words woven

block splitter

2010-10-22T14:58:00.003+11:00

this is the block
that i split
black is the mark
where the blade hit

where violence
released beauty
and the grain
whose duty

is to carry
the water
from the bottom
like a porter

to the top
and the leaves
but not now
and it grieves

me a little
that my warm fire
means that this tree
will no longer transpire

holding hands

2009-10-19T21:51:00.005+11:00

you cannot do
any more than this:
let the earth hold you

when you feel the soil
the sticks the stones
the grass
under heel and
between toes
you know you are held

i am the earth
i hold you
in an open hand
my valleys and hills
guide your way

your family and friends
they are the earth
let them hold you

when you feel the embrace
the cuddles the kisses
the hands
within hands
between eyes
you know you are held

i am your husband
i hold you
with an open heart
my love will
guide your way

life had worked out

2009-10-19T21:48:00.004+11:00

there was no resentment
from the others
even though
they had taken
a harder path

they were happy for me
that life had worked out
i was married
settled

they were my brothers
my sister
they looked like me
and i felt guilty
that i had taken
an easier path

my adoptive mum was there
and we all chatted

now i have two families
and i could see
that for each of us
life had worked out

hard rubbish collection

2009-10-19T21:43:00.004+11:00

there is
out the front
of every house
a public display
a mini-monument
of wastefulness

washers dryers fridges
everything must go
to
waste

and no-one
seems to show
one ounce
of regret
of shame
of embarrassment

yes
we deliver
gleaming white appliances
direct from the shop
to
a hole in the ground

now
it is time
to repair
what we have broken
to share
what we don't need

emergency contact

2009-10-19T21:38:00.004+11:00

on a form
for a fun run
i wrote down
all the usual
name
address
date of birth

i rushed through it
male
open
category
thirty
seven
dollars

then i stopped

after being alive
for thirty-two years
after going out with you
for two and a half
and after a few seconds' pause
for the first time
but not for the last
i write your name
as my
emergency
contact

where things come together

2009-02-07T12:22:00.002+11:00

a sea breeze will come
and lift your face
into a smile

and while
you're searching
for the point

on the horizon
where things
come together

hold hands
be peaceful
this is the way to go

paper weight

2008-11-19T14:37:00.006+11:00

bundle up the burdens
of the world
and use them
as a paper weight

prop open the door
with your worries
and let the breeze
dance on your skin

when your mood lifts
the papers flutter and fly
and you go out
after them

shady cloud

2008-10-21T13:08:00.013+11:00

if i re-arranged the clouds
would you notice?
would you say
hey, that wasn't there
or wouldn't you care?

if gravity was reversed
and you fell into the sky
a fluffy cloud caught you
would you wonder why?

if gravity got stronger
and you melted to the ground
and when you evaporated
would you hang around?

like a cloud that hovered
and resisted the wind
or maybe you
couldn't be bothered?

but if you stayed
there'd be this little
bit of shade and
i'd stand under you

you don’t have to be here

2007-06-28T22:15:00.000+10:00

lie flat
on a rolled out mat
count the thoughts
floating and gloating
cause you haven’t found
the knack to bring them back
to the room
the heart
of where
you
are

yoga is tricky
with a mat
still sticky
from the last class
and dates and times
a bloody calendar
climbs into the front seat
of your consciousness

your thoughts will be
fine without you
open the door
let them tumble out
if they’re worthwhile
there’s no doubt
you’ll see them
again

and then
when you’re
all alone
just your body
left behind
you might find
something
amazing

the longest night

2007-06-22T20:55:00.000+10:00

the little girl sat by the window
watching the rain coming down
she wanted the drops to stop dripping
because she needed to run around

dad had said “it’s too wet outside
just play with your toys in here”
but she went back to the window
and waited for the clouds to disappear

she waited and waited
and then she waited some more
the cold air whistled
as it blew underneath the door

and then it got dark, really dark
maybe there’d be a storm
her dad hadn’t even noticed
because he was keeping warm

all curled up like a cat on the couch
with the heater going strong
he was just about to nod off
when she asked him “dad what’s wrong

with the sun?
where has it gone?” she said
“it’s only five o’clock,
it’s already gone to bed?”

“um well er y’know ah”
he didn’t know what to say
but he looked down at the newspaper
and read: “today is the shortest day”

which means, he thought,
that tonight is the longest night
“young lady” he smiled
“everything’ll be alright”

they put on their boots and their coats
and her dad held her hand
they walked out the door
and across the open land

phwoar it was cold
it was absolutely freezing
before too long
they were shivering and sneezing

but they had big smiles
frozen on their faces
and probably just to keep warm
they quickened up their paces

then they heard voices
coming out of the dark
and above the roof of the school
they saw a single spark

rise slowly
until it was so high
it had joined with all the stars
way up in the sky

around the back of the school
there were people standing around
they had a roaring fire
and they were stomping on the ground

the girl and her dad
joined in the happy group
someone gave her a hunk of bread
and a mug steaming of soup

it was warming up her tummy
phwoar that hit the spot!
the fire made her cheeks go red
she was really getting hot

she took a few steps back
just to cool her body down
and saw that all her friends were there
and they were running around

her dad was chatting with his mates
just keeping her in sight
and that’s really all that happened
on the night of the longest night

under the bitumen

2007-06-07T12:01:00.001+10:00

when cars fade
and the roads become
so lonely
the tram tracks wish
they could one day
meet

when the petrol prices
are taken down
and we wonder
what might be
under the bitumen

when the car park
closes
for the last time
and the attendant
sells the boom gate
on ebay

maybe then we’ll walk
somewhere
together smiling
shaking our heads

the wings of my dreams

2007-06-07T11:49:00.002+10:00

you know
there will come
a time when
you must go beyond
what you think
is possible

why wait
for the universe
to ask: are you ready?
make yourself ready
in the deciding

your first step
is burdened with
fear and excitement
but it carries
momentum

from here
your dreams fly
way out ahead
and you give chase
on the wings
of imagination

under the missile shield

2007-06-07T11:49:00.001+10:00

i am putting in a tender
for the government’s new missle shield

i believe my proposal
will be the most sophisticated
and efficient defence system
ever

in my presentation
i will need no powerpoint
because it’s rude to point
i will need no props
but i will pull out all stops

except my fingers
shoved in my ears
keeping out the talking
until someone hears
me going la la la la la

sleepy smiles

2007-05-19T08:41:00.000+10:00

i’m sleeping out
for refugees
a protest
to say
hey
when someone
comes to our country
and they’re vulnerable
can’t we say
hey
i’ll help you

i’m sleeping out
for refugees
lying like a lizard
on a cold rock
outside the foyer
of the immigration
building

the cars jesus
revving their egos
circling prowling
unaware of the ugliness
of the city because
they’re part of it

i close my eyes now
someone cranks up the volume
the trucks the cars
pedestrians ticking
bunch of blokes picking
a fight on a tram yelling
and telling their mates
hey
and the eggs start flying
but i’m not even trying
to sleep anymore

i arrived late
and smiled to see
the happy mob
all bundled up
talking laughing
right on the corner
lonsdale & spring

i walked through them
towards the entrance
looking for a place
to lay my mat
i saw human-sized
cocoons nestled
against the revolving doors
would they be stirred
from their sleep
in the morning
like a lazy susan?

does anyone know i’m here?
does anyone care whether
the dreams of a refugee
just disappear?
mate shut up
have another beer

it’s a funny protest
at 6am
we gather our bedding
murmur well done
and with sleepy smiles
carry ourselves home

waiting outside the doctor’s

2007-04-04T15:25:00.002+10:00

i heard the clicking
of shoes
and looked up

it was a round man
wearing thongs
on his way
to get the paper
or milk
or bread

this was a disappointment
because i wished it was you

delve

2007-04-04T15:25:00.001+10:00

if you want someone
to notice something
then cover it up
not all just part

the eyes will find
the edges the outlines
the silhouette the shape
the mind does the rest

when things are partly hidden
curiosity pushes the hand
to reveal what the
imagination cannot

between you and me

2007-04-04T15:24:00.000+10:00

love one thing
don’t play hopscotch
with your heart

don’t say yes
when you mean no
let your actions show

when you make an offer
it’s there to be had
and if it’s taken
glad

you’re helping someone else
and if you want to be right
let contemplation be a light

to allow you to see
the difference between
you and me

my emergency contact

2007-04-04T15:23:00.001+10:00

on a form
for a fun run
i wrote down
the usual

name address
date of birth
i rushed through it
male open category
twenty-seven dollars

then i stopped

after being alive
for thirty-two years
after going out with you
for one-and-a-half and
after a few seconds’ pause
for the first time
but not for the last
i wrote down your name
as my emergency contact

how was your trip?

2007-04-04T15:22:00.002+10:00

when a journey ends
and good friends
ask
how was it?
was it good?

and you feel you should
gush and glow
and show
what you’ve learnt
what you’ve seen
how you went
where you’ve been

but nothing comes
you are empty
of answers
inside there’s a peaceful space
where all the stories
have passed through
and left no trace

but that cannot be!
no evidence?
nothing to show?
just tell us what you know

i am light
and strong
and when i lie down
i feel alright
but something is wrong

is it something
or just everything?

i’m not sure
but before much longer
the answer will come
from the stillness
from the earth

it will be
where i’ve come from
it will be where i’m going
and in between
will be the knowing

weight of love

2007-04-04T15:20:00.002+10:00

my legs are strong
i can carry
a heavy pack
for many miles

i can run
at full pace
through the
soft sand

i can stomp
on the pedals
and feel the bike
lurch forwards

i can lead
a whole class
and navigate
the path of learning

but a phone call
at 3 am
from a girl
who adores me
makes my legs quiver
under the weight of love

mid-air refuel

2007-04-04T15:20:00.001+10:00

i am too far
from home

but i must keep
moving

people are
relying on me

people are
trying to stop me

i am tired
i am scared

but i am
a spirit

and if i know
that you care

i can refuel
in mid-air

the same curve

2007-02-25T17:11:00.000+11:00

over the top
of the towel
held clutched
scrunched
against my face
i peer out
across the
lamp-lit sand
to the darkness
of the water

my bathers drip
like an
out-of-time
metronome
down my legs
onto my sandy feet

the moon is a bowl
on its edge
dripping stars
so slowly
they hover

a seagull slingshots
around the moon
catches the glow
like a thermal
then slips
over the edge
and away

my eyes reach
into the water
the gentle swell
says go back
go back
but beneath
a current surges
and urges
come on!

i lie floating
my body
rises and falls
to the rhythm
of my breathing

the buzzing silence
carries dreams
like seaweed
that brush my legs
memories
like salty water
wash
and sting my eyes
the earth is speaking
and with all my senses
i listen

shadows curl and
collapse like a
handful of horizons
the dripping
has stopped
the moon
is empty
i catch the sky
in a slow curve
a gentle gesture
of the journey
to come

would sir like gunfire?

2007-02-15T09:41:00.000+11:00

um i’ll have drive-by shooting
she’ll have suicide bomber
ah execution too please
beheadings definitely
those mortar rounds um
or car bombs
i can’t decide

yeah cheers
mortar
thanks
torture as well
roadside bomb?
ah with airstrike?
hmm maybe
oh just give us everything

(inspiration: www.iraqbodycount.org)

tear-lined face

2007-02-15T09:26:00.001+11:00

the child is scared
cold
hungry
she is running

she reaches you
tired and
alone

you have food
you have room
and yet
you hesitate

to draw a line

2007-02-15T09:24:00.000+11:00

dirty brick wall
with broken glass
dirty big house
and i have to ask

if i climbed your fuckin wall
and sliced my hand
would you say that
that was just as planned?

would call the police before
you come to my aid?
would you shrug and say
it’s the price to be paid

to separate
what is yours from mine
and the blood that is spilled
just a line

that you repeat
over and over again
holding me out
by holding you in

michael's favourite walk

2007-02-15T09:20:00.000+11:00

but the echidna
will not have it
freezes in its
mid-path
trundle
and forms a bundle
of spikes

and stays that way until
the man and the sky
are still
and the line on the sea
a windowsill

the echidna peeks out
and sees that
the man
and the trees
are quiet
is no more threat
and the two of them
decide to let
each other pass

lose the shoes

2006-10-30T17:07:00.000+11:00

power is like
having shoes

you can walk
over rough ground
without being hurt

but if
you cannot be hurt
then you cannot be healed
and the secrets
of the earth
will not be revealed
to a person
who stomps
and breaks
and makes
no connection
between the two
between me
and you

winning doesn’t come till the end

2006-10-30T16:44:00.000+11:00

the earth has you

2006-10-30T16:30:00.000+11:00

these scary
night time noises
mix with the thought
that something
is coming

you turn
you look
you get ready

but you can’t see it
can’t hear it and
as time moves
over the earth
your fear becomes
tired your fists become
hands your gasps become
breathing

you know
the earth
will have you

she had you
the day you were born
like she has you now
as you lie naked
on the ground
held
in the curve
of the earth

a poem is a sandwich

2006-09-17T22:53:00.000+10:00

no one sees
how words
when pressed
by lips and teeth
and tongues
form shapes
like napes
of necks and
curled up cheques

sell your poem
to a friend
and buy a sandwich

the words
are gone now
in a flourish
to nourish
the heart
via the stomach

exercising the paralysed bits

2006-09-11T00:04:00.000+10:00

paralympians
are aware
of their paralysed bits
but ignore them

what’s the point
of strengthening what
you cannot use?

maybe you feel happier
and healthier
maybe someday
someone finds a cure
a way to reconnect
inside you
what has been severed

which parts of me
do i leave inactive?
could they be
my paralysed bits?

lovers (a painting by Charles Blackman)

2006-09-10T23:56:00.000+10:00

eyes
downturned
hands
held loosely
with flowers
behind her back
darkness
between them

eyes
almost closed
hand
raised lightly
against her arm
light
falls on her cheek

filler

2006-08-13T22:57:00.000+10:00

when you find
that you have
a moment
of empty space

pause

stop

breathe

and instead of thinking
how can i fill
this empty space?

ask how this empty space
can fill you

light from everywhere

2006-08-13T22:56:00.000+10:00

where does darkness
come from?
pay no attention
to my shadow
it follows me
everywhere
sometimes
arriving
before i have left

am i the cause
of this darkness?
i receive the light
the warmth
but i stop it
block it
keep it for myself

what have i done
what have i become
a black cut-out
in the image
of myself
back to me
always me
happiness
on a foundation
of sadness

the confession stings
brings
release
from the pressure
of denial
until
a tear forms
and falls

i am the water
through which the light
scatters
the memories
of a thousand dreams
laughter comes without
hesitation
and finds darkness
is gone

there is always doubt

2006-08-13T22:53:00.000+10:00

if you are afraid
of getting tired
never again
begin a journey
never run
bolting till tears
stream backwards
across your cheeks
crying out for you
to turn back
never dance a silly jig
in front of friends
stricken by anxiety
that all this is momentary
that this risk is foolish
without purpose
but
if instead you look forward
to the heady rush
when the land tips forward
so steep you can’t see the bottom
the thought of falling
makes you giggle and squeal
and then beyond that
way out ahead
there is a plain
and you imagine yourself
walking
going onwards
with all that momentum
even though you don’t know
where all this will end

if that’s the case
well
away you go

irreparable

2006-08-13T22:51:00.000+10:00

this tree
i chopped down
is more beautiful
than ever

that it must die
is accepted
the connection
is severed

but my heart
leaps like a child
waiting for miracles
i cannot walk away

a whisper of life would
send me back
to cradle what
i have destroyed

prolong a fool’s prayer
that love might
make a fool of physics
and put things back together

what’s the big deal

2006-08-13T22:28:00.000+10:00

helmets
it’s only your head

marriage
it’s only the person you’re
going to spend the rest
of your life with

breaks-ups
it’s only your heart

school in the sky

2006-07-21T10:18:00.000+10:00

i’m opening
a school of fish
in the sky

they will learn
how to climb and fall
and let the currents
push them around

the tides will be gentle
and the water
so clear
the sun will not
hide its shine

we will move as one
and as the light
becomes a shadow
we will make sure
no-one has been left behind

evergreen

2006-06-20T22:48:00.000+10:00

i wrote a story
and pinned the pages
to the branches
of a tree

the story grew
words blossumed
and sang so sweetly
that i could not
tell the difference
between the birds
and the words

in the warmer days
the pages hung still
the words quiet
the burning sun curled
and i sat in shelter
beneath an ever-growing story

the pages of my story
turned brown
and fell
they covered the ground
making a carpet
to walk on

with rain
my story went to mush
beautiful sentences
fragmented
well-chosen words
broke-down

the tree is bare now
under cold branches
a child plays
in the mud

why did he stop talking?

2006-06-20T22:36:00.000+10:00

a life spills
out of the speaker
of growing up
of times when
he was weaker
and tribespeople
would say
“you must choose,
us or them”

he is angry with them
he says
“why can’t i belong
to more than one tribe?”
and he waits
for an answer
and there is no answer

optimum speed

2006-06-20T22:35:00.000+10:00

i’m going to go straight
take the back streets
home
going to slow
the wheels
down
till the thoughts
hover happy
like a drunken
sentence smooth
over bumps
around bends
behind assumptions

not turn right
that’s the freeway
accelerate without the wind
without the legs
getting tired
and a heart
squashed like a
gravitron

shave seconds
off a bearded lady
only to arrive
at the conclusion
that it’s too late
you’re already there

her heart races
my thoughts wander
forty k’s an hour
i have found
is optimum
for things
to fall into place
into line
into a deeper kind
of consciousness

freehand

2006-06-20T22:34:00.001+10:00

i don’t trust my hand
to draw
the beautiful lines

so i trace
the outlines
of what is underneath

love begins again

2006-06-20T22:34:00.000+10:00

i went to the hospital
last night
it felt like the airport
meeting someone
just arrived

and now
as i drive to work
cars pass
in silence
the bubble of my heart
widens

out through frosted glass
through metal box
through space
over splotches of water
under dew-laden leaves
to the house-covered horizon
my heart hovers

a plane catches the light
and maybe the people
become aware
that the extraordinary
has happened

rachael is one day old
my love begins again

bloody signs

2006-06-20T22:30:00.000+10:00

signs n lines
tell you where to go
don’t let them
push you around!

sandpaper kisses

2006-06-20T22:29:00.000+10:00

the table is a black sky
the grown-ups’ legs
tall trees swaying and leaning

there’s a sharp clack
then silence rolling
like the unseen balls above
then clack clack
a soft plop
the balls drop
i scamper
to push them back
up from the grey sock
to the hard green

later
my pop is in his big chair
he says, “put it there, pal.”
and i climb into his lap
enter the smoke haze
and kiss him
on the cheek
sandpaper
against a baby’s bottom

fuel

2006-06-20T22:23:00.000+10:00

we don’t dig trenches
just clear all material
down to minimal ground
because earth doesn’t burn

but we burn
we accumulate stuff
pile it up all around
till we can’t see
that it’s fuel
waiting
for the hot wind
to bring embers
raining down
on all we think
we love

defend something small
like a truth
with space all around
down to minimal ground
because earth doesn’t burn

the next phase

2006-05-25T21:45:00.000+10:00

you’re in the middle
and life
on either side seems
indifferent appears
uninterested
in your existence
your intention to move
from one place
to another

so you move
weightless through space
without sound
without effort
and the trees pass
no swaying
a conveyor belt
to somewhere else

time has not stopped
the beating of your heart
has slowed
waiting
wondering
when and where
to strike next

welcome the silence
embrace the stillness
ready yourself
for the next phase

when the leaves stir
and the cold air
against your cheek
brings sweet memories
you will know
it’s time to go

Thoughts on war

2006-05-06T14:57:00.000+10:00

I'm a teacher at a Catholic boys' secondary school. At the moment, year 8 students are studying the biographical novel "Soldier Boy". It’s about Jim Martin who, at 14, was the youngest Anzac.

I asked my students, "Why were men so keen to sign up for war in those days?" Most students said it was because people didn't know what war was really about; now we have TV and internet.

So, if we know war is so bad, why are we still going to war?

War is like a schoolyard fight, on a much larger scale. When I'm on yard duty I'm looking out for pushing and shoving that might lead to a fight. If two guys are niggling each other I don't step in straight away – I give them a chance to sort it out – but I don’t wait too long either because once a fight starts everyone crowds around egging them on, making it that much harder to stop. Even when it’s all over, the story of the fight goes on.

It’s the same at every school, or so I thought. At my friend’s Steiner school he told me that in six years, he didn’t see one fight; and whenever a fight did look like starting, the other students would pull the two hot heads apart. I was staggered. What normal person would not want to see a fight?

And there was my answer: I needed to change normal – make peace normal. We as a people need to make peace the headline story (not just the feel-good story after the weather). We need to choose peacemakers as our leaders. Publish articles about diplomacy. Sing songs of heroic mediation. Read bedtime stories about reconciliation. Give awards to non-violent protesters. Teach our students the language of compromise. Communicate openly and sensitively with our families. Welcome people of different backgrounds. Live compassionately and creatively.

and write a list

2006-04-17T22:48:00.000+10:00

if you have
too many things to do
and not enough time
you should write a list

get a piece of paper
and note down
all the things
that need to be done

put the note
in your pocket

take your pants off
put them in the wash

when your pants are dry
put your hand in your pocket
and pull out the note

if anything is legible
then that is
what you must do
if nothing is legible
then that is
what you must do
also

we come back here

2006-04-05T15:47:00.000+10:00

when our day of work is done
when the tram doors open
when the car
retraces its steps

when the party
lives on
the next day
in sleep-deprived eyes
and small strips of
conversation

when new friends enter our lives
and old ones drift away
when epic journeys
to far away places
end

when audacious schemes
are born
and grand dreams
dim and fade

when seasons change
and there’s washing
on the line
and warm smells
from an open window

when it’s time
we come back here

and we peer
over cups of tea
at each other
and wonder
when this place
became our home

deep pool

2006-04-05T15:30:00.000+10:00

stop and stare
into the deep pool
the dark circle
of your humanity

see the fallibility
the weakness
the fear
the doubt

accept all this
embrace them
like a brother
gone wrong
like a sister
whose heart
turned to stone
like a father who
could not lead
and a mother
who fled

touch the surface
of the deep pool
the hidden feelings
of your heart

see the ripples
go out
on and on
in every direction

the reflection hovers
like an old film
but the stillness
holds your gaze
from looking deeper

prayers in najaf

2006-03-21T13:32:00.000+11:00

look down
at your friend
your brother
your wife
your daughter
lying there
draped
in a blanket
of blue and pink roses

no breath comes
no laughter
a time
for quiet tears
for hands to be held
open
to the aching
of the heart

you can do these things

2006-03-02T00:13:00.000+11:00

grand strings
of mundane
thoughts
arrive
unheralded
unspeckled
by schemes
and dreams

unladen your beginnings
don’t write them
allow the sound
of an unplanned act
untracked
by fear or fact
be held
beneath shirts
and socks
and a basket
open and waiting

unclothe your thoughts
not even a parent’s eye
follow
the footfalls of a naked idea
run giggling
come back
like a fresh wind
tomorrow

like a note torn
in a pocket
sparks fly
something is born
edgy and alive
and you go
without leading
or being led
or even knowing
it’s unsaid

the world they see

2006-03-02T00:09:00.000+11:00

there is a time
for giving
neither criticism
nor praise
for withdrawing oneself
from the learning
and allowing instead
the student to reconcile
the world they feel with
the world they see

blue pearl

2006-03-02T00:07:00.000+11:00

even if
the world turns
on its promise
to be free like
a blue pearl
waiting

even if
the land grinds
against itself
gnashing generations
into deformed figures
where sweeping contours
once lay catching rays
from a doting sun

even if
gnarled trees growl
and parched gullies
twist and break
into vague remnants
of a sustainable past

even if
the oceans surge
and all is submerged
into a cold blackness
i will be there
on the seabed
waiting

carry your boat

2006-02-19T22:53:00.000+11:00

i’m on my back
in the middle
of the big tent
the poles are creaking
fabric flapping
like an upside down boat

i’m at the top of the mast
looking down at the deck
hearing the clicking
of minds ticking
of hearts bending
left open
to the breeze

we are moored
in a safe place
an alcove of peace
voices of love
waft up to me
i close my eyes
and faces of new friends
flutter by

i look out to the horizon
and blue grey blends
and deceives
and leaves me
sick in my heart

the ocean is big
i am small
the wind is calm
but i know
i have heard
have seen
what it’s like
out there

it’s no place
to be all alone
where no face
reminds you of home

but i’m panicking
i know what to do
prepare my craft
carry my friends
in my heart
and sail onwards

Healing time

2006-02-19T22:52:00.000+11:00

How can I help the poor? Should I even try? Don’t they need to learn to help themselves? And by labelling them as “poor” and even by using the words “them” and “they” doesn’t that make the distance between us greater?

Us. Now there’s a good word. It say’s, “Come over here, join, you belong here with me.” It also says, “Hey, all you darkness and despair out there, all you problems and obstacles, you better look out ‘cause look at us; we stick together and help each other out.”

Of course, when you’ve got a government telling you that the darkness is growing inside us, that the problems are amongst us, in our midst then how can we be anything but a fractured community? How can we expect to live out stories of peace when we are driven apart from each other? How can I love my neighbour if I will be persecuted for doing so?

Why do I feel subversive when I tell stories of refugees in this country? Why do I feel like I’m siding with terrorists when my heart goes out to the people of Iraq? Why when I offer food to a homeless person do I feel like I’m doing something counter-cultural?

I’m not sure if I like that word, “counter-cultural”. It sounds like you’re winding the clock back. Which I’m not. I’m just pausing. To contemplate. Ah, now there’s something we don’t do too often: stop and wait, till our thoughts still themselves, and wait, until in the emptiness, in the little piece of time when you’ve breathed out but you haven’t started breathing in yet, when your body and all the world around it pauses, for a cup of tea, on the back steps, in the shade, and no cars pass. Where has everyone gone? There’s no need to be afraid. Just wait. And soon enough the thought will come, “My God, I have been stupid.” And you smile, because it’s benign, it’s self-aware, self-accepting and from there you’re free. To move on, to act now in peace and love with strength and conviction and bring others along with you. And call me and you and them, us.

WHAT IF … JUSTICE IS POSSIBLE?

2006-02-19T22:44:00.000+11:00

I’m so fired up. I’ve just been to the National Justice Festival.

Picture this: a big mob of young adults really trying to nut out how we can make a positive change and fight injustice in the world. There were inspiring guest speakers, amazing musicians and plenty of opportunities to participate in creative workshops and small-group discussions. Towards the end though, I became worried that when I got home no-one would understand my passion for social justice, and that if I tried to explain I would just get that glazed-over look and eventually my energy would subside and things would go on as if nothing had happened.

My housemates got an earful when I got back. Throughout the week discussions in our kitchen revolved around all types of justice – Aboriginal health, the environment, refugee rights, anti-terrorism laws and workplace conditions. I talked to my family. I chatted with my mates at running club. And soon I realised that most people do have a social conscience and, given the opportunity, want to help people who are suffering. Australians showed this when the tsunami struck over a year ago.

But I’m trying to figure out how I can make a connection with the people I’m helping.
I don’t want to just give a donation to some faraway place –– there’s no relationship there. I want to touch people’s lives, and be touched in return, otherwise it’s like paying a bill.

I remember the words of Ted Lovett the Aboriginal elder who welcomed us to the Festival. Ted is from the Wathaurong people, the original inhabitants of the land where the Festival was held, near Lake Wendouree in Ballarat. When Ted welcomed us he also gave us a bit of a wake up call saying that this country still hadn’t got it, that we’d forgotten the need for reconciliation. And later, after another guest, Bishop Kevin Dowling, had told us about the AIDS crisis in South Africa, Ted’s voice rose again. “Without disrespect Bishop,” he said, “there’s plenty of work to be done in our own backyard.”

I don’t often think about Aborigines in Australia. There aren’t any in my street and I don’t have any Aborigines as friends. So I was thankful to have the time and space to sit down and just chat with those who were there. I listened to the beautiful songs of Shellie Morris, a talented singer-songwriter from Darwin , and then we created and our own song and sang for the big group. A young Aboriginal man who had just finished high school in Melbourne drew me a picture and I listened to him explain the significance of his drawing. I was impressed by his strong bond with the land and his people. In fact, I think I envied him. Why should this spiritual connection exist only for indigenous people? Maybe I need to connect with the people of this land before I can connect with the land itself.

One of the guest speakers who had a strong sense of place was Regina Lane, co-ordinator of Australian Political Ministry Network. She talked about the widening gap between the people and the government and painted a bleak picture of Australian society: the climate of fear surrounding the new terrorism laws, the shameful level of Aboriginal health, our worsening workers’ rights and our inhumane treatment of refugees. Regina recalled the time she joined a protest at Woomera detention centre and her distress at seeing the people under such conditions. “They yelled at us through the wire, ‘We are not criminals.’”

Regina talked of pain closer to home too, about the time her family parish church was forced to close down. It was jam packed for the final mass. Regina sat in tears next to her parents. She learnt then what it meant to belong to a place, to belong to a people. But she was angry that her church was being treated like a business, simply being closed because it wasn’t paying its way. After her speech, the quiet young Aboriginal man who had drawn the picture earlier made the comment that although he did not share her religion he shared Regina’s strong connection with place and people. Perhaps this is what other Australians are looking for in reconciling their sense of belonging. But this needs guidance from our leaders.

I was angry, and frustrated because my anger seemed in vain. But after one line from Bishop Kevin Dowling I felt better. He said that sometimes it’s good to be angry. When we see someone suffering from injustice and we are outraged it is because our love makes us feel as if the injustice is happening to us. There is empathy in our anger. My anger was being transformed into hope.

But how can we channel our anger and hope to fight injustice? Another guest speaker, Mark Yettica Paulson, CEO of the Australian Indigenous Leadership Centre, said we need to be clever and creative. He explained that being clever means having a high sense of reality, knowing “what is” and being highly informed about our situation. Being creative, Mark said, is having a high sense of possibility, exploring the question “what if” and then sharing our dreams. But if we have one without the other, we may be clever but we will be locked by the constraints of reality, or, if we are only creative, we will be rendered ineffectual by airy-fairy ideas. Mark’s speech focused my hope and helped me organise my thoughts.

Mark also cautioned about the distraction of materialism and stressed the importance of living with purpose. “Don’t get five to ten years down the track and look around and ask, ‘What is all this stuff? What am I doing with my life?’” He said that in any given situation there are two questions: one, “Will I do this or not?” (for example: will I buy a plasma TV?), and two, “Which option will I choose?” (the Samsung or the LG?). Marketers ignore the first question. They target us directly on the second; trying to buy our loyalty. Once we have pledged our allegiance to a certain company, (“I’m a Sony man, myself”) we can then live without questioning our actions at all. If we are to live with purpose, however, we need to reclaim both these questions and think critically about our choices.

That’s what I’m doing now – thinking. But there are many causes worth fighting for. If I try to fight them all alone my spark will fizzle out. So, here is my action plan. When I get angry about injustice I will allow the anger to come. I will let the anger go. I will find out as much as I can about the situation and share it with my friends and family. I will reflect and pray. My spirit will soar into the realm of dreams where anything is possible. I will plan and scheme and dream and make a connection. And then I will act.

the frozen spine

2006-01-23T23:33:00.000+11:00

freeze
no flow
not a river
but a jagged
crusted thing
entrusted
with a darkness
a cold blue sting
no place for sound
or the ground
or the earth trying
not to be seen
or heard
crying

cracks form
in the spine
when the weight
has gone on
too long
while the trees
that bend low
bear witness
set an example
the ice cannot follow
it’s hollow

tomorrow now
and the fire
in the air rages
and stages
a fightback
runs screaming
down a new track
then stops
and thinks
how best to attack

the heat
hovers low
takes in the slow
ugly flow

the ball of fire rises
despises that frozen spine
and there is
fear
and there is
love
shimmering up
from the hot earth
mixing and bubbling
bringing rumours
of a new birth

who heard that?
who can ever hear
when the daggers of ice
melt?
and yet
when it’s all gone
the land remembers
how it felt

before the water
trickled then flowed
the light in the
heart of the sky showed
darkness

and in a black sky
the light clusters
the temperature falls
and the land musters
all it’s strength
and tenses
because it senses
that come morning
the rising light
will be a warning

the ice will not shiver
it will not bend
it won’t break
it will melt
and from the water
a river make

horizon dreaming

2006-01-23T23:22:00.000+11:00

am i thinking
only of realities
of the here and now
of what is
of what was
the constraints
the complaints
the colours of paints
because
it’s all i can see?

am i thinking
only of possibilities
of what-might-be’s
of flowers that
flatten cars
of what i might draw
from the arc of the stars
becauseit’s all i can see?

either way
i’m stuck
right here and
right then
congestion in the question
that keeps coming
again

when?

when will i change
short-circuit the fear
allow empathy n anger
to tip-toe so near
it leads to action?

but the connections
need mending
a thorough blending
of what is and
what might be
till a messy soup
sustains us
and we see
we are real and
we are possible

aerial view

2005-11-27T21:55:00.000+11:00

i look down
at the stars
because they
can only wonder
at me
at what i do
without a line of sight
on the future

contrast

2005-11-27T21:53:00.000+11:00

if the sun
shone darkness
and the status quo
were night
if everything
were hidden
would we be silhouettes of light?

susceptible

2005-11-27T21:50:00.000+11:00

be fragile
if the power
to be strong
has left you

be vulnerable
if the vigilance
to be on guard
has fallen

be exposed
for what you are
to what might be
until you’re free

Runs in the family

2005-10-28T23:28:00.000+10:00

"HIGHLY COMMENDED" Cut Short 2005 CAE Short Story Competition

I’m 10. I’m in the back seat between my brother and sister. Up front mum is driving and whenever we go over a bump the picnic hamper next to her goes squeak-squeak. I’m thinking of the vegemite and cheese rolls, and orange juice and the cream bikkies too.

I’m sitting under a tree next to the car watching the grass move between my fingers and listening to the slap-slap of the runners’ feet as they pass. They’re all running the same way, down the road. And some of them are chatting, and others are just by themselves.

“Here he comes!” my sister yells. I stand up and look down the street, down the line of huffing n puffing. And there he is, race number flapping. “Come on Dad!” He waves, smiling and Mum says, “You’re looking good.” We run back to the car and I help my brother put his seat belt on.

We’re driving and driving and my tummy is rumbling and we’re turning left and right down lots of lots of streets and the houses look good and old like Grandma’s and those people in yellow and orange keep pointing, telling us where to go and Mum is doing what they say. And my tummy is rumbling.

We stop and watch the runners go by because we’re waiting for Dad.

“Where’s Dad? When’s morning tea? Hey, Mum is that guy okay?” There’s a weird man going past and I don’t like looking at him but I’m not stopping. He’s rocking backward and going forward.
“Is he going to die Mum?”
“We’ll have something to eat soon.”
We’re back in the car and driving and stopping and waiting and waving and driving and stopping and waiting. And there’s Dad again but he’s not waving back this time and his legs are all wet and pumping and his singlet is stuck to his chest and I can see his boobies and his glasses are fogged up. “Come on Dad! You’re looking good!”

But I don’t think so. He looks like when he drops a glass in the kitchen and it breaks. There’s white stuff on his head above his eyes like Wizz-Fizz. Why won’t he shut his mouth?

* * *

I’m 19. I’m standing alone at the corner. It’s a grey day and the marshal’s vest I’m wearing is wet from the fine mist falling. I’m not directing runners any more; they know where to go, I reckon they can smell it. They’re going past, tired faces and feet slapping the ground; they don’t look happy. But I don’t care, I’m waiting for Dad.

And here he comes. “Come on Dad! You’re looking good.” But he isn’t. There’s a line of spit from his mouth down to his neck and his head is slightly cocked. He doesn’t look at me, just keeps running.

I join him. I’m not sure if it helps but I’m there, next to him, running. He’s carrying his 42 kilometres of pain and I’m carrying a whole lot of pride and encouragement.

I’m getting hot under my rain jacket but I’m not stopping because I’m not sure what kind of a message that would send. Anyway, it can’t be far now.

We scuttle across tram tracks and past another marshal. The road bends to the right and I wonder if I should be doing this. I take my vest off and scrunch it into my pocket. My tracky-dacks are wet and clinging, heavy to my thighs. But I think about Dad’s legs and I forget about my discomfort.

I can hear his breathing, fast and rasping. I want to help him, say something, anything just to will him towards the finish. Should I speed up or maybe I should slow down or would that stuff up his rhythm?

I see the finish chute and give him one last rev up, “Right oh, away you go Dad. Finish it off.” I’m slowing down, pulling off to the side, watching him. He’s running alone now, towards the banner and the clock, the people and the clapping. There’s a spring in his step.

And he’s away.
* * *

I’m 28. I’m running and there’s people all around me, and their shoulders are against mine, pressing, sliding. Someone clips my heel and I stumble. I’m angry and suddenly I want to cut loose, take this race apart, make them pay. But I’m patient—I use my forearms to make some space—and just relax. It’s a long way to go and now is not the time. Not yet.

My runners are light and soft. My singlet flutters with its race number pinned to the front. My socks are new and my shorts are loose. But it’s irrelevant. It wouldn’t matter what I wore. I’ve trained so hard I’d run alright in gumboots. There is no pain that this course can inflict upon me that I haven’t already inflicted upon myself.

It’s time.

I surge.

I’m clear now; no-one around. The road is flashing past beneath my feet. I’m super smooth, eating it up. The air is moving cold over my wet singlet, I shiver.

Halfway there. I’m still fresh and all alone out in front. The rhythm of my running is sending me away. I flash past a row of parked cars but inside I am still. I hear no slapping just my heart. I am leaving the ground behind

Drink station. I scan the tables for my bottle. Got it! Squeeze, drink, splutter, drink, splutter, breathe, drink, discard. Swallowed more air than fluid and now I’m a bit bloated. Fatigue creeps into the legs. My feet begin slap the ground and suddenly they’re catching me. I shake myself. I’m angry. It’s coming undone, all the hard work, going to waste. No, no – come on! I can’t stop muscling the ground, legs all chunky, suppleness gone.

The others are coming.

But there’s Dad, standing alone at the corner. He calls out and a distant memory cuts through the fog – a small boy running. There is an innocence to this suffering. I forget the runners behind and remember the road ahead. Fear fades.

Blinking through the sweat I see him clapping. I’m concentrating, repeating my mantra, “Strong and relaxed, strong and relaxed.” My legs tighten; so tight they’re almost numb. My breathing comes in gasps. I’m level with him now. “Come on Little Man,” he says gently, “you’re looking good.”

And I’m away.

the wind chimes

2005-10-27T23:58:00.000+10:00

"FINALIST" 2005 Galaxy Poetry Competition

the wind chimes move
there is no sound
the paper in the driveway
and the dew on the ground

the people in the bed
in the room next door
the fire in the sky
makes a shadow on the floor

no one except me
sees the creeping of the black
hands that once moved closer
suddenly drawn back

nothing except the sun
can make the darkness go away
and console a broken heart
when the chimes begin to play

mirrors are beautiful

2005-10-27T12:52:00.000+10:00

do you want to go
to a party where
neither you
nor i
know anyone
and sit there
on the couch
locked in our own
little world
not talking
to anyone
just us
just looking
smiling
with eyes
held
like hands
in laps
entranced
by the reflection
of ourselves
in each other
realising perhaps
that we
are beautiful

man unsure with ice-cream

2005-10-20T16:29:00.000+10:00

slide on through
or stand still
and let the warm breeze
hover and stare
like a fluorescent
reminiscent of a
man unsure
with an ice-cream
at a petrol station

it’s not really night
some rumour
spread by the sunset
lost on the souls
inside
like holes beside
the road
near the beginning
there’s no light
just the sound
of the floating cars

please go home now
it’s not right
to stay here
paused waiting
like a streetlight
it’ll be alright
something like the last bus
forlorn on a path worn
smooth and dreamy
no stars
no need when the speed
of travel to get there
and unravel
the tv guide
a better way to hide
anyway

what must be going
through her head
in a strange bed
far away dreaming
either side of now
where the buzzing
of the inert
the one hurt
so long ago
last week
in fact
i’ll look it up
in an ice-cream cup

the biggest turn around

2005-10-07T23:13:00.000+10:00

where’s your book?
get back in your seat
if you keep talking
over me
well
something’s
going to happen

and it almost did
i almost cried
at the end of
a six-on day
i dragged my sorry carcass
down the hall
oblivious
to the lockers being slammed
students pushing
bells mixing
with swear words
macho-mania

slumped
like a dead dog
in the chair
staring
like glazed cherries
at the mess
on my desk
end of day one

day two
good sleep
nerves settled
confidence
in the key
turning the right way
not caring
what the boys are thinking

sitting
for minutes on end
at the front
letting the chatter
rise and fall
not responding
just getting my shit together

attack the board
fill it with notes and questions
turn now and then
to heap praise
on the ones getting stuck in
without being asked
and i can see now
it’s turning
an intangible shift
even the louts
at the back
are writing
and not a word
raised in anger

and now i prowl
picking off
the odd lazy bum
everyone else is working
yes the classroom
is mine again
end of day two
see you later sir

the way to come back

2005-10-05T23:08:00.000+10:00

and now i’m here
blown carried
by a desire
to connect
to be still
to bask
once more
in the radiance
of friends and family
to reflect
the light
the warmth
to refract
but keep true to
the laws of physics
of love

why am i drawn here
not elsewhere?
why am i drawn to you
not anyone else?
why
in this place
in the company
of these people
am i open
ready to change
burst like fire
like a chance risked
a path taken
to find adventure
new people to love
old ones to miss
and then finally
the way to come back

bamboo beginning

2005-09-30T01:34:00.000+10:00

gurgle
like a chuckle
tinkle
and my smile
spreads over the page
trickles down
to the ground
where i used to be

the sounds
of bamboo hanging
clonking each other
into sporadic music
reading the notes
whispered on the breeze
awakening warmth
renewing hope

in time
being out of time
will sit just nicely
and the dampness
the melancholy
will no longer
dull my simple tune
because spring is coming

the whole world is happy

2005-09-29T23:32:00.000+10:00

Selamat malam dari Grant di Indonesia.

From no particular place or time, the joy of being
human, of being with other humans, of communicating returns! Yay!

I went to my fifth film of this holidays. Finally, though, I chose an Indonesian film.
The woman at the ticket window informed me thus. And I said, "It's okay, I speak
Indonesian." But my smile said, "No, you're right, I have no idea what I'm doing."
I grinned all the way to the door of the cinema where the two guys checking tickets
were smiling at my approach. Again it was queried whether I really meant to see this
film. With my eyes I said, "You're right, I've lost the plot, haven't I." With my words
I said, "I'm using it as a language exercise." They laughed and one of them took my
ticket at pinched me playfully on the leg.

I came out smiling too. Totally crap acting, ridiculous story, and didn't understand a
fair chunk of it because a lot of it was in slang, but I was feeling pretty good.

I went out and jumped in a taxi to go to the shiatsu massage place where they have
blind masseurs. (An old haunt.) The price had doubled. It was now Rp 30,000 ($4)
for an hour and a half. After the massage, I had a good chat with the blind masseur
and the sighted guy who runs the clinic. Then, after taking my leave, I headed out
to the road to  hail a taxi or jump in an angkot (public transport mini-van). When I
popped out from the arrow alleyway there was a group of guys sitting, talking and
laughing. One guy had his little trolley and burner set up on the side of the road and
the light above his cooking plate spilled over the happy mob. Instantly they were
talking and laughing with me or at me, I didn't really care, I was so relaxed. And I
joined straight into their conversation. "No, I'm not Michael Owen. Okay, yes, I am
Michael Owen. Can you tell me which angkot goes to Liverpool," (much laughter)
"Yeah, I'll have a drink," (a glass of hot, sweet tea is placed before me) "No, I haven't
eaten yet," (the guy immediately starts cooking up some roti bakar, "grilled bread",
also known in parts of Australia as "toast"). And we're

crapping on about this and that, and it's such a friendly mob you would've thought
they'd known me forever. And I could see that this was just a bunch of normal
blokes, hanging out on a Thursday night. And I was part of it. And I had no feeling
of enduring this; I greeted each new person who arrived on the scene with a smile
and perhaps a handshake. And I'm eating and drinking. And the cars and motorbikes
and angkots are passing. And I'm letting them because there's no hurry to go. Go
where, anyway? Eventually, (when I'd finished my roti bakar and tea) I stood up and
shook all their hands again, saying that I had to get to soccer training (more laughter)
Finally, a place where people appreciate my humour. And my smile spreads to the
people on the angkot. I help a woman on with her shopping. And the driver's happy
and another passenger smiles at me as we get off together. And, for a short time,
the whole world is happy.

Hope you're happy.

shafts of light

2005-09-26T14:12:00.000+10:00

this might be
where i was
where i sat
with a friend
waiting
for a plane
to carry us
over seas
over time
that trip
has faded

i sit here now
alone in
a different space
between jobs
between girls
at the beginning
of a journey
i don't know why
i'm making

why is my calm
edged with agitation?
why
behind the eyes
a compression
of the carefree
the child-like
the laughter?

i am going
to a friend's wedding
to a place
with fond memories
of sweet observations
of an inexplicable culture
which taunted me
for so long
until i smiled
and joined in
the big joke
on me
on you
on all of us

we are not the same
our differences
brought us together
and maybe my attempts
to be the same
pushed us apart
this time
will be different
we'll be different
and i won't get so upset
when you don't
understand me and
when you don't fit
into my way of thinking

this doesn't have to be
a sickly slide of
reminiscing
when the ones
we're missing
are right here

this can be something new
like a take off
keep going
you can look down
if you want
to see how far
you've come but
god you're dumb
to think that
this is the best
you can do!
take a deep breath
then let it go
like you don't care
or don't know
there's another
one coming

you can let her go too
and what joy
when you find her
still there
in the morning
sun on her sleeping face

let yourself go
while you're at it
while you're taking
that first timid step
that leads to another
another first step
that might seem lonely
or misjudged
but there are so many
good people looking out
for you
shafts of light
through the clouds
making puddles of warmth
along your way

a good moment

2005-09-25T23:00:00.000+10:00

I'm having a really good day (well, actually I'm having a really good moment which makes even the bad stuff seem good - like almost drowning in the big surf this morning and getting all banged up on the rocks on the way back in, and the Kiwi whose board I'd borrowed being really concerned...
about his board! And before that I lay on my bed with the heat and humidity pressing me into the bed, pressing my thoughts into dark places of futility and inertia.)

But now I've just had a filling yummy meal of rice and vegies under a tarp on a plastic seat with the rain making rivers all around. A small bowl of water was placed in front of me. I just ignored it because I'd had already got a spoon and fork. But then I remembered how much fun it is to eat with your hands (hand, singular, the right one to be more specific) so I got stuck in. And I didn't care if I didn't do it just right or whatever. (Although I did remember one bule (boo-lay = Westerner) telling me that in India you are judged on your sophistication by how close you can keep the rice to your finger tips (wonder what they think of rice in the armpit).

And now I'm just sitting on a bus which is crawling for passengers. I'm off to Bandung! (where I lived in '01 and '02) I rang the place where I first stayed to arrange a room to stay in. It was funny speaking to the old landlady after all this time. She said most of the uni students I knew had moved away, but oh well. I think I'll go and hire a motorbike and go into the mountains and swim in the hot springs.

what i said when you left

2005-09-14T23:37:00.000+10:00

everyone wants
to say something
special something
profound something
meaningful

but we all say the same thing
have a great time
take care
you’ll be fine
send us a postcard

maybe it’s the rush
of goodwill
towards you
as you go
on your way
that makes us lean
on these well-worn phrases

but really
we’re just putting it off
that moment
when the eyes droop
there’s a sigh
a small smile
a brave face
a limp gesture
a last flicker
of the eyes

who turns first
is not important
but there’s the world now
big and empty
and the yearning begins
small
like a rubber band
around the two of us
stretching as we move
further apart
tempting each of us
just to cancel
the whole bloody thing
and run back
into each other’s arms

i can’t remember
what i said
when you left
i didn’t say
i would miss you
but i will
and i am
anyhow

Everyone is with you

2005-09-13T23:37:00.000+10:00

When you go into the mountains, the mountains go into you. And the deeper you go and the further you journey, into yourself and into the land, the greater the risk you will lose you way. And if you lose your way, there is a risk that, while you are standing there, on the edge of the world looking out, trying to see where you fit in, no-one will find you.

The day is still, there are no clouds and the eye travels out to the horizon and then goes a little bit further—because it can. When it meets the blue dome of the sky at the most distant range, you think, it must be a band of clouds. But it’s not. It’s the land, perched and pretending, like you, above all the world, that this is the sky, and you, the lonely runner, are flying.

At the horizon the peaks seem to hover, lined up like the choppy waters of a giant sea frozen in time. And gradually you let your eye draw back from the distance, catching each ridgeline, until the land becomes solid and real. And there you are, running.

The land on either side of this path is worn smooth. The wind and rain of centuries have blunted the landscape; there are no aching peaks, no sheer cliffs, just vast rolling hills. The path itself is worn too, but not smooth. The rocks stick up and twist your ankles, this way and that, the thick low scrub on either side is overgrown and catches and scratches your lower-legs—you will have something to show for your efforts after this.

The sun is not strong, for the air is cold and across the other side of the valley, a last patch of snow, a remnant of winter, holds out against the summer. Below it, a creek has sprung up and where the land steepens, a waterfall. The flowing water is too far away to hear. But you imagine the laughing as it dances down over the rocks, and reminds you of the dryness at the back of your throat.

Your arms swing like pendulums keeping time for your legs. On this slow ascent, your breathing comes easily, there is no thought of the end of this journey, no impatience to finish. The rhythm of your running is trance-like, your physical body disappears. You are a spirit moving as one with the land.

The path contours and disappears around the top of a hill. An outcrop of rock is encircled by a group of gnarled snow gums like a meeting place of old men, they tell their stories in the curves of their branches, watch the sun hanging in the blueness above and listen to the footfalls of a passing runner

Thoughts drift like deformed clouds—vapour memories through an internal landscape. They break apart, flying off into new quarters. And you realise that, rather than these new thoughts coming into view, they were always there, you just hadn’t noticed. The twisted trees let you and your thoughts pass like a question needing no answer.

On the far side of the valley, something looms. As you round the bend it grows—a massif—the highest mountain in the area, and bigger, too, by volume. It sits broad and squat, like an ogre waiting to rise up against you. But that will come later. For now the land drops away, the scrub thickens to woodland and down there, somewhere is the water. You don’t spend too long gazing at that lofty peak because you realise that you must cross the river before you climb that mountain.

You scramble downwards, on and on, steeper and steeper. The earth gives way and you slip, on to one knee, sliding, grasping at leaves and branches until suddenly your feet hit grass and in one, fluid motion you are up again, running as if nothing had happened

After a while however, the relentless downhill running takes its toll. The first feeling of fatigue creeps into your thigh muscles and you are annoyed because you’d been so smooth and thought you could run forever. The land however, though willing to bend for a thousand years of wind and rain, does not lie down for humans, not even for the discomfort of a lone runner. And so you follow the path and ponder the futility of reasoning with a geographical feature.

It is dark down here. And cold. The sun does not belong. The ferns fan out and the dank earth holds the silence. Even your footsteps now are muted. Now the soft path flattens out and weaves its way through the greenery. You have forgotten the fatigue in your legs but are thirsty, and you are sure you can hear water. Or maybe it’s just your dry mouth that hears water.

The undergrowth becomes thicker and the trees reach higher. The light filters down from some place you used to know as the sky. Salty sweat drips and stings your eyes, the paths blurs. You so want the sky back, the light, no more descending. Yes, it is beautiful here, and peaceful, but lonely too. The silence is closed. And now in your mind is the knowledge that for every step you descend, you must climb back up.

When you reach the river you kneel and scoop dirty hands into icy water and drink. A parched throat is soothed, energy renewed and a prayer answered.

You take off your shoes and wade, gasping, into the freezing river. It gets deeper, and the current stronger. The rocks on the bottom are smooth and slippery. You step into a hole and go up to your waist and hold your shoes out for balance, the laces hang down into the water.

On the other side you sit smiling in a small patch of sun and dry your feet before putting your shoes back on.

It is wonderful to be climbing again, it’s what you’re somehow programmed to do. Your body is refreshed from the water and all fatigue is forgotten. The forest is still dark here but the promise of sunlight is ahead. The ascent begins.

Away from the river the path steepens and the undergrowth becomes sparse and dry. The ground is firm and you’re strong. You leap over a fallen tree. There are rocks too, here and there, trying to interrupt your easy rhythm, but you skip over them like cracks in the footpath. This is the roughest terrain and you are treating it with disdain.

But the path winds now, twisting back and forth with sharp hairpin bends, and at each turn, a rocky step breaks the rhythm and strains the thigh muscles. Here the path takes a direct line and the steepening gradient stings. Your breathing is laboured now, but worse, your legs are fading—they’re not indestructible. Negative thoughts begin to cloud your mind and the beautiful twisted shapes of the snow gums become ugly and menacing. You are annoyed with yourself, at your over-confidence, at the arrogance of thinking you could run up this mountain with ease, at the shame of impending defeat.

The legs are slowing, each stride becoming shorter. And instead of bounding over the rocky ledges, now you stagger and slow almost to a walk. The filtered sunlight is of no comfort. Panic forms a lump in the back of your throat. You are miles from the campsite, wearing shorts and t-shirt and the nights are below freezing. There is a long way to go.

Okay then, you announce to yourself as if addressing the troops, if that’s the way it’s going to be, let’s change the focus here…we’re not aiming for the top any more. In fact the top can get stuffed. (And now you talk directly to yourself, spurring yourself on, like a coach to an athlete, a father to a son) You’re not getting off this mountain in a hurry, so you might as well get into a rhythm you can sustain. Don’t worry about what’s up ahead—it’ll come soon enough. Focus on your running right here and now. Run up this mountain like it’s the rest of your life. This is it, nothing else.

At first there is no change, just an acceptance of the situation. The legs are still stuffed, still running terribly, taking tiny baby steps, shuffling over the ground. But incredibly, within this nightmare of sweat and dirt and solitude halfway up a mountain, there is a spark of hope. The legs have relaxed slightly and the rhythm is returning, and in this rhythm, an efficiency, and a realisation that you just might have enough to pull this off.

The mountain too, seems to pulse of its own rhythm. Far away, to the side, a snowdrift is held in the shadow of the mountain and tries to resist the summer sun. Further down, the melting snow forms a spontaneous waterfall. A breeze picks up and carries from somewhere up ahead the sound of trickling water. A little while later you come upon a small creek and briefly stop to drink. Running again, you look out into space, and high above the ground, a peregrine falcon hangs almost in time. And as you climb higher and higher the shape of the mountain itself is revealed, there is music in its suffering and in its renewal. It has been shaped by the things around it, worn smooth by wind and water, and brought to life by sun.

And you, like the mountain, find that you too have come through the darkness, at first by resisting, but then by accepting and allowing yourself to be changed.

The trees thin, the sun’s warmth cuts through the leaves, and up ahead you can see the end of the tree-line. You’re almost there! You giggle and squeal with delight, and remember how close you came to giving up. The legs feel light and strong now. The gradient flattens out towards to the broad summit. It’s not your classic pointy mountain. Maybe it was pointy a few million years ago; thankfully not today.

And then you reach the last two trees standing sentry-like on either side of the path, and you burst through, and the summit opens up. You don’t even need to keep to the path now, someone’s laid a carpet of grass up here. It’s soft and folds silently beneath your feet as you bound onwards; you could be a leopard. And then you look out over the edge and get the fright of your life—you can’t see the bottom! The river, where you crossed, is a memory. It’s all a memory, as if it never happened. But it did, it must have, because here you are, all alone and exposed to the world. And in the distance the mountain ranges are lining up, reaching out and crashing like waves against the horizon. And it’s quiet. And you feel like screaming but the sky might split open. And you’re sprinting now, for the top, tears streaming, wishing everyone could share this. But maybe they are; it feels like they’re here. There’s a presence, as if everyone who has ever lived is right here, with you.

Bridge Under Troubled Water

2005-09-12T13:22:00.000+10:00

The training program on my wall said, “steady 60 min” – this basically meant run hard for an hour. It was a tough ask on a night like that, but it appealed to the doggedness in me. Cross-country season was approaching and I wanted to do well. I pictured myself sprinting clear to the finish tape and a tingle went down my spine.
Outside a thunder clap echoed across the darkening sky. It had been raining all day. The drains had cacked themselves and the road was a river. Part of me said, “Give it a miss tonight, it’s too wet.” While another part countered, “That’s exactly why we’re going!” (I often spoke to myself as “we” especially when “we” needed encouragement.) I hated missing a session. Sometimes I wondered if I was a bit obsessed. Most of my friends didn’t know about my running ability. I liked the idea of changing into Superman and charging out the door while the rest of Melbourne snuggled down to a hot dinner while I was lacing my runners like a warrior preparing for battle.
A crack of thunder made me smile grimly. Bring it on.
By the end of the street I was soaking. My t-shirt clung to my chest and I blinked as water as trickled down my face. The temperature had fallen in the last half an hour and although the wind had dropped, the darkening sky continued to send down a fine drizzle. I wasn’t built for these conditions. My ribs stuck out and my lips shivered. My sodden runners squelched through the Canning St grass and over glassy side streets.
I turned right into Park St and followed the bitumen path. The firm footing was a welcome change. The bike path, normally busy with flashing tail lights heading home, was deserted. Not waiting at the pedestrian crossing, I splashed across Nicholson St waving to a startled motorist. From there I was on my own.
It’s not that often you get to feel completely alone in a city of 3 million. It was like Melbourne had been hit by a plague. The dirty yellow lights of Rushall Station reflected off the empty platform. I ran through the underpass, a brief respite from the rain and down the hill to Merri Creek.
Now it was really dark. Fortunately, the rain had eased and my eyes adjusted until I could just make out the concrete path as it snaked through the trees. I didn’t ease off the pace. My face, though frozen into a grimace, belied my feelings. I was loving it.
The path dropped steeply as it passed under High St. It was then that I saw what Merri Creek had become. On a normal day it was a gentle trickle, meandering through the inner suburbs, something for the kids to play alongside. Not tonight. Tonight it was a hideous torrent; a surging brown mass groping at the blackberries surging over the path. I had never seen it this high. They must have had some rain in the hills.
Still I didn’t slow. I skipped through ankle deep water, laughing, mad, drunk. I could barely see a thing, my shoes were full and heavy and yet I charged on. I could see it. I would arrive home triumphant, flushed with achievement and drip my way to the shower. My house mates, slobbing in front of the telly, would look up momentarily then back to their comfort zones.
The next dip in the path took me past the giant brick supports of the Hurstbridge line bridge. The water deepened to my shins and for a split second I wondered what lurked beneath these murky waters. But reckless abandon was on my side, protecting me. I was a child, invincible.
It grew darker still. The trees hung across the path in twisted shapes. A jagged rock face loomed up in front of me. The path turned to the left, into the boiling brown mix of rubbish, leaves and branches. I knew this bend. It led to the bridge. I raced on
It was a flat wide bridge, made of wood, no handrails. Normally it was a metre above the water. But as I turned and looked I couldn’t see it. The bridge had gone. I looked again and notice saw the debris, the branches, the rocks and leaves, not moving just sitting there, somehow suspended on the water’s surface. A strange sight; a stillness amidst the chaos. Then I realised, it was the bridge, submerged by about 3 inches.
Why didn’t I stop? Why was there no trigger in my brain telling me to proceed with caution? Was it because these things belong to the rational, logical world where people make sensible decisions and never dare get dirty or cold or risk injury? Was it because I was stupid? Or was it just because I was flying.
I was bounding across the bridge, following the trail of debris when, Shooomp! I misjudged and run straight off the edge. I was in the water. Immediately it caught my legs and swung them under the bridge. The sheer force pinned my chest to the upstream side of the bridge. I clung to the top of the bridge with my right arm while my left held the underside. The water flowed over my head and for a moment there was a pocket of air.
I was calm. Everything was okay. I would simply get back up.
But I couldn’t. I pulled as hard as I could, but the water was unrelenting. All I got was a glimpse of the outside world, a snapshot before being dragged back under. Open shutter. A dark place with branches and leaves in the foreground, water swirling all around, a rock wall to the right and away in the distance the light of a house. Close shutter.
Then I was scared. I loved the water. I was used to getting dumped in the surf. It was just a matter of riding it out, holding your breath, waiting till you popped up somewhere. But this water was different. It didn’t let up. It just kept coming. And I knew I couldn’t beat it. I considered letting go, just letting the water take me out the other side and something big and heavy scraped against me.
“In news just in, the body of a 23 year old man, reported missing last week, has been found by a woman walking her dog. The man’s body was wedged under a bridge on Merri Creek in Northcote. Police believe the man may have drowned during last week’s flooding………… …”
I shuddered and pulled up again, more desperately this time. I got my head up, but failed to get a breath. My lungs were empty now and as I slipped further under the bridge, something inside me coolly acknowledged that this was it.
In the outside world, the rain had stopped and the sky was clearing. Anyone on the bridge would not notice the four fingers gripping the upstream edge. They would not pause in their walk through the cold night to consider what it must be like to be held under the water for so long. And if they glanced at their watch it certainly wouldn’t be to count the seconds wondering how much longer.
Panic gripped me. I began to thrash.
My body was stretched out like the tail of a kite. My right hand was the only part of me out of the water. My legs were against the underside of the bridge. I took a chance and put my head down and brought my knees up to my chin until I was in a tight ball. I’m not sure why I did this. Perhaps instinct was finally kicking in. I gradually inched my legs against the flow and towards the edge. The supporting beams of the bridge shielded this movement. I poked a toe out and upwards into the flow and immediately my whole foot was pinned to the side of the bridge. This was positive. Next I got a leg up then the other leg, until my whole body was held fast to the side of the bridge. I wiggled upwards and the instant I was above the height of the main deck the water was working with me. It did the job. I flipped, rolled and then lay sprawled, gasping like a fish.
I can’t remember how I got home. But I remember my housemates, who are normally indifferent to my running, asked me if I was all right. I was about to give them full story but I noticed they weren’t really listening. They were watching reality TV.

The ambulance isn’t coming

2005-09-12T01:33:00.000+10:00

I am taking care of a roomful of children, all different ages, mainly boys. There are two other teachers, one reading the newspaper, the other with headphones on.

The boys are running amok, making a racket, pushing each other around, knocking things over. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could send them outside to play. But I can’t. We’re about twenty floors up, stuck in this apartment and it’s my job, well our job, to take care of them.

I look across the room, out the window over the tops of the buildings. We’re so high up the traffic below is barely audible. The room goes quiet, less crowded. The window I’m looking out is very clean. But it’s not clean. It’s open.

I gasp and rush to the sill. Hearing a scraping I look down. Five boys are climbing on the outside of the building. Oh, God. This is not happening. I am staring at them, hoping that by sheer force of will I can make them appear back inside. I’m about to yell at them to get down right now, then realise they might do exactly that.

“Boys,” I say very calmly, “you need to get back inside now.” The boy closest to the window looks up. He’s one of the older ones; about 10 years old. I can’t have concealed my fear too well; he starts to shake. His left foot slips from the tiny ledge and I know he’s about to fall. I dash round the room, searching for anything to help. There! in the corner, a rope. I make a loop and lower it to him. He has the poise to put his head and arm through. He thinks he is safe and lets go of the wall. Immediately his whole weight goes on to the rope. It slips rapidly through my fingers, burning. I grit my teeth and wrap the rope around my wrists. It cuts deeply but I halt his fall. Slowly I back away from the window, pulling with all my might. I scream at the teacher with the paper. He looks up, bemused then ambles over and helps pull the boy to safety.

The next boy has climbed so far down he is almost out of sight. In fact, he is on the ground, thank God.

I lower the rope again. The next boy fits the loop around his torso and we pull him in through the window.

The room is quiet. I look around. It is empty; no boys no teachers. I am alone. Again I run to the window, praying that they’re still there. I am surprised. The next boy is almost up to the window sill; he’s climbed up all by himself. I lean out with one hand and grab him around his upper arm. I drag him up the side of the building, but when he’s level with the window sill my hand begins to sweat. The boy tries to help. He reaches up to try and grab the sill but his arm slides slowly down through my hand. I grip him fiercely at the elbow and pull up. It feels like his arm will break. His chest scrapes over the sill and finally he lands, sprawled on top of me. One to go.

I look down the side of the building at the final child and moan. He looks like an infant, too young to use the rope. His forehead is pressed to the wall. It looks like he’s frozen; can’t go up, can’t go down.

And then he falls.

His body rotates slowly and I’m watching. There is a small voice inside me saying, if you witness the impact you will never escape the memory. But I can’t turn away and he’s still falling and I’m going to watch him hit the ground. My mouth is open and I’m about to vomit. Going to watch him die.

I turn away.

A dull crack. Something breaks, within me. A second later, the crying.

I am tumbling down the stairs, dialling the phone. Through the terrible pain in my chest I am wondering if the cordless will be out of range on the ground floor.

“Fire, ambulance, police?”

“Ambulance!” I blabber everything to operator, the whole story. She seems genuinely moved.

I run round the corner of the building and there he is. Still and silent. No blood, lying peacefully in the tan bark, his beautiful little head next to a row of blue-stone bricks. He’s moving! His hand moves towards his face. His body starts to shake, big movements then smaller, faster, until he’s vibrating, buzzing.

“He’s having a fit!” I’m thinking of brain damage and of his parents and maybe it would’ve been better if he’d just… “Jesus. He’s shrinking!”

“What?” the operator cries. The boy becomes an infant. The infant shrinks further; he’s a foetus now, shrivelled and red, no bigger than my hand.

“He’s changing shape!” The operator is silent. The boy shrinks and changes shape. He’s a small circle now, about the size of a thumbnail. And he’s green.

“He’s turned into a beetle.” The operator is silent.

A small green beetle with five black eyes, he’s just sitting there in front of me. I’m still thinking he can be treated.

The beetle begins to crawl. I’m thinking I should stop him, make him lie still, wait for the ambulance. But he crawls through a small hole in the building and I’m worried the ambulance will arrive soon and there won’t be any patient. I press my head down to the ground and look in through the hole. If I can just keep and eye on him… He crawls past a ventilation grill and little shafts of light play across his back. I can see other beetles in there. They’re green too. They’re looking out at me out through the grill and I’m trying to pick out which one is him.

The line goes dead.

Through a darkening list

2005-09-11T23:59:00.000+10:00

Through a darkening city. Head down, he’s thinking. Buy milk and bread. Hang out washing. Crossing a street against the red man, he's thinking. Put bins out. Pick up suit from drycleaners. Set video timer. A tram dings, he skips up the grey chipped gutter, out of the path of a surging car, back on to the footpath. He weaves through the homeward pedestrian traffic. A warm wind lifts his tie and lays it over his shoulder.

The buildings recognise him. The path he takes is worn smooth, he’s on rails, a passenger in his own body. There is no need to look left or right, no decisions to make. Only something very small within him glances sideways and registers the sports shop with the running shoes in the window. Claim healthcare rebate. Buy thank you card. Pay rent.

He smoulders.

The sky way above is still light and blue, wispy clouds drift like cameos before being closed out by the silhouettes of the buildings. It is the of the end of the week, a sad time for him. The melancholy of jump-starting his social life. Ring Louise. Repay loan from Dad. Merge supers. He walks like he drives, without interest in the vehicle that carries him. Without interest in any of the vehicles. The people at the tram stop are parked at random.. They need money in their meters.

A wave of air from a department store engulfs him and for a moment he remembers a holiday he once had, driving in the mountains with the valley floor far below and out to the side, hanging, wings poised, was a falcon, alone in space. For a moment his stride shortens but he catches himself and returns to the metronome rhythm. Get new glasses prescription. Return library book. Buy present for Nan. Make dental check-up appointment.

There is a movement up ahead, a large group of people. He is walking head down, focused on the ever-moving point in front of his feet. Renew ambulance membership. Get window repaired. Download anti-virus softeware. There is colour and music. They are chanting and beating drums. Email CV to Enterprise Industries. Backup list of contacts. Give bank details to HR department. The crowd is moving, there are adults and children. They are smiling and holding banners, waving placards. There are policemen on horses holding back the cars. Street lights come on. He stops at the edge.

Catch-up with Jennifer. Pay phone bill. Cut toe-nails. He sees the mass of people before him, is attracted momentarily by the life force in them, but something holds him back. Send job application. Print shortlist of houses. RSVP to Gemma. Borrow Neil Finn CD. Check lost property for bathers. Do twenty push-ups. The crowd swells. Someone has a trumpet. The drum beat catches him. His heart quickens. Eat more vegetables. No sugar on weeties. Get car serviced. Refill gas bottle. Babysit for Rob and Daphne. Photocopy uni transcripts. Pay car registration. Pay library fine. Recycle plastic bags. Take antibiotics. Vote. Run. Swim. Eat. Breathe.

He stands there in a trance, not really waiting, just held, frozen like a computer crashed in an endless loop.

A woman comes out of the crowd and smiles. “Do you want to carry a placard?” She holds it out, almost touching him. Can he feel her breathing? Her face, the smooth curves of her cheek, the soft, light hair on her uppper lip and the dimple at the point of her nose. Her mousey brown hair tied back in a pony tail, it makes him think of a little girl he once pushed off the swings in grade two. He liked her. She laughed with her eyes. She could be that girl; the way she’s standing there, smiling, drilling him with those eyes. He falls into them and large slabs of his self break off and fall away.

She shifts her weight and he imagines the shape of her hips behind the placard. The crowd moves like a strip of film behind her. The camera zooms in on her face again—there is a small scar below her left eye, and there are more freckles on the right side of her nose than the left, and her smile, it’s changing. She’s amused now, facinated by his frozen-ness, unaware though, that he is frightened. She sways to and fro with feigned impatience. He breathes in. Return video. Buy new batteries for remote control. Buy something. Do something else. She breaks them off him like long-held barnacles but he’s not sure who’s casting who adrift. There’s a lightness, like the pull of a helium balloon wanting to be let go. Buy new leads for retractable pencil. Recharge walkman batteries. Polish shoes. Iron shirts. Buy extension cord. His all-important lists, things to do, ticking them off one by one, his modus operandi, all the things he thought sustained him, were now held in suspension.

She lowers the placard and turns away. Hang on, he says—he wants her, it, wants to, belong, be part of her, it. He reaches out and she, smiling again, hands him the placard. He steps into flow and joins the river of people. She steps out and walks away.

His mind reels. He is deceived, abandoned. The girl walks away into the darkness. He stumbles, glances sideways but no one notices. He cannot believe that he’s inside the rally. He should not be here. This is not his place. He wants to escape. But something stops him. He looks out, to the stillness of the footpath where suits and skirts stand bemused like birds paused mid-air in their daily migration. I was just there, he thinks. I know what they’re thinking: Can we cross this river? Is it safe? Will the mob turn on us for not joining?

One man plunges in, head down, avoids eye contact, muttering as he dodges his way through.

The protesters are evenly spaced, walking peacefully, with confidence and purpose. Their faces are held high. The police stand on the sides in their fluoro-yellow vests and the drumbeats reverberate off the darkened walls of the buildings. From somewhere up ahead, the drone of a megaphone drifts back.

He looks at the placard he is holding. The cardboard is thick and on one side, painted in big green it says: JUSTICE FOR REFUGEES. Words flash and flit through his mind, he hears a news reader’s voice: boat people, queue-jumpers, mandatory detention, kids overboard. It’s a nursory rhyme, just sounds without meaning.

He looks out to the footpath again. Some look on with resentment, others with curiosity. Are they looking at me? Then he realises, they’re trying to read his placard. Gradually, he raises it higher. His stomach twists, he feels like a fraud. The blood rises to his face. But he calms himself, Come on, you can bluff your way through this. and raises the placard higher again. He tries to look relaxed and purposeful. The people read the placard and walk on.

The rally turns right. The crowd slows and at the inside of the corner the people squash together. His arm brushes against the bare shoulder of a girl. She has dreadlocks and is wearing a singlet and multi-coloured pants. He gives her a furtive smile and she grins back broadly. She is holding a broomstick and at the top there’s a diamond-shaped sign which simply says: FREEDOM. She reads his.

“Nice one,” she says.

“Oh no, I didn’t…I didn’t make this,” he stammers, “someone just gave it to me.”

“Same with this one,” she replies, “some guy didn’t want it. I hope he doesn’t need to sweep the floor.” She laughs at her own joke and he smiles along. But he’s thinking about the girl who dumped him with the placard, Maybe she just had to leave early.

The drums are beating loudly now, African rhythms infecting the crowd with a communal pulse. He finds himself stepping in time. The hairs stand up on the back of his arms and he can’t remember if he had anything planned for that night. A middle-aged man in a suit and a woman in a business jacket step from the footpath and join the rally. At first they appear out of step, but soon find the gentle flow. Another man carrying a skateboard with headphones on walks with a slouch. A group school girls start up a chant which ends up with them giggling uncontollably. An elderly man in a cardigan is rigid in his stride. A younger man carries a baby in a backpack. And two women push their children in prams.

The man sees all this and cannot stop his face breaking into a smile. The woman with dreadlocks next to him notices and bounces her sign with the music. He looks down embarassed, but laughs despite himself.

The traffic lights turn green. Behind the police horses not a car moves. The protesters, heady with the power of taking the whole road, continue on. The rally turns right again, into the heart of the city and then stops in an intersection. A woman steps onto a platform. The crowd pushes forward to hear. There is a presence about this woman. She wields the microphone like she might crush it in her fist. She begins to tell a story and a hush comes over the rally.

The man lowers his placard and listens.

“Three years ago our government told us that a group of refugee boat people threw their children overboard to force the navy to rescue them. The government lied. It never happened. The Prime Minister himself said they threw their children into the water. He lied. It never happened. Three years ago that government was elected because the people believed these lies.

“And now, three years later, we know the truth. We know the truth because one of the Prime Minister’s own advisors has come out and said that he told him, he told the Prime Minister, that there was no evidence that children were thrown overboard. The Prime Minister knew the truth. He knew that no children were thrown overboard. He knew the truth but he told a lie. He lied to us to create an environment of fear. He told a lie to get re-elected. The Prime Minister lied to us then and he’s lying to us now. Are we going to let him lie to us?”

The crowd roars, “No!”

“Are we going to let the Prime Minister use fear tactics to divide our country?”

“No!”

Something stirs within him. The drums have stopped but his face feels hot and there’s a buzzing in his head.

“The Prime Minister lied to us in the past and he’s lying to us now. He thinks he can get away with it again. Are we going to let him get away with it again?”

Amidst the thunderous response he hears, very closeby, someone join in and growl, “No.” And he realises it’s him. But he doesn’t care, he’s transfixed.

“Are we fed up with the government telling us lies?”

“Yes!” he joins in louder this time, feeling the strength from the crowd. He is one with them. The crowd is rising to hysteria. He joins in, The woman raises herself up. He is spellbound like a child at storytime. She lowers her voice, the calm before the storm.

“But the government will not continue lying to us…” she pauses menacingly. A tremor ripples through the crowd.

“…Because in two weeks’ time, on election day, we will decide! We will decide!

The crowd completely loses it, an eruption of clapping and yelling. Fists pump the air. Protesters howl like animals. Giant beach balls bounce across the carpet of noise. The rally has found new vigour. The a friendly jostling journey is renewed.

His eyes are wide like an animal, he is shaking. The placard is high in the air. There is a surging within him. He pushes deeper, towards the drums. Looks around, sees people outside the rally, still plodding home, still looking bemused. He holds his placard high, defiantly returning their gaze. The drumbeat enters him, he sways his shoulders, steps low, with the beat. The drummer, next to him now, urges him on. The city swallows him, the lines hanging low over the cold grey of the tracks (where are the trams?), the giant tv screen blinks an advertisement no-one sees, the red man changes to green, a police horse shuffles on the spot, a chocolate bar wrapper in the curve of the gutter, the lines on the road, an arrow pointing which way to go. He sees it all like a foreigner in a strange new city. Where am I? he wonders, Have I been here before?

His mind fizzes, sparks and crackles. Download toe nails. Hang out library book. Whole lists and schedules, carefully prioritised, simply break apart in his mind. Check lost property for Dad. Twenty push-ups on Gemma. Recycle Nan. Unpack Rob. Refill Daphne. Yearly planners and calendars, highlighted, dated, signed with explanatory notes crumble. Recharge housemate. Get Mum repaired. Email analysis of Grandpa. His smooth layer of greyness, holding things down, pushing people away, falls into disrepair. And through the cracks something new grows.

SmokeBag

2005-09-10T23:38:00.000+10:00

Smokers have been on the losing end of the cigarette for too long. When we buy cigarettes we expect all the goodness of the cigarette to go into our bodies. However, what we don’t realise is that when we exhale most of the cigarette floats away into the air—only a small proportion stays in our lungs where it should be. What is more disturbing is the complete lack of appreciation shown by non-smokers who seem to think that it is their right to breathe our second-hand smoke without offering anything towards the price of the cigarettes. Then, they have the gall to pretend they don’t really like it.

Well, wasted smoke and the appropriation of second-hand smoke may be a thing of the past if a new American invention takes off.

Scientists from the University of Las Vegas have dubbed their latest effort SmokeBag®. SmokeBag® is an ingenious design combining elements of steel, plastic and rubber. The name is derived from the Latin, smokus bagus which literally means “bag on head”. The product itself is a large, clear plastic bag worn over the head and sealed around the neck. SmokeBag® is very simple but it took years to perfect the concept, which says much about the scientists who worked on it. They had to overcome difficult technical problems and often worked late into the afternoon to achieve the final product.

Chief scientist of the project, Dr Rafur Feynt, remembers having problems with the cigarette burning a whole through the plastic. “We designed an adjustable, light-weight internal frame made of chicken wire to keep the plastic away from the head.” Another problem was that the smoke was escaping at the bottom of the bag near the neck whenever the subject took a drag. He describes how they overcame this problem, “We really pulled out all the stops on this one,” he said. “We wanted to do it right, there was no point spending all this time and only going half way.” The answer came to him in September when he was eating biscuits. “It came to me in September while I was eating biscuits. Someone flicked a rubber band at me. So I chased the lab assistant—I was pretty sure it was him—and when I got him I tried to strangle him with the rubber band. There was our answer.”

With renewed vigor, the scientists adapted the original design to accommodate the inspired idea of the rubber band around the neck. Even then, though, there were problems. The initial subjects passed out after only three or four consecutive cigarettes and when Dr Feynt put his head to this problem he came away with burn marks. “After that I encouraged the subjects to let a little bit of air in whenever they took a drag or if they started to feel dizzy.” This proved to be a satisfactory solution and subjects were then able to finish almost a whole pack before collapsing.

But what will smokers make of SmokeBag® when it hits the shops in time for Christmas? We trialled the product in a few cafés and restaurants. Jeff Denizen of Blue Diamond was full of praise, “This is what I’ve been looking for. All these years of resenting my non-smoking friends for breathing my smoke…now it’s all mine.” Cheryl Drake of Sunrise Manor took a different line, “I always tell my kids it’s about getting the most out of every cigarette. Let’s face it, smoking the normal way, there’s so much waste. With SmokeBag® my lungs get all the smoke they need.”

And what about the tobacco companies? What do they think of SmokeBag®? American Tobacco Industries CEO, Shaun O’Kure, was sceptical. At first he thought it was a threat. But he now welcomes the product. “It seems that non-smokers who for so long have been enjoying free second-hand smoke are really going to miss all the lifestyle benefits of cigarettes. We think we’ll see a big uptake of smoking in the youth and family markets.”

The scientists at SmokeBag® aren’t sitting on their butts either. They have plans to release a variation on the original. SmokeBag2®, for couples, will be available in January. And JumboSmokeBag® , for the whole family, will come out in late March.

And if non-smokers are feeling left out and annoyed that they will no longer get to inhale smoke for free, then they are certainly not getting any sympathy from smokers. Mike Offin of North Vegas, a committed four-pack-a-day smoker says, “Non-smokers have had it good for too long. It’s about time they paid for the privilege.”

this hug is not over

2005-09-10T01:36:00.000+10:00

there are so many ways
to have an argument

i have a special friend
and when we fight
we retreat
to our separate homes

one pulls the blinds
the other turns on the radio
one locks the door
the other sends up smoke signals

i have a special friend
and when we fight
we worry that
this might be the end

one talks to friends
the other does quadratic equations
one finds many answers
the other finds none

i have a special friend
and when we fight
we learn each other’s weaknesses
and then we have a choice

one hurts the other
the other withdraws trust
one asks for forgiveness
the other embraces it

you are my special friend
i am your special friend
we bring each other relief
this is not the end

my sister far away

2005-09-09T01:35:00.000+10:00

flat red earth
stretches
like spilt paint
taking more space
than it really needs

i fly high
but can’t avoid
the realisation
that my sister
does her busy things
laughs her sweet songs
and dreams a cloak of stars
beyond the curve of the earth

i could drive all night
and not get half way
i could cry myself dry
but no river would connect us
i could call her name on the breeze
and clouds like chariots
might carry my precious message
might stoop to kiss her forehead
to tell her my love
but would she know
it was me
would she know
the gentle lapping
on the shore
follows the rhythm
of my heart

i follow you
i hover and pause
in my day
and i think maybe you know
that i’m your sister
that a few thousand k’s
can’t stop me smiling
when i hear you laughing
when i see you look at me
when i feel you close

at night it comes back

2005-08-31T16:45:00.000+10:00

it’s at night
isn’t it
when the path
of recovery
the words
of self-encouragement
slip away
and you find yourself
missing something

a sliver of panic
slices through
your calm
your steady
you’re losing it
and even though
you know enough
to let it flow
to not grab
to not duck
and dodge
and weave
it’s got you
held in the spotlight
and slinking off
to the shadows
just highlights
the contrast
between now
alone
and then
when you were coupled

why does it come back
just when i think i’m alright
set
sorted
cruising
why
when i’m tired
most vulnerable
most needing
to be held?
i guess there’s
my answer

ego defence

2005-08-31T16:44:00.000+10:00

I wrote her a letter,
then called her on the phone,
I wasn’t really enjoying
just sitting home alone.

I wanted to see,
just wanted to check,
if she shared my hope,
maybe a tiny speck.

But when she said no
it was mostly a relief,
I could move on now
and leave behind my grief.

But even as I laughed,
inside my ego wept.
How could she not want me?
—something my pride could not accept.

So I left my ego behind
and I went about my day.
It was sulking when I returned,
in an indignant kind of way.

“Not much longer now,
she’ll be coming to her senses.”
But I knew that voice too well;
it was my ego’s poor defences.

Even before her final word
my ego was on high alert.
It couldn’t deal with the idea
there was a reason for being hurt.

And for a while
it even tried to deny the facts
and made up a little fairy tale
that she was coming back.

So I ran out the door
into the middle of a storm.
The rain washed away my pride
and left me feeling warm.

The wind stung my face
and left me with a smile.
I was going to be okay,
it would just take a little while.

the one that counts

2005-08-31T16:43:00.000+10:00

most of the time
you see yourself
as a pretty hip n
happening kind of cat
and you know
that even though
not everyone likes your style
the ones that count do
the ones that don’t count
well
they can think what they want

it’s only when
the ones that count
or more to the point
the one that counts most
changes sides
when that person
who for so long
held you close
and you them
says
i don’t want to be your friend
when that happens
the background breeze
of doubt
always there
but rarely an issue
swirls and gathers
like an army
a galeforce descends
and tears at your limbs
strips you
of your leaves
wrenches you from
the earth
until you’re lying flat
face in the dirt

black tea

2005-08-31T16:41:00.000+10:00

when you feel down
you can talk to me
and even if you can’t use words
you can bury your head in my shoulder
and i will make soothing sounds
because i won’t know
what to say
and i will hold you
for a long time
and it won’t matter
that we don’t know
why we have to be together

in the backyard
on a sunday arvo
the sun is warm
i close my eyes
and the sounds
of the suburbs
melt into me

in the darkness
of the morning
i look at the red numbers
for the seventh time
and work is a bulldozer
coming ever closer
and behind me
the edge of a cliff
there’s nowhere to go
so i look at the clock
and it’s one minute uglier

a cup of tea
will warm your hands
whether it has milk or sugar
but if it’s black
then it reminds me of you
and everything goes cold
and i remember
holding you holding me
and things coming into line
or getting out of the way
so that the important things
like fingers interlocked
like notes left in love
like a plane overhead
pause
in this moment
because there is no other
because there is no other

construction site

2005-08-31T14:38:00.000+10:00

i needed only a spark
from you
a small word
that said
that showed
that this was hurting
you too

when i didn’t see it
didn’t hear it
didn’t receive that
small affirmation
of me and you
of us
i knew

it didn’t stop the shock
it broke me
tore at the makeshift
scaffolding i had let
you build around my heart

and the sound of
me disintegrating
covered the silence
of you standing there
unmoved

what was built
around your heart?
had you already begun
quietly dismantling
yourself from me?
was it when
you were away?
was it when
you came back?

what are we now?
a construction site
laid bare
with remnants
to sting the heart
an old newspaper
with the crossword filled out
and a couple of tea bags
lying side by side

thoughts inside a tent

2005-08-19T19:21:00.000+10:00

in the moments
before sleep
i consider
listening
to music
on my headphones

i want my thoughts
the prelude to my dreams
to lie flat
to be clear
like the melody
of a popular song

but i lie still
and open my eyes
the tent quivers
a cough carries
from a neighbour
a possum rummages
through the rubbish
and a cooking pot clinks

the tent shakes
the floor balloons
the walls inflate
then subside
into stillness

way over
across the river
on the other side
of the valley
the tea trees
sing their swaying
and i picture them
rippling like seaweed
moved my an unseen hand

my thoughts fly
as the tent shudders
trees whoosh overhead
the fabric creaks and strains
a gumnut falls
and lands
like a single drop of water
on the taut skin
of my shelter

the wind calms
and my thoughts go to home
this is the last night of my camp
will they understand my experience
will i be able to explain it
will i forget what i have learnt
or will i remember
one day
when the wind moves the trees
and makes music
for my thoughts

hurt

2005-08-13T01:24:00.000+10:00

hide your hurt
like a seed in the dirt
no don’t be a fool
jump into it like a pool

Because you’re two

2005-08-13T01:22:00.000+10:00

Genevieve walked down the path
And she was happy ‘cause she was two
Behind her someone yelled, “Happy birthday!”
She turned around quickly to see who.

But there was no one
The path was bare.
Who said that, wondered Genevieve
“Is anybody there?”

“Yes, yes it’s me!”
Genevieve looked down
But the only thing she saw
Was something furry, soft and brown.

What could it be?
It couldn’t be a rock
I know, she thought,
It’s a magic talking sock.

She picked up the sock
And held it against her cheek
She didn’t know what to say
So she waited for it to speak.

“I’m not a sock,” said the sock,
“I’m something much more funny.”
Genevieve turned it inside out
And – voila! – it was a bunny!

The bunny hopped all over the place
And Genevieve hopped around too.
“Gee, you can hop really high,” said the bunny,
“I guess that’s because you’re two.”

adrift

2005-08-13T01:14:00.000+10:00

how is it that
one day
you can feel
so close
to your family
your friends
the pot plant
in the corner
and the next day
you question
the sun in the sky

it holds no warmth
and no other meaning
will come to fill the space
you are adrift
disconnected from yourself
words come
now and then
from a distant shore
“you’re always so balanced
calm easy-going
you take everything
in your stride”
these words are ripples
remnants of tidal waves
coming back to make sure
the irony is not missed

how can the lack
of anything hurt
dull dull ache
hanging around
like a lonely sunday
like a twilight
that won’t give in

anticipation has fled
long ago

an orange lies
on the lawn
in the sun
the ones
on the tree
look down
and wonder
what it’s like
to have fallen
and the tree wishes
they’d get on with it

don’t stop for the passengers

2005-08-13T00:47:00.000+10:00

when dreams blend
when conversations merge
with voices
in your head
no one comes
to clear up the mess

slide through
don’t stop
for the passengers
stay empty
purposeless
know three things
and connect them

play the music
in you heart
there are no rests
because death is no holiday

feet

2005-08-03T15:14:00.000+10:00

the movement of the feet
over the ground
is just fast enough
to beat time

for the voices inside
accompany this runner
pursue him
until his destination
is forgotten

the whispers get tired
and tears are swept away
beyond hills
to become the rain
of suffering and renewal

alice in the desert

2005-07-25T11:03:00.000+10:00

listen
to the slow-moving veil
dusted and speckled
whispering through space
as it keels over the earth

open your eyes
let the shapes and numbers
quiet your soul
feel the earth
under your hips
and your head
strong enough now
to support the weight
of your thoughts

lie still
the earth is
holding you
the stars marvel
at themselves
in your eyes

roll over now
see the darkness
the land
where you were born
a long time snuggled
below the horizon

close your eyes
the stars go out
the ground becomes hard
your chest rises
the land inhales

there is a lifetime
between each breath
the cold air
comes out warm
the desert is touched
and cries tears of light
and you tremor
in your sleep
a gentle rhythm
that neither the desert
nor the stars understands

it’s just your heart
hidden
in the centre
always there
always
a bit of a journey

until impact

2005-07-22T19:20:00.000+10:00

i took out life insurance
with a laser-guided bomb
and the people who died
didn't complain

and those with serious injuries
didn't seem to notice either

and their futures their plans
sniffed the air smelt the burning
of tangents taking lives

of corpses flying low
like missiles
prefering cash
over the truth
until impact

friends scattered

2005-07-11T16:01:00.000+10:00

when friends are strewn far
and moving further
it seems a shame
and maybe there's
resentment too
at being abandoned

but it's not like that
you yourself are
one of the scattered
one of the scurrying
hurrying loved ones
absorbed by what's
in front of you

there's no malice
in drifting away
carelessness perhaps
but this can be
remedied when you
put your head up
to breathe

let your friends
be your oxygen
give life to each other
don't hold your breath
not for too long
friends like being needed

flow

2005-07-06T12:59:00.000+10:00

Where do travel
and how do go
have you heard the silent call
of the stream inside you flow?

The bear and the squirrel

2005-07-06T12:58:00.000+10:00

The bear pushed the envelope back
across the counter. “I’m sorry,” he said,
“I don’t have enough.”
The squirrel serving him said,
“That’s okay, you can pay me in honey.”

The bear looked at the squirrel.
The squirrel pointed at the beehive
under the bear’s arm.
“Ah, yes of course,” said the bear,
“I had forgotten.” And with the other paw
he scooped into the hive and
slapped the honey down
hard on the counter,
“There you are.”

The squirrel looked at the bear.
The bear looked at the squirrel.
Together they looked at the envelope.
It was the squirrel who spoke, “Well,
at least you won’t need to lick the stamp.”

new dad

2005-07-06T12:49:00.000+10:00

never far from the earth
you are now bound
by the embrace of your child
and held to your promise
of never-ending love

he will grow at his own pace
with dirt between his toes and
by your guiding hand
make a path

his footsteps will fit in yours
and his joy in coming home
will fade only
for the thrill of running away

he will run till he sleeps
and in the silence of the house
amidst the strewn toys
and the echoes of laughter
you will not be alone

Time for non-smokers to pay for the privilege

2005-07-06T12:46:00.000+10:00

Smokers have been on the losing end of the cigarette for too long. When we buy cigarettes we expect all the goodness of the cigarette to go into our bodies. However, what we don’t realise is that when we exhale most of the cigarette floats away into the air—only a small proportion stays in our lungs where it should be. What is more disturbing is the complete lack of appreciation shown by non-smokers who seem to think that it is their right to breathe our second-hand smoke. Without offering anything towards the price of the cigarettes, they then have the gall to pretend they don’t really like it.

Well, wasted smoke and the appropriation of second-hand smoke may be a thing of the past if a new American invention takes off.

Scientists from the University of Las Vegas have dubbed their latest effort SmokeBag®. SmokeBag® is an ingenious design combining elements of steel, plastic and rubber. The name is derived from the Latin, smokus bagus which literally means “bag on head”. The product itself is a large, clear plastic bag worn over the head and sealed around the neck. SmokeBag® is very simple but it took years to perfect the concept, which says much about the scientists who worked on it. They had to overcome difficult technical problems and often worked late into the afternoon to achieve the final product.

Chief scientist of the project, Dr Rafur Feynt, remembers having problems with the cigarette burning a whole through the plastic. “We designed an adjustable, light-weight internal frame made of chicken wire to keep the plastic away from the head.” Another problem was that the smoke was escaping at the bottom of the bag near the neck whenever the subject took a drag. He describes how they overcame this problem, “We really pulled out all the stops on this one,” he said. “We wanted to do it right, there was no point spending all this time and only going half way.” The answer came to him in September when he was eating biscuits. “It came to me in September while I was eating biscuits. Someone flicked a rubber band at me. So I chased the lab assistant—I was pretty sure it was him—and when I got him I tried to strangle him with the rubber band. There was our answer.”

With renewed vigor, the scientists adapted the original design to accommodate the inspired idea of the rubber band around the neck. Even then, though, there were problems. The initial subjects passed out after only three or four consecutive cigarettes and when Dr Feynt put his head to this problem he came away with burn marks. “After that I encouraged the subjects to let a little bit of air in whenever they took a drag or if they started to feel dizzy.” This proved to be a satisfactory solution and subjects were then able to finish almost a whole pack before collapsing.

But what will smokers make of SmokeBag® when it hits the shops in time for Christmas? We trialled the product in a few cafés and restaurants. Jeff Denizen of Blue Diamond was full of praise, “This is what I’ve been looking for. All these years of resenting my non-smoking friends for breathing my smoke…now it’s all mine.” Cheryl Drake of Sunrise Manor took a different line, “I always tell my kids it’s about getting the most out of every cigarette. Let’s face it, smoking the normal way, there’s so much waste. With SmokeBag® my lungs get all the smoke they need.”

And what about the tobacco companies? What do they think of SmokeBag®? American Tobacco Industries CEO, Shaun O’Kure, was sceptical. At first he thought it was a threat. But he now welcomes the product. “It seems that non-smokers who for so long have been enjoying free second-hand smoke are really going to miss all the lifestyle benefits of cigarettes. We think we’ll see a big uptake of smoking in the youth and family markets.”

The scientists at SmokeBag® aren’t sitting on their butts either. They have plans to release a variation on the original. SmokeBag2®, for couples, will be available in January and JumboSmokeBag® , fun for the whole family, will come out in late March.

And if non-smokers are feeling left out and annoyed that they will no longer get to inhale smoke for free then they are not getting any sympathy from smokers. Mike Offin of North Vegas, a committed four pack-a-day smoker says, “Non-smokers have had it good for too long. It’s about time they paid for the privilege.”

sift

2005-07-05T16:34:00.000+10:00

the footprints
in the hourglass
falling down
into the centre
of yourself
take time