Lift your Arse ,Man!

The ‘man ‘ is a South Africanism. My English born father spoke his language impeccably as only a Shakespearean actor and Radio announcer ( English Service , RSA) can. He adopted this common SA expression during his time in that country. He used the expression over in SA , and here also. I think being dad he liked to feel he had adapted to his new culture, and then it became a habitual expression. The appendage “ man” usually tagged onto the end of sentences is commonly used to convey emotions from amazement to anger or puzzlement , depending on the inflection .

So he used it when slightly frustrated with my mother. She tripped often. All her life she was in a hurry and as she got older her dashes across roads wearing glasses that she maintained didn’t work resulted in many injuries . She just moved her head both ways quickly and scuttled across, believing that cars would stop . By the time she realised they couldn’t, she braked, lost her balance and fell.

In the beginning she was prey to minor scratches and bruises, until the day came when she was too scared to move , even with a Zimmer frame ( resisted for ages) or sulky daughter by her side. My father, despite his language , was always affectionate to her, even if exasperated at her stubbornness.

With the Zimmer frame she was still prone to accidents, ploughing into people’s ankles and banging into their tables as she headed for the door or the table. Inevitably, when she did sit , she parked the frame as a sort of block. No one could get up and move to the door or counter without asking the sweet old lady to shift it . Looking back she just didn’t have a sense of space and that combined with a blind faith in her invulnerability and the goodness of people lead to the knocks and hurts .

Mum and my favourite aunt out for lunch with the dreaded frame

So why do I write of this now ? Because I reckon I’m prone to the same injuries. Maybe not for the same reasons and, at the moment, not the same injuries . But I don’t see the edges of objects . For example , I bang my already injured shoulder against a doorway;I catch my foot on the crossbar of my bike; I trip over those uneven Freo pavements , bloody council!

This afternoon I turned up at the Physio with a plaster stuck at the back of my leg . Late. So he wasn’t interested in my explanation .

I just happened to graze the leg on the pedal of my bike as I dragged it out the door down the steps . Bloody kids. If they didn’t leave stuff hanging around in the hallway and at the front door I wouldn’t have nicked myself

So I’ll lift my arse, slow up. Slow up . Lift your arse, woman . Sounds pretty rude with the ‘ woman ‘? But that’s another blog ,

Curiosities

So who is he ?

So who is St Elias ? And what is/ was this ‘ Melkite Catholic Eparchy’ which has Divine Liturgies on Sundays in the Byzantine tradition ?

Just one of some curiosities seen a while ago in the Melbourne suburb with the beautiful name of Sunshine.

Amongst the greyness of the streets and buildings, the bits of paper and scrawled messages , another cold dull day , there are small jewels shimmering. Like brightly coloured cafes, signs, graffiti walls. Curiosities because they draw the eye when walking through these streets .

In fact one of the wonderful things about walking is that the unseen or overlooked becomes visible.There is time to look and take in .

Opposite the church this derelict building
The African Coffee Club in the Main Street
And the opposite side of Sunshine , over the railway line

Random photos as I wandered around with the pusher and Charlie asleep . We ended our stroll at the Salamati Cafe opposite the railway station. In a street full of a mix of Chinese, African and Vietnamese shops. Look what I found, beautiful curiosities on the walls.

Salamati Cafe
Dancing

Ending where I began really, asking questions such as Who has written this ? Belief systems ? The link between dance and how we live ? There doesn’t have to be an answer, though we want one .

Curiosities keep us engaged in life, and wondering .

Sunday Contemplations along Melbourne’s Kororoit Creek

Kororoit Creek

So as I was walking along the creek beside Ballarat road on the way to a coffee all sorts of thoughts flashed through my sleepy head. About Sundays, beliefs, nuns and mothers. Specifically the sayings or truisms that were told when Sunday was such a special day a long long time ago in my youth:

Mum : ‘It’ll all come back to you, just you wait.’

The all encompasses exposing my then pudgy but quite shapely body in bathers, too short shorts, or tight skirts .

All equals being rude to my mother, refusal to clean my room or dress as she wants, bad table manners, answering back at school or at home .

All also means sitting on concrete steps with shorts and thin gear on or perching on anything that is not a chair.

Not too clear how or when it would come back to me . Suffice to say that my turn came around when I had children growing up . Perhaps the cold concrete bit is responsible for stiff limbs, and the African sun definitely a cause of horrible scaly skin .

Nuns/ School.

If you sit like that you’ll end up with hunch back / frown like that and you’ll have a deep line between your eyes / scowl and … . All come true .

  • Frown lines
  • A stoop in shoulders
  • Left eye is smaller than right

But you know what, I’m still stubborn enough to say I don’t regret the sun, shorts, squinting, refusing to do as told . ( Even if I do secretly wish I had better skin)

The big one though, from mum and from the convent school I went to in my teens, is around belief . Briefly the Belief/ God/Love one was always a bit sus. I met those concepts with varying degrees of resistance, depending on what I needed at the time . I could easily dismiss the ‘God sees everything; your body is a Sacred temple; you’ll need him someday and he won’t be there; say your prayers at night so that angels is watch over you as you sleep ‘

Lots more but if you were brought up Catholic you’ll know them . I wasn’t even particularly worried about the maleness of God as I think I just thought the naming and the gender were an easy reference point. Adults just didn’t have the words and took an easy way out.

I just knew that the hellfire and damnation bit was theatre, that God who loved could not be so petty , Most of the threats and bribes I rejected .

However from my older perspective there is something precious amongst the words we were surrounded with . Hard to pin down . But it’s a belief in the value of life, and the priority of existence . Also it’s comforting to feel , however imperfectly and tentatively, that there is something beyond this visible life .A something that we cannot grasp , just know.

I like God ( for want of a better name) being around .And I like walking .

Walking along Kororoit Creek this morning I remember those statements , threats and persuasions quite fondly. They gave order to my life. Something to resist. As I get older it is harder to find that resistance.

Hey life was like this then , just keep on the path !

And Sunday is a day like any other now that my mother is no longer here .When the kids were little we reluctantly went along to the Sunday roast after Church complaining about the routine. I was unwilling or unable to sustain that ritual. We gather now as a family in a scatty way, because Sunday is no longer a special day for all of us , and we have so many things to do. A transition from the Sunday Mass/ Sunday best/ scowling drive to Church followed by the lunch.

Sundays are free. I sort of miss the old Sundays.

I ❤️ Love Sydney.Reasons to Love .

On bus no 333 back to Bondi after a day out .

Behind me is a conversation in German, in front a group of young women conversing merrily in Spanish, hands moving and laughter.This bus is filled with a variety of languages, accents and looks: the girl in the beret sprinkled with chunky pearls, thick black plaits poking out from underneath, the man further down the aisle, tattooed and hooded, the very English older couple sitting opposite. All sorts of looks. Spanish/ Iranian //Chinese ? Australian ? It’s late afternoon so plenty of business suits and office wear as well .

Love the multiculturalism

Cosmopolitan, multicultural, call it what you will. A vibrant, young peopled city. At least in the areas we’ve been in these few days- Bondi, Paddington and, today, Manly. So, especially after a QE cruise it’s uplifting to be around younger people. Also to be able to just walk .

Bar and cafe staff are young and smiley, restaurants, hotel receptionists , shop people. Smiley.

Apart from youth and multiculturalism, I like the architecture. There is variety in style, different levels and shapes, colour and texture. Here in Bondi anyway the newer buildings are fronted by older ones, facing the sea with large windows and balconies. The streets are wide and the tall trees and green slopes create a surreal landscape.

Older buildings have been renovated or used as they are, especially to show art. And there is so much art here, accessible. All along the Bondi seafront are some of the Heads On photos. An international festival based in Sydney, there are more than 500 different photographers showing their work in outdoor exhibitions, major takeovers and large scale installations.

The photos stretched along the entire seafront . This is a photo from brochure though – chilly morning when we were here, and not so many people .

We went to see others in the Reservoir Paddington. There are thousands of photographic works from all over the world displayed in venues throughout Sydney. Themes of homelessness, refugees and war; also feminism, motherhood, culture and the environment.

An entire inside space hung with photographs. More outside. Here the focus was on war,injustice , displacement but also resilience and strength.
This was only one small part of the collection.
Entry to Reservoir
Like a mini version of the Colosseum
Stained glass windows in the restaurant at Central Station ( good coffee there too )

So this morning we’re at Central train station about to depart from this bold, brash, clever city. On the way here early in the morning I did glimpse the other, not so bright, side of life here. A part of any city: people dressed in shabby black or worn work boots, women going home after a cleaning job, an old man plastic bag in hand carrying bottled water and his lunch,the humdrum movement of our days.

You might think as you read the earlier praise of Sydney paragraphs ‘ all very well for the wealthy and beautiful.’ ( I can hear you think that ) Maybe I am a romantic. Maybe.

But I don’t live here. Soon enough to be back in a different life.

Looking out of hotel window at Bondi beach this morning . Bye.

My exciting life : Bondi Pub Altercation

Now, if I were a Helen Garner I would ask the guy over from me what happened? Then I would have a whole, interesting and insightful story. But as it stands, or writes, all I have is a few glimpses of the start, a climax and the cleaning up. Not really a denouement. Oh, I did make an ‘ aside’ comment as I walked to the bar to buy another happy hour wine : ‘ well that was dramatic’, to which the quite ordinary, rather stunned looking guy replied ’ Yes’ and looked stunned still.

From where I sat in this Bondi pub I watched a blonde, fit looking 40 ish man find his stool, lay out the cutlery carefully next to his red wine , and look around. I did think , well he’s waiting for someone. I was distracted then by the T V behind him showing bits about some woman convicted of some murder ( no sound). Next time I looked a woman in jeans and shirt , ordinary, nice looking, was alongside him and they were talking quietly. Distracted again – ploughing into my pizza- a very loud crash. I glanced up to see the woman locking eyes with the man for an instant, then turning slowly and striding out to the lift. Leaving a mess of broken glass, food and red wine on the floor.

He stood just looking at the mess. Hiatus. Bar staff rushed out and began sweeping and mopping. Like 2 staff, quite a mess.

Half an hour later and the quiet guy is sitting in front of his replaced ? meal and sipping his replaced ? wine. Looking thoughtful. .I really want to know what the altercation was about .

Why did she throw all their food and wine 🍷 onto the floor.It was all so silent before and after. Is she his partner ? Had he just met her ? What did he say? Or not say .

I’ll just have to conjecture. And you know what,?Whatever I come up with will be wrong. There’s always more to a story.