Searching for love
Karen mutters absent-mindedly to herself as she tosses the loose cushions off the sofa. She pokes her fingers into the tight recesses around the seat but comes up with nothing more than a couple of rubber bands and some sultanas. She has already turned their bed upside-down. There is no other furniture in their one-room apartment. They only moved in last week. Karen has searched every nook and cranny.
She reaches for her mobile on the kitchen bench. It’s time to face the music.
She hesitates. It’s impossible for her to confess the enormity of the situation to Martin.
She becomes aware of the tension in her body. Her back is aching. The pain in her head is making her nauseous. There is a sharp, nagging knot between her shoulder blades. She draws the curtains to shut out the bright sunlight and stretches out on the sofa.
Karen closes her eyes. Once again she finds herself going over her movements since breakfast. Showered, got dressed, left for the factory, endured her shift, came home. It was only when she started making dinner that she realized the locket was missing. The chain must have broken.
She knows that she wore it to work. She wears it every day. It was a special present from Martin when they had married. The locket had been his mother’s and held a tiny photo of him as a baby and a lock of his baby hair. He will be distraught that it’s gone.
The scrape of the key in the lock startles Karen. She scrambles off the sofa and stands forlornly waiting for Martin to enter the room.
He comes in beaming. His good humour strikes a discordant note in the misery of the room. Karen can’t bear it. She flings her arms around him and bursts into tears.
“I’ve lost your locket,” she sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’ve looked everywhere. I don’t know what to do.”
She sinks dejectedly onto the sofa.
Martin sits on the floor in front of her.
“Hey, come on, sweetheart. What are you so upset about? It’s only a bit of jewellery!”
His words hang accusingly in the silence.
How could he have called the locket ‘only a bit of jewellery’? It had been his Mum’s. It was really special. The realisation that it might be gone is beginning to sink in. He remembers how his Mum wore it every day until she died. When he was little he would ask to have a look inside and loved seeing his grinning baby face wedged into the tiny heart shape. There was something innocent and unspoilt about that slip of blond hair in there with the photo.
Karen has seen the transformation on Martin’s face, the light in his eyes has dimmed. She realises how self-centred her fear and guilt about losing the locket have been. She slips down onto the floor beside him.
“Martin, I know how much the locket meant to you. It was much more than a bit of jewellery.”
He looks up. His face lights up and he grins as he sees himself reflected in her eyes.
Thursday 29 January 2009
Saturday 24 January 2009
A Stirring Moment - Rick
Jason sat at his desk looking at the 17 memos in his in basket for the 17th time. The pile wasn’t getting any shorter. He tried to think of a time when he had been truly happy and kept coming up blank. He had been working for the Department of Weights and Measures in Canberra for over 23 years and he couldn’t recall a single day when he could honestly say he got pleasure from his job. He applied for the job because he was desperate at the time and it was only going to be until he could pay off his bills and get a little breathing space. Then he would go and work with Greenpeace and do what inspired him. But after the bills got paid he got this promotion which meant a bit more money and he bought a new car so hung on for another 6 months. And then he was put on this 18 month project that meant a bit more money and the 18 months became 4 years before the project was scrapped. And somehow another promotion came along and a bit more money and of course in there he got married and then 3 kids in 5 years and he couldn’t selfishly pursue his ideals and shirk his responsibilities. And here he sat, bored with life, bone weary at the age of 42 and just feeling trapped and unhappy.
He couldn’t honestly say that he was depressed any more. He had been about 7 years ago but he got through that. No, this was more like a chronic sense of sadness. Life wasn’t meant to turn out this way.
But today something else competed with the sadness for his attention. He was fidgety, jittery and his stomach kept churning like it did when he was 16 and wanted to ask Becky to the school dance. “No, it can’t be that”, he said to himself. He opened up his top drawer and took out the card that was there. And he read it for the 20th time.
Landmark Education
No way. In a moment of weakness, he had said yes to Bernie in the cubicle and had gone out to this guest event for something called the Landmark Forum. God, all these people going on about this course they did and how it changed their lives and what a good thing it was and would Jason like to do it? It reminded him so much of the time those Mormons came around and he foolishly started talking to them about Jesus. But try as he might, he couldn’t get the night out of his mind. And it was that one guy in particular who spoke about having just started a new job after being stuck in the same old rut for years. The guy beamed and seemed so authentically happy and kept raving about how all these possibilities opened up for him during the Forum. He didn’t seem weird or brainwashed. Just happy.
“This never gets any easier, does it?” he muttered to himself. And as he picked up his phone and dialed 9692-9011 he felt something way down in the pit of his belly stir.
He couldn’t honestly say that he was depressed any more. He had been about 7 years ago but he got through that. No, this was more like a chronic sense of sadness. Life wasn’t meant to turn out this way.
But today something else competed with the sadness for his attention. He was fidgety, jittery and his stomach kept churning like it did when he was 16 and wanted to ask Becky to the school dance. “No, it can’t be that”, he said to himself. He opened up his top drawer and took out the card that was there. And he read it for the 20th time.
Landmark Education
No way. In a moment of weakness, he had said yes to Bernie in the cubicle and had gone out to this guest event for something called the Landmark Forum. God, all these people going on about this course they did and how it changed their lives and what a good thing it was and would Jason like to do it? It reminded him so much of the time those Mormons came around and he foolishly started talking to them about Jesus. But try as he might, he couldn’t get the night out of his mind. And it was that one guy in particular who spoke about having just started a new job after being stuck in the same old rut for years. The guy beamed and seemed so authentically happy and kept raving about how all these possibilities opened up for him during the Forum. He didn’t seem weird or brainwashed. Just happy.
“This never gets any easier, does it?” he muttered to himself. And as he picked up his phone and dialed 9692-9011 he felt something way down in the pit of his belly stir.
Stirred, not shaken (Heather)
It was Herman Melville that first said, “We become sad in the first place because we have nothing stirring to do.” Write about what stirs you.
Steve took another sip of coffee and pondered the lay of the cards. It was his fifth game of solitaire (he liked the feel of the cards so he played it the old-fashioned way) and truth be told he was getting more than a little bored.
The quote he’d read at lunchtime darted through his head again. He’d been working his way through The Writings of Herman Melville (like himself, no stranger to sorrow and hard times) when he’d come across the words that had stopped him: “There is nothing so slipperily alluring as sadness; we become sad in the first place by having nothing stirring to do; we continue in it, because we have found a snug sofa at last.”
He’d immediately slammed shut the book and grabbed the cards for another hand of Solitaire.
And now, there he was, face to face with those words again.
Steve could tell you how you become sad: you lose someone you love and have loved for 35 years and who feels like part of your skin. “Having nothing stirring to do”? – give us a break; when the fabric of your life has been ripped apart you don’t need stirring.
Nonetheless, the insult of the quote continued to nibble at him. “Slipperily alluring”? “SNUG SOFA”!!??
Agitated, he dropped the deck of cards. All right, he thought, let’s give the idea a fair play. What stirs you, you old bugger? What stirs you?
From the jar of pens nearby he grabbed a black felt marker. He poked at the playing cards spilled in front of him. He flipped over a card (two of hearts, lots of white space), and wrote: “Skin against skin”. That’s something that stirred him, and something he missed fiercely.
With a certain satisfaction, he laid the defaced card, words up, neatly on the table in front of him.
He grabbed up the rest of the pack, flipped over another card (nine of spades) and wrote between the black spots: “Travelling to extraordinary places.” He hadn’t travelled since Addie died and in a flash he recognised that he missed it. Travel stirred him and always had.
The words “Rhythm and flow” landed on the ace of clubs. It felt good, somehow. He chuckled, and “Good humour” followed fast on its heels.
“Learning from the bush”.
“The love of children”.
As fast as Steve could write, cards flew, and a pattern – a life, really – began to emerge on the table in front of him.
Finally, from somewhere came: “Taking on the hero’s journey” – right there on the back of the eight of hearts. A frisson travelled up his spine. He was no hero, never had been, but life itself took heroism and he knew himself to be someone with courage and a sense of adventure.
He swung out of his chair. He strode to the window and dug his hands deep into his pockets. He noticed the car was in the driveway at Bruce and Kelly’s. Somebody was home over there and where there was life there was a teapot. Resolutely he grabbed his jacket and headed out the door.
Steve took another sip of coffee and pondered the lay of the cards. It was his fifth game of solitaire (he liked the feel of the cards so he played it the old-fashioned way) and truth be told he was getting more than a little bored.
The quote he’d read at lunchtime darted through his head again. He’d been working his way through The Writings of Herman Melville (like himself, no stranger to sorrow and hard times) when he’d come across the words that had stopped him: “There is nothing so slipperily alluring as sadness; we become sad in the first place by having nothing stirring to do; we continue in it, because we have found a snug sofa at last.”
He’d immediately slammed shut the book and grabbed the cards for another hand of Solitaire.
And now, there he was, face to face with those words again.
Steve could tell you how you become sad: you lose someone you love and have loved for 35 years and who feels like part of your skin. “Having nothing stirring to do”? – give us a break; when the fabric of your life has been ripped apart you don’t need stirring.
Nonetheless, the insult of the quote continued to nibble at him. “Slipperily alluring”? “SNUG SOFA”!!??
Agitated, he dropped the deck of cards. All right, he thought, let’s give the idea a fair play. What stirs you, you old bugger? What stirs you?
From the jar of pens nearby he grabbed a black felt marker. He poked at the playing cards spilled in front of him. He flipped over a card (two of hearts, lots of white space), and wrote: “Skin against skin”. That’s something that stirred him, and something he missed fiercely.
With a certain satisfaction, he laid the defaced card, words up, neatly on the table in front of him.
He grabbed up the rest of the pack, flipped over another card (nine of spades) and wrote between the black spots: “Travelling to extraordinary places.” He hadn’t travelled since Addie died and in a flash he recognised that he missed it. Travel stirred him and always had.
The words “Rhythm and flow” landed on the ace of clubs. It felt good, somehow. He chuckled, and “Good humour” followed fast on its heels.
“Learning from the bush”.
“The love of children”.
As fast as Steve could write, cards flew, and a pattern – a life, really – began to emerge on the table in front of him.
Finally, from somewhere came: “Taking on the hero’s journey” – right there on the back of the eight of hearts. A frisson travelled up his spine. He was no hero, never had been, but life itself took heroism and he knew himself to be someone with courage and a sense of adventure.
He swung out of his chair. He strode to the window and dug his hands deep into his pockets. He noticed the car was in the driveway at Bruce and Kelly’s. Somebody was home over there and where there was life there was a teapot. Resolutely he grabbed his jacket and headed out the door.
Injustice (Kerry)
Dale is annoyed by the small crowd of on-lookers that has been attracted by the police activity on the footpath of the main street. He squirms morosely in the back seat of the police car, waiting for his brother to be shoved in beside him.
“Whadda you fuckin’ lookin’ at?” he shouts at me, the white woman with the pram and the alarmed expression. “You think you’re so good?”
