Forks in the road (and other dividing lines)

Migration

2010-11-24T14:09:00.000+11:00

Some time ago, I moved my blog to a new domain. If you have come here because I have commented on your blog, it will because I have been unable to list to my current website (a regular problem with Bogger accounts that restrict login options).

I do not use Blogger currently, but please fell free to click over and see me at forks-in-the-road.com.

Thanks for visiting.

Moving house

2010-05-26T11:31:00.002+10:00

I've taken a leap into the world of website design. I"m not sure how it's going to progress, but I'm giving Wordpress a go, so I can try creating a site with tailored pages. Please pop by my new blog at forks-in-the-road.com and join me in by gradual adventure to try out some new ideas. Just don't expect me to do it quickly. I'm learning HTML on the fly and so far, losing!

Relaxation brings inspiration

2010-05-02T10:44:00.004+10:00

The GOFA has had a busy week, here there and everywhere, so it was nice to spend yesterday together, no work, no cleaning, ignoring the daily chores. Near dusk, feeling somewhat contemplative and chilled, we headed to a local beach. We walked on the sand and found it was populated with an enormous array of shells. Many were in such good condition, that we began collecting them. I had taken off my footwear and socks, so we filled one of socks with our treasure.

Back home, when the set sun had forced us to abandon our foraging, I made a pattern with my collection, then stole some of the GOFA’s booty and found I had an idea for a design. We discussed it and played with the pieces, and before long, we had a decided on a concept for what I think will be a mosaic/sculpture. It’s great to have a creative mind, an artist, to give me ideas on how to go about making the idea a reality. It’s good to let the creative juices run into something tactile; so much of my days are spent in science and the technical, be it at work or in writing the text. I don’t even really get the time seriously sit down to write creatively; poetry is my one concession to creativeness, because it comes without warning and I can get a draft down relatively quickly.

Last night, I could not get the design out of my head. It was in my dreams, in my mind whenever I rolled over in bed, there when I woke. Now, not being an artist, I could be wrong, but I suspect that’s a sign that I found something I’m passionate about and should pursue. I’m going back to the beach today while the GOFA is out. I’m going to collect more shells and sometime in the next few weeks, I’m going to start on this design. I won’t go so far as to say artwork … we’ll see if I can project my mind’s eye into the real world first. I’m really quite excited!

Circumspect under sufferance

2010-04-22T16:52:00.002+10:00

We sit on the fringes of each others lives. The pebble thrown in the waters near your island of self sends ripples to my shores that break and cease, moving not a stone.

A boulder comes crashing through, unexpectedly from the side. The waves gouge sand from coast, tear kelp from seabed, drag flotsam back to sea. The distractions that once diverted your attention loose significance in the wake of such violence.

On the other side of the channel, my shoreline alters as the waves draw sand to the sea. I see you battered, I see you torn and know that this time, something has changed at a fundamentally karmic level. The universe has shifted and I can’t see how it can possibly move back. I am angry, but it does no good to voice it. The boulder can’t be put back on the cliff. I am sad; for the damage to your heart, for the loss of my rose tinted glasses. I am frustrated; there is nothing I can do or say to change what should never have happened. All I can do is stand with you.

BASIS

You thought he didn’t matter
One man, you chose to judge,
Not knowing how
Not caring why
He treads a narrow path.
A face unknown, you took a view
Painted not with brush your own,
Never questioning the source that fed
Such wretched, wrangled rot.
A name you’d heard from source maligned
In contexts not your own,
Convinced yourself of righteous stance
To justify your mind;
A baseless crime, no foresight used,
Your defiant coward’s shield
Is crumbling in the face of one
Who never meant you harm.
Your error is the simplest one
(In this you’re not alone) –
You failed to know the man within
To brand foe without the facts;
Your failure marks your ignorance …
His blood now stains your badge.
Scum
The only word I’ll use
For “peacekeepers” such as you.
This is why he trusts not your ilk
You foolish, spiteful grunt!

Sin on a Plate!

2010-04-13T07:38:00.001+10:00

OH … MY ... HEAVENS! I took a recipe I’ve had for some years, from another lifetime, in another city (actually, it’s an overgrown rural town, but with little of the charm of rural life and none of the pizzazz of a city!) and manipulated a few key ingredients. Doubled the recipe to make two cakes, added a packet of frozen raspberries, filled with fresh, stiffly whipped cream and raspberries then dressed with a chocolate ganache. I’m calling Sin on a Plate!

The GOFA has a sweet tooth, so I thought something a little different would be nice. And whilst in the baking process I didn’t consider the calorie content of this masterpiece, one bite told me I was in food heaven but hipster hell. Yet, after my creative efforts, the GOFA diverted to a world of relative peace to de-stress after his horrid week, leaving my edible offerings languishing on a plate. In the dumps, I’ve indulged in some Sin myself, balancing the calorific intake with roasted vegetables for lunch and a long walk each day. Would you believe that my work trousers actually had some room round the waist on Monday? That proves to me that I can eat such indulgences as long as I walk LOTS!

So it’s off for my walk now, before I head to work early to study for a couple of hours and then settle into the late shift (midday to 10 pm). The remaining Sin is going to work with me; it won’t last much longer with the fresh cream. Someone else can exercise his or her derrière off. The GOFA will have to wait for a special occasion with lots of guests for me to make the Sin again. It’s too dangerous for us on our own!

Shades of Michael Jackson

2010-04-03T18:45:00.002+11:00

Life seems to have been busy and yet, I’m feeling guilty for not doing enough; enough work on the book, enough home cooking, enough exercise, enough cleaning. And here I am writing about something totally unrelated to any of those things, when I could be doing any one of them. Well the washing and vacuuming are done, at least.

My ongoing reading about Australian Indigenous issues continues to make me more aware of the current disjuncture between white and black. There’s many and complex concerns; none of it is easy to interpret, let alone resolve. But one issue could be described as “How black is black enough”? An article in the current edition of Artlink, "The Politics of Skin: Not Black Enough" (1), an Australian Indigenous art magazine, discusses the problems associated with the gradual loss of the visible marker of being black. On the one hand, Aboriginal activists of mixed European-Indigenous heritage who may be more brown or white rather than black are often accused of not having a right to comment on Indigenous issues. Conversely those who don’t comment may be seen as having taken the easy “white” road; being of paler skin tones can offer the ability to blend into mainstream society, but often at a cost the personal identity and self-esteem.

The issue, in my eyes at least, is not about colour; it is about culture. No-one expects the Jews to forgo Passover, to give up their menorah or cease wearing their yarmulke. No-one would be game to suggest as much.
The Poles, so decimated by the ravages of world War Two, scattered across this country and retain their customs in quiet symbiosis with the Italians, Greeks, Turks, Lebanese, Vietnamese, Indonesians, Britons, Indonesians, Indians, Africans. We may not be comfortable with what we do not understand, but over time, Australia continues to accommodate the differences, to enjoy the benefits of the best of each. And as each New Australian (which the Albanian born niece of Mother Teresa proudly described herself as to me just two weeks ago) settles here and builds a family, we accept that they will retain many of the customs of their forebears for many generations. It is the richness of cultural diversity that gives this country the vast array of local festivals and cuisine. We all benefit.

Why should the Australian Aborigines, the longest inhabitants of this land, be afforded less courtesy and respect than the most recent immigrant? Colour is irrelevant. Culture is all that matters, and we, all of us, are the lesser if we fail to recognise and protect this one simple premise.

(1) Browning, D., The Politics of Skin. Artlink, 2010;30(1):22-26.

Snoozing

2010-03-14T11:07:00.004+11:00

In Praise of Sleep

Leaden, weighed,
Drawn down by black velvet, sleek, soft drape;
Heavy and warm, silent and still,
Peaceful and welcome, the opium of night;
Bid it come willing or fight if you must,
Oblivion ignores us, comes unheeded, uncalled.

Darkness envelopes, while otherwise flies
The hustle, the bustle, the rush and the plight;
Silence slips under day's crowded exploits,
Escaping to blackness from business and cares,
To nothing ... or something, one never can know,
The calm and the still of night's ultimate fate.

Ebony glistens, black's beautiful screen,
A canvas laid softly for eventide's show;
Colours that dance, captured thoughts, wild dreams,
Logic evaded in weird molten scenes,
Patterns and places, no other may go
Cine played solely, expression of soul.

Play's acted out by mind's clever muse,
Teasing, enticing, with unwritten rules,
Carving and twisting, the tales and the plots,
Fiction or faction, message or dream,
Laced through night’s darkness,
Balanced weirdness, strange scenes.

Moonlight succumbs to harsher day’s light,
Beams tear at the film, destroying abstracted tale;
Picture show over, never played quite the same,
As Morpheus loosens his grip for a time
Smiling a Cheshire smirk, knowing time’s brief
'Til starlight and slumber immerse us once more.

Without explanation

2010-02-27T13:18:00.001+11:00

Despaired

Flutter by, let them fall
Such leaves as cold
Winter winds call
Crisped and dried in autumn’s wake
Where once laid joys so pliant and green
Leave’s ’neath foot, crushed and crimped,
Heels and stilettos, toes and soles,
Grinding dreams to dusty dregs
Settling deep in soils moist and sweet
Seeping deep, decay feeding roots
Of dreams of peace not seen by one,
Nurturing souls that yet may meet
Such cares, such pain
As others bare
Margins blurred
Denials rife
As peaceful skies crowd
Conflict’s Wall.

2010-02-22T20:53:00.003+11:00

As Frogdancer says, some things things are simply unbloggable. Other times you just don't want to talk about it. A dark little corner of the world, way from everyone, where you can break things and scream and sob is sometimes the best place to be. I don't give a brass razoo about the book tonight. Screw the deadline.

To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction

2010-02-15T21:03:00.006+11:00

Our Prime Minister recently demonstrated the true depth of his patriotism. Nina Funnell recounts a meeting with Mr. Rudd in which he decried the failure of the younger generations to procreate, failing to fulfil their patriotic duty. (1) According to her article, the falling birth rate will place pressure on economic stability as our population ages. He even had the temerity to offend the journalist when he indicated that ongoing advancement through personal study was little more than an excuse for not having children and one he was tired of hearing. This is the brand of chauvinism that Napoleon’s loyal Nicolas Chauvin gave his name to, (2) one that puts country before the self. In the case of Mr. Rudd, it shows a disregard for the choices and rights of women to determine their own path in life, a fundamentalist male chauvinism.

You would think he would have learned from the recent verbal gaffs of his opposition counterpart, whose recent comments about women doing the ironing (3) made bigger headlines. Why is our PM not subject to the same degree of scrutiny and critical female appraisal as Mr Abbott? How is it that this hasn’t been reported as widely in all forms of media?

The most disappointing issue is that on both sides of politics, this country has male chauvinistic leaders at the helm. A pity, given our deputy PM is a nonparous double degree holder (4) who has made politics her life and who, in the past denigrated the very same attitude from opposition MPs. (5) It is interesting to note that the PM “…would not be drawn on Mr Abbott's remarks’ in the January 28 article.

Why is it that a man with ambition is portrayed positively, but a woman is seen as a “ball-breaker”? Even the GOFA confessed that he thought that of me when he we first crossed paths. He rapidly learned that whilst practicality and independence are among my strengths, I can still be kind, generous, sensual and contemplate the possibility of children … assuming the biological clock still has enough spring left.

Ms. Gillard is entirely correct; it is about choice and what may be right you or me may not be for another woman. (6) In Australian Story (7), she implied that life had simply never provided her with a suitable life long companion. She seems never to have felt the need to marry. Really, she is to be commended for not following the crowd, for not marrying simply to fit in and potentially winding up in a relationship that would have been less than committed. As one who was inadvertently spared the disaster of an unhappy marriage whilst in my twenties, believing in the fairytale of marriage, I admire her stoicism and honesty. The dream isn’t everything that is painted to the child. It’s downright hard work and if your heart’s not in it, you shouldn’t be getting married just to pop out new little Australians. Such a social attitude would only promote a higher divorce rate, leading to more pressure on the family law courts, mediation, child support agencies and single and supporting mothers’ benefits.

The seeds of the sexual revolution of the 1960s were sown in the 40s. Women had to support their families and work in factories while their husbands realised that the ‘War to End All Wars’ had been a fallacy. Returning incapacitated and shell-shocked, or perhaps not at all, many women were left with no choice but to become independent. In them, developed the determination to strive for something better for their children, for a sense of value beyond the home, for independence. The social fabric that binds families and communities was frayed and the moths have been eating ever since. But that’s another debate. This country … any country … cannot have it both ways. Either they want women to contribute in labour, industry and administration or they do not; with that comes the responsibility to honour what is essentially ANY person’s right, be they male of female, to direct the course of their own life. Newton’s third law of physics applies equally to society. It cannot be undone. It’s time our leaders accepted that and simply guided us to a sustainable future rather than blaming women for what is to yet to come.

(1) Funnell, N., Don't Be Rattled by the Baby Guilt Trip. Sydney Morning Herald, 15 February 2010. Accessed: 15 February 2010.

(2)AskOxford, Oxford University Press, Accessed: 15 February 2010.

(3) Maiden, S., Rudd Uses Turnbull Speech on ETS to Iron out Abbott. The Australian, 9 February 2010, Accessed: 15 February 2010.

(4) Parliament of Australia House of Representatives: The Hon Julia Gillard MP, Member for Lalor (Vic), Commonwealth of Australia , 12 February 2010, Accessed: 15 February 2010.

(5) Grattan, M., Liberal Targets Gillard's Childless Status. The Age, 28 January 2010, Accessed: 15 February 2010.

(6) Kerr, C., Raunch Worries Aunty Julia. The Australian, 15 February 2010, Accessed 15 February 2010.

(7) Australian Story: Julia Gillard Interview Transcript. ABC, 6 March 2006, Accessed: 15 February 2010.

The week that was

2010-02-07T08:57:00.004+11:00

You know those weeks. The fridge dies just after you buy a heap of meat and veg. You pour cola over the computer and kill it. The junior staff member you spent the last year training resigns just as he's hitting his straps AND he's leaving at the same time as another staffer is going on maternity leave. A supernatural guest decides to keep you awake one night. Your beloved gets stranded out west by Dorothea's much extolled flooding rains. And to cap it all off, politics, that slimey brand of realism maligned by self-interest at the expense of others seeps out of the eighth circle of hell into the world of the idealist. That's the week that was. Not horrendous, just annoying and disappointing. And yet, I'm still smiling although I am looking forward to a long walk in the rain with the GOFA after work today. I hope we both get thoroughly soaked. Wash away the week's grime. Mud would be cleaner than the crap that's been flying round this week.

Haiti

2010-01-28T12:35:00.003+11:00

Like everyone else, I was stunned by the level of devastation in Haiti and the relative paucity of immediate care provided by an international community that by now should be so well versed in dealing with disaster. It's taken so long for the people of Port au Prince and surrounding areas to get help that even now, many still fight for the basics of food, clean water and medical care. I am a staunch supported of Medecins Sans Frontieres. One of the team involved there has started a blog. The pages are listed individually, each with a separate weblink and are updated regularly. Take a look and see what's going on. If you take a look in the sidebar, you'll also find a link there under the Health Information heading.

Icon and ideology

2010-01-26T12:00:00.004+11:00

Australia Day and is it any surprise that debate over our national flag and becoming a republic has hit the news? Ray Martin leads the charge this year, with our normally contrary political leaders for once sharing a coherent view, the Opposition Leader Tony Abbott as well as the Prime Minister and Deputy declaring that our flag should and will remain unaltered. (1)

Mr. Abbott’s endorsement of the current icon, harking back to a colonial era that, “We shouldn't be in any way embarrassed about …” (2) fails to pay due consideration to the negative impact of laws enacted against the Indigenous population. But it is not Abbott’s comments that concern me the most, it is Julia Gillard’s explanation for why there’s no need to have a new flag to carry us into the future:

"Clearly, there are many things about the treatment of indigenous Australians that we regret, and that was one of the reasons that the prime minister said sorry". (3)

As if that is enough to atone for the decimation of race, the total annihilation of the full-blood native populace in at least one State and the practices that permitted the incarceration, maltreatment and virtual enslavement of those on the mainland. The paternalistic manner claimed by early settlers to justify the treatment of Aborigines (and still argued for by some current commentators) would have been better than the reality of the abuses that saw Indigenous prisoners AND witnesses chained at the neck, fed meagre rations while the police pocketed the extra cash (4) and forced to live and die on the reservations used to control a people of a different culture. (5)

After the creation of the new Commonwealth of Australia on 1st January 1901, a competition was announced to create a suitable flag. Five entrants who submitted similar designs shared the prize, our national symbol born on 3rd September 1901. (6) This flag, conceived in a fit of pride at our ‘coming of age’ as we graduated from colony to democratic nation, embodied the ideologies and attitudes of the time, enshrined in our Constitution. It represents the very attitudes that underpinned section 127:

“In reckoning the numbers of the people of the Commonwealth, or of a State or other part of the Commonwealth, aboriginal natives shall not be counted.” (7)

This abhorrent clause was not repealed until 1967, when the referendum to allow our Indigenous people to vote was supported by over 90% of the voting public. Until that time, Aborigines were not counted in the national census. In conjunction with section 25, the effect was that people considered not eligible to vote in their own state, would be subject to the same limitation at the Federal level. As some states did not recognise Aborigines as the equal of those of non-Indigenous heritage (reinforced by the classification of Aborigines as fauna (8)), this had the effect of limiting the rights and voice of Indigenous Australians at all levels of government. (9, 10)

Let’s not forget section 51 (xxvi), amended earlier in 1946 (11), which excluded the Aborigines from the protection that every other race was afforded under the new Constitution:

“The Parliament shall, subject to this Constitution, have power to make laws for the peace, order, and good government of the Commonwealth with respect to … the people of any race, other than the aboriginal race in any State, for whom it is deemed necessary to make special laws …” (12)

Again, this enshrined the sovereignty of the States over the local Indigenous population, negating section 109 of the Commonwealth Constitution. (13) This ensured that Aborigines were not afforded the same protections as other citizens by the highest courts in the land. It is perhaps ironic that the abolition of this very phrase legitimised, in part at least, the current Northern Territory Emergency Response, instigated by a Coalition Liberal-National Government and perpetuated by the Labor incumbent. Demonstration of how even the most benign seeming clause or change can wreak havoc!

Others point out that many people fought for this country under the current flag, yet those Aborigines who fought over the years were never afforded the same financial support offered to non-Indigenous servicemen and women when they returned. (14) This argument simply privileges a non-Indigenous view of history, ignoring the manner in which this country failed to extend its gratitude to our first inhabitants.

The argument of our Deputy Prime Minister who believes that saying ‘sorry’ and instigating welfare control and an health care plan of questionable effectiveness is enough (15, 16), is simply naïve. Our symbols must represent and project a positive image for all Australians and reflect the intentions of a current age, not a past pock-marked by racist ideology. The Australian flag, replete with Union Jack, harks to a colonialist era, one that failed to uphold and protect the Indigenous inhabitants of this land even when mandated by royal decree. (17)

It’s time the flag, as well as our national day, changed to reflect a more inclusive, collaborative outlook, not one that looks down, even now, upon those marginalised by a British history and current politics. Are we big enough, have we grown enough to allow the original inhabitants of this land an input into the international symbols of this nation?

(1) ‘Ray Martin Leads Push for New Flag’. Sydney Morning Herald, 25 Jan, 2010
(2) ‘Ray Martin Leads Push for New Flag’. Sydney Morning Herald, 25 Jan, 2010
(3) ‘Ray Martin Leads Push for New Flag’. Sydney Morning Herald, 25 Jan, 2010
(4) ‘Some Things Never Change’ Aboriginal Catholic Ministry, Accessed 25 Jan 2010
(5) ‘Aboriginals Protection and Restriction of the Sale of Opium Act 1897 (Qld): Signifcance’ Documenting a Democracy, National Archives of Australia, Accessed 25 Jan 2010.
(6) ‘The Australian Flag History’, Australian National Flag Association, Accessed 25 Jan 2010.
(7) ‘Commonwealth of Australia Constitution Act’, 9 Jul 1900, National Archives of Australia, p.37, Accessed 25 Jan 2010
(8) Kilcullen, J.‘The Australian Constitution: A First Reading.’ 2004 Accessed 24 Jan 2010
(9) Dawkins, K., ‘Didj “u” Know – Stories: 1967 Referendum.’ 1 Feb, 2004. Accessed 25 Jan 2010
(10) Cameron, K. ‘Discussion Papers: Aboriginal Struggle for Citizenship’. Accessed 25 Jan 2010
(11) ‘Commonwealth of Australia Constitution Act: Amendment to Section 51’, Documenting Democracy, National Archives of Australia, Accessed 26 Jan 2010.
(12) ‘Commonwealth of Australia Constitution Act’, 9 Jul 1900, National Archives of Australia, p.18, Accessed 25 Jan 2010
(13) ‘Commonwealth of Australia Constitution Act’, 9 Jul 1900, National Archives of Australia, p.33, Accessed 25 Jan 2010
(14) Bibby, P., ‘Lest We Forget: Indigenous Diggers Still Fighting’. Sydney Morning Herald, 10 Apr, 2008, Accessed 25 Jan, 2010
(15) Jackson, A. ‘Child Health Worse Since Intervention’, Sydney Morning Herald, 11 Jan 2009.
(16) No author, ‘Report has no Proof of Welfare Benefits’, Bigpond News, 15 Dec 2009, Accessed 15 Dec 2009.
(17) Dornin, T. ‘New Book Reveals SA Land Injustice’, Sydney Morning Herald, 11 Dec 2009.

Naivety dissipating.

2010-01-14T13:53:00.005+11:00

Astute readers may have clicked to the fact that the GOFA and Bakchos are one and the same. The really clever ones may even have worked out that he’s of Indigenous heritage. I consider myself to be fairly broad minded and culturally accepting. It’s the legacy of growing up in such a diverse part of Melbourne. Noticeably absent from that heritage however, is the smattering of Aborigines that once inhabited all parts of this huge land.

Understanding the GOFA is not easy. He’s a complex man with a history that spans this globe and experiences that make many lives seem simple. Well educated, articulate, but with a concept of time that makes an organised planner such as myself feel like a time-Nazi, life is never boring. Spontaneity is his norm and he goes where the wind may take him. It seems to be something common to many of our first inhabitants.

Readers will also know that passion is something that eludes me … except in the area of my relationships. For the GOFA, passion runs deep and is the driving force in his life. Human rights advocacy is his gig; he expects nothing more than equal treatment for all people from all levels of the community and government. He expects honesty, transparency and accountability. It’s admirable … and it’s an education in the not so subtle world of politics, a topic which I have never liked. I have always been too black-and-white for politics, but it’s the world he operates in and hence, I’m learning and seeking the information myself. My current light reading, when I’m not buried in the text is “The Politics of Suffering” by Peter Sutton. Not engaging, not easy for a mind such as mine, but helping to build a picture of cause and effect for some of the problems that face Australia.

A few years ago on a visit to the USA, I spent a few days in Grand Canyon and took a day to walk through traditional lands. The disaffected attitudes of the Native Indians initially annoyed me. We were abandoned after a very short time to walk or ride a pony through the area on our own, when we had been led to believe that a guide would be involved. It occurred to me that the same discontent is evident in many of our own Indigenous people. Dispossession, of land, of family, of rights erodes trust, galvanises cultural pride but curiously simultaneously destroys self-confidence and esteem. There are of course other issues that feed this demise. “Sit-down” money, remoteness leading to difficulties in delivering quality healthcare and education that lead to ghettoes that some would argue are little more than pogroms. The Northern Territory Intervention, depending on your perspective, can be viewed as a brave move to improve the living conditions of future generations of Aborigines, or as a controlling and discriminating tactic disguised as management. Whilst the perspective that once viewed Australia’s Aborigines as fauna (1) has thankfully passed, the denigration by a colonising force that behaved as superior and paternalistic for several generations continues despite all the advances and apology.

The interesting thing about the Intervention is that it seems to breach the Racial Discrimination Act, leading to its suspension (2). Given that:
“The Act gives effect to Australia’s obligations under the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination, to which Australia is committed.” (3)
one would have to expect that such a suspension puts our government in breach of an international treaty to which we hold other nations equally accountable.

The quarantining of a portion of welfare payments to Indigenous people in the 73 communities to which the Intervention applies is to be expanded on 1 July, 2010 to non-Indigenous Australians. (4) It’s a tactic to address the obvious racial bias of income management that forms part of the Intervention. How would you feel about your income being constrained simply because you are a single mother of two pre-school aged children receiving a payment, being dictated about how that money may be spent? What about losing your job, receiving unemployment benefits and being unable to find a new job? At the age of 61, my father was retrenched after 30 years of work with a company. Who would employ him at that age? He had always managed to pay the mortgage and to feed, clothe and educate his six children to tertiary level. We may not have had the newest fashions or holidays away, but we were more than provided for practically and emotionally. How demoralising for my father, had he been told how to mange his finances simply because at 61, he could not find a new job.

There are greater implications in the effects of the intervention than immediately meets the eye and not all of them are positive. There’s mounting evidence that the intervention has relatively little effect on improving the quality of life for Indigenous children, the catalyst for the so-called emergency response. There is nothing to say that the Intervention could not be extended to all Indigenous people in all parts of the country. If we truly wish to be seen as a democratic, open and tolerant society we must treat every inhabitant the same.

(1) Until the referendum of 1967, Aborigines were not counted as citizens, but were classed under the Flora and Fauna Act.
Burney, L. When I was Fauna: Citizen’s Rallying Call. Sydney Morning Herald, 23 May 2007, Accessed 14 Jan, 2010.

(2) Dunkerley, S. NT Intervention ‘May Be Racist'. Sydney Morning Herald, 13 November, 2009, Accessed 14 Jan, 2010.

(3) Know Your Rights: Racial Discrimination and Vilification. Australian Human Rights Commission, August 2009, Accessed 14 Jan, 2010.

(4) Narushima, Y., Welfare Control Goes Country-wide. Sydney Morning Herald, 25 November, 2009, Accessed 14 Jan, 2010.

A good educational site

2010-01-14T13:20:00.004+11:00

More than the doctor, many people seem to fear the dentist and I am no exception. Despite my work in healthcare and the people to whom I can turn for information, the chair with the big light overhead and the bowl at the sink at the side gives me palpitations before I even step in from the street. I just wish that Dr. Spiller was a little closer to my part of the world. I think I'd be more inclined to the visit for the traditional check up, rather than only when something goes wrong! Take a look at his page. There's a wealth of information. I always believe that education is a powerful means of dealing with fear.

The green, green grasses of home

2010-01-09T11:32:00.002+11:00

The murder of Nitin Garg in Melbourne is rather sad. It may have been racially motivated or not, but the man took a significant risk in walking that stretch of road late at night on his own.

Cruickshank Park and Somerville are all part of the suburbs I call home (one of my homes, at least!), hear which some of my family still reside. The area has long attracted migrants, due to low cost housing, the mark of a working class area that once thrived with industry. As a child, the majority of my friends were of European heritage, Italian, Greek, Maltese, Lebanese. Soon, came the boat people from Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia. Now, it is seeing an influx of Africans. In my third year at school, I was one of three children who came from homes where English was the first language. I was a minority in my own class and we got along brilliantly. I think that speak volumes about the school at the time.

Some facts. Yarraville train station (which exits onto Anderson street, parallel to Somerville Road) is on the Williamstown and Werribee train lines. It is 15 minutes journey from Flinders Street Station (including the trip through the City Loop). These days, not all trains stop there, but there’s still a lot of people who use that station. It is dark and largely deserted once the shops are closed.

Somerville Road crosses the train line and is a lengthy thoroughfare for a good deal of industrial traffic. Cruickshank Park meets Somerville Road about a kilometre’s walk from the station. There are a few shops that would be closed that late at night and only a few houses and the area would be dark, bar a few streetlights. There’s little car or truck traffic at 10 pm. Walking near or through any park in the dark is quite simply, dangerous.

Whilst the international media and even some Melburnians have commented on the high crime rates and “poorer” area in which the attack occurred, no-one seems to have noted that in fact Yarraville has been one of the areas that experienced the housing boom in the 1990s. It was one of those areas recommended as the place to buy when house prices were going through the roof and is still rated well. People who would not look at the western suburbs twenty years ago have discovered the affordability of my hometown and it’s proximity to so much of Melbourne’s wonderful life. There’s an enormous amount of restoration and pride in the area. Take a drive, look for yourself. Stroll through the Yarraville village centre in Anderson Street on a lazy Saturday morning, where people still stop and talk in the streets. Take in a movie at the restored Sun Theatre. Eat at one of the other little cafes or bakeries. Look at the trinkets in Marita’s store or rummage through the old LPs at another store (the name eludes me) buy the station.

The old Victorian and Edwardian structures have so much character. The people are hard working, welcoming and honestly, I wouldn’t live in a Toorak mansion with its high walls to keep people out in a pink fit. The comments of people who know nothing of Yarraville, of Footscray or Seddon or Spotswood PISS ME OFF! I love that part of Melbourne and it’s always great to go home and see everyone when I get a chance.

On the upbeat, the scales confirmed that my food choices and preparation this week had paid off, reporting 83 kg. One day, one week at a time. That’s how I’ll lose the weight.

A life resolution

2010-01-03T20:37:00.005+11:00

I am exhausted. Exhausted beyond the norm. Struggling to keep my eyes open, fighting to get my butt out the door, falling asleep at the computer where I’ve had the most unproductive day working on the book in some time. But I did get my derrière out eventually to restart my exercise program. I stood on the scales this morning and read what I have suspected was lurking beneath my clothes … an extra 4 kg, gained since I hurt my back 8 weeks ago while away at a conference. The injury prevented me exercising for a week, when I was ordered to rest, preferably horizontal. Thankfully the pain from the injury resolved quickly, but the break and the scare the resultant scan results gave me were the straw that broke the motivation in an exercise regime that has been wavering for months.

So, after what was a less than salubrious Yuletide, tinged more than a little with the most extreme sadness and gut churning disgust after the loss of one of the GOFA's family, we are embarking on a refreshed health kick and a positive start to 2010. Today, my weight was 84 kg. I am struggling to comfortably fit into my work trousers, but in the next month, I intend for that to be rectified. I will regain my energy, I will lose weight to ease the load on my back and I will look fabulous on my wedding day! It's less of a New Year's resolution than a realisation that I need to look after my health. I did it seven years ago. I can do it now.

Voice your displeasure

2009-12-20T00:45:00.004+11:00

This post is adapted from frogpondsrock, to account for my own childless status. I fully agree with the writer and only hope that this action receives the scrutiny and censorships that it seeks to force upon us. Shades of China, I see. Let us not head along the same path.

****************************************************************************

What a crock of shit! The nanny state is about to strike again. All internet in Australia will be filtered at the ISP level so that little Johnny doesn’t stumble across some porn or get pounced on by some internet predator.

Responsible parents monitor the internet time and surfing habits of their children. Sexually explicit content is found in magazines and on mobile phones. And kids have access to all of it just as easily as the net. The clean feed isn’t about pornography and pedophiles; that is just the catch cry to distract us from the deeper insidious implications of this horrid legislation. It’s all about the control of information. Politicians and their media magnate buddies are scared shitless of twitter and other social media because a: they dont know how to use it properly and b: it keeps them accountable.

Cut off our access to information and you effectively cut off our voices. Australians are an apathetic bunch anyway and I think that is one of the reasons that we are being used as a test case. As well as the fact that we are a smallish island population, not too many telecommunications companies to contend with etc etc. So lets gag Australia and see what happens. If the politicians get away with it here my friends YOU will be next. In this one move, we take another step toward stifling the freedom of speech and broadening alternative voices within a country dominated by two major daily news publishers.

So what can you do? You can use your voice. Loudly. We can nag the hell out of our local and federal members and loudly voice our displeasure. Your local Member of Parliament is your representative and wants to hear about your concerns. Let your member know that you are unhappy with this policy.

Not sure who to contact? Find your local member’s contact information.

You can sign Veronica’s petition and tweet and re-tweet the link to it.

How about a phonecall to Stephen Conroy you can call the minister’s office on:
(03) 9650 1188

Or write to him:

Senator Stephen Conroy
Minister for Broadband,Communications and the Digital Economy
Level 4, 4 Treasury Place
Melbourne Vic 3002

You can follow KevinRuddPM on twitter and bombard him with @replies letting him know personally just how cranky you are. Just make sure that you have the capital letters in the right place and that it is the verified twitter account of Kev or you will be tweeting away at a fake.

You can copy this post or parts of it and publish it on your blog as long as you credit frogpondsrock.

You could also tweet this post and/or stumble it as well.

Journey

2009-11-24T18:09:00.003+11:00

In night’s green haze she sits, she waits
For shafts to sieze upon,
To swim and squirm in pools of light
That come with each new dawn.
The canopy of leaves that cool
The floor beneath her feet
Screen harsher beams that burn too bright
On flesh so pale and sweet.
All at the once she’d bare full glare
If foliage were to fail,
But evergreen’s the canopy
That shields her heart, her soul.
A little at a time she creeps
’Cross debris feeding roots,
A little at a time she nears
Each clearing, hid from view.
Inquisitive, ’til day she dies
She seeks for naught but truth,
As Wisdom tries to shield the source
Of solar’s harshest rays.

Paths lead left and paths lead right
To climes less harsh and bleek,
But in those sites she knows her heart
Will still set out to seek
The places far, the corners near
Where Others cannot leave.
The fiercest winds, the coldest snows,
The burning deserts' suns
Feed more the soul of honest hearts
Than peaceful, quiet fields;
So central track, less well defined
By tread of hordes before
Becomes her dark, yet dappled tour
Through forests deep and wild;
Chasing beams of fractured light
That merge as trees disperse
Reveal the plains not meant for all
Kept hidden from the crowd.
Exposed, bereft of leafy shade
Her Wisdom sits and waits.

Warrior wounds

2009-10-29T20:40:00.002+11:00

The GOFA reckons this is worth posting. As he holds the better literary qualifications, I'm trusting in his judgement!

’Cross the void

A ditty from a dotty lass
Dejected, down, despaired,
That Bakchos, be he ever young
Feels bent and bored and bruised;
With hackles raised 'gainst Hades might
He battles, duels and fights,
Ignoring oft who's on his side,
Distrusting lest he lose
What little seems remains for him
In a world seemed set on hate.
Offensive is the great defense,
Weakness must not show,
Lest Cerberus gains upperhand
O'er he who conquered Styx.
A dotty lass of winsome ways
Can only sit and watch
The man she loves, her heart stood still
'Til Bakchos calls her near.

