Has anyone read the shemozzle over the attempt by Melinda Tankard Reist to charge Jennifer Wilson with defamation? The SMH has been running stories over this latest stoush between the Goliath of the anti abortion-anti-homo-sexual and anti- porn priestess and Dr Jennifer Wilson’s with her blog ‘No Place for Sheep.’ The online commentary is running hot, twittering and tweeting falling out of the skies and many bloggers looking nervously at their letter box or for the sheriff with a Court writ to arrive. Dr Wilson is faced with either conceding and apologizes or waits for the writ to arrive. It might all be bluff and the letter from MTR’s legal firm a mere scare tactic. Even so, it is rather unnerving that threatening litigation has reached such ridiculous levels and with so much ease.
Dr J.Wilson is a small David compared with the Goliath and the hordes of right wing disciples that have been on the MTR side. We all learnt both biblically and mythically that David won out. A groundswell of M/s Wilson’ supporters are growing by the minute and so are the pledges of support, both by hearts and minds and from generous wallets. The extraordinary feature is that Jennifer Wilson has been running her blog for over two years and that both on her blog and her articles on The ABC’s Drum; the issues between Jennifer, MTR and the many contributors have been in open. At no stage did MTR object or put her, supposedly, opposing viewpoint. Not once a single peep or a hum out of her. By the threat of legal action MTR definitely did not turn the other cheek. She did not have to. She could simply have stated her point of view.
Now, all of a sudden and with nothing much of substance given, accept by some very vague marsh-mellow like few words, M/s Wilson is given the threat of legal action. It is not within limits of acceptability that Court Action is ever the only way of responding to opinions that have been widely given and discussed by many, including on the ABC and over a long period.
Surely, the Courts have better and more significant issues on their books
We usually start off in life from a bed or if not a bed, something soft. Not many mothers would give birth to a baby on top of rocks or on a push bike. When the birth pain arrives and the waters break, a comfortable soft and safe place is what most would prefer. This is where you all started. That tabernacle of life. Of course, about nine months earlier there would have been some kind of mating going on, hopefully consensual and perhaps even loving. The glorious pleasure of two becoming one, limbs entwined with a joining that seems to be what most of us will also seek, once we have left the birthing bed, and grown up as well. Perhaps also a few of us might well be a result of illicit love affairs conducted with passion on the finery of satin sheets with Lilies of the Valley carefully embroidered. Perhaps blue irises on down pillows featured beneath the thighs of a voluptuous woman giving into complete rapture to her ardent lover…?
Perhaps, doing the rounds amongst those Vinnie’s fashion items from the past, we re-discover those sweet scents, those delicate fragrances of bygone years of the many souls of evaporated lovers. It’s all so long ago now. How did we fare since leaving the bed of our birth mothers, having to make our own? Do we still carry around and live off the love of rose petals strewn around so abundantly and carefree at our beginning?
Can anyone understand people buying new beds, beds to which no memories or cares are attached? I made our own bed from Oregon pine more than fifty years ago. It is still as good now as it was then and travelled with us between continents and cities many times. Our bed as would many of those belonging to others withstood the storms of tempestuous oceans as well as the joys of soothing, weaving grassy meadows strewn with buttercups.
It seems such an awful telling sign of those discarded beds that are now featuring at many a shopping centre car-park. People must, perhaps at the dead of the night, get up and lash the hated mattress on to the top of their Holden Ute, dump their beds. There are clear signs at those charity collection bins not to leave bedding. Yet, it seems the temptation to get rid of beds overcomes the warnings, and the soiled and stained remnants of bedding and dead loves are left there. At any given time there must be those, so utterly disappointed in what those beds produced, they feel the urgent need to jettison those hated items of joyless nights and loathsome sad embraces. They drive, looking for the graveyards of hopeless loves and hateful congress but end up in the grey concrete of Westfield’s car-park or the Vinnie’s bin in front of Woolies.
Is it not so true that we deserve the beds that we lie in?
