Worth the Words

I TAKE THAT AS A NO!

2011-09-01T15:48:00.005+10:00

By Russell Korn

On the 9th December 2010, I attended Pre-Admission clinic in preparation for knee surgery later that month. That day I was told that day my warfarin dose would be replaced with an oral dose of a substitute medication called heparin. At 1pm on the 18th of December, I was admitted to the Royal Brisbane Hospital’s MACU ward. MACU stands for Maternal Acute Care Unit – me, pregnant at 54 – I don’t think so.

It didn’t take long though before things started to go astray. At 4pm a canola and a pump drip, intravenous fluid syringe were attached to the back of my left hand. I named the accompanying pole on trolley wheels... R2D2. It remained with me for the next six days. It had to go where I had to go and when I had to go: to the toilet, to the shower and elsewhere. Wherever I went R2D2 was sure to follow, wagging its drip bag behind it. Of course, R2D2 also stood guard over me as I tried to sleep in the war zone.

At 8pm came the first of my 4 hourly blood tests. Kate, the blood collector, was a gold medalist - she found a vein first time, every time. Unfortunately she returned two hours later to do the vampire thing again as the lab refused to accept the samples due to a mislabeling problem. Get this: my name was in the patient number box and my patient number was in the name box. Obviously this would have seriously compromised my APTT results. This level of bureaucracy came as no surprise having served over 3 decades in the Queensland Public Service.

At 2am the MACU attending nurse was called upon to extract the next blood sample. Upon
examination, she became quite nervous, as my veins are not prominent, but referred to as shy or concealed or simply bad. She prodded around for a while with much umming and ahh-ing until she reluctantly sank the needle. To her dismay she missed the vein. She didn’t try again. Later, I heard her speaking on the phone, “There is only one surgical doctor working tonight. With anxiety in her voice she continued, “This guy’s APTTs are up over 200. We have to get a sample tonight..... his name is Korn K_O_R_N.”

During the ensuing days there would be another nurse who did similar, plus two others who didn't even try to find a vein. Also a number of blood collectors, upon missing the vein at the first stab, would, with the needle tip deeply embedded in my flesh, began to mine - first to the left, then to the right, surely that little sucker is close, after all I can feel it. And then there were those like Kate who found a vein, first time, every time. However, most of the 30 jabs over the next few days failed. I was feeling like a torture victim. As a sufferer from insomnia and consequential depression, being woken up every 2 hours for observations or blood tests soon took its toll. By the morning of my operation and knowing these tests would continue for the next four days, I was well past ‘loosing the will to live’ and well past ‘wanting to die’. I was actually in the zone – I was ‘willing myself to die on the operating table’.

At around midday on 21st December 2010 I awoke in Royal Brisbane Hospital Post-Op with
an attending nurse beside my gurney. Immediately she started asking a proliferation of
questions: Are you a diabetic ? Have you ever had a heart attack before ? Have you had
problems with anaesthetic before? What are you experiencing ? You need to lie down.

I reply : No , No , I feel like I am suffocating. I need to sit up.

The nurse continues : Your blood pressure is low, it won’t come back up until you lie down.

Me : I’m having panic attacks. If I lie down I have a panic attack.

Nurse : You’ve got to lie down. We’re fighting a losing battle here.

Soon after, I am back in my home-ward. I am telling this stranger in the opposite bed that I feel terrible. Over and over again I say, “I feel terrible”. Many panic attacks later I hear in the background a female voice saying “No I can’t say for certain the patient is dying. He’s looking very grey. Then a short silence followed by: “The patient’s name is Russell Korn”.

That voice was summoning the Intensive Care Unit Resuscitation Team. Seemingly seconds later, I had a good looking blonde doctor leaning over me as I was rushed down corridors, into lifts, and off to another ward. “You’ve got to stay awake Russell, keep your eyes open, stay with us Russ... stay with us”. Soon I was surrounded by a medical team of seven doctors and support staff as they started their three hour vigil to keep me from crossing over. The same questions were fired at me : Are you a diabetic ? Have you ever had a heart attack before ? ....... No, No, Correct, Correct were amongst my replies to the barrage of questions. Various intravenous drugs were being pumped through the canola in a vein attempt to keep me on the right side of life. “Why isn’t his blood pressure coming up?” was the Chief Resident’s pleading question. Another doctor pores over my files, but is similarly bewildered. In vain, she throws comments, which are promptly ignored.