I turn away, pretending to ignore his jibes, and begin to wheel the pram off down the street. But Dale’s situation is gnawing at me. Dale and I live in the same town; my boy goes to the same high school as Dale. I know that he comes from the aboriginal settlement on the outskirts of town. I’ve seen the houses out there; overcrowded, smashed windows, no gardens and rubbish strewn everywhere.
It’s only a month since I was in hospital with the new baby and shared a room with Dale’s aunt. In the few days we were together I learned a lot about the Kennedy family and their difficult circumstances. It was a heart-breaking story of discrimination, petty crime, violence, boredom and lack of opportunities. I am sick of standing by and ignoring the injustice of their circumstances.
I phone the police station.
§
Dale is fed up. It only takes a bit of a fight and the police lock him up. He’s been inside now for a week but today he gets to go home.
He’s bored. At school the teachers have given up on him. He’s given up on himself. When he was little he used to have big dreams but reality has worn him down. What’s the point of dreaming? He’s black. He lives in a country town in the middle of nowhere. His dad has gone off somewhere and his mum has to look after him and his six brothers and sisters in a dump.
“What now?” he asks himself as he walks out into the foyer of the police station.
Dale looks up and sees a freshly printed notice on the noticeboard. It’s an invitation for kids, especially aboriginal kids, to sign up for an AFL team that the police are sponsoring.
Dale is excited. It’s an opportunity that’s too good for him to turn down. He loves kicking the footy with his mates but there’s never been a real team to join. He hurries out to tell his brother on the street. Together they return to the foyer and sign up.
§
The feeling of elation and pride has engulfed me all day. Today is the first match for the Dubbo Daredevils. My boy is playing. Not only that. Over the last couple of months at training, he has formed a steadfast friendship with Dale Kennedy and his brother. I can’t wait to go down to the footy grounds. I’ll be there with the Kennedys to cheer them all on. I’ve watched them training and I know they’ll do me proud. I am stirred by having made a difference to the lives of others.
Kerry
25/1/09
“Whadda you fuckin’ lookin’ at?” he shouts at me, the white woman with the pram and the alarmed expression. “You think you’re so good?”
I turn away, pretending to ignore his jibes, and begin to wheel the pram off down the street. But Dale’s situation is gnawing at me. Dale and I live in the same town; my boy goes to the same high school as Dale. I know that he comes from the aboriginal settlement on the outskirts of town. I’ve seen the houses out there; overcrowded, smashed windows, no gardens and rubbish strewn everywhere.
It’s only a month since I was in hospital with the new baby and shared a room with Dale’s aunt. In the few days we were together I learned a lot about the Kennedy family and their difficult circumstances. It was a heart-breaking story of discrimination, petty crime, violence, boredom and lack of opportunities. I am sick of standing by and ignoring the injustice of their circumstances.
I phone the police station.
§
Dale is fed up. It only takes a bit of a fight and the police lock him up. He’s been inside now for a week but today he gets to go home.
He’s bored. At school the teachers have given up on him. He’s given up on himself. When he was little he used to have big dreams but reality has worn him down. What’s the point of dreaming? He’s black. He lives in a country town in the middle of nowhere. His dad has gone off somewhere and his mum has to look after him and his six brothers and sisters in a dump.
“What now?” he asks himself as he walks out into the foyer of the police station.
Dale looks up and sees a freshly printed notice on the noticeboard. It’s an invitation for kids, especially aboriginal kids, to sign up for an AFL team that the police are sponsoring.
Dale is excited. It’s an opportunity that’s too good for him to turn down. He loves kicking the footy with his mates but there’s never been a real team to join. He hurries out to tell his brother on the street. Together they return to the foyer and sign up.
§
The feeling of elation and pride has engulfed me all day. Today is the first match for the Dubbo Daredevils. My boy is playing. Not only that. Over the last couple of months at training, he has formed a steadfast friendship with Dale Kennedy and his brother. I can’t wait to go down to the footy grounds. I’ll be there with the Kennedys to cheer them all on. I’ve watched them training and I know they’ll do me proud. I am stirred by having made a difference to the lives of others.
Kerry
25/1/09
Being Connected - Sue
The smell of roasting coffee beans hovers in the hot wind and sucks me into the café. I sigh. I just love coffee, a creamy soft and thick piccolo latte with a delicate leaf engraved in the cream. I take tiny mouthfuls to make it last and swill it around my tongue, tasting every tiny grain.
Its not just about the coffee, this foray into the latte scene is also about being in the midst of a noisy, happy bunch of people. It’s infectious. The exciting chatter as people share stories, the ‘clink’ of the glasses, although it’s still only early, and the gaggle of waiters who bounce from table to table. It doesn’t take long and I’m chatting to the girl next to me. Her eyes light up as she shares about “the Big Day Out” and her sailing escapades across the harbour. She’s from Ireland. We share how our accents have changed, we share about our families back home, we share about the dull grey skies, the rain and the cold at Christmas. We laugh. We are connected for a few special hours.
A flowerhead shimmers in the glare of the sun. The petals are soft like baby’s hair and are delicately painted white with a bight pink edge. Sometimes the pink smears a bit like a smudge, a fairy kiss. Many petals form a flower, tied together by the tiniest of dark red spindly stamens to attract the bees. As I capture the minute detail of the flower, I’m connected in such a way that nothing else is present.
The desert is the same, made up of millions and millions of tiny grains of orange sand. The sea is the same, each drop of water colliding to create oceans and waves. Just stopping for a moment to get present is really what stirs me.
Now back to my people world. Those glorious fun loving friends, where I share my triumphs but also my woes. Where everything is safe, where no one intrudes, where our eyes sparkle and reflect in each others faces, where crinkles escape from our eyes as we laugh. I love the pain of that ferocious lion like laugh which tumbles and turns. Just looking at each other and we explode. It’s rare this uncontrollable fit of the giggles but oh how special to be connected so freely that its allowed to escape.
The man in my life is a dream. We click, we’re as one. Like two peas in a pod, we’ve been told. We share, we get sad. We get angry, we make up. We hold hands wherever we go. Out fingers entwine and belong. There’s a certain glance, a definite shift of his eyes, a wicked sort of a grin and my tummy somersaults and spins on itself. I giggle to myself as I try to find exactly the right words. We are surely connected, we are surely in love. That cheeky look does it every time.
Now I’m present to coffee time, who knows, I might make another new friend.
Its not just about the coffee, this foray into the latte scene is also about being in the midst of a noisy, happy bunch of people. It’s infectious. The exciting chatter as people share stories, the ‘clink’ of the glasses, although it’s still only early, and the gaggle of waiters who bounce from table to table. It doesn’t take long and I’m chatting to the girl next to me. Her eyes light up as she shares about “the Big Day Out” and her sailing escapades across the harbour. She’s from Ireland. We share how our accents have changed, we share about our families back home, we share about the dull grey skies, the rain and the cold at Christmas. We laugh. We are connected for a few special hours.
A flowerhead shimmers in the glare of the sun. The petals are soft like baby’s hair and are delicately painted white with a bight pink edge. Sometimes the pink smears a bit like a smudge, a fairy kiss. Many petals form a flower, tied together by the tiniest of dark red spindly stamens to attract the bees. As I capture the minute detail of the flower, I’m connected in such a way that nothing else is present.
The desert is the same, made up of millions and millions of tiny grains of orange sand. The sea is the same, each drop of water colliding to create oceans and waves. Just stopping for a moment to get present is really what stirs me.
Now back to my people world. Those glorious fun loving friends, where I share my triumphs but also my woes. Where everything is safe, where no one intrudes, where our eyes sparkle and reflect in each others faces, where crinkles escape from our eyes as we laugh. I love the pain of that ferocious lion like laugh which tumbles and turns. Just looking at each other and we explode. It’s rare this uncontrollable fit of the giggles but oh how special to be connected so freely that its allowed to escape.
The man in my life is a dream. We click, we’re as one. Like two peas in a pod, we’ve been told. We share, we get sad. We get angry, we make up. We hold hands wherever we go. Out fingers entwine and belong. There’s a certain glance, a definite shift of his eyes, a wicked sort of a grin and my tummy somersaults and spins on itself. I giggle to myself as I try to find exactly the right words. We are surely connected, we are surely in love. That cheeky look does it every time.
Now I’m present to coffee time, who knows, I might make another new friend.
Friday 23 January 2009
Stirred (Jenny)
My words hang in the air, reverberating silently, reaching into the very fabric of the Universe. He looks at me, and in the charged silence, a life shifts awkwardly, trapped in a space which no longer fits like a glove.
Fear and wonder surge behind those green eyes, and in my gut an answering surge lets me know that something indescribable is happening. I settle into the feeling. This is my favourite place, the pivot point between survival and something much, much more.
The silence extends, not uncomfortable, but profoundly engaging. I listen intently, watching his manicured hand as it strokes his fashionably-stubbled chin.
Finally, he speaks.
“I never thought of it like that,” he says. “I fought so hard to get to where I am – I always thought it was a good thing to be able to buy the most expensive thing on the menu.”
His eyes are bright, looking through me, looking at his life from a different angle. He picks up his cognac and studies the dark golden spirit.
“But it's true, you know – it has been a compulsion. Not only could I buy the most expensive thing on the menu, I actually had to. I was proving to myself that I could.”
“Over and over,” I agree gently, leaning harder on the pivot point.
“Over and over,” he nods, and visions of countless restaurants, bars and casinos dance in the precious space we share.
“Think how much money I can save,” he muses.
“It's not about the money,” I prompt. He has more than enough cash to buy anything his heart desires. “Think about having the freedom to choose what you really want.”
His eyes unfocus, and a broad smile appears. For a moment, the boy inside is visible.
“You mean I might actually order a grilled cheese sandwich?”
“If that's what you really want.”
He laughs out loud, incredulous yet believing.
“You know, after this conversation, I think I actually could.”
He shakes his head, reaches out and takes my hand. His green eyes meet mine, suddenly serious and deep. Secret bells ring silent in the sacred space between us.
“You say the most amazing things, you know. Of all the people I know, you are the most stimulating to talk to. I always go away a changed man.”
He turns to face me more directly. “A better man,” he emphasises.
“Thank you for the privilege,” I reply gently.
His eyes unfocus, and he laughs again.
“A grilled cheese sandwich. Unthinkable! I have to order one.”
“Have to?”
“Just to prove to myself that I can.”
“Oh, really?”
He drops my hands and sits up straight.
“Dammit, woman, I want a grilled cheese sandwich and I am going to order one!”
“Because that's what you really want?”
“Yes!”
The thought settles in, and the sacred space shifts again.
“I'm going to have what I really want ...”
His voice fades and falters slightly. He looks down, but I have already seen – and felt – the tears in those magnificent green eyes.
I sit in the space, holding it safe. Holding him safe, while he rebuilds himself from within.
This is what I do. I change lives.
I hold the sacred space, for a minute, for this moment, for eternity.
Fear and wonder surge behind those green eyes, and in my gut an answering surge lets me know that something indescribable is happening. I settle into the feeling. This is my favourite place, the pivot point between survival and something much, much more.
The silence extends, not uncomfortable, but profoundly engaging. I listen intently, watching his manicured hand as it strokes his fashionably-stubbled chin.
Finally, he speaks.
“I never thought of it like that,” he says. “I fought so hard to get to where I am – I always thought it was a good thing to be able to buy the most expensive thing on the menu.”
His eyes are bright, looking through me, looking at his life from a different angle. He picks up his cognac and studies the dark golden spirit.
“But it's true, you know – it has been a compulsion. Not only could I buy the most expensive thing on the menu, I actually had to. I was proving to myself that I could.”
“Over and over,” I agree gently, leaning harder on the pivot point.
“Over and over,” he nods, and visions of countless restaurants, bars and casinos dance in the precious space we share.
“Think how much money I can save,” he muses.
“It's not about the money,” I prompt. He has more than enough cash to buy anything his heart desires. “Think about having the freedom to choose what you really want.”
His eyes unfocus, and a broad smile appears. For a moment, the boy inside is visible.
“You mean I might actually order a grilled cheese sandwich?”
“If that's what you really want.”
He laughs out loud, incredulous yet believing.
“You know, after this conversation, I think I actually could.”
He shakes his head, reaches out and takes my hand. His green eyes meet mine, suddenly serious and deep. Secret bells ring silent in the sacred space between us.
“You say the most amazing things, you know. Of all the people I know, you are the most stimulating to talk to. I always go away a changed man.”
He turns to face me more directly. “A better man,” he emphasises.
“Thank you for the privilege,” I reply gently.
His eyes unfocus, and he laughs again.
“A grilled cheese sandwich. Unthinkable! I have to order one.”
“Have to?”
“Just to prove to myself that I can.”
“Oh, really?”
He drops my hands and sits up straight.
“Dammit, woman, I want a grilled cheese sandwich and I am going to order one!”
“Because that's what you really want?”
“Yes!”
The thought settles in, and the sacred space shifts again.
“I'm going to have what I really want ...”
His voice fades and falters slightly. He looks down, but I have already seen – and felt – the tears in those magnificent green eyes.
I sit in the space, holding it safe. Holding him safe, while he rebuilds himself from within.
This is what I do. I change lives.
I hold the sacred space, for a minute, for this moment, for eternity.
Sunday 18 January 2009
Sue - Yesterday or tomorrow
There’s not a cloud in the brilliant blue sky and the Harbour Bridge is stark, bold and black against the clear background. The blue is reflected in the sea, calm and smooth with just the wash of the ferries to break up the colour. Joanne drives across the Bridge, the windows are all down, and the warm breeze blows wisps of hair across her brown face. The music is loud and her long tanned fingers tap out the tune on the steering wheel. She’s been asked to choose between yesterday and tomorrow.
“What a weird theme for a story” she muses. And she turns the music up even louder and throws her shaggy blond mane back into the wind.
“Yesterday. I remember the weather was beautiful, it was hot, maybe a bit sticky but down at the beach it was perfect. I sat on the soft sand, nestling my bum into the dip and ran my fingers through the tiny soft grains. The sea gently rolled in. It was hypnotic really. The water rolled to the shore then returned to the sea to just repeat the pattern again.
Will it do that tomorrow?
Back on the beach, I waded aimlessly but also intentionally through the waves to the cafe. I’m a latte a day girl. That’s me.
Will there be coffee tomorrow?
After the beach I went back to my flat. My beautiful new apartment, slick and contemporary, minimalistic and easy to live in. But comfy with a little balcony and views to the sea. There I sat and just took in the view. I remember my book just slid off my lap and folded in a bit of a heap on the ground.
What will happen to my flat tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. I”ll just make it up. Who’s to know what I say to the wind. She changes the CD to a loud thumping rock and her fingers jive around the gear stick and dance back and forwards to the steering wheel.”
“It’s going to piss with down with rain. It will deluge to such an extent that I won’t be able to get to the beach for weeks. I won’t be able to check on the waves as they pound and gallop furiously up the beach. The coffee shop will get washed away together with the coffee plantations. The cows will go on strike as they only give milk in the sun.
God what a life!
Six friends will knock on the door of the flat. All wanting to stay. They’ll blow up their airbeds and throws their sleeping bags onto the floor. Clothes will be everywhere.”
The music has stopped. Joanne’s breathing has stopped. Waves of panic rise like bile in her mouth. She chokes and splutters. Cars are speeding past her.
She’s sitting in the middle lane of the Bridge and the petrol gauge is furiously flashing.
“Who gives a shit. Yesterday or tomorrow will do. Anything but now”
“What a weird theme for a story” she muses. And she turns the music up even louder and throws her shaggy blond mane back into the wind.
“Yesterday. I remember the weather was beautiful, it was hot, maybe a bit sticky but down at the beach it was perfect. I sat on the soft sand, nestling my bum into the dip and ran my fingers through the tiny soft grains. The sea gently rolled in. It was hypnotic really. The water rolled to the shore then returned to the sea to just repeat the pattern again.
Will it do that tomorrow?
Back on the beach, I waded aimlessly but also intentionally through the waves to the cafe. I’m a latte a day girl. That’s me.
Will there be coffee tomorrow?
After the beach I went back to my flat. My beautiful new apartment, slick and contemporary, minimalistic and easy to live in. But comfy with a little balcony and views to the sea. There I sat and just took in the view. I remember my book just slid off my lap and folded in a bit of a heap on the ground.
What will happen to my flat tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. I”ll just make it up. Who’s to know what I say to the wind. She changes the CD to a loud thumping rock and her fingers jive around the gear stick and dance back and forwards to the steering wheel.”
“It’s going to piss with down with rain. It will deluge to such an extent that I won’t be able to get to the beach for weeks. I won’t be able to check on the waves as they pound and gallop furiously up the beach. The coffee shop will get washed away together with the coffee plantations. The cows will go on strike as they only give milk in the sun.
God what a life!
Six friends will knock on the door of the flat. All wanting to stay. They’ll blow up their airbeds and throws their sleeping bags onto the floor. Clothes will be everywhere.”
The music has stopped. Joanne’s breathing has stopped. Waves of panic rise like bile in her mouth. She chokes and splutters. Cars are speeding past her.
She’s sitting in the middle lane of the Bridge and the petrol gauge is furiously flashing.
“Who gives a shit. Yesterday or tomorrow will do. Anything but now”
Saturday 17 January 2009
Twenty Years (Kerry)
Twenty Years
The single electric light hangs bleakly from the low ceiling. There is no relief from its harsh reality. Jack is startled by a loud banging on the door. It flies open and a rough mob pushes aggressively into the small space. Jack gets up quickly from his mattress and faces them. Their leader approaches and punches him in the stomach. The others follow his lead. In minutes they have gone and Jack is left cringing on the floor, bruised and bleeding. They have taken his day’s meagre supply of food.
Slowly he picks himself up off the floor. The wind has been knocked out of him and every muscle is aching. He can feel the jagged remains of a broken tooth with his bloodied tongue. He reaches painfully for the metal cup on the floor, rinses his mouth with the dregs remaining in it and empties the spittle into the bucket in the corner. Defeated by the inhumanity and injustice of life, Jack slumps on his mattress. In despair, his mind turns to ways to end this brutal existence.
His arrest at the airport had been a nightmare. He was usually very careful about his luggage when travelling but that time something had gone astray. One of his cases had been lost in transit and when it turned up he had had to claim it from Customs. He had no explanation for the drugs they had found hidden in the bottom of his suitcase.
He was devastated by the injustice of the twenty-year sentence. The only way he could see to survive it was to live for today and have hope for tomorrow. The prison system is brutal but at least he wasn’t facing the firing squad, although some days he wonders whether it might have been easier than the unbearable hand-to-mouth existence he is living.
The quiet knocking on his door is almost imperceptible. Jack is wary and stays silent. The door handle turns slowly. Jack is relieved to see that it is Mohammed.
“You OK? Heard that mob in the corridor. Was worried about you.”
Mohammed approaches Jack on the mattress. He kneels on the floor and begins to examine Jack’s injuries. When he is satisfied that there are no broken bones, he returns to his room and comes back with a bucket of water and a rag. He pours a cup of water for Jack and holds him by the shoulders as he drinks. Gently he wipes Jack’s face and arms, talking soothingly to him all the time.
Jack is swept by an overwhelming feeling of love and compassion. He remembers that it is the care and concern that he and Mohammed have shown for each other that has enabled him to survive the last five years. He reaches for Mohammed’s hand and holds it tightly.
“Thanks mate.”
Kerry
18/1/09
The single electric light hangs bleakly from the low ceiling. There is no relief from its harsh reality. Jack is startled by a loud banging on the door. It flies open and a rough mob pushes aggressively into the small space. Jack gets up quickly from his mattress and faces them. Their leader approaches and punches him in the stomach. The others follow his lead. In minutes they have gone and Jack is left cringing on the floor, bruised and bleeding. They have taken his day’s meagre supply of food.
Slowly he picks himself up off the floor. The wind has been knocked out of him and every muscle is aching. He can feel the jagged remains of a broken tooth with his bloodied tongue. He reaches painfully for the metal cup on the floor, rinses his mouth with the dregs remaining in it and empties the spittle into the bucket in the corner. Defeated by the inhumanity and injustice of life, Jack slumps on his mattress. In despair, his mind turns to ways to end this brutal existence.
His arrest at the airport had been a nightmare. He was usually very careful about his luggage when travelling but that time something had gone astray. One of his cases had been lost in transit and when it turned up he had had to claim it from Customs. He had no explanation for the drugs they had found hidden in the bottom of his suitcase.
He was devastated by the injustice of the twenty-year sentence. The only way he could see to survive it was to live for today and have hope for tomorrow. The prison system is brutal but at least he wasn’t facing the firing squad, although some days he wonders whether it might have been easier than the unbearable hand-to-mouth existence he is living.
The quiet knocking on his door is almost imperceptible. Jack is wary and stays silent. The door handle turns slowly. Jack is relieved to see that it is Mohammed.
“You OK? Heard that mob in the corridor. Was worried about you.”
Mohammed approaches Jack on the mattress. He kneels on the floor and begins to examine Jack’s injuries. When he is satisfied that there are no broken bones, he returns to his room and comes back with a bucket of water and a rag. He pours a cup of water for Jack and holds him by the shoulders as he drinks. Gently he wipes Jack’s face and arms, talking soothingly to him all the time.
Jack is swept by an overwhelming feeling of love and compassion. He remembers that it is the care and concern that he and Mohammed have shown for each other that has enabled him to survive the last five years. He reaches for Mohammed’s hand and holds it tightly.
“Thanks mate.”
Kerry
18/1/09
Yesterday or Tomorrow - Rick
Ah, the philosophical questions! These are the ones that get the blood flowing for those of us of a curious and analytical bent.
On first reading of the question, I am challenged by the necessity to ask more questions, starting with “What do you mean, ‘had to choose between yesterday and tomorrow’?” Choose in what context? For what purpose? On the most simplistic of levels, I choose “tomorrow” over “yesterday” because I like the sound of the rrs in “tomorrow”. So I like the word better simply as a word.
On a more complex context, is this something like the movie Groundhog Day in which I will spend the rest of my life either in “tomorrow” or “yesterday”? Or still on movie themes, is it more like being posed the question by the psycho in No Country for Old Men in which one answer means he will plug a bolt into my head and the other answer means he politely says goodbye and goes on his way.
So my answer at first demands of me that I ask the questioner for more information. I wouldn’t be able to answer the question without further questioning because I don’t know what the question means or what the consequences are of choosing “yesterday” over “tomorrow”.
See that’s me, and I think that is pointing to the way I would choose. Maybe I’ve already chosen and chose “tomorrow.” I’m a why kind of guy possibly by nature and definitely by training. Why I’m a why guy I’m not sure of except to say that I can never remember not being that way, so maybe it’s genetic. Genetic or training, I’m that way.
Well one of the things that a why guy has picked up and resolved over the years is that the past is the past. It’s gone. All my yesterdays are gone, never to be repeated. That’s just the way that it is. Of course I’m an open minded guy too, so if you present me with a time machine and I can visit some of my yesterdays I might say yes. But until then, the past is gone.
Ah, but that leaves “tomorrow”. While I also have resolved that I will actually live my entire life in the here-and-now present, I have also resolved that this is likely not my last “today”. As the great Bard once said
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;”
Until my last syllable is uttered I will have my “tomorrow”, and one thing us why guys always do is spend heaps of time today, some say too much, worrying, fretting, dithering, contemplating, planning, dreaming, scheming and pretty much any other gerund you can think of about “tomorrow”. That’s what we do.
So answering the question without being able to ask any other questions (which seems to me to be the way these prompts work), I would answer:
“I choose tomorrow because I already did.”
On first reading of the question, I am challenged by the necessity to ask more questions, starting with “What do you mean, ‘had to choose between yesterday and tomorrow’?” Choose in what context? For what purpose? On the most simplistic of levels, I choose “tomorrow” over “yesterday” because I like the sound of the rrs in “tomorrow”. So I like the word better simply as a word.
On a more complex context, is this something like the movie Groundhog Day in which I will spend the rest of my life either in “tomorrow” or “yesterday”? Or still on movie themes, is it more like being posed the question by the psycho in No Country for Old Men in which one answer means he will plug a bolt into my head and the other answer means he politely says goodbye and goes on his way.
So my answer at first demands of me that I ask the questioner for more information. I wouldn’t be able to answer the question without further questioning because I don’t know what the question means or what the consequences are of choosing “yesterday” over “tomorrow”.
See that’s me, and I think that is pointing to the way I would choose. Maybe I’ve already chosen and chose “tomorrow.” I’m a why kind of guy possibly by nature and definitely by training. Why I’m a why guy I’m not sure of except to say that I can never remember not being that way, so maybe it’s genetic. Genetic or training, I’m that way.
Well one of the things that a why guy has picked up and resolved over the years is that the past is the past. It’s gone. All my yesterdays are gone, never to be repeated. That’s just the way that it is. Of course I’m an open minded guy too, so if you present me with a time machine and I can visit some of my yesterdays I might say yes. But until then, the past is gone.
Ah, but that leaves “tomorrow”. While I also have resolved that I will actually live my entire life in the here-and-now present, I have also resolved that this is likely not my last “today”. As the great Bard once said
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;”
Until my last syllable is uttered I will have my “tomorrow”, and one thing us why guys always do is spend heaps of time today, some say too much, worrying, fretting, dithering, contemplating, planning, dreaming, scheming and pretty much any other gerund you can think of about “tomorrow”. That’s what we do.
So answering the question without being able to ask any other questions (which seems to me to be the way these prompts work), I would answer:
“I choose tomorrow because I already did.”
Friday 16 January 2009
Yesterday Or Tomorrow? (Jenny)
Yesterday is fixed, though perceptions of it change,
What's done is done, and consequences set;
To live preserved in amber in that past time would be strange;
I won't declare my game is ended yet.
Tommorow can surprise me; tomorrow can inspire;
Tomorrow can be anything at all.
Tomorrow can redeem me, make me over, light my fire,
No matter how destructive this day's fall.
While there is tomorrow, or the prospect of tomorrow,
All today's dark sturm and drang won't seem so dire;
With the promise of adventure, or an end to some great sorrow,
Or a chance to rest and smell the roses, tomorrow will inspire.
What is yesterday's weak offer but memory's dim coffer,
Dusty tragedies and triumphs with their juices firmly wrung,
Some are pleasant, I admit, but I wouldn't want to sit
In the fading echoes lingering from songs aready sung.
Give me boundless fields of wonder, give me passion, give me hope,
Take the tantalising glimpses from today and give them scope,
Give me unexpected pleasures, give me undiscovered treasures,
I might hang myself, but don't withhold that rope;
Good as today may be, joys as I may have in memory,
I prefer to have tomorrow, my unknown, ripe with hope.
What's done is done, and consequences set;
To live preserved in amber in that past time would be strange;
I won't declare my game is ended yet.
Tommorow can surprise me; tomorrow can inspire;
Tomorrow can be anything at all.
Tomorrow can redeem me, make me over, light my fire,
No matter how destructive this day's fall.
While there is tomorrow, or the prospect of tomorrow,
All today's dark sturm and drang won't seem so dire;
With the promise of adventure, or an end to some great sorrow,
Or a chance to rest and smell the roses, tomorrow will inspire.
What is yesterday's weak offer but memory's dim coffer,
Dusty tragedies and triumphs with their juices firmly wrung,
Some are pleasant, I admit, but I wouldn't want to sit
In the fading echoes lingering from songs aready sung.
Give me boundless fields of wonder, give me passion, give me hope,
Take the tantalising glimpses from today and give them scope,
Give me unexpected pleasures, give me undiscovered treasures,
I might hang myself, but don't withhold that rope;
Good as today may be, joys as I may have in memory,
I prefer to have tomorrow, my unknown, ripe with hope.
Wednesday 14 January 2009
Yesterday or tomorrow? (Heather)
If you had to choose between yesterday and tomorrow, which would you pick and why? (500 words or fewer)
The question shimmered in the air: yesterday or tomorrow? Past or future? People everywhere turned their heads, sniffed the air, sensed their way into the familiar question…
Davey promptly picked tomorrow. He paused on his tricycle while he watched Pat receding into the distance, pedals flashing on his Cougar bike. Pat was something else. He did a wheelie everytime he went by and Davey could hardly wait til he was ’WAY past three and could do wheelies himself. But truth be told, Davey only thought about it for a twelfth of a second, and then went back to high speed tricycling. Davey mostly just lived smack in the present, and never bothered himself with yesterday or tomorrow at all.
Nearby, Sal sniffed the question and promptly chose PAST. Up until a few months ago life had been good, really take-it-for-granted good. Year 3 was easy-peasy, Dad was teaching her softball, the baby was really cute. Then the baby had died and things went sour. Sal missed him bad enough, but her mum and dad had just disappeared somewhere. I mean, they were there in the flesh but it felt as if you could just wave your hand right through them. So the answer was obvious. Past, past; what a blast; if the past could only last.
In his bedroom, further down the street, Damon hesitated while he struggled with his tie. TOMORROW, all the way. When you’re 17 and still 5’4½”, when your puke-face is covered with zits, when Mrs K croons, “Oh Damon, what a marvellous test result” and you know you’re going to get hammered yet again in the change rooms, when not one girl will dance with you tonight at the formal… DUH. But in a few months he’d be off to university, majoring in physics, working in the lab, doing stuff he loved with intelligent people. Like most questions, this one was simple.
Across the street, Matthew’s hands shook slightly as he too straightened his tie and cocked his head at the question. Tricky. All those wonderful years of getting to know Victoria, and now, tonight, actually marrying her and having an unbelievable future ahead…so, hard to decide. Either yesterday or tomorrow. Just definitely not today, which was far too scary.
Down the block, Georgia shifted in bed, causing an unpleasant jolt of pain. The question worked its way through the thin mask of painkillers. It’s a stupid question, really. It’s a question keeps you out of the present, and when the present is precious, as things in limited supply often are, why would you ask it? She reached for the hand of her daughter, Annette, who heaved her pregnant body out of the chair near the bed. “Hey, mum, want a cuppa?” Annette clutched at her big belly. “Whew, this guy wants out. And I want him out – I vote for tomorrow.” She kissed Georgia’s dry cheek. “Hang on, mum, any day now.” Inside her, baby Matthew, uneasy at the thickening and quickening around him, could not discern the question.
Meanwhile, the question stirred on its endless, restless path.
The question shimmered in the air: yesterday or tomorrow? Past or future? People everywhere turned their heads, sniffed the air, sensed their way into the familiar question…
Davey promptly picked tomorrow. He paused on his tricycle while he watched Pat receding into the distance, pedals flashing on his Cougar bike. Pat was something else. He did a wheelie everytime he went by and Davey could hardly wait til he was ’WAY past three and could do wheelies himself. But truth be told, Davey only thought about it for a twelfth of a second, and then went back to high speed tricycling. Davey mostly just lived smack in the present, and never bothered himself with yesterday or tomorrow at all.
Nearby, Sal sniffed the question and promptly chose PAST. Up until a few months ago life had been good, really take-it-for-granted good. Year 3 was easy-peasy, Dad was teaching her softball, the baby was really cute. Then the baby had died and things went sour. Sal missed him bad enough, but her mum and dad had just disappeared somewhere. I mean, they were there in the flesh but it felt as if you could just wave your hand right through them. So the answer was obvious. Past, past; what a blast; if the past could only last.
In his bedroom, further down the street, Damon hesitated while he struggled with his tie. TOMORROW, all the way. When you’re 17 and still 5’4½”, when your puke-face is covered with zits, when Mrs K croons, “Oh Damon, what a marvellous test result” and you know you’re going to get hammered yet again in the change rooms, when not one girl will dance with you tonight at the formal… DUH. But in a few months he’d be off to university, majoring in physics, working in the lab, doing stuff he loved with intelligent people. Like most questions, this one was simple.
Across the street, Matthew’s hands shook slightly as he too straightened his tie and cocked his head at the question. Tricky. All those wonderful years of getting to know Victoria, and now, tonight, actually marrying her and having an unbelievable future ahead…so, hard to decide. Either yesterday or tomorrow. Just definitely not today, which was far too scary.
Down the block, Georgia shifted in bed, causing an unpleasant jolt of pain. The question worked its way through the thin mask of painkillers. It’s a stupid question, really. It’s a question keeps you out of the present, and when the present is precious, as things in limited supply often are, why would you ask it? She reached for the hand of her daughter, Annette, who heaved her pregnant body out of the chair near the bed. “Hey, mum, want a cuppa?” Annette clutched at her big belly. “Whew, this guy wants out. And I want him out – I vote for tomorrow.” She kissed Georgia’s dry cheek. “Hang on, mum, any day now.” Inside her, baby Matthew, uneasy at the thickening and quickening around him, could not discern the question.
Meanwhile, the question stirred on its endless, restless path.
Sunday 11 January 2009
The Parking Spot - Rick
“Heather, you’ve got to be kidding. Nobody goes to Warringah Mall on Christmas Eve. In fact, nobody goes shopping on Christmas Eve.”
“Oh come on. We haven’t tried it since 1987. Things have probably changed since then. I’ll bet nobody shops anymore on Christmas Eve and we’ll just scoot right in and get the few things I need..”
Well I knew I wasn’t going to win this argument so we might as well get moving. She might even be right about no one going out anymore on Christmas Eve. Besides, I found myself feeling well into the Christmas spirit and anything felt like fun. So off we went.
But as we got to the Mall, I could see that I was right. There were cars backed up outside the parking lot and as we crept along a funny thing happened. I didn’t get angry. I still felt joyful! Hmmmm?
By this time it was dark and as we inched along looking for a parking place, I spotted a pair of backup lights just in front of us. I put on my indicator and waited as they backed out. Success! Luck favors the joyful. Just as I was about to pull in, this bright red Mercedes convertible zooms beside me and shoots into my spot. The guy leaps out, gives us a wave and runs off towards the shops. And an even funnier thing happens. I still don’t get angry and I drive on. Heather sits there stunned. I’m the guy who flies off the handle and turns the inside of the car blue with cursing when I think someone in front of me isn’t driving to my standards.
“Is something wrong Rick?”, she asks. “You’re smiling.”
“I know,” I reply. “It’s like I had one too many pieces of Kerry’s rum Christmas cake. I just can’t get annoyed at anything.”
We continued to inch along and eventually we found a spot that I’m sure was closer to home than to the shops. And still this joyful calm enveloped me.
As fate would have it, our walk to the shops found us coming up on the Mercedes and Heather says to me in this conspiratorial whisper, “Come on. Let’s write “Merry Christmas creep” on his windscreen with my lipstick. There’s no one around.”
“Nope. Just not in me. Let’s go shopping.”
As we approached the car, I heard this far off voice above shout out “Bombs away.” And suddenly this barrage of what looked like and smelled like caribou poo came out of nowhere and filled the front seats of the Mercedes. We stood there stunned and the driver came around the corner and screamed out, “Hey, who did that to my car? I’ll sue!” And he jumped back as another couple of dozen turds landed on the bonnet.
And as the three of us stood there mesmerized by what had just happened, this faint voice was heard from high up somewhere. “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.”
“Oh come on. We haven’t tried it since 1987. Things have probably changed since then. I’ll bet nobody shops anymore on Christmas Eve and we’ll just scoot right in and get the few things I need..”
Well I knew I wasn’t going to win this argument so we might as well get moving. She might even be right about no one going out anymore on Christmas Eve. Besides, I found myself feeling well into the Christmas spirit and anything felt like fun. So off we went.
But as we got to the Mall, I could see that I was right. There were cars backed up outside the parking lot and as we crept along a funny thing happened. I didn’t get angry. I still felt joyful! Hmmmm?
By this time it was dark and as we inched along looking for a parking place, I spotted a pair of backup lights just in front of us. I put on my indicator and waited as they backed out. Success! Luck favors the joyful. Just as I was about to pull in, this bright red Mercedes convertible zooms beside me and shoots into my spot. The guy leaps out, gives us a wave and runs off towards the shops. And an even funnier thing happens. I still don’t get angry and I drive on. Heather sits there stunned. I’m the guy who flies off the handle and turns the inside of the car blue with cursing when I think someone in front of me isn’t driving to my standards.
“Is something wrong Rick?”, she asks. “You’re smiling.”
“I know,” I reply. “It’s like I had one too many pieces of Kerry’s rum Christmas cake. I just can’t get annoyed at anything.”
We continued to inch along and eventually we found a spot that I’m sure was closer to home than to the shops. And still this joyful calm enveloped me.
As fate would have it, our walk to the shops found us coming up on the Mercedes and Heather says to me in this conspiratorial whisper, “Come on. Let’s write “Merry Christmas creep” on his windscreen with my lipstick. There’s no one around.”
“Nope. Just not in me. Let’s go shopping.”
As we approached the car, I heard this far off voice above shout out “Bombs away.” And suddenly this barrage of what looked like and smelled like caribou poo came out of nowhere and filled the front seats of the Mercedes. We stood there stunned and the driver came around the corner and screamed out, “Hey, who did that to my car? I’ll sue!” And he jumped back as another couple of dozen turds landed on the bonnet.
And as the three of us stood there mesmerized by what had just happened, this faint voice was heard from high up somewhere. “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.”
Shopping for the party
What a day. A new car, a new dress and a new man is taking her to the party tonight. Suzanne is sparkling from head to toe. The windows of the car are down, her ponytail is blowing loose strands across her face and the radio is playing her favourite Clive Jones track. She bounces around in the leather seat and fashion ideas bounce around in her head.
“A short silver tunic over her new purple leggings or maybe a frilly but slinky white crepe top” she muses.
In the car park she drives slowly around the perimeter showing off her old fashioned Beetle. It’s beautiful bright red body curves down to big eye-like lights, two of them, and a fancy chrome bumper bar wraps around the corners. She’d just managed to scrape together enough money to buy the second-hand mag wheels and the shiny spokes peep out from under the tiny red body.
She turns up the volume and cruises. The black tarmac sweats and steams in the sun and the white lines beckon and then disappear.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaah, a space” and the Beetle leaps forward.
Suddenly there’s a roar of exhaust just like an angry lion and a deep rumble of heavy bass fills the air, overtakes the sun and has Suzanne’s tummy leap to her throat. She stalls.
The black ute carelessly swerves around the corner and grinds to a halt in Suzanne’s space. Black smoke pours out of the exhaust as the guy continues to accelerate and show his power.
Suzanne shakes her head in disbelief, the ponytail goes wild. She starts to growl.
The engine dies. The truck unloads itself and the guys disappear in the direction of the pub. The sun returns, the quiet returns except for Clive and she looks again at the monster truck.
She bursts out laughing.
The gleaming metal hub caps act like one of those weird mirrors in the fun fair arcade. One minute you are long and thin, the next short and fat. Her Beetle looks like a Noddy’s car, like a toy, like an underinflated red balloon. She jumps out and models down the tarmac catwalk. Her legs are like sticks with big sandled feet. Her tiny denim skirt wouldn’t fit a doll, her body disappears into her head and her pony tail comes down to her knees. At another angle she looks like Humpty Dumpty. Imagine him in a new silver tunic, long slung black leather belt, purple leggings and silver shoes.
She parades around the truck. Giggles keep escaping.
“If only Jane was here. We’d be falling over ourselves laughing, holding our belly’s in pain and tears would be pouring down our faces” she giggles to herself.
“Hi Jane, I’m at the mall. Wanna come shopping?”
“A short silver tunic over her new purple leggings or maybe a frilly but slinky white crepe top” she muses.
In the car park she drives slowly around the perimeter showing off her old fashioned Beetle. It’s beautiful bright red body curves down to big eye-like lights, two of them, and a fancy chrome bumper bar wraps around the corners. She’d just managed to scrape together enough money to buy the second-hand mag wheels and the shiny spokes peep out from under the tiny red body.
She turns up the volume and cruises. The black tarmac sweats and steams in the sun and the white lines beckon and then disappear.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaah, a space” and the Beetle leaps forward.
Suddenly there’s a roar of exhaust just like an angry lion and a deep rumble of heavy bass fills the air, overtakes the sun and has Suzanne’s tummy leap to her throat. She stalls.
The black ute carelessly swerves around the corner and grinds to a halt in Suzanne’s space. Black smoke pours out of the exhaust as the guy continues to accelerate and show his power.
Suzanne shakes her head in disbelief, the ponytail goes wild. She starts to growl.
The engine dies. The truck unloads itself and the guys disappear in the direction of the pub. The sun returns, the quiet returns except for Clive and she looks again at the monster truck.
She bursts out laughing.
The gleaming metal hub caps act like one of those weird mirrors in the fun fair arcade. One minute you are long and thin, the next short and fat. Her Beetle looks like a Noddy’s car, like a toy, like an underinflated red balloon. She jumps out and models down the tarmac catwalk. Her legs are like sticks with big sandled feet. Her tiny denim skirt wouldn’t fit a doll, her body disappears into her head and her pony tail comes down to her knees. At another angle she looks like Humpty Dumpty. Imagine him in a new silver tunic, long slung black leather belt, purple leggings and silver shoes.
She parades around the truck. Giggles keep escaping.
“If only Jane was here. We’d be falling over ourselves laughing, holding our belly’s in pain and tears would be pouring down our faces” she giggles to herself.
“Hi Jane, I’m at the mall. Wanna come shopping?”
A Parking Lesson (Kerry)
A Parking Lesson
“Hey! Get out of there! Can’t you see me? I was here first!”
I yelled in rage and indignation in the privacy of my car. It made no difference of course. The driver slipped out of his car and sashayed past me, ignoring me completely. I was hardly going to confront a young ‘lad’ and explain that it was my car spot he’d just purloined. Instead, tight chested and red-faced though I was, I chose to forgive him. What a saint!
It took me ages to find another parking spot. It’s all a matter of luck. The mall was a popular place to be before Christmas.
The sounds of mounting anger confronted me as I entered the mall. There was a small crowd of curious shoppers gathering in front of the jewellery shop. A security officer bounded down the escalator beside me, two steps at a time, shouting into his walkie-talkie. The crowd parted for the security man. I caught a glimpse of the man who worked in the jewellery store holding a younger man tightly around the chest. A mess of watches had spilled onto the floor. I recognised the younger man. My parking punk.
“You can’t pin anything on me. I was just taking a look,” shouted the Punk.
“Explain how all these got into your pockets then!” rejoined the furious jewellery store manager.
The Punk sullenly did not reply. The security officer took control at this point and led the Punk off for further questioning. The crowd hissed softly as he was taken away.
I could have let it go at that and glowed in the fitting end for my thief but I decided to follow.
As he was being taken up the escalator I could hear the Punk complaining to the security officer.
“I don’t know how those things got in my pocket? I just wandered in for a look. I wanted something for my mum. Somebody must have put them in there. You’ve got to believe me,” he protested.
I could see that the security officer was interested.
“Did you see anybody behaving strangely in the jewellers? Did you talk to anyone?” he asked cautiously.
“Well, there were quite a few people in there. I didn’t talk to anyone. Santa was in there too. Talking to people and giving them presents,” he remembered.
The security officer pricked up his ears.
“Aha,” he exclaimed. “What else do you recall about Santa?”
“He was pretty clumsy. He knocked against me at one stage and didn’t even apologise. I thought he was drunk,” snorted the young man.
“I’ll need you to come up to the office to give me all the details but I think you’ve been a victim of the Karma Santa,” smiled the officer. “He keeps watch in the car park and when he sees any selfish behaviour out there he follows the perpetrator inside and plays a trick on them.”
The Punk looked sheepish.
I grinned to myself. The Punk had been taught a lesson after all.
“Hey! Get out of there! Can’t you see me? I was here first!”
I yelled in rage and indignation in the privacy of my car. It made no difference of course. The driver slipped out of his car and sashayed past me, ignoring me completely. I was hardly going to confront a young ‘lad’ and explain that it was my car spot he’d just purloined. Instead, tight chested and red-faced though I was, I chose to forgive him. What a saint!
It took me ages to find another parking spot. It’s all a matter of luck. The mall was a popular place to be before Christmas.
The sounds of mounting anger confronted me as I entered the mall. There was a small crowd of curious shoppers gathering in front of the jewellery shop. A security officer bounded down the escalator beside me, two steps at a time, shouting into his walkie-talkie. The crowd parted for the security man. I caught a glimpse of the man who worked in the jewellery store holding a younger man tightly around the chest. A mess of watches had spilled onto the floor. I recognised the younger man. My parking punk.
“You can’t pin anything on me. I was just taking a look,” shouted the Punk.
“Explain how all these got into your pockets then!” rejoined the furious jewellery store manager.
The Punk sullenly did not reply. The security officer took control at this point and led the Punk off for further questioning. The crowd hissed softly as he was taken away.
I could have let it go at that and glowed in the fitting end for my thief but I decided to follow.
As he was being taken up the escalator I could hear the Punk complaining to the security officer.
“I don’t know how those things got in my pocket? I just wandered in for a look. I wanted something for my mum. Somebody must have put them in there. You’ve got to believe me,” he protested.
I could see that the security officer was interested.
“Did you see anybody behaving strangely in the jewellers? Did you talk to anyone?” he asked cautiously.
“Well, there were quite a few people in there. I didn’t talk to anyone. Santa was in there too. Talking to people and giving them presents,” he remembered.
The security officer pricked up his ears.
“Aha,” he exclaimed. “What else do you recall about Santa?”
“He was pretty clumsy. He knocked against me at one stage and didn’t even apologise. I thought he was drunk,” snorted the young man.
“I’ll need you to come up to the office to give me all the details but I think you’ve been a victim of the Karma Santa,” smiled the officer. “He keeps watch in the car park and when he sees any selfish behaviour out there he follows the perpetrator inside and plays a trick on them.”
The Punk looked sheepish.
I grinned to myself. The Punk had been taught a lesson after all.
Thursday 8 January 2009
What Valerie did (Heather)
You head to the mall for some holiday shopping and, just as you're about to park, someone steals your parking spot. Do you do something for revenge or do you stay in the holiday spirit and not let it bother you—and let karma do the dirty work?
Valerie leaned her foot on the accelerator, then jammed on the brake. The car rocked and screeched. There wasn’t much ground, or satisfaction, to be gained, but it provided a moment’s relief from the frustration of the stopped traffic in the overcrowded parking lot. For over 20 minutes she had been locked in a crawl of traffic, each car desperately and hopelessly trying to find an empty spot. She couldn’t believe her own idiocy in coming to the shopping centre two days before Christmas. She couldn’t believe the idiocy of all these other lunatics. She couldn’t believe she’d ever get a spot, or even get out of the parking lot.
And suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she caught the flash of the brakelight of the car just to her left, about to leave its spot. She was directly at the rear of the car, unable to back up because of bumper-to-bumper traffic behind her, so she flicked on her indicator and pulled ahead. The car manoeuvred out, and just as Valerie was about to back in, the vehicle to her rear accelerated into the spot.
The magnitude of the offence overwhelmed Valerie. She flung open her door and looked back at the offending vehicle, a large black late-model 4-wheel-drive with opaque windows. She glared, considering the bully who was driving it. Then she raced round to the back of her car, flicked open the boot and grabbed the tyre iron lying there. She strode over to the leering black vehicle, her little sandals tapping fiercely and her white cotton dress in full sail. She slammed the iron into the back window, glass showering everywhere!
…Well, she didn’t, actually. But she could taste how much she wanted to. What she did, after the glare, was huff back into her car, slam the door, and accelerate fiercely almost into the rear of the car stopped a few metres ahead of her.
Heart pounding, she continued the snail’s pace. And then, not three or four minutes later, the miracle finally occurred. A lady returned to her car, arms full of packages, just ahead of Valerie, and the catch was hers, all hers. Moments later she was finally in the mall.
Yes, she was in the mall, but still caught in a desperate kluge of people. All her body wanted to do was run! – run! – run to Myers and run to Target and run to the butchers. But running was not an option in this crowd. A seat on a nearby bench was vacated by a large lady who lurched to her feet directly in Valerie’s path. Valerie leaped onto the seat and shouted, “Stop! Stop, all of you!” Everyone turned toward her. “Can’t you see the insanity of this?! Can’t you see the cost of this rampant commercialism?! Go home, everyone. Go home to the people who love you!”
…Well, she didn’t, actually. What she did, after the large woman lurched in front of her, was grit her teeth almost to the breaking point and continue to force her way forward.
That was just before she saw the Santa. One glance showed him to be bored with the boy on his lap, stifling a yawn, barely even making the motions. Valerie grabbed her handbag and slammed it into the side of the Santa’s head. “Wake up!” she shouted. “Make a connection with this child, for God’s sake. He has only moments of pure belief left to him, help him make the most of them!”
…Well, she didn’t, of course. Because what happened was that her eye was caught by another child, a little girl of perhaps three years old, standing on a bench leaning against her tired mother. A haze of golden hair around her face, the child was transfixed by the activity around her. As Valerie watched, rooted to the spot, the little girl shifted her earnest gaze to a little angel with trumpet dangling just overhead. A smile of appreciation mesmerised her tiny face.
What Valerie actually did at that point was smile herself. She suddenly saw around her people committed to the season and to the others in their lives. A man beside her caught the smile. “Sometimes I’m not sure why we do this,” he said wryly.
“For the moments of wonder,” she replied. “For the moments of connection.” They grinned at each other and bustled on their separate ways.
Valerie leaned her foot on the accelerator, then jammed on the brake. The car rocked and screeched. There wasn’t much ground, or satisfaction, to be gained, but it provided a moment’s relief from the frustration of the stopped traffic in the overcrowded parking lot. For over 20 minutes she had been locked in a crawl of traffic, each car desperately and hopelessly trying to find an empty spot. She couldn’t believe her own idiocy in coming to the shopping centre two days before Christmas. She couldn’t believe the idiocy of all these other lunatics. She couldn’t believe she’d ever get a spot, or even get out of the parking lot.
And suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she caught the flash of the brakelight of the car just to her left, about to leave its spot. She was directly at the rear of the car, unable to back up because of bumper-to-bumper traffic behind her, so she flicked on her indicator and pulled ahead. The car manoeuvred out, and just as Valerie was about to back in, the vehicle to her rear accelerated into the spot.
The magnitude of the offence overwhelmed Valerie. She flung open her door and looked back at the offending vehicle, a large black late-model 4-wheel-drive with opaque windows. She glared, considering the bully who was driving it. Then she raced round to the back of her car, flicked open the boot and grabbed the tyre iron lying there. She strode over to the leering black vehicle, her little sandals tapping fiercely and her white cotton dress in full sail. She slammed the iron into the back window, glass showering everywhere!
…Well, she didn’t, actually. But she could taste how much she wanted to. What she did, after the glare, was huff back into her car, slam the door, and accelerate fiercely almost into the rear of the car stopped a few metres ahead of her.
Heart pounding, she continued the snail’s pace. And then, not three or four minutes later, the miracle finally occurred. A lady returned to her car, arms full of packages, just ahead of Valerie, and the catch was hers, all hers. Moments later she was finally in the mall.
Yes, she was in the mall, but still caught in a desperate kluge of people. All her body wanted to do was run! – run! – run to Myers and run to Target and run to the butchers. But running was not an option in this crowd. A seat on a nearby bench was vacated by a large lady who lurched to her feet directly in Valerie’s path. Valerie leaped onto the seat and shouted, “Stop! Stop, all of you!” Everyone turned toward her. “Can’t you see the insanity of this?! Can’t you see the cost of this rampant commercialism?! Go home, everyone. Go home to the people who love you!”
…Well, she didn’t, actually. What she did, after the large woman lurched in front of her, was grit her teeth almost to the breaking point and continue to force her way forward.
That was just before she saw the Santa. One glance showed him to be bored with the boy on his lap, stifling a yawn, barely even making the motions. Valerie grabbed her handbag and slammed it into the side of the Santa’s head. “Wake up!” she shouted. “Make a connection with this child, for God’s sake. He has only moments of pure belief left to him, help him make the most of them!”
…Well, she didn’t, of course. Because what happened was that her eye was caught by another child, a little girl of perhaps three years old, standing on a bench leaning against her tired mother. A haze of golden hair around her face, the child was transfixed by the activity around her. As Valerie watched, rooted to the spot, the little girl shifted her earnest gaze to a little angel with trumpet dangling just overhead. A smile of appreciation mesmerised her tiny face.
What Valerie actually did at that point was smile herself. She suddenly saw around her people committed to the season and to the others in their lives. A man beside her caught the smile. “Sometimes I’m not sure why we do this,” he said wryly.
“For the moments of wonder,” she replied. “For the moments of connection.” They grinned at each other and bustled on their separate ways.
Sunday 4 January 2009
The Pink Ute
The pink ute suddenly slows down in the soft sand. Janet stops bumping up and down in her booster seat and peers out. It’s like a fairy glade. Sparkling water glistens from a pool and trees float and wave in the wind. Sand fills up the picture. Mounds of red flour are heaped against the trees and form banks to the little pool.
“I can have a swim. Yeeeeeeeh” and Janet starts to bounce again.
“Can I Mum, can I?”
“No darling, this is water for drinking. For filling up our tanks.”
“Oh Mum. Whyyyyyyyyyyyy?”
“You know that if dirty bodies get into the spring then it will spoil the water. Remember all that soapy scum we left back at the caravan park? And just look at you. How did you get so filthy?”
Janet looks down at her little black shorts. Red dusty streaks make tracks across the pockets and the edge of the hem is almost dripping more dust. Her knees are black and red, an ugly mix of grease from the ute and more red dust. Her long blond hair feels matted and stiff.
She peers out of the side window and hidden up in the trees is a tin shack. It’s lopsided and the door hangs open from just one corner.
“We’ll grab a shower or at least clean off the dust over in that shed over there” says Dad.
“I’m not, I’m not going near that shed Mum, never. You can’t make me” and she stamps her bare foot into the air.
“It’ll be OK darling, Dad will go with you”
But Janet knew they’d be there. There, hiding under the toilet seat. There, clinging to some sort of shower hose and there, hiding in the damp dark corners. Some people love them, some thought they were cute, but Janet was terrified of the little green glossy frogs. The just sit silently and they are so still. They never move. At home, once, she found one clinging and hugging the shampoo bottle. And their little black eye specks just stare.
