gets angry.

Newest books are Initiation, a Memoir, The Skellig, Science Fiction, The Quickening and The Shining Isle (well, they’re not new but they are in eBook format) and another, Witch, Stories for Those Who Are, coming soon. Read about it HERE

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