This place, Soapy Bore, camping in the dry Sandover Riverbed, became an integral part of the social dreaming event for me. So the physicality of the place is intertwined with the intellectuality of the experience in my memory. 

Words and phrases continue to be inadequate for me to make sense of the event. I am, however, strangely compelled to work with textiles using colour and texture to craft objects in an attempt to express my reflections of this extraordinary event. 

The burning orange-redness of the ground, reflecting it's glow onto the washed out aridity of the ancient dry river gums and turning the slim, quivery leaves rosy gold. 

And reflecting the intensity of the day onto the pale, damp and listless transients.

The sky was intense and cloudless. It had the crystal blue clearness that reminds me that it goes on forever. That it goes on unrelentingly forever, long after all traces of me 
have passed into impersonal ancestry...  

It temptingly provides a little insight into the thought that these people here have a connection to this place through their ancestors back through thousands of years. It somehow makes their existence seem more real, more valid. Less transient 

The people have invited us here to share their place, so very different to ours. How adapted they are to all of this. And, sitting in their air-conditioned house in the middle of the midday heat laughing at us white fellas camping in the riverbed in the heat. And knowing they will still be here long after we have gone. 

And when the shining, glaring disk had finally slipped away in spectacular, arrogant splendor, the inky night sky slowly revealed the full extent of my universal insignificance. All of those forgotten other worlds crowding the sky to reveal their eternal existence. Using their awesome beauty to sparkle their message of my futility in the face of such endless vastness.