Prose 2021+
MO : Prose 2001-4 | Prose 2021+ | Songs 1972-4, 2021-3 |
Prose Writings #2
The following prose was substantially written in connection with membership of the South Coast Writers Centre (SCWC) from March 2021, plus other inspirations, such as music and song, dating from November 2020. Some of the SCWC material is mere 10 minute writing exercises and very rushed; others have been edited ad infinitum..... It is all quite Dada-ish really.
Badger
No more badgering or unwelcome conversations
Trying to upset you, argue with,berate you
Finding joy in seeing, feeling, you cry, die.
No more of that fun, >hurting some one
Should I move on, give that a try?
I don't see why not
So - goodbye!
You hurt and desert me
abandon and ignore
accuse and abuse
as the angers rises
and gets much more 'n more
>No!;
Stop! I say
Hang up the phone, shut the door
No more, no more!
I just stand here alone
now
all alone
now
I cry
I die .....
18 August 2021
----------------------------
Magpies and crackling frost …
6:52 am, Friday, late July. -2 degrees. Freezing. Murrumburrah. I stand by the door and stare outside at the backyard. The ground is a patchwork of white and green, an icy frost atop a grassy base. I open the door to the biting breeze and step out, tentatively. There is nothing to hear but the sound of the morning – just the magpies singing their tuneful song, to each other and the world. To me? Perhaps. It does not matter, as I enjoy their song and don’t mind the five o’clock wake up call. But I’m already eyes half open by then, in that dream inducing period just before the dawn. One tends to go to bed early out here in the country. Well, that’s what I'm noticing since arriving some three months ago. As the sun goes down and a quiet stillness descends, it seems the natural thing to do. You don’t fight it, and I follow my gut instinct here. No more of those 11 to midnight online streaming video binge sessions, trying to relax after a hard day's work, waking bleary eyed the next at six, and off again half an hour later. No, that’s all behind me now. COVID-19 killed that; killed my job, my everyday engagement with life beyond the four walls of home, apart from family and friends of course (smiley). Sure, I still have the internet and all it offers in the virtual realm, but I miss real people, real conversations, real in-the-flesh engagement with my extended circle of people I know, and people I am yet to know. The sounds, smell and touch of others – a smile, a handshake, a cup of hot chocolate, a meeting – timely or tiresome; idle chit chat about the weather and such, or in depth, intellectual interactions, listening and being listened to. So much of that is gone as the COVID-19 lock down lingers on and on, and I transform from participant to pensioner; from hand washing and mask wearing as the new thing to do in 2020, from COVID-19 skeptic, to evading the silent and deadly Delta strain of 2021 with the help of an AZ injection. The coronavirus has come and gone and come back again. But I don’t think of that this morning, for I am attuned to the sound of the magpies, and mindful of the cold. And regards the magpies? Well, it’s nesting time, the end of winter, moving into spring. And whilst it’s still freezing, dark and raining, the weather is unpredictable and intermittently cool, clear, and sunny - a veritable four seasons in one day. And the magpies build their nests, stealing twigs and bits of thrown out carpet from my backyard as they await the birth of young ones. I’ve been told to cover my head, wear a cap, for the males will swoop, driven by surging testosterone. But they know me; they’re my friends, aren’t they? I talk to them, and I think they talk, or sing, back to me. They come up close, do their thing, pick and peck. There is no fear there. Not like the pink and grey galahs who scurry away en mass as I approach. The sound this morning? Well, apart from the magpies, I hear a strange crackling. I look down. It’s the frost - the ice lifting itself off the grass and turning to water, with the green leaves of clover and bed of poaceae no doubt glad to be free of the heavy white, stopping the warmth of the rising sun. It both kills and replenishes, the frost that is, not the sun. Strange that …. 8.37 am. I walk up to the shops for my milk and eggs. Almost there, I decide to sit down on the bus stop, take out my phone and open an app to record thoughts on the warm, dry seat which faces the sun. The shelter keeps the cold, westerly breeze away as well; there is no frost here now, though it is still freezing as the warming rays of the blue sky hit my face, and I linger, letting thoughts come. “What the hell am I doing here!” The words from that Jackson C. Frank song ring loudly in my head, he the most tragic of all singer songwriters from the Sixties. Frank’s few recordings are poignant, wistful, and intense. As an individual human he was damaged - burnt - and unattractive, both physically and consciously. But that's another story; his story. So, why am I here, in the rural south western slopes of New South Wales? In sheep and cherry country, surrounded by rolling hills with ploughed and pastured fields, a sprinkle of houses and sheds, a town or two nestled on the landscape and left just as quickly as entered on the drive east to west, or west to east. I’m a Bulli boy, a beach boy, coastal, raised in a small town on Wollongong’s northern suburbs, 80 klicks south of the Sydney metropolis. That's where I grew up; that's where my family was and is. That's where I feel I belong. It is my place, and I sense it, deeply. The beach, the sand and the breaking waves of the ocean, the small, rocky peninsulas, and the strip of land ‘twixt mountain and sea upon which we all cling, criss-crossed by deep, fast flowing creeks in winter. There I sat on that little cliff’s edge, looking out into the endless panorama before me, where the sky met the sea in a straight line that went on forever. I stared longingly at the ever-changing, moving white clouds, sometimes grey, sometimes rainbows, and sometimes nothing but blue which formed the driverless drive-in theatre of my youth. We saw it all in that place - a magnificent view that became part of me, provided peace and nourished body and soul. But there's no beach here. Just an old town, or towns, that saw their heyday in the Roaring 20s – a bustling railway junction on the main line between Sydney and Melbourne. Populated with hundreds of itinerant workers, alongside the locals and overnight travellers forced to disembark as the steam engines were rested and replenished with coal and water and enginemen and guards. The travellers and tourists would hop off into the cold night air; be marched to a nearby hotel to wait their turn for a bed and breakfast, before heading back on board and on their way – north, south, or westerly on a branch line. All the pubs are closed now, bar one in each of the twin towns – Harden and Murrumburrah. Like siblings, they are the same but different - the towns that is, not the pubs. One rash and cold, the other warm and old. No longer do they thrive on the men drinking at the bar, the families taking an evening meal, the backpackers resting after a day picking cherries. They are still, silent, rotting away as residences or empty. I walked down the main drag, past an old pub where there is a smashed window that wasn't there before; a week later, it's still smashed. Nobody cares. Now it's just another building in a half dead streetscape. The flaking paint and boarded up windows, out of place doors and satellite dishes that sit high beside Victoria Bitter signs lit up no more – all relics of a past life. Buildings stripped of their molded cement features and iron lacework and timber balconies – a beautiful facade – with the latter ordered torn down by the local Council back in the late Sixties. Why? Who knows? But the old black and white and sepia photos and postcards show them in all their glory, with women in work gowns standing on the top floor, leaning over the railing, keeping still for the camera; or the bullock train newly arrived from South Australia, with the drivers standing proudly beside their animals, unmoving as well, before quenching their thirst at the bar. It’s 1898. So many shots of them all, such that it's hard to tell the old pubs and inns apart. Fourteen in the two towns, between the 1850s and now. Half demolished, the other half still standing in one form or another. Two open for business, though when one walks through the door, orders a beer, and gets asked “Would you like the receipt?”, the feeling is that the establishment may be on its last legs, loosing out to the internet, home entertaining, COVID-19 and the bottle shop in the supermarket down the road. It’s hard to get plastered when you are masked up and socially distanced. But that is all in the past, anyway.... 9.10 am. The frost is lifting, the air is 10 degrees – warm enough to walk with freedom in the sun. I look around. There is no one about, no one taking a walk in the morning. The cars are parked, the houses locked down – windows with drawn blinds, smoke and kerosene smell rising from the chimneys. No sign of life apart from that. Even the dogs behind fences are mute. Not like home, where, in the lockdown, hundreds are escaping at all hours of the day and night for ‘exercise’ along the paths – any path! – up hills, by the sea, in the bush. Wherever. Masked up, they scurry along, heads down, alone, or with kids and a single friend perhaps, all happy just to be out of the house, out of confinement, though in the back of their minds terrified that that person walking the other way, getting closer now, is going to cough or breathe on them and infect them with the dreaded Delta variant. They hope for an asymptomatic response, or speedy death. There is not much in between, at least in the minds of the masses. So, they move aside, head down, stop breathing for a moment until the threat has passed. Then they walk on and thank God for the open space that is available to them. Meanwhile, in Murra, I look around and the lonely, lifeless streets seems to go on forever. I walk to the shops along the main road. Cars pass by, taking kids to school or their drivers to work. Big trucks labour up the small incline, or down the other way, slowly to 50 Ks. I see B-doubles carrying sheep and cattle to the slaughter, refrigerated trucks with food, carcasses, vegetables, and others with hay, parcels, white goods and timber. Road trains. Some travel through the night, lit up from front to rear like a carnival attraction. The one down the road turns on its engine at 5am; warms it up for half and hour then heads off as the sun begins to rise. And in the night, I hear in the distance those other trains – the real trains – lumbering along the line past Harden railway station – heritage listed but abandoned by all apart from the pigeons and careless travellers such as myself who wait for the few Countrylink express which passes through each day. Otherwise, the line is busy with goods trains a kilometre long, going on for ever with their wagons full of wheat, or trays of iron and steel. They slowly make their way up the incline from Murrumburrah – the diesel engines working hard and smoking like the old steamers, only the exhaust is darker, wispy, not white and fulsome like the clouds in the autumn sky. There are no steam whistles like the days of old, just a god-awful horn - a shame - from the lumbering, noisy diesel – three engines coupled – and snaking wagons behind, clunking, groaning and squealing. No guard, no guard’s van at the tail, just a red light, blinking. And in the middle of the night, kilometres away, my house shakes, slightly but perceptively, as the train passes. Even the Sydney to Melbourne express, with its cars of sleeping humans, can be heard, and felt, though it throbs rather than pounds. It’s 2.16am. Is it stopping this time? I can’t tell, so I go back to sleep. This is rural life, as I feel the trains and trucks rumble by, see the stars at night and hear the magpies sing. So different from home, where the white noise of suburbia is ever-present, though unknown and unfelt as it masks the noise of nature. There is no real silence there. Not like here, where it is all around. Outside of the twin towns, each consisting of a four kilometre-wide bubble, the rolling hills are bright green where they've been tendered to, others brown and covered in weeds; trees and fences cut across the landscape for miles and miles, like some Carrollian chess board. The sheep are everywhere - baby sheep, old sheep, in front yards of run-down houses and on the hilly holdings. Many are shawn, despite it being the middle of winter, or because if it. They are scrawny and head down chewing on the grass, oblivious to the ‘Sheep Graziers Alert’ of my smartphone weather app, or the ‘Flood Warning’ given days after the rain had stopped and the sun is now shining. To be honest, that's what gets me - the stillness, the openness, the loneliness of rural life as I experience it. I am not used to this, and not sure how I will handle it. Back in Bulli, we always had the ocean – a no go zone for most, apart from the coal and container ships, fishermen and wave or long board surfers, though I always tinkered on its edges, swimming or body surfing, mindful of the ever present threat of drowning. Forget about the sharks. Behind us was the wall-like escarpment, 1,000 feet high and foreboding. A stoneless version of Edinburgh castle, ever urging us to climb its flanks and reach the top, where dreams of encountering a dramatic military tattoo are replaced by a search in our sweaty climbing pants and haversack for the $6.50 to purchase a similarly British Devonshire tea with two scones, raspberry jam and whipped cream. Mmmmmmm..... The climb was not easy, though some run it every day, pushing on up the dirt track and over the wooden steps, past spectres in the form of a black panther, before climbing two ladders, touching the top and then coming back down, stop watches and step counters silently working away. The escarpment is sheer, protective, covered in a lush, sometimes impenetrable, verdant green bush, and underneath – though occasionally exposed – is the sandstone and shale layered geology, like a sponge cake with dark, dark intervals of chocolate icing in the middle and on top. That was coal, the black diamonds of local industry. It came right down to the beach shoreline, with the layers visible on the jutting, rocky peninsulas that were slowly eaten away by the ocean and the magnificent white, foaming waves as they crashed against the table-like rocky platforms. Here in Murra the trees are wispy, devoid of leaves in the winter. This stripping never happened on the escarpment - well, it was never obvious from a distance, retaining a dark green hue year-round. And the forest, as one moved further south, became greener - a lighter, sparkling green - transforming into a subtropical rainforest with magnificent figs and ferns and hanging vines where red and blue and green rosellas hung playfully as they sucked on soft berries or cracked the hard husks of nuts. My escarpment was a shield, a barrier, from the cold westerly winds and the hordes of people in the suburban north and north-west who slowly, imperceptibly made their way south via ghastly, environmentally destructive and koala habitat obliterating urban developments. We are told they are a necessary evil, and we mostly accept that, in silence. Thankfully the escarpment stands strong - Mother Nature in all her glory, whilst the water catchment area forms a further defense against the dark forces of development, as does the Royal National Park, though somewhat more precariously. All that green is protective and nourishing, cleaning the air, cleaning the water, offering sanctuary to native flora and fauna. It is a living, breathing, sentient being, working away ceaselessly, largely out of sight and out of mind, but thankfully. Here in Murra people walk out of IGA with their plastic wrapped bottled water – you can’t drink the water out of the tap here. It is brown and smells. So, I buy juice - pomegranate, kiwi fruit, orange and apple, mixed with mineral water and supplemented by copious amount of tea. I miss drinking the cool, refreshing water from the tap at home, gulping it down to quench my thirst, cool my body, and hydrate my inner organs. A clean flush is a must. I also miss the ocean, which regulates and relaxes, in a manner not easy to describe, just as sitting on the beach, looking out to sea, or jumping in the water on a whim in some intangible way nourishes the soul. But I am no longer coastal – I am rural, and that is OK. I can handle the solitude, the back-in-time feel of the twin towns, which is nothing less than that of my childhood in the Sixties, at least in part. The absence of a beach, and the minus two degrees mornings are hard to bear, though the sun shines brightly as well, and the swimming pool is open November through March. I will live here, and I will leave here, but all in good time. For now, I will lockdown, do my blogs, strum my guitar and keep in contact – virtually – with my family and friends, taking care of body and soul. That can be done no matter where one is physically. There is no COVID-19 here, but at home it bears down on everyone, especially the kids, who no longer play, go to school or see their friends. Coastal or rural – at the end of the day, it is all just a state of mind, like a song, as Jackson sang (smiley x 2).
28 July 2021
---------------------------
5:28 pm. Legacy / legacies
He looked in the dictionary - the online dictionary, that is. Urban, Cambridge, Webster’s, Oxford, Macquarie. They were all there, on Google. More than one. Twenty-five different definitions, but he could only think of three, or four perhaps. The first was none of these - a little white building, down a back street in town, with a blue torch, red flame and floral wreath sign out front. Legacy House. Where people used to support the children of soldiers killed in wars, and orphans. They still did, he supposed. But some in the past were pedophiles, according to the Royal Commission in the news. He didn’t know what had happened since those dark post-war decades of the fifties and sixties, or the shameful legacy of the kids, traumatised, now adults ….. The second – Legacy / legacies, n., something handed down from an ancestor; something transmitted, or received, from the past. Well, where would he start? Perhaps with the Buddhists - reincarnation, and the 14th Dalai Lama, whose legacy was the culmination of all those thirteen Tibetan monks who came before; who successfully abandoned the ego; achieved Nirvana; found Shambala, Shangri-La. Om Mani Padme Om – viz. Help me be the best I can. His new mantra. And now there was the 14th - Tenzin Gyatso. A cumulative legacy. He had felt his presence; stood on a stage with him; wondered what made him so spiritual, ephemeral, but also real … And his own legacy - who knew that? For he didn’t really feel anything, i.e., the people of his past, his antecedents / ancestors. Recent and distant. But the older he got, the more he realized who he was. Yes, he was part of the past. He loved the past; loved history; most especially his sense of place, of where he had come from. ‘Twixt the mountains and the sea. He did not know why he had that, and others did not. They belonged nowhere; drifted aimlessly through life from place to place. He just knew it was there, an innate part of him. Perhaps his legacy? Not just people, but also place. And of those who came before - mother, father, grandparents, great-grandparents, relatives past and present? It went on and on and on and on …. To infinity and beyond! The DNA solution, perhaps? Maybe one day it would show him the dimensions of that legacy - Neanderthal, Denisovan, Nordic, English, Irish, who knew? A Viking even! All his legacies. So that was three: a building, a place, and people. Those other twenty-two (NB: his lucky number!) or is that twenty-three – what about them? He felt he should have known at least some of the variants. But they were probably not important - things like money, property left in a will. There was none of that; nothing that really came down, from grandparents, family, or friends, apart from a few photos – small, sepia, black and white, studio and box brownie; weddings, parties, anything. No letters, diaries, houses, or stuff. That was about it. And, of course, the stories his mum and dad, uncles and aunts, grandparents told him. Not really a legacy; not a substantial one, anyway. And it was not a word he generally used or was familiar with. Legacy. “It's an old word, isn't it?” he thought to himself. Out of date, here, now, in 2021. He wondered who used it, and how to use it. “Excuse me, but where is my legacy?” “Do you know what my legacy is?” “Hello, can you help me? I'm looking for my legacies.” No, he was not going to say that, or ask those questions. Anyway, it was TRAUMA, and he was not going there, for he both knew, and did not know, what he would find. Legacies; legacy. One of those words that says it all, but said nothing to him, there and now. Why? Because he felt nothing - the empathy obliterating asperges kicked in - as he looked out the window at the magpies singing in the trees, realising that he was the legacy, for those to come after …
20 July 2021
--------------------------
Creation and completion .... well, almost!
Covid-19 put me on the street, out of work after 47 years. What to do? What to do? So I bought myself a guitar or two, and an amp with 24 different sounds. And loud - fucking LOUD! But in my little bed sit with a view it is head-phoned up so as not to disturb the neighbours or neighbourhood. I started afresh, as I had not picked my old guitar up for more than 30 years - since the early 1980s in fact. But what to do? What to do? YouTube - a saviour. It told me - showed me - how to play a tune, strum the chords, learn the lick and the lead. It showed me all this and more - all the things I had always wanted to do, but never could. Why? Well I thought it was all about talent, but I now suspect that it was also due to persistence and practice, both of which did not come easily to my always busy brain. But now, with YouTube, I could copy the experts - the Gods - Clapton, Green, Hendrix et alia. So I sat there, watching the screen, pausing it and trying it on my guitar, with the head phones of course, and a little notebook beside me to take notes and remember the bits that I knew I would forget. Simple! Picking and plucking, humming and strumming. Toughening the fingers and getting the brain in sync with the head and the hands, the fingers - pushing hard and soft, strumming a chord or a string; changing the amp preset to get a sound I like. Usually lots of fuzz to start with, but also clean and clear for a bit of blues (though I had never been able to get anywhere near playing the blues). For days, weeks, I did this. Any time - 11am, 3am, 7 pm. Any time, any day, practice, practice. And then - and then! I listened to a song - a riff based rockin' boogie by Lobby Lloyd. Working Man's Boogie. I listened, and and I watched the video, and I copied it. I got it! A blues boogie in A. I picked up the song by ear - the riff and the chords. No tab, no music sheet. Just listening intently. And there it was. What a buzz!!!! Like finishing a painting, or molding a sculpture. I had finally got there, more that 30 years late. But, as the Beatles famously told us: "64 and there's so much more!' But what did it really mean? Would it replace the 9 to 5, the workplace that I was missing dearly. Well, no. But it would help, this playing thing. It would help and all I need to do was to practice, and feel my way. Practice.
12 April 2021
------------------------------------------
Food I love
The
book says 'We eat too much!' But there it is - a great big cream bun
staring at me. A whole row of the damn things! A big bun, glazed atop
and cut down the middle. Oodles of fresh cream fill the wound. White,
fluffy and sweet, with a dollop of blood red jam. Mmmmm ..... "We eat
too much!" swims through my mind as I stare mindlessly. "Are you right,
sir?" questions the young lady behind the counter. Quickly - what am I
going to do? My two children stand by my side, likewise starring at the
glassed in shelves full of cakes and pies. "Two cup cakes please?", I
answer, still thinking about the cream bun. She retrieves two of the
most colourful little cakes, sprinkled with minute multi-coloured balls
of sugar atop chocolate icing. I mutter softly: "And a cream bun...."
hoping the kids don't hear. "What was that sir?" Busted, damn it! "A
cream bun." My two children look up at me, then turn to stare at the
massive bun. "Is that for mummy?" I don't answer, racked with guilt as
that voice returns" " We eat too much!"
>12 April 2021
--------------------------
Love isn't enough [song]
Love isn't enough to get us through
the way we do
You do you
And I do me
And when we're together
It sure feels fine
But love...
Love isn't enough
I saw you there the other day
Having fun in your own way
And I did mine
The way I do
Together - not always
But that's so true
Because love ..
Love isn't enough
We seek connection
and come together
We say we love
one another
And that is true, for me and you
But once apart
Sad and blue
Loneliness is there, for me
and you?
And at that time
I realise
Love...
Love isn't enough
To care and share
To know one another
Feel as one
Like sister and brother
More than just lover
Because love
Love isn't enough
10 April 2021 -------------------------------- Alone [song] I don't want to be alone in this world of sun and rain wake up on my own in a place of joy and pain I just want to be with you so we are one again. I've walked an empty mile made for one and one alone travelled down a darkened road to a place I call my own no trimmings, ego fraying no escape from truth or dying Yesterday I was so young another day, without no past then I woke so old and frail growing up had come at last Climb up that lonely hill struggle to the top look out to endless hope look down to feeling lost I don't want to be alone I don't want to be alone 5 April 2021 -------------------------------- Return journey - Back to Tilba Tilba 29 March 2021 ---------------------------------- Change of attitude I
used to think they were different, special, somehow better than me -
smarter. Prime Ministers, Queens, CEOs, the Packers, Murdochs, Dalai
Lama, Mother Theresa, and all those people with lots of letters after
their name. Better? Mmmmm. Perhaps. But that all changed. "Just follow me," says Bob. It's
a big day. A very big day. 11 November 2002. My first day in
parliament. The Australian federal parliament, House of Representatives,
as the Member for Cunningham. A new kid on the block. A new job. Its
all a blur. What to do? What to say? How to act? I need help, so I list
to Bob, and Kerrie, and their staff, and my staff. It will be OK. So I
follow Bob through the red halls of the Senate chambers, on the western
side of Parliament House, across to the east, the green of the House of
Reps. We pick up Peter on the way - an Independent and co-sponsor on
this my day of introduction to parliamentary duties. We
walk over to the entrance to the chamber.It is quiet, and I say little
as Bob and Peter chat about the events of the day, both inside
parliament and out, as you would expect. I am rather numb, but focused.
We are there. We take up positions at the entrance. Bob and Peter on one
side, me on the other. Time approaches 10.30. Members start to enter
the House - Labour, Liberal and Country, Independent. They all say
hello, g'day, to Bob, to Peter. Well nearly all. They look at me,
acknowledge me. Some are more effusive. Others just smile. "Welcome
Michael, and good luck," I hear from various members. Some come up,
shake my hand, and reveal their humanity in a small way. "Thanks," I say to one and all. More pass by, welcoming. Then the Prime Minister John Howard approaches, surrounded by dark suited members of his cabinet. The Federal Treasurer, Costello, a rather jolly chap, smiles at us all. "Hello, and good luck," he says, as he shakes my hand. Then
the PM. John Howard. A small man. He walks by. Puts his head down and
passes into the chamber. He says nothing, to me, to Peter or Bob. No
smile, no acknowledgement. A LITTLE MAN. I can do this ..... 29 March 2021 ---------------------------------- Racing & chasing Wake
up! I hear the rain .. I'm still dreaming, so perhaps it's time to
leave that and - damn it - look at the clock ... 6.50 ... Yawn ... roll
over ... back to sleep ... 7.20 ... better get up, eh? ... I roll over
and stretch. At 64 it's getting harder and harder to jump out of bed
now, especially sleeping on a thin foam mattress on the floor, a la
Japanese style. So I'm on all fours, bending and rolling, stretching
this way and that., lower back, left foot, right thigh. It all helps,
though I say to myself - yet again - "You've got to do more!" I wander
into the kitchen, get breakfast going - muesli, eggs and a quick shower
in between. 15 minutes later, as I casually eat my soft boiled eggs, I
look at my latest 'Things to Do' list ... Shit! I have to take Emma to
school! What time is it? 7.45! What time does the next bus go? 8.01
Fuck! Hurry, hurry ... finish breakfast, tidy up, put clothes on, brush
teeth, hurry, shoes on - damn socks, another hole - in the bin. Pack
bag, check - glasses, wallet, keys, phone? All there. Turn off the
lights, check the gas. 7.51. Out the door. Run! No, I can't run, its
been raining and I'll slip over on the damn slippery paving and break
something. Walk. Walk fast. Come on! 7.56. Five minutes to go. I get
closer. I see the bus stop ahead. Two people waiting. 8.00. Nearly
there. What's that? My bus flies by me. It's near the stop. It stops. I
run, but don't run, its slippery. Phew - I make it. Where's mu ticket?
Where's my mask? I swipe and sit. Phew! All good .... 22 March 2021 ---------------------------------- Disturbing - fear - loneliness "Loneliness
sucks, big time. I don't want to be alone, but then sometimes I need to
be alone and I want to be alone. Do you get that?" Max
looked on, listening intently. He nodded as I did what I usually do
when we get together - I speak to truth, open up in a metaphysical,
existential way, vague but deep, as he does also. Though Max is more the
doctor / philosopher, the listener. He usually has the answers, and the
follow up questions. "Why do you feel that? You are always busy, and you know so many people?" "Yeah,
but it isn't that simple. It isn't about the superficial, the everyday,
the interesting contacts. I have more than enough to do, to keep
myself busy. I
don't think I'll ever be bored, as such, but it is not about that. I
don't really know what its about - and that' the scary thing. I have
family, friends, interests. But loneliness comes and goes, and I fear
it." Max, in his usual way, smiled, listened, and connected with me. "Hey mate, don't worry. Let's go for a surf." And
with those few words, and action, the darkness lifted. The though left
me, replaced by the sun, the surf, the sand, fresh air and the earth
beneath my feet. The fear had passed. It will come again. But, just as
Max brought me back into the light, I know that next time - hopefully - I
can be my own Max. I have to be. 22 March 2021 ---------------------------------- What am I doing here? It's
hot in here. There's no air, though the fans make and effort to
circulate the warmer bits. A writer's group, or writing group, or both.
"What's that?" I wonder. Stripping off my bike gear - helmet, leather
jacket, gloves, leaves my temperature on the high end. "Water, please?"
"Sorry, it's not working today." So its out the door and quickly over
the road to a shop, a fridge, a bottle of Karma - apple, black current
and raspberry. Just what I need - kool karma. Cold, so it's gone in a
flash - 300 ml and cooling me down... We sit around tables, arranged in a
square pattern. "What is it, this thing?" I ask naively. Exercises and
Workshop. One hour each. That sounds interesting, though a bit scary as
well. I feel like I am back at school, so very very long ago, about to
be tested. But what the heck! I'm 64 and there's so much more, to learn.
A writer, me? Articles, chapters, blogs, diaries, and journals, letters
to editors, speeches, reviews, sms, Facebook posts, tweets, film script
- yes, I'm already there, I suppose. That's me! Writing every day.
Looking for new words, as my brain gets weary and worn out, or is it
just too full? New ways to do it, on top of the old ways. Coming at it
straight on, or sideways. Anyway, this should be fun. Write on! 1 March 2021 ---------------------------------- Xmas lunches 6am.
Saturday, the 25th. Awake, from a late night. Stretch, shower, nibble
and start thinking, planning - what's on the plate for today? Brush off
the early morning gloom, the dark thoughts - its Christmas!!!! The kids
are still asleep, but not for long. We knock on the door, wake them up,
and mention the words "Merry Xmas!" In a second they're alive, jumping
up, running into the room, noisy, ripped paper and pressies everywhere.
We sit back and watch - hoping there are smiles and no sour faces. Phew!
What's next? Breakfast, play, then at the door. Over to the son - #1 -
for a quick drip in, hugs and pressies yet again; then another son #2,
Kyle. Home for a bit. Rest and cook. Then all gather at mum's for the
lunch - ham, potatoes, chicken, ice cream, dessert - perhaps a barbie,
perhaps not, beer and cheap champagne, then the pavlova that I love.
Cream, passion fruit and strawberries. Mmmmm. I'm full. We all are by 4.
Keeping drinking, keep eating. Another Xmas passes. Joyful. Thank God! 1 March 2021 ---------------------------------- Dark [song] And I don't know how But that dark just came down upon me now You turned it on Said I was to blame For doing everything Just the same Why, why, why? From stay, to go! and love, to despise that darkness in your eyes So bring back the light take control of my life let the power rise and show these eyes that shine 31 January 2021 ---------------------------------- Innocence of parental love unfettered cast aside in a schizoid dream of gunshot threats and oedipal dread a childhood left in tatters. Beautiful child, with golden dress a smile warm and welcoming Betrayed, denied, traumatized For what? There is no reason. She walked alone, on empty streets To home in innocence travelled The eyes they stared Cruel words were shared Like lamb unto the slaughter. Escape! Into another land Dream lover shelter there From family pain Taunting refrains Sex goddess - "I must flee!" "It is not me!" So said the child Your love is all I need Protection not defection A few years wild and free. But life so dark, shadows all Around they bore on down Crushing dreams A train of memes Derailed A heart impaled "Trust no one..." 1 January 2021
Well I don't know why
Childhood dreams were shattered
----------------------------------
She said across the room
Her eyes were clear, the air was cool
That late November noon.
“The father of our child
It should have been another
My one true love, my only friend
Not you – two timing mother.
"I wish I’d never seen you
Or gave my love so free
And realise beneath that face
A monster there could be.
"You cheated, lied and twisted
Every word and every deed
A heart was handed to you
You cut it, let it bleed.
"I wish I never loved you
Dragged through trauma and through tears
Seen and sometimes silent
Trapped by dread and fear.”
I listened closely to her
Words repeated weakly
Sometimes said with heat and tears
At others, cold and steely.
That was not me, and yet it was
The other – true and true
The beast within, the beast without
Masked as love to you.
I wish I’d never met you
And caused you so much pain
In this short life, this world of strife
I hope you love again...
November 2020
----------------------------------
4 Walls
Crimson pain and purple rain
Work from home allows
The mind to turn to multitudes
Within 4 walls somehow.
Pandemic fear, I know not why
It washes over me
As body aches and coffee breaks
Form groundhog recipes.
A first guitar, undusted now
Cracked fingers I must bear
Through lines and sound
Composed and found
Emotions run nowhere.
Red blood, white skin, grey hair my friend
4 walls are closing in.
As committed love sustains me now
For future lives I live.
A leap of faith from scarp’s sharp edge
Koala cries for me
Hidden like some greying ghost
Among tall talking trees.
As blackness passes, panther like
I climb forever on
Another day, white yellow grey
No longer I belong.
Postered walls, snow leopard flag
Red yellow white and blue.
Balded purple Uygurs cry out loud
In masses out of view.
The weight of things, from kids to kings
God watches on somehow.
Yet still it all goes wrong, my friend
For those who rule allow.
No fault of mine, this egoic storm
Like Pilate - wash my hands.
To fantasy's techno womb
And under blankets warm
I pass the time, stream with wine
Amidst lives lived unborn.
4 walls, 4 walls, are all I have
To keep me warm for now
And love's soft glow
To help me know
The why, the where, the how.
November 2020
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