I returned from wäwa’s funeral ceremony a few more than days ago. It was unspeakably just-so to be back on Country with ŋarraku gurrutu-mirri-walala (‘my kin/those with the quality of kinship for me’), and more so to be there to gäma (‘carry’) wäwa home. I hope to share more about this return visit soon.
Tonight, however, I have been re-familiarising myself with social contract theory – with Hobbes, Locke, Rousseau and (my current boyfriend) Proudhon. I finished taking notes on said theorists on this topic a short while ago, when I was reminded of this poem, by Gwen Harwood.
Thought is Surrounded by a Halo.
Show me the order of the world,
the hard-edge light of this-is-so
prior to all experience
and common to both world and thought,
no model, but the truth itself.
Language is not a perfect game,
and if it were, how could we play?
The world’s more than the sum of things
like moon, sky, centre, body, bed,
as all the singing masters know.
Picture two lovers side by side
who sleep and dream and wake to hold
the real and imagined world
body by body, word by word
in the wild halo of their thought.
That is all.