Sambasue21

 

“This vast real,interior one in which we remain linked to the dead (because the dream inside us ignores trivialities like breath or absence ) this vast life is not under our control .Everything we have seen and everyone we have known goes into us and constitutes us ,whether we like it or not .We are linked together in a pattern we cannot see and whose effects we cannot know. “(Anne Funder All that I Am ”(pg. 127)

Its a glorious winter day and I”m running along the coast from the main settlement,Thomson Bay,towards Geordie Bay.No-one else around .Through the small path past the old campsite under the trees. The grass is green this time of year ,the sun creating shadows between the trees which are moving in the early morning breeze .Theres the Basin looking icy cold with waves rushing in .

Remember the time mum swum here and got too far out .We pulled each other back to the beach laughing so much we scarcely made it ,flailing arms and legs as the strong current tugged us back towards the rocks .Meanwhile dad sat under the overhanging rocks smoking his pipe ,oblivious.

Mum and dad with me and a toddler In the sand at the Basin and they’re building sandcastles Their first time out here ,so happy to be with us and staying in the little huts over the rise .The huts are gone .

I climb the small hill after the Basin and I’m really powering along this morning
Down the hill into Fays,and there is a guy taking photos of the Bay .He smiles :“Where on earth would you rather be ?’ And I realise that this day ,this time,there is nowhere else.
I have run,walked,biked,staggered along this path many times over the last 40 or so years.Today I run happily.

Past the Geordie Bay store on my right and a loop back to the main path .I pause at the top looking down at Parakeet Bay and back at the curve of Geordie.I think I can pick out the unit we stayed in one summer holiday.Many hours spent on the beach below,escaping when we could to the balcony above.There we sat drinking and chatting while checking on the kids beneath :
“stop drowning him””don’t throw sand”,”pick him up’,’it’s his turn now ‘’and the final threat ‘you’ll have to come inside “

I look towards Parakeet ,and decide not to go down that hill we trudged up at the end of a day;The sun extra hot as it hit the bitumen and kids whining and crying as their feet burnt (told them to wear shoes !)and legs tired,Us grumpy adults pushing a younger child while balancing all the beach paraphernalia.

I turn to my left to the tarred road winding between the salt lakes back to Thomson .Down the slope I glide and the lake to my right,usually pink, is an indeterminate blue-grey with the while fairy floss foam moving softly on its surface,The water is low for this time of year ,but the ducks and other birds don’t seem to mind

Then I reach the bottom of the hill and turn left again to see the back of the Lodge and the lake in front of it.Theres the bush,strange non native palm trees,and fig trees that have assumed a variety of odd shapes through the years.If I squint I can just see the birds flying out from the wet surrounds over the other side .I close my eyes to see my father in his winter garb of brown jacket pulled up around his ears,corduroy cap on head .A younger me walks along beside him and we are with a group of birdwatchers so we are very quiet .Its very early ,just dawn and the lake is still obscured in a silvery mist .The ground is muddy and all the shrubs and plants are covered in a film of tiny stars .

Opposite the lake is the Island Cemetery -13 identified graves ,4 of them babies.When I’m not running I always come and read the gravestones that are still legible Wonder about the lives of these people.There are sad stories here .The cemetery is overgrown and the stones are in need of repair, but directly under the hill protected by the sturdy Rottnest pines they have become a part of the landscape

Now back at the settlement ,so I slow down and jog/shuffle past the lodge to the Aboriginal Burial ground .The ground is now marked out and the old houses that were built on top of the bones of the dead have been pulled down.Finally the men and their history is being recognised and honoured.

 

Double back to Vincent Way and past the large Thomson heritage house on the corner ,where a long time ago it seems ,the whole family celebrated Christmas. Lots of special food ,drink ,stories and talk .Inevitably there were also arguments .But this was Rottnest after all …
The little kids swung on the tree alongside the wall that now has a warning sign about the long drop .Teenagers disappeared all day to surf ,swim,or meet at the amusement park and bakery ,and at night to Pinkies beach

A little boy peddling on the other side of the island,on a bike too large for him ,surfboard held to his side ,up the hill towards Strickland bay .It’s stinking hot and he’s red in the face.the second time he’s cycled that way today.12 years old about .He’s so little and so full of intent ,so resolved to get a surf .He’s already been out early and come back for breakfast ,now he’s out again while surf is good .Will be back at dusk.

Dad in his bathers and sunburned ,mum in flowery bathers worrying about him wearing his hat and putting on suncream (“Be brown tomorrow “he says )Memories of dad everywhere .We stayed in a lot of houses over the years .He is off to the beach,shirt peeled off the old shorts mum hated pulled up to the waist ,cloth sun hat too small for his head ,beloved sandals on his feet.And there is mum pursuing him with the suncream
He spent whole mornings with the little ones making sandcastles and taking them into the water.He was often joined by mum who collected shells and helped decorate the sand mermaids .
Food was mums speciality and we had some good Christmas cake here ,and roast dinners with all the trimmings .Afternoon teas with jam donuts from the bakery ,white bread cheese and tomato sandwiches for lunch followed by the iced fruit loaf with loads of butter .Always a desert ,like apple pie with lashings of full fat cream .

My morning run ends back at Thomson.Today I turn 70 ,and I buy a cake from the bakery for tonight’s celebration No chunky homemade fruit cake now mum is not here to do the cooking.Much less alcohol and fewer stories and songs ,or arguments. But I had a run this morning on one of the loveliest places on earth,and the family gathers around to sing Happy Birthday .

This is Rottnest after all.

(Rottnest Island, off the coast of Western Australia ,20 minutes by boat from Perth .It was once place where Aboriginal Prisoners were sent.Many died in this harsh and foreign envirionment.Later it housed prisoners of war .It then became a holiday destination for Western Australians ,and now international tourists )

I knew a not so old woman who lived

In a very ordinary 4×2

In an ordinary street

In an ordinary town

In a very very ordinary country.

As the years crawled  by

She felt herself falling

Into the gaps

As parts of her house collapsed.

Loving others stopped her falling for a while

Later doing good deeds and thinking good  thoughts

A constant smile

Kept her visible

In the crumbling walls.

She tried laughing as she stood  boldly hand on hip

Hoping that courage would do the trick

Dressed herself in bright colours

Talked loudly ,made  a nuisance of herself

Phoned family and friends at odd hours

Wrote  letters of complaint

But no one could see her it seemed ,even those she’d loved the most

Walked by without a sound

Stepping over  the rubble of her home.

Then she was reduced to clinging onto the jagged ends of bricks and glass

And screaming loudly for help

 

 

Nothing could keep her from disappearing.

Each day she grew dimmer and dimmer

Until she could just see by squinting and catching the light.

Next her hair started to go

Each morning she woke up

Stumbled to the  remainng bathroom mirror and looked

(as well as she could by squinting )

Each day the colour faded until pale bits of fluff floated onto the dirty floor

Mingled with the soil and blood .

Then her hips collapsed

Her shoulders went one at a  time

Next  her knees.

 

Until she was just a grey ,skinny stick

whom no one heard

no one saw

no one remembered

She had disappeared completely .

The last post I have put up is a cryptic  link to “Cant put off “word doc

My blog should be titled “A writer in search of some technological skills ”

I obviously haven’t managed to get the thing onto the blog ,despite trying and following the instructions Well will just have to stay as is ,and I guess readers will have to download the link ,if interested in reading .

Thoughts for today ? Well ,perhaps its easier just to write directly into this ,rather than agonise how to copy into.Any of my minuscule amount of followers out there -what do you do ? Hopefully the next entry will be within the year ,and will be fully supported .

Bye for now from me

 

Easter Rituals Salamanca ,Spain

Managed to do 2 exercise classes.Bought another rain jacket to replace a brand new one .(It was in my bike carrier which  i lost a few days ago ,swerving to avoid a motorist.Lost balance and the bike keeled over.)Had lunch ,cleared the sink, put out household rubbish and removed more from the floor. .Photographed cluttered windowsill where stuff from sink is waiting for a spot Resisted the temptation to deal with the moth infestation in cupboards or walk dog . Succumbed to the urge to add to facebook.Returned 2 phone calls but no answer so couldn’t spend time chatting
Finally retrieved my computer from the drawer.

I am an expert avoider and the minute my fingers touch key board or pick up a pen all the great ideas disappear completely .Not exactly:there is a vague memory of a great idea ,but once explored as a writing piece the great idea becomes just an idle thought.The extraordinary  idea reconfigures itself into an ordinary thought loaded with problems and contradictions .I have written in my head and nothing more needs to be said .
For the last few weeks two phrases have run round and round in my head :,”I am in mourning for my life”,I think it is Masha in Chekhov’s Cherry Orchard who announces this as she enters stage The other phrase is from the South African playwright Athol Fugards Hello and Goodbye .Hester says cynically ” A lot of people get by without any future nowadays “.Maybe it is time to write them out .

I certainly don’t feel those sentiments .But I am unsure of a sadness underlying each day.Perhaps there is a questioning of what is worth doing as life moves fast .Rather like that feeling of lostness when one first discovers death as a child; the  responses to the questions about whether the pet/person will come back ,where s/he goes ,who dies and when are never entirely satisfying .Despite the fact that  the count from 4 to 60/70/80 is a long time to the 4 yr old, it is still.challenging .There is a sense of time   moving ,and the first realisation of mortality.The question after”how old are you ?”is often “will you die ?’’

But the space between the beginning and end number compresses ,and becomes thinner as the years speed by and the  count between 70 and 80 is over before its started.

Why at this stage take on anything new ,or difficult ?However time continues to move, and unappreciated ,unlived time is tedious, prickly and anxiety ridden .

The well worn counselling question-“if you were to die tomorrow and wake up to your ideal world /scenario-what would it look like ?”
And of course “What words would you like written on your tombstone?” How do you want to be remembered ?are  not very subtle attempts to shift the persons thinking from a gloomy present to a lighter future ,and then to work with him/her to start creating that very future in the present

I am thinking right now if ,after 70 years on this planet there have been moments of sadness or  dissatisfaction  with life ,then I don’t think one has a fighting chance to change or to reinvent .Might be able to tweek life around the edges ,or recreate a different present when one of the components has dissolved or disappeared .I’m thinking here of death ,loss,illness ,or war .But given our human propensity for habit and settling into routines , don’t set much store on a very different future.

All we can do is plug on ,working in our imperfect human way towards an imagined end ,keep on attempting to  accept or change or shift some of the stuff that surrounds us ,learn more , love and be loved.

Spend less time being busy and more on loving ,learning and writing .

Easter rituals end joyously