They prayed for rain and
the atheists wept.
We waded through every puddle,
deep, wide
shallow and small.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
A Mean Trick
My son is a fussy eater.
My partner was sick, so he rang me at work and asked me to pick up a pie to cook for tea. Well, the Esk Co-op, small country town, so no big variety. They only have Black and Gold pies and I decide not risk it.
I see some fish on special. Pre-crumbed with chives and sour cream. Nothing flash. Just frozen fish. Of course my son, Tama won’t eat it. Bugger it, I think to myself, I’ll just tell him it is chicken.
I’m cooking and Tama wants to know – “What’s for tea?” Hungry kid.
“Crumbed chicken.”
“Yum! I love crumbed chicken.”
Am I really going to get away with this?
I dish it all up and he sits down to eat.
Miriama, my daughter, says “Nice fish.” I give her a look and she shuts up.
I ask Tama does he like his chicken.
“Mmm,” munch much, “just don’t mention fish.”
“But it is fish.” Miriama always has to know it all.
Tama – bless his eight-year-old heart – says, “Why would they cook fish when they know I don’t like it?”
Why indeed? “Eat your chicken.”
“I’m leaving the best for last.”
“OK”
His plate his empty. Time to come clean.
“Tama will you forgive me?”
“Oh no! It’s fish.”
I pull the empty packet out of the bin and show him.
He and his sister share the last piece.
My partner was sick, so he rang me at work and asked me to pick up a pie to cook for tea. Well, the Esk Co-op, small country town, so no big variety. They only have Black and Gold pies and I decide not risk it.
I see some fish on special. Pre-crumbed with chives and sour cream. Nothing flash. Just frozen fish. Of course my son, Tama won’t eat it. Bugger it, I think to myself, I’ll just tell him it is chicken.
I’m cooking and Tama wants to know – “What’s for tea?” Hungry kid.
“Crumbed chicken.”
“Yum! I love crumbed chicken.”
Am I really going to get away with this?
I dish it all up and he sits down to eat.
Miriama, my daughter, says “Nice fish.” I give her a look and she shuts up.
I ask Tama does he like his chicken.
“Mmm,” munch much, “just don’t mention fish.”
“But it is fish.” Miriama always has to know it all.
Tama – bless his eight-year-old heart – says, “Why would they cook fish when they know I don’t like it?”
Why indeed? “Eat your chicken.”
“I’m leaving the best for last.”
“OK”
His plate his empty. Time to come clean.
“Tama will you forgive me?”
“Oh no! It’s fish.”
I pull the empty packet out of the bin and show him.
He and his sister share the last piece.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Letters
Spiritual link,
glittering letters,
pleading in colour ink,
cheap paper,
tragic pointless shreds.
glittering letters,
pleading in colour ink,
cheap paper,
tragic pointless shreds.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Kangaroos and crows
Kangaroos have no road sense. None, nadir, zilch. A kangaroo will watch you driving towards him, passively curious, and then suddenly, he will casually jump in front of you.
Crows on the other hand, are the masters of playing chicken.
Just tonight I was heading home, I had spent the last twenty kilometers following a slow coach sitting on 80k. (The speed limit is 100k for those odd people who think in miles.) I am a patient person, no road rager, but I have driven seven hours in the last two days, its ten to six in the evening, and I am only ten minutes from home. I just wanna be there.
The road is winding, with only one overtaking lane, on a hill – why do they do that? I plant my foot, get to the crest of the hill to find a granddaddy roo taking in the moonlight – on the white line.
Now, lets get on thing straight. Kangaroos are not small. It is not like running over an echidna, or a possum, when you just feel the bump and cringe a little. This old boy was solid and tall. I could only hope the car I had overtaken had seen it too, and was pulling back to leave me room to avoid him.
Well, I lived to tell the tale.
Crows on the other hand, have amazing radar. As a new driver I always used to think they weren’t going to get out of the way. But, they do, miraculously, at the last second. Nevertheless, I did hit one once…but that is another story.
Crows on the other hand, are the masters of playing chicken.
Just tonight I was heading home, I had spent the last twenty kilometers following a slow coach sitting on 80k. (The speed limit is 100k for those odd people who think in miles.) I am a patient person, no road rager, but I have driven seven hours in the last two days, its ten to six in the evening, and I am only ten minutes from home. I just wanna be there.
The road is winding, with only one overtaking lane, on a hill – why do they do that? I plant my foot, get to the crest of the hill to find a granddaddy roo taking in the moonlight – on the white line.
Now, lets get on thing straight. Kangaroos are not small. It is not like running over an echidna, or a possum, when you just feel the bump and cringe a little. This old boy was solid and tall. I could only hope the car I had overtaken had seen it too, and was pulling back to leave me room to avoid him.
Well, I lived to tell the tale.
Crows on the other hand, have amazing radar. As a new driver I always used to think they weren’t going to get out of the way. But, they do, miraculously, at the last second. Nevertheless, I did hit one once…but that is another story.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Words gone mad
Words, Words, Words – can’t help but love ‘em. I treasure those sentences that make me stop, reread, my mind reeling, my heart leaping.
And yet, in work life I am haunted by nonsense like, “community capacity building” and “needs based planning”, (which begs the question, how else would one plan?)
Yesterday, a fire raged while the emergency services “invested substantial resources” into the fire. It was hard to tell if they were feeding it, or concerned with the ensuing paper work.
On the upside, a company recently accused of causing food poisoning for customers in their restaurant protested that, the illness was more likely caused by “any number of viruses available in the marketplace.” I can’t afford to be sick, so I don’t think I will buy any of them.
And yet, in work life I am haunted by nonsense like, “community capacity building” and “needs based planning”, (which begs the question, how else would one plan?)
Yesterday, a fire raged while the emergency services “invested substantial resources” into the fire. It was hard to tell if they were feeding it, or concerned with the ensuing paper work.
On the upside, a company recently accused of causing food poisoning for customers in their restaurant protested that, the illness was more likely caused by “any number of viruses available in the marketplace.” I can’t afford to be sick, so I don’t think I will buy any of them.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Meteorite
Last night I saw a meteorite.
White light
A plane I thought
but too fast
A crashing plane
flying rapid
then
bursting into
green and red and white
a tail so dramatic
sizzling
flashing
dying
just
a red
ball
then falling
embers
White light
A plane I thought
but too fast
A crashing plane
flying rapid
then
bursting into
green and red and white
a tail so dramatic
sizzling
flashing
dying
just
a red
ball
then falling
embers
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Centrelink
Centrelink is a terrible place. Knowing I have to go there I remember it is a terrible place. Approaching it from the street, seeing the small insignificant people waiting on its monolith stairs I know it is a terrible place. It brings back memories of poverty and dependence and looking over my shoulder even when I have nothing to hide.
In those days it was the Department of Social Security. The name has changed. The people have not. They wear society’s rejection all over their clothes, tattooed into their skins with blue ink and smeared on their children’s chocolate faces.
The bureaucrats, blank and bland laugh with customers. (Or are they clients these days? I have lost track.) They joke through necessity to show they are human too. That at home they have children and dogs and dishes to do and money in the bank and bills to pay.
The line is anaconda long. The air conditioning is set at ‘bake the dole bludger.’ Ahead in the line is a tall dark haired woman. She is wearing sandals with white stockings. This seems weird. She waits her turn. The closer she gets the heavier she breathes. Holding her stomach to keep the butterflies from escaping. Her eyes are damp with retracted tears. She is personal pain facing government money.
She gets the bureaucrat with the bulldog face.
“You’re being evicted”
Could she say it any louder?
“You can’t see the social worker unless you have an appointment. Do you have an appointment?”
It is a one sided conversation. The clients’ requests and replies are whispered into the counter.
The bulldog starts waving a piece of paper. She is resenting difficult people with difficult lives. “I can only give you this. It’s a list of all emergency accommodation. You have to go and ring to find a vacancy”
I know. I know so unequivocally from my own professional work that she will find dead end after dead end. The ‘Social’ Housing System is a constipated fat man. Private rentals are as expensive and rare as water in the desert.
In the end bulldog gives white stockings an application to get an advance on her pension. “You understand this means your income will decrease while you pay this back?” She says this five times. Less money to pay market rent.
White stocking lady nods and nods. In her mind she begs bulldog to stop shouting her misfortune to the anaconda line of eavesdroppers.
My turn comes. I get the bureaucrat just off her break. I have an easy middle class question. She has answered before I finish asking it.
In those days it was the Department of Social Security. The name has changed. The people have not. They wear society’s rejection all over their clothes, tattooed into their skins with blue ink and smeared on their children’s chocolate faces.
The bureaucrats, blank and bland laugh with customers. (Or are they clients these days? I have lost track.) They joke through necessity to show they are human too. That at home they have children and dogs and dishes to do and money in the bank and bills to pay.
The line is anaconda long. The air conditioning is set at ‘bake the dole bludger.’ Ahead in the line is a tall dark haired woman. She is wearing sandals with white stockings. This seems weird. She waits her turn. The closer she gets the heavier she breathes. Holding her stomach to keep the butterflies from escaping. Her eyes are damp with retracted tears. She is personal pain facing government money.
She gets the bureaucrat with the bulldog face.
“You’re being evicted”
Could she say it any louder?
“You can’t see the social worker unless you have an appointment. Do you have an appointment?”
It is a one sided conversation. The clients’ requests and replies are whispered into the counter.
The bulldog starts waving a piece of paper. She is resenting difficult people with difficult lives. “I can only give you this. It’s a list of all emergency accommodation. You have to go and ring to find a vacancy”
I know. I know so unequivocally from my own professional work that she will find dead end after dead end. The ‘Social’ Housing System is a constipated fat man. Private rentals are as expensive and rare as water in the desert.
In the end bulldog gives white stockings an application to get an advance on her pension. “You understand this means your income will decrease while you pay this back?” She says this five times. Less money to pay market rent.
White stocking lady nods and nods. In her mind she begs bulldog to stop shouting her misfortune to the anaconda line of eavesdroppers.
My turn comes. I get the bureaucrat just off her break. I have an easy middle class question. She has answered before I finish asking it.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Where I live
I've done this walk before. A little tipsy, the dust covering my cracked nail polish. Invariabily I am walking home to get more wine. This time I will also get some home grown tomatoes someone gave me, and some parsley and basil from my own garden. We will feast on this with BBQ Mullet, eggplant and zucchini. But that is later.
It is a bit of a walk. We all live on over two acres and my friend is two doors away. I have to walk up her long drive, along the grassy footpath, and down my own long drive. It is much closer as the crow flies.
My children come with me. My 10 year old daughter wants to change into play clothes. "Do I even have any black clothes?" Our red dirt notoriously seeps into all our kids clothes. My 9 year old boy is coming home to get some "accessories." I ask him if he means a necklace and earrings. No.
I pluck the pungent herbs from the garden and leave the kids to organise themselves. I can trust them to come back on thier own. I can also leave the house unlocked. As it turns out accessories means most of my son's bedroom. Pillow, blanket, waste paper basket and chair. All neccessary for the toad hunting camp they are creating. And toad hunting sticks of course.
We don't live in flash houses. My friends house has peeling paint and tattered curtains. Her front door is blocked by a desk covered in hand painted ceramic buttons. My house is a tiny relic to the early 80's. Brown brick and orange glass.
But this is us. Take us as we are.
It is a bit of a walk. We all live on over two acres and my friend is two doors away. I have to walk up her long drive, along the grassy footpath, and down my own long drive. It is much closer as the crow flies.
My children come with me. My 10 year old daughter wants to change into play clothes. "Do I even have any black clothes?" Our red dirt notoriously seeps into all our kids clothes. My 9 year old boy is coming home to get some "accessories." I ask him if he means a necklace and earrings. No.
I pluck the pungent herbs from the garden and leave the kids to organise themselves. I can trust them to come back on thier own. I can also leave the house unlocked. As it turns out accessories means most of my son's bedroom. Pillow, blanket, waste paper basket and chair. All neccessary for the toad hunting camp they are creating. And toad hunting sticks of course.
We don't live in flash houses. My friends house has peeling paint and tattered curtains. Her front door is blocked by a desk covered in hand painted ceramic buttons. My house is a tiny relic to the early 80's. Brown brick and orange glass.
But this is us. Take us as we are.
Friday, February 10, 2006
I have been lying on the grass eating raspberries straight off the bush. Is this usual for a woman my age? Don't care really. I have been asking my puppy to explain Violet to me. Violet being a 19th Century ghost who has been haunting me for the last 6 months. It would be much easier if Violet was not from the 19th Century. Unfortuneatly this is the only place I can see her. Puppy had no answers. She was more interested in dry avocado leaves.
Dead
I can't breath
I can't move out of this timeless endless rut
I am bereft of the stinging needles of life
I feel nothing
I feel no skin stretching over my bones
I feel no life pumping into tingling fingertips
I feel no ache
no enthusiasm
no movement of the breeze
I can't move out of this timeless endless rut
I am bereft of the stinging needles of life
I feel nothing
I feel no skin stretching over my bones
I feel no life pumping into tingling fingertips
I feel no ache
no enthusiasm
no movement of the breeze
Friday, February 03, 2006
Tonic
"My feet are dead, my heart is dead, my brain is dead"
This is why my friend has rejoined out yoga class after a years break.
A tonic for body and soul.
This is why my friend has rejoined out yoga class after a years break.
A tonic for body and soul.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Pure Vanity
A Blog is pure vanity.
It is based on, for most of us, a misguided belief that someone, somewhere cares to read what we write. That our thoughts and experiences are worth sharing.
A vanity required for writers.
Just as well for those who love to read.
It is based on, for most of us, a misguided belief that someone, somewhere cares to read what we write. That our thoughts and experiences are worth sharing.
A vanity required for writers.
Just as well for those who love to read.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Before I die
When my oversease visitors come and go
When my son's Birthday is over
When Christmas is finished
When my partner goes back to work
When I finish this game of solitare
When get into a routine
Sometime before I die
When my son's Birthday is over
When Christmas is finished
When my partner goes back to work
When I finish this game of solitare
When get into a routine
Sometime before I die
An Isolated Incident
The radio report said something like "A 17 year old was today refused bail for allegedly shooting another teenager. 13 year old Joe Blog was shot in the back with an air rifle on Friday. Friends said the 17 year old, when speaking of the drive-by shooting said he always wanted to shoot an aboriginal. Rockhampton Police are calling for calm saying it is an isolated incident"
An isolated incident?
A toilet seat falling from the sky is and isolated incident
Winning the lotto in one's lifetime is an isolated incident.
Seeing a naked grandmother cartwheeling down the street is an isolated incident.
Racism is not an isolated incident
An isolated incident?
A toilet seat falling from the sky is and isolated incident
Winning the lotto in one's lifetime is an isolated incident.
Seeing a naked grandmother cartwheeling down the street is an isolated incident.
Racism is not an isolated incident
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