Liz Taylor died overnight. I heard the headlines on the news when I woke this morning.. she was 79.. the first memory that came was the image of her as a young girl with a pale face and blue-black hair riding a horse by the sea in National Velvet .. when we were kids during the school holidays we watched movies that featured her and Mickey Rooney. my brother Paul used to remind me of Mickey.. he had bold ideas about what we could do..
when I looked at the Guardian online today the link to the old film was there.. here it is..
http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/filmblog/2011/mar/23/elizabeth-taylor-career-in-clips?intcmp=122
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
After the tsunami comes the grief .. guardian.co.uk, Sunday 13 March 2011 22.11 GMT
The reporter from the Guardian is walking along a muddy road surrounded by debris .. He's in the coastal town of Shintona in the prefecture of Miyagi, an area devastated by the earthquake and tsunami last Friday.. Those two words flotsam and jetsam are never more real than when I look at the screen.. A stretch of railway track has been lifted up and plonked sideways by the road and looks like a picket fence.. The reporter stands near the track then reaches into the rubble and picks up something he's found.. A dinner plate ringed in mud.. He turns it in his hands while the camera zooms in on a decorative blue and white plate.. Around the edges are the words Tonight is the Star Festival
A blue body bag lies not far away, tied at the top with thin blue cord..
Tonight is the star festival
Tonight is the star festival
That line sits with me all day long.. Around 9 I'm standing out the back with the dog, rubbing his head ..There are crickets in the grass and a light, cool breeze and tonight can I tell you the sky above is starless?
A blue body bag lies not far away, tied at the top with thin blue cord..
Tonight is the star festival
Tonight is the star festival
That line sits with me all day long.. Around 9 I'm standing out the back with the dog, rubbing his head ..There are crickets in the grass and a light, cool breeze and tonight can I tell you the sky above is starless?
Friday, February 18, 2011
Pat..
My sister Liz’s 50th birthday. We sit outside in her back yard and eat the roast lamb dinner my brother Pat has prepared. Pat's down from Queensland for a week to help celebrate with the rest of us here in Victoria. My youngest brother doesn’t say much but he insists I sit next to Liz while he takes a place on the other side of the table, squeezing up amongst the kids and though he's hungry, I notice he serves himself last of all.
For about 15 years he works for a doctor and her husband on a property they own on the outskirts of Bundaberg. Pat's a carpenter and does maintenance work on their house and land, renovates bathrooms and kitchens, builds sheds and puts new fences around the paddocks. Over time he builds a boat for the couple which they go sailing in, all around the top end from Airlie Beach to Darwin. Pat tells me that while most builders have other tradesmen working alongside them on a site, he learns to study the clouds for company. He watches the way they form and discovers what each one means as he goes about his work. Clouds give you feelings of peace he says.
My sisters are also there for the birthday and it's relaxing just sitting outside together. Liz tells stories of the people she comes across in her work with the Salvation Army. One woman she sees each week hasn't got any friends or family and so never has visitors. "I haven't got any infrastructure" is how she puts it. When we start the meal, Liz looks as if she's about to cry. We're just so lucky she says.
As the night goes on, the sky grows dark and then lights up with flashes of storm activity coming from the north of the city. The kids are racing around the yard on roller blades, the dog- a docile springer spaniel wanders in amongst the candles placed around the paved area in a bid to deter the mossies and finds space under the table nudging at our legs. Behind us a great fat spider is spinning a web underneath a girder connecting the old stables. The kids bring out a torch from a science kit and take turns shining a spindly light on the old web-master fastening thread to thread in the warm air. Music rolls out through the back door of the house while we sit talking then the far-off rumbling of thunder begins to get louder and we think about going inside. Pat points to the sky and says the storm will pass us by. He can see blue above the fence next door. I look over and all I see is darkness then gradually this gives way to a paler colour, an inky blue that sits above the chook shed like a brushswirl on a child's painting.
Feel the breeze he says. The wind has shifted. It's cooling right down.
.
For about 15 years he works for a doctor and her husband on a property they own on the outskirts of Bundaberg. Pat's a carpenter and does maintenance work on their house and land, renovates bathrooms and kitchens, builds sheds and puts new fences around the paddocks. Over time he builds a boat for the couple which they go sailing in, all around the top end from Airlie Beach to Darwin. Pat tells me that while most builders have other tradesmen working alongside them on a site, he learns to study the clouds for company. He watches the way they form and discovers what each one means as he goes about his work. Clouds give you feelings of peace he says.
My sisters are also there for the birthday and it's relaxing just sitting outside together. Liz tells stories of the people she comes across in her work with the Salvation Army. One woman she sees each week hasn't got any friends or family and so never has visitors. "I haven't got any infrastructure" is how she puts it. When we start the meal, Liz looks as if she's about to cry. We're just so lucky she says.
As the night goes on, the sky grows dark and then lights up with flashes of storm activity coming from the north of the city. The kids are racing around the yard on roller blades, the dog- a docile springer spaniel wanders in amongst the candles placed around the paved area in a bid to deter the mossies and finds space under the table nudging at our legs. Behind us a great fat spider is spinning a web underneath a girder connecting the old stables. The kids bring out a torch from a science kit and take turns shining a spindly light on the old web-master fastening thread to thread in the warm air. Music rolls out through the back door of the house while we sit talking then the far-off rumbling of thunder begins to get louder and we think about going inside. Pat points to the sky and says the storm will pass us by. He can see blue above the fence next door. I look over and all I see is darkness then gradually this gives way to a paler colour, an inky blue that sits above the chook shed like a brushswirl on a child's painting.
Feel the breeze he says. The wind has shifted. It's cooling right down.
.
Friday, January 21, 2011
wedding dress..
On the desk beside me is a photograph of my mother in her wedding dress
She's dated it on the back Sep 20 1941
I saw the dress for the first time on Tuesday this week.
It is now Friday.
My mother's dress is made of figured satin.
-I had to ring her to check because I wasn't sure if she was saying finger satin or figure satin
after she said it a few more times on the phone, I got it- figured satin
The dress is kept in a plastic bag on a linen shelf at my mother's unit
It lies underneath sheets and pillowcases
I had no idea she'd kept it
I have no memory of ever seeing it
I carried it into the lounge room and opened the bag onto my knees.
It is the colour of cream
It is covered in lightly embossed flowers
Satin feels slippery on your skin
The sleeves are long with little puffs at the shoulders and two hand stitched press studs at each wrist
The bodice is high necked with a soft v in the middle
My mother wore a strand of pearls on the day she was married
There is a line of ruching gathered under the bust
Covered buttons with rouleau loops go all the way down the back
My mother's sister did up the bottom ones and she fastened the top
It is floor length with a ripply circular train
The dress has yellowy spots on one shoulder and a few marks on the skirt
There are no holes or tears in the dress.
I held the dress up to the light and saw my mother on the other side of the table looking at it
My mother is 92
When she was 23 she wore this dress
She had dark hair with a slight wave and wore a veil that reached the floor
My mother wore silver shoes with a small heel
My mother was 5 foot 7 when she was young
I have the photo beside me, taken on the morning of her wedding
She is standing by the window in a studio in Clifton Hill,
Her dark curly hair is just touching her shoulders
Her face is clear and her eyes are smiling
She is carrying a long bouquet of roses and gardenias
On her arm she is dangling a ribboned horseshoe
The train is spread out like a wave on the floor in front of her
She looks like an Irish princess
My mother loved marrying my father..
She's dated it on the back Sep 20 1941
I saw the dress for the first time on Tuesday this week.
It is now Friday.
My mother's dress is made of figured satin.
-I had to ring her to check because I wasn't sure if she was saying finger satin or figure satin
after she said it a few more times on the phone, I got it- figured satin
The dress is kept in a plastic bag on a linen shelf at my mother's unit
It lies underneath sheets and pillowcases
I had no idea she'd kept it
I have no memory of ever seeing it
I carried it into the lounge room and opened the bag onto my knees.
It is the colour of cream
It is covered in lightly embossed flowers
Satin feels slippery on your skin
The sleeves are long with little puffs at the shoulders and two hand stitched press studs at each wrist
The bodice is high necked with a soft v in the middle
My mother wore a strand of pearls on the day she was married
There is a line of ruching gathered under the bust
Covered buttons with rouleau loops go all the way down the back
My mother's sister did up the bottom ones and she fastened the top
It is floor length with a ripply circular train
The dress has yellowy spots on one shoulder and a few marks on the skirt
There are no holes or tears in the dress.
I held the dress up to the light and saw my mother on the other side of the table looking at it
My mother is 92
When she was 23 she wore this dress
She had dark hair with a slight wave and wore a veil that reached the floor
My mother wore silver shoes with a small heel
My mother was 5 foot 7 when she was young
I have the photo beside me, taken on the morning of her wedding
She is standing by the window in a studio in Clifton Hill,
Her dark curly hair is just touching her shoulders
Her face is clear and her eyes are smiling
She is carrying a long bouquet of roses and gardenias
On her arm she is dangling a ribboned horseshoe
The train is spread out like a wave on the floor in front of her
She looks like an Irish princess
My mother loved marrying my father..
Sunday, January 16, 2011
just looking..
At the op shop this morning I stood beside a man holding a bundle of books.. Old hardbacks.. The one on top caught my eye because when I glanced down I saw it was titled something like Learning Swedish. He was middle aged, dark haired and had a moustache as fine as a cat's whiskers. In the seconds that went by I began to picture him opening the book in a room with his Swedish girlfriend but when I looked down again, I saw it wasn't a language manual but a book about Crafting Softwood. The woman serving flicked through the pile and stacked them by the register.
The large white book at the bottom was an embossed Holy Bible.
"That'll be 4 dollars" she said and he paid her, dropped them in plastic bag and went out the door..
The large white book at the bottom was an embossed Holy Bible.
"That'll be 4 dollars" she said and he paid her, dropped them in plastic bag and went out the door..
Friday, November 26, 2010
brushstrokes..
It’s late here..I'm tired from the drive down to Morwell today but want to put down something before I go to bed. Something about mum and being with her on a wet November afternoon. She’d been out at an activities day organised by the health services at her local council.. She looked tired but better than she's been for some months.. We had a look at the garden.. I swept the path that was covered in rain-soaked pink fuchsia buds and made tea for the two of us.. An omelette which she seemed to enjoy. We watched the news as we ate and saw a boy from Morwell take a hat-trick at the Gabba.. I still don't know how much she actually sees.. Before I left to go home, as we stood together in the kitchen she picked up a brush and did my hair. . It’d been raining through the afternoon and the back of my head had gotten wet. . as she pushed the bristles through, so lightly that the ends flicked up around the sides of my ears, I remembered how she dried and combed my hair when i was young, how safe i felt tucked into her chest, how calm and strong her hands were and as I stood there at the bench trying with all my might to stay in the moment stay in the real and now with her at 92 and me touching 60, stay in this holy moment and hear her telling me I have good hair and I feel so loved, so young..
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Wayne..
Wayne died on Thursday. He lived on his own across the road at 17. I thought something was up when I went outside about 6 and saw a group of people standing in the front yard of his house. Some were on mobiles, a few were smoking. His sister appeared from the back and went up to the house but no one followed her in. I tossed out the tealeaves, broke off a few spent geranium flowers and went inside.
Wayne barracked for Collingwood and during the season the front window of the house featured a Weg Magpie poster. Grand final day started early over there. Even when his side wasn’t playing he still flew the flag. The side gate would swing open around 9 and all morning his mates would be up and down that drive carrying in the supplies.
He liked a drink and was quite overweight. His parties were legendary. He held them for just about anything. Mostly they were loud. In the early days of living on his own they didn’t finish too well. Around 2 or 3 am when the music would have begun to tone down, there’d be an argument or a bit of shouting and on a couple of occasions I remember women screaming to stop what must have been a fight. It wasn’t Wayne’s fault though. His friends were the wild ones. A few times I went over in the morning to complain about the fact that we’d hardly slept and he’d look down at the ground and shake his head as if he couldn’t believe it either.
I liked his parents. They were an old-fashioned couple who’d lived in the area all their lives. Sonny retired from working at the Heinz factory in Dandenong not long after we moved here and I remember seeing him going off in a mate’s car each week in a white shirt and black trousers carrying a piano accordion on his lap. He played in the local senior citizen’s band. Rhoda pottered about in the garden looking after a few roses. On Sunday afternoons she’d be in an apron standing at the top of the steps waving her children and grandchildren goodbye.
They died within a year of each other and because Wayne was the only one of their kids who wasn’t married, he just stayed on. He wasn’t too flash with looking after the place. When the canvas awnings began to tear and then fray into strips that fluttered in the breeze, Wayne didn’t bother replacing them or even pull up the inside blinds. The house took the full strength of the afternoon sun and that was that. It was enough for him to mow the lawns and put out the bins on a Sunday evening. His mates would sit on the front steps smoking and having a beer. I don’t know what sort of a job he had. For some years he drove a yellow mini minor with a bumper sticker that said Don’t look too closely, your daughter might be inside.
I never saw him with a girl.
His nickname was Bluey, he was a committeeman with the local cricket club and the scorer for many years. I doubt if he ever missed a game.
Beyond a smile and wave when we were out the front at the same time, I only had a few conversations with him. One night I was home alone during an earth tremor and met him on the road when I went outside to see what had happened. He didn’t have a lot to say. We both laughed and said we’d meet again if the house fell down.
On Thursday night I went to my brother’s for his birthday and when I arrived home a fellow was standing on the porch. He told my husband and me that his cousin Wayne had suffered a heart attack in the afternoon. Apparently he’d been unwell for a couple of weeks but hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. An ambulance crew called and took him to hospital but he died soon afterwards. By 4.30 his mates at the pub knew.
He was 48.
Tonight it’s Saturday night and not one light’s on at no 17. I look across the road and just see an empty house.
Wayne barracked for Collingwood and during the season the front window of the house featured a Weg Magpie poster. Grand final day started early over there. Even when his side wasn’t playing he still flew the flag. The side gate would swing open around 9 and all morning his mates would be up and down that drive carrying in the supplies.
He liked a drink and was quite overweight. His parties were legendary. He held them for just about anything. Mostly they were loud. In the early days of living on his own they didn’t finish too well. Around 2 or 3 am when the music would have begun to tone down, there’d be an argument or a bit of shouting and on a couple of occasions I remember women screaming to stop what must have been a fight. It wasn’t Wayne’s fault though. His friends were the wild ones. A few times I went over in the morning to complain about the fact that we’d hardly slept and he’d look down at the ground and shake his head as if he couldn’t believe it either.
I liked his parents. They were an old-fashioned couple who’d lived in the area all their lives. Sonny retired from working at the Heinz factory in Dandenong not long after we moved here and I remember seeing him going off in a mate’s car each week in a white shirt and black trousers carrying a piano accordion on his lap. He played in the local senior citizen’s band. Rhoda pottered about in the garden looking after a few roses. On Sunday afternoons she’d be in an apron standing at the top of the steps waving her children and grandchildren goodbye.
They died within a year of each other and because Wayne was the only one of their kids who wasn’t married, he just stayed on. He wasn’t too flash with looking after the place. When the canvas awnings began to tear and then fray into strips that fluttered in the breeze, Wayne didn’t bother replacing them or even pull up the inside blinds. The house took the full strength of the afternoon sun and that was that. It was enough for him to mow the lawns and put out the bins on a Sunday evening. His mates would sit on the front steps smoking and having a beer. I don’t know what sort of a job he had. For some years he drove a yellow mini minor with a bumper sticker that said Don’t look too closely, your daughter might be inside.
I never saw him with a girl.
His nickname was Bluey, he was a committeeman with the local cricket club and the scorer for many years. I doubt if he ever missed a game.
Beyond a smile and wave when we were out the front at the same time, I only had a few conversations with him. One night I was home alone during an earth tremor and met him on the road when I went outside to see what had happened. He didn’t have a lot to say. We both laughed and said we’d meet again if the house fell down.
On Thursday night I went to my brother’s for his birthday and when I arrived home a fellow was standing on the porch. He told my husband and me that his cousin Wayne had suffered a heart attack in the afternoon. Apparently he’d been unwell for a couple of weeks but hadn’t mentioned it to anyone. An ambulance crew called and took him to hospital but he died soon afterwards. By 4.30 his mates at the pub knew.
He was 48.
Tonight it’s Saturday night and not one light’s on at no 17. I look across the road and just see an empty house.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
song of a late afternoon..
not much comes..
but here, just now as I stop to put the laptop away
and get ready to make the tea,
I hear birds..
I hear birdsong that's different to birds' voices at any other time of the year,
late winter, southern hemisphere, Berwick.
Outside my kitchen window
birds are finishing up for the day,
Closing their shops,
sweeping the floors,
putting away the bits and pieces of their work for the afternoon.
They're about to go home.
Before they go, they sing their music.
Squirt the notes into the cold air like this...
s s s s s s s s s and wwwwwwwww and t t t t t t t t ...
up and down, side to side, over and under,
over and over they sing
They sing their song in through the window, over a sink
and all around this room where I sit
listening and waiting ...
finding my words at last.
but here, just now as I stop to put the laptop away
and get ready to make the tea,
I hear birds..
I hear birdsong that's different to birds' voices at any other time of the year,
late winter, southern hemisphere, Berwick.
Outside my kitchen window
birds are finishing up for the day,
Closing their shops,
sweeping the floors,
putting away the bits and pieces of their work for the afternoon.
They're about to go home.
Before they go, they sing their music.
Squirt the notes into the cold air like this...
s s s s s s s s s and wwwwwwwww and t t t t t t t t ...
up and down, side to side, over and under,
over and over they sing
They sing their song in through the window, over a sink
and all around this room where I sit
listening and waiting ...
finding my words at last.
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