Poetic Justice

Poetic Justice: Yes/no….yeah…nahI’m really concerned about the way...

2017-09-28T22:55:00.001-07:00

Poetic Justice: Yes/no….yeah…nahI’m really concerned about the way...: Yes/no….yeah…nah I’m really concerned about the way that Australia's ‘yes’ ‘no’ 'marriage equality' survey is setting us all ...

2017-09-28T18:19:00.002-07:00

Yes/no….yeah…nah

I’m really concerned about the way that Australia's ‘yes’ ‘no’ 'marriage equality' survey is setting us all up to unwittingly comprise our values. Can we really promote the values of rights and equality when we engage in a polarising fight?

‘I’m not sure how I feel about it, but that person over there is waving a flag and is haranguing me to check the box that they insist upon. Bugger them, they can’t tell me what to do.’

Binary ways of thinking or behaving have a way of unsettling us, making us feel threatened. They corral us into formulating an ‘equal and opposite reaction’.

Yes or no really should not be the point.

I know for a fact that all humans have the same basic needs: to safety, lodgings, food, water, freedom, employment, religious expression, racial inclusion etc…I don’t think many people would disagree with this. I think most people would agree that when these needs are fulfilled society functions best.

We live in a civil society, which means the laws of this country apply to us all, to ensure we are safe-guarded in various spheres of life, and that society remains as stable as possible according the ‘agreed’/dominant values of the time. I’m really proud that Australian law protects the rights of people with disabilities, validates racial diversity, and recognises people’s rights to religious expression. The family law act governs the civil dissolution of marriage and division of property. Our laws protect our right to safety, and our right to make advanced directives about our children’s care in the event of illness or death, our property and our personal wellbeing. The intention of Australia legislation is to ensure that we are all taken care of, as best as an overarching set of regulations in a subjective decision making environment can do.

On the basis of current legislation, it’s apparent that Australian society values inclusion, safety and wellbeing for all. There is no grounds for debate within this value set. And from here it follows that we ought to all be treated as equal under the law.

I really don’t understand the inherent hypocrisy that certain groups of us, dwelling on Australian soil, either as citizens or otherwise, must adhere to all laws, but conversely the benefits of some of those laws are withheld from them. People on Manus Island (under our jurisdiction) must abide by Australian and international law, but are not protected by these laws when assaulted, or injured; do not have the right to medical treatment, to safe lodgings, employment, etc…. I do not understand why in Aboriginal communities policies are applied that limit freedom of choice and movement, that are not applied to non-Aboriginal people.

And why is it that children, who may have two Mums or two Dads, are excluded from the legislated safety net that is deemed essential for other children: these safeguards being the Family Law Act, and laws about inheritance and custody. Why must we discriminate in such a way that leaves some children and their parents incredibly vulnerable?

Wake up Australia. The polarising survey is a foil, set up to manipulate us into thinking that there’s a fight to be had, and that if I don’t fight for one or the other position, then something awful will happen to either me, my loved ones, or my society. The matter is not simply about the right to marry. It's about the legislated rights marriage then affords people.

Something awful is already happening. Heterosexual people are harping loudly in cafes about their steadfast opinions and their ‘right’ to chose yes or no. And when people in either camp overhear the other, the fight is on! And those who are at risk of being significantly affected by these choices (lovers, partners, parents, children), who overhear these conversations experience their identities and lives objectified, vilified, generalised, sanctified… othered, silenced.

I really like the idea of an Australian society that includes and equally respects us all as fellow human travellers, a society within which our basic needs and rights are safeguarded regardless of our difference. Can’t we just get on with what we purport to be our core Australian values, which we craftily promote to the rest of the world, but don't hold true…egalitarianism and diversity.

This Life Takes Passengers

2014-02-15T21:55:00.000-08:00

Crow, dead in the gutter.

No more roof or rafter,

before or after.

Death tailgates breath.

It’s a wide open road.

A blister erupts on the soul.

Heaven awaits rapture.

People, be on alert -

While there’s hope in darktown

The half cup empties the well.

Growling gut loosed dog craving

Godforsucculent decay.

Lips thicken and slack.

Tongue warms, grows fat.

Sighing groin slips cold.

Behaviour of old, husbandry and hunting.

The breeze of change has two poles,

both erect and dangerous.

Life and love terms estranged.

There’s always another way.

Alone and unable to bare the light.

Eyes are blunt and throat is weak.

The pulse defies despite.

Where life dreams of rain

Compost stews seeds inside.

Channels and weave and tolls

Can’t be discrete. This life,

A collision is bound to happen.

Let’s hope it’s a harbinger

Of places impossibly imagined.

This life takes passengers.

Desire expects to arrive.

The lonely bus whose driver

Is tired, cuts a curb.

A traveller on wing expires.

Dear John, A Man of Letters

2014-01-27T23:03:00.001-08:00

You know why a man

Might seduce a girl your daughter’s age.

You’ve told her to wear dresses,

Close her legs when she sits like that.

Help her mother.

Where’s the line?

You thought you were the line.

He took her to the dairy when she was 15.

A kiss is something a girl knows,

But why did he run pressing his long pants so?

She is learning her role.

To be hurt, wait and never show.

He took her to the beach

Perfect Love, their own Blue Lagoon.

He touched and taught her –

And she will always feel

The shape of what remains.

Teacher at a Catholic school,

He ran the gauntlet, slipped the noose, but kept the habit.

From OS he sent ‘love you’, ‘love you not’ letters,

He plucked her petals –

And returned to a stem.

Once back his hand goes

To her closest place and she clamps closed.

The shield is shame and hate.

I would rather burn, says she.

I’m too brittle and you’re too late.

So much writing! She has kept evidence

- of words, feelings, touch.

And depression, scaffolding for all that.

It’s kept the girl alive, in a way.

In dreams she cuts herself.

And Man where are you now?

Free coward, trader of daughters.

Why are you sleeping so sound?

Dream prose, Greece.

2014-01-07T14:38:00.000-08:00

I stole a thing from the bow of an old man's boat near the Tropic of Cancer - a souvenir of his priceless cataract view, a kaleidoscope twist on the never-ending story of yoyo yearning, advertorial malleable malaise, bottle stopper love charades, youth lost on pageants of unfixable unbuyable beauty, seas cruised in aid of nothing, irretractable phallic lust machines, the endless dreamless night.

I wanted an old man's shuttered eyelid drawbridge view of my soon spoiled birth and soiled palette of over baked golden skin hues.

I saw his untended nets. I saw his life as one long last day that began virgin tight and unsinkable. I saw the dead muse.

