My grandmother Joyce died a month ago. In fact, I don't even know what date it was - sometime in August. So much has happened since. It's been so busy - my mothe-in-law, Annie was here at the time from Austria, which was a great help, as she looked after Elka quite a lot. Then there was preparing for the funeral, which was epic. I painted Joyce's coffin, at Joycey's request. I chose a botanical theme, selecting flowers from her garden or flowers she loved as images. I included a section of a Judith Wright poem, appropriately titled "In the Garden". (Joyce went to NEGS with Judith in the 30s.)
And I designed the funeral service booklet, which took some time. Everyone else was busy with organisational things too.
Since, we have decided to buy Joycey's house from cousin Yuri. This place is the only place my cousins, brothers and I have childhood memories. Built in 1987, we have been coming here ever since to visit Joyce. So everyone was rapt when we made the announcement. It makes so much sense to us, sentimentally, but financially as well.
We have put our house on the market in Lismore, and moved in to Joycey's house. And it is still very much Joyce's house. Some of our furniture, our touch, our boxes etc. But people drop in as they would have dropped in on Joyce. And Kymba's hair is still in the carpet. And Joyce's voice can be heard as I open every kitchen cupboard, or bathroom drawer - "Don't throw that out!" or "Have the fresh one - open the new packet!". I hear her everywhere.
When she died, I was so sad. She was a force to contend with, and one that is very missable. But in the busy weeks that followed her death, it's felt weird that I haven't missed her more. Am I heartless? Am I too busy to be sentimental?
I was relieved today to feel a twang of grief again, as I walked through Alstonville Plaza. This is after all Joyce's territory, and we have always associated everything about Alstonville and particularly this house with Joyce. So I am sure these whiffs of sadness will follow me as I move through my daily life. I hope so, anyway.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
London Blues
Everybody does it. They finish school, or university, and with a dream under their belt of London Bridge, The Thames, Portabello Road Markets or of meeting a gorgeous Mr Darcy-like creature with whom to stroll around the English country-side, like they do in the BBC series we grew up on, they head to London.
The big L. London. Sucking young Australian's into its grey and mysterious vortex. What's the appeal?
When I went to Europe, I was instead dreaming about sipping wine in Provence, being an artist in Paris, or a Bohemian in Barcelona. There was nothing appealing to me about London.
And yet, I spoke no French or any Spanish, and in London they speak English, and some relatives live there, so I followed my logic, ignored my intuition, and went with London.
To be honest, from day one, to day 365, I never got the appeal. Why do we swarm to this ugly, hostile city? The only friendly people there are other Aussies. Everyone else is either living under the poverty line, carrying a knife, or balancing six kids, grimacing at life as they do so, or they live in Chelsea, rich as kings and queens, and snobbish as all get out.
They first time I cracked a smile from someone in London was in one of the 1000s of Boots stores. The lady behind the counter began our encounter by snarling at me. Then ignoring me. Then, when she discovered my unique Melbourne-bought wallet, dramatically changed her tone and smiled! She liked my wallet! But this spontaneous display of warmth was not the norm.
Things changed a bit when summer set in. The gardens were amass with sun-seekers, stripping off clothes and sipping Pims. There was a hum or warmth and excitement through the place. My spirits cheered somewhat, but unfortunately, with poorly paid work, and hellishly expensive rent and other expenses, like green vegetables, I never was able to do that much, except lie in parks, soaking up the occasional sunny day. Which of course I could have done nearly every day of the year in the country I am from.
I snuck into Paris, Berlin and Barcelona briefly, but it was never enough to justify my lousy year in London.
After kicking the blues, the grey skies, and narrowly escaping a desperately failing relationship, I headed home, scarred, somewhat traumatised. Home was lovely, warm and welcoming. And when I reached the friendly gates of the Brisbane International Terminal, I vowed never to turn around and head back to London with the other Australian refugees. It really was a crap host to a rather crappy year in my life.
The big L. London. Sucking young Australian's into its grey and mysterious vortex. What's the appeal?
When I went to Europe, I was instead dreaming about sipping wine in Provence, being an artist in Paris, or a Bohemian in Barcelona. There was nothing appealing to me about London.
And yet, I spoke no French or any Spanish, and in London they speak English, and some relatives live there, so I followed my logic, ignored my intuition, and went with London.
To be honest, from day one, to day 365, I never got the appeal. Why do we swarm to this ugly, hostile city? The only friendly people there are other Aussies. Everyone else is either living under the poverty line, carrying a knife, or balancing six kids, grimacing at life as they do so, or they live in Chelsea, rich as kings and queens, and snobbish as all get out.
They first time I cracked a smile from someone in London was in one of the 1000s of Boots stores. The lady behind the counter began our encounter by snarling at me. Then ignoring me. Then, when she discovered my unique Melbourne-bought wallet, dramatically changed her tone and smiled! She liked my wallet! But this spontaneous display of warmth was not the norm.
Things changed a bit when summer set in. The gardens were amass with sun-seekers, stripping off clothes and sipping Pims. There was a hum or warmth and excitement through the place. My spirits cheered somewhat, but unfortunately, with poorly paid work, and hellishly expensive rent and other expenses, like green vegetables, I never was able to do that much, except lie in parks, soaking up the occasional sunny day. Which of course I could have done nearly every day of the year in the country I am from.
I snuck into Paris, Berlin and Barcelona briefly, but it was never enough to justify my lousy year in London.
After kicking the blues, the grey skies, and narrowly escaping a desperately failing relationship, I headed home, scarred, somewhat traumatised. Home was lovely, warm and welcoming. And when I reached the friendly gates of the Brisbane International Terminal, I vowed never to turn around and head back to London with the other Australian refugees. It really was a crap host to a rather crappy year in my life.
Friday, August 21, 2009
the blacks & the whites
What happened to us? One day I look up and there are four of them dressed in black - long overcoats to their ankles, and I wonder what happened - or if it was always like this?
They hassle us for tickets, or how long we parked our car. They take notes when we walk through a red light, or drive the wrong way down the street. They demand. They want results. They want rectification and what's right.
Why is this right?
One day I would like to look up and see people get on the tram dressed in white - smiling, and laughing, offering us all a ticket to ride for free. Congratulating us as we park our car successfully in a difficult parking zone, or when we walk across the road, unharmed. Telling us how great we are - giving each other love.
And we won't need to defend what is right, and feel frightened of when we get it wrong.
They hassle us for tickets, or how long we parked our car. They take notes when we walk through a red light, or drive the wrong way down the street. They demand. They want results. They want rectification and what's right.
Why is this right?
One day I would like to look up and see people get on the tram dressed in white - smiling, and laughing, offering us all a ticket to ride for free. Congratulating us as we park our car successfully in a difficult parking zone, or when we walk across the road, unharmed. Telling us how great we are - giving each other love.
And we won't need to defend what is right, and feel frightened of when we get it wrong.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Why am I angry?
Why am I angry?
The man at in the Thai cafe was the only Caucasian behind the counter. He stood a head taller than the rest, a head balder and brasher than the rest. He was the ringleader - the choreographer without grace or finesse. A tall mess, and he took orders and ordered the rest.
It was my first pick - because it was close and it looked quiet and I wanted to read a book and eat a noodle soup. I wish I had picked better. I picked the clear combination soup, paid 9.90 and took a seat near the door, where it was quiet and cold, and I wished I picked better.
So I moved further into the buzz of the restaurant. I could hear the bald man barking orders and taking orders, brusquely.
He dumped my soup on the table. It looked over-cooked, and I thought about Pho down the road and how deliciously simple and fresh Pho down the road was, and I wished I chosen better. There was no cutlery. Cutlery at the front, he said as he moved on to take the next order or dump the next clear soup in front of a customer without cutlery.
I moved on. I got up and left my soup uneaten. I am sorry to all the people who could have filled their bellies with clear soup. Because I was too angry at this stupid tall bald man, I wasted a whole bowl of soup. And went down the road and ordered Pho.
The man at in the Thai cafe was the only Caucasian behind the counter. He stood a head taller than the rest, a head balder and brasher than the rest. He was the ringleader - the choreographer without grace or finesse. A tall mess, and he took orders and ordered the rest.
It was my first pick - because it was close and it looked quiet and I wanted to read a book and eat a noodle soup. I wish I had picked better. I picked the clear combination soup, paid 9.90 and took a seat near the door, where it was quiet and cold, and I wished I picked better.
So I moved further into the buzz of the restaurant. I could hear the bald man barking orders and taking orders, brusquely.
He dumped my soup on the table. It looked over-cooked, and I thought about Pho down the road and how deliciously simple and fresh Pho down the road was, and I wished I chosen better. There was no cutlery. Cutlery at the front, he said as he moved on to take the next order or dump the next clear soup in front of a customer without cutlery.
I moved on. I got up and left my soup uneaten. I am sorry to all the people who could have filled their bellies with clear soup. Because I was too angry at this stupid tall bald man, I wasted a whole bowl of soup. And went down the road and ordered Pho.
Beautiful Boy
Saturday 15th August.
He was a beautiful boy. Wide green eyes, milky skin. His raincoat was too large, and his jeans too long. He watched the people as they came and went. He was a beautiful boy.
He dropped his Coke and it rolled under the feet of the man in the turban who sat opposite. Sorry, he said - a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth in his open face. A smile that suggested embarrassment, perhaps. The man nodded in acknowledgement. And then the tram stopped suddenly, and the boy lurched forward and into the man's lap. Sorry, he said again to the man in the turban. Coy, apologetic. On the fringes of adolescence - adult emotions were copied and registered but not fully executed. Apologetic without guilt. The man's face was gentle and unreproaching.
I watched with fascination and admiration at this beautiful, open faced, wide-eyed boy on the fringes of adolescence and felt the strong desire to write down one beautiful thing a day.
He was a beautiful boy. Wide green eyes, milky skin. His raincoat was too large, and his jeans too long. He watched the people as they came and went. He was a beautiful boy.
He dropped his Coke and it rolled under the feet of the man in the turban who sat opposite. Sorry, he said - a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth in his open face. A smile that suggested embarrassment, perhaps. The man nodded in acknowledgement. And then the tram stopped suddenly, and the boy lurched forward and into the man's lap. Sorry, he said again to the man in the turban. Coy, apologetic. On the fringes of adolescence - adult emotions were copied and registered but not fully executed. Apologetic without guilt. The man's face was gentle and unreproaching.
I watched with fascination and admiration at this beautiful, open faced, wide-eyed boy on the fringes of adolescence and felt the strong desire to write down one beautiful thing a day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)