What these guys didn’t know and I wasn’t going to tell them was where my headspace was
leading up to the operation. Had I been psychologically assessed prior to surgery, then my surgery would have been cancelled. What I did tell them though was this, “For the last three hours I have told you repeatedly that I needed to pee.” Eventually a nurse by the name of Christine gets a bottle. My audience departs, I pee and my blood pressure starts heading towards the land of the living.

Oh yea, by the way, about three quarters the way through the ordeal and in response to their frustrations, I bobbed my head up and said, “Perhaps I could pop out and do a bit of Christmas shopping while you sort out this problem”. They all looked away in the direction of my feet. After a few seconds of silence I added “I’ll take that as a NO!”

That Word

2011-07-19T22:45:00.001+10:00

by Russell Korn

I went up to the librarian at the main counter of North Quay Library and requested ‘That Book’. Printed in 1957, ‘That Book’, with its fellow troglodytes, had found a dwelling place in the basement area of the library known as “Archives”. ‘That Book’ was ‘The Universal Dictionary of Philosophy’. Now, safely in hand, it was time to read it in the same dogmatic manner that I had read any other book : firstly, the front cover and then the back, followed by the inside covers, the acknowledgements, the foreword, the list of contents and then finally there was - The Definitions. I leisurely scanned and skimmed over the first half of the ‘A’ definitions – after all this was a dictionary. Then breathlessness came over me as my heart almost ceased to beat. I had encountered ‘That Word’. Here it was, a single word, formulated by The Ancients some four millennia prior to my birth, that encapsulated the essence of what would take me paragraphs to describe. This epiphany moment was simultaneously enlightening and humbling.

At age 25 I was caused to understand, that there was no path that I could walk, that had not been walked by every generation that preceded me. Yes, enlightenment could be original to me, but it was and is, for all time, to be shared by all. ‘That Word’ was ‘aporia’, the essence of which being the syllable ‘por’ can be rendered in two significant directions. Firstly, pore, whose inflection doesn’t just mean a duct-like opening in the skin but also The Point of Meditation. For those of the charismatic persuasion, the pore becomes the living womb from which the ‘born again’ experience emerges.

Secondly, for those of the philosophical persuasion, a-‘por’-ia inflects to mean a portal to the Ethereal and connection with all that is ‘Jung’s Collective Unconscious’. Personally, for me, it is both.

That Word ‘aporia’ not only encapsulates the cornerstone of my Faith and the Foundation for my Life, but it is also the source of my essence and all that is about me that is of value.

Episode 4, A Leopard Can’t Change Its Spots

2011-07-17T19:56:00.001+10:00

by Russell Korn

At times, work demanded they forego their Tantra moments, so it wasn’t unusual that The Chameleon hadn’t heard from Cudgee on that day. As night wore on, he phoned her, but the call went to the answering service. The message left : “Just seeing if you are still alive”– how little did he know.

He phoned the following morning, but still there was no answer. He phoned her work number but her work colleagues said they had not heard from the stoic Cudgee. After work he drove to her townhouse and rang the door bell again and again – but all to no avail. Twice before her grip on life had been challenged to the utmost. It was the essence of The Chameleon that drew her back from the brink. With mounting concern The Chameleon decided to scale the brick fence surrounding her courtyard. Through the sliding glass door he could see her lying naked on the futon. First he tapped on the glass, then he pounded, but she did not rouse. The Chameleon was able to spring the lock on the door and rushed to her side. It was to no avail – Cudgee was no more. He rushed down the hallway of the townhouse complex, pounding on every door and frantically screaming “She’s dead, she’s dead”.

After a barrage of questions the police eventually eliminated him as ‘A person of interest’. The autopsy report read, “Cause of death : heart failure”, but the reality was more than that. The forensic report revealed that Cudgee’s body had been wiped clean and there was shadow bruising around her neck. The prime suspect, Island John, was a police informant who had ruffied many women before, but had never been charged. The police perspective : ‘These women had asked for it – play with fire you get burnt’.

In the months after Cudgee’s death The Chameleon plunged into a world of life threatening insomnia and depression. Between the shatters of broken sleep, he would dream of his beloved who would reassure him that she wasn’t dead and it was all a big mistake – only to wake and relive the loss all over again. Her death had ripped and torn at every part of him that could feel pain. He become pantheresque, losing the power to change his spots. The very person who had always pulled him back from the dark side, was no more.