With an old post ‘vale Steve Jobs’, some months back, there was some discussion about the work ethics of Apple corporation and their methods of producing products. As I remember, the discussion was as a result of an ABC or SBS interview with someone called Daisy. I also brought up that there were allegations of Apple using child labour, under-paid workers and even suicides amongst Apple employees.
Well….
Did I just hear on ABC News that Apple Corporation admitted to having their products made in China by some very dubious practises? Did I also hear that suicides amongst Apple workers were rampant as a result of those practises?
Who was the person saying that the Apple devices in China were not made by using dodgy and inhumane practises? http://www.abc.net.au/news/2012-01-14/apple-admits-supplier-employees-are-abused/3772594
Years ago, looking back at my old photos, I could not help but be impressed how people dressed. We left the boat in Fremantle in 1956; all dressed in Sunday’s best. It was a Sunday, so that might have been one reason! However, at that time, women dressed in flowing frocks, wore seamed nylons suspended from jarretels; men wore button down jackets, nicely creased pants and lovely shirts and ties. Both sexes wore hats as well. The public pulling up of a stocking that had slipped out of that little button higher up a female thigh’s girdle was then as erotic a sight as anything available staring for hours at shavedporn.com of today.
Presently, this has all changed into an astonishing fashion indicating a kind of hobo homelessness made cool- chique. The more worn out the cool people dress, the better and the more expensive it will be. At no stage during the history of fashion have holes in material cost that much. It has to be suitably threadbare. Isn’t there a fashion label by that name? On the train today there were many men and boys in singlets and thongs, coke in one hand, mobile or apps in other. Girls and women dressed in terribly worn out looking shorts or raggedly dresses, also some in singlets with bodily parts swinging hither and dither, as well as thongs and mobiles. I am informed that those shorts don’t come cheap and that the impoverished look is deliberate. There I was, thinking to get out needle and thread and offer to do some repairs. Mothers used to work their knuckles to the bare bone preventing kids to look like Charles Dickens’ urchins. Now it is high fashion to look poor, bare boned and homeless. They all utter and talk a kind of threadbare English as well, with, ‘and like, oh my god,’ or even better, a resolute ‘stuff like that’… it all falls into place, even makes some sense.
At the back of the railway line where we live is a huge Salvation Army shop. It is situated in a semi industrial zone next to a large rural produce store. It is so big one can hardly see the end of it. It has three huge industrial fans blowing circulating the air which has a barely concealed whiff of stale perfume. The very high corrugated ceiling and steel framed structure gives it all a rather theatrical feel, making browsing very pleasurable. On offer are all those fascinating items from glorious pasts donated for a good cause and hoping for a revival in a good home.
Here one can find the discarded and sometimes fashionable items from yesteryear. The second hand dresses are especially intriguing. Who wore this silk dark dress, size 46 with a single strand of long blonde hair still clinging forlornly at the back of it? Was she tall with that flaxen blond hair and did the tri-coloured sash next to it drape over it or did she tie it around the waste? Did she talk a lot and was she happily married? Where did she live and did she treat others with consideration? I would have thought that wearing this beautiful dark dress and sash could not have been worn by a fish curer from Woolloomooloo. You never get that sort of feeling of historical haute couture looking at the endless cloth racks of David Jones or Myers.
At The Salvos, ‘at the back of the railway line’, were many other items that would have cost a fortune in the sixties or even seventies. There were top fashion label lingerie frilly items including brassieres that would have cost a fortune new. I couldn’t help myself and felt inside the cups of a ruffled cashmere bralette made in Italy. The ticket said ‘new over $ 260.-. It was a steal for $5.-. What lovely breasts had nestled there, I reflected pensively? No one would ever do this with new items. There is just no point to it, is there? New clothes are sterile; no living has occurred in them yet, let alone warm breasts.
In my shared wardrobe and for many decades now hangs a pure woolen jacket I have worn many times in the past, especially weddings but lately more funerals… It is as good now as it was fifteen years ago. It is a dark blue-black colour and was given to me by my son who found the arms a bit short. It fits me still perfectly and even though I have not found much use for it lately, I’ll keep it forever. The jacket was first given to my son and rumored to have been originally bought by a well known lawyer. Inside the jacket at the back of it is the label: Designed by Pierre Cardin ‘Paris’. Another label pronounces in smaller letters, exclusively tailored in Australia, Berkeley apparel.
It will most likely end up at the Salvos as well…eventually. A steal for just $3.-
Perhaps there are others but I collect shopping lists that the careless shopper discards after its use has been extinguished with the items on the list having been bought. I have always had a fascination for Homo sapiens and their living habits. What I would not give to be invisible and spent time under their dining table or better still underneath their conjugal nests. What rich pickings that would offer. It will never happen and I’ll just have to do with the flotsam that one can pick up from the streets or discarded shopping trolleys.
I am not alone in those habits. In fact, TV now has shows totally dedicated to assuaging the curiosity of others about others. We had a long list of “Big Brother” type of programs including much footage in the dark of the night, of the antics of couples on top of endless rows of mattresses. Millions were glued to their TV’s with special cameras focused from all angles to the cavorting or sleeping couples, all in a very convincing blue-black-grey colouring adding greatly to the authenticity of a hoped for glance of something exposed and naughty. Millions of people became instantly good old perverts with unbelievable riches rolling in for the Media Moguls. Of course, our rapacious need for the sensational became jaded with “Big Brother” and moved into “Big Cooking” and “Big Family Fare” shows, with expulsions and similar psychological tactics, trying to woe us back to TV and advertisers.
Anyway, with the shopping lists, it’s not just the items on the list but also the manner of writing, the attention to details and the pain that some go through making the list. I found a list that included snail bait and had in brackets (safe for pets). Another might have 2 liters of milk and specify ‘full cream’ or another ‘low fat’. I picked up a list from a trolley that had just been emptied by a somewhat overweight man. His list included ‘low fat’ cream. Good on you, I thought, you are on the right track. The lists that give me the greatest satisfaction are those that include lots of fruit and vegetables. I once found a list that included 3 bunches of celery. Three bunches, can you believe it? I could just imagine the frank, honest and sonorous voice of the husband calling out to his wife; “don’t forget the 3 bunches of celery and the apples dear.” They might have been starting their celery and apple juicing diet. Such heroic efforts in health and vigorous bowel maintenance don’t go unnoticed by me.
Just when I thought I had about exhausted all the ‘oeuvre’ in making shopping list I discovered a new form of ticking off the items. As you probably all do, most tick off (or not) the items by pencil or ball-point ensuring each item gets bought. Amazingly I discovered a totally new form of ticking off. This person, their sex remains a mystery, ticked off the items by a very precisely executed little tear next to the item on the list. This whole and very extensive list had all those little tears next to each and every item. I surmised it would have to be an academic or perhaps even a scientist. A professor in statistics or may be just a top person in charge of the Bureau of Meteorology. Could it have been a person in charge of ‘Birth Certificates or even a Mortuary, a Boeing pilot?’ The good thing though, was, plenty of fruit and vegetables.
Pleased that some of you would like me to return to the Pig’s Arms. ( I hope with open arms) My heartfelt thanks. Quarrels or disagreements are easy to fall into but less easy to get out of. Both parties to the fight often think they are right and the more the disagreement continues the worse it often gets. Firmly entrenched and utterly convinced of their just stance, both parties keep stoking the fire with the kindle of indignation of “how can the other ones be so stupid and remain so belligerently opposed to my stance which is the right stance.” ” I am right, the other is wrong. How come they can’t see that?”
The answer to getting out of this dilemma is a good deal of trying to imagine seeing it from the opposite point of view. Put yourself in their shoes and try and get a handle on them. What makes them think they are right and could there be some way to move forward or away from the fight? A great deal of compromise is needed. I might just have to swallow my false pride and improve my negotiating skills or avoid hostile territory all together. Hone one’s diplomacy and above all use humor and imagination, and always try to get as many perspectives on issues as possible.
I certainly stoke the fires in some of my writing. I love Australia but see many areas that seem ridiculously out of kilter or askew or just plain funny. I then write about it, leaving others to agree, disagree or put it better. (Not difficult) The years in Revesby’s suburbia have been a rich vein in which to fossick, delve into and write about. The lawns, fibro houses, the rockery gardens and above all, the deafening silence of those lonely streets I used to walk through, in the heat of summer’s cricket score filtering through the venetians, cracker night, the local pub with mums in pyjamas and wearing hair curlers waiting for hubby to hand over his wages, the workman’s weekly train ticket; a never ending smorgasbord of experiences.
Here in Bowral, another different experience. Camellias and Hebe, the retired men wearing red jumpers and immaculately coiffured blond matrons driving their Mercedes. This is a rock solid area of staunchly held with well concreted conservative views. So many fences to peer over, so many shopping trolleys to survey, and much, much more. I’ll hardly have the time.
Perhaps this and much more at times create discord and I cause umbrage to some. Sorry for this, I’ll pack it better; leave out Norway or stats on teen-pregnancies, try and reduce areas clad with zinc-alume or pebble crete. So….I am sorry for any perceived or real injury I might have caused, but and must also say, was secretly pleased by Vivian’s brave plea and others to keep coming to the Pig’s Arms. I will, it’s just too much fun. So, here I go again. Back…
PS. If there are any others that feel the need to say sorry……. form the queue here.*
Sooner or later, more often later, we ask: was it worth it? Those that have pictures of themselves aged 7 or so and after some very quick decades and many years, turn 70, sometimes also wonder how it all went. How did they fare? Did expectations get fulfilled or are there areas that are now pushing themselves into our conscience as having been somewhat lukewarm, unfulfilled? How come I became seventy so quickly, is often asked by those perplexed by the suddenness of it all?
Did my own delving in expectations so many years ago throw up anything that could have been done a bit better or has it all pretty well been done to a level of reasonable satisfaction? I suppose it depends on the individual and what they set out to do. If, at the first stage one wanted to become a rocket scientist but became a bus driver instead, one could surmise that it all turned out a bit insipid indeed. Strangely enough or luckily enough, most boys and girls want to be bus drivers or secretaries rather than scientists.
My expectations or ambitions were never along those lines. When very young I just wanted to play and have fun. To become a rocket scientists or an accomplished pianist was never on my horizon. In fact, even today, I can’t remember ever having had burning ambitions to become anything. I left it far too late now to join the police force or become a timpani player for Sydney’s Symphony Orchestra.
Of course at 7 years of age one really doesn’t easily have a need to become a rocket scientist nor a bus driver. I read yesterday though that a young genius had already finished a university course at seven years and another could play the complete works of all Mozart’s piano concertos at eight and half years. So, where does that come from? What could one possibly have gleaned from a photograph taken at age three or so indicating a future rocket scientist or a Mozart pianist?
I was taken by a photo of a very young girl looking out into the world. Her arms hanging down parallel to her body and looking at the camera with her face slightly askew as if she expected something to come out of the camera. At such young age everything is new and full of surprises. There hasn’t been time yet for things to have repeated themselves. All is exciting and nothing is repetitive or boring. The forest are still full of mystery, oceans full of lurking monsters, mountains to be scaled, smells to be inhaled, foods to be tasted, music and art to be discovered and friends and people to be met and made. All is virgin-fresh experience and all is new. The girl looking at the camera might well have expected something to leap out of the camera.
When that same girl reaches old age and we scan a recent photo, one still recognizes that same face, that same girl, but something has changed. The face has filled up with what that life offered her, gave her, and often also what has been ‘endured.’ The photo reveals the journey of life not unlike a car that has traveled a long distance. There is grime and dust, ‘wear and tear’; doors are squeaking and the steering somewhat unsure or wobbly, the tyres are worn and rust in the mudguard. We have become a product of life and for many; life has now turned into a merry go round of oft repeated experiences. There, for many, a truth is starting to emerge every time they glance at a mirror. It’s called ageing, but not just of body.
While there are still undiscovered areas of experiences, it is sometimes a lacking of energy to go out and discover and delight in ‘the new’. Fatigue has set in and the realization that one edges closer to an extinction of some kind. If anything still needs doing, time has become of the essence. For the frantically energetic and fanatically ambitious, this can be a trying time indeed.
But with that ageing, a wisdom or insight might also finally got born (to the inclined to wisdom) that what has not been achieved is not all that important anymore. It has come about that there is now so much more past and what is behind, rather than what still might lie ahead. With advancing years we gain the dubious but free ‘luxury’ of reflections rather than worry about what might still have to be achieved or done. We have become experts at creating the experience of wallowing in life’s final rewards of ‘pleasure’. We can sit and relax, look at the ducks or ride a bike around the park. It’s rather refreshing not having to achieve anything anymore, except those things that make the day a pleasure to have gone through. At the end of the day there is the reward of having ‘had a nice day’. That’s all that’s required now.
Perhaps, it was Edith Piaf who understood all when she sang; je ne regrette rien.
Christmas in cold climates involves snow that covers rooftops and streets. It deadens noise and yet has a sound that defies reasonable description. Perhaps the closest is when in olden times and at funerals of kings or queens, the drums and sticks would be cloth covered and the rolls became muffled. This gave somberness to the occasion fitting the importance of the procession of the uncontrollable grief sobbing of thousands following the coffin. Not that I can actually remember ever having followed a queen or king to a grave, nor having witnessed grief sobbing of thousands, but it reads rather nicely, don’t you think?
For me the Christmas was the time for our dad installing a real Christmas tree which was always a prickly spruce bought a few days before. The tree would be decorated with candle holders that had to remain reasonable upright having to carry the weight of the candle. This was always tricky, especially when the tree aged and dried out and branches started to hang. The tree was supposed to last till the three kings met the fallen star. Now, my religious memory might be a little hazy or unsteady, but was this a period of 30 days? Anyway, in our family the tree would be exploited till the very end of festivities. This was usually when snow had melted, the toys either lost, eaten or broken, and we had to go back to school.
Going back to the candle holders and hanging branches. It was inevitable that we would experience a dying dead and tinder dry spruce on fire. My dad in his pyjama and early in the morning got up out of bed and without a word, grabbed the burning tree, opened the window and hurled it outside from three stories high. The burning tree ended up in the chicken coop belonging to the tailor living at the bottom floor, much to the consternation of the chickens. Those living at the bottom floors were always the envy of the neighborhood because they had a garden and could keep chickens. We had been playing with matches and had lit the candles, one of which had sagged and started licking the dry branch and needles near it. I think that the burning Christmas tree might well have been the catalyst for my parents’ idea of migrating elsewhere.
After the ensuing migration and settling in Australia’s Revesby our first Christmas was different. The spruce morphed into a pine with long needles and for us less gracious looking. My dad went about decorating the tree, but now very wisely, changed to electric lights. Instead of snow (and muffled drums) there was heat and flies. The congregation in the church smelled of beer and there were huge moths flying about the size of small birds. There was a hellish noise coming from the bark of some giant gum trees in the next garden which, at that time still had an old farm house on it. At night we were bitten by mosquitoes. We missed the snow!
Later on, and after some years, we learned to associate the noise of cicadas, the giant bogong moths and the smell and cheer of beer and prawns, the glass of a chilled Barossa Pearl with mum and dad, the friendly neighbors with the pouring of foaming beers from brown longnecks and the sticking of Christmas cards through venetians to be part of a Christmas just as joyous as the ones left behind. As kids we soon got tents and started to discover beaches and Blue Mountains, 22 rifles and rabbits and some years later, motor bikes and sheilas with concrete ‘lovable’ bras. Dancing lessons from Phyllis Bates and The Trocadero in George Street. My first ‘dipping of the wick’. The Christmases’ became associated with all that and more.
While Father (Mother) Christmas jingle bells are all around us, spreading sweetness and good cheer, there is never a more opportune period of the year for the black dog’s depression to jump over your fence. The reasons are probably, but not only, that somehow, the December month is a time for expectation totally divorced and away from previous months. This is because of some tradition steeped in history that tells us we ought to feel different, a kind of ‘happiness’ difference.
That this December linked Christmas history is tainted with religious fantasy and fairy tales including a baby born out of wedlock AND from a virgin, animals chewing their cud while breathing over this just born baby in a manger on straw AND inside a cave, plus three kings following a fallen star doesn’t help keeping sanity amongst those with already frayed nerves. If anything, those ridiculous fantasies should have been ditched long ago. No wonder so many feel mentally disheveled when the world relishes in regaling that same sort of nonsense, year in year out.
We have plodded on reasonably well during the previous eleven months but when December comes around, there seeps into one’s conscience, imperceptibly at first, expectations that things will become better or happier, or at least different…It might well be prudent to let skepticism take a seat at the turkey/ ham-loaded Christmas table. What sort of feast is this period supposed to be about? How much is this period a result of unreal expectations, totally divorced from the rest of the year. We sent cards to those we haven’t even seen during the year. The shops are chockers with things we and everybody else already have and our gas bill is six weeks overdue… Do we really think that a high-pressure water cleaner from Bunning’s is an appropriate present for someone? How do you wrap it?
Sure, the children love magic (and presents) but we are adults and supposedly firmly in control. Why, with the shops closed for just one day for Christmas, do we load up with food and hoard larders full as if it is going to be rationed? Do we scurry into bunkers next, has war broken out? Why do we start increasing our speed when walking through the aisles of Big W or Coles? I saw a woman running through the margarine division of Aldi’s today, followed hot on the heels by a screaming toddler. Why? Are there sirens blaring out next? Should the State Emergency crowd be called in and should we all carry crow bars around? What is all that nervousness about? Of course, the black dog will sniff about. They smell our neurosis. Don’t make eye contact with it. Especially don’t stoop down at his level and don’t even think of patting or stroking.
At the bank yesterday there it all was, a perfect opportunity for letting the black dog inside again. The queue was long and as if that wasn’t enough there was a looped tape playing over and over again “Rudolf, the red nosed reindeer”, and, to top it off, “Holy night”. It was bad enough for the customers but imagine the effect on staff? On top of the music, staff had to accept the ignominy of wearing floppy red hats with white tussles for two weeks. It would be almost impossible for anyone to survive that level of idiocy. One would be sorely tempted to invite or adopt a real black dog, especially a kelpie or friendly Border collie.
Of course, there are those who, having been dealt a rough card in life, do feel this silly period more keenly than others. It’s not helpful that society is so focused on success and that failures are so often put at the feet of those unfortunate souls that haven’t followed societies ideals of ‘individual responsibility’ and’ individual efforts’ without realizing that not everyone dances to the same beat of the drum. There are those who feel that the beat of our drum is too monotonous and boring, they reject societies notions of being successful.
Perhaps, if we really want to spread Christmas cheer we could do a bit better in the gift box of tolerance and acceptance. There are those that missed out on the luck or opportunity for personal success or finding happiness and reasonable contentedness. Perhaps there were other variances that caused their lives not to turn out as well as they anticipated when young. Those plagued with mental illness have been dealt the roughest card of all to deal with. The black dog amongst those unfortunate people often roams around sniffing and snarling at the heels and will take every opportunity to attack.
So, while slicing the turkey or ham, opening the chardonnay, spare a thought for those battling with ‘black dog’. Help them, and take the black mongrel back to the pound.
Well, the ‘carking it’ brigade certainly knows how to throw a party. It just shows that when the past is larger and more than the future it pays to make sure that, on reflection, one can look back on a few things that were worthwhile doing. In those last few seconds you would not want to break into a sweat realising that one could have done better, perhaps a bit kinder, more forgiving, more tolerant, less belligerant. Those few seconds could well last decades, beware! Make friends with the past, reconcile and order a bunch of roses or cook some nice marinated chicken wings. It’s never too late.
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 