What comes next?

2009-10-29T20:36:00.004+11:00

I could write a dirge, but that's not my way. Wondering what's next after we reach the end of this life is more what stirs my mind.

Today, I learned of the sudden and most unexpected loss of a friend. Others knew him much better than me, but I wonder if he knows how widely he was respected, how many lives he touched. All of us could only hope to be held in such esteem.

Do they know?

Do they know?
When hearts are breaking, as tears are streaming,
Do they know?
When news sifts through the grapevine’s leaves,
When full bright sun seems dappled and grey,
Do they know how far their circle spread,
Do they know how much they meant?
Does Peter with his golden keys
Implore them gaze afore,
“See the friends you leave behind
Know those lives you touched.
Before you cross the celestial line
Acknowledge those you’ve touched.”
When their number’s called, a life snuffed out
Too soon for simple minds,
Do they know just who or where tears fall,
Do they know the breadth for love?
Hade’s gates stay shut for such
That make hearts bleed and seep,
That weep and sob in shocked surprise
When news has filtered by.
Peter shows them all, I’m sure,
Rewarding lives well lived;
If sins accounted must be paid,
Why shouldn’t credit pay
For hearts that stream for souls so kind,
When God has called their name?
A life well lived, respect so earned
Must weigh the scales one side
And guarantee the peace for such
So many feel they lose.

A Lucky Country

2009-10-28T15:54:00.003+11:00

Imagine leaving your home, the repositories of your history, your ancestors, your extended family and friends with only what you can carry. Imagine pursuing an enigma, because the dream your were promised of acceptance in another land turned out to be a lie sold to you by men interested only in your cash, caring naught for your welfare. You are escaping; escaping war, famine, marginalisation, for the promise of a better, a safe life, free of persecution. You abandon your source of income, the systems and processes you comprehend, the people you trust for an ‘advanced’ society that instead rejects you. What now? Refuse to leave the ship, refuse to eat and make lots of noise; you really have nothing else to lose.

Australia really is a lucky country in so many ways. Our borders are protected by a God-made moat the envy of most other developed nations; our climate permits farming of a wide range of flora and fauna; our enemies are few, our society is relatively stable and for most, our way of life is secure and safe.

We are lucky … and we are selfish. New South Wales Labor MP Julia Irwin this morning commented about the detention of the Sri Lankan refugees on board the Oceanic Viking, the latest ping-pong balls in the never-ending refugee debate. Her comments that the individuals should be allowed to enter Australia “If they are genuine refugees …” (1) has been touted in the morning’s news as a shift from her party’s and the incumbent government’s stance on asylum seekers. In reality it tells us nothing about how she would resolve the current impasse. Would she prefer that the refugees be transported to a local processing centre before being released into the community whilst their applications are assessed? Does the Minister accept incarceration in a detention centre in Indonesia whilst they are processed? How does she expect that a group of non-English speaking refugees with little in the way of legal representation or awareness of their semi-internationally agreed human rights are going to be able to establish their legitimacy as refugees from a port in another nation? It’s worth noting that Indonesia is not a signatory to the UN Refugee Convention and is therefore in on way bound by international law, unlike Australia. It’s also worth noting that many countries, especially in Africa, deal with much greater numbers of displaced persons and refugees than we do, with far fewer economic resources.(2)

Suggestions that the refugees may be forcibly removed from the ship, since staging what amounts to a ‘sit-in’, Greens senator Sarah Hanson-Young expressed concern for the safety of the women and children on board. Since when are the rights of women more important than those of men? Why selectively mention women? The issue should not be one of sex, but simply basic, courteous care and empathy for people who have travelled through the most dire of circumstances, leaving everything they know for a future built on a quicksand they could not foresee.

I know a number of people who have resettled in Australia from countries troubled by conflict, the most notable being South Africa. Because they had cash, because they had transferable skills, they were able to enter in what our nation consider a legitimate fashion, capable of following the processes and understanding the system. It’s fine to say that people can apply for asylum or residency to Australia from within the country they live, but it’s not always possible. If you have no cash, if you fear for your life, you have no choice but to run, paperwork sorted or no. We should absolutely investigate the backgrounds of asylum seekers, ensure they do meet the definitions that entitle them to refugee assistance, but it may be more fairly and reliably achieved within our own country.

Before you ask if I would take them into my backyard, let me tell you that not only would I do so, but I have already lived, in fact grown up in a migrant district. Ironically as a child of Australian born and raised parents, I was in the minority in my year at primary school.

Most refugees are so grateful for a chance to live free of persecution and to raise their families in peace that they become our most loyal supporters and trusted friends. Italians, Greeks and Europeans were superceded by the ‘boat-people’, initially Vietnamese, but also Laotian and Cambodian. Then came the Africans; Congolese, Kenyans, Somalis. It was Europeans who befriended my parents, the Asians with whom I swapped lunches, the Africans who play with sibling’s children.

Now it’s the turn of the Sri Lankans and Middle East. Don’t tell me religion makes the difference. I have no time for the bigotry based in any fundamentalist credo. This melting pot was black before it was white. They were forced to share with us. A little broadening of the racial colour palette should be seen as not simply tolerance and compassion, but a chance to benefit from the diverse cultural pleasures our newest inhabitants can share. We are lucky. We could be luckier if we practiced more empathy.

Source:
(1)Tom Allard, 'Sri Lankan asylum seekers 'refuse to leave boat', The Age, 28 October, 2008
(2) UNHCR, The 1951 Refugee Convention - Questions & Answers, 2007 edition

Hopeless romantic

2009-09-06T13:45:00.004+10:00

Confirmation from the the all-knowing website 43 things

I took the 43 Things Personality Quiz and found out I'm a

Romantic Lifelong Learning Self-Improver

quiz.

Bakchos and I have been playing a bit with life goals. He's a little more outrageous in his aims ... OK, a lot more outrageous. My list, in comparison, is quite tame. The thing that interests me about the aims that so many people put forward through this site, is the simplicity of the majority of them. Learning to do something, helping someone else, finding happiness or love. There's some frivolity, but the majority is so basic and universal that it tells me that money and work is not what brings us happiness, it's the interactions and companionship with those around us. I intend to do as many of the things on my list as I can. It's small; there's no reason that all of them should not be achievable. Bakchos and I are reaching for distant stars on at least a couple of counts, but none of it is unachievable. Once the book is written, it will be time to find a dancing teacher!

"A man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?" Robert Browning.

The text

2009-09-02T06:55:00.000+10:00

In the early morn, in it’s dark, still silence, there’s so little to distract the mind that I sometimes rise early to study. After a night of sleep – five hours will do, but six is better – the hours from four to six before dawn offer the most peaceful and mind sharpening time for anything I really need to attend to. No-one is awake to talk to, the house building is still and quiet, the television is less than appealing. It’s a trade off between the heaviness of the eyelids past ten at night and the sheer pleasure of snuggling back under the doona or into the arms of my loved one in those wee hours. The latter is harder to relinquish!

I haven’t used this tactic of getting up early for a couple of years, but as always, I found it worked again for me this morning. The attention on my book was so much more focussed, even if my brain is muttering curses at me for leaving my bed so long before the slightest beam dared to pierce the blind. At least now I can focus on refining the sections planned for completion by the end of next week. If I can get a little ahead with the writing on this text, then I have more leaway to accommodate the inevitable challenges and joys that life throws my way.

Oh shit, now I have to prove I know my stuff!

2009-08-15T09:22:00.003+10:00

Inspiration. Motivation. I think I’ve found both. All I needed was someone to believe in my idea.

For a little over a year, I’ve had an idea to write a book. It’s come out of tasks I’ve undertaken at work and evolved into a draft chapter that I presented to a publisher few months ago. I received some good reviews and some severe criticism. I’ve decided you need a thick skin if you are going to write a book. I think writing non-fiction, it probably needs to be like rhinoceros hide. I made a conscious decision to let the idea slide if the proposal was turned down. I wasn’t going to pursue it any further.

Then yesterday, my liaision calls and tells me that the publishing board are excited about my idea and have decided to offer me a contract to write the remainder of the text. All of a sudden, a possibility has become a reality and I realised how much I really wanted to do this. I was in tears with sheer happiness. The next 15 months are going to be intense, as I research and write my tome, but I hope that in 2011, a very significant dream will see fruition and postitive reviews from my peers. I am both ecstatic and panicked by the prospect of what is to come.

I have it all now: inspiration, motivation and desire. I have them in love and in life. I feel like I'm doing something worthwhile. I am sucking the marrow from life at present and I intend to keep doing that for as long as I possibly can. Now if you’ll excuse me, Bakchos and I have a bottle of Moet to crack!

Heart felt

2009-08-09T20:31:00.003+10:00

There's a cardiac condition called stunned myocardium. It results from an acute attack of reduced blood flow (ischaemia) to the heart muscle (the myocardium). The affected section of tissue does not function normally for up to two weeks, but if the cells are not deprived of oxygen for too long, they do generally recover and the heart beats normally again.

Yesterday, I was listening to The Coors "Breathless". In conjunction with the rather pleasant feelings in my chest, it gave me the title of the latest piece my muse has inspired. Life is very sweet, just now. Very sweet.

Stunned

Walls torn down,
Heart stood still,
Silence in the new bound will,
A will that pledged to not be found,
A will that could not see it come.
With speed and grace the walls fell down
To Bakchos, strong and ever young.
No rampart steeled with iron rails
Could stave the subtle creep
Of tender heart and silent speech
That crept inside her heart.
The clarion call, conviction filled
Inspires her mind, directs her will.
Be Bakchos near or be he far,
The heart stood still will call him near.

Crumbled stone ‘gainst iron will
Never was a fight,
Metal softens and it melts at sight
Of Godhead in his pure, true light.
Fruitless to refute the truth
Let Bakchos feed your wanting soul;
Take of his bliss,
Share in his pain,
And know that you will live again.
Don’t seek the shoe that has not fallen,
Don’t banish joy, pure and free;
Seek the peace of company
Cherish love, so honest and sweet.
Take love in arms and share with him
The breath of life that melds within.

Welcome Assault

2009-08-08T08:47:00.002+10:00

My fridge,
It smells like coffee,
Velvety, black, pungent;
Wafting through the open door
For milk or jam or veg.
Coffee thick,
Coffee strong,
Assaulting nasal hairs,
Accustomed more
To sweeter hues
Of blue flowers in Earl Grey!

Firenze

2009-08-07T23:53:00.004+10:00

Il Duomo, in Florence is in my very humble architectural and artistic opinion, the most beautiful structure I have ever seen. It’s impossible to take a photograph of its pink and green marble inlaid façade in its entirety; other buildings encroach too tightly. Their close proximity simply adds to the beauty, like finding a gem nestled in the mountain of concrete and narrow streets. It’s austere interior balances the intricate detail of the exterior so beautifully. I liked Florence. I should like to return some day and spend more time there and in the Cinque Terra above.

Frivolity

2009-08-07T09:51:00.008+10:00

House Warming.

Bakchos comes, now hear the roar,
Watch him as he comes through the door.
Wine in hand and song in heart
The mighty god will play his part.
Raise your voice in melody
Sing his praises, sing with glee,
No mortal’s time should ignore thee
The mighty Lord, oh Bakchos he!

Bakchos

2009-08-07T09:31:00.002+10:00

Conviction’s Substance

The mortal heart took such a blow
That only god could rise,
Charon’s fee refused to pay,
So swim he must to fight
‘Cross Stygian currents, dark and wide
Lest Hades draw him back
To earthly hells where none can thrive
Where only terrors dwell,
To haunt the mind and tear the soul
By day, by night, for all.

God he rose from waters deep
Renewed, if not complete,
This Bakchos of Wiradjuri
Borrowed Apollo’s mighty light
No vengeful spite would he inspire
Through darkness of the soul
His cost he would exact from all
Who did not value life
As precious in the eyes of all
Regardless of their plight.

Defy him not, he’s seen it all
There’s nothing left to lose
He’s seen the rivers meet, converge
And still he did escape.
Don’t doubt his heart, don’t test his soul
Yours wants, you will not win
Against the god that’s conquered Styx
Immortal to become
Wiradjuri will know the name
Of Bakchos when he’s won.

Bring me wine, bring me song, let Bakchos sing along!

2009-08-07T09:28:00.001+10:00

Something I’ve learned is that deception is borne out of fear and it’s the fear that generates the lies. Lies upon lies that when tested and tugged, unravel like the thread in a hemline all the way back to the start. In that unravelling, a relationship loses all substance, the foundations, already shaky and rotted, collapse and the house is decimated. I found the pain of loss not long ago dissipated more rapidly than I expected. My equilibrium returned within a fortnight and I felt myself, content and whole again sooner than expected. The weight of that last big decision lifted quickly. It was right.

Then, in another matter of weeks, your world may be turned upside down. In a new person, you may find the ability to retain your sense of self and yet, still share a bond and joy that makes your heart swell and your mind think in colours again. In a few meetings, your hangover count can jump from the digits of one hand to those of the second, but that’s what you get for carousing with the God of Wine!

Bakchos has a smile that twinkles with mischief in his eyes. The breadth of his heart is boundless, honest and true; no coward is this man. He does not shy away from the darker corners of the soul. It makes a welcome change to find someone whom I trust again and who treats me with the respect I seem to have missed in so many relationships.

I am happy. I am whole. I am inspired. I am desired.

Dreaming

2009-08-03T11:55:00.004+10:00

HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

W. B. Yeats.

I read this most adorable prose some years ago; it’s on a plaque I gave Mum, in the hall at the entrance to the front door. It’s a fitting place I think, for when you open your home and share your hearth with someone, you give them access to your haven, a peek at the things, the people, the values you hold dear. The romantic sentiment can be taken so much further than Yeats intended.

Buddhist philosophy argues that nothing is in fact real. There’s this concept of impermanence, that circumstances and our life experiences are entirely dependent upon those of others around us, ‘dependent arising’. What’s real today, may dissolve tomorrow … or perhaps it never existed; it’s hard to know, let alone comprehend.

What is so very real are the feelings that flood us in times of exceptional emotion, be they positive or negative, for it is them that perpetuate the ongoing cycle of change, of impact on others; feelings are at the heart of dependent arising. Buddhist argument challenges me, arguing that I have a choice in how I feel about things and that those feelings influence the responses I make. I can’t agree with that yet; emotions cannot be planned, although I do think … I know that they can be dulled or heightened with repeated exposure. To me, the emotion is not what is dependent, but rather my response, which is very much within my control.

In the past months I’ve been trying to act with the conviction of someone who always has a choice. It’s a positive way of journeying through life, rather than asking myself why I’m in a situation I don’t like, sometimes blaming someone else for circumstances. Despite taking responsibility for my own actions and responses, I am still very much aware of the impact my behaviour has on others. Dependent arising or not, we are social creatures and what we do has ripple effects. I think it is best to always tread softly, because you are always treading on someone’s dreams and without dreams, there’s no hope.

I’m dreaming. Are you?

Prose

2009-07-19T09:14:00.006+10:00

Poetry, the really good stuff, seems to come from the deepest of places, from emotions raw and jagged as the gems that are pulled from the earth before they are polished to their singular stunning glory. I marvel at the ability of truly great writers to repeatedly find the door to that place in the heart that leads to marvellous prose. I wonder that they retain their sanity; it’s a dangerous thing constantly tapping the wells of despair and the pinnacles of desire. It makes me wonder again about whether a writer is born or made. I think we all have the ability to turn out a fabulous piece, but most of us cannot do so repeatedly.

The intensity of emotions over the past three plus years generated a small collection of prose of which I am proud, but of those possibly three or four are really any good. They provide an interesting progression in emotion, from the sheer bliss and peace of the most secure love, through the tempest of instability and finally out the other side to the realisation and relinquishment of a romance that both sustained and changed me in ways that only he can know; change that is more positive than not; change that has left me in a place where I finally feel free to get to know someone else.

I’ve not done this before, so going out on a limb to share these pieces is a little scary. I hope you enjoy them … a final point in acknowledging something so very sweet, but unattainable.

Silence

He stills my world –
Peace.
No touch, no kiss,
Just stills my world.
No fear of silence,
No empty space,
Rests my mind,
He stills my world.
Hear his voice
And quiet my mind;
No need to speak,
He stills my world.

A love song

Come take me in your arms
And tell me all is right,
Make still my world and smile for me,
Sweet Angel of my life.
This time is ours, apart from all
To share our hearts and minds,
Delay no more, my patience’s spent,
Come take me in your arms.

Come take me in your arms, my love
And share with me your life.
Bring all your joys, your pains, your fears,
The burdens I will share.
This heart has space to bear a load
If you will share mine too.
Why tarry now? Cease wasting time.
Come take me in your arms.

I call you now, I want you near,
My heart sees none but you.
Come speak to me in dulcet tones
That still my heart, my soul.
The peace you bring when in my world
I cherish, I adore;
Come take me in your arms, my love
Come take me in your arms.

Echo lost

Tear it out, discard it now,
For naught is left that fills this heart.
Those final words have punched a hole
At weakest point and broken through;
No stitch nor patch will fill the void
This ewer is cracked, this heart stood still.
Take out the pump and with wadding fill
The vacant pit that Angel knew.

The humming bird can go away,
Let it hover by some other fool;
The resonant strings that once replied
Recoiled when slit upon the harp.
Let music that so sweet to hear
Be others’ lot, I’ve had my tears;
No longer does the song entice
No heart remains to sound reply.

Denouement

Burn the bridge, it’s past its life,
Treads rotted, ropes all frayed;
The fiercer gales that buffet now
Have less sturdy structures ruined.
Set match to fuse wrapped round the ties
And watch as flame scores ‘End’,
Burn the bridge before it breaks
Heart asunder, beyond escape.

Burn the bridge, do it now,
Don’t wait ‘til winds have eased,
Temptation’s spoils on yonder shore
Were never what was pledged.
Abandon post where none have stayed,
Stroll further down the path;
Burn the bridge while there’s still time
Protect your haven home.

Burn the bridge, for pity’s sake,
How long will you stand by
And watch as liars ply their wares
Promised long ago for you.
I’ll find the flint and splice the tie
With fuse as thick as wire
Burn the bridge, you know you must
Before it’s burned for you.

Updates

2009-07-05T23:56:00.001+10:00

My adoptive Irish father has had further medical review and it’s been determined that his injury has not healed one iota and at this point in time, never will. Although he can move about his home, he will never again work on a car or a tractor, deliver a calf or build a dry stone wall. He is fortunate to be alive, let alone able to walk, but for a man who in his 84 years has never travelled more than 150 km from his home, finding new interests to occupy his time is not coming easily. What a very lonely and frustrating way to see out his last years.

And then there’s my brother, who this week will have another lengthy test to examine the underlying heart condition that precipitated his ill health. Seems there’s both congenital and subsequent acquired problems to be elucidated and managed. His stroke has turned out to be relatively localized and as minimally damaging as could have been hoped, but it’s really put a dent in his previously bullet proof confidence. It’s also made him realize the power of now. He’s bought himself something he’s always wanted and not skimped on the cost – a baby grand piano. There are people in this world who deserve some things and I couldn’t be more pleased that he’s finally getting his dream. If I’m really lucky, he may even let me play it when I’m down next time!

Preparations

2009-07-04T14:24:00.001+10:00

On a windswept hill, inner suburban Sydney is soaking up the sun and I am sorting through guff, preparing for a housemate … for real this time! Thankfully it’s someone I know, my cousin and there’s no rush, as he won’t be moving in fully until October, but he will probably need the room for storage in the next few weeks. It’s amazing how much has gravitated back to the spare room since I gave up on the idea of a flatmate. Like the gardeners trio pack I bought for Angel’s parents for Christmas one year, but never got the chance to give them; or the filing box, with newer papers stacked on top that I’ve yet to sort into the appropriate slots; and the study materials that I keep intending to read, but hardly make a dent upon.

I’ll have to dismantle the desk and get one of the guys from the club to help me to move it into the garage; it’s deceptively heavy. And I think I’m going to get a bit ruthless about the stuff that lies around here that never gets used. Time for a bit of a spring clean. When the day comes that I finally decide to move, there’ll be less to pack.

I’m looking forward to sharing with Kava. I think this is going to work out well.

Vale

2009-06-26T22:35:00.002+10:00

Love him for his musical genius or loathe him for his unorthodox behaviour, Michael Jackson has left his mark on this speck of dirt as much as the Emperor Nero, Elvis Presley or Henry the Eighth. The impact on the lives of a generation of teenagers in the 1980s, my teen years, cannot be overstated. I have never followed a particular band or singer obsessively, but I can name more songs written by him than most other artists; Elton John and Billy Joel and Mary Black are prominent in my music collection, but there's not a single MJ album, not even a single in mix. I’ll be filling the void in my eclectic musical collection in the coming weeks. “Black or White" and “We Are the World” will be high on the list.

There’s little doubt that the life of the King of Pop will translate rapidly from reality to legend. So much was left unexplained, so many will seek to have their penny’s worth about him. No matter the comments, no-one can deny the talent, the joy he brought to so many people as he entertained them with his inimitable style. Let the man now rest peacefully. Remember the good.

Dating deadlines!

2009-06-24T14:51:00.001+10:00

I received a compliment from a stranger a few days ago. You know, the sort of corny pick up line that you’d expect to hear in a nightclub or bar. I made a general, non-committal response and received a similar comment and I let it go.

A friend commented at the time “Gee, you didn’t even bat an eyelid”. I’m afraid with me, saucy talk and corny flattery from a total stranger simply feels cheap. I’m not unattractive and I know my assets … the Italian designer certainly reminded me of them on my trip last year! Nevertheless, someone who tries to pick me up without tickling my mind first simply turns me off, not on. Every man who’s ever romanced me has found a means of making me believe I’m attractive because of much more than my physical appearance. And once I believe he likes me for more than my appearance, I actually accept the corny flattery and blush! Weird? Perhaps I’m just a little jaded.

Fools

2009-06-22T21:26:00.001+10:00

I saw this on Google Maps today, via Post Secret. It made me smile. Let's hope she's seen it and responded positively!

Aussies will bet on anything

2009-06-08T21:14:00.004+10:00

... or so Paul McDermott believes.

"You just know when the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse come thundering down that Australia will be running a sweep!"

You've got to love "Good News Week"! Think I woke the neighbours with my raucous laughter. That's twice tonight! (The first being at "Two and a Half Men").

Change requires a different choice

2009-06-08T14:34:00.005+10:00

“Don't let the past dictate who you are, but let it be part of who you become."

I read this today. It struck a chord. I struggle with the idea that people, like leopards, do not change their spots. Humans are supposed to be the most advanced of the animal kingdom. Given our ability to reflect upon reasons for our behaviours and to learn, I cling to the belief that each person has the capacity to grow emotionally, spiritually and intellectually.

Changing our spots doesn’t happen overnight, at least, not in my experience; it’s a drawn-out process with a lot of heartache. We are never complete without our past, for it forms our sense of identity; it binds us to others at the deepest levels. I can think of no greater hell than to suffer global amnesia, to forget everyone, everything, to not know why or how or where or when. I think I would be scared. So, as much as my past is littered with the skeletons of poor choices and the ghosts of loss, it remains part of who I am as much as the joyous memories and enduring ties. It’s the reason I believe in forgiving, but not forgetting.

Giving of ourselves opens us to attack, to ridicule and hurt. Loving someone comes with the greatest risk and often those risks are realised. The trick seems to be to relinquish bitterness and instead accept that we knew there were risks and as such should have been prepared. “Ah”, I hear you say, “but not all risks are foreseeable.” Well, no they’re not, but it’s not the type of risk that’s important, just the fact that they exist. It’s how we respond to the choices and actions of others that determines the paths that open up before us. I guess it’s why the same challenges seem to cross our paths so frequently in our lives; if you don’t change tack, you won’t be able to explore new waters. Making a different choice, reacting differently is the start to the leopard changing his spots. New choices, new options, new risks, but do you have the courage to try?

Does an atheist pray?

2009-05-21T20:24:00.001+10:00

The saga of my romantic life has been somewhat of an epic, especially over the last 3½ years. My relationships tend to be torrid and with them comes a certain amount of self-doubt and heartache … okay, a lot. I’m not usually the one to end things. I hang on until I am convinced to a high degree that there is no means of salvage, that the paths I am on and that of the heart I hold dear are diverging.

I find that the decisions that sit most peacefully in the soul are those that are right. If I feel churned, ill at ease, worried, then I’m probably not doing the right thing. My conscience plays a heavy part in my emotional state. When the decision is right, I generally feel the weight lift and life achieves a balance more rapidly. I wish that was the case today.

Today, I called an end to the saga with Angel. I couldn't allow him to speak; it would have undone me. Breaking up wouldn’t hurt so much if we didn’t love someone. It wouldn’t feel like someone was tearing our heart out through the throat, or strangling the trachea so that we can hardly breathe. I’m waiting for the pain to ease, whilst burying myself in any activity that keeps me from thinking of the utter loss of a heart I know was never truly mine. I’ve written a number of poems in the time we’ve been together, but the last two are at odds; one of burning bridges to save my own sanity, the other a prayer, from a woman who cannot currently believe in a God and who doubts the reality of everything she has experienced. It is the latter that I will share, if only because I know he will read it. I’ve tried to bow out with grace. I think I’ve done well.

May there be peace in your heart and joy in your days,
May the hands of a friend be ready and warm,
May the shelter of home never fade from your sight,
And the love of a sweetheart fill the rest of your days.

Goodbye, Angel.

"Watershed" by the Indigo Girls

2009-05-09T16:31:00.005+10:00

Thought I knew my life, like the back of my hand,
The gold in the rainbow, nothing panned out as I planned,
They say only milk and honey's gonna make your soul satisfied,
But I better learn how to swim 'cause the crossing is chilly and wide.

Twisted guard rails on the highway, broken glass on the cement,
A ghost of someone's tragedy, how recklessly my time has been spent.
They say that it's never too late, but you don't, you don't get any younger
Now I better learn how to starve the emptiness and feed the hunger.

CHORUS
Up on the watershed, standing at the fork in the road
You can stand there and agonise 'til your agony's your heaviest load,
You never fly as the crow flies, get used to a country mile
When you're learning to face the path at your pace every choice is worth your while.

And there's always retrospect when you're looking back to light a clearer path;
Every five years or so I look back on my life and I have a good laugh;
You start at the top, take a full circle round, catch a breeze take a spin,
But ending up where I started again makes me wanna stand still.

Breaking the karmic cycle

2009-04-22T21:10:00.002+10:00

Sometimes I wonder why people expect, even demand, to be treated with courtesy and respect by those they have mistreated themselves. I wonder why people don’t comprehend that deeds that harm someone else will most likely breed the same in return. And when the karmic kickback does happen, I fail to understand why people don’t realize that it was them who brought it upon themselves. Blaming someone else is always easier than facing up to the reality that your own behaviour hasn’t been so good. Heaven forbid our own self-esteem should take a battering.

It is so easy to repay an attack with retribution. Breaking the cycle of aggression is something that takes immense control that can only be achieved by objective assessment of the issues and stakes. Objectivity is a big call when you or someone you care about is the subject of an attack. It’s the complicating factor (but not necessarily the origin) of every conflict on this speck of dust in the universe.

Finding the distance to be objective may require assistance, from friends who will listen and provide perspective, from meditation, through allowing ourselves a little more room to simply step away from the daily grind and treat ourselves to a little kindness. Other times complete avoidance may be the only means of coping until the anger abates and we can think objectively. Burying ourselves in a project or going away from the world, phone off and newspaper free can be very refreshing.

Behaving better than your opponent takes strength. Grace doesn’t come with ease and it doesn’t necessarily leave you light of heart. But it does improve the opinion others have of you and make you some they admire. Do whatever it takes to show good grace to anyone who transgresses you. The karma that generates can only be good and ultimately that will bring you peace, something the endless cycle of aggression cannot.

Ticking time bombs

2009-04-05T21:28:00.002+10:00

The post I was working on will have to wait. Instead, you’re all going to have to read a rant. DON’T THINK YOU ARE BULLET PROOF! ANY OF YOU! NO MATTER HOW YOUNG YOU ARE!

My brother, a remarkably strong, fit, clean living and healthy eating individual had a stroke two days ago. He refused to tell us, his family until tonight. We’ve also just found out had a heart condition for ten years that he has never had treated or fully investigated. It has almost certainly precipitated the stroke. Grrrrrr! Obstinacy may run in the gene pool, but with him it’s definitely on the negative end of Natural Selection!

So ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you the signs and symptoms of a stroke.
• Loss of or impeded vision.
• Muscle weakness, numbness or paralysis.
• Difficulty swallowing.
• Confusion, dizziness or imbalance.
• Speech problems.
• Sudden onset of headache or a change in their pattern.

There are three possible underlying causes.

• A vessel blocked a gradually by a clot (thrombus) that develops over a period of time until it totally occludes the pipe.
• A vessel blocked by a piece of thrombus that has broken off from somewhere else in the body (now it’s called an embolus), usually the heart or one of the blood vessels in the neck.
• A ruptured aneurysm (a weakened section of vessel).

Minimising damage is a time critical issue. It’ s literally a matter of hours, usually less than six.

The National Stroke Foundation, suggests the acronym FAST to test for a stroke:
• Facial weakness - can the person smile? Has their mouth or eye drooped?
• Arm weakness - can the person raise both arms?
• Speech difficulty - can the person speak clearly and understand what you say?
• Time to act fast - call 000 immediately (or 112 from a mobile telephone, in Australia).

Please, don’t ignore the signs of ill health. In my brother’s case, he has paid a price that could mean he will have to cease his work. He is fifty-two years old, with two children still at living at home, one in university, the other just finished VCE. Irresponsible choices made by him several years ago have made him pay a high price. He will have to change his way of life, not to prevent more strokes, but to manage the impacts this one has had on his life. His choices, but one that has impacts for the rest of his family. He is going to go stir crazy and send the rest of us with him!

Terms of Endearment

2009-04-01T11:45:00.003+11:00

You may call me most anything you like, but the tag is largely irrelevant, a mere association to an aspect of me, not the whole. But as language is culturally determined, the words themselves do carry meaning. Shakespeare’s allusion in “Romeo and Juliet” highlights the discrepancy between name and character, but at the same time reinforces the fact that some aspects of the self cannot be overlooked. You are a Montague, dear Romeo, but there is more that defines you than can be expressed in that one tag.

I’ve never been fond of my own name, much to my mother’s dismay, but it is mine and something that others associate with me. I like some of the other names I have been called over the years. Watershedd fits nicely, my choice and therefore quite pleasing, because it harks back to the Indigo Girls refrain about the duelling nature of the soul with every choice I make. I also like being called Sweetheart, something that only one person can call me, a term that tells me he sees beyond the façade to a part of me that we all hope we possess. He also calls me Beautiful, a powerful word I’ve discussed previously, as well as Sexy, but also Brainy … he doesn’t want me to think he only likes me for my physique! It makes me laugh.

And I call him Sweetheart … or Angel. The halo may be dented and set at a rakish angle, the feathers of the wings somewhat pulled and twisted, even a few missing, but the smile is broad and cheeky and the heart is true. Call me Sweetheart, Angel, I’m in love with you. X

My other father

2009-03-20T10:26:00.002+11:00

My mother has always said I was the child with too many fathers. Born the youngest of six children as somewhat of a delayed surprise, my four older brothers were less my peers than my minders for many years. My in-laws, are to me, just like my siblings; they’ve all been in my life for so long.

When I lived overseas a lifetime ago, I found another father, John, having been adopted as one of the family by my boyfriend’s parents. I would spend my weekends on the farm, talking, sometimes helping with the tasks, but as a female, there were some things I was barred from doing by my surrogate father. It was a very different attitude to that of my own father, who made no distinction between the roles of men and women, other than on issues of strength. I can chop a pile of wood, change a fuse, find a stud in a wall to hang a picture or change a tyre. There’s no way I would have been permitted to change tyre by John, let alone climb atop a hay stack when laying to dry. It rankled me, but in a strange sort of way, I knew he did it because loved and treated me as if I were his own daughter. We both cried when I left to return to Australia.

Last year, I saw my friends again for the first time in fifteen years. John looked so well, as did his wife Rose. The quiet, humble man I remembered was as unassuming as ever and gave the biggest smile and warmest hug I could have wished for and when I left again two days later, tears glistened in his eyes. I think we were both worried it would be our last meeting.

News today has come that John was seriously injured a few weeks ago. The trauma he, as such an elderly man, has sustained, is really awful. I would so love to simply be able to visit him and hold his hand, to read a National geographic to him or watch the nature programs on the television. I can’t stop crying. He is adored by all in his family and respected by all who know him. His considered counsel is worth more than most because he only dispenses it when asked. To think of this diminutive giant as confined to bed, possibly permanently is heart rending.

Call me Marie Antoinette

2009-03-16T13:00:00.008+11:00

I want cake. A nice plain or vanilla cake, with butter cream filling and icing. Or a white chocolate icing would be fine too. Earl grey tea would be a nice accompaniment.

Over the past six weeks, by some psycho-emotional process the mechanism of which I’m not too sure about (and am loathe to question), I’ve been able to avoid the culinary pleasures that have brought me to my current size and shape. As a result, I’ve lost four kilograms and found comfort in my clothes again. There’s more I’d like to lose and I actually feel I’m in the right mental space to do so in a consistent and sensible manner over the next few months. For the first time in several years, I can see that size 12 denim skirt needing to be washed, rather than sitting at the base of the drawer.

But I still want cake today. Damn PMS. I can see myself going through copious volumes of artificially sweetened tea and sodas.

Silence

2009-02-27T21:34:00.005+11:00

Silence – the sound of nothing that can convey so much in its all encompassing quiet. It’s not always golden. There’s the silence of destruction; after the fires in Victoria or Canberra, eerie because of the total lack of animal life or the rustle of wind through the trees. Then there’s the stony, cold silence between two people at odds with each other, a distinct lack of peace in it’s forbidding freeze. Loss of a loved one carries disbelief, an empty, hollow and despairing quiet, broken only by the sobs of those left enveloped by their pain. Waiting for news, happy or sad, laced with apprehension never knowing what to say, what to do. The silence of the early morning, so perfect for meditation, but even then the mad monkey of the mind interferes with the internal quiet we seek. And there’s the easy silence shared by two people who do not need to speak, who are comfortable without conversation. We experience so much of agonies of the other forms of quiet in our lives, but the true, easy silence we share with someone else is rare as red diamonds.

The apartment I rent is my silent, solitary haven. In seeking a housemate, it’s been liable to disruption. It’s not the same as sharing with a lover; much less easy. So, after a short foray into the world of house sharing again, I’m backing up into my solitude. I like having my space, being able to do what I want, when I wish, with whomever I choose. Having to think a about who may or may not be here is not my idea of peace. I’ll wait a while longer for place I dream to buy … perhaps there’ll be some easy silence shared there.

National Day of Mourning

2009-02-21T21:55:00.004+11:00

I remember Ash Wednesday, the haze and dust days before, the glow of the setting sun, the heat. How much worse must Black Saturday have been? The fires have destroyed such a huge expanse of eastern Victoria. The black scar across my home state will be slow to heal; I've been moved to tears since it all started ... I still am. The sheer destruction and the terror that met those who died is incomprehensible.

Take a look a h&b's post, recounting her sister's story of the Victorian fires. Really, it's amazing that anyone in the midst of that disater survived at all.

Also take a look at Frogdancer's posts on the fires, most noticeably this one, in which she's drumming up books for a teenage friend who lost his collection when the family home was razed.

The National Day of Mourning tomorrow is a chance for those of us who may not have lost anyone close to us to express our sincere disbelief in what has transpired and remember that there but for the sake of God go all of us. If you can't attend a memorial, at least stop and do something to remember and acknowledge that this sunburnt country's terror has been shown to its fullest extent and send a little something south. It will be years before the devastated communities recover and some, with 20% of the population lost in the devastation, will never really be the same.

I have but one wish for my southern siblings ... peace.

A worthy expense

2009-02-09T07:01:00.002+11:00

The toll of the Victorian bushfires is staggering; 108 dead and rising, 750 homes destroyed, the little town of Maryville gone, unimaginable devastation. It is truly heartbreaking. Up north, our Queensland cousins are contending with the very thing they cry out for in the fires – rain. I’ve been crying this morning … my little worries seem insignificant in comparison.

So here’s an idea … perhaps the Federal government’s stimulus package could be re-jigged. I mean, do we really all need $950? Perhaps the money could be diverted to rebuild the communities that have suffered so horrifically this weekend. We have three states in crisis mode – Victoria, NSW and Queensland. And if the government won’t change the package, how about those of us who can afford it, donate all or part of the proposed bonus to the fire appeal. Just a little thought.

Covet not thy neighbour's happiness ...

2009-02-03T17:59:00.002+11:00

I read this today. Of course, it could apply to either sex, so change the gender if necessary.

Find a person who calls you beautiful instead of hot; who calls you back when you hang up on him; who will stay awake just to watch you sleep; who wants to show you off to the world when you are in your sweats; who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares about you and how lucky he is to have you; who turns to his friends and says, 'That's her’!

I’d add one more thing – someone who not only reminds you of how much he loves you, but demonstrates it to all and sundry.

My parents have been married for almost 55 years and at the age of 81, they still live in the same house they bought all those years ago. My Mum’s knees are shot – more than Dad’s … the legacy of a horrific car accident before I was born. So she can’t get to the bottom of the shower and at less than 5 ft tall she can’t reach very high. So Dad now does most of the cleaning. I know he seeks her out in a crowd, keeps an eye out for her, as she does him. He never refuses her anything, but then, she never asks for anything unreasonable. They are partners in every sense, even when they argue.

Enviable, isn’t it?

Perfection - is it really so necessary?

2009-01-13T22:04:00.005+11:00

My brother’s oldest child is autistic. Aged fifteen, he still believes in Santa and wakes the whole house at 3 a.m. on Christmas morning. He will almost certainly never be able to live alone, but he will hold down a job and gain independence gradually. To his siblings, he is simply one of the family. And when I spent some time with them on my visit to the UK last year, I found him to be the glue that bound their family’s hearts in ways I cannot express.

So the brief article I read this morning has left a disquiet that I find hard to ignore. It now appears that it may possible to do a prenatal test for autism, in the same manner that we currently test for Down’s Syndrome. Both are conditions entirely compatible with a viable life. Many Down’s sufferers are the most affectionate and loving people. And whilst autistic people project a more remote persona, some (savants) have exceptional intellectual and conceptual abilities. They may remember numbers, have exceptional mathematical abilities, musical or artistic talent.

There are congenital conditions incompatible with a healthy and long life, but these are not two of them. At what point do we as ‘normal’ people have the right to decide when a life should or should not be brought into the world?

Purpose

2008-12-17T16:18:00.004+11:00

A recent post by Frogdancer managed to express much of what I think many of us feel at times. There are dreams that we all aspire to that at some point, we realize we will not attain. The biological clock has only a limited amount of tension wound onto its spring, leaving most of us roughly 40 fertile years in which to bear a child. Given that teenage pregnancy is frowned upon socially, you can slash 8-10 years off that, then another ten for the peri-menopausal years and you're left with twenty years. But so many women want careers and that takes anything from another 5-10 years. Let's squeeze biology and take the high value. Suddenly, now we're down to 10 years. It still sounds like a lot of time, but what if you've focussed on work or travel and neglected the guy who adores you? It's not unreasonable to expect it could take at least couple of years to meet, date and shack-up with your long term partner. Fertility falls after 30; falling pregnant naturally after 40 happens in only 4% of cases.

None of this is what happened to me; I simply never met a guy who felt the same way about me as I did about him. A disastrous relationship with a former fiance was thankfully, derailed before we ever made it to the altar or had children. I am ever thankful, for I have no doubt that it would have ended in bitter divorce, acrimony and possibly a psychologically traumatized child.

Now almost 39 years old, I am not a proponent of assisted pregnancy and have no desire to parent alone. I have always believed that I would marry someone because I loved him for who he is, not the progeny we may or may not have. Long ago I made the choice to forego children if I met the right person, if that was necessary. I also decided I did not want step-children of a custodial age ... one stint at step-parenting and another going out with a guy with a 5 year old was enough. So at this point in my life, the possibility of having children seems remote. And I'm OK with that; I have been for a long time.

I have so much more than many others and whilst I have no children to leave my things to, I can help others through my life and work instead. I don't need to have children of my own to recognize the joys they bring to a parent's life. Not everyone is meant to be parent. Some of us have other tasks in life. I prefer to focus on the people I help daily, rather than the opportunities that have never crossed my path; there's purpose in life for each of us, if we only look.

Skin deep

2008-12-11T17:47:00.001+11:00

Packing for my holiday I was practical, as I am about most things in life. I thought about the climates I’d encounter - everything from thirty degree days in Morocco to driving, icy rain in the UK – and packed accordingly. What I didn’t look at was whether things matched. It wasn’t a problem trekking in Morocco; by day four we were all grubby. But in fashion conscious Rome, I quickly became aware that my khaki hiking trousers and pale blue running top did not match!

I spent several days hoping to find a cheap T-shirt that would withstand being crumpled at the bottom of my pack and not pill from the constant rub of the straps. My last resort was a store near the Stazione Termini. I don’t indulge in clothes shopping often, but this place had some really lovely, shapely garments and I found myself looking at things I did not need.

An older store assistant suggested items for me that were more what my mother would wear, until the owner stepped in, realising that things were going nowhere. Before I knew it, I had been swept up by his keen eye for shape and was impressed with his ability to pick the right cut for my shape. Everything I tried on made me look … and feel … sexy and beautiful. He obviously enjoyed his task as a designer and store owner, selling his own work. He also enjoyed the female shape and I allowed him to take liberties in choosing flattering attire and showing me how to wear it. I tell you, had he not been married, I’d have had him there and then! As it was, we contented ourselves with some pretty seductive flirting. It was a heady, intoxicating experience being dressed by a very attractive, well dressed man.

A few days earlier, another nameless man tried to pick me up. We talked on a park bench in broken French (my Italian is virtually non-existent, but I’ve discovered my French vocabulary is reasonable) until he told me I was beautiful. I suspected all he wanted was some horizontal line dancing. My looks in my grungy hiking trousers and mismatched top were certainly not attractive in my eyes.

The designer found a way to show me my own physical assets. He made me feel sexy, beautiful, desirable. I spent way too much money in his store … but I did get the shirt I needed, as well as the optional extras. I left feeling a million bucks, with the realisation that I want to be wanted, to be flirted with and courted again. And I knew that whilst I still love Angel with a profundity that has staggered me, I have accepted that I deserve to be held as special in the eyes and heart of someone else too. I hope he’s out there.

Gattaca again

2008-12-01T21:55:00.002+11:00

From the other side of the globe, I wrote a couple of weeks ago about the patent applied to a portion of the human genome, limiting the ability of women to be tested for the risk factors BRCA1 and BRCA2. This weekends Sydney Morning Herald recounts another such legal limitation, this time affecting infants at risk of permanent brain damage associated with a genetic disorder called Dravet Syndrome. Another example of the effects of privatization of medical research.

The problem is that research is costly and unless a corporation is fully funded, it must recoup it's expenses somehow. It's really no different to pharmaceutical companies patenting a drug they've spent billions developing. What I want to know though, is are these private labs patenting the processes involved in the genetic test, or the the portion of the genetic chain that controls these risk factors. Both the articles I have read recently suggest that it is the latter. If this correct, I would think there is a legal hitch, for how can anyone patent something that is inherent to the individual?

Bye-bye PC

2008-11-27T13:52:00.001+11:00

Wet after a bath, leaning to one side stretched on towels in the lounge room, head tilted to one side listening to me talking; that’s my image of my Bear that has graced my desktop for the past several years, be it PC or Mac. He suffered from severe hip dysplasia. Putting him out in the cold in winter for too long caused him pain, so I would bring him after he had done his mad run and shake off around the yard and allow him to sit on the towels. He was very good and would stay there as long as I was in eyesight.

I wish the same could be said of my PC. The Microsoft products gave me no end of grief. It took me three months to get my computer operating normally after installing the SP2 update for Windows XP. Through both my work and home challenges, I was gradually developing IT skills to deal with many of the problems myself. But I hated doing it. So when it came to returning to study, I decided I wanted no more of Windows and made the switch to a Macintosh. It has been a move I have never regretted. The few issues I have encountered have almost all been related to Microsoft products … Word and Excel.

My PC has continued to sit on my desk for the past two years. It’s been turned on about three times, but not for the last twelve months. I’d asked people about how to find someone to donate it to, but never got anywhere. Until now. I’ve stumbled onto someone desperate for computers and I can finally send it away where it will be used for a little longer. In the process, I am clearing some of the clutter from my spare room, making way for someone to help share the rent.

Yes, after so many years, I have decided to get a housemate. It’s not without trepidation; I will be sharing my space and property with a stranger. Living with a partner is very different to having a housemate. There’s the subtle difference between the shared of ‘ours’ versus the possessive of ‘mine’, be it physical property, personal space or time. But the reward will be the savings I make in the coming year and hopefully, the home I buy in the next eighteen months.

Ah, I hear you say, you didn’t make your goal for the year. Well no, for a number of reasons, the most significant being my trip overseas. Celebrating my brother’s 50th birthday was in my mind, important. Having all his siblings travel to him, being in his home was, as I expected, entirely overwhelming and an immense joy for him. There’s also been the financial crisis of late, which, like everyone else, has somewhat depleted my funds. I’m not in despair over that; it will recover with time. I’ve also decided I’d like a larger deposit than I originally planned.

I’m going to enjoy having my space to myself for a little longer yet. There’s the desk to dismantle and the spare bed to store and sundry bits to be sent to the tip. I’ll advertise for a person to share after the New Year, when people are starting to return to their normal lives; I’m in no rush. Another month or two of being able to play loud music and hang my laundry over the bath. I’m stretching this out as long as I can!

Lessons in parental grief: Part One.

2008-11-22T16:53:00.003+11:00

My handsome, strong but not particularly academically inclined nephew has given his father, a secondary school English teacher palpitations. When faced with the choice of questions on his Year 12 English paper recently, he found he did not like any of the questions related to the books he had read. So he chose to answer a topic on a book he had not read; he hadn't even seen the movie. I can hear and see my brother's reaction from over the border. If you knew him and his delightful family, you would be laughing too. Only his son!

You don't have to be alone to be lonely

2008-11-21T19:23:00.003+11:00

It is stories such as this that make me despair for the future of humanity. I find it incomprehensible that people could not only watch a troubled youth end his own life, but that they should encourage or insult him. And how is it that moderators of the website did not, at the very least, try to alert authorities when they first became aware of the issue?

Churchill’s description of the ‘black dog’ is not one of which I am fond … I adore dogs, regardless of their colour. But like a dog, it can be loyal, ever present in the background, following you around even when you think you have managed to hide from it. The greatest remedy I have found is human contact, the kindness and friendship of others. Simple company and conversation. It doesn’t have to be about your issues … just honest friendship. Loneliness is the worst thing for someone who is depressed and nothing exacerbates that more than ridicule. In a last effort to find friendship, this person seems to have been met with the precise ingredients to cement his decision.

I believe in the innate kindness and compassion of most people, but sometimes, I wonder how we have become so disconnected from each other whilst virtually in each others most intimate spaces.

Choosing a tine on the fork

2008-11-16T20:47:00.005+11:00

I'd pretty much decided that continuing with the undergraduate Arts course I started in 2007 was not feasible some 6 months ago, but kept the door ajar by deferring for a second semester ... just in case. Now, I've taken the final step and actually withdrawn. The letter of confirmation is on my desk. It's the first line of study I've ever given away.

It's not that I don't like the course of study. It opened my perceptions to a whole different way of thinking, a less rigid view of the world. But it was harder than I expected. My brain has been hard-wired for sciences from an early age. Growing up in a childhood home burgeoning with medically and mechanically inclined minds, most of us have headed into fields requiring analytical minds.

I still want to write and still try my hand when the ideas come to mind; perhaps they will coalesce into something useable in the future; perhaps not. It's irrelevant really. What I have realised, is that writing fiction, will probably never fund the food on my plate or the roof over my head. I am suited to the sciences and I earn a good wage doing it. Decisions that a trip away has given me the courage to make. Now to pull my finger out and focus on the area I already know a lot about; time to write technical stuff.

One of the reasons I've avoided writing papers is the fact that I fear I'll never produce anything good enough to be felt valued by my colleagues. My ideas are not innovative. And I suffer terrible stage fright, so presenting is a horrendous thought. But if I'm to continue in this field, I may have to bite both bullets. Not sure I'm going to enjoy all of this ride!

No more agonising at the fork in the road

2008-11-05T06:36:00.004+11:00

There’s a missing post prior to this one, written just before I headed overseas for a month’s break. I didn’t get around to posting it and now, it’s not really relevant to the general reader. I got back yesterday.

I’ve been up since 5 am, having given up trying to stay in bed until daylight (which actually came at about 5:45 am). I’d been awake an hour. Between the jet lag and head cold, I just could not sleep. The unplanned snooze for two hours on the couch yesterday probably didn’t help getting my body clock back in order. Despite the weariness, the nasal congestion and the muscle aches from being cramped on a crowded flight back from Hong Kong with a plane loaded of unhappy Australian Bledisloe Cup spectators, I could not feel happier or more relaxed.

The trip overseas was fabulous. No time commitments, no responsibilities, no-one to hassle or be hassled by. I didn’t care if I missed a plane, train or bus because my time was entirely my own.

I went away not realising how much some things have affected me. It was like sitting at a distance from my own life, being totally detached and being able to see the wider picture. I wrote somewhere else, ‘ … like looking over the landscape of my life’. The perspective was refreshing and I realised not only that I needed to make some changes, but also, what direction I wanted to take. I no longer feel encumbered; I’m ready for the next round.

And life is already providing positive affirmations. No longer do I feel adrift in a sea of uncertainty. For now, at least, I see the path ahead of me, patchy in parts, but I see it nonetheless. I’m no longer travelling blind.

This is happiness.

A new twist on GATTACA

2008-10-25T22:17:00.006+11:00

Have you seen the movie GATTACA? If not, I suggest you seek it out at your local video store. A highly disturbing, thought provoking movie, you will be left wondering as to the possibilities ... and possibile dangers ... of genetic engineering. Call it fanciful, even over exaggerated, but you do have to look too far back in history to know there are people who would exploit the genetic code to their advantage should they be able to control it.

This cautionary tale focuses on the new poor, born through natural conception, unengineered and therefore, with limited lifespans due to genetic imperfections that dictate the types of jobs they can attain and their pòsitions in society. The corporitisation that underlies this new order is only barely touched upon.

Today, in the Sydney Morning Herald, we are told of patented portions of the double helix relating to breast cancer. Now two detectable genetic risk factors affecting 10% of women identified as BRCA1 and BRCA2 have been patented by Genetic Technologies Ltd. The laboratory has advised that testing for the genomes outside of its laboraties will be met with litigation; the cost of the test to be undertaken through theb laboratory is $2100.

What I fail to understand, is how something that is shared by us all, albeit unique to each individual, can be patented. The human genome is not something that, as yet, has been made, as is projected in GATTACA (The name, by the way, is derived from the letters that make up the individual DNA parts : C, G, A and T). And this laboratory is not the only one to have patented portions of the DNA code.

My current reading is "After Dolly", a treatise about the risks of not allowing genetic research. My own opinion on this issue is still not fully formed. But if there is, in our power the ability to prevent disease and reduce medical costs in the future, should not that take precedence? The long term benefits would be a drop in the cost of health care, improved quality of life and increased life spans. Is that not what we all want(although I´m certain I do not want to live forever)? Is there not some legal mind out there who can challenge the issue of patents for tests that benefit all?

A little insight.

2008-09-27T17:43:00.001+10:00

I like reading ‘Up Front’ in Good Weekend, the magazine in the Sydney Morning Herald each weekend. The unfinished opening lines garner some unexpected, even witty expansions. I thought I’d try it myself.

My earliest memory is … of lying in a wicker basket as a babe, looking up at the roof of my parents’ brown station wagon and out the rear window. Many do not believe it’s possible to have such an early memory. My next early memory is of visiting my aged Aunty with my mother, of her house, the long hallway and her sitting in a chair at it’s end with a rug on her knees. She died when I was three. We had travelled there on the tram, which my mother tells me was a rarity.

At school I … was always on the outer. It didn’t help that I befriended and defended the smelly boy from the broken home.

I don’t like talking about … having my beloved Bear put down.

My most treasured possession is … my self-esteem.

My mother always told me … to take care.

I wish I had … visited Paris when invited by people I had met while travelling so many years ago.

I wish I hadn’t … moved around so much.

My most humiliating moment was … the day I came home to find my fiancé had left me to think about things. He returned four days later to tell me he was not returning. His history should have been enough warning.

My happiest moment was … when I got engaged.

At home I cook … less than I used to.

My last meal would be … probably only partially digested.

My favourite gadget is … my Mac.

Friends say I am … loyal and very blunt.

I’m very bad at … hiding my true feelings.

When I was a child I wanted to ... play the harp.

The book that changed my life is … yet to pass through my hands. Some have impacted on my perceptions, but none have changed my direction.

It’s not fashionable, but I love … Ugg boots.

The song I’d like played at my funeral is … ‘Watershed’ by The Indigo Girls.

My greatest fear is … of dying alone.

If only I could … that’s a hard one. Perhaps, just know that it’s all going to be ok.

The hardest thing I’ve ever done was … having my Bear put down.

What I don’t find amusing is … failure to take responsibility for poor outcomes, be they personal or professional.

I’m always being asked. … something related to my work.

I often wonder … where I will be in two years time. Five year plans never make it to fruition!

Time is relentless ... memories linger

2008-09-06T16:52:00.006+10:00

My most enduring memories of my Grandad are of sitting on his lap, listening to him read ‘Captain Kangaroo’ to me. The memory is like a snapshot; I can see the living room of my grandparents home, the chair my Grandad sat in, the rug over his legs, the coffee table with the vase and the small red leather and gold embossed box that held his rollies. I’m told my grandmother used to roll and stack them in the box for him when he became ill. I remember the day he died, the rush and worry as I was passed over the fence to my grandparents neighbours so I would be shielded from any further traumas. I was aged six.

My maternal grandparents were long passed away before I arrived, so I only ever knew my father’s parents. Nana lived another 15 years, but she was a stubborn and difficult woman. I respected her, but she wasn’t the sort of grandmother with whom you shared your heart.

When my parents moved into their new home some 56 years ago, they were greeted by the Lithuanian refugee who lived next door. Ben was to become a much loved and respected extension of our family, and his Latvian boarder, Bruno became my adopted grandparent. I would walk next door almost daily to his single room hut, sit on his lap and read the newspaper, listen to the radio and talk. He would leave me a gift every Christmas, hanging on a nail in the paling fence separating our properties. Often he shared our Christmas fare. Both Ben and Bruno had known unimaginable loss. Ben, sold into slavery as a small child, left communist Russia at the end of the Second World War. His only reason for choosing Australia over the USA was to get as far away from Europe as he possibly could. Bruno, a former town mayor who watched the red Army invade his town, even as he burned the city's papers, fled under cover of darkness with his wife and children. The resistance separated those who were fleeing into small groups to minimise the risk of capture. In this way, Bruno was separated from his family; only he got through. Whilst he knew his family survived, he never saw any of them again.

My family became Bruno and Ben’s family. Ben taught my brother to play the piano accordion and helped my father repair cars. They shared their labours, celebrations and losses. My mother tutored Bruno in English whilst Dad was at night school, leading to suggestions they were having an affair. Dad apparently thought it quite a joke when told.

I got home from school one day to find Bruno gone. He had been taken to hospital and died the same day. I was eleven and devastated. The small, gentle hearted, downtrodden man that had shared the very little he had with me was gone.

Eventually, another family moved into Ben’s home, and then another. Bruno’s hut has housed children, as it became a spare room or playhouse. Today, Mum told me, it is being torn down; and with it another piece of my childhood slides into oblivion. My memento of Grandad is his cigarette box; I can still smell the faint sweetness of his tobacco. And the memento of Bruno, which I only saw when I went home to visit my parents, will be gone.

Looking for my mojo.

2008-08-27T20:50:00.000+10:00

I should be at in the swimming pool, doing laps or doing a pool run. There was time to fit in a session before bed, but the motivation is completely eluding tonight. Just like last night. Just like most of last weekend. Admittedly, I’ve had a cold and been away from my usual routine for four days in Melbourne, but the excuses are … well, excuses.

My training has become monotonous; I’m frustrated with the threat of shin splints that are preventing me from running regularly. I like being at the beach, I like swimming, I like pool running, but I WANT TO RUN! And tonight, I just can’t find the motivation to do some other activity. Now the question is, should I go on the club training camp this weekend, or am I wasting my time?

Pick a paste, any paste

2008-08-02T20:53:00.000+10:00

What is it about toothpaste? Colgate markets twelve different types of paste and between those, there are over thirty varieties. Can I say I’m just a little confused as to what I should be using? No longer do we simply use a fluoridated paste. Now we need to consider pastes with tartar control, baking powder, mouthwash, whiteners; there’s professional formulations, breath fresheners, kiddie pastes, cavity preventers.

Forgive my simplicity, but isn’t the whole purpose of toothpaste to clean the teeth and gums. In doing this, shouldn’t this leave them sparkling, not yellowed (unless you smoke) and the breath deodorised? And doesn’t this limit the destruction of tooth enamel and development of cavities, leading to the pain of root canal and the expense of crowns? What happened to the somple, single tube of paste?

Why do we need 57 Heinz vaieties?

Call me Cliff ... again.

2008-07-31T22:58:00.000+10:00

The slow return to weight bearing activity after recovering from my pelvic injury is proving to be slow and frustrating. I WANT TO RUN! After three months of very limited swimming, no walking and certainly no running, I’m back to avoiding shin splints. Within ten days, the excruciating pain in both lower legs had me sobbing to my coach. There hads to be a better way.

Now, I’m walking the beach, in driving rain at 6 pm, feet slabs of ice immune to all feeling. I actually enjoy it. It’s not as good at clearing my mind as running, but the legs are certainly tired after a few laps. And my legs are gaining strength. The shin pain has abated and my once weekly shuffling jog (I’m not allowed to stride out yet!) is becoming less painful.

One of my resolutions this year was to run the City to Surf and if fit enough, the Blackmore’s Half Marathon. Unfortunately, both will have to wait another year. But at least I should have these stability issues sorted by then. There’s some persistence left in me yet for this challenge.

This is when I most hate politics.

2008-07-08T20:21:00.003+10:00

The inaction of the international alliance of governments in the form of the United Nations with regard to the dictatorship in Zimbabwe is something I fail to comprehend. After the invasion of Iraq on the trumped up falsity of weapons of mass destruction, after the relief of oppression in East Timor, after the genocide that beset the Jews in World War II, how can the world’s governments watch the indiscriminate massed murders, intimidation and hubris of Robert Mugabe and his cronies? Apparently it has substantial deposits of coal, platinum and chromium ore, but this is not enough reason for the world to care. I was against the invasion of Iraq, because the reasons were based on lies. Zimbabweans are dying, crippled physically, politically and emotionally by a tyrant. When will our governments act? It would not be allowed to happen on mainland Europe.

Passion

2008-07-06T18:48:00.001+10:00

Tenacity and passion; it would be interesting to have both. Discussions this week have found me examining both in myself. Seems I have been impressing my boss with the former; she thinks I never give up. How wrong she is; I just take a little longer than the average person to give up on a task.

Persistence with an issue, task or problem is sometimes due to curiosity, sometimes a sense of purpose or ‘right’, sometimes loyalty. Rarely is it due to passion. I cannot say I feel passionate about anything in particular; concepts maybe, but not anything really active or tangible. It caused some consternation with a friend last night: ‘Not passionate about anything? You must have a passion.’

At what point does something you enjoy become a passion? What makes you schedule you life around it? Is passion something that happens or is it a choice? I guess the running has become a bit of a thing for me, but it’s borne more out of a realisation that I have to persist with it for my health and happiness than a desire simply to run. The conversationalist last night is fiercely passionate about running and it shows in his race results. He runs because he’s ambitious.

So maybe my work does count as a passion. My ambition is to produce the best possible results for each patient, through a combination of staff training, facility management and negotiation and debate with the business managers. Nevertheless, it would be interesting to feel ambitious about something outside of work. Maybe the running will evolve a little further.

Cool running

2008-07-01T09:04:00.000+10:00

A cold morning, dew dripping from the oval fence, sky brilliant blue. The greens of Centennial Park are so intense on such a morning; its easy to forget when I’m snuggled under my cosy doona that the winter’s morning chill can offer such pristine beauty.

You don’t remain cold for long once you start running. The coolness of the morning’s breeze becomes a welcome balance to the heat generated by exertion. Sydney’s climate is perfect for running all year round. The winters are not too cold, the summers allowing cool morns and late evenings to work out. Reasons I’m reminded of that have slowly changed my view of this city. Some reasons. It’s good to be running again.

Peony in Love

2008-06-19T10:37:00.003+10:00

I’m almost finished reading a book called ‘Peony in Love’ by Lisa See. It’s surprised me, the plot not at all what I expected. I had read no reviews, choosing it simply because I so enjoyed another novel by See. It's been on my 'to read' list for some months and is quite unlike ‘Snowflower and the Secret Fan’, although it does provide another insight into Chinese lore and custom.

Having attended a family funeral early this week, some scenes have been poignant. The tale itself, context bound by the trials of true love and devotion, is one that makes you think about what constitutes true love. See’s protagonist learns that true love is altruistic and brings to mind the oft chosen marriage passage, ‘Love is patient and kind … Love never fails’ (1Corintihians 13:4-8).

I read a passage last night that resonated deeply with me. Some tales, some songs seem to speak to the heart and See has done it twice for me. ‘Snowflower’ is the most precious and beautiful story I have ever read and I think one every woman should read. ‘Peony’ is different, it’s impact more difficult to explain and the tale is perhaps harder to read. It’s not one every reader is going to enjoy. But if you’ve every had your heart torn out when you lost the love of your life, if you’ve ever wondered if love is eternal, if you’ve ever tried to understand how love can corrupt a soul and at the same time redeem it, ‘Peony’ is worth go. If you find yourself thinking you don’t enjoy it, but you lose two hours in its pages, you’ve found what I have between its covers.

Give me the drugs, man!

2008-06-09T08:28:00.002+10:00

What a nasty night. Went to bed in pain, woke up in only marginally less. Don’t forget to take your pill two days running, girls or you’ll be reminded what ovulation pain is all about. And there in lies half the reason I stayed on the pill so many years ago. The other half was the menstrual pain. OMG, the menstrual pain.

At the tender age of thirteen, my mother refused to allow me to take the pill, despite the extreme pain and embarrassing dilemmas I had found myself in over the previous two years. By the time my first serious boyfriend and I had a pregnancy scare (after he’d returned to this home overseas!), the family doctor decided it was time I became an independent adult and eschewed Catholic morality. Hallejuah! Suddenly, instead of pain every thirteen days, it became every month and that too was eased.

I’m told it’s not supposed to be good to be on the pill for more than ten years. There’s also the possibility of spider veins and the increased the risks of breast, cervical and liver cancer. Balance that off against the reduced risk of endometrial (uterine) and ovarian and possibility bowel cancer, all of which have afflicted members of my father’s family and I guess you can call it even (remember, half our of what’s makes us female comes from paternal gene pool).

And that’s where the whole issue of medication gets messy. There is no way I would ever voluntarily cease taking the pill, unless I was deliberately trying to fall pregnant (and the stats are against me on that one at my age). It’s just not worth the agony, PMT, pendulous mood swings and tenuous relationships. But I take it in the full knowledge of its risks. I have tried other methods … Implanon was a disaster, although I’ve met others who say it’s been fine for them. The current level of unilateral groin and back pain that has failed to abate since I awoke means I’ll be reaching for another drug in about five minutes … the little blue pills of peace called Naprogesic, so I can get some work done. But first there has to be breakfast; don’t want to burn and ulcer in my stomach!

Worrisome words

2008-05-26T19:35:00.003+10:00

Camden Council are expected to reject a proposal for a Muslim school based upon a planning report, according to the Sydney Morning Herald. There have been heated scenes and harsh words on various news programs about this issue in the past. Apparently staff reviewing the plans have rejected the application on non-religious grounds, yet they cite cultural concerns as a factor. Cultural variances shape our values and are directly influenced by faith. The two are inextricably entwined.

The report also apparently cites the potential loss of grazing land, but then goes on to state concerns about contamination that may a pose a risk to the health of students. Does anyone want to eat the beef from cattle that have grazed on this possibly contaminated land?

Based upon the inconsistency of such comments, one has to wonder about the true reasons underpinning the views of those who prepared the report.

Sincere apologies

2008-05-15T13:00:00.005+10:00

The examples used here may be a little behind the times, but they serve to elucidate my point.

*******************************************************************

Mea culpa. The term comes from the Latin act of contrition used in the Catholic mass, meaning ‘my fault’. Whilst I am no longer a practicing Catholic – religion is the bane of too many ills, in my mind – I still have a strong belief in a greater power and bear the indoctrination of the Catholic upbringing, including being able to recite the Act from memory.

English:
I confess to Almighty God
And to you here present,
That I have sinned through my own fault;
In my thoughts and in my words,
In what I have done and in what I have failed to do
And I ask the Blessed Mary, ever virgin,
To pray for me to the Lord our God.

Latin:
Confíteor Deo omnipoténti et vobis, fratres,
quia peccávi nimis
cogitatióne, verbo, ópere, et omissióne:
mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa.
Ideo precor beátam Maríam semper Vírginem,
omnes Angelos et Sanctos,
et vos, fratres, oráre pro me
ad Dóminum Deum nostrum.*

The essence of this prayer is not just one of admitting fault; it is also a public expression of sorrow. At its heart lies the sincere desire for forgiveness and a desire not to err in the same way again, not to harm others again.

Saying sorry without meaning it is an empty offering, for it implies no care for the impacts of your actions and suggests that you would do the same again. As individuals, an apology should have been precipitated by a re-examination of our ethics and reinforce our ability to avoid making the same mistake again. Another person cannot apologise for the actions of an individual, acting on his own. There is a time limit for this act, limited to the life of the person.

For institutions, the apology is transcends time, just as the organisation itself does. The decisions of a body – acting as a group on behalf of many others, be they shareholders, countrymen or the organization itself – carry across many people and ages. Very often the failure to reverse poor decisions by an institution can have impacts that carry over generations. Blame transcends time, just as the institution transcends a generation.

A true mea culpa of grand impact, the mea maxima culpa, is rare. The Australian Government’s Apology to the Stolen Generation was one worth noting. There is some argument that because the forced removal of children indigenous children from their parents was instigated whilst Australia was still a British colony (in 1869), that the apology should have come from the crown. Despite this, Australia has governed itself with only a figurehead monarch for 107 years. Rudd’s mea culpa, on behalf of the institution and nation which he now heads, was entirely appropriate. It was also appropriate that it was his first major move as Prime Minister.

Other could learn from Rudd’s actions. James Hardie has been dragged kicking and screaming to acceptance of responsibility for the asbestos related diseases inflicted on a generation. This nation will be dealing with the impacts of asbestosis and mesothelioma for some time yet. The company knew what it was doing, realised the impacts of its actions and tried to move its interests off shore to avoid the legal fallout. So, they finally admitted the wrong and set up a compensation scheme. It was an apology of significance, but more bitter in delivery.

Saying sorry is easy. Meaning it is another thing.

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mea_culpa

Frustration is no exercise

2008-05-12T22:11:00.000+10:00

I originally took to running to improve the strength in my quads. I loved … still love, walking, the longer the better, but my ability to walk 100 km in 48 hours for charity was limited by, among other things, my quad strength. So I took the advice of someone close to me and started to jog. Jog to the lamppost, to the corner, between trees. I abhorred it. Nothing could be so painful. My chest screamed for air, my shins developed splints, my hips ached, my head pounded as my blood pressure soared. I wanted to succeed at some small athletic feat. I can be single minded.

Six months, another broken heart and disastrous move between cities and jobs later, and I was still running. It was something I had control over, when all else in my life seemed under the control of some perverse, less than benevolent Master. And six months later, I found I could go the distance without stopping, a distance of 4.7 km. Then I found I missed the run if I didn’t go; then I found I actually enjoyed it.

Taking up such a high impact activity in my mid thirties may not be the most sensible thing, but it allows me to enjoy my food, keeps my stresses under control and manages the sundry traumas inflicted on my body. It also creates the latter. For the last ten days, I have been taking an enforced break from all exercise, due to stress injuries. And whilst I’ll be back on the track or cross country circuit again before year’s end, I will not make my goals of running the City-2-Surf, nor the Blackmore’s Half Marathon.

Exercise has the most odd effect of both tiring and energising. I may be able to stay awake two hours longer each day, but it is offset by the running, stretching and associated palaver of exercise. Yet for all its strain, I function better when I exercise. I am clearer of mind, sleep more soundly and have more energy to get through each day. It’s going to be a slow return to fitness from this, but I cannot wait to feel the energy that I have become so accustomed to, rather than the creeping lethargy that even now, I am beginning to notice. At least I’ll be fit and strong for Morocco. This is driving me nuts!

Anzac Legacy

2008-04-25T10:13:00.002+10:00

As a child I learned about the World Wars, about Hiroshima and Nagasaki … I learned more about the effects of the atomic bombs at university. The commemorative marches each year serve to honour not only those who served, but to acknowledge the sacrifices of body and mind forced upon them; sacrifices that forged a legacy that is apparent in subsequent generations and our current way of life.

The recently highly publicised decision by the Returned Services League to have descendents of veterans march at the rear of the Anzac Day March is understandable; they are concerned that the elderly WWI veterans are not being noticed among the growing numbers who wish to honour their forbears. But the move carries a twofold risk.

The segregation of marchers effectively creates two separate groups. As the march progresses in this fashion year after year, there is the risk that spectators will leave after the last battalion of service personnel has passed. There will be the main show and then a secondary, less important show. The RSL neglects the intent of the men and women who fought in the many campaigns ... to serve and protect that which we hold dear. What is more dear to anyone than family and way of life? Why relegate the evidence of what we most cherish to the rear, rather than having it proudly shown alongside those who fought to save it?

The second risk is borne from the lack of regard the RSL shows for the descendents, a band of people it fought so hard to garner the interest of just ten years ago. Marching with the wizened old men of the great wars gives our youth a tangible experience, leaves them in awe of the old men and the grandfather, great grandfather or great uncle they honour. They talk about it with their friends and hopefully, pass it on to subsequent generations. Take that away, and the RSL risks alienating the very youth it wishes to carry on the march when they are no longer here.

As time progresses the face of the marches will inevitably change, but it will not cease. There is no shortage of Korean and Vietnam Veterans marching. Campaigns continue and we continue to see new and younger faces among the ranks of the march. East Timorese veterans and those from peacekeeping missions; soon we’ll see Iraqi and Afghan vets. And whilst the ranks of the WWI veterans have almost disappeared and those of WWII are diminishing, there is no hiding the look of pride on the face of the elderly men who stoically march when they can barely walk to the bus stop on any other day.

The Anzac Day dawn service honours those who did not return. The march honours those who survive and the legacy they fought to preserve; that includes their descendents.

Remembrance

From ashes they rise, from smoke covered haze,
The men of the wars, the nurses long lost,
They wander the battlements and tend in the fields
Where once were the soldiers in tents in the breeze.

Hospitals built out of canvas and poles
For men who were wounded and would not survive,
Staffed by a legion of compassionate hearts
The nurses, the doctors, who also were lost.

In Ypres each night, they wait for the call,
Last Post calling out, rest well deserved,
Peace should be theirs ‘til morning comes by
‘Til Reveille plays in dawn’s early light.

May I acquire your enterprise, Mr. Sartor?

2008-04-19T18:23:00.005+10:00

Ownership is nine tenths of the law, but the New South Wales Government seems to want to increase its percentage in its proposed alterations to compulsory acquisition laws. Such changes, according to the Sydney Morning Herald, will permit land to be acquired by government agencies and developers and then on-sold at a profit. Imagine losing your business to the development of a major shopping precinct as planned for Parramatta. Got a few hundred hectares of land on the outskirts of a growing city or a valuable mining opportunity? Imagine compulsory acquisition for a new estate or mining enterprise. Even property adjoining, but not included on development plans, could be repossessed. The Planning Minister would have the final say, with appeals to Land and Environment Council being constrained by the new legislation.

Currently, land may be acquired only be government agencies, not developers. Mr. Sartor argues that acquisitions would only be for large developments of community significance, such as the Parramatta redevelopment, which has apparently been held up by a few resistant traders. He asks, ‘Why should we have one or two property owners standing in the way - it just seems crazy.’* Yet, if the definition of democracy is taken to be an equal voice for all, the very premise of compulsory acquisition is contrary.

Development is necessary, as facilities age and communities grow. In some cases, that will require relocation of businesses and families. But, the ability for councils and government agencies to take away your home, land, business should not be based upon an arbitrary piece of legislation and developers should have no ability to strip a person of their hard earned hearth.

Prior to acquisition prospective recompense that considers the disruption to lives, incomes and social networks should be arranged; retrospective arbitration through the courts, drawn out by legal weaving and dodging, could leave the dispossessed in dire financial straights. Legislate to protect those who already have ownership, to protect them from pecuniary loss due developer and governing greed. Make those who want the land prove their case, rather than abandoning the individual with the limited purse.

Hot on the heels of the Wollongong development debacle (which the locals were suspicious of long before it hit the big newspapers), one must wonder about the NSW Government’s stance on development, funding arrangements and profit sharing.

* Sydney Morning Herald, 'Developers don't dictate policy'. April 19, 2008 [http://www.smh.com.au/news/national/developers-dont-dictate-policy-sartor/2008/04/19/1208025533346.html]

Wasted space

2008-04-19T10:06:00.005+10:00

Last weekend, in a fit of autumnal cleanliness, I spruiked up my little unit. On-call for the weekend (my first time in eight years!) I tore into a few hours of soul satisfying vacuuming, mopping, cleaners and incense burning. Anyone would have thought my mother was coming to visit.

In the process of tidying, I unjumbled the mess of shoes at the bottom of the wardrobe and tried to sort the hangers into some sensible array. And I realised that after eighteen months in Sydney, after 16 months of once again becoming single, I was still not using the entire wardrobe. I had originally left some space for Angel to hang a few things, left a drawer for him to leave a change of underwear. His toothbrush was thrown out long ago, but the wardrobe had never altered. It was immensely satisfying to claim the space. My clothes are now spread, my shoes neatly stacked (that will last about a month). I never expected Angel to move in with me when I moved to Sydney; it was something I'd considered a possibility later; but I did expect him to spend time with me, periodically stay for the night. As with all aspects of my life, I left room for and included him, a privilege I was rarely afforded.

He made me promise early in our relationship that no matter what, we would remain friends. I don’t think … I know he didn’t realise how hard it is to go from being intimate lovers to close friends. He's found it hard too. There’s accountability in all relationships; the change in status doesn’t cancel old hurts. But not all relationships break up because the couple found they didn’t like each other. Despite the disappointments, the hurt, I still know Angel to be the most humble and gentle soul I have met. Why would I wish to lose such a friend?

Insurance - just in case

2008-03-24T13:36:00.004+11:00

I’ve always admired, somewhat in a state of awe, those people who can trust that the Universe will provide whatever it is that they need. The ones who toss in their job, live by the seat of their pants, move to another country with no prospects, knowing no one, barely enough money to pay their first night’s accommodation. The ones who go travelling, make the sea change leaving mega income behind. The secure job, a home of your own, the circle of friends who support you … they’re all a kind of insurance policy against disaster.

But nothing is guaranteed, as my brother found out some 5 years ago. He was retrenched from a very senior role and spent the ensuing three years casual roles, periodic public speaking roles, temporary appointments, all well below his experience. The industry he worked in had hit a major speed hump; he felt its full brunt. Many people lost their jobs; he was not alone. Now, he is rebuilding his career, partially through the networks he made before his job loss, but also via the persistence of that very difficult three years. The rainy day we all save for came to him. Some of us never see that day. He did and it changed his perspective on work, family and priorities.

A dear friend suggested recently that I let go of the insurances in my life and see what life throws at me. Terrifying as that is to a conservatist (yes, I’ll start creating my own words!) such as myself, the idea is enticing. Sydney has not been what I expected or wanted. The old roads are overgrown with weeds and I cannot see a way forward. Perhaps throwing myself into the lap of the Universe could bring new and unforeseen benefits. Problem is, I made an enormous leap of faith just to move to Sydney and it backfired in a very big way. Will the same thing happen again if I do it this time?

Tibet

2008-03-21T11:48:00.007+11:00

I will be brief. If there is to be change, we must move quickly. The following link will open a petition to Chinese President Hu Jintao, asking for him to engage in dialogue with the Dalai Lama to enable reform and peace for the people of the region and of buddhist beliefs. Be patient if you wish to sign the petition, as many people are trying to access the site to show their support.

http://www.avaaz.org/en/tibet_end_the_violence/9.php?cl=63574126

If you are unaware the current turmoil in that region at present, then follow these links:

http://www.ndtv.com/convergence/ndtv/story.aspx?id=NEWEN20080044549&ch=3/20/2008%207:50:00%20PM

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/nationworld/sns-ap-tibet-world-view,1,590345.story

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/7301912.stm

For a history of Tibet:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Tibet

The eternal question

2008-03-17T22:12:00.003+11:00

What motivates you? Is it a fabulous job, the people you work with? Do you desire wealth, fame, power? I’ll bet that at the heart of most of your choices, the motivating factor is love and concern for someone close to your heart.

For those that are single, with no family to call your own, what motivates you? I think the question of why we are here comes to the fore more readily and frequently for those of us who are not held within the reassuring and anchoring stability of a romantic bond; when the romance dies and the hum-drum, daily grind requiring negotiation and tolerance becomes something more of a burden and less of an adventure. For some, there is reassurance in sameness; for others it becomes a weight carrying the stench of stagnancy.

There must something innate that drives the person, something personal that is unrelated to and unreliant upon others. What is your raison d’etre? Is it pre-destined or self-chosen? There is an argument that says that if human life is an immense freak response to the Big Bang, that it is not the result of a greater omnipotent being, then there is no reason for us to be. And without a reason to be, there is no-one to whom we must be accountable come our end days. Come our last breath, when we die, we are simply no more. No soul, no ether, nothing. Without accountability, there is no reason to behave well, because there is no consequence, there is no right or wrong. There’s not even shades of grey. If you believe all this, you are at the very least an agnostic, if not an atheist.

Belief in a greater being, be it called God or Krishna, multiple deities or simply a greater consciousness (which I call the Universe) is essential to my ability to keep searching for my reason to be. As I mature, I’m learning from my mistakes – gaining wisdom, I guess. I’m learning to be patient and tolerant; I’m also learning not to be so easily led. Is that what this is about or this there something more? I hope it’s more about others and less about me.

Plastic bags

2008-03-09T22:05:00.001+11:00

Plastic bags. They’ve become the scourge of our generation. As a child I remember my parents bringing home the shopping in large, thick brown paper bags. They had no handles and had to be carried in from the car two at a time. Dad could carry four if with his larger arms and greater strength.

The debate over the potential implementation of a levy on the use of plastic bags makes me wonder why we cannot return to the older version. They had many benefits. They were biodegradable and with today’s technology, there’s no reason that paper bags cannot be made relatively cheaply from recycled paper. The lack of handles on these bags actually forced the bearers to carry fewer of them, reducing the strain on arms and backs. How many of us have lugged eight or ten bags up the stairs to our units or into our houses, the narrowed plastic cutting the circulation to our digits, the weight straining our lower backs? How many of the plastic bags have torn due to being overloaded? Sure, the paper can deteriorate too, especially with frozen goods, but the majority of what we buy does no need to be in plastic. Keep a cooler bag simply for the frozen goods. The goods will arrive home in better condition anyway.

The damage to environment by plastic bags sent to landfill and those that escape into the wetlands and bush must be contained. We have become a population obsessed with instant gratification and easy disposal, regardless of the consequences. Tax the use of plastic bags to the maximum, I say. The irresponsible and careless will be forced to consider the costs, if only their hip pocket. Alternately, simply ban the plastic bags. It’s not hard to do. Governments just need the balls.

Blessed opinion

2008-03-08T18:37:00.001+11:00

There are people whom we trust to varying degrees, perhaps in varying areas. There is one person I trust implicitly. We share an unbreakable bond; his words, joint knowledge. He is my proof that life does not end with death, because I am certain that we have known each other before, that we will know each other again.

The bond is strange and I know only one other person who shares such a feeling with someone else without being in a romantic relationship. We can go for weeks, months, years without contact, but there’s never the fear of loss. We support each other in our personal traumas, be they romantic, professional, social or familial, but the method of support differs. My advice comes from wisdom gained through maturity. There’s a lot I’ve not experienced and never will, but I can at least see a range of perspectives, which then inform my opinions. To him, I will freely offer those opinions. I’ll also speak for those who cannot, who may be privy to the conversation.

He is my Devil’s Advocate, well practiced in the art. He prefers not to weight an argument with his own views, choosing instead to make me tease out my own thoughts and reach my own conclusion. Occasionally I ask his opinion, but rarely does he oblige. Yesterday he gave me one without my request, something he has never done before. I don’t think he even realised he did it, but it was what I needed.

There’s an old saying: When I count my blessings, I count you twice. Twice is not enough times to count the blessing of his presence in my life.

Drugged

2008-03-07T13:06:00.000+11:00

Doing things on my own has been something that I’ve become accustomed to. Seeking a place to live, managing finances, keeping a home in order. Running is also something I do on my own, but it has the benefit that as a member of a club, I can feel like part of a team. Meeting the other club members twice a week to train generates discussion about each others’ progress, personal lives and spills over into social activities.

I am by far the slowest runner in the group. I receive frequent encouragement from my fellow runners, but the sessions set by my coach are always separate to that of the others, who often train in pairs or threes. I don’t mind that; we cross over and exchange comments and encouragement between sets and they always wait for me to finish if I’m the last on the track.

Twice in the past month, one of the faster runners has paced me on my last set. The difference in the efficiency of my stride via the psychological piece of string that pulls me along is surprising; the time is always faster than on previous sets. Now, my aim is to be fast enough to run with the pack. It means cutting my 1 km time by at least 1:30. It’ll take a while, probably most of the year. I want the mental string there more often. The imaginary friend whose heels I try to tread upon isn’t always so real. This running thing has become a drug and I want more!

Smiley's Songs

2008-02-10T20:58:00.000+11:00

Smiley and I were talking about the effects that music has on us last week. For him, it’s a reflection of his emotions and tends amplify them. He is a talented musician, with a good ear for harmony and improvisation. In our youth we spent many hours sharing song, instruments and tunes. I’m sure it’s also a source of escapism. And so it is for many of us.

Our conversation drifted to the music that puts us in mind of people who have crossed our paths and left their imprint. There’s one that always brings me to mind for him; thankfully it wasn’t the one I thought he would remember. I could not think of one for him. There’s a song for Hum, for the People Eater, for my Dad, even for Fluoro (to whom I was long ago engaged). It distressed me a little that for my dearest, most trusted and unbreakable friend, I could think of nothing.

Until today. Take heart, dearest Smiley; I put Eva Cassidy on. It was you who introduced her to me. And two songs immediately brought you to mind immediately. I wasn’t searching for these, they just speak to me of you. ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’, not matter who sings it, speaks very much about a friendship that has seen me lean on Smiley more times that I care to remember. Always the source of gentle encouragement, unwavering support and deferred opinion so that I could reach my own conclusions, he has been the least directive yet most supportive friend anyone could ever hope to have.

The other song was originally written and performed by Sting, but I think Eva Cassidy’s rendition is simply, amazingly heart rendingly beautiful. It is ‘Fields of Gold’.

It doesn’t take a song to bring Smiley to mind, but it’s nice when those two do. He never comes to mind with trepidation or disappointment. Rare thing for any friend or family. I’ll drink another glass of Shiraz as my soup cooks (no, it’s not out of a can!) and toast my dear, dear friend. I only wish he cold share the bottle with me. But hen, it may well be three or four bottles and I have to work at 6:30 am tomorrow. Perhaps it’s better he’s not here!

Infected by the running bug

2008-02-06T23:28:00.000+11:00

I ran one kilometre in 6:40 last night, following it up with another in 6:30. For me that’s fantastic. After five months of training with my fabulous coach, I’ve cut my times from 8:00. It’s not without pain; I’m weary and my legs have needed some encouragement to realise such endurance. Starting running in my mid 30s probably hasn’t been the wisest decision, but the pay offs have been mazing already.

Last night, I had another, more experienced and significantly faster companion pace me for the last two sets of my training. Having someone who’s able to comfortably keep going at a pace I have set, who expects me to keep up, was gruelling. It was also very, very rewarding. The times tumbled and I felt an immense sense of success. Today, my calves feel like someone has rammed a steel rod into each one! More stretching needed. Much more stretching. And probably a massage.

My goal of running the City 2 Surf is looking good, as is the half marathon. And whilst other issues in the periphery of my life, even the heart of my life, are in varying degrees of disarray, my bi-weekly training has proved itself to be a source of peace and satisfaction. Even when I’m gasping for breath in the humidity of a La Nina evening with a stitch in my side. And to think, I so hated running just a couple of years ago!

Bring on Gamma

2008-01-20T14:38:00.000+11:00

I’ve been bitten by the beta bug. Damn. I thought Apple didn’t release it’s updates for Macs until they were thoroughly tested. After a little over a year, I guess I’m fortunate to have my first major hiccup with my laptop, but it’s still annoying.

The latest update of Safari, version 3.0.4, is a beta release, meaning that you, I and all the other users who upload this version become the test guinea pigs for the software developers. The result is that some website designers do not support it. And that’s precisely what’s happened with one of my banking sites. Everything else seems to be working fine. For now I will have to make transactions via telephone. I could uninstall the browser and start again, but then I lose all the bookmarks. Such a pain in the butt. Next update, I’ll be reading those release notes a little more closely, not just skimming to see what i gives me. Grrr.

One dog's honour for another

2008-01-11T23:29:00.000+11:00

Reynard and I met through a volunteer organisation some years ago. With twenty-five years difference in age, some would call our friendship unlikely. It has survived distance and been impervious to the deprivations of separation that more often than not polarise the acquaintances of the couple concerned. Reynard actually knew my fiancé independently of me and counted us each as friends. He has been the one mutual friend I have retained from the separation I was too blind to see coming like a Hurricane Katrina.

I became aware of Reynard’s veteran status a few years ago. His service has impacted on his personality since his youth and consequently, his interactions. Like most of his ilk, he is circumspect about his experiences. Thirty-five years later, he and his family still bear the scars of a campaign so opposed by the general public that those who served returned to unwarranted disgrace, alienation by the Returned Services League and disbelief at their claimed range of both physical and mental illnesses. It took too long for the Federal government and support bodies to acknowledge that these servicemen and women were doing nothing more than their job, being directed by those who were supposed to know better than them, from a homeland where war was little more than ink on paper. At a time when they needed counselling, debriefing, health care and income support, these men and women were left to fend for themselves. Their service was not recognised for years,, their comrades from other conflicts ignored them. Reynard continued to work, establishing a successful career, despite the psychological traumas he has carried since he served. Only recently has he sought the help that should have been given freely to him the day he was discharged. Finally, he is going to be able to slow down, enjoy more of what life offers to him and see the country he has called home for most of his life. He will never beat his demons, but perhaps now he can cease the conflict that for him continued after his discharge.

Positive promises

2007-12-31T18:56:00.000+11:00

Sometimes, all we need is time away from the routine to become aware of what really is important to us. And that’s precisely what has happened for me over the Christmas break, when I’ve been away from the daily hassles of living in Sydney. It’s a bit strange; I thought I’d decided what I was going to do, but the break has made me realise that I am trying to fit too much into 2008. The passing year has taught me much about being true to myself and trusting my own intuition. So, much as I disdain New Year’s Resolutions, here is my list of targets for the coming year.

1. Run the City to Surf in August in under 100 minutes.
2. If my coach believes it to be reasonable, run the Sydney half marathon in September 2008. I have no idea about the time – I just want to finish.
3. Lose at least 5 kg. This will entail returning to Weight Watchers, a system that has worked very well for me in the past.
4. Build up my core strength to protect my back from further injury.
5. Research the property market in Sydney with a view to …
6. Buying a property.
7. Get out with the girls for a bit of partying more often.
8. Conscientiously and diligently apply myself to maximising the quality and efficiency of the two new scanners at work. This is going to be a big job, which is why I am going to …
9. Defer from my uni course to fit it all in!

My fitness has improved significantly in the last three months through the guidance of my running coach. Ongoing encouragement from him and diligence on my part will enable the weight loss and running goals to be met successfully. My health is my biggest focus this year, closely followed by a desire to have a place to call my own. In 366 days, let’s see how many of these goals have been met. I believe I can meet them all. A toast to 2008 and all its promise. It will be busy, but it’s going to be a very good one.

The meaning of Christmas

2007-12-21T22:35:00.000+11:00

Christmas is for children; I hear it every year. If so, why should I or any other childless adult bother with the fuss it creates? Why travel thousands of kilometres on crowded aeroplanes or roads with crazed and impatient drivers? Why buy gifts or bake fruit puddings in October so they can mature in the port/brandy/whisky?

Christmas is about family, those of our blood and those of our choosing. It is the one time of year that we stop and come together with those who mean the most to us. For those far from home or bereft of loved ones, to be invited to join a Christmas gathering with another family is a sign that they have not been forgotten. My family often includes Christmas orphans and I have similarly been welcomed as one myself when shifts have prevented me from travelling.

I love Christmas. The lights, the tinsel, the massive volumes of exquisite food that lasts for days; the boiling heat, pouring rain or frigid winters; the long conversations, philosophical or otherwise, over a drink; the teasing, the playfulness. And then we all go back to our own homes a day or two later, belts let out a notch, happy in the knowledge that our family survives, despite whatever challenges met us during the year. This Christmas, perhaps some of the tired and strained relationships that many families harbour can be smoothed, my own included. For without family, who will be there when our end days come?

My own travels will be taking me to my family home in Melbourne, with Christmas lunch to be held at my sister’s. Safe travels to you all in the coming fortnight, be it around the corner, across the country or over the seas. Looking forward to a bright and much cheerier 2008.

Eternal love

2007-12-16T00:24:00.001+11:00

In the grand world that tells us that true love lasts forever, I wonder how it can be that we can fall in and out of love so often in a lifetime. It’s only natural to be interested in others, to ‘window shop’, so to speak. But what makes the difference between thinking you like someone and feeling that you are attracted to them? Why is it that when you are in a relationship with someone else, your heart can be invaded and destabilised by meeting another?

The heart wrenching agony and anxiety generated by having your heart torn in two directions is something I can only imagine, but I’ve seen many others wrestle with the problem; I’ve lost the hearts of both of the men I most dearly love as a consequence of the choices that had to be made. The next hardest choice is the fight to remain friends. Success on one front for me … time is yet to tell for the other.

Each time someone else takes the heart of someone with whom I am involved, I wonder what it is that I am failing to provide. My biggest failing seems to be that I fight to salvage my relationships to the very last breath; I am, quite simply, loyal to a fault. It scares people. Men confuse loyalty with commitment, but whilst they are inter-related, they are not the same thing. Loyalty is earned, commitment is given. I’m also accused of being too serious. That’s me, I can’t change it; look elsewhere if it’s not what you seek.

The most profound loves I have experienced have been so because they have been honest even when it hurts; they have built me up, not torn me down. I can talk to them endlessly and about anything; the only topics out of bounds are those that should only be discussed between a couple. Smiley, like me, is loyal to a fault. The humble Angel is learning lessons the hard way; how a single lie can take on a life of its own. He has taken an enormous fall from grace, yet he remains the most humble – not bitter - person I have ever met. Although it was wrong, the lie he told was to save me from hurt. He’s learned that the fall out from a lie can be worse than telling the truth up front. I doubt he’ll do it again and trust him implicitly. Yes, I still love him.

I know what I want from a relationship; security, reliability and companionship. Both Smiley and Angel have had the potential to provide that, but they chose not to. The man I share my life with must be able to be trusted with the most profound and personal aspects of my heart and soul. He must encourage and support me, not ridicule or judge. He must value my opinion and admire my values.

Support and encouragement always wins over criticism and demoralisation. That’s why I have loved both men. That’s why I always will.

Too many, too many!

2007-12-13T00:25:00.000+11:00

There are days, weeks even, when I wonder what I’m doing, how I’m going to fit everything in and why I can so easily sit on my arse in front of the television and still feel I have no time up my sleeve. The dishes can pile up on the sink, the washing hang on the clothes horse for days; I can honestly say I feel like I’ve run myself into the ground this year. New job, new city, the attempt to meet new people, new sport, recovering from heart break whilst beginning a new course of study … there’s been a lot to fit in. So it’s been with some anxiety that I’ve been trying to decide if something needs to give next year. That something would be the study. I would let the work slide if I could. Exercise is not negotiable … too many good things are starting to happen for that to give way. It’s as much a part of my day now as eating and sleeping. So letting the uni studies slide in 2008 has seemed the best option. Deferring has seemed the best option, but it only draws out the remaining three years of study; I had this idea I was going to be finished by the time I was forty. Should I simply withdraw? I want to do everything, but can I juggle it all again next year (preferably without the heartache) and still retain my sanity? Sleep is generally a peaceful pleasure for me, but I will need to rationalise it in 2008 if everything is to be achieved. And I’m not a nice person to be around when my I’m sleep deprived!

Turn, turn, turn

2007-11-29T12:08:00.000+11:00

Sometimes, all you need is the catalyst; there may be reasons for making changes or decisions, but the initial push that makes you actually start the process of change is lacking. Fear can hold you back … fear of loss, of the unknown, of failure. Or perhaps you just don’t believe you deserve more or better. Fear really does paralyse.

The most effective catalysts seem to be those that involve discomfort, insult or hurt. Happiness does not readily engender change; you cherish and protect the joy at all costs, trying to keep the status quo. But when you start to feel that things have moved on without you, the result can be loneliness and isolation, leaving you mired in the past; you can’t see the way forward and the path back is cut.

When the insult hits and the hurt takes hold, it’s time to bite back. If you are not where you want to be, if do not like the person staring back at you in the mirror, then something needs to change. Forget the current issues of who are, where you are and focus on who you wish to be, where you wish to go. And always base your choices upon your values and ethics. It’s a lifelong process, building a happy life. Eternal constancy and peace would be nice, but we’d never grow.

It’s taken two weeks of catalysts to get me moving again. Now I’ve finally found the motivation to clean my study and put all the uni material away. I’m going out for a pad thai and then I’ll run myself ragged tonight at training. On Saturday I’ll look at a few properties and start my process of familiarising myself with the market; I hope to buy a small place in 2008. I’ll enjoy the Illawarra on Sunday and cuddle a bub, before heading back to what is slowly becoming somewhere I am building a life, somewhere I have unexpectedly decided to call home. The season has turned, it’s time for a change, although it’s not the one I expected.

‘… every five years or so I look back on my life and I have a good laugh …’

‘Watershed’, Indigo Girls

Destiny was teasing

2007-11-19T01:06:00.001+11:00

A few weeks ago I wrote about feeling as if I was on the cusp of a significant change. Well it seems Destiny was only teasing and boy, did I fall for it. The horizon has all of a sudden disappeared, the hand that should have pulled me over has been withdrawn. Excuse me if I sit in the corner stunned for a while. This rudderless little skiff is unable to steer its own course at present.

Precious memories

2007-11-14T23:30:00.000+11:00

I have a number of very early childhood memories. Some of the memories are still like photographic shots; others are movies in my mind; my favourite memory is a short cine that includes sensation. It is of being lifted by my father's broad hands high into the air and settled on his shoulders. I vividly remember the sensation of my being lifted up, my stomach staying at ground level as the rest of me rose high into the air; then the firm and steady placement on my Daddy's shoulders. It was in the main street of Yarraville, where we knew all the locals, as we were locals too.

My father turns eighty years old next week and this weekend, those of us who can will gather to celebrate his birthday. He is older, and slower, his body is aging but his mind is still sharp. He has embraced Skype and instant messaging and searches the web for all manner of oddities. He still loves scorched almonds, black tea, woodwork and engines, preferably trains. His booming bass when commanding attention belies the true soft centre of his heart and the generosity he has extended to so many. He is principled and does not compromise his beliefs and is a man of deep faith. His tastes are often surprising - he likes K.D. Lang. He is adored by all his children and grandchildren; many can only dream of being cherished so. We all carry precious memories of our father that I have no doubt will be shared this weekend, over way to much scotch and food with much laughter.

On the buses

2007-10-26T13:13:00.001+10:00

Although the hours have been long and erratic this week and my head is telling me I should be asleep right now, I've enjoyed the change to publice transport his week. I've read some of my latest novel (which went on hold when uni started, and I'm itching to finish it, now that I've read all the other stuff for uni) and seen a different side of Sydney by night.

Coming home on a crowded bus last night, there was an empty seat that no-one took. I was happy to stand - surfing the mad braking of the bus drivers does wonders for the leg and butt muscles - and yet, I was tired and could happily have plopped right into the seat. So why didn't I and why did no-one else? The seats were those one that run along the side of the bus, the three that are for disabled passengers. Two guys were sitting, not talking, but they were side by side. It took me a while to click that they were gay. They were not in any way demonstrative; it was the physical closeness of the two sitting hip-to-hip, the lack of verbal conversation replaced by the high level of eye contact and smiles that gave it away.

Did all the passengers avoid taking the seat because of a similar perception? Were they all uncomfortbale? The two men were perfectly clean, average looking guys, not offensive in any way. It left me wondering about my own perceptions and behaviour. In this day of supposed broader acceptance, that brief and silent avoidance last night epitomised how far we still have to go in addressing prejudice in this society.

Bending time

2007-10-19T11:30:00.000+10:00

This week another driver decided the rear of my car didn't meet his standards, so he decided to remodel it for me. Consequently, I am currently without a car. Living in Sydney, one would think this would not be a problem ... until you realise that although I live within 10km of the CBD on the southern side of the harbour, there are no trains; my workplace is just 18 km away on the northern side of the harbour. I had lofty ideas of being ecoconscious and using public transport every day, until I found it takes me 1 hour and 10 minutes to get from one point to the other. With ten hour shifts starting at 6:30 am or finishing at 10 pm, it makes for obscenely early mornings and very late nights. So I've been driving; it's been the only way to have any time to study and exercise around the work. Next week, the study will be ignored until I get my wheels back.

To compensate for the impending lack of study, I resolved to work hard today and Sunday (working Saturday). All I've had to do today is drop my car at the repairer and fit in an appointment with the sports masseur. Ok, that left bout 5 hours free in the day.

Then there's Sunday, the day I planned to be really industrious and get the essay into a more than passable format, leaving only minor work to be done before submission. Plans out the window. I just got a late invitation; I'm off to a wedding, 80 km away. Write off Sunday. And Saturday night, as the ceremony is at 8 am, so I'm going down the night before. The bride and groom are even supplying the bed ('No, no, you must stay, please, we've have empty beds, we want guests, please come....') Even my training will go out the window on Sunday (hope my coach is ok with that - I'll have to make it up on Monday). And don't ask about the wedding gift that I've yet to buy - just when and where will I get that by Sunday?

Weddings are such special times; to not go would simply mean I put other things before a celebration of love. It also allows me to socialise with people who have been immensely kind to me and whom I consider to be some of the most accepting and down to earth I know. So out goes the study and in comes the party! If I don't fall asleep on a train next week and wind up in Newcastle I'll be amazed.

Destiny awaiting or merely teasing?

2007-10-13T11:17:00.000+10:00

Have you ever felt that you are on the cusp of something significant, something that will alter fundamental aspects of your life if you should actually manage to get over that lip? That’s how I feel now. It’s not so much about choices, although I could move away from this boundary if I chose; but I want to experience what’s on the other side of that barrier, I want to know what it has to offer.

This is one of the few periods in my life when I have felt that the control has been taken out of my hands, that the choices that are to be made are by someone else. It’s like the horizon, constantly in front of me, but never getting closer. Someone needs to reach out from the other side and pull me over; I can’t do it for myself, I don’t have the power.

Something is shifting, fundamentally and crucially. The atmosphere is thick with anticipation, but it threatens to dissipate in a heartbeat without being true to its promise, without completing the contract. I am a ship at sea with a tiller whose connection to the rudder has been cut.

My heart throb

2007-10-12T21:04:00.000+10:00

Orlando Bloom is HOT! Mmmmmmmm!

Time warp

2007-10-08T21:05:00.001+10:00

An old life came and tapped me on the shoulder last week in the form of a a long ago friend; so long ago, that I had to wrack my brain to remember the association; I need to find some old photos from my uni days. My adult life of the last seventeen years has been largely nomadic. I used to travel to experience different lifestyles, see different cities, understand other people a little better. Often I've moved in the search for somewhere to call home. Only once have I moved as a means of escape; that was the first move, away from my hometown of Melbourne and suffocating claustrophobia of being the 'baby' of the family. It's taken years to shake that tag. I can honestly say whilst I hate it and the connotations that go with it. That escape was necessary, to prove my independence to myself and everyone else around me.

The progressive travels have impacted on the long term friendships I've been able to maintain. My circle of close friends is very small; the most enduring are all in Melbourne. Having KL track me down unexpectedly last week, someone I met and socialised with at uni, has been a wonderful surprise. Our lives have each moved so far, neither of us in a direction we could have predicted. I think we probably lost contact when he moved to Darwin, at about the same time as I headed overseas for a year. Now, we intend to catch up the next time he visits Sydney. It's a strange thing, this dislocation of time, someone reappearing after so long. I wonder who else is out there?

A challenging read

2007-09-21T16:43:00.000+10:00

If you want too read a novel that will make you think, that will consider how community is moulded and power dominates, try Toni Morrison's 'Beloved'. Set around the time of the American Civil War, Morrison creates a tale of fractured lives, mirrored through the similarly fractured story and timelines. It's frustrating to read at first, until you understand why Morrision has used this method of writing; it's reflective of the frustration the slaves must have felt in trying to discover a place for themselves in a free society. But freedom comes at a price. It requires examining the past, to understand how the present has come to be; only then can the future be planned with any degree of possible success.

The tale takes its name from one of the characters. Inrepretations of her origins and role vary, depending on the perspective taken. She can be simply the ghost baby told of in the story, or she could be Sethe's mother. In both cases, a spirit, but with differing underpinning issues. Beloved could simply be a woman who was disenfranchised just like any other slave, who turned up on Sethe's doorstep, but this is the least likely.

I don't guarantee you'll like this book. you may even toss it aside within forty pages. But persevere and think about what it's trying to say. It's worth the effort. It's didn't win the 1987 Nobel Prize for Literature easily.