Dad pushes his seat forward and undoes Janet’s seat belt. She flings herself to the other side and almost topples to the floor. He grabs her. In no time, they’ve crossed the fairy glade, now a monster glade and Dad is trying to move the rusty old door.
“No, Dad, No I’m not going in there” and she drums her little fists on his back. It sounds hollow and hopeless. Red hot tears run down her cheeks, her nose runs too. She kicks his back. She nearly chokes.
Dad puts her down. Her legs feel like jelly and they crumple. She flops onto the ground and a cloud of red dust surrounds her. Her face is rough and scratchy as she burys her hands in her eyes.
“No Dad” a little whimper escapes.
The door flies off it’s only hinge. Sunlight bursts into the little shed. Six little tree frogs are crouched on the metal sink. They hop onto the edge and start to sing.
“Dashing through the bush in a rusty holden ute ……………………”
Janet giggles, hiccups and bursts out laughing.
“Dad, it is a fairy glade”
“I can have a swim. Yeeeeeeeh” and Janet starts to bounce again.
“Can I Mum, can I?”
“No darling, this is water for drinking. For filling up our tanks.”
“Oh Mum. Whyyyyyyyyyyyy?”
“You know that if dirty bodies get into the spring then it will spoil the water. Remember all that soapy scum we left back at the caravan park? And just look at you. How did you get so filthy?”
Janet looks down at her little black shorts. Red dusty streaks make tracks across the pockets and the edge of the hem is almost dripping more dust. Her knees are black and red, an ugly mix of grease from the ute and more red dust. Her long blond hair feels matted and stiff.
She peers out of the side window and hidden up in the trees is a tin shack. It’s lopsided and the door hangs open from just one corner.
“We’ll grab a shower or at least clean off the dust over in that shed over there” says Dad.
“I’m not, I’m not going near that shed Mum, never. You can’t make me” and she stamps her bare foot into the air.
“It’ll be OK darling, Dad will go with you”
But Janet knew they’d be there. There, hiding under the toilet seat. There, clinging to some sort of shower hose and there, hiding in the damp dark corners. Some people love them, some thought they were cute, but Janet was terrified of the little green glossy frogs. The just sit silently and they are so still. They never move. At home, once, she found one clinging and hugging the shampoo bottle. And their little black eye specks just stare.
Dad pushes his seat forward and undoes Janet’s seat belt. She flings herself to the other side and almost topples to the floor. He grabs her. In no time, they’ve crossed the fairy glade, now a monster glade and Dad is trying to move the rusty old door.
“No, Dad, No I’m not going in there” and she drums her little fists on his back. It sounds hollow and hopeless. Red hot tears run down her cheeks, her nose runs too. She kicks his back. She nearly chokes.
Dad puts her down. Her legs feel like jelly and they crumple. She flops onto the ground and a cloud of red dust surrounds her. Her face is rough and scratchy as she burys her hands in her eyes.
“No Dad” a little whimper escapes.
The door flies off it’s only hinge. Sunlight bursts into the little shed. Six little tree frogs are crouched on the metal sink. They hop onto the edge and start to sing.
“Dashing through the bush in a rusty holden ute ……………………”
Janet giggles, hiccups and bursts out laughing.
“Dad, it is a fairy glade”
The Outing - Rick B
“If I’m so smart and so rich, why am I so afraid?” That’s what I keep asking myself. I can’t figure out how this got started. I was ok when I was a boy and loved being outdoors. I loved to go down to the harbour on New Year’s Eve with my parents and watch the fireworks. But somewhere in my 20’s I started to get these anxieties when I went to work. The anxieties built up into dread and the dread into panic attacks. And one day about 4 years ago I stopped going outside altogether.
I’ve stayed in my apartment ever since. IN my apartment. Haven’t even left to take a walk around the block. Don’t even go down to the lobby. I’m a computer programmer and very, very good at my work. I write security modules for brokerage houses and I can do all of my work at home, delivering the finished goods over the internet. Because I write all the security modules, I also know all the entry points and let’s just say that some of the information I’ve had access to has paid off very, very well. And I can order anything I want over the internet and have it delivered here. I’ve got my 3rd bedroom converted to a gym and I workout. I watch my diet, keep my brain active. So what’s my problem?
Well I did a dumb thing. I got lonely and used the internet to find a girl friend. I just wanted someone to chat with, someone besides other programmers and stock broker types. Safe, anonymous – just friendly and sociable. But it was a good news, bad news type of story. The good news is I found someone, the bad news is I fell in love with her. She really liked me too and the extra good news/bad news is that she lives here in Sydney, not somewhere like Boise, Idaho or wherever. One thing led to another and we agreed to a date. We were going to meet down the block at Starbucks. I thought I could break out and do it. But at the last minute I had one of the worst panic attacks ever. I called her up and told her I had a work emergency and would she mind picking up a couple of coffees and coming up to my place. She was a bit suspicious but I guess she liked me more than she feared I was some sort of whacko so she came up. And we had the best time. Since then she’s been here 7 or 8 times but finally confronted me for an explanation. I told her everything, all about my agoraphobia, and she didn’t even laugh.
We agreed that we both wanted a world together, but not forever just here in my apartment. So twice now we’ve agreed to meet and go to Starbucks. And twice I chickened out and couldn’t do it. Well this is it. Three strikes and your out. We do it now or I’m finished. I’ll call her on her mobile.
“Hello honey, it’s me. Where are you now?”
“Just outside. Great. Listen just keep talking. I think if I listen to your voice and not my mental chatter I’ll be ok. I’m pressing the down button.”
“Ok, I’m coming down. Just keep talking. I’ll listen to your voice.”
“I’m going to do this. I’m so bloody afraid I think my heart’s going to stop.”
“Oh, I can see you now out on the street. Hey, you’re crying. Aw, don’t do that. Hold on, I’m coming out to kiss them away.”
And I did!
I’ve stayed in my apartment ever since. IN my apartment. Haven’t even left to take a walk around the block. Don’t even go down to the lobby. I’m a computer programmer and very, very good at my work. I write security modules for brokerage houses and I can do all of my work at home, delivering the finished goods over the internet. Because I write all the security modules, I also know all the entry points and let’s just say that some of the information I’ve had access to has paid off very, very well. And I can order anything I want over the internet and have it delivered here. I’ve got my 3rd bedroom converted to a gym and I workout. I watch my diet, keep my brain active. So what’s my problem?
Well I did a dumb thing. I got lonely and used the internet to find a girl friend. I just wanted someone to chat with, someone besides other programmers and stock broker types. Safe, anonymous – just friendly and sociable. But it was a good news, bad news type of story. The good news is I found someone, the bad news is I fell in love with her. She really liked me too and the extra good news/bad news is that she lives here in Sydney, not somewhere like Boise, Idaho or wherever. One thing led to another and we agreed to a date. We were going to meet down the block at Starbucks. I thought I could break out and do it. But at the last minute I had one of the worst panic attacks ever. I called her up and told her I had a work emergency and would she mind picking up a couple of coffees and coming up to my place. She was a bit suspicious but I guess she liked me more than she feared I was some sort of whacko so she came up. And we had the best time. Since then she’s been here 7 or 8 times but finally confronted me for an explanation. I told her everything, all about my agoraphobia, and she didn’t even laugh.
We agreed that we both wanted a world together, but not forever just here in my apartment. So twice now we’ve agreed to meet and go to Starbucks. And twice I chickened out and couldn’t do it. Well this is it. Three strikes and your out. We do it now or I’m finished. I’ll call her on her mobile.
“Hello honey, it’s me. Where are you now?”
“Just outside. Great. Listen just keep talking. I think if I listen to your voice and not my mental chatter I’ll be ok. I’m pressing the down button.”
“Ok, I’m coming down. Just keep talking. I’ll listen to your voice.”
“I’m going to do this. I’m so bloody afraid I think my heart’s going to stop.”
“Oh, I can see you now out on the street. Hey, you’re crying. Aw, don’t do that. Hold on, I’m coming out to kiss them away.”
And I did!
Considering the Murray-Darling project
Murray-Darling Project
Before I proceed any further with my declared game of creating a proposal for a PhD on the Murray-Darling, I want to clarify my thinking on the idea of doing a PhD and the idea of the PhD being on the Murray-Darling.
Why do I want to do a PhD?
One of the things I enjoyed about doing my Master’s degree was the opportunity to do research, a new experience for me. I loved having the freedom to follow a line of thought through multiple sources and to trace through the new ideas that emerged in the process. I look forward to doing more research and undertaking a PhD would allow me to take this on in a structured environment.
I see doing a PhD as a way of keeping my brain active. I want to be undertaking activities that keep me thinking and challenge me beyond what I already know. The work involved in a PhD would have me engaged in conversations with staff and other students on all manner of subjects. It would also be necessary for me to present papers and ideas to audiences of staff and students. Although at this stage that is a daunting process I want to push myself in the area of articulating ideas and public speaking.
I enjoy writing and am comfortable with writing in an ‘academic’ way if that is necessary. At least using footnotes, references and so on is not a problem and I like the discipline it brings to the writing.
The PhD would also require me to create a body of artwork. Working in an environment with a community of artists and a supervisor to bounce ideas off can stimulate interesting and creative work that pushes the boundaries. This is how I would like to approach my art practice.
Why base the PhD on the Murray-Darling?
The idea of a PhD is that it makes a contribution to knowledge. I have a particular connection with the Murray River having grown up in the Murray Valley. I explored this theme to a limited extent in my Master’s thesis. I think it’s not so much that I have a particular bond with this country but that it is familiar country. Unless I find a more passionate idea to do with the Murray-Darling this familiarity with the country is not sufficient to base a PhD on.
On the other hand, doing research on the Murray would strengthen my connection to that land. For instance, it could be an opportunity to trace the history of the aboriginal population in the area around Echuca. I went to school with aboriginal children who lived on the ‘reservation’ at Barmah and thought very little about their circumstances. It would be interesting to find out what went on before my time in that regard. And to see what is happening with the Indigenous people now, particularly to follow up any creative activities they may be undertaking. At a conference last year I heard about how each Indigenous community in Victoria had made a possum skin coat as a ritual or sacred object for the community to use in special ceremonies. I loved that idea. Perhaps the people on the Murray have a special story or practice that would be of interest. Or perhaps there are no people left from that community. This would have to be checked out for any proposal.
I am particularly drawn to the historical aspects of a study. This may form the basis for the whole study or may be background for a contemporary study.
My intention is to continue exploring my interest in the Murray River country as a basis for a PhD proposal and transform it into a passion for a particular aspect of that country.
Kerry
4/1/08
Before I proceed any further with my declared game of creating a proposal for a PhD on the Murray-Darling, I want to clarify my thinking on the idea of doing a PhD and the idea of the PhD being on the Murray-Darling.
Why do I want to do a PhD?
One of the things I enjoyed about doing my Master’s degree was the opportunity to do research, a new experience for me. I loved having the freedom to follow a line of thought through multiple sources and to trace through the new ideas that emerged in the process. I look forward to doing more research and undertaking a PhD would allow me to take this on in a structured environment.