I stole from an old man a carapace as disgraced as a volcano, as telling as an unearned coin and as putrid as forever; but it was just a silent cold thing.

haiku2

2012-08-25T00:57:00.003-07:00

Dear love lullaby
thoughts of you rock me to sleep
cloud hugs moon touch us

Haiku

2012-08-14T15:41:00.002-07:00

The big bang made man
In seven days man made god
God then made poems

Life and Lives Circa 1885/1985

2012-07-05T23:22:00.000-07:00

In a past life I was a witch. In the recent past I worked in Little Bourke Street as a Rotation Decoy for an Introduction Agency. And today, I recline in a banana lounge reflecting on my newfound serenity and the journey that brought me here.

There I am doing the daily city circuit. On the record, I’m running chores for the office, posting mail and buying supplies – A4 envelopes, a copy of the Truth newspaper, and a bottle of single malt whisky to whet the boss’s whistle. On the B-side, I give the eye to likely looking blokes and slip them a brochure. After a year in this job I’ve really got the hang of it. I catch his eye, pass it, then withdraw into the crowd while glancing over my shoulder. Yeah, I’m a pied piper for men with dormant willies.

The job was advertised as “An opportunity of a lifetime – no experience, no auditions necessary”. The Job Description was less discrete: “Reception duties, office errands, roll playing as generic single women, and general administrative tasks”. I’m curious by nature and enjoy an adventure. How hard could it be playing a seduction game that pays the bills?

I sit in the mall and watch South Yarra Blonde Mums, kids in childcare and voracious for a Myers special; a flock of awkwardly smoking truants with uniforms poking out of school bags; the greasy haired down and outers that I track and trap. The chaos and vulnerability of human flotsam disturbs and bemuses me.

It’s Friday afternoon and I’ve one more hour of client contact back in the office. Malcolm, the boss, gives me the usual “you’re late!” look, with arched eyebrow. I return it with the “do I care?” look, chirp the same old excuse and turn to the adjacent change-room where I slip into ‘the girl next door’ costume; a knee length skirt, V-Neck tee with a glimpse of cleavage, a sandy-blond pony-tail and ‘natural’ make up.

He’s a rugby league player. Josh O’Donnell’s file note reports that he’s “Not smart enough for the girls in his social circles”. His mug shot boasts oversized head, nose, ears and belly. Muttering “No problem too big or too small,” I stride towards the Interview room.

We wenches lived in the forest, farming herbs, fruit-trees and rodents. We chanted to the full moon in our nightslips. When our skills were required we crept through tradesman’s entrances to pull out stuck babies. As a Wiccan I had learned as much about life and death as a homeless person out of sight in a city lane. A nomadic craftsperson from a clan of misfits, I fled persecution aboard a fine tall ship from the Cornwall coast in 1885, as is the colonial way.

Josh is doing the scary on me. He has wet goggle eyes that tell me he is in love with something. It’s not me. It’s his idea that Kylie and Cyndi Lauper are within reach. My skin can’t keep him out, though he’s never going to touch me. I play it cool; head tilted the side, and no eye contact. He asks all the typical questions and my reply is short and sharp. It’s my job to keep him out of reach and wanting.

“Do you like football?” He asks.

“No,” I reply, “I don’t like crowds.”

“I like quiet nights in front of the TV, what about you?” he asks.

“I have an eye disease,” I say.

“What do you like to do?” he asks.

“I make armless cardigans for land-mine victims and I go to a feminist reading group on weekends,” I say.

“I’m really sorry,” he says almost in tears, “You seem like a really nice girl.” I shrug my shoulders and slam the door behind me. I know I’ll see him again. Next time I’ll have short dark hair, glasses and the personality of a shushing library monitor. Again, we’ll have nothing in common. His $200 has bought him 3 introductions, so he can look forward to meeting another classy woman, and next time it might be a perfect match.

It’s six minutes past five and time to bolt. I slam Josh’s file into its pocket in the filing cabinet, turn the lock and start whistling Dixie. I put my dirty coffee cup into the top desk drawer and stand to leave. Malcolm appears from his office. He clears his throat and approaches me, earnest and tipsy. Freeze-frame. What is it this time? What could it be at 5:07 on a Friday? I stop. I turn. I smile.

“Mary-Ann. You’ve done a fab’ job this week. You’ve given meaning and hope to our more desperate customers. You’ve done me proud.” He clears his throat. “I haven’t done this before, but you’ve been here a year and the time has come.” He hands me a lousy fifty.

“Wow,” I say, staring at the cash and wondering what he wants me to do.

“It’s a bonus for a job well done. Have a great weekend.” He shakes my hand and retreats like a man who’s given enough away.

“Wow, fifty bucks,” I say again. Fifty dollars for being a cold bitch, whose only talent is delaying men’s inevitable disappointment. Oh the things I could spend it on – the shoes on lay-by, or a mediocre night out?

Life holds certain things in store for us – it’s written in tealeaves and on the palm of your hand. As I’m walking towards my tram stop the matrix opens. On the footpath, a banana peel, mangled and brown entraps me. My left foot finds it, slurping forward in slow motion. Right foot is out of step and slow to the rescue. Naturally my hand splays out in readiness for a broken arm.

In moments of panic time loses pace. In this instance on Elizabeth Street it halts completely. My shoulders tighten, pull together and lift me up. (There’s always stuff underneath; it bubbles up like sulfur in a mud bath. What’s under must come up). I levitate high enough for my feet to reconvene their partnership. Then I float back to the ground, and recall a dream.

I’m a witch riding a broomstick at 150 metres. I’m giggling like a kid in a three-legged race, butting shoulders with a friend who simulates burnouts and bucking motions on her hotted up model. We’re travelling in tandem to a party-plan for spells.

When I get home I notice signs that my aunt has barricaded herself in the music room again. Charcoal is smoking in the toaster. A bucket of water and a bottle of window cleaner sit by the vacuum cleaner. The curtains are gone, presumably soaking in bleach. Bottles of grout cleaner, Gumption and disinfectant are littered about. The sink is brimming with used rubber gloves.

I sit outside the music room. She’s talking to herself.

“It’s alright, I’m safe in here. Nothing can get in.” It is absolutely true. Nothing can ever get into the music room. I haven’t yet figured out how she and fresh air get in. It’s a bubble-wrapped chamber. Six years ago she employed an expert to hermetically seal it, to prevent all life forms from entering, and most importantly the most discrete of microbes.

The room has been bare since my grandparents died thirty years or so ago. In photos of its heyday there are chandeliers, red brocade curtains, French chaise-lounges, and my grandfather smugly ensconced at the grand piano, conjuring a tune for a rigid audience.

“Are you comfortable in there, Auntie Carrie? Would you like to come out and have a cup of tea?” I sit there for an hour saying things like that, though I know she’ll be there as for as long as it takes.

I stand, thinking about witches, twitching for release. I grill a chop and go to bed.

Before sunrise I go to the market and hand the fifty bucks over to a psychic. She’s had a big Friday night – her eyes are puffy and the crystal ball is cloudy. “Mary-Ann”, she says rolling the r. “Mary-Ann, I can see some turbulence. It’s unfinished business and its rupturing the firmament between your lives.”

Something strange is happening. My fingernails feel dry and itchy and my eyeballs prickle and flicker.

My ex-boyfriend, Tony, phones me. “No Tony, I am not up for the occasional root!”

My boss asks if I’m still single and if I’d like to go to his swingers’ club.

I’m 28 with no prospects. I drive my aunt to mass on Sundays, and I’m not in the touching game.

Josh comes in for his third introduction. After this one my boss will suggest he try something different, “Josh, my friend,” he’ll say, “I don’t think we’ve got the match for you this time around. We’ve introduced every woman who shares your interests, and I’m surprised that none of them suit you. You can try us again in six months, but the fee will be higher.”

For the final meeting I’m a prim schoolteacher. Midway through his first question Josh looks confused, hesitates and then continues. For an instant, he doesn’t look so stupid. Has he recognised me? What can see?

Sitting on the tram, after work, I realise that I’m lonely and agitated. I let the shuffling and bumping of the tram carry me into a meditation. I’m wrapped in a bubble of white light, weightless and air-borne, floating above the city. A flock of penguins fly pass in formation. It’s damp and cool up here. I have an urge to look down but a guiding voice says, “No, Mary-ann, look within”. I see nothing but white, moist fluffiness. I snap out of it, knowing that the tram is nearing my stop.

I awake in sweat, with no memory of the dream. I hear the North Melbourne town hall clock chime mid-night, and I instinctively rise and dress. I cloak myself, lace my doc martens, and slip quietly out the front door.

I wander as if sleepwalking along Pin Oak Crescent, and soon find myself at the foot of a housing estate tower on Racecourse Road. I see a cluster of people huddled in the children’s playground. I walk towards them. Now, I can hear them chanting. They’re gathered cross-legged between slides and swings. I take my place in the centre – my bum-cheeks comfortably nestled in the sand. They pass a terracotta mug from hand to hand, sniff its contents and continue to chant. I can’t see faces or body shapes but I know that there are women, children and men in this group. They’re all cloaked, as I am.

The chanting reverberates through my skull and I bow my head. My body churns. A scream forms in my throat, and I hear a voice pierce the night like a spear.

All is quiet.

I’m handed the clay vessel and cup it in both hands. I alternate sipping and inhaling the slippery fluid, savouring its potency. This life giving elixir, this antidote to my malaise – distilled banana – is as familiar to me as my own skin. The group closes in and releases my cloak and suddenly all hands are touching me. They whisper, “Relax Mary-Ann, let yourself go, open yourself up to the every present spirit.” They rub oil into my skin and I know I’m unpeeling, engorging, erupting.

I bow and give thanks to the gathering and according to custom I leave with haste and discretion.

Auntie Carrie has been gushing like a tapped spring ever since the resurgence of my gift, and today she’s skipping about the house sealing the last of the boxes and sweeping up the detritus of our former life. The removal van arrives. We climb into the EH Station-wagon and wind down the windows, saluting the ‘for sale’ sign that’s overshadowed by the old family home. I’m humming like a bee.

While driving, I mentally formulate the recipe for our first batch of Life Tincture – purified banana oil infused with honey essence. Like rap artists and their nursery rhymes I rehearse a spell and cackle with wry jubilation.

A bubble of excitement rises in my chest when the Big Banana comes into view. I prod Auntie Carrie on the shoulder, noticing the outline of evaporated dribble on the upholstery, and she awakes. “We’re here,” we say in unison. There’s the old building, the relics of a perfume distillery, soon to become Humming Bee Apothecary, our potion factory, (Aunt Carrie has insisted on cleaning products as a side business). Neighbours and passers-by – rainbow-patterned, north-coast hippies and nature lovers – have gathered to greet us.

We climb from the car and I throw open the bulging boot. We have a lot of unpacking to do and work to begin before the sun sets and the fun starts. Aunt Carrie proudly hands me her latest prototype for the cleaning ‘accessory’ range – a svelte spotted-gum handle with mungo bush broom, discretely fitted solar panels and a silent motor. I’m no longer a lost and lonely Girl Friday. I’m no longer the pied piper without a flute.

“Lives,” I say to Auntie Carrie, “are a many splendid and varied thing.”

If a tree stands in the forest

2012-07-05T16:21:00.003-07:00

Otway ash

Erect mountain pole

Topped and cosied by

a crocheted limey hat.

A seemingly screaming rip from high

An eeling strip of bark headlong tail trailing

falls ….. silence waits

It snags, now drapes

Otway tree is off the shoulder trimmed by a peasant shawl

Otway ash

Majestic mountain pole

Aquaduct rooted

is to all seasons enthralled.

A puddled path twists past.

Fluoro scare-signs

alert humans to CATASTROPHE!

Snakes leap, stick figures trip off cliffs

and falling rocks smash heads

Otway pole

Tea cosied

Shawl wrapped

is home to Powerful Owls.

Archaic nature has made scenery

Shy mushrooms suckle

a lichen padded branch

Sneaky crevices surrender to a shifty shard of light.

These shoes leak

A fern frond shivers, drips

expires a mouldy sigh

Erect ash pole

is inured to time and reason

in a place where

person presence is pointlessly prosaic

The forest is still, unadorned

and no sounds exist but for ears.

Sililoquy

2012-04-05T22:08:00.004-07:00

Poems seek a home

for reason.

When the bent mind has nowhere to go,

it begs a soliloquy.

Words, peripheral cacophany, hatched voices,

flaccid sentiments

I’ve never seen such beautiful eyes, he says.

You’ve never seen someone this sad, says she.

There's no inspiration formulae

The moon is paper boating at sea.

A silent annoyance.

Life forges a fist, servant to seasons.

These Climes, This Shore

2012-02-22T18:03:00.002-08:00

Stuffed full

Of white privilege;

Brained by the Big Easy

And gorged on an ocean view

The great Aussie lifestyle

Humidifies, rotisseries ‘til your

Dermis is pork-crackling

Innards, a secret stew.

Pumped up

With insulation

To buffer the heat and spill

Of a bigger world.

Buoyant, you

Jog that petite arse off

On a freeway of

Earplugged mime artists.

This is everyday.

Your feet on the path

Where you left them,

Your mind set loose on a wave.

But the same remains;

The same abyss-mal fact always

Remains.

Off a flat earth country

Of wide insouciant days

You will fall.

By choice and fate

You were shored up

And will be

Dumped by the sure.

Life Long Malaise or a Passing Phase?

