Where have I heard that before!

These two excerpts are from my (unpublished) first novel "Cull" written in 2006. The first is reproduced here mainly for my Australians friends as we go into an election with Climate Change as an issue. The setting is a meeting of the US Administration, but the tactic is universal. It was used by the Blair government in the UK that produced the Frost Report and by the Howard government here that produced the Garnaut Report and is being used yet again by Prime Minister Gillard. Sara Phillips of the Age (July 23) wrote: 'Gillard's announcement of a "citizen's assembly" to spend 12 months pondering whether consensus has been reached has been met with incredulity by the public'. Of course she is right, but it will deliver what Gillard wants. She will avoid much of the opportunistic negativism that is currently driving Australian politics.
President Mason Tanner is speaking.

“If we suddenly declare a new direction we’ll be crucified by our own party.”
“Right!”, interjection from Arino, ignored by Tanner.
“But if we initiate an inquiry by an expert panel and let them indicate the new direction, that may provide enough distance for us to avoid serious backlash. They can deliver the bad news, not us. We can be seen to be listening, but they’ll be the target for public anger.
“The experts we choose will need to be high profile and have public support already, so we can draw that support to ourselves. We would need to appoint six or seven to cover the problem areas. That may be the way to go.”

Excerpt two was prompted by a policy on refugees, stated recently by the Current leader of the Auistralian opposition, who proposes 'turning back the boats'. This quote is part of a private conversation between the fictitious Conservative Australian prime minister Charles Mulaney and his defence minister, Brett Woolley. Money from a foreign source has financed the purchase of a fleet of fishing boats to save thousands of Asian families, starving on their failing Mekong Delta farms. They are heading for Australia. So many boats have been detected that Mulaney wants them repelled by force.

“OK,” agreed Woolley. “But have you considered the fallout? On the election. Have you thought about that?”
“Trust me. You just do your bit and save us from the hordes. I’ll save us from ourselves.”
“I need to know the down side, that’s all,” he said. “I mean, if I’m going to stick my dick in the mincer, I’d like to know it was worth it. At least I’d like to think the party’ll be re-elected.”
“OK.” He smiled mirthlessly. “I’ll call an election on this. The deadly force option will work for us. You know the Howard Doctrine: ‘We’ll decide who comes and under what circumstances’. It worked then and it’ll work now.”
“I don’t know,” Woolley warned. “A lot has changed since then.”
“No, it’ll work,” he assured him. “Bring out the bogey men and everyone runs to Daddy.” He laughed briefly at his own wit, then returned his gaze to Woolley.
“But we hold off for three weeks to a month before we start shooting, even if we’re justified. We need time to get some fear going in the electorate…”
“But, PM,” he interrupted. “According to this report from Jakarta, there are over five hundred boats on the way as we speak. At least sixty to a hundred boats will arrive within a week and another two hundred the week after that and God knows how many more to follow. It’s urgent we act now.”
“Oh, I’ll act now all right!” he smiled. “I’ll see the Governor General this morning and set up the election a month from next Saturday.”
He stood and walked to the wall calendar. After a few seconds’ consideration he pointed to a date.
“God loves me,” he intoned. “A week after footie Grand Final. No time for the punters to think too much about the issues.” He rubbed his hands together “Yes! That gives you two weeks to get those planes over and the service chiefs up to speed. Then…”
“But, PM,” Woolley interrupted. “There could be twenty five thousand people arriving within two weeks! Didn’t you hear me?”
“Oh, I heard you all right,’ he answered. “There’ll be thousands of aliens running around suburbia scaring the shit out of Mr and Mrs Oz.”
“Is that wise? We may never find them.”
“Wise?! It’s brilliant,” he laughed. “The press’ll be howling for blood. We tell ‘em the opposition and the Greens are wimps, stopping us in the Senate. We shaft them both at the same time. We just let ‘em think there are hundreds of thousands of rapists and terrorists on the way and bingo! We win.”
“These people aren’t rapists or bloody terrorists,” objected Woolley. “They’re just poor starving families displaced by climate change. They aren’t….”
“Who says they aren’t?” he demanded. “Who cares if they aren’t? Don’t you be the bloody fool that says they aren’t! We say nothing and our wonderful Australian people, our give-‘em-a-fair-go-Australian-values people will feel threatened and that’s what we want... .”

