Swings and round-a-bouts

As you are all aware MOTH (Man of the House) is looking for employment, and that's just hard on so many levels - I am sure you all know why, so I won't go into the details.

What is weird though is that at my job I am sitting on panels choosing people to come and work for me, all the while wishing that MOTH gets a job and feeling that maybe, just maybe if I treat these people with respect, that he too will be treated with respect.

Last week was particularly hard. MOTH received notification from the university telling him that he received a scholarship to train as a wood tech teacher. Cue excitement. He rings the Education Department and is informed which school it is that has accepted him - you can imagine the rest. Apparently he will receive the paperwork in the mail. The papers never come. (You can see where this is going can't you? If this was a movie you'd be hearing the "don't fall for it, it's a trick" music) He calls the school at this stage, and oops ... "uuuum, oooh , aaargh - we don't have any money anymore, sorry there is no longer a job."

Not only was that annoying, frustrating and blood boilingly ( I know that is not a word - but I'm using it and I know you get it) infuriating, it made the fact that he was offered another job two days previously, which he turned down thinking he had received a better offer, so bad.

And this is where the lesson lies - some people just don't think about how their actions can really make someone else's day, or life, really bad.

As I sit, listening to people tell me why I should give them a job. I listen intensely. I look for ways to employ them, and I feel so bad when I can't employ them all. But I haven't treated them badly, and that has to count for something. And surely, in the world of swings and round-a-bouts, in the world of 'see ya on the flip side' and the world of Karma, somehow the way I treat other people might just get him a job.

This is what I just don't get ...

Some people are seriously so nasty. They purposely do things that make other people's days much, much worse than it was ever intended to be in the first place. They relish it. It is like they can't live unless they have done something to make someone else feel hopeless.

Why are they like that? What happened to them to make them think that this is OK?

I have to remind myself that not everyone is nice in the world, and who wants that reminder? Honestly? No-one.

And just when I think there is no hope (and there is a lot of hopelessness out there) I find some evidence of really lovely, heartwarming, genuine people. I get them. I just can't fathom the others.

I've lost my way

It's been a hard term ... DH and I are selling our house, he got laid off, and I feel like I am making not one iota of difference at the moment.

I know it may be a bad move sharing on here, but I've got to share somewhere. I've tried a few other places, but get shut down ... the Aussie way and all that. You know suck it up, he (DH) is probably feeling blah, blah, blah. Essentially, people keep telling me that I have to be strong.

A bit over that to be honest.

And then I get cross with myself, because it feels like all I do is whinge, when honestly I appreciate so much about life, I just want ... well, who knows what I want, it's just not this.

So I sit, and take advice from Goethe: Enjoy when you can, endure when you must. Endure I will, but it doesn't stop ever fibre of my being wishing that this too will pass.

Will be offline for a month

Hi everyone,

The next month is the last stretch before the end of year exams for VCE, so it's full steam ahead for me with up to 3 essay sets to mark a week for the next three weeks, and then final feedback to students before their final exams for High School.

So I will see you all in November :)

Brothers in arms

I was a cell that split and tumbled and mimicked itself over and over until I had decided what I really wanted to be. Some cells become a tree, a blade of grass, an eye or elegant, piano-playing fingertips.

It was during this split that my brother came to be a part of my life. We grew side by side – developing a bond that could never be broken. When I fell, he was left alone, but I watched from the outside, knowing that he would need me. I didn't want to leave, so I didn't.

He was born early, soon after my father's fist slammed into my mother's chest and forced her to the ground, a pleading, messy pulp of a human. Her head flew back towards the wall and smacked against the plasterboard. My father cursed the hole he would now have to fix, and my mother found herself sitting in a pool of amniotic fluid that had forged a path across her thighs.

This is the introduction to the next piece in the series, first started with 'Patient X'. This time the narrator is the soul of the child who did not make it through the pregnancy, and so watched his brother grow – continuing the bond from the outside.

WIP – Tween fantasy fiction

I began working on this in 1994, and have abandoned it a number of times. I have my criticisms, but won't share them here – I don't want to taint anyone's perception. However, if the same sort of feedback comes up here, I know it is not me being paranoid about the writing. On the other hand, I could be suffering from having read the piece over and over again, and reworked infinite times over the past decade and a half, that it's getting hard to see what's working and what's not. So I open it up to you for feedback … critique away.

Working Title: Diabolous
Current word count: 10, 053 words
Intention: Colour picture story book, between 30, 000 and 40, 000 words.

THE JOURNEY

Unknowing of my destiny,
I fly to places concealed.
Eerily ever-present,
The tenderness all around.
Within my soul rests a beauty
So deep – so exquisite in every way.
I know that it will surface
And all will be revealed.
Through a journey, I am guided.
By a voice from afar.
Ardent nearness,
Serene in touch,
Reverie so pure.
Please do not wake me
It is all that I hold dear.

"Close your eyes Elia. Feel yourself being drawn to the edge of this world." Jonathan kept whispering the instructions over and over into her ears.

"Goodbye brother." Elia replied as she looked into his wise eyes for the last time.

"I will be with you always," he reminded her, "try not to fear the journey and remember that you will be home soon." Elia felt her body become much heavier than it had ever felt before. It had become so heavy that it was almost a hindrance. The classes given by her brother and teacher now played a significant part in the ritual as she let her body become heavier and heavier; so much so that her true self finally lifted up and out of the cumbersome flesh. Jonathan looked to the women in the room and more specifically to Sophie.

"I will join her now. The Diabolous have become too menacing a threat not to be ignored. She doesn't yet have the strength to survive the journey without me. We have lost too many friends to their ways already." His last comment was almost a whisper as he thought of his dear friend Connor, the first taken, lost twelve years ago to the vengeful and predatory beings. Sophie too, was well aware of how powerful the immortal beings had become. Connor had been one of the most influential teachers in the realm, but was lost when he traveled to the forbidden side of the land looking for Amethyst crystal spoken about in the Ancient Scrolls. He intended to use it to make an especially strong orb. One that would help him to understand so much more about the world he lived in. His search led him to a deep underground cave, so dark that his lantern barely lit up the steps before him. His journey ended as he used his small pick to dislodge some of the Amethyst at base of the cave. It was this movement that made the wraith like beings aware of his presence and, as he was unaware of theirs, they could watch for as long as they liked. These creatures used their own evil senses to determine Connor's one weakness, his endless quest for knowledge and his determination to do anything to gain it; hence his search for the Amethyst in these forbidden lands.

The Diabolous watched as Connor fashioned the Amethyst into the orb he craved and as he searched deep within the crystal, the dark souls devoured his mind, taking away his happiness, making him unable to rely on his intuition. He had become a recluse, locking himself in his room for hours on end, gazing into the orb until he was no longer the Connor that had been a dear friend to Jonathan. It was only chance that Jonathan had stumbled on Connor's fate. But by then the Diabolous were now infinitely stronger with Connor's life force and knowledge. All Jonathan could do was banish the vile beings from the realm; too late for his friend however, whose soul had already been taken, leaving behind a man who was so filled with despair that no ritual could help him. His anguish filled his whole existence so much so that he now lived in a tomb like room on the edge of death. He did not speak, did not eat and would not move. Yet he would never die, because the realm did not know death like the Earthly one and as long as there was a small amount of soul left he would not die. Jonathan was loathe to let him pass, as that meant letting the Diabolous back into the province to consume what was left of the man. Connor was sentenced to spend eternity in his last resting place, neither alive nor dead and always fearing the return of the callous and manipulative beings. Since him there had been others, but none so devastating for Jonathan. The Diabolous, banished from their original domain moved to the Earthly world where it was much easier to move through the existence of others. It was in this world that many other friends had been lost. While most had made similar mistakes to Connor, there were a few too vulnerable to have the strength to withstand the danger they feared, and it was these people that the Diabolous now craved. There was only one way their mangled and gnarled hands could reach these victims, and that was in the journey between worlds. The young souls were weak from the journey, hence Jonathan's reason to join his sister on her crossing.

"Be careful," Sophie implored as Jonathan joined his hands with his sister's and let himself slowly join her in her dream like state. Jonathan took a few deep breaths. Practise allowed him to quickly move through the stages needed to separate his soul from his physical body. Soon enough he was with his beloved sister.

"Sister, are you ready to leave?" Jonathan looked towards Elia and took her hand in his. They both turned towards the bed and Elia was clearly shocked at the sight of her empty body draped across the satin.

"It will be safe?" she questioned. "You're sure that nothing can come in here to disturb my journey?" Elia was beginning to show some of the fear that she felt.

"Do not be afraid," her brother responded. "You do not have Connor's fate. There are many who will protect you throughout this phase of your life. I will guide you through your journey and soon you will have the strength to look after yourself. Now let's leave, it is getting late." Elia took one last look at the room that held her body. Her eyes were closed and her dark hair had fallen loosely around her shoulders to her waist. This was in stark contrast to the white gown worn by the sleeping figure. Beside her limp body was Jonathan's sleeping stature. He was sitting on the chair beside the bed, his head leaning on the arm draped across the bed. This arm had reached across to Elia's body and held her hand. Against the wall were a multitude of small burning candles, flickering and dancing light up the sandy-coloured bricks. The candles were the only source of light in the room as all others would have been too harsh for the ritual, but it was not dark in the room. The room would stay like this for the whole of her absence, with the exception of Jonathan's body. He would leave her as soon as he had returned from safely seeing her initial journey through. It would be up to the women in the room to tend her body over the years. One day it would be her turn to be a part of this ritual, but not before she had completed the journey herself. Jonathan squeezed Elia's hand, reminding her that they must be leaving. She could now see a doorway towards the back of the room, one that had not been there before.

"It can only be seen with the mind's eye," Jonathan explained when she asked about it. "You are not taking your body on this journey so it is not a physical doorway that we need to have opened for us. It leads to a hallway and eventually to the doorway that opens up to the Earthly realm. It will be there that I leave you." Elia was not afraid anymore. Her brother had taught her well. She knew that soon she would begin to think like those who live in the Earth realm. All she had learnt would remain with her, but be much harder to find. There were other lessons that she was to learn in this stage of her life. It was a troublesome time for all who undertook the journey and she had heard of many who had faltered in the destined path. It was a hard path too, because you were never allowed to know much about the journey before leaving. Already she could not smell anything from the room she had left. The women who would tend her body over the years had become a distant memory. She could not see Jonathan anymore; only sense his continued presence urging her forwards. Finally they reached a doorway at the end of the corridor. The corridor's white walls paled in comparison to the scene beyond the doorway. The wood of the doorway framed the vision; clear blue waves falling over themselves as they crashed towards the shoreline. The sand reflected the intensity of the sun resting high above the horizon and beside the cliff face stood a lone figure. Elia's future mother.

"This is where we part dear sister. It is your journey now. Be strong and do not forget your home or what I have taught you in the short time we have been together. Walk towards her, she is alone and with child. You will start to forget as you walk towards her because an earthly child has little memory or understanding in this world. It is part of what you have to gain. Do not be afraid when you feel the overwhelming pull from the growing body. It is your body for this world and your soul will move to it like a magnet." Jonathan stopped and turned towards Elia, gave her one last embrace and then turned and walked away. She was alone. All at once she found herself moving across the sands towards her mother. Elia turned and watched the waves thunder in towards the land and beach themselves like a whale. As she drew near the woman she grew more apprehensive.

"Is it too late to turn back?" Elia asked out loud then chastised herself straight away. It needs to be done, I cannot turn back. Knowing this Elia pressed on. She could feel the sting of the fresh salty air as it passed through her. The breeze caused the woman to turn towards her and Elia gasped.

"Sybella." It was Sophie's sister. Jonathan had chosen wisely. Sybella was sure to teach Elia all that she needed to learn. She was lucky that her mother had been chosen from her own world. She will understand our ways and will remind me, Elia smiled. Already she could feel the pull from the human form inside Sybella's womb. Elia let herself be drawn in, secure in the thought that the woman would be a good mother and that this journey would not be a dangerous one. Elia could only vaguely remember being a part of another world. A world where she was grown and she could talk to those who were around her. Forgetfulness washed over her as she passed into the human form and she curled into a deep sleep.

Flinders Street Station means so many things.

Every Saturday, for almost two years, I met someone at Flinders Street Station in Melbourne. He was my boyfriend, and we lived on opposing train lines, so met in the city so that we could see each other. The city was, and still is, a vast expanse of humanity; people bustling to and fro, eager to get to their destinations. His train always arrived after mine did, and so I would spend the time people watching.

I like this analogy, one of meeting someone under the clocks and while waiting, watching the people and the world pass you by.

There is always a promise to meet under the clocks, a place where the order and direction reminds us of our eternal obligation to the world. The hands pointing out routes not yet taken - an invitation to face the world, a reminder of the place we have with those who are the same.

I start with the physical, and use it to represent the figurative. Time is also a great symbol, one of hope, dreams and possible change – or none at all.

I'm supposed to find you under the clocks. Instead I meet myself, and greet this ghost with a smile.

I see that the ordered measure of time has lost all meaning. Many sit with me under these clocks, but we are not together. We are not one in humanity, we are alone amongst ourselves. The ticking clocks above us taunt the city with a promise of constancy. The only constant force is the innate disappointment each of us feels with the world.

Is it my job to fix this?

What do you think?

I think it's your job, not mine.

With time to think, it's easy to start to wonder about where I fit in the world, where others fit and why it is that we are so 'hell-bent' on making sure we don't have to 'engage' with anyone else. The irony being, that this too makes us all so sad.

The ghost turns and shows me a country that is not a land of isolation, but a people who stand in a crowded place and find themselves drowning from the inside. The sandbags have been stacked and the flood will not be allowed out.

Australia is a large expanse. There is so much land, that we often see it as a land of isolation. The cities are different – physically, but emotionally they can be just as silent. The things we talk about, the things we fear are not emotional, but physical. Drought, floods, fire. But these too, can be used to describe how we really feel about our lives, how we really feel about each other.

There, under the clocks, more water creeps up the steps and takes the people prisoner. Some have water up to their necks, and patiently wait to drown. Others are wading towards me, reaching out, asking for help.

I do what I think is right. I turn my head away from them and close my eyes.

And so we ask, what is our role in life? And I use the flood as an emotional onslaught on loneliness.

The ghost points to me. I persecute myself. I wait at the clocks and stare at my feet, imprisoned by my freedom to ignore the plight of others.

What does sadness, fear, exile look like – would you reach out to someone in need?

I am free from the expectations of society, but imprisoned by my own.

The ghost pushes me into the deep.

I try to ignore the world, mostly because the world says that I can. But I have a conscience, one that asks me what impacts I intend to make on the world, and because it asks me this, I find myself imprisoned by the rules I have made for myself.

We listen, the ghost and I. Some talk of a great love for this sunburnt country and speak of the land and the rain that teases those who need it.

The ghost talks of the drought that has hardened its people - when we turn to others for help we find a dry and barren kinship that has become scratched and gravelled over time.

Amongst the people there is a flood. But nothing can break the drought. The soil is too battle weary to allow amends. Their fears are unabating; discontented abuse reigns over the people.

The drought is a drought of emotional connection, and so the people of Australia become emotionally hardened. The flood, is a cursed onslaught of sadness, and this emotion cannot give the people a connection.

The ghost points to those whose blinkered eyes cannot focus on the shelter they had from the storm, and to those who continue to question whose responsibility it will be to stop the drought.

There is plenty of water, there should be no drought.

It's like saying that there are plenty of people, you should have some friends. And our subconscious reminds us that it's not good enough to have everything that you need; sometime it is important to make sure that others are not hurt by your inability to empathise.

These people sit, justifying their choices with lists of rules and regulations. It is an interesting freedom; one that allows people to wallow in sadness and forgets to remind others that they can see the peril others face.

I realise that my parched throat is choking on the isolation that has gathered in the air.

Under the clocks - I stood, waiting for you.

Instead, I find myself, and didn't know what I was doing there.

Empathy comes at a price.

Saturday afternoon under the clocks

There is always a promise to meet under the clocks, a place where the order and direction reminds us of our eternal obligation to the world. The hands pointing out routes not yet taken - an invitation to face the world, a reminder of the place we have with those who are the same.

I'm supposed to find you under the clocks. Instead I meet myself, and greet this ghost with a smile.

I see that the ordered measure of time has lost all meaning. Many sit with me under these clocks, but we are not together. We are not one in humanity, we are alone amongst ourselves. The ticking clocks above us taunt the city with a promise of constancy. The only constant force is the innate disappointment each of us feels with the world.

Is it my job to fix this?

What do you think?

I think it's your job, not mine.

The ghost turns and shows me a country that is not a land of isolation, but a people who stand in a crowded place and find themselves drowning from the inside. The sandbags have been stacked and the flood will not be allowed out.

There, under the clocks, more water creeps up the steps and takes the people prisoner. Some have water up to their necks, and patiently wait to drown. Others are wading towards me, reaching out, asking for help.

I do what I think is right. I turn my head away from them and close my eyes.

The ghost points to me. I persecute myself. I wait at the clocks and stare at my feet, imprisoned by my freedom to ignore the plight of others.

What does sadness, fear, exile look like – would you reach out to someone in need?

I am free from the expectations of society, but imprisoned by my own.

The ghost pushes me into the deep.

We listen, the ghost and I. Some talk of a great love for this sunburnt country and speak of the land and the rain that teases those who need it.

The ghost talks of the drought that has hardened its people - when we turn to others for help we find a dry and barren kinship that has become scratched and gravelled over time.

Amongst the people there is a flood. But nothing can break the drought. The soil is too battle weary to allow amends. Their fears are unabating; discontented abuse reigns over the people.

The ghost points to those whose blinkered eyes cannot focus on the shelter they had from the storm, and to those who continue to question whose responsibility it will be to stop the drought.

There is plenty of water, there should be no drought.

These people sit, justifying their choices with lists of rules and regulations. It is an interesting freedom; one that allows people to wallow in sadness and forgets to remind others that they can see the peril others face.

I realise that my parched throat is choking on the isolation that has gathered in the air.

Under the clocks - I stood, waiting for you.

Instead, I find myself, and didn't know what I was doing there.

I'm a little sickie, short and stout ...

Sorry for the MIA status for the last week and a bit. I had a severe allergic reaction to Wattle ( a reminder that Australia has some dangerous stuff), a usually innocuous national flower - unless of course, you are allergic to it like I am. The pollen infiltrated (there is no other way to describe it) my lungs, got infected and lo and behold, I am struck down with pneumonia. This,of course, made the asthma that has not bugged me for decades rear its ugly head.

I am getting back on track, thankfully, and am busy trying to finish my next piece. I hope none of you thought I was being rude, I was just totally incapacitated.

Food for thought

Polly and Me.

If you're in Australia and get ABC1 watch it and continue the effort to break the cycle.

Inside you there is strength.

Shaun Tan's The Red Tree is one of those amazing children's books that transcends all age and generational barriers to speak to the world. Some say that it speaks of hope in a cruel world, others find it full of existential angst; yet most, if not all who find it, feel compelled to own it.

When I first found it tucked high on a shelf at the back of a bookstore, I knew I had to have it. The cover caught me, in fact it grabbed me by the chest and clung on until it had convinced me that I needed this book in my home.

I had no children, so many people did not understand my obsession with children's books, but this book, like so many others spoke to me.

It told me that sometimes bad stuff happens to good people and no-one seems to notice.

It told me that even though I could be drowning in sorrow, there was always something there for me to grab on to.

It told me that buried deep within me was a spark of strength that had seen me through the almost intolerable pain I was forced to swallow, and bury, each and every day.

It told me that this strength was something so magical, something so wondrous, that I only had to wait and I would be free to enjoy it.

You need this book in your collection, there is no other comment that will do this justice. The illustrations in themselves speak volumes. Shaun Tan's insightful comments manage to remind us all of the often bleak way the world behaves. It is up to us to change the world; one red tree at a time.

I love the way you lie?

I like Eminem, I really do. And I am sure this is 'just' poetic licence, but there is something bothering me about it. It bothers me tremendously that radio stations are giving this song air play, but no-one discusses the absolute truth about domestic violence (henceforth known as DV). It bothers me that people talk about how wonderful Rihanna and Megan Fox are in bringing people's attention to DV. It bothers me that only those not affected by DV are the first to talk about how wonderfully this song brings up the discussion.

The thing is though, all people are doing is discussing this song. Yes, it's catchy. Too catchy. So catchy in fact, that I am ashamed to find it stuck in my head.

And I guess if it's good enough for Rihanna to sing about ... well. Oh, and Rihanna and Megan so generously gave to DV foundations ... I should stop, I am going to sound cynical.

DV and romance only go together in music clips. The trouble is, when they are there together, and placed togther so well, people forget what DV actually is.

And like Eminem's work, mine now needs a language warning.

*SERIOUS language warning ...*

Domestic Violence isn't something you would actually want to experience.

Domestic Violence isn't romantic.

Domestic Violence isn't something we, as a society, are actually dealing with.

Domestic Violence IS:

A punch to the face in the middle of the night.

Someone you love calling you a stupid fucking cunt of a child, and you thinking that it means 'I love you'.

Watching a child being thrown across a room.

Hiding behind a shower curtain.

Wetting your pants while being belted.

Blood dripping down your head.

Wishing you were dead.

Being ripped out of your bed at 2.00 in the morning.

Never sleeping.

Being hit.

Being kicked.

Being belted until you bleed.

Being thrown.

Being broken.



I know a lot of people will not like this post. I know some people will say that in order to heal, one must move on. Others will find this a confronting, negative post, and will not return.

I am taking a risk.

I have moved on, to a point. One must NEVER forget. One is duty bound to ensure that it never happens again, and in that, I have an obligation to be honest. In this case, the truth hurts very much.

Eminem - I do not like the way you have lied.

A person's a person, no matter how small- Dr. Suess

I cried, but you chose not to see.

I wept, but you chose not to hear.

I reached for your hand, but you waited for someone else to steady my fall.

Who am I?

 

I am the child who you ignored.

I am the child whose parents you prayed for.

I am the child who you thought deserved it.

I am the child whose parents you didn't want to upset.

I am the child who never understood why I was left there.

I am the child who cried herself to sleep.

I am the child whose job it was to console my siblings.

I am the child who was scared.

I am the child who listened to the names she was called and believed them.

I am the child who has a high pain threshold.

I am the adult whose heart is hurting, not from my childhood, but from listening to others justifying why they ignored a child in need.

I am the adult who wishes that someone bothered to hurt his feelings because maybe then everything would have been better.

I leave my shoes on the doorstep every night.

They are painful, and hurt my feet.

I do not ask that you walk a mile in my shoes; I only ask that you stop these shoes from being made.

 

Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime.

--Herbert Ward

There can be no keener revelation of a society's soul than the way in which it treats its children.

--Nelson Mandela, former president of South Africa 

I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father's protection.

-- Sigmund Freud

All those writers who write about their childhood! Gentle God, if I wrote about mine you wouldn't sit in the same room with me.

--Dorothy Parker

My childhood was a period of waiting for the moment when I could send everyone and everything connected with it to hell.

-- Igor Stravinsky

It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men. 

--Frederick Douglass

The most important question in the world is, 'Why is the child crying?'

--Alice Walker

Safety and security don't just happen; they are the result of collective consensus and public investment. We owe our children, the most vulnerable citizens in our society, a life free of violence and fear.

-- Nelson Mandela, former president of South Africa 

The world is a dangerous place, not because of those who do evil, but because of those who look on and do nothing.

-- Albert Einstein, physicist 

There's more to doing good than hating evil.

-- Anonymous 

Failures are divided into two classes — those who thought and never did, and those who did and never thought.

-- John Charles Salak, author 

The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good people to do nothing.

-- Edmund Burke, author and philosopher 

Be the change that you want to see in the world.

-- Mohandas Ghandi, political and spiritual leader in India 

 

 

A sad turn of events.

I write, I read, I aim to change the world.

I teach.

And it is there that I see so much that just saddens me. Children who can't read, parents who are too busy trying to blame someone else, teachers who just don't have the time to fix the problem. Teenagers who are essentially illiterate; people who will probably never be able to functionally read, let alone enjoy the beauty that can be the written word.

These people will never see the world I see, never live in the world that I live in. They know it too, and they are angry, but pretend that they don't care, that it doesn't matter, that being illiterate is actually cooler than you or I think.

I am not fooled. I will keep trying. I may not be as successful as I want to be, but I will try.

And I wonder ... could I actually write something for one of them? Firstly, I've got to get them to read.

If you can read you are richer than any man, woman or child in the world.

If you can read you have more opportunities for change than those who are not privy to this secret world.

If you can read, you get to live wherever you like, see whatever it is you want to see, and feel whatever it is you'd like to feel.

If you can read you are free.

Reason # 450,000 for having a child

After a terrible and demoralising day at work, I sat down with DH and my little angel for dinner. Tacos. They are her favourite as she can make them up herself; pre-schoolers and independence are an on/ off commodity that can change on a whim, so we embrace it when it works for us. But I digress, Em was given a melamine plate that I had decorated in grade four. She loves it as it has a rainbow on it, and she currently loves painting rainbows all the while singing about how, and I quote, "I can sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow too."

Like any person who has had an energy draining day at work, filled with blockers and naysayers and assumption makers, I sat eating my dinner, contemplating how I could debrief with my family without everything turning into a whinge-fest. So there I sat, in a contemplative stare, when I noticed the plate. Memories of grade four, being raced by my mum to my little sister's kinder program to create a plate template as my mum didn't want me to 'miss out', came flooding back. That plate always annoyed me. I was so stressed at the time trying to think of something 'good' to put on the silly thing, that I totally panicked when I realised I was running out of time. I decided to 'just do a rainbow'. Even then it annoyed me as 'so obvious for a girl to do', and to be honest, I wasn't even a 'rainbow type girl' (is that a term?) that I had feelings of betrayal for my own self at the time. I am sure I have put a few adult words into what was, essentially, an emotional experience for a 9 year old, but you get the gist (I hope).

And here is where I get to reason # 450,000 for having a child. While I sat there, stewing about my day, letting feelings of regret and annoyance from 1984 swamp my already tainted feelings, I blurted out that I really don't like that plate. Three and a half year olds don't let you drop a bombshell like that and not explain it, so I was asked the now obligatory, "why?" I rambled on and on with my little story, about how I felt rushed, and disappointed with the end result – all very 'woe is me'. Cue compassionate voice of an angel:

"It doesn't matter mummy, I like it."

Now I don't cry; it is a rare occurrence, but this made me tingle and tears of joy filled my eyes.

Reason # 450,001 would have to be the proud smile from her when I told her that she fixed the day for me. It takes a strong person to be able to change a whole day, and that three and a half year old is one of the strongest people I know.

Furphy’s Law: As told to an Australian poet.

Do you know Stella Maria Sarah?

She was a lyrebird, dancing in the cultural forest that is Australian literature.

Among the myth of mateship and the dear larrikin;

where we pretend that the only venom comes from our spiders and snakes.

She was a 'happy little Vegemite' who knew all about the insular nature of the bush telegraph.

We dream of our own Lindsay inspired 'Magic Pudding'; one that fills the void that builds with each foray into the abyss that is the quest for acknowledgement.

Blindly worshiping the icons built on Colonial foundations:

The digger,

The swagman,

The drover,

and the mighty battler.

These men pass muster – they had a go.

Now we do the same. Have a go that is, and look for the bludger, the wowser, the dobber –

anyone who no longer quietly serves the Crown.

That black and white harpy, who warbles her dissent at our culture,

has forgotten the beauty contained within the acerbic expectations we have of our people.

She tells a wild yarn in a dialect devoid of the Strine that pulses through her veins.

Where she lives they have the stiff upper lip, whereas we mutely salute those who enforce the ideal –

'keep your bloody mouth shut.'

We whisper, "I'll keep mine closed, if you'll keep yours."

Down here,

where a little hard yakka never hurt anyone,

where our admiration is directed at those who bravely fought the troopers during the Eureka Stockade,

we prefer to create barriers that lock out anyone who does not understand our particular manipulation of the Queen's tongue.

To be a true blue Aussie, that language must be a part of you.

It is a badge of honour that adorns the armour of words that you wear without shame.

Without it, we would much rather hail a man named Kelly, and sing praise to a thieving swaggy, than admit you've got something for us to learn from too.

What epitomises an Australian writer?

A question I know a lot of my blogging friends may not be able to answer, but it is something my next piece aims to address.

Why?

To be honest, why not? And the simple fact is that here in Australia 'we', as in the media, our people, our critics, and our education system are so seemingly intent on categorising this 'quintessential Australian Literature / Film / *insert item or genre here*, that we need to spend some more time working out what that is.

The result can sometimes be ironic in its very nature. I am Australian. I was born here, raised and educated here, and I write here. I am an Australian writer. I am an Australian female writer. The very factual nature of my life makes this so. Yet my poems do not describe the Australian countryside, don't marvel over the warbling song of the magpie, nor liken myself to the land. If it did it might be Australian.

And this is where I hit hurdle number one. If Australian poetry can only be defined by its use of the 'Australian voice', recognisable with a metaphoric link to the land, there are a whole lot of Australian poets who may just never be seen as such. Now this is such a shame. We are Australian poets, we use the quintessential Australian voice; we just don't channel A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson in the same way.

Does an Australian poet have to use the iconic references that we as a country clutch at - seeing these icons as being able to clarify who or what it is we are? Is it possible that the Australian voice is much more?

I suggest that the Australian voice is a quietly observant, political dissent. An observation of people and their motivations. A discussion of the impact of the world on who 'we' or 'I' are /am (respectively). Surely this same voice can be found in the Colonial past, the questioning of the role that has been played by the myriad groups that have added their piece to this fair land of ours?

As well-written, and interesting, the 'Australian' poetry that is published and discussed in well respected journals is, it is a shame that it seems to need to list a series of Australian icons in order to be labelled as such. Anything else is poetry. Good poetry admittedly, but not discussed in any great depth for its critique and/ or commentary on our land.

My next piece comments on this practice, and while it uses the 'expected' icons and references to be classed as an Australian poem, in reality it is the intent behind it that makes it an Australian poem. That is, the method of using what you are criticising to make a point that in itself is much, much more Australian than the icons Australian poems are expected to use.

That is why I am an Australian poet. Not because I was born here, raised here and write here. But because my poetry is a version of the Australian voice; it is a discussion of how society does things, and it doesn't need a warbling magpie to do it.

Frustrated apologies

Firstly I would like to thank those of you who commented on my last post and it's attached piece Lycanthropy. The problem is, I have no idea what you've said as the post comments just aren't showing up! Gahhhhhhhhh.

I have a returned follower and one new devotee (thanks), but would really love to reply to whatever it is that you may have said about my writing. Please don't think me rude when I don't, as I can't! My posts may be telling me that I have 2 - 3 comments, but when I click (delightedly as you may well imagine) on them to read, it comes up blank.

Hopefully this situation will be resolved soon. In the meantime, it's back to writing for me as my little girl is having a day at the in-laws.

Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?

Folklore loves wolves. They are the epitome of evil and are used in literature to symbolise a multitude of evils. One only has to look at the links between wolves and lunacy. Werewolves, Lycans, Wolfs bane ... so many ways to cast aspersions on such a beautiful animal. Humans have used this fair creature to comment on society, to moralise and preach, and to scare the living daylights out of generations of children. Little red riding hood's journey to visit her grandmother is a well know fairytale, and I have used it my newest piece, Lycanthropy.

Hope you like it.

Lessons from the good doctor.

Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind. Dr. Suess.

Something more important than realising the truth contained within those simple words is teaching our children to think this way. We teach them that being different is wrong, to fight back when others hurt them, to change who they are to fit into the world that we have allowed to develop.

And then we run off and complain that the world is a tough place and we wish that everyone would stop being so mean to each other.

Dr. Suess was a wise man - a wise man who wrote awesome stories for the people of the world. They don't just teach us how we can manipulate our language, but they show us how we can behave in a world that is full of rules and regulations; how we can be something special without breaking someone else down.

I hope that my child will live in a Dr. Suess world, because that's the one I am teaching her to be in. As an aside, she is cuddling me as I write this, singing 'Where did you sleep last night?' by Nirvana. As far as I am concerned, that little fact is beyond amazing!

So tell me, what happens in your Dr. Suess world?

Lycanthropy

Gravel crunches underfoot and the stalking footsteps slow in unison with mine.

The path, pockmarked by the claws of the black dog, curves before me.

I can hear the beast as it scratches at the world and breathes into the indifferent lungs of the forest.

I long for the sanctuary offered by the claret stained cloak, and dream of the warmth its arms will lend me.

*

She treads, softly at first, wary of the shadows that dwell in the crevasses of time.

She listens for the signs the curse is near, but its footfall mirrors her broken gait.

The black dog's presence looms; its rotten breath sulks around her ankles and clutches to her exposed limbs.

*

An ill-wind calls out to me,

"Who's afraid of the big bad wolf, the big bad wolf, the big bad wolf?

Who's afraid ... ?"

I am.

The wind enjoys the taunt, and revels in my inability to capture it.

Its frenetic whispers stir a great fear inside me that scratches against my glassy chest and reminds me of my fragility.

I must hurry, the wolf is near.

*

The light from the moon beguiles her, and catches glimpses of her steps upon the ground.

Its silvered light falls into the abyss that trails behind her.

The night offers a mask for her foe; the moonlit path becomes blemished with the accusations of her conscience.

She knows that there is one other on this expedition.


*



I quicken my steps and look for the light that scars the darkness.

The forest is filled with the rambled musings of the night, and my ears drown in the laboured breathing of the moonstruck dog.

It is a painful scratching that drags its ill-kempt claws through my ears.

I am disoriented by the anarchy that has poisoned the air.



*


She runs, no longer stopping to pick the wildflowers that line the trail.

This journey is nothing more than a frenzied gambol through a maimed hinterland.

Aware of how close she is to the precipice of exhaustion, a sense of foreboding grows and begins to choke her with its shameful onslaught.

She lacks the courage to see what warms her now, and fears that it is a pelt none would dare to rip from her flesh.

"Who's afraid ..."

She.

Is.



*


I.

Am.

I trip.

I stumble.

I listen to the metronomic bedlam that pervades my heart.

A purposeful tread - one, two ... three, four.

I rest; a crimson shroud disguises the beast.

The pursuit continues


*


She lays curled in the leaf litter, the dew that collects in the discarded foliage acts as a tarnished mirror.

Her breath distorts these impromptu eyes of the forest and she does not see the child who climbs from the tree.

"What beautiful, big eyes you have Mama."

Recognising her scarlet caped shadow, she answers the girl,

"All the better to see you with."

She relaxes, knowing that the child does not mean her any harm.

Off line for a bit

Hi everyone,

I will be off line for a bit, well at least another week and a half, as I am assessing the VCE general assessment test.

It's a big one, and I have to commit 100%.

The we have term break. Definitely looking forward to that.

The irony of a full moon ...

lunacy
1540s, "condition of being a lunatic," formed in English from lunatic (q.v.). Originally in ref. to intermittent periods of insanity, such as were believed to be triggered by the moon's cycle. The O.E. equivalent was monaðseocnes "month-sickness."

On Thursday I was diagnosed with a more specific form of mental illness than that of depression and anxiety. I have spent all weekend dealing with it, second guessing every action and reaction, and trying to determine what really makes me who I am. The best way (of course) to begin the process of understanding this news is to write. I thought it would be interesting to write a piece where the protagonist thinks she is stalked by the 'black dog', but finds that she is, in fact, the very object of her fear. I am going to link this piece to the story of Little Red Riding Hood, swapping the wolf for the black dog (although they are most likely one and the same).

You may be interested to know that Thursday night was a full moon here in Australia, and when I realised that I had a wry laugh to myself; oh the bitter irony of it all.

Weddings

I love Weddings.

I love it when a couple, so clearly in love with each other and the world, celebrate this love with the world.

I love it that I was invited to see it, and be reminded of how awesome my husband is, and how lucky I am to have had this opportunity.

I love that I was able to see a family so full of love and support for each other, and that I was able to celebrate and chat with friends.

Thanks Robyn and Danny, I wish you all the love in the world.

Reflections

It's pretty obvious that my writing explores *stuff* that has happened to me over my lifetime, and while it can all seem quite gloomy and depressing, it is my way of telling the world that survival is possible. Something else I truly believe is that no-one like a victim, so instead of dwelling on the past, and enabling a 'poor me' mentality I use my life to explore the nature of being human, and hope that my writing prompts others into taking the 'exploratory plunge'.

To be honest, I struggle to read novels that are 'autobiographical' (I'll explain the inverted commas, I promise), because they seem to have a little bit of the 'and then' about them. And then this happened, and then I said ... and then, and then, and then. To quote a great literary source, 'There is no and then.' Autobiographies should be factual, but their very nature, that is being written about and by the same person, more often than not, makes them a 'filtered' version of events. Getting the audience on the side of the protagonist is often achieved with too many details about the selfless nature of the protagonist; a 'look at me wasn't/ isn't my life *%#@' attitude, that assumes we want to hear about it.

I much prefer something that makes you think. Something that asks you to question your own values and morals, something that doesn't try to force you into having feelings or emotional reactions about a particular person and how grand they are.

That is why my writing has cryptic elements to it. Yes it explores ideas and events, but the aim is not to feel sorry for the protagonist, the aim is to ask, 'What would I have done in this situation?' or 'How can we, as a society, ensure that these things never happen again?'

Do I do that?

While you ponder that question I will explain the last two pieces of writing.

Patient X is a short story that I wrote in January for a competition. I didn't submit it, because I felt the ending seemed to lose momentum. However, I would love to submit it, so welcome any feedback on improving the ending. Does anyone else think the final stages of the piece aren't as strong as the beginning?

The narrator is Patient X's conscience, but a few people have seen the narrator as Patient X's daughter and a couple have seen the narrator as Patient X's wife. At the end of the day it doesn't matter, because the voice is trying to get Patient X to acknowledge the damage he has done in his life. The story reflects on the fact that so often terrible things happen to others, yet we, as a society, ignore it as the situation has had no impact on our life. When this happens the victim is left to pick up the pieces, and we all know the baggage they have the carry from then on. One of the biggest hurdles to get over is the lack of remorse, and/ or apology from the perpetrator of the crime (whatever the crime may be), so the story gives hope to victims, suggesting that even though an apology was never gained, justice will be served.

Via Crucis is a personal exploration to the religious upbringing I had, prompted by some comments made by the Sydney Catholic Archbishop Cardinal George Pell. Now I know we should avoid discussing the big three (sex, politics and religion). But it was Easter, a time of great reflection, and to be honest I am a bit fed up on people's religious beliefs being used against them to explain the ills of society. It's a bit hard to see religious beliefs as the only way to lead a life without sin, when I was raised in a family where my parents 'taste tested' a multitude of Christian varieties. Via Crucis is my 'Way of the Cross', a poetic exploration of the religious upbringing I had, and how it impacted my life. It also reflects what I have seen as the impact of didactic beliefs on others. One of the most interesting (*a totally hammed up euphemism*) times in my life was when my parents because involved with an evangelistic faith healer from the United States. Won't go into too much detail, but this you tube link certainly puts the experience into perspective. It is certainly easier to laugh about things 20 odd years later, and, well, Australians are known for an 'interesting' sense of humour. No offense intended by the clip, and my family had a great laugh.

Faith Healing Clip

You might be interested to know that the first paragraph covers the first month or so of my life. I was so sick when I was born that I was Baptised (Catholic) pretty promptly, and then issued with the last rites. It certainly is an interesting piece of trivia to tell!

Until next time, adieu.

Via Crucis (Way of the Cross)

I

She was born in the Garden of Gethsemane and introduced to the pilgrimage that is the 'via Dolorosa'; and so the agony began. Pontius was called, and together he and the others preyed over her.

Father we present to you this child, praying that you will receive her into the fellowship of Christ's Church.

Her soul saved from the clutches of the damned they now recited the seventh and final sacrament; the Anointing of the sick.

Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed.

I am sin itself, for I live despite your prayers.

II

Now aware of her sin she was burdened with the Passion of the Christ and bore it like no babe should. The cross was dragged through the muddied shame of Jerusalem, a constant symbol of the taint she inflicted upon them all.

Forgive me Father for I have sinned, it has been many years since I last confessed.

Adorned in the seven colours of the sacred sacraments, she was given the Holy Eucharist so that her body may liken itself to Christ's.

Do you believe that you are a sinner?

Yes.

Lord I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.

But she wasn't.

III

She was afflicted with a vengeful scourge time and time again. The bleeding wounds continued to weep throughout her journey causing the wood to slip from her grasp.

Withhold not correction from a child: for if thou strike him with the rod he shall not die. Thou shall beat him with the rod, and deliver his soul from hell.

She fell. She wanted to die, but did not. Instead she was thrice denied.

I am not her friend.

She is not my family.

I will not heal you.

IV

She trod forth and they invited her to be re-born – without sin, without fault, without deformity. One only had to believe.

Do you receive Jesus, the Son of God, in your heart for the salvation of your soul? Let us now repent your sins.

She fell backwards under the water, but came out dirty. Verily she came upon her mother who was flanked by the Pharisees of the church. The woman had been washed in the blood of the Lamb, and the men now placed their hands on the ailing Mary.

I lay my hands upon you and cast out the devil. I cast out the demons and abominations that dwell within your heart and command that you be healed in the name of the Lord.

The healing hands also threw the child to the ground, but nought could remove the crown of shame entangled in her hair; her sins too great to cast out.

V

A sibling was thrust forward and made to share the burden of blame.

Lord we have sinned against you. Merciful Lord, hear our prayer.

The Lord did not afford mercy and smote their mother.

Lord I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.

The Lord did not speak.

The new sin clung to the cross like a gnarled barnacle from the sea. The girl now struggled under the weight of her lost salvation.

Let us pray. Father in Heaven, please forgive their lack of strength and deliver the soul of their mother into Your divine light.

VI

An aunt stepped forth and with her veil removed the sweat and blood from the child's brow. A semblance of comfort washed over her; but the cross of shame cut into her shoulders and pressed her spine to the earth.

Have mercy on me God, in your kindness and your compassion, blot out my offense. O wash me more and more from my guilt and cleanse me from my sin.

But the aunt was the only on to show compassion. All others, even God, had forsaken the child.

VII

The evangelist reminded her of the Glory of the Jehovah. He piped a merry tune, but forgot the rats. Instead he took all the mums and dads. All the while the crippled, diseased and maimed children trailed behind, their heels nipped and taunted by the Devil.

Be on your guard against false prophets; they come to you looking like sheep on the outside, but on the inside they are really like wild wolves.

A waning faith, cultivated by children's services began to take hold. Their Earthly father reminded them of their duty to God.

Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask for in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.

Still the weight of the cross bore down on the child. It made her tired and sleepy. She looked towards the promised hands of healing, and prayed for purification. He placed his open palm upon her brow.

Devil, I command thee, in the name of the God Almighty, rise up and leave this child. Raise your hands in prayer. Hallelujah, glory be to the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, I command you to be healed.

She fell for the second time, but was not healed.

VIII

The women of Jerusalem watched without compassion, their weeping and wailing was not for her.

Raise your hands to the glory of God. We pray to you, the God Almighty. Praise be your name.

She tried to speak, but they were deaf to her voice. They thought one so young did not have knowledge, and chose to ignore the cross strapped to her back.

We speak in tongues dear Lord, that you may hear our prayer. We wash in the blood of the Lamb, and sing your praises.

She did not understand their voices and knew this as a sin.

Therefore tongues are a sign, not to those who believe, but to unbelievers.

IX

The ground became rocky and treacherous to trek. The mountains loomed ahead. It was a scene that beguiled all except the child who bore the cross.

I am the way, the truth and the light. No one comes to the Father except through me.

She knew that she did not want to go to the same place as them, and this knowledge was a sin.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

The rocks slipped under her feet, and she fell for the third time.

X

She was stripped of her clothes, poked and prodded until all her faults were proclaimed.

Let us pray.

She knew this was not the way to heal, but had no voice. She spoke in a different tongue, one that could not be heard. She did not understand why God did not bless her.

They would turn to me, says God, and I would heal them.

The cross of shame tore the skin from her back as she climbed the worn path to Golgotha. The crowd continued to jeer and spit. Verily she heard a new voice.

He who speaks in tongues edifies himself, but he who prophesies edifies the church.

XI

And they took her hands and feet and nailed them to the cross. Their prayers shamed her more; the non-believer.

I am the light of the world. He who follows me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life.

The skies trembled in fear and grew dark, blinding the child. She had thirst, and they proffered her the bitter gall and mocked as she would not drink.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

And they said,

'No unclean thing can inherit the Kingdom of Heaven.'

The child looked at her flesh and saw that it was putrid and stained with woe, and she became afraid.

Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?

XII

And while she hung there on the cross, she did hear them sing out praises to the Lord. She did repent again, to no avail, instead she cried out,

'It is finished.'

Verily, the Passion she had carried died there nailed to the cross, and she recalled the words of Pilate.

'Why what evil hath she done?'

XIII

It came to pass that in death, the Passion became separate from the child. The sinewed limbs of the cross were no longer a suffering that had to be endured. She ripped her hands and feet from the wood and climbed down under the veil of dark.

Who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion?

A new voice. Yet this question could not be answered because all she had learnt told her that she was not deserving of these promises.

Master, who did sin, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?

And so he did answer her, to show that the sins were not hers, but those of the faithful, who had misread his words and used them to blame.

In all his epistles, speaking in them of these things, in which are some things hard to understand, which untaught and unstable people twist to their own destruction, as they do the rest of the scriptures.

Still it was hard to not feel the blush of shame knowing that her body had not yet become whole.

XIV

She journeyed forth to a cave of stone and lay to rest her soul. The lore closed off the entrance and none could pass.

'I am not sin,' sayeth the child.

And so she began to heal.

Amen.

(Via Dolorosa – Way of Sorrows/ Way of Pain)

NB: You may have noticed that the italicised parts are quite religious. They are a mixture of actual elements of a Catholic Mass or ritual, Prayers or questions often recited in the myriad religious groups I have been involved in, or direct references from the Bible. I will take the time to footnote each direct quote in due course, but please note that I am not trying to pass of parts of the Bible (etc) as my own writing. My writing is, of course, the placing together of ideas, and the use of the references to make a critical comment and prompt social thought on the nature of religion.

Enjoy :)

Patient X – complete version

They found you sulking in the corner of the room, blubbering forth a series of incoherent syllables that never quite morphed in status to words. Your weathered features, punctuated with mismatched hues of yellow, green and blue, sparked a level of sympathy often reserved for the congenitally infirm. It was a miracle that you were still alive, as the fall had rendered your legs useless, yet there you were, waiting patiently for rescue. It is the one thing you can do well - wait. Wait for someone else to do whatever it was that needed to be done, wait for someone else to take the blame, wait for time to pass by and maybe - just maybe, everyone would forget all the bad stuff. They didn't know this about you, and the bruises did not let on that there was a secret to be told. And so you babbled, like a Pentecostal baptised in the Holy Spirit, savouring the attention and relieved that you would soon be warm, comfortable and well fed.

I watched them gently wrap your disjointed limbs with a series of bandages, swathe your soul with tender words of encouragement, love and purpose. It was more than you knew you deserved, but why would you tell them that? You saw no reason to stop the pretence, no reason to admit that you had done nothing to deserve such kindness. I watched as they registered their newly scrubbed John Doe into a private hospital ward, and I waited too, knowing that mine was a game of patience, more so than yours.

You saw the pity in their eyes as each of them talked to you, trying to elicit a memory, a cord of life that could be used to reel in information that might help solve this puzzle. And it worked. It worked because your memory was never broken to begin with, just your ability to articulate the role you played in developing each and every one of them. I was the only one privy to these buried visions. You took solace from their faces, using the pity that percolated with ongoing tenacity to affirm the story that would now become your mask. I had anticipated this, as all too often I had found myself shackled to you, forced to listen to the lies that tumbled from your mouth at every opportunity. You sat mute through their questions, your eyes glazed in pretence of amnesia. I, on the other hand, listened to the memories launch themselves around your head.

Each question asked of you was littered with judgement. Never for you though. They were too taken by the beguiling nature of your age; your injuries duped them into believing that you had suffered more than any human deserved. Their scorn was reserved for those whom they deemed as being responsible for your fate. You and I both know that is you. You are responsible for this; I will never cease to tell you this. You will hear my voice as a constant reminder of the role you played in this. I know you will take solace from these people, as I take mine from time. You cannot escape time, you cannot escape me.

"Surely someone is looking for you? Your clothes are well cared for, there were photos of a young girl in your wallet." They wait. I am amused by their constant attempts to get you to remember. They do not understand why no-one is looking for you. You and I both know why she does not come. She will never come. I know you can hear me. I see the recognition in your eyes. I can see that the shame is hard to swallow, but I notice that, once again, you seek a reprieve from the past. You remind yourself of all the accolades your friends gave you. How proud they were of you that you raised the child by yourself. You basked in the glory of their praise. You used their voices to drown out mine. I know you could hear me ask you to stop. I saw you falter several times when you heard my questions. I asked you why you did this to her. I scoffed at your lies. You knew that it was wrong; still you accepted your friends' excuses for your behaviour. I knew then, as I know now, that as long as no-one else knew the truth, you would be happy.

"Is this your daughter? What is your name? We must find her. I can't believe that she left you there!" They are still fooled by your age. It is curious that human kindness prompts us to see only innocence in the very young and the very old. Now the very young I understand. You do too don't you? Think about her. She was young, full of innocence, beautiful. The old however, they have lived a life; they know what will disgust others and what will inspire. You knew this, just as those Nazi criminals knew when they immigrated after the war. Now when one of them is arrested people find it so hard to believe that they were evil. The Nazi's greyed features and thinning hair, curved spines and sun worn hands convince the world that someone so frail could not have committed such a crime. In the same way these people now judge your daughter. They look at you and think of their own gentle grandfathers. They would never abandon their kin, and don't understand why you have been left behind. Listen to them. Hear them. They are discussing your daughter. They don't know who she is yet, but they are disgusted by her. Their disgust fuels the pity they feel for you and enhances the tenderness in the care they offer. To them you are a valued member of the community, cruelly left when you needed the most care. Look at their admiration for you; ill-deserved, but only you and I know this.

Are you sick of my voice yet? I know that you pretend that you can't hear me. I will keep talking. She deserves that much at least. They think of her in the most disrespectful of terms, and you let them with your silence. Your hubris fuelled ruse is more important than her. When will you stop being like that? I have something to show you. You don't even need to open your eyes. Remember this? It is your child. You did this to her. She did not tell, you made sure of that. She stood silently as you grabbed a fist full of her hair and slammed her head against the door jamb. Your rage knew no bounds, and you could feel the power swell in your heart as you berated your fragile offspring. She stood there – that did not surprise you, as she always stood in sullen defiance. It angered you to see her able to stand so strong throughout your barrage. She never spoke, but her eyes were fire; a furnace that warmed her through those cold nights of shame and humiliation. The pattern remained the same. You would sit there seething each night, reminding yourself about how hard your life was because of this child. The hate would build, you could feel it clawing at your chest, pulling your sternum up so hard that you would soon stand resolute. This night was no different except that she was sleeping. She rarely slept, knowing that you were prone to wake her on a whim, only to ask her to complete a series of household tasks that really could have waited until the morning. The night was easier for you this way. If you had waited until morning the guilt of what you had planned to do would have made you stop your infantile behaviour. Instead, you chose to allow your anger to direct your actions through the night, and slept through the morning so that by the time you had risen the series of events could be wiped from your mind.

The first clue was the stands of hair that were trapped in the roughened edges of the jamb. You paid them no mind, choosing instead to yell at this child through gritted teeth. It was only when you saw the blood dripping down her legs and pooling on the floor that you panicked. Did you know that she did not even feel the pain of the cut? It was only as you dragged her to the bathroom, and stood her shivering body in the shower recess that she noticed the strange wet substance dripping down her back. I was with you when you called your friend to ask for advice. Your daughter was listening too; the pain of the deep gash to her head now pulsating through her body. She heard you ask your friend for advice, ask if you should take her to the hospital, then silence as you got the answer you wanted. She was waiting to be taken for medical care when you returned, instead you told her that she would be ok and to go back to bed. I saw the stoic resistance return to her face as you let her know that she would not be getting the attention she needed; relief too, because she loved you in her own way and didn't know what to do if she was forced to leave her home. Exhausted, you left her in the bathroom and returned to bed.

She is the one these Samaritans now judge. They do not know of the nights filled with terror, the demolishing of spirit that you commanded. Let me take you back to that time. The hallway clock ticked inanely, stretching the night past 2.00am, 3.00am, 4.00am. She could hear her heart beating a course of blood through her throat. Always shivering, she would think of her bed and its warmth, she would wait for the quiet of the dawn, when you were guaranteed to be asleep. Sometimes you wake now and listen to the hum of a hospital ward dimly lit with a plethora of machines, lights and neon signs. There is a sense of quiet ease, with everyone knowing their place, and you knowing that you will be looked after. Do you wonder where she is? They do. They listen to your jokes, your articulate explanations for the goings on in the world and know that you are someone they could only dream to be. They have scoured the missing persons' listings to no avail. But you are not missing, nor are you missed. That one hurt didn't it? You are not missed, and that is a bitter pill to swallow. Like the obscenities that you used to throw around with abandon, this knowledge will consume you, consume us. I see you have closed your eyes again. You can't block me out. You are not like her. She was a master of dissociation, a well practised art form of survival. You are the master of blame; he made me say this, she made me think that, I reacted this way because they ... Can you see the difference? No I suppose you can't, because I can see you now as you look for the nurse to show you kindness.

"Sir, are you comfortable? I loved the story you told last night, so engaging ..." The nurse looks at you with renewed respect. You are used to this. People are always pleased that you share conversational time with them. They see it as a compliment. The distinction of having such an educated individual take time from their own lives to enlighten other people's. This makes you proud, and once again you can avoid the memories that are now demanding to be acknowledged.

"I have been looking for your daughter ..." Your heart pounds incessantly; her heart was stronger.

"Do you remember anything? An initial, a place, anything? It will help." This pretence is hard isn't it? You avoid the nurse's eyes lest you reveal some semblance of truth.

"Your wounds are healing quite well, but without knowing who you are we are not able to send you home ..." You are happy to hear this aren't you? I see a tinker of joy flash in your eyes. I am disgusted, this cannot go on forever, the truth always comes out. I know that it is getting harder for you to ignore me. That pleases me. The decades I have spent trying to get you to listen are starting to wear you down. You don't even have to say sorry to her; only admit that her memories are true without the litany of excuses. Can you do that? I didn't think so. That is a fate much too hard to contemplate, yet I see a flicker of shame.

The nursing staff knows something. Can you see them? There, look. They keep glancing at you, talking amongst themselves. The hushed voices frustrate you. You begin to feel panicked, the ignominious sensation of being caught out mounts in your spine. I can feel it. Once again you resort to your old routine. I don't think your mantra will work this time. I scoff at your fear, but remember that the nurses still think that you are suffering amnesia.

You saw her before I did, your daughter's childhood friend. Did she recognise you? I am sure that she did. You pretend to sleep, as you are not sure if you can control your eyes

"Good morning Mr. Sutton. I have something to read to you that may assist your memory. I knew your daughter; everyone said that you did such a wonderful job raising her ..." Is she mocking you? You work hard to maintain your composure, although I am sure she has noticed the increased pulse rate and sweaty brow.

"It's such a pity you have amnesia, as I am positive you have such beautiful memories of her. It's such a shame that you have forgotten those. Let's see what we can do about that. Should I read?"

She takes your mute face as assent and begins.

"Never take revenge, my friends, but instead let God's anger do it. For the scripture says, 'I will take revenge, I will pay back, says the Lord.' Instead, as the scripture says: 'If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him a drink; for by doing this you will make him burn with shame.' (1) Do you feel shame Mr. Sutton? No I suppose not. However, I am duty bound to look after you, and sincerely hope that you get your memory back soon."

I smile. An apt use of Paul's letter to the Romans don't you think? You sigh, and life continues as it did before.

1. Romans 12: 19 – 20 Good News Bible The Bible Society in Australia Canberra 1986

Hiatus over

I have no excuse, none that would make sense here anyway. I just didn't know what to write, comment, respond, think. I became a lurker; reading all the blogs that I love, having comments swirling around in my head, but could not take the next step. Two steps forward and three steps backward.

Tonight, I am taking one step forward. I will post the short story 'Patient X', and open it up for critique. I intend to put it forward for competition/s this year. Tomorrow, the seecond step forward, commenting on other people's blogs, and hoping that Wednesday night does not result in me tripping over my feet (metaphorically speaking), and losing track again.

Introducing ‘Patient X’.

They found you sulking in the corner of the room, blubbering forth a series of incoherent syllables that never quite morphed in status to words. Your weathered features, punctuated with mismatched hues of yellow, green and blue, sparked a level of sympathy often reserved for the congenitally infirm. It was a miracle that you were still alive, as the fall had rendered your legs useless, yet there you were, waiting patiently for rescue. It is the one thing you can do well - wait. Wait for someone else to do whatever it was that needed to be done, wait for someone else to take the blame, wait for time to pass by and maybe - just maybe, everyone would forget all the bad stuff. They didn't know this about you, and the bruises did not let on that there was a secret to be told. And so you babbled, like a Pentecostal baptised in the Holy Spirit, savouring the attention and relieved that you would soon be warm, comfortable and well fed.

I watched them gently wrap your disjointed limbs with a series of bandages, swathe your soul with tender words of encouragement, love and purpose. It was more than you knew you deserved, but why would you tell them that? You saw no reason to stop the pretence, no reason to admit that you had done nothing to deserve such kindness. I watched as they registered their newly scrubbed John Doe into a private hospital ward, and I waited too, knowing that mine was a game of patience, more so than yours.

You saw the pity in their eyes as each of them talked to you, trying to elicit a memory, a cord of life that could be used to reel in information that might help solve this puzzle. And it worked. It worked because your memory was never broken to begin with, just your ability to articulate the role you played in developing each and every one of them. I was the only one privy to these buried visions. You took solace from their faces, using the pity that percolated with ongoing tenacity to affirm the story that would now become your mask. I had anticipated this, as all too often I had found myself shackled to you, forced to listen to the lies that tumbled from your mouth at every opportunity. You sat mute through their questions, your eyes glazed in pretence of amnesia. I, on the other hand, listened to the memories launch themselves around your head.

Each question asked of you was littered with judgement. Never for you though. They were too taken by the beguiling nature of your age; your injuries duped them into believing that you had suffered more than any human deserved. Their scorn was reserved for those whom they deemed as being responsible for your fate. You and I both know that is you. You are responsible for this; I will never cease to tell you this. You will hear my voice as a constant reminder of the role you played in this. I know you will take solace from these people, as I take mine from time. You cannot escape time, you cannot escape me.

*All feedback welcome. I would love to hear what you think, improvements that can be made, and who you think the narrator is*

Patient X

Who is Patient X?

One day at a time ...

I made a mistake at work, online to be more specific and it affected my work place. I teach, I was in a position of Leadership. I got annoyed, felt used and abused, became stressed, and still work ploughed on, mauling its way through people's lives. I was stuck, couldn't debrief, so I updated. Facebook that is. Yep, I can hear the online groan. It's like watching a B grade horror movie, 'Don't do it,' the audience shouts. Unfortunately, I didn't hear, didn't listen if I am to be more precise. I had a little voice asking me what I was doing, but flicked it out. My Facebook is set to private, and I have the right to vent; right? Wrong.

Lesson one: Don't have people on Facebook who will take the opportunity to show your Boss your status.

Lesson two: Delete most people from Facebook until you know who you can trust with your life.

Lesson three: Ignore the fact that your employer says that a policy is not needed for online identities, despite the fact that people are getting in 'trouble' for online activities. Write a policy yourself.

Lesson four: Get it all out. The anger at yourself (for being really, really stupid), and the anger at the person who used this opportunity to further their own career to the detriment of yours.

Lesson five: Remember that EVERYTHING happens for a reason. It's time to take stock, re-assess your career, what you want out of working, and focus on your other endeavours. I find myself three weeks into the five and a half week summer holidays. I am relaxing, writing a bit, happy with where things are at. I've moved on. Now I am able to explain the poems.

Iscariot's Rope is about myself and the person who showed my boss my Facebook status. I know, deep down, that I ignored the little voice in my head that was warning me not to update my status, but I still find myself incensed at the self righteousness of the person who showed my private Facebook page to my boss. I know what my motives were, and question hers. I was her mentor when she first started, hence the Judas reference. Betrayal from someone considered a close ally is even more horrifying than most acts of betrayal. It is as if one of the prerequisites for moving up the corporate ladder is to cut someone else down; the rope waits patiently for its next victim, and there will always be someone willing and able to assist the rope.

I felt stifled by the increasing restrictions that were being placed on me and my colleagues. Restrictions and levels of censorship that seemed to have no rhyme or reason, restrictions that people were being expected to work out for themselves. My workplace became quite Orwellian, mimicking elements of Nineteen Eighty-four. And like Winston Smith I looked around and saw so many people who seemed to accept all of these restrictions as commonplace and necessary.

I penned MMIX with the intention to link the events of 2009 to Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-four. I found that the word censorship had origins during the time of the Roman Senate, and I really liked the explanations of the role of the Censura, monitoring the public morality of the citizens. It definitely had an 'every man for him/ herself' feel to it, and this is what my workplace had started to feel like. Writing MMIX made me realise I was well rid of the rut I had found myself in. I didn't lose my job, but found that the career ladder suddenly turned into a slippery slope. I was unhappy at the time, but it certainly was a blessing in disguise.

Twitterazzi was written specifically for Nathan Bransford's Competition. I liked what I wrote, but I am sure not everyone did. My dad, for one, hates it. He says it is too violent, and it is. But that is what I work with, that is what my school can be like at times, that is what I read in the papers each and every day. What do people do about it? Not a whole lot. People complain that things are too violent, my dad complains that what I wrote was too violent. However, it is real, and in it's 'realness' people have to ask themselves what are we (as a society, as role models, as members of the community) going to do about it? One of the things I will do is to write about it, expose the rawness of society that makes people cringe and want to hide away. It also addresses the very elements that I let myself be caught up in; online communities. I was interested in how well characters could be developed using twitter or Facebook status updates; this was important because so often we 'get to know' people on line. How well can we do this in real life, let alone how well can characters be developed in this way. It is restrictive to have characters developed in this way, so I added the internal monologue. Another idea would be to have the characters share their thoughts in a variety of online mediums, and highlight the subtle difference people put into their own 'character' when on line.

Until next time ... adieu.

Twitterazzi

Son_of _a_PreacherMan         Fight @ Lunch. Oval. Shiz will pay. Hands only

Henrii@Son_of_a_PreacherMan     Fkn h8t that guy. Punch hiz fkn face in will ya

Son_of_a_PreacherMan@Henrii    no worries babe. U going to central tonite?

Henrii@Son_of_a_PreacherMan    Maybe. Dad's stupid GF wants me home – says i'm out 2 much. Stuff her *shapes hand like a pistol*

Dot_527                OMFG fight at lunch. Team Jared <3    

Brittles@Dot_527            Are you crazy? He won't even notice you there *Lame idea*

Brittles@IamAwesum            Jared ' psych- head' Williams planning a fight @ lunch. What an @rse!

IamAwesum@Azzaron            FIGHT. Marrawong High. 1.25

Azzaron                Marrawong High@ 1.25. Meet at bus stop near oval

Proud 2BFOB@Azzaron            You need back up man?!?!?

Azzaron@Proud2BFOB            Fuck yeah. Bring 'em all. Williams letting his mouth run again

IamAwesum                Check it out – Fight at Marra: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JFR56JJpoD

Son_of _a_PreacherMan        *delete*

Henrii                    *delete*

Brittles@IamAwesum            get it off!!!!!!!! School has called the cops

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What the hell was I thinking? What should I say? I don't know what to say. I feel fucking sick. The blood. It was freaking everywhere. Jesus save me now. I need you man! Where did that fucking knife come from? Is he dead? Can't be. That wouldn't have happened. Man I need something, anything to get me outta this major fuck up. Focus Jared, focus. As far as they know it was a simple fight gone bad. Feel sick, what the hell happened? I wish my hands would ... shit, cops. Breathe man. In, out. Focus. How you going to get out of the one Preacher Boy? Oh God, the blood. So much. He deserved it, I gotta remember that one – he deserved it. C' mon breathe man, focus. Think man. Blood, so much blood. Breathe man. Think of something else. Henrii, yep she's cool, but her face when she saw what I did. How can I get past that? Total shock. It was obvious she hated me then. Wouldn't have pissed on me in a Bushfire. Yeah, you're a big hit with the ladies! Well I was ... Jesus help me. Why do I always have to open my mouth and be an arse? Look where it's got you idiot! Regret is an understatement here man. Fuck. No more of this. Jesus, if I get outta this mess ... just get me out of this mess. I really didn't mean for this to happen. The blood. Is that blood still on my hands? Stomach churning. I'm gonna shit my pants. C'mon man, breathe. They will know. They will know you didn't mean it.

"Mr. Williams ... MR.WILLIAMS. You need to answer the question. As you are aware Steven Nelson has been very seriously injured, and it is clear that you were involved in this fight. We need to know how the other school became involved. There are also rumours that someone filmed the fight on their phone. You do realise that fighting, and subsequent uploading to social networking sites is in violation of school policy. MR. WILLIAMS ..."

 

The above is my entry in Nathan Bransford's latest comp. It needed to be 500 words and have the definite voice of a teen protagonist. I am comment # 475, and it would be amazing to get some feedback on this. I experimented a little with my writing here. I have had a twitter/ facebook/ blog idea on the go, so decided to use that format for this comp. I like the idea that people get to know others on line, and wondered how well characters could be created in this genre. I think for my longer writing pieces I will incorporate forum discussions, but for the purpose of the competition at hand I think twitter discussion is fine. The intention is to create a teen person with the twitter, and then get inside the head of the protagonist via an internal monologue. Let me know what you think of the piece. Positive and negative feedback will be taken on board gratefully. I am also quite proud of the little, and look forward to seeing my newly invented word entering the tomes of the future.

 

Lastly – I promise, cross my fingers, yadda, yadda, yadda, that I will explain the latest batch of poems in my next post.

PS – The 'you tube' link in my story is made up – if it goes anywhere ... well, let's just hope that doesn't happen.