Technology became his enemy. He was able to pay bills via phone banking, order groceries over the net and submit leave forms thru email. He was even able to telecommunicate with his doctor who provided the necessary medical certificates and scripts – not that the sleeping pills or the antidepressants helped.
The Chameleon exhausted all his leave and hadn’t been seen at work for many months. One rumour amongst his work colleagues was that he had lost an arm and a leg in a motor bike accident; but that was his best friend ‘Bilby’. Another rumour was he had a serious heart attack, and was comatosed for a few days before dying; but that was his mentor Sahib.

Few knew Cudgee had been drugged and raped and literally left for dead, her weak heart collapsing under the pull of the ruffies.
One morning, laden with wine bottles, he slipped and fell, breaking a bottle of red on the cellar stairs. A shaft from the splintered bottle pierced his heart like a stingray barb. He felt no pain, more so, a thawing peace as the warm red fluid seeped from his body and blended with that of the bottle. His ebbing thought, “At last, I am going to be with Cudgee” – The Chameleon was no more. Akin to Lady Chatterly, The Chameleon had died from a broken heart, the autopsy confirming emotional cardiomyopathy – the alcohol simply filling the fissures of his fractured heart.

One Man Arguing

2011-04-13T11:21:00.000+10:00

by Renae Dubois

‘I told you to get away from that car!’ the tall man bellowed into the face of the younger guy, who felt the warm, wet spray over his nose and cheeks. He resisted wiping the droplets of saliva away from his chin and mouth, instead tried glaring at his verbal opponent. This went unnoticed though, as the brute was on a roll.
‘I said don’t touch the car! I said as much, what more do you want me to do? Break your arms?’ he roared, pulling up his shirt sleeves and flexing his muscles.
Trent thought he could see a blood vessel about to burst in this idiot’s forehead.
‘Calm down,’ he said, ‘I was just admiring it with my girlfriend’.
‘Don’t bring your bitch into it. This is between you and me.’
The man’s face was flushed. He’d clearly been drinking most of the day. Trent had seen him when they arrived at the pub about two hours earlier, but there had been no interaction between them until now. The man had come outside to urinate in the carpark and was on his way back to the bar when he had seen the young couple.
Suzie looped her arm through Trent’s to get his attention. He focused on her long enough to squeeze her hand then signal with his eyes for her to move back. Her frightened eyes pleaded, but he ignored it. She dutifully stepped back, closer to the tavern. From there she watched helplessly, her eyes darting between the two.
Trent stepped closer, this time with his arms extended and palms out. ‘Oh man, I didn’t mean anything. My girl and I just like these old Valiants. You’ve done it up real nice’. He stepped forward again to slap the man on the shoulder, but the bully braced his legs and raised his fists – his eyes disappearing beneath his furrowed brow.
‘Don’t give me that crap,’ he said.
‘Really, I just want to be cool. How about I buy you a drink? What do you drink?’ Trent said hastily, abandoning the plan to get closer. ‘Tell you what. Suzie,’ he glanced at her, ‘can go in and get whatever you like, how’s that?’
The man’s fists lowered and his hands relaxed somewhat, but he still stood in readiness for a fight that only he was waging. Trent waited for his response while keeping his own body in a relaxed and casual stance, even though his knees were shaking. He lit a cigarette, and offered one to the man. Finally there was a reprieve in tension, however slight.
‘Alright, she can get me a pint of mid strength and a double rum and coke,’ said the old fella, as he took the cigarette. The wrinkles in his brow were softening, and Trent thought he could see a twinkle in the man’s eyes. He looked back at his girlfriend, who was still tense and unsure, and signaled for her to go in and grab what the man wanted. She gasped at the method her boyfriend was using to get out of this situation. However, she took her cue, and went inside.
The two men stood smoking and eyeing each other off. Trent kept his shoulders straight and tried smiling at the older fella from time to time. When a pretty girl went past, they both looked, noticed each other looking, then laughed together.
‘You know, you’re not such a bad bloke’, the older man drawled to Trent, and put his arm on his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry I been such a prick, but I’ve had trouble around here with kids keying my car and stuff’. He gazed away frowning, the cigarette held close to his mouth but not quite touching.
Trent laughed, ‘yeah well you’re not a bad codger yourself, for an old bastard’, he ventured, sweat droplets forming on his forehead at his own audacity. He drew on his cigarette.
‘Ha, ha, ha, you got me!’ as he slapped Trent hard on the back mid-draw. Trent coughed and they both laughed. Just then the door of the pub opened, and a waitress stuck her head out.
‘I can’t bring your drinks out here fellas, you’ll have to come inside,’ she said.
From behind her Suzie emerged hesitantly, just in time to see the two men shake hands and introduce themselves. The older fellow was Malcolm. ‘Call me Mal’, he said. Suzie turned to Trent, shock and disappointment and a few other things in her eyes.
‘Come and have a drink with me,’ said Mal, starting to stagger slightly towards the bar.
Trent looked at Suzie and she adamantly indicated no way with her furious eyes and pursed lips. Trent knew that a refusal of this invitation could be taken the wrong way, but there was no way Suzie would approve of socialising with this fellow after his threats.
‘Oh, can’t mate, got to get to her Mum’s place, we’re going to be late. But, tomorrow, are you going to be here? I finish work about 4.30. What do you reckon?’
There was a long pause, and Mal looked at the two thoughtfully and knowingly. ‘Yeah, mate. I’m here most afternoons.’ He smiled and the two knew this was their opportunity to leave. They didn’t waste any time. A quick handshake again, a nod to the waitress, and soon they were walking back to their car.
Trent could feel Suzie’s irritation. She kept exhaling quickly and making little grunting noises. He tried taking her hand, to no avail. So he asked how much the drinks cost, pulling out his wallet.
‘Oh, you owe me more than the drinks I bought,’ she said, eyes flaming. ‘Why did you let him treat you that way?’
‘Well, what did you want me to do? Beat him up?’ he joked.
‘Yeah! Or man up, anyway. You totally gave in to him. You let him treat you like a fool’.
Trent looked sharply at her. This was going to be a long drive.

A Leopard Can’t Change Its Spots

2011-03-28T18:13:00.000+10:00

by Russell Korn

Episode 3
The Chameleon pondered the invitation from the Director General. Meanwhile another opportunity made itself known via the departmental daily message board. This emerged as a call for volunteers interested in revolutionising the day to day business of the department. The process was called ‘The Review’. This indeed became an opportunity for The Chameleon, but not as anticipated.
It came in the form of a woman. She was a short, plump, middle aged woman. ‘Cudgee’ as The Chameleon called her, reminded him of a character from a children’s program. ‘Cudgee Bear’ was a five foot tall koala that spoke in a high pitched, child like voice. Cudgee also looked like his first girlfriend in primary school. All those years ago, his mother asked him to show her the girl who he had spoken so highly of. He pointed to a short, plump girl with carroty orange, frizzy hair, white skin and a proliferation of freckles. The Chameleon’s mother, being somewhat taken back by the girl’s appearance, asked him what he liked about this girl. The Chameleon replied proudly “She’s really smart and good at maths”. To him it was a case of ‘Hey what’s not to like’.
In Cudgee’s case, it was her turn of phrase and her literary knowledge that impressed him and her sense of humour was complete – not dissimilar to his own. She didn’t quite understand The Chameleon’s rhetorical question “Are you good at maths” - that explanation would come later.
During the week of ‘The Review’, the facilitators were always trying to separate them. Akin to naughty children, they always found a way to be together. A trust developed between the two as their relationship was extended. Cudgee had already divulged that she was one of ‘the gang of three’ who processed the enquiries on the Director General’s ‘Review’. Simple enquiries were answered by the panel or referred to the appropriate staff member within the department. However the more complex enquiries were referred to experts, even if that meant going outside of the department. Such was the case with The Chameleon.
By day three of their encounter The Chameleon questioned Cudgee as to the identity of the mysterious Chameleon. “So what do you make of this Chameleon guy – assuming it’s a guy?’ Cudgee’s response was clinical as usual.
“He definitely presents as male but then again, it could be anyone... he works somewhere in the upper floors of head office.”
The Chameleon thought “So much for the anonymity of ‘The Review’”.
Cudgee continued, “His writing is so intense it just about spontaneously combusts when transferred to paper. He’s not of any of the archