Poet Posing on Prose Platform

Changing view - Changing Mind

Isabel Storey on whatever takes her fancy this day.

OUCH!!! Recuperating.

According to Garmin Connect, I was in bed for nine hours last night, four hours deep sleep and four hours light sleep. The remaining hour was spent dealing with cramp in one and then the other leg. Too much cycling, too soon, but then that is how I learn my boundaries – by going over them.

I could have gone to the gym around the corner this morning, but I didn’t. Just didn’t. No excuse. Did check the seat on the bike is at the proper height, rearranged placement parking bay. Going to be a hot one. Blinds closed, air-con on. Resting, resting, resting.

Whoever you are, wherever you are – have a good day doing that which most rewards you.

Saga of the Cycles – and I Don’t Mean Bi-polar

It was only 12 days ago I told my doctor I planned on buying myself a bicycle – all the better to return home from the gym after a workout and swim. Shock and polite horror elicited a promise to try one out at SA cycles before committing to a purchase. Did that and wibbled wobbled to a frightening extent, but on reflection thought it might be the shape of the bike. All that leaning forward instead of sitting upright. But then went on to test a trike; found as long as I sat up straight and did not use weight to steer, all seemed okay. Luckily my bank balance was as good as empty so unable to take any action. Just as well. A friend posted a comment to an earlier post, sharing a relative’s experience with a trike, which I took on board. Do not touch. Do not go there. Waste of money.

Then in my letterbox came a flyer for a gym situated just around the corner from home. Ten free days until the end of the year. So, would I need transport home after a workout?

The gym http://www.yourworldfitness.com.au/ is splendidly equipped and the staff very helpful. At the end of free session, a special offer of $199 for three months looks good. BUT the water area is a deep warm spa next to a freezing cold tub – neither of which I could see myself using for a full hydrotherapy session – taking care of ancient hips and knees. After the three month special, the fee rocketed which would have been OUCH.

Went to a bike shop in Hindmarsh Square hoping to test out my balancing, but the sit-up shape I fancied was not in stock. Back home and Googled, Found these guys out on Main North Road. Plan was to bus there and check out my balance. Double checked my bank balance first and LO and BEHOLD my UK part-pension has been paid in already. Tried a couple of bikes for size and chose a smaller one for it seemed more comfortable as I whizzed around their parking/testing area. Yippedy doodah. Selected a helmet, front and rear baskets, pump and had to backtrack on the security chain and pay cash for a short-term cheapie as that which remained in my account is so close to zero…but worth the intake of breath as I will be able to go the distance to https://all-opening-hours.com.au/01865395/Fitness_on_Flinders – but will have to go in daylight  and wait on the purchase of lights rather than rely on reflectors. Whole range of temptations now open to me and that is the one thing I cannot resist. Once I have lights, I could emulate this morning’s routine – stopped arguing with myself at 3:30am, booted the computer, straight into the novel, completing one scene and well into the next; then around the corner at 5:30 to be the first client and played around with various upper body workout machines. Good sweat, on with a cardigan walked back home and a very early breakfast, bit more writing, news on TV while waiting to check out the final bike shop.

GETTING HOME 

Took the side roads from Main North Road, down into Walkerville then into North Adelaide and wishing I had read the manual regarding gears and pushed from near the Uni to North Terrace, down Pulteney to Pirie, Pirie over King Willaim into Waymouth then turn the corner into the garage. Found a park to lock bike to then struggled to relocate the rear basket a bit more to the rear. A few wibbly wobbles on the way but nothing much and for a first go for some time am really pleased with myself. Don’t think I frightened too many motorists.

(Trying to recall the last time I rode a bike. Must have been when doing the swim and bike leg of a half marathon when living in Norseman.  Fifteen years?)

Thanks Darryl, for putting the bike together

ensuring I was ship-shape

and ready to go.

Getting Around

Now wanting to locate one of these to try out before committing to purchase. Affordable option on line and my brother willing to assemble, but we both have previous experience of these not being as easy to ride as one thinks. Many years ago – late 90’s – I bought one secondhand from a Salvos op-shop and concluded the frame must be a bit distorted – or something – as I kept steering into the gutter.

This is where I would really like to be at but have to accept those days are past.

Unhappy v Not Happy

Searched for an image to best express my feelings this morning.

Started with ‘not happy’ and was confronted with a plethora of platitudinous crap floating among images of anger. For that is where the attitude of ‘not happy’ comes from – unresolved anger. Resolve my anger? I would not know where to start.

I accept one can change an attitude by a change of thinking – I grew up with Pollyanna – put a smile on your face and find the silver lining. Did that until it became a habit which masked unhappiness.

‘Unhappy’ is not an attitude, but an intermittent but persistent mood. One of the facets which reflect an inner feeling. After all, “laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone.” I have been in that laughing space and the most memorable thing about it is that I cannot remember what triggered the laughter, with whom, when or where. I just know that I laughed until it hurt. But I cry alone.

But that is not the reason I decided to create a new post today. Someone elsewhere expressed concern that I had not posted in here for some days, worried for my welfare. I live alone and, like many older persons, am aware of the possibility of being found dead.

So here I am, reassuring at least one reader that I am alive and reasonably well. I have been going to the gym for an upper body workout followed by time in the pool – hydrotherapy exercises and a swim – coming out when I crinkle or cramp.

The gym is now open; time to dress, breakfast and take a leisurely stroll.

My Kindle Kollection: Books About Writing By Writers

owl-with-kindle
read-write-stephen-kingThis is a list of categories into which my ebooks are saved and stored..

Number of books listed under

Writing 41, General Writing Advice 15, Plotting 11 which includes 6 on plot construction alone, Publishing 25, Marketing 20 and Graphics 9 ( for the time in my life when I may – perhaps – master the concept of playing with pictures instead of words.)

How many of these does one really need? My trouble is they each, and every one, contain specks of gold-dust and some with gold-flakes and, less often, a nugget of new information. When is enough enough?

Summoning some courage to dispute the notion stated by Stephen King.

The time needed for reading is many years before you start to write.  

The time for writing is when you have a story to tell.

How well you can tell your story then rests on how well you can translate the telling into writing.

Most tools you need to write are elicited from early reading and stored in the pattern recognition toolbox in your brain. Other tools are acquired – spelling and formal grammar – many writers manage to escape the need for these and become the grist for the mills of Editors. (Books I have but not included in the above account.)

There comes a time when the reading about writing has to stop, giving way to writing for a reader – and who that is will become another topic on another day.

I thought I had stopped adding to my Kindle Kollection when realising so much ground had already been covered within other purchases when I found declining informational value of new purchases

UNTIL

giving way to temptation and buying a Kindle copy of The Elements of Eloquence by Mark Forsyth.  Not only great fun to read, but now contributing to setting myself some essay construction challenges for the coming year.

 

PS. As an aside, I am still recovering from overdoing things at the gym/swim the other day, sitting here on my 77th birthday and slowly releasing my stroppy, bossy nature. No-one said anyone HAD to write. If writing is not fun or to some clear purpose, go outside, enjoy the day and say hello to a stranger, I did.

 

 

 

Walk, gym, swim, walk! Overdoing.

exhaustedReaction from having a thorough session on the machines and then swimming until cramp says ‘stop’. Walking is 20 minutes there and

t w e n t y back. Plod, plod, plod.

Seriously considering buying a bicycle upon which I will make sure there is the necessary bell. Woke weary, done very little and looking forward to an early night.emjoy-thumbs-up

Words Writers Want (need) to Read

woof-big-ears-feedback-750-300x225Hi Isabel

Thanks for your book – I’m glad I entered that competition!

I enjoyed your poems, almost all of which stirred the emotions, which is what they’re meant to do! Good blend of fun ones and those deep, darkish ones. My favourites? Knew you’d ask. I particularly liked Desert Child, Nonsense and Northam 1958.

Thanks for sharing your work – and keep writing! (If I Could Spin)

***

Hands up, this story is way above my head. It is a wise complicated set of beliefs and anecdotal life philosophies, that I tried to stay with but couldn’t. I admire the writing and the thought processes that have gone into the work, but for me I couldn’t keep up with it. That is only an opinion I like to read without too much hard work. (Earning Purple)
Well done.

***

Hello Isabel,

I am off to bed now with nothing to read. ;o( But I wanted to be sure that you received my feedback of “The Trustees” before I slipped away into my dreamtime.

Here is a link to the post that I shared https://plus.google.com/115175889440746530772/posts/RAmUeki7EYT I hope that you enjoy the pictures that I chose to compliment your wonderful story. I am sure that they are a bit off, as we all see different within our minds eye. I really enjoyed the book more than words. I even read a bit to my son, Sky. And he too enjoyed the small bits of the story that I shared with him. Before he fell asleep he asked me to share with you that he too really enjoyed your story, I am including it here so that his message is honored. I will write more later.

Again, thank you so much for allowing me to journey within the visions of your Spirit. I am so grateful. You are an amazing woman and a gifted writer. I look forward to the next two within your series.

Much Love and Many Blessings,

***

“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies, said Jojen. The man who never reads lives only one.” ― George R.R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons

This month after finishing George R.R. Martin’s last published piece “A Dance With Dragons” I was pretty bummed with the fact that I now had nothing to carry me to into my dreamtime. So I was really excited when Isabel Storey gifted me with the privilege to read her book “The Trustees”

I knew nothing of the book other than the title The Trustees promised a window into Estate Law. Being that I have been dealing with my late Father’s estate I looked forward to absorbing this new story.

The Trustees is an awesome read, particularly Isabel’s writing style. Her use of words and accents are full of flavor that brings her story to life and will make you feel as if home is South of the Equator.

You will find each of her characters lovable, as you join them in their search for truth. She has away of sharing their private lives with just a few words that stir up their deepest emotions. You can’t help relating to each and every one of them, while wondering if there is some truth to these fictitious characters.

Journey into the lives of old families who possess both power and good fortune. More specifically the consequences of lost family heritage from the secret passions, wandering lust.and lies from men of days past. Marvel at the web of secrets that creates a ripple effect carrying forward through time continuing through generations and across continents. Watch through the eyes of Peacock & Oates, Dumfries and their fiduciary relationship to long lost clients who they themselves know not the true identity of.

Every single sentence and letter takes you a little closer to the truth and at the end leaves you satisfied, yet wanting more. Especially of the Gypsies and the unspoken bond between women that serve to protect both the lies of men and the children they bore. Behind the secrets, hidden doors and buried treasures, It’s all there, waiting for you. You will be engrossed from start to finish.

Thank you Isabel Storey for sharing your gift with me. ;o)

 

Good Day Isabel,feedback-1

 

Yea… I am so happy that you like my review. I am even more happy that you are writing more. ;o) I look forward to going back through time in your next release of the Trusts.

 

Please feel free to share my review anywhere you choose. It is your gift… And thank you for your kind words, I absolutely love the saying you’ve shared, and will be adding it to my bag of quotes to gift to others. Yes, I do take it as a compliment, as old blood makes us who we are.

 

Again, thank you for allowing me to journey with you through the story of The Trustees… And may your writings continue to flow, as these stories want to be told, they are coming through you for a reason.

 

Much Love and Many Blessings,

 

Rebecca

criteria-for-effective-feedback

 

 

Gearing up to a New Routine

gym-1This is the first piece of equipment used within my routine- only 9kgs today; tried more but had sense to drop it back. two other pieces of equipment lifting up to 23 kgs and then some work with 3 and 4 kg dumbbells. (Trying now to recall the floor exercises I used to do in Port Lincoln.) Three rounds of 10 each then into the pool.

swimmingJoy of joys. A few hydrotherapy exercises for the ancient hips, then just potter in the pool until it became obvious the place would soon be very busy.

I am thinking Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays between two and four in the afternoon. Shopping on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Last night I could not sleep until I had finished writing and finishing the current scene in the novel. This meant it was no longer a matter of giving into temptation – if I get into social media in the mornings, write before I go to sleep and also wake with a great idea and my thoughts steady and filled with the words and tune of “Birth of the Blues”.

Ah. All good. Now, this is where I think I could be asking how goes your day? But as I have no idea who is reading this, then I may well be talking to thin air or only to myself. I hope there are humans out there as this morning’s great idea would involve a level of interaction. Early days. Whatever. Have a great one.

 

Not MIA – Just Buried in Books

buriedFeeling lazy.

And my excuse is (the rather late in life)  discovery of Phillip Pullman as an author and the series His Dark Materials.  Having first finished reading Northern Lights, I asked the library to hold the next two books for me. The third arrived first and I held off reading until The Subtle Knife arrived.  Very hard to put down, but sleep became an necessity. Finished yesterday and picked up The Amber Spyglass and read for as long as I could stay awake. On wakening I felt flat. Christmas is a-coming and, for many reasons, I find this time of year depressing. Am I just being contrary?

Is it because the expectation is that we are all supposed to be full of joy and goodwill that triggers misery? Mood lifted when searching Google Images for an appropriate pic for this post.

Discovered this which is how I often describe my state when I will have almost finished the novel which is currently a lazy effort in progress. I am at a point where I have a good idea of what words need putting to page so ‘block’ is not a problem. If anything, I have too many ideas. As I operate from the premise that everyone has a story worth telling, I find I am having to put much about my characters to one side as potential for another story, to be written at another time, while I proceed with the laying down and discovery of several legacies within the whole – gifts from the past to the future being told in the present.

Rather than fret about what I feel I should be doing – that is writing – I may give in to what I feel like doing,; in no particular order, get dressed, breakfast, another coffee, walk 3000 steps to the gym for an upper body workout followed by a swim, an email to my property manager advising that if my landlady is not soon forthcoming with the refund of NBN connection (as a new build) I will have to take the matter to the Rent Tribunal. various-girls-hairstyles-3

But the over-riding worry will be addressed tomorrow – will a new hairdresser leave me with less on my mind?

With a fresh hair-do, newly purchased clothes (op-shop) in the colours deemed suited earlier this week I plan on looking as good as possible in the hope that lifts the mood from flat, flat, flat while being grateful it is not down, down, down. Possibly the fourteen years on lithium has trained some part of my mind not to go to dark places, which is good, I must admit. Am I expecting too much to hope that in reaching out I may come in contact with the joy of sharing and being shared with?

Second thoughts, am only at page 46 of 522 in The Amber Spyglass which means all the good intentions will go by the board. I can swim tomorrow after my new hairdo, will now compose the email to the property manager,  so after toast and coffee, I will back back to the book.

Whatever plans you have for this day, be as flexible as you need to enjoy being alive in what ever way you want to pass the time.

Missed the Cut: Not on the Short List

roots-and-branchesBeing my first attempt at entering an essay competition – dared by a friend – I can now share the fact I even entered it and the entry itself. Not for your judgement – other than perhaps amusement I had the cheek.

AUSTRALIA:A COLLECTION OF ASSUMPTIONS

Picture this:

A twelve year old child was gifted a book in recognition of her insatiable curiosity. Within its pages she was introduced to Kipling’s six honest servingmen thus finding names for the members of her pack of mental puppies. The puppies were exposed to sand, surf and Sunday School and, on the other days of the week, relaxed at the back of the class near those high achievers who had to exercise to gain their place. Having already discovered that the path to efficiency is blazed by the lazy, she sat with her ears open and hands under desk-top busy knitting a scarf using spider stitch.
Back then the days were busy and the years as long as only a country child can recall. From her bed on the front verandah she contemplated the profile of an aboriginal warrior staring up to the night sky from his home in an enormous gum tree. As the evening breeze ruffled the leaves, setting the watching warrior free into the heavens, she snuggled down to sleep with a sense of being protected; of being Watched Over. With ears open, hands busy spinning threads of experience and thought, she now knots a net into being. Flinging the net far and wide to ensnare the progeny of the Bunyip and Behemoth. Scary creatures were it not that terror is part of our mental territory.
The energies of ancestral myths, their archetypes, now hidden within modernity, seep and escape into subconciousness; leaching from the underground of understandings made manifest in the diverse behaviours Homo sapiens call ‘human nature’. The Stone Age person is still within Modern Mankind; outwardly fashioned by the survival of such genes as best suit the environments of time and place. An example given here is that of indigenous mothers within Australia giving birth to babies considered and judged by the non-indigenous as being of light weight. This assessment gives little consideration to the thousands of years mothers have had to carry babies on their hips or in a coolamon. Given the human brain’s propensity for pattern recognition, the observational powers of women and babies – their own and others – together the tribal cross cousin marriage system, credit could be given for identifying a strain prone to producing less burdensome babies.
(One snippet heard by these open ears was Kathy Freeman’s bones are far less dense than the norm of the general population. This was stated as an explanation for her capacity for speed as well as an illustration of the need to conserve energy when covering long distances by walking.)
Cross cousin breeding has a long history, the patterns and consequences of which would be instantly appreciated by those who knowingly raise thoroughbred dogs or horses. However, not all breeders have the knowledge or the courage to carry through to the five generations required to produce the true thoroughbred. For those who do there comes a time when it is judicious to bring in an out-cross; a completely new line believing in the protection hybrid vigour for the first of the new generation.
And what might the foregoing have to do with being “Australian”?
Simply put, we are a motley of mongrels. A mixture of mutts. As diverse as afghans and dachshunds. But we are a breed which likes to please, be friendly and entertaining. When well-trained, we fetch and carry for those we perceive to be our masters.
Above all, we are a bright bunch of bastards. Ingenious, inventive, motivated. We might just be Humanity’s Best Friend?

Picture This:

As with many Australian children, this one had never met any of the First Peoples of this land. Until she was seventeen years of age, training as a nurse in Ward 31 of Royal Perth Hospital in 1956. A woman, thin as a rake, bed-sores packed with eusol dressings from sacrum under skin to hip. Incontinent, mute and utterly miserable. During a staff meeting someone suggested her health may improve if her baby was brought in from wherever it was being fostered. A baby? A baby girl. Rumour had it, this woman (let us call her Nancy) had walked more than two thousand miles during her pregnancy. The soles of her feet, thick and hard as boot leather. The baby was brought to the ward and given into her arms. Next day, the very next day, Nancy was out of bed, walking for the first time in months, standing in the fresh air on the balcony. The first word she cried out she demanded “BEDPAN” and she had us scuttling and glad of it.
Aged 14, this girl was employed sorting trunk line dockets in the Accounts Department of the PostMaster General’s Office in Perth. She worked alongside a young woman whose parents had emigrated from Greece after the Second World War. They had brought their customs with them; one being the elder daughter must first be married before my work mate could upgrade her engagement ring to a wedding band. What a wedding that was!
Earlier, before this child was born, her maternal grandparents emigrated from the UK in 1922 to take up land under the Group Settlement Scheme in Northcliffe in Western Australia. As a Master Mariner, it did not take long for her grandfather to walk off that land in favour of a position as Harbourmaster. The move to Australia was likely to have been at the grandmother’s instigation. A family joke stated as true that he only once returned from a voyage to the same home as he had departed. (It might be her gypsy blood; her family clan territory both sides of the Scottish border.) That was a place in the countryside of Northumberland. The mother of this child was four years of age when emigrating and spent most of her years on the family’s poultry farm which sustained them during the Depression.
The Group Settlement Scheme was preceded by the Soldier Settlement Scheme following the First World War. As well as giving some soldiers something to come home to, it further strengthened the White Australia Policy. (Forgotten were those aboriginals left stranded in South Africa because they volunteered to fight in the Boer War). British soldiers have a history of making Australia home ever since being sent to guard the convicts for whom the first settlements were created. Speaking of convicts, those prisoners in Hungarian prisoners were released at the beginning of the 1956 uprising and, the young nurse was told by one such, they were the first to make a hasty departure from the country. So, convicts, soldiers and emigrants from Europe were the bulwarks of White Australia until the Immigration Restriction Act was repealed in 1958. As an Australians resident in the UK during the 60’s, this young woman found herself unable to defend her nation’s history. Unable to define the emotion experienced when her face was held by the chin to the light and hear it declared that this is “my own aborigine.” Embarrassment, yes. Shame, no. Something else. Was it the spirit of the gum tree warrior crying out for recognition and being denied?
The paternal branch of this child’s parentage descends from Scottish widow of 55 years of age who brought her large family to South Australia in the 1840’s. Among the many stories contained within the publication detailing the family history, there is one which this woman has hi-jacked and relates whenever given the opportunity. Such as this. According to my version, my grandfather was able to purchase a property for a pittance as the previous owner found difficult to get full price for the land he had cleared of aboriginal infestation using strychnine. In this version it is related that, if happening in my grandfather’s generation, there maybe, still alive, descendants from those away from the feed of flour at the time. In other words, the pain is too close for comfort; the asking of forgiveness and reconciliation premature. In her father’s generation this event was a joke shared around birthday barbecues. She read into the glare from her father’s eye; remember and record. She takes the permission to skew history for fear the descendants of the guilty are too afraid of the past to ever question it and thus not allow some light of day in this dark history.
Is sit racism or xenophobia which has empowered the political class to engage in policies which drive people to our shores? It would be facile to blame the military for their actions overseas; creating the havoc and destruction which drove, and still drives, attempts to reach our shores from Asia. Instructed by the policy of those politicians voted into power by the public, we all have a hand in the circumstances which give rise to the suicidal despair of those imprisoned in off-shore detention. They are even more securely incarcerated, and with less hope, than the original intruders into the oldest surviving cultures on this planet. They are there because, collectively, we put and keep them there.
Who has the right to make that mark on their ballot paper? Yes, those who were born here and, these days, that is irrespective of colour or creed. Those who qualify for naturalisation as an Australian are issued an invitation to a formal citizenship ceremony; a prerequisite for the granting of citizenship. Again, irrespective of colour, but allowing a choice of a either including or excluding God within their pledge. Why is God in this picture?
Given the separation of Church and State in Australia, this woman again asks, “Why is God in this picture?” If God, why not Allah or Vishnu? Does it take the invocation of an invisible entity to give weight to one’s word? No. Having observed the consequences of the imposition of Christianity on life within several aboriginal communities, this person is of the staunch belief that Christianity is intrinsically a corrupting influence. Particularly so on a peoples with a highly developed system of spiritual beliefs, many of which survive beneath a facade.
Is it racism, xenophobia or plain ignorance which permits the illusion of superiority over persons who do not speak the dominant language, who are regarded as illiterate either in their own language or one they have yet to learn? As previously mentioned, humans have a propensity for pattern recognition. Only since the Bronze Age has there been any need for anyone’s parietal lobe to be busy with reading and writing. Until the concept and practice of literacy was forced upon the general population, people’s brains kept busy recognising other patterns. Patterns within their culture, patterns within their landscapes, patterns within the seasons, patterns within the skies and patterns within the stars. Literate scientists have in recent times proposed the genetic transmission of memory such as to give credence to ancestral memory experienced in the form of the “collective unconscious”. Surely a culture as continuous as that of truly indigenous Australians would have a rich and deeply embedded collective memory. From that place could arise the fear which drove aboriginals from their racially designated section of Meekatharra hospital in the 1950’s. That section had been built as a separate unit placed close to the morgue. First dead body and they were out of there in a flash. The beds were then used to house the indigent, not the indigenous. Or again, an instance when planners designed a new township for the Kalumburu community in the 1990’s. Could they not foresee the insult of using the disused rubbish tip as the recommended site?
Coming back to the question, “Why is God in this picture?” There is no escaping it. In whatever form be it Baiame, Jehovah, Allah or Vishnu the invisible Creator of All and Everything is there. Why? If, and I repeat, IF God created Man in his own image, perhaps He is having a rethink? Could it be that Australia, this sea-locked land, is God’s chosen laboratory? Is the design of the Australian coat of arms a warning that there is no going back? What does the future hold? Should we do what the ancients did and dream on it?