2012-02-18T18:35:00.000-08:00

Hello and welcome. Come in and take a seat. No one's sitting on that island sized pudding shaped, pillow topped lounge. Throw yourself down. It's set to an almost imperceptible vibration, exuding an obscure aromatherapeutic sea scent subtly suffused with sandalwood. It won't bite. Nor will I.
What's brought you here tonight? Bad TV? Family tension? An addiction to trolling, a compulsion about an allure of the thing that will ignite you.
I have nothing like it to offer, besides a simply waxed lyric about my ordinary life.
Yesterday I had lunch with a human who is wise and whose brain I like to pick over like a bower bird. Let's call her Barbara. We discussed others who've lead exciting lives, have degrees of fame and stories worthy of at least three kilos of limes under a decent spot light, unlike we lady luncheonettes, at least as yet.
This segue, having no other purpose but transition, leads to this blog's central theme, story telling.
What is a story's life well led? What comes first the person or the situation?
Dear blog reader, you are reading something that isn't a story at all. You might have desisted after the first paragraphs and yet I still address you. This reflecting the import and nature of stories. Am I toying with you or myself?
What constitutes a story worth reading? Certainly not a chain of exciting, adventurous events, if there is no moral or heroic attainment. Surely a message explicitly rendered or inwardly launched by the reader. Maybe a toyed with desire activated by the protagonist desperate but constantly thwarted, terribly beguiling efforts, promised, lost, reignited, foiled and finally redeemed. But what about stories infused with erroneous social discourses that draw us up and away, like an alien abduction that we'd rather resist if it wasn't happening in our dreams, but yet it did.
Today I attended a 'telling your story' forum for people who have an experience of mental illness. Dunno if you've noticed, but most stories about people with this type of illness are characters who are necessarily equipped with axes, have substituted words for screaming, laughter, gibberish, who smell like urine and are drenched by their own drool. My daughter noticed once, when we were travelling to Sydney that I had dribbled on the pillow propped against the window. I guess that explains everything.
I have a diagnosis of Major Depression and Anxiety. I couldn't be violent to stand up for myself. Some of my work colleagues have diagnoses for illnesses that sometimes cause psychosis, and they wouldn't know an axe handle from a broom stick.
Today's workshop was about telling stories, our stories, so that people hear a new perspective. Here's one:
"After two months of treatment in an acute psychiatric ward, I was a last well enough to have my small children visit. I'd missed them terribly and was very excited. The nurse thoughtfully organised a comfortable and neatly furnished room. She asked if I would like soft toys, paper and crayons so that my kids would feel welcome. It was a wonderful visit; the kids were obviously relieved to know that I was getting better. I was so buoyed up and hopeful that I'd be going home soon. After this I kept getting better, and my kids visited often. .............NOW. I will tell you what really happened. ........ After two months of treatment for bipolar disorder in an acute psychiatric ward, I was at last well enough to have my small children visit. I had missed them so terribly much, and was very excited. The psyche nurse came to see me, an hour before their visit and told me that my mood was 'heightened'. Of course it is, I said, I'm in a great mood because I'm seeing my kids today. The nurse insisted that my heightened mood was dangerous and that I should take a sedative. I knew that sedation would render me incapable of being present with my kids and that this odd state would be confusing and upsetting for them. I said no. I refused to take the sedative. My refusal was seen as non-compliance. The visit was called off. I was put in isolation and forcibly given a sedative. I was kept there for seven days and during this time my mood plummeted into a dreadful life obscuring depression. The progress I'd made in recent weeks was undone. I spent another awful month in the psychiatric ward, worrying about my children whether life could ever improve."

Here's another one. "Once upon a time, there was a girl who suffered for twenty-five years with the most awful bouts of depression and social anxiety. Those who noticed ignored her, assuming she that was annoyingly aloof. When she asked doctors for help, they told her she should try harder, even though she was striving every day just to stay alive. They were happy to prescribe antibiotics for her brother, an asthma treatment for her sister, and a plaster cast for her friend's broken arm. And yet nobody responded to obvious signs as she hung on through critically unwell, life threatening periods. Until one day, by fluke, a clever doctor showed an interest in the girl's humanity and simply inquired about what she was experiencing. This doctor bestowed a diagnosis and a tablet. That little tablet provided a perfect synthetic substitute for the chemical her brain neglected to produce. At long last, the girl could express herself socially, pursue a career and discover that life was worth living. She is living mostly happily ever after.
THE END

Homelands

2011-12-07T01:10:00.000-08:00

Guilt rightly stirs under the surface, in tension with the spiritual connection I have to the land I grew from. It never was mine, nor my ancestors' land. People lurking in my past stole it, and the fate of its owners has been tragically obscured by a whitewashed history. But part of me is firmly rooted in Muckatah and the region where, after famine and centuries of dispossession in Ireland my family set their sights on hope for a future. It's dug deep inside me.
In dreams I try to climb Murray River Pines, I pick around in the dead animal pit, searching for real 'jacks' that I'll paint and show off at school, I scoop out a handful of frogspawn from a lichen topped swamp. Mostly in my dreams I'm visiting Grandma in her little house, and climbing onto her bench so I can reach the biscuit tin.
Last weekend I was invited to what I imaged was a hokey, daggy literary awards' presentation in Shepparton, a small city where as kids, Mum would twice yearly take us to buy our seasonal garments (from Target and Venture). I was shortlisted for the short story category and Rob encouraged me to attend - so I split my indifference by suggesting that we make a weekend of it, visiting my parents in Cobram, only 40 minutes north of Shepp'.
My yearning for the homelands resounded in doppler as we drove past our old farm, Pinedale, on the road to Cobram. In 2000 - after the farm being handed from father to son for 125 years - Mum and Dad sold up and retired to town. I've never been back.

On Saturday it just so happened that my dear deceased Grandma's brother, Great Uncle Peter Lawless, was celebrating his 90th birthday. So Rob and I went along with Mum and Dad. The party was held at the farm first settled by my grandmother's mother's parents - Kennedys - whose many decedents still dwell close by. The Lawless farm is only 20 kilometres from Pinedale but I'd never been there. Dad said he hadn't been there since he was five years old.
The landscaped changed as we drove. The lush irrigated pastures vanished, and enormous tracts of wheat crops extended out to the horizon. Tumble weeds and old abandoned buildings set the scene of a bygone era, and then an enormous bank of silos appeared, and behind them football sized sheds full of cropping machinery and vehicles came into view.
Crossing verdant buffalo grass lawns and a lavish rose-garden we followed the chimera of voices, finding the afternoon party in a converted garage, next to a cheaply built modern house.
We sipped bubbles and beer and chatted with blue-eyed obviously Lawless cousins, proffering anachronistic updates. Uncle Peter, like his sister, shared snared me with his perverse sense of humour. Unlike her, being a non-smoker, and still alive, he's fit enough to play three rounds of golf every week.
In the loo out the back, a Murphy's Law poster hung in pride of place. I thought about the odd twists and turns of fortune and circumstance; and the wee refrain my own luck and misadventures was drowned out by a cacophony of history swelling up from the very soil.
I imagined my grandma, frolicking through the crops with pigtails flying, on the first weekend of summer.

On Sunday morning we headed south again, to Shepparton. This time Mum and Dad tagged along, with expectant pride. My Shepp' based aunt and uncle also joined us for literary feastings. Low and behold, I was bestowed with First Prize for my story 'To The Light', (my first win since Grade 2 at the Cobram show). Surprise and an awkward speech betrayed my subplot of confused guilt.
The annual award has been funded for almost 20 years by the good old Furphy family foundry, another family with a history and passion for farming, engineering and writing, bringing resolve to a wonky but near perfect weekend narrative highlighting the constancy and curiosity of Irish settlers in country Victoria. Such is life.

Karma poos

2011-12-06T00:33:00.000-08:00

Summoned mythical figures conspire

auspiciously offered can pay the cat's vet bill

At home proud

Lovingly patting feeding and coquetting

the cat my foot finds

poo

vomit

on my best rug

Numbers so divinely

are absurdly

Information Age Driftwood

2011-12-01T02:41:00.000-08:00

The world wide web has me snared, funnelled, sucked me in
And all I can do is skim, ride this bodyboard,
And rise on the nano moment.
For I have shelved my brain next to Britannica. Britannia.
Another grounded ship, sails folded
Wings bent but fairy dust is in this twilight.

I can't remember, need not recall,
It's all on my hard drive,
That time when
That place so soft
I had a sensation of a pen in hand and a
Notebook that carved hieroglyph in me.

Old school beta-vid,Sunday non-committal church.
I'm a relic of the paper age.

In sleep I float on algae calm waters
On a pod without an I
Land on a shore without a fire,
See a hill that halts my view and I am longing
For that memory stick of morning dew, a sunset pew,
A concept of latte freshly brewed.

And I am bereft, where I left it all before,
On that shelf without a shore
My memory of you.
(Britannica. Britannia.)

There's no laptop on this desolate isle.
The corner store is a cave full of orangutans
And I am alone, alone and in shock.
Aching and burning for that simple
Sense of self,the whole me
Plumped with next door Brady Bunch comfort.

It's too late,
I'm adrift on a wireless tide
Remote and flailing footloose webbing.
And it's a fact that
When a vessel circles upon itself
There is no wake to ride.

To The Light

2011-11-19T00:04:00.000-08:00

At the foot of a lighthouse, one finds darkness – Spanish Proverb

Having exchanged the life of an inner city skateboarding punk for a man and a fetus she finds herself astride a Malibu surfboard, paddling across a channel of water where sharks have been sighted. She’s wondering about the choice she’s made. Some might call it a sea change, while others think that she’s lost her mind.
This is a long way from the terrace house in Melbourne – from op- shopping expeditions and sessions at the pub. Her belly is four and a half months swollen; the hardness against fibreglass reminds her of what’s there. She hasn’t thought about it much.
The man behind her paddles furiously. He carries a backpack with two weeks’ supply of groceries wrapped in plastic bags. Waves rock the board and sideswipe them, and sea spray prickles her skin.
She’s excited, anxious, wavering somewhere between faith and apprehension as her guy restates his knowledge about the ocean and its ways. What would she know, having grown up on an inland farm? Her only experience of the sea being a childhood holiday at Rosebud, where tentative tongue waves lapped the shore and seaweed octopuses threatened to snare. Here the currents are tea-cozy warm and the expansive ocean beckons like a siren.
The sand on the island’s back beach is fine and squeaky under foot. He drops the backpack and they lug the surfboard to the far corner of the beach, setting it among native grasses. Once it’s wrapped in an old tarp they turn to the next leg of the journey: the sand-hill. He carries the pack and she navigates herself – a tired baby carriage. They traipse along the rough bush path towards the lighthouse cottage.

He’s inside, strumming his guitar. He’ll remain the same for hours until she initiates a conversation or stirs an argument. Sitting on the sandstone veranda she has no choice but to hold strong, and at least there’s an outlook.
Thirty metres or so off the Point a bombora stirs from beneath, receiving the crash of white water with nonchalance, as it has cargo ships and simple sailing boats. She’s been told that dozens of vessels have gone down on this rock in the past hundred and fifty years. This makes her shudder. Even recently boats have run aground here, regardless of the light.
Alertness to all she can see casts a shadow of oblivion. She walks the length of the veranda to find another angle. Daily, she sights spouts, followed by full-bodied eruptions as humpback whales migrate south. She’s constantly searching and straining her vision for the passing traffic. Last week, during the ritual of the heated outdoor bath they saw one heave itself from the water, only fifty metres away, and in falling slap the water like a kid’s belly-wacker.
“Ouch,” they said in unison; “that would have hurt”.
Today there are only coal ships passing, on their way to Singapore or Valparaiso.
She’s nineteen years old and the horizon is infinite. A crisp, perfect afternoon is imprinted on her mind forever.

Imprisoned by her otherness in the company of a boy-man who’s no more than a stranger, she as vacant as a seashell. Is she running from something or towards something? Her heart hurts when she thinks of her sisters, brothers, and parents worrying. They join her in futile dreams. Australia Post is reliable even at this distance, carrying regular missives from both ends. But nothing is said. She does her best to fight the undertow. I am an off-cast, an outcast. I am cast away.
She wants to express this feeling somehow, by skywriting or shrieking, psychic resonance or tragic journalling, but her feelings can’t form words. Seeing beauty is not conducive of happiness – she’s reminded of Coleridge’s lament and makes a cup of tea, wondering what to do with herself. There’s a constant clawing din in her head. I do nothing, I am nothing. I don’t belong. What is my nature?
The sandstone cools her body from toes to earlobes. Even on a mild day she’s on the boil. An incubator, she’s in charge of its growth. She asks of inner space, what is your nature? Who will you be? Her belly quivers; the little fish is swimming laps. They commune in tones resonating with heartbeats, organ- gurgle and breath, and she is nurtured.
Resting on the lumpy old mattress she yields but cannot sleep. Though the floor is made of stone, sounds of padding feet and vibrations rising up through the bedframe hold her attention. A storm out at sea gathers force and lightening snaps her into full awareness. Rampant rain pelts the baubled convex window, inventing mesmerising kaleidoscopic swirls as wind batters the building. Throughout the years wind and rain have infused the porous wall fashioning an ugly mosaic of bee-hives and pockmarks. How does this place endure? She coils into herself, wishing that the sun would set on this very long day.

Before they moved to the lighthouse, his father told her the history of the place. In 1824 convicts blasted, dug and cut the enormous bricks from perfect sandstone hills surrounding the Hawkesbury River valley. With the aid of bullocks, and the enigma of human endurance, the stone was loaded onto ships as ballast, and transported more than 150 miles to this island. The ships were reloaded with cedar from the Myall Lakes district and returned south. The newly landed Sydney gentry required the premium timber to build their stately homes, and the ships bearing the precious cargo could not be risked. By way of inverse logic the lighthouse and its cottage were built with stone ballast, and the fancy Sydney homes were built by forces against nature.
The local landowners, a clan of the Worimi nation, live along the coastline and further inland on the lakes. The island had been in their care for thousands of years. They brought their dead here. It was a sacred place for souls to journey undisturbed.
The Governor’s men negotiated the island’s purchase, proffering tea and flour and instructing the ‘natives’ how to make damper. When they realised that the owners would never abandon their vigil, the colonials offered flour laced with arsenic.
The cottage was built as a symbolic ship. Three families lived in adjoining quarters. The seven-room section was inhabited by the Commander or ‘Head Keeper’, the middle four rooms were allocated to the Engineer, and the last two rooms were reserved for servants.

The lighthouse was automated in the 1970s. Humans were no longer required for operations, so the Department of Transport ordered that the disused cottages be shovelled into the sea. His father, being a local businessman with some sway, intervened and signed a ‘peppercorn lease’ for the cottage, and took responsibility for its care.
In the Head Keeper’s bedroom she senses ghosts circling close then uncoiling away. She stirs herself and goes to her designated post to prepare their evening meal.
The next day he rouses her with his ambition to clear the island’s orchard. In the middle of the island and off this century’s well-beaten path, they cut their way through overgrown weeds. Among the entangled catastrophe of introduced species they glimpse the sparse limbs of old fruit and nut trees reaching outward. The orchard has been strangled by lantana, a South American import that in the subtropical environment has become a rampant triffid. She remembers it from the farm in Victoria – contained by pots and tamed by a different climate it was admired for its petite flowering clusters. With ancient, blunt secateurs she hacks into the tough vines and is rewarded by the foul stench of its sap. The plant bites back with barbed tendrils. Within days these tiny nicks bruise, swell and erupt into pustulant tropical boils.
He’s been digging with an old mattock, making rows and planting native shrubs that he sprouted from seed. He trips on his tool, injuring his foot; and they limp arm in arm, back to the cottage.

Most nights she wakes to the weak refrain of a woman crying.

The surfboard mysterious disappears, so his father finds them a tin rowboat. They catch the usual bus to the Port, and this time they purchase a month’s supply of groceries. He forks out money for a taxi back to the boat.
On the girth of the bay, feeling the pull of a heavy load he tries a different tack. If they paddle to the north of the island, to Shark Bay, they’ll have an easier walk to the lighthouse. She knows it. It’s near the orchard, and a bit north of the beach where they found a speared dolphin and gave it a grave. With no counter-argument she acquiesces. He’s four years older, has travelled, studied at university, and been so much more in the world than she.
On the way, she demands her turn at rowing the boat. As they both expect, she can’t get past popping an oar from its rollick, churning the boat in circles and showering them both with brine.
She calms herself after a giggle fit, relaxes under the sun, and enjoys the visage of him leveraging the boat across the swell.
Shark Island comes into view. He explains the geology and topography of this side of the island – something about rock formations, pre-historic earthquakes and the prevailing wind. She tunes into the word shark...Shark Island, Shark Bay... Her eyes sweep the waters, scouring from left to right, right to left for a fin. She imagines a pod of them circling, charging the boat and capsizing it. In a soup of shiraz infused froth, severed limbs rise to the surface.
He cries out, “Holy shit!”
Her heart leaps in its cage. There’s a narrow tract of water between the two shark places, through which they intend to pass. Waves are lunging through and breaking from the island through to the bay point. He looks at her and for a moment she sees a small boy lost in a shopping mall.

“Do something!” She shrieks and clutches her belly. “Turn the boat around!”
“I can’t,” he replies, “the tide’s against us. It’ll throw us back onto the rocks.” He points to a spot where waves are breaking less often, and says that if he times it right, they’ll get through. If they’re unlucky a wave will spill into the boat and capsize them.
“Right. So where’s my life jacket?” she spits.
“Too late for that now,” he yells, pragmatic in the absence of options.
He manipulates the oars to hold the boat steady, watches and times the wave-sets to gauge the ocean’s intent. She curls her fingers around the gunwale, leans back and rolls her eyes to the gods.
Fairy floss clouds scud past, the sort that charade as earthly objects then morph into other shapes. She catches the cloud slipstream and soars up. Seizing a view outside of herself, she feels futures leap in her womb. Time trickles and the ocean refracts light like a mirror ball. She recognises two people in a toy boat near the edge of a continent, and feels with certainty that there’s so much more of life to come.
He sees his opportunity and takes aim, paddling like billy-oh towards the foe. The wave will peak and spill but it must first give them a chance. They mount the brewing rise as foam forms underneath; the wave preparing to follow its pact with the moon. She holds her breath.
They ride through, the wave breaking a split second later, and together they squeal with relief. He turns the boat towards the bay, so suddenly swarthy and confident. She, recalling the adage; never turn your back on the ocean, turns and takes a look. A bold, briny wave slaps her in the face, engorges the boat, and drags them under.

Flotsam at the shore-dump’s mercy, grazed and disoriented they haul themselves onto a pebbled beach and slump, weak as rag dolls. Her hair is seaweed salad, his smirk an unsavoury assault on her good nature. She throws a handful of stones at his head.
Under the dark sky their squabble is snatched aloft by a squall. The ghosts chuckle, then plan their next move.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Point_Stephens_Light

Write Something, Right Something

2011-11-10T02:21:00.001-08:00

Invent a new word and scrawl it on the footpath

Create a peace banner and hang it on your chest

write 'left' on one foot and 'go' on the other

- get a job and wait patiently for the aftermath

Spend your only life as an artisan scratching

scrimshaw into bones of frames for scaffolds,

for masterpieces. Pray for patent protection, or an afterlife,

and wait for the plan's inevitable hatching

Sledge stone, incise, align. With ten thousand other

slaves you join this chorus with the sky. Climb past breath

until with battle spit, collapse you are revolting

with the very stench of hope

Chipping away at the despised potato? Wondering why the chips fall the wrong way? Perhaps you’re just a chip off the old iceberg?

2011-11-08T02:42:00.000-08:00

I was loud for a while on the blogosphere. For around 4 days I waved my cocktail flag about as if it could claim some ground. Since, then, who knows why, but the flag has flailed. Had its breeze lost puff, or had it’s own stuff fallen flat?

This is me periodically. Feeling flat, having nothing to say, striving to know what’s good about myself. Onomatopoeia created the term: ‘meh’.

I cooked dinner for darling daughter, who had her first big exam today. She too was quite maudlin, yet again took to study. So I sat in the fading-light-yard and breathed in the freshly mown and humid air. I sipped another glass of wine and thought about nothing useful. I pondered thinking about nothing useful. I thought about not wanting to do anything more useful for the day, or for that matter anything that was a florid waste of time. I didn’t want to hear music. More deeply I dug at myself for not wanting to create.

Cranky at myself, tired from work, and knowing I was in the mood that wouldn’t let me sleep tonight, I took myself for a neighbourhood walk. A limping-ish one, thanks to my sandal breaking. To add salt and insult to my efforts to outsmart anxiety, and doubt to my desire for community connection, I noticed that people around here are more often putting their chins at right-angles to the passers-by-ers, casting their vision aside in preference to a view of nothing. Shucked off, my nod and smile falls into the newly made curb and guttering.

I’m sure this is just me in a low mood. If you’ve read this tiny thing, I hope you and I sleep well. Nigh night.

Salvage or Selvage?

2011-10-22T01:55:00.000-07:00

Ahoy, lofty, alighted and abridged sailors, be sure to stow away and sail away, for if we run or stand agrounded we'll be nothing but salvage for pirates, sharks or the king's garbage men. Thar'll be nothing left. Just scrunched up, ruined stuff flotsaming free upon the sea. Sadly true, pirates are not an olden day myth. Impoverished African nations are increasingly relying on stolen fortunes and the ruination of the lives of 'developed world' seafarers. A new breed of murderers and thieves steal a foothold on the bottom rung of the economic evolutionary ladder. Out of control anachronistic anarchists? When someone behaves like a Robin Hood character, can the line between social justice action and self-combusted soul destruction actually be held?

Jello Biafra provides worthy commentary about America's economic crisis; saying that it has nothing to do with the country losing its financial assets, it's entirely about the same people who have always had wealth, stealing even more of it from the poor. After bringing the behemoth to its knees, the 'have alls' don't look like giving anything back. Not a new story. The rich get richer and the poor get the picture, said some rock and roll muso, come politician who reckons he didn't inhale the meaning of his own words.

And so the salvage of humanity's material worth washes up on the same peoples' shore, in a different century.

More important is the edge that social fabric relies upon: the selvage that that holds and takes care of the common weave, the democratic equality principle. But we also know that the thin facia that guards us from the abyss is frail and fraying. Society's handmaidens and seamstresses are working hard to patch it up and hold it together, but vast chunks have worn, torn and fallen away. Yesterday Rob and I happened upon the Occupy Melbourne protest, as we were going to a 'date day' lunch. Young and bemused police officers on horses and others carrying riot shields swept through and pushed the everyday citizens out of public space. I briefly spoke to an Occupy Melbourne organiser who was disgusted. He told me that, during the week of occupancy, any protester who uttered fighting words was evicted. On the sidelines a few scouting types handed out cornchips and fruit pieces to onlookers while the chanting gained strength - 'this is what democracy looks like', and 'we're here to keep the peace'.

I also chatted with the fruit-stall man, who asked, 'what's it worth - we believe in democracy and a fair society, but nothing ever changes. What difference does a protest make?'

I think every action makes a difference. Occupy Melbourne is a small and passing moment in time, where a curious motley mix chose to be selvage, and held a line.

Noighty Noight

2011-10-18T03:22:00.000-07:00

I've had a chest lurgy for 3 weeks and needed to scarper off from work early today. Which means I have more time to make up tomorrow. So, it's well and truly beddy time. But before I go, here's a wee bedtime story......
Once upon a time, my sister Claire and I shared bedroom for 17 years, until she left home. Being of a large tribe, every night of those years, we were shooed off to bed at 'ridiculous o'clock', which, for farmers was 'perfect sense o'clock'. During daylight savings, Claire and I wiled away at least a couple of hours before we needed to sleep. There were games with sheets and pillows. There were charades and finger puppets. And there were listening, guessing games as the cicadas chirped and birds got tired of keeping us awake. Finally, we had a ritualistic sleep blessing that we bestowed on each other. Two tiny prattling girly voices said something like this, almost in unison.
"Good night sweet dreams god bless don't let the bedbugs bite hope you wake up fit and well in the morning don't forget to say your prayers be good tomorrow sweet dreams". And of course before we went to sleep, I piped up every ten seconds or so, just to annoy my big sister.
Sweet dreams dear loves. xxxxx

Emulating the Village People

2011-10-17T00:36:00.000-07:00

The Village People were a great advertisement for choosing a career to love. We know these days that we'll probably embark on six or seven various vocations throughout our working lives. Well, the Village People, as old-school 1970s mentors, were doing it all; wearing dress ups to work, being proud Naval officers, and getting everyday satisfaction from volunteering with the YMCA. A diverse representation of all walks of life, they spoke to the common man, and didn't mind going the extra yards to pump iron (probably at the YMCA) to keep themselves nice. I was one of those kids strutting my stuff in front of the black and white tv, in my halter-neck top and frayed jeans shorts, vying for position alongside my six siblings. I worked those moves, I knew those lyrics. I wanted so much to be an indian and a construction worker that I forgot I wasn't a man.

I've had quite a few careers, straying off well-worn paths to taste other fruity callings, searching for the Edenic work place, only to find myself brooding in the Garden of Gethsemane. But I believe I've been redeemed by virtue of hard-earned wisdom, and only today stumbled upon confirmation of this by wise words spoken, or course, by a man who is recently deceased.

Steve Jobs said about work: The only way to do great work is to love what you do...Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle.

Ahhhh, at last I can tell my parents I'm okay!!! Because Steve Jobs said so. He also said something about work being like a valued relationship. I've heard too many musician blokes saying that a band is like a marriage. I guess in some ways, a preferred work environment will, like a good friendship, have its misadventures; will rely on a degree of faith, fortitude and the willingness to negotiate for the bigger picture love-fest.

If you're familiar with the rumpus vagaries of narrative writing, you will have figured out that, yes, I'm about to talk about myself, as a happy worker.

A few months ago I went back (again) to work for an organisation that has for the last 6 years been the work affair of my life. We've had a few separations over the years, and through those I've wisened up.

Though its the best, sometimes it's a grind. Being in my forties, there's an arthritic twinge or two, a few workplace injuries (repetitively strained brain cells) the occasional need for a mid-afternoon nod off, etc... But on the whole I LOVE IT. Consider the metaphor of a lover bringing flowers. It's very rare, especially when its a long haul gig. Today I had a 'bunch of flowers' moment. My colleague Julie brought in a bunch of hats.

For the last few days, I've been excited about hats. Rob, my partner, asked me this morning before I left for work: 'what's with your stupid hat obsession?' And I said, it's not so much about the hats.

Last week I invited my team mates to join me on Melbourne Cup day at the Lomond Hotel in East Brunswick. Its a hokey neighbourhood pub, famed for folk and Irish music. For the last few years I've bowled up sometimes on my own, wearing a self-made ridiculous thing on my head. It's a tradition I've established for myself. The Lomond hosts a chicken, sausages and salad brunch, some old-timey musicians play some tunes, and the tensions rise prior to the race being run, the pub presents awards for hats, frocks etc. Now, its only fair that I boast and say that for the last three years running I have won the best hat award!

So my work colleagues will be joining me at the Lomond! I've got a vision for the Australian Cork Hat restyled as an Australian Horse Hat, and there will be Fascinators that Exasperate! This morning I awoke early, again, with ideas for a cornucopia of foolish headwear.

I wonder if the fiddle player knows any Village People tunes.

What does it take?

2011-10-13T02:33:00.000-07:00

Cooking dinner and listening to new music on Melbourne's rrr radio station, I thought about Miss Georgia Lucy. Not long ago, Ruby and I had a 'single mum and daughter bunk in' existence in a 1980s two bedroom unit, in Brunswick; errr, with a dog, a cat and a rabbit. It was cosy and close. We were lucky to live next door to Georgia and an innumerable, relentless roll of free-ranging artomusicocraftiovibeo folks - of the younger human demographic. They lived next door in a run-down squat style house attached to an old garage. It was marked for demolition so it didn't matter how they inhabited the space. There they established 'Medium', as an artist space and gallery, a veritable playground for frolicsome spirits.

Living in close quarters in Brunswick, outdoors became a necessary lure, inviting simple urban adventures. Sometimes Ruby would strap Marvin K Mooney into his tiny harness and with Motu the dog we endeavoured to train a rabbit how to walk around the block. We mostly resorted to giving Marvie a piggy back ride on Motu (who was old and decrepit and didn't seem to mind). On other occasions we strapped ourselves up with wheels and roller-skated, around the vast concrete factory 'rinks'. And I frightened pedestrians by falling over a lot. But I digress. It was a challenging time; post family breakdown, etc..... and we 'made our own fun'. But in retrospect, there was more to it.

The weekend after the hippies moved in, they held a 'garage sale', and sold, well, basically stuff that nobody would want. Feeling a neighbourly sense of responsibility, we lobbed up in our Saturday morning tracky-dacks, introduced ourselves and donated some fairly decent stuff that we thought people might buy.

Georgia was around 19 or 20, and had moved to Melbourne from Newcastle. By typical coincidence, Ruby had only the year before, attended Year 7 at Newcastle High School, with Georgia's brother. This young woman like to paint and draw and sing out of tune with her husky voice late at night. She soon began to wear some of the old scraps of opshop clothes that I'd donated. And she became very fond of Motu. During a nasty hail storm Motu disappeared. After several distressing laps around the neighbourhood we eventually found him, well ensconced next door, sitting on a pile of cushions and beanbags, while Georgia painted his portrait: a veritable botticelli mutt.
Georgia gave us the painting. We love it, especially because Motu passed away last year.

But I digress.

So here I was, cooking and thinking about Georgia and her artistic clan, listening to the radio and relishing every song it waved at me. Then I heard about a stage play that I would LOVE to see. Barry Dickens; journalist, critic, playwright, has at last launched a play he wrote many years ago, about Brett Whiteley's life. Brett Whiteley. The exemplary eccentric, drug addled genius. The story of his life is intense and intriguing. Hmmm, would it be too clever, too avant-garde for a garden variety thesbi-cretin such as me?

I was thinking about talent, and the diversity of forms it takes. To me, creativity is an essential part of life, but so hard to incorporate when one lives with a work-focussed mind-bent. I mean; to create, survive adversity, truly love people, and celebrate living a meaningful life, while living in the moment. Is this asking too much, biting off more than can be swallowed by the average soul?

I personally struggle to do this. I have spent most of my life trying to run ahead of a dog snapping at my heels. You know, the black dog. Actually that metaphor doesn't work for me: its more like a deep dark well. I'm the sort of person who gives myself a harder time than anyone else can. I expect a lot from life: I require it of myself, and if I fail at this ambition then I find it hard to forgive myself.

I work with people who live their lives managing serious mental illness. I do this because nobody could inspire me more. Over the years I've worked on the development of a 'Recovery' program, initially researching and writing it, and these days I'm in the field facilitating the program with groups, and supporting people who have a mental illness to run groups themselves. This seedling of a program is changing people's lives. It's giving them a lease on life, but not like a pharmaceutical or a yoga program. It simply reminds them of their potential, and supports them to re-imagine themselves, gives them hope that despite the blows of social judgement, misfortune, homelessness, joblessness and ill-health, they innately have a 'take' on life. And everyday relearned achievements give them a powerful sense of accomplishment. This too is living life creatively. Making something out of very very little.

Cooking, listening to music and thinking about my exposure to wonderful people. This cheers me up; I almost feel like I've painted something.

If a journal is penned in the forest?

2011-10-11T00:02:00.000-07:00

Before Facebook, smart phone games, instant messaging and the infinite lure of YouTube and Wikipedia, I was an occasional journal writer. I used my own hand to scrawl upon the page words, idioms and symbols that I alone gleaned meaning from. Back in those olden days second party recipients weren't necessary for the exercise to hold value. And I wasn't the only one! Chronicled self reflection was a fairly common enterprise, in many a quiet, darkened bedroom. Some preferred to doodle and scribble in the early morning, others at dusk and mostly in silence. Now it seems strange to recall that there was no need for newly downloaded music to assist the ruminative process. To journal was to conjure an inner world that happily sat at odds with the outer world, and moreover, stared down the barrel at busy opinionated content laden interference.
Is journalling a lost art? Is it now only possible to write for a perceived, even if not real, reader?
Once upon a time, many many moons ago, people privately took pen to paper, but alas nobody wrote about this phenomena and nobody took photos.

Fire up the Belly Pot

2011-10-10T00:46:00.001-07:00

I've tentatively tip toe launched this blog as a portico to my amusings, a lense to my worldview as I toddle through life. I'm a poet, author, mother who is inspired by those who confront adversity and challenge everyday assumptions. I believe in the constant process of 'becoming', and for me to do this I crave the poles of dissonance and essence. Give me cause to reflect and fire up my belly and pause for peaceful being and observance. Oh, did I mention humour? Give it to me in multiple ententres.