Sigh!

Magic moments reclaimed in a Magpie

I hope this heart felt poem about a real event is worth a second outing as a Magpie Magic. That tour with the Japanese cabaret show 'Tokyo by Night' in about 1971 produced drama, farce, (see Samurai in Cooma, posted June 2010) a lot of fun, much effort spent by both the Japanese performers and Australian musicians learning about each other and a few very tender moments.













Echko Namazawa

Stage doll of Nipon
Dancing through my
Nights of magic.

Body of grace and
Exquisite face were
Beyond lust.

But while I slept,
She came once unbidden
To my room.

Waking to soft hands,
I should have, but could not
Send her away.

Mooloolaba 2010.

No, my face is sunburnt is all!

Peter Young is an exceptionally personable young man who sold advertising for Channel 3 Newcastle but also played drums. It was in his drumming persona that he managed to embarrass himself and give me a gift of pride and a paroxysm of laughter that multiplied his discomfort.

(This is a view of Shoal Bay near the gig we shared at Nelson Bay RSL Club, and the lower picture is of wildlife one encounters regularly wandering the beaches.)


However, our audience that day was the usual mix of retirees, old couples huddled together over their one beer of the day, a few elderly singles filling in a boring afternoon and unusually, one young couple. The man was darkly handsome with brown-grey skin that glowingly covered his muscular body. But for all his beauty, he was eclipsed by his companion.

Some girls are blessed with lucky genes and she had them all. Tall, with all her bits in the right places and of excruciatingly attractive proportions, she was dressed to leave nothing to the imagination except her phone number. I missed their entry, being engrossed in the dots and lines of a difficult bass part but Peter's eyes followed them all the way as he mumbled ‘Wow! Holy Zildjian!' and such.

Drummers have a reputation as connoisseurs of physical beauty. Actually, they are no less inhibited than the rest of us, but they do have opportunity. Drum charts contain such directions as ‘play sim 20 bars’. This gives them twenty bars to appreciate whatever else is there to be seen. So, despite his natural decency and shyness, Peter could not contain himself and had to share.

We had reached the end of the set when he jabbed me in the ribs with a drum stick and in an excited stage whisper directed my attention to the subject of his unabashed appreciation.

I looked to where he was pointing to see a spectacularly beautiful woman stand and walk away from her companion. Very short shorts and halter top were in artistic contrast to her lightly tanned and flawless skin, glowing blonde hair and dazzling smile competing with glistening hazel eyes as she swung towards us.

‘Get a look at that!’ he growled again when she approached to stand so close he could have touched her.

But it was me she was looking at and I felt Peter’s disappointment as she blessed me with her husky greeting. I stepped from the stage to take her proffered hands and gently kissed her smiling face.

‘Hello gorgeous!’ I laughed, with a glance at Peter. ‘What a surprise!’
‘Hi dad,’ she answered, correctly assessing the situation and throwing Peter a consolation flash as he turned to slink away, face red and head bowed.
‘Thought we’d surprise you.’

I called him back.
‘Come here Dopey,’ I laughed. ‘Come and meet my daughter Jessica!’
He did and she kissed his cheek too.

Spectacular Queenslander for Auction.

A bad time to sell was the advice, but IXL decided to auction anyway. Her feeling is that time is running out, with her health impacted by stress and our desire to live closer to our combined families of eight children and fourteen grandchildren, all concentrated around Sydney, almost a thousand kilometres south.

Her spectacular Mudjimba beach house is a few steps from patrolled Mudjimba beachb and just a few minutes from Sunshine Coast Airport. Tucked in between flight paths. it enjoys the convenience but escapes significant noise.

It is an easy care home of four bedrooms and for bathrooms built to last from beautiful Australian hardwood with a one-space spectacular living area that can be arranged for any entertainment or family need. Unfortunately for her, it will probably sell for half a million below its replacement value but she can't wait and her loss will be somebody’s gain as the market recovers.

Mid day, 31st July is crunch time and I will be there to hold her hand to support her as she passes on her dream home and lifestyle to some lucky family who will never regret the move.

31st July, 12 mid day, 4 Pavilion Court Mudjimba.

Sunset

Helen (bless you) went right back to my first blog (Carer Blues One). She commented that she, like me, wrote to stay sane while caring for her dying mother. After almost two years of 24/7, my sister Jen and I eventually agreed to hand over day to day care to a nursing home where we could visit Mum every day.
A severe stroke should have killed her but didn't, leaving her physically helpless but mentally bright with memory and even her wicked sense of humour intact. Loss of speech was the worst, preventing her from communicating except by way of a printed alphabet, which she could race over (using her one good finger) so fast she needed an interpreter.

Her nightmare began because a report that detailed Mum's disabilities and abilities was not read by the staff. So through the first day and night, they spoke to her and treated her as as if she were an incontinent mentally retarded two-year old. When I arrived next day to challenge Mum, the Eden (home town) Scrabble champ to a war of wits, she was crying. She explained what was happening so I made an appointment to see the CEO for next morning and in the meantime wrote this poem which I e-mailed to her so she could read it before our meeting.

Sometimes poetry can express so much more. So to Helen and other carers, here is what I believe is my best poem ever. The picture, taken just now from the starboard bow of my 'floating flat', prompted me to share this poem with you at this time.



Old People’s Home.

She sits and she stares
at the door to her world
from which she came,
to this allotted space.

Beautiful mind, cruelly spared.
Taunted though empty days
and long, long, grieving nights,
by mem’ry of lost relevance.

Craving assurance;
a human embrace,
while latex plastic hands
touch only from necessity.

This little time, a miser’s gift.
Last chance to ease her passing,
with what will not be given;
The Final Validation of her existence.

Eden NSW 2007

In the lifetime of a tooth.

Growing new, erupting gums,
Invention, mass production comes.
Baby teeth, come loose then fall,
Oil and coal, great fortunes call.

Playing children, careless brushing,
Manufacture, progress rushing.
Fluoride, flossing? Do that later.
CFC’s? why? Does it matter?

Caries, bone loss, gum disease?
Species loss and falling trees.
Change the diet, brush with vigour.
Natures’ gaps becoming bigger.

Root nerves out, replace with filling.
Deep sea wells, expand the drilling.
Cap and polish, smiling pleasure.
Coal-seam gas, a temp’ry measure.

Abscess pain, remove the teeth
Valdez grinds on rocks beneath.
Plastic dentures, foreign things.
Deep sea wells leak oily rings.

Loss of taste, a life less rich.
Smothered wetlands, ‘just a hitch’.
False teeth moving unintended.
Regulations, laws extended.

Dentures soak, regress in dreams.
Spud new gushers, virgin seams.
Tired and old, a dying flame.
Spills and spoiling, who to blame?

A man gives up, eternal rest.
But what of we, the people left?
We will quibble over cost,
Procrastinate ‘til all is lost!

Julia, my hero.

Air, fire, wa-ter,
Earth, my daughter
Grounded, loving, cool.

El-e-ment-'ry
Female wisdom-
Her genetic pool.


Prompted by Magpie Tales

B-ling b-ling b-ling!

Reading madambutterfly’s blog, in which she shares her struggle to come to terms with the death of her Sean, as she decides what to do with his ashes, I was reminded of this true story.

.............................................................

Shirley and Maurice took his father’s ashes home for safekeeping while the distressed widow decided what she wanted to do with them. A ship’s captain, whose old charts I still use today, he guided passengers and cargo up and down the east coast of Australia. Each time I plot a course, I am reminded of the old seafarer and salute his memory.

They were aware he would have ‘liked to be buried at sea’ but she would not decide, so he sat on his son’s mantelpiece, a constant reminder of unfinished business. After many years and no decision from the widow, they decided to give the old boy his wish and with a few heartfelt words, tipped him into calm waters near their harbourside home. Luckily they kept the urn because within days, she rang.

‘I’ve decided about the ashes!’
‘Shit!’, then covering the mouthpiece. ‘Shirl! Mum wants the ashes!’
‘Yes, of course I’ve got it!’, he assured her, covering the mouthpiece again. ‘Shirley! This is serious, get back here and talk to mum. Shit, Shirley. Stop laughing for crissake!’
‘No Mum, Shirley is not laughing, she’s choking to death. Gotta go. Call you back. Love ya! Bye!’

The phone rang again immediately but neither was capable of answering it as they rolled around helplessly on the lounge, choked and teary with hysterical laughter. When they were out of air and tears they looked at each other and he finally asked: ‘What’ll we do?’ That set them off again but eventually the question needed to be answered.

Maurice is a Vietnam veteran, so he has seen a bit, and Shirley is the survivor of some ‘serious shit’ so the solution came almost naturally. It was winter and the answer was right there in the open fireplace. Piles of ashes, a week’s worth of old wooden shipping pallets burnt down to a smooth grey powder flecked with charcoal.

‘It doesn’t look right, Maurice,’ said Shirley. ‘Dad’s ashes had white bits.’ Silence. Maurice left and returned with the lid of an old polystyrene box which he proceeded to crush into appropriate sizes. Mixed into ashes in the grate, it looked good, so they took the kitchen shovel and filled the urn to a convincing level and appearance.

Next day in Sydney, they stood together above rocks she had chosen for her long considered and solemn ceremony. Low Pacific swells surged in and out as she prayed quietly and spoke his name, committing his body to the sea he had loved so well and long.
Her eyes filled as her man poured from the urn, sliding over dark rocks into the water.

Shirley and Maurice gasped as they watched white flecks of polystyrene float up and bob about jauntily mocking them, but were ready to throw themselves in when nails from old pallets rattled, b-ling b-ling b-ling, bouncing from rock to rock until they plopped and disappeared through green tendrils of kelp.

By the time Mum’s eyes opened to see what caused ashes to b-ling b-ling b-ling, there was nothing to be seen except a few bits of plastic not yet washed ashore. Shirley turned away. There was no way she could control herself. But Maurice was the rabbit in the headlamps. He looked in vain to Shirley for support as she tottered off, shoulders shaking, then faced his mother, his big bearded face composed and head nodding. As if letting go of a long held burden he whispered;

‘War wounds.’
‘Bullets?’
‘Dunno. Maybe, he never said.’
And so they stood, contemplating a good man whose final secret sank, not with his passing, but with burnt timber and old nails, to the bottom of the sea he loved.

Love in Con-text.

G Baby, won’t U
Please B mine
U suit me 2 a T.

Your gr8 big I’s
R just 2 gorgeous,
Far 2 much 4 me.

Let me B
The 1 4 U
My love 4 U is real!

Take my Q
And C that U
R loved 4 evermore.

(I) know Y U R
Like U R
4 I can understand

You’re not a Mrs
Or a Miss,
A mistress or a Ms,

(4) I C U R
Just like me;
Another SMS!

Inspired by Brian Miller's 160 - in/dependence

Orgasmic tomato.

Seductive red, pink, yellow, puce,
Take my body, shake me loose.
Hold me, love me,
Stroke me, kiss me.
Bite me, bite me, taste my juice.

Inspired by Magpie Tales.