JULIE AND THE GOOPYS

Today I went to the Pomegranate for a cup of tea with Julie. I dressed smartly and we talked . People greeted me and i greeted them. I might get the knack of the Idler if I practice a little more. Imagine if I were able to walk around there. Sit awhile and greet people and the walk home.

One of my other dreams is to take myself fishing. I am still timid about getting the kayak in and out of the water by myself.

I then had the Gs come visit. They are down from Brisbane and CG lived in the Beachshack as a child. I was called Lochend back then. I might name it that once more. I hadn’t met them before . Facebook Friends and it was a great pleasure. We looked around and she described the Shack as it was when  she lived here. There was a boathouse and a well and , as I thought the track at the end of the yard did go all the way up to the top of the Hill where you could look out to the mouth of the rivers.  I shall find a way to get a track back up there.

Just near my bedroom, there was a well. She told me also of the Aboriginal Cave round in our Fairyland and I think I have it in a photo I took yesterday.

We lunched at the OVH which is our Oceanview Hotel and I had an enormous pub lunch. I had a very good day.

Tonight RQ and I talked by phone for hours.

Now its raining again and bedtime is close.

AB CAVE

ELEGANCE

At times , it seems to me that there are people who would rob me of the elegance of this love, this year of mourning and this Dreaming. I experienced it with my mother’s death.

Eyes hidden and carefully dressed words encouraging a putting away of Mourning Clothes and a rejoining of the World. I said NO then and I say NO now. Noone will take  from me the Elegance of events of this magnitude in my life. I refuse to live a small life.

I have One Year of honouring this man who has left me. He would never have left me in Life. And I stand nekked in black sorrow. Head bowed. Arms outstretched. In a long and slow farewelling.

Those who cannot stand with that, can move away.

Those who cannot meet the depths of empty eyes, can look away.

Those who dare not hear the music of departure, can block their ears.

In its exquisite beauty and shocking pain – I make my farewells.

I am in the last dozen days of the First Year and I make the Celtic call of OCHA.

Izzy – Your Lady honours you and your love and goodness. and unwavering fidelity

Farewell, my Iz. Fare thee well.

0 pelican

I’ll get up soon, and leave my bed unmade

I’ll go outside and split off kindling wood

from the yellow-box log that lies beside the gate,

and the sun will be high, for I get up late now

Les Murray 1963

Izzy'splace.jpg

LOST IN THE BUSH
I’d left the camp, and lost my way,
‘Mid tangled vines and ferns;
And puzzled was which way to take
From out the many turns;
When presently I saw some smoke
Through swamp oaks wreathing up,
And close beside me soon I heard
The yelping of a pup.
A forked stick, two sheets of bark,
A low, small fire in front,
And on the ground there sat a black, –
He’d just returned from hunt.
And on the coals a sumptuous meal –
A ‘possum roasting whole –
Among the ashes two corn cobs,
Which he that morning stole.
I told him I had lost my way,
Was weary, and footsore.
He pointed to a log, and then
Was silent as before.
I questioned him – Why all alone?
Where piccaninny, gin?
He sullen looked, and then replied:
“White fellow bin take him.
“And he bin promise gib it me,
Clothes, blanket, and white bread,
Bacca, and rum, and budgery things;
Baal gib it though,” he said.
“And many moons I’ve trabbled bin
With white man long a dray;
But now me going back to tribe;
Baal me now with him stay.
“Almost all gone, blackfellow, now;
Baal plenty kangaroo;
Whitefellow sit down everywhere,
Him take it all land, too.”
He led me on, I’d wandered far,
For now ‘twas almost night,
Then pointing to my camp, he turned,
And soon was lost to sight.
I thought ‘tis late now to begin,
At this the eleventh hour,
Yet still a something might be done
By those who have the power,
For those once owners of the soil,
Neglected thus so long;
I would I had the poet’s gift,
I’d plead their cause in song.
(Kiama Independent, March 28, 1884)

Van Badham I am thinking of how he used to treat his terrible migraines by trapping his head in a wire hanger. And it makes me think what I should have realised before hearing this today: that he appeared in my life as some kind of sage, or wizard – a Gandalf or Merlin – grey-bearded, wise to the world, stepping out from the edge of a grey forest at a crossroads, and, smiling, nudging me gently towards my true way.