Stories of Resounding Grief

My Mother My Father Stories of resounding grief. I have head stories like this, lived stories like this. As I am currently working in a hospice the echos of powerlessness, helplessness and loss ring very true. However it is impossible to do someone's grieving for them. It is a very personal struggle. But I do admire people who can articulate their own grief. On of the writers states the loss of a parent is a momentous thing. Indeed it is. image:

From the Realms of Wonder & coming up to 500 posts.

From the Realms of Wonder. Plus coming up to 500 Posts!

The last weekend of Realms. A talk from the curator who may have been winging it, but his enthusiasm is all consuming. Let's all go to India on a pilgrimage. My pilgrimage has been to meet and greet people at the information desk, as a volunteer for Realms and the gallery. Always something happening there.

Sculpting History

Zealot was a revelation and exploration of the lengths a writer will go to sculpt their own version of history. In this case the retelling of the life and times of Jesus the Christ. Having been in touch with another writer set upon retelling the story of Jesus through his mothers eyes. Having recently read The Testament of Mary by Colm Toibin, which was a novelised version of the mother of Jesus – the scenes about her son told from through her eyes. All a reconstruction on how things may have panned out. But we will never know. As I said writers with a creative flair for seeing history in their own specially designed narrative. The thing that pulls Zealot out from other histories and biographies is the in depth research and knowledge of the times and texts. There is room for more here, but right now I need to go and have dinner! For further discussion-: The rivalry between Peter and Paul as leader of the early church – and how it is portrayed in the New Testament. The sections on the virgin birth, the baptism of Jesus, the life of John the Baptist. The role of the Roman governors. The claim that the section on the sermon on the mount of ‘love thy neighbour’ is referencing the Jews as their own neighbours – NOT the gentiles – controversial and I am not buying it for a moment.

Finding hospice

Finding hospice Finding myself in a strange land Bedrooms beacon People are beyond struggling Skin like paper bark Inhuman sunken eyes Terse and anxious beings Lights are dimmed Soft voices strain to hear each other Explanations offered for the unexplainable Computer screens flash through menus Piles of magazines grace tables Bookshelves are laden Looking for the face I know The safe haven A tree filled glade Time to let out the scream Of joy and pain for whole damn lot.

Alarmist deniers

Chris Kenny is given space to rant about climate alarmists. (Another heatwave - January 19th) These alarmists are getting all worked up about what? The big end of town would like the climate 'alarmists' to go away. As it is just not convenient for the fossil fuel industry and big business. A realist will look at the evidence and objectively work through the issues. The first step is recognising there is an issue with our climate. To say point blank that there is no issue is just putting your head in the sand. Climate change effects the whole eco system. It makes weather events in cold and hot climates more severe. It is not something that can be ignored. In the decades to come what will be saying about all these alarmist deniers?

Oh Misery

The line that Australians are stoic in the heat is way off base. There is a percentage of deluded individuals who insist they love the heat. (A lot of Brits!) But I am a realist whose brain turns to slush in the heat. I resent being a prisoner to the grip of unrelenting heat. We don't get a say in the weather, so I spend my time fantasising about a cold climate. Trying not to be miserable and not succeeding. Bring on a real winter.

The bride wants to wear Red shoes.

Quarry market morning in Willunga. I am recommending the sweet crepes, but be warned, there is a queue, but worth the wait. Art gallery wander in the afternoon, spent volunteering and browsing. Two weeks left of the Realms of Wonder exhibition. Four weddings sighted on my walk back to Frome Road. All beautiful of course. One bride with a huge white/white skirted dress had four bridesmaids in bright red evening ware. As the bride walked to her next photo call she lifted her skirt to show her ultra high red platform shoes(!)

Funding a health care system according to need.

Kirrily is the face of many with an ongoing disability who are searching for facilities and resources. (Wednesday AUSTRALIAN 8/1/14) In Kirrily’s case appropriate housing and services for someone of her age. I once mentioned the concept of nursing homes that catered to young people to my mother-in-law. Who at 88 years old, has resided for five years in a very good nursing home. She replied in typical fashion ‘I should like to go there!’ Australians are constantly being told ‘the cupboard is bare’ in regards to health and disability funding. The debate seems geared around accepting less. The Scandinavian model shows funding can actually be suited to need. It is how priorities are set.

Best Beach

Have been a convert for Port Willunga beach for many moons. It has seen family picnics, Sunday dog meet and greets, café metamorphosis, beach Baptisms and copious photographers. Have been coming here for over 25 years. Also it is not too crowded, so I shouldn’t be telling you this!

When I'm wearing white while indulging in beetroot dip @ The Victory pub

My bestest local pub will I am sure get many votes. But popularity is there for a reason. The Victory @ Sellicks is set high, so it overlooks the coast. The standouts for me are 1. Amazing menu, which includes local seafood and produce. 2. Great welcoming staff. 3. That winning location. However, avoid the beetroot dip when wearing white, it is like a magnet for embarrassment! Cheers.

Hidden secrets of Adelaide.

I will admit my bias straight up; I am a bookaholic and café addict. So any Adelaide wanders coincide with a love of these things. Since Mary Martin’s is no longer with us, I have discovered an even better delight. The shop is called ‘Title’ in the lane on the way to the Palace Nova. Title not only has an impressive stock of literary and music books. It also stocks vinyl records and recycled clothing. I can disappear in here for quite some time and forget I was going to the cinema! I have no connection with that shop other than a customer with a big wish list. For coffee I head to AGF+W @ the Adelaide Art Gallery. Coffee inspired art or art inspired coffee. There is also another bookshop here within glancing distance! This bookshop has an impressive range of art books, as expected. But also stocks a wonderful selection for children. Any child will also love the Studio area in the gallery. A kaleidoscope of fun for all ages. I confess that when attending the gallery I can’t resist having a play in here too(!) So all is well.

Holiday @ Home

If you have those big city blues And need some country hues Take a walk on the coast side Down Fleurieu way There are big sandy beaches And top restaurants by the score Hey, Fino, Star of Greece and the Victory To name but a few Get your kick at the winery door Cafes , markets and munchies There is an explosion of riches But what do I know? I only live here and holiday at home!

Coffee inspired art or art inspired coffee?!

For a patch of green in the Adelaide CBD with high calibre coffee I never miss Art Gallery Food + Wine @ the Art Gallery on North Terrace. Coffee inspired art or art inspired coffee?! All with an outlook on the green lawns and funky outdoor chairs. An oasis in the sea of franchises.

Gifts of helping outlined, plus a cautionary tale.

The Hidden Gifts of Helping: How the Power of Giving, Compassion, and Hope Can Get Us Through Hard Times by Stephen G. Post
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I read this following a conference entitled Spirituality and Health. The author was speaking at the conference. His presentation is more or less word for word what is in this little book. So it all felt very familiar, the same anecdotes. I hear the message on helping others and highly worthy and beneficialy to all, including the giver. However am a bit wary of over committing to the point of burn out. It happens too often in the caring professions.

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Cyndi talks about Cyndi and nothing else.

Cyndi Lauper: A Memoir by Cyndi Lauper
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Too scattered and obviously ghost written. Cyndi only seems to focus on her early childhood and her career. Like many memoirs there is a dearth of info on anything outside this. It is about this album, this song, this musician, this concert etc. Little lives outside this. I skimmed through most of it.

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The Skipping Girl

The Skipping Girl I recently received a cushion with the skipping girl featured on it. This will automatically conjure up memories for any Melbournite. For as a child it lit up the long journey across to the other side of town. The image of the skipping rope changing around the little girl, shining against that bleak industrial landscape and night sky. Our family made this journey rarely. We lived in the suburbs on the North Eastern side, but made an annual trek to the other side of Melbourne. To the tiny country hamlet of Deans Marsh. I recall truck stop cafes at a Shell petrol station, where dad insisted on a mixed grill. Also going past massive old gas cylinders, a supremely ugly sight. We turned at an intersection here. Little else sticks in my mind. On one long haul trip we returned with a tiny kitten from one of the many litters at the old house in Deans Marsh. We kids had the responsibility for this tiny ball of fluff in a box in the back seat. At some stage we had fish and chips and were feeding the kitten some of this. The ball of fluff became our one and only pet, who we named Joyful. Or more commonly known as Joy. Joy was a tortoiseshell which we all felt was highly prized. Joy was with us for seventeen years. A legacy from the pilgrimage to a place we used to know, but never remembered as us kids were all too young. There were huge feral cats on the property in Deans Marsh, the type that can take down rabbits. This was well before it was politically correct to monitor cat’s behaviour. They seemed to be everywhere. Our one spoilt cat lapped up all the attention in that offhand way cats have. It is always a strange sensation to return to Melbourne after long absences. There is a feeling of deep identity and familiarity that is just out of reach. Is that what all our memories become, a bit blurry and somehow just out of reach?

With a song and an unpublished letter in my heart.

Pardon me for mentioning... : unpublished letters to The Age and The Sydney Morning Herald by Alex Kaplan
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

A bit of levity, laughs and lunacy in this book of unpublished letters.
The perfect antidote to a gruesome war story I had just read.
Some of the letters are laugh out loud funny.
Will pass on to friends.
Yes, the letters are topical, but it is all very recent history and I will happily sign up to read more of these in the future.
In view of the sometimes glum outlook presented in the daily news I would prefer to see more of these than less in the newspaper.


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Men who do not speak of war.

The Narrow Road to the Deep North by Richard Flanagan
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Men who do not speak of war.
: Ways of avoiding immense pain, suffering and loss.
I had been planning to read Richard Flanagan’s new book as having read some of his others I know he is capable of writing a great story. Also my book clubbers had spoken of it and hearing him on the radio, hence it is one of our books to read. I made the purchase and settled into a funk of humid heat in the lead up to New Year’s Eve 2013 and the countdown to the New Year of 2014. I find this time of year depressing, multiplied several times due to the oppressive, stultifying horrible heat. With just a ceiling fan for respite. Imagine being marooned in the Burmese jungle in humidity ten times worse than this. In conditions that are still hard to discuss.
The legacy of this railway is still too raw well over a half of a century on.
The Narrow Road to the Deep North is a mesmerising account of a war story, a love story and how each person tries to write their own destiny.
In Dorrigo’s(the war hero) he is forever chasing the ideal of true love. Forever shattered by the perceived failure of his inability to save men from a tragic death on the Burma railway, also aptly known as the death railway.
Questions are left hanging, would he have stayed with his lover, even if he could?
Why didn’t he, in fact make that choice to not seek her out after the war? A revelation that comes near the end of the tale exposes this.
The author throws up resolutions that are always out of reach.
A litany of conflicted individuals.
Dorrigo was the leader and doctor of men at the POW camp. He becomes haunted by the senseless beating of one the men and the many witnesses of it. A pain that never lets go.
There are many reoccurring accounts of Darky Gardiner and his fate, his place among the other POW’s, and like so many others a life lost.
The violence is shattering to read, it wells up and over the pages. Sometimes it is too difficult to read. Flanagan tries to make sense of humanity and its capacity for violence.
‘The greatest crimes – and after, no one will really ever remember it. Like the greatest crimes, it will be as if it never happened. The suffering, the deaths, the sorrow, the abject, pathetic pointlessness of such immense suffering by so many; maybe it all exists only within these pages and the pages of a few other books. Horror can be contained within a book, given form and meaning But in life horror has no more form than it does meaning horror just is. And while it reigns, it is as if nothing in the universe that it is not’.(p 23 & 24).
Also toying with what is left behind, the nature of history and remembrances. ‘The nature of man and of life – nothing endures’. (p. 254). He seems to spell out an overwhelming futility in life.
In another lament of futility he reflects again on a fragility and disposability of life ‘Life goes on, nothing remains’. p 271. ‘Darky Gardiner’s eyes were darting everywhere, and everywhere all he could see was a world to which he was meaningless, nothing, that had no need of him’.
The life on The Line as a POW is delivered to the reader in all its weariness, senselessness and horror. The horrific amputation operation (p. 290 – 291) on Jack Rainbow being a case in point.
All human history a history of violence intones Flanagan, while leading into an account of the beating of Darky. (p 307) An account so horrible I couldn’t read it all the way through.
‘For an instant he thought he grasped the truth of a terrifying world in which one could not escape the horror, in which violence was eternal, the great and only verity, greater than civilisations it created, greater than any god man worshipped, for it was the only true god. It was as if man existed only to transmit violence to ensure its domain is eternal. For the world did not change, this violence had always existed and would never be eradicated, men would die under the boot and fists and horror of other men until the end of time, and all human history was a history of violence’.
Flanagan also traverses the story through the eyes of the captors. Trying to achieve a sense of balance. He writes of the life after war of the Korean and Japanese. Nakamura, the Japanese captor, somehow rewriting history, reinventing himself as a ‘good’ man. (p. 409)
Dorrigo attempts to place things into context by stating ‘The world is, he would think. It just is’. (p. 420) an explanation of meaning that has none.
There is some tussle with how to remember the past. To rewrite the past? As in the account of Jimmy Bigelow in his 90’s (p. 451) ‘His mind slowly distilled his memory of the POW camps into something beautiful. ‘
The most poignant story is of a bugle.(p 452). A bugle sold @ a garage sale for $5. I cried for memories lost, for the history of those men on the death railway, for the lament of the last post. For an old man who dies without telling his legacy, why?
The other symbolism that flows in this story is of a crimson flower and a pearl necklace. The reader hangs on to these as Dorrigo does himself. They float in and out of view.
The lasting legacy of this brutality on all sides is of men who do not speak. There is an accepted denial of all the horror and senseless loss. The cost still being felt in the descendants.


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