I see doing a PhD as a way of keeping my brain active. I want to be undertaking activities that keep me thinking and challenge me beyond what I already know. The work involved in a PhD would have me engaged in conversations with staff and other students on all manner of subjects. It would also be necessary for me to present papers and ideas to audiences of staff and students. Although at this stage that is a daunting process I want to push myself in the area of articulating ideas and public speaking.
I enjoy writing and am comfortable with writing in an ‘academic’ way if that is necessary. At least using footnotes, references and so on is not a problem and I like the discipline it brings to the writing.
The PhD would also require me to create a body of artwork. Working in an environment with a community of artists and a supervisor to bounce ideas off can stimulate interesting and creative work that pushes the boundaries. This is how I would like to approach my art practice.
Why base the PhD on the Murray-Darling?
The idea of a PhD is that it makes a contribution to knowledge. I have a particular connection with the Murray River having grown up in the Murray Valley. I explored this theme to a limited extent in my Master’s thesis. I think it’s not so much that I have a particular bond with this country but that it is familiar country. Unless I find a more passionate idea to do with the Murray-Darling this familiarity with the country is not sufficient to base a PhD on.
On the other hand, doing research on the Murray would strengthen my connection to that land. For instance, it could be an opportunity to trace the history of the aboriginal population in the area around Echuca. I went to school with aboriginal children who lived on the ‘reservation’ at Barmah and thought very little about their circumstances. It would be interesting to find out what went on before my time in that regard. And to see what is happening with the Indigenous people now, particularly to follow up any creative activities they may be undertaking. At a conference last year I heard about how each Indigenous community in Victoria had made a possum skin coat as a ritual or sacred object for the community to use in special ceremonies. I loved that idea. Perhaps the people on the Murray have a special story or practice that would be of interest. Or perhaps there are no people left from that community. This would have to be checked out for any proposal.
I am particularly drawn to the historical aspects of a study. This may form the basis for the whole study or may be background for a contemporary study.
My intention is to continue exploring my interest in the Murray River country as a basis for a PhD proposal and transform it into a passion for a particular aspect of that country.
Kerry
4/1/08
Saturday 3 January 2009
A question of courage (Heather)
Some piece of ancient wisdom has it that the majority of people would rather be the person in the coffin at a funeral than the one delivering the eulogy. I’m dubious, but there is one person I’ve known who I believe might have made that choice.
Her name was Terry Kaiser and she was in my Grade 11 English class. She was a better-than-average student, short and cute with bobbed hair framing a laughing round face. She was well-liked by everyone.
The problem arose when I announced to the class that we were about to launch into a 6 week public speaking module. While no one was passionately looking forward to it that I could see, Terry was the only one who came to me and confessed a terror of public speaking.
“We’ll ease into it,” I suggested. “You’ll be just fine.”
Having taken this optimistic view of things, it was a bit of surprise when, on the Monday of people’s first presentations (a 2 minute speech about a hobby or pastime), Terry wobbled to the front of the room, turned to face the group, weaved slightly, and dropped like a rock. We’d barely got a rescue operation organised when her eyes began fluttering and she was back in action. She refused to leave the room and sat at her desk for the rest of the class, white face propped on her hands.
We conferred at the end of the class. “Take it slow,” I said. “If you want to tackle it again, we’ll take a smaller bite – perhaps just come to the front, look at your audience, take a few breaths and go back to your seat.”
“I just want to be normal!” she replied.
I pointed out that she was perhaps more normal than she thought and we left it at that.
Wednesday, the next class, I exercised newfound prudence and introduced the session with some breathing exercises. Part way into the presentations, Terry came to the front, deep-breathing wildly. Bernice and Kevin, in their front row desks, poised on the edge of their seats, ready for the catch. Terry faced us, turned green and looked about wildly. Bernice grabbed the wastepaper basket and Terry chucked up her breakfast into the bin.
Third time lucky – Friday was a raging success. Terry tried again, this time choosing to immediately sit tailor-fashion on the floor. Amid long deep breaths, she eventually looked up and tucked a dangling lock of hair behind an ear. She hadn’t said a word but her classmates applauded her generously. She returned to her seat with a hint of a skip in her step.
That was the turning point. From there, Terry managed to deliver a 17-syllable haiku, a 1 minute presentation on her hobby (ice skating), a little essay on world peace and ultimately, her piece de resistance, a passionate story about her collie Flaps, who had died recently. It was a gentle, heartfelt and thoroughly heart-warming tribute.
We’d narrowly avoided the funeral and Flaps the collie got a wonderful eulogy.
Her name was Terry Kaiser and she was in my Grade 11 English class. She was a better-than-average student, short and cute with bobbed hair framing a laughing round face. She was well-liked by everyone.
The problem arose when I announced to the class that we were about to launch into a 6 week public speaking module. While no one was passionately looking forward to it that I could see, Terry was the only one who came to me and confessed a terror of public speaking.
“We’ll ease into it,” I suggested. “You’ll be just fine.”
Having taken this optimistic view of things, it was a bit of surprise when, on the Monday of people’s first presentations (a 2 minute speech about a hobby or pastime), Terry wobbled to the front of the room, turned to face the group, weaved slightly, and dropped like a rock. We’d barely got a rescue operation organised when her eyes began fluttering and she was back in action. She refused to leave the room and sat at her desk for the rest of the class, white face propped on her hands.
We conferred at the end of the class. “Take it slow,” I said. “If you want to tackle it again, we’ll take a smaller bite – perhaps just come to the front, look at your audience, take a few breaths and go back to your seat.”
“I just want to be normal!” she replied.
I pointed out that she was perhaps more normal than she thought and we left it at that.
Wednesday, the next class, I exercised newfound prudence and introduced the session with some breathing exercises. Part way into the presentations, Terry came to the front, deep-breathing wildly. Bernice and Kevin, in their front row desks, poised on the edge of their seats, ready for the catch. Terry faced us, turned green and looked about wildly. Bernice grabbed the wastepaper basket and Terry chucked up her breakfast into the bin.
Third time lucky – Friday was a raging success. Terry tried again, this time choosing to immediately sit tailor-fashion on the floor. Amid long deep breaths, she eventually looked up and tucked a dangling lock of hair behind an ear. She hadn’t said a word but her classmates applauded her generously. She returned to her seat with a hint of a skip in her step.
That was the turning point. From there, Terry managed to deliver a 17-syllable haiku, a 1 minute presentation on her hobby (ice skating), a little essay on world peace and ultimately, her piece de resistance, a passionate story about her collie Flaps, who had died recently. It was a gentle, heartfelt and thoroughly heart-warming tribute.
We’d narrowly avoided the funeral and Flaps the collie got a wonderful eulogy.
Thursday 1 January 2009
A mother's nightmare (Kerry)
A mother’s nightmare
Max is not in the house. He must have climbed out of his cot and wandered outside. Mandy knows he can get from the house to the machinery shed very quickly for a toddler. She dashes to the back door. There is no sign of him on the track to the shed. She would be able to see him through the front window if he was walking to the main road. The driveway is long and straight; nowhere to hide. He can’t get through the fence around the house but from the verandah she sees the side gate is open. Her worst fears are realised. He has gone into the paddock.
It’s only a few weeks since Mandy came out to the farm to be with Max’s dad. It was a big decision to move to the country. Until then she had been a city girl. She loved the high-rise buildings, paved roads, public transport and easy access to shops. It was safe. She was protected. Dave had listened sympathetically to her concerns about leaving the city but he had thought she would get used to the country life soon enough.
Mandy is dressed in shorts, socks and runners. She has no time to put on her leather boots, her protectors or her long pants. Max must be found quickly. It is a hot, windy day; too dangerous for him to be out there in the paddock on his own.
She hurries out onto the verandah and jumps down onto the close-cropped lawn. As she runs across the lawn to the gate her anxiety begins to mount. She is sweating. Her thoughts are confused. She fights to maintain control. She must find Max.
At the gate Mandy hesitates. She forces herself to look into the paddock. The long dry grass stands before her, a hostile army with swords drawn. In some places she can see that it is nearly knee high. The wind dislodges grass seed missiles and sends them flying across the paddock through the heat of the afternoon. Mandy knows they are looking for her. She is acutely aware of the little daggers hidden in the grass at her feet. She recognises the prickle of weapons in the clumps of burrs in the distance. There are no paths, no bare places for refuge. She must simply wade into it, unprotected.
“Max, Max. I’m coming. Where are you?” she cries out over the shimmering arsenal.
The cawing of crows in the trees is her only reply. She turns to the sound and notices a narrow pathway to her left where the grass has been crushed. Max must have gone that way.
“Max. It’s Mummy. Where are you?” she calls again.
She hears a muffled cry and, ignoring the army in her way, tramples it underfoot in her rush to find her boy. He has tripped on a stone and fallen. She finds him, unhurt, lying on the soft protection of the thick grass.
Kerry MacAulay
2Jan09
Max is not in the house. He must have climbed out of his cot and wandered outside. Mandy knows he can get from the house to the machinery shed very quickly for a toddler. She dashes to the back door. There is no sign of him on the track to the shed. She would be able to see him through the front window if he was walking to the main road. The driveway is long and straight; nowhere to hide. He can’t get through the fence around the house but from the verandah she sees the side gate is open. Her worst fears are realised. He has gone into the paddock.
It’s only a few weeks since Mandy came out to the farm to be with Max’s dad. It was a big decision to move to the country. Until then she had been a city girl. She loved the high-rise buildings, paved roads, public transport and easy access to shops. It was safe. She was protected. Dave had listened sympathetically to her concerns about leaving the city but he had thought she would get used to the country life soon enough.
Mandy is dressed in shorts, socks and runners. She has no time to put on her leather boots, her protectors or her long pants. Max must be found quickly. It is a hot, windy day; too dangerous for him to be out there in the paddock on his own.
She hurries out onto the verandah and jumps down onto the close-cropped lawn. As she runs across the lawn to the gate her anxiety begins to mount. She is sweating. Her thoughts are confused. She fights to maintain control. She must find Max.
At the gate Mandy hesitates. She forces herself to look into the paddock. The long dry grass stands before her, a hostile army with swords drawn. In some places she can see that it is nearly knee high. The wind dislodges grass seed missiles and sends them flying across the paddock through the heat of the afternoon. Mandy knows they are looking for her. She is acutely aware of the little daggers hidden in the grass at her feet. She recognises the prickle of weapons in the clumps of burrs in the distance. There are no paths, no bare places for refuge. She must simply wade into it, unprotected.
“Max, Max. I’m coming. Where are you?” she cries out over the shimmering arsenal.
The cawing of crows in the trees is her only reply. She turns to the sound and notices a narrow pathway to her left where the grass has been crushed. Max must have gone that way.
“Max. It’s Mummy. Where are you?” she calls again.
She hears a muffled cry and, ignoring the army in her way, tramples it underfoot in her rush to find her boy. He has tripped on a stone and fallen. She finds him, unhurt, lying on the soft protection of the thick grass.
Kerry MacAulay
2Jan09
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