Picture this:

For some forgotten reason, this person leaning against a wall in Port Hedland and asked for her skin name by a young, very dark-skinned woman. The younger woman knows we have not previously met and needs to place this stranger within the structure of tribal relationships. She shakes her head at the reply. An apology for not having a skin name. Later, relating this encounter to an English couple, they are surprised to find I am not an indigene. With a loud clang, the penny dropped in the realisation they had just lost the friend held out by them as evidence they are not racist. To further confound them was the information of gypsy ancestry for that is held as being at the bottom of the social pit.

Baiame beckons to live the dreams of the night into the actions of the day. As it is there, so will it be here. From this realm, satirists are inspired to create, for our entertainment, situations which play out in real life. Advertising agencies are inspired to test the acceptance of diversity. Faces inherited from Asia feature in television commercials whereas it is difficult to recall images of indigenous faces promoting the purchase of any product. The nearest is the use of aboriginal art as an evanescent art on a carpet. This is the heart of the matter. This most ancient culture is nurtured on an active belief in the spirit world. A world where the spirit speaks to the mind through dreams and the mind acts on the body to create a harmony expressed in song, dance and scary sleep-time stories so children are held close while parents are sleeping. Is there a lesson here for all components of the melting pot of persons in the Australia of this time? Should we not accept that each of us is tinged with degrees of racism, xenophobia and patriotism? Could we not accept, to the extent we are so, that this is the darker side of our being? That, first of all, we need to reconcile the shades of light, darkness and colours within to better enable an honest acceptance of the dark history of this country.
Picture this.

Arriving at Mandorah, tired after a long drive nursing an old Toyota Hi-Lux. When asking hotelier for permission to camp in grounds was instructed, in no uncertain terms, to go and find the long grass. So this middle-aged itinerant pulled up on the road to ask a group of young lads to show her the way to the long grass. They insisted on her backing the ute into cover under an enormous banyan tree. She demurred. This is clearly a special place. No, no. You are welcome here. So the woman organised herself for the night, opening the canopy covering her bedding arrangements and settled in. That evening she was joined by a small group of elder men and a woman who had arrived from Bathurst Island for the funeral of the last of his generation. After many chitter chatters and comfortable silences, the woman said, “You are not like other white people. Why is this? (Or words to that effect, now omitting this person’s name from this account.) The reply along the lines of; “Must be my mother’s people. She comes from a gypsy family. When in London, an old woman knocked on the door of my basement bed-sitter and asked the names of my grandmother and my grandmother’s sisters. She seemed satisfied and from that moment on, for a few mad years, my life brought me into contact with gypsy people and I learnt much from them.” From then the conversation fell into the pattern of “What do the gypsies do about…..”; answered; response “same as us, same as us; shush secret business.” So it was this person came away from that encounter knowing some aboriginal secret business even though not told directly by them.

Picture This:

Time to haul in the net, hoping some of the Who, Why, Where and What Australians and Australian life as we live it has been captured within. What have we? Evidence the Behemoth and Bunyip have bred their own horrors and provide the stuff of nightmares. How does this make one feel? Some folk enjoy being frightened even by their own shadows. Personally, this woman’s sadness runs as a hidden stream beneath the years between seeing Nancy leaving Royal Perth Hospital in 1956 and reading of her discovery in an Adelaide mental hospital where she had lived for many, if not all, of the intervening years.
Looking over the shoulder as the net is dragged up the sand, Rudyard Kipling again comes to mind. In an 1891 interview he warns the Chinese have a long settling to make for the insults upon them. Again, a patient people and constructors of apartment buildings within which this ageing pensioner is provided with security and protection. He is also quoted as saying, “This country is American, but remember it is second-hand American, but there is an American tone on the top of things, but it is not real.”
And where can be found the notion of Australia as Humanity’s best friend? If only we could learn we are Australians, not Americans and that bullies are no longer permitted to behave as they do in this playground of a planet. Above all, we need to learn of, enjoy and share the troves of treasures hidden within the most ancient of cultures. Our laid-back lifestyle came from somewhere and that place is the land; Country.
Welcome.

So there you have it:

%d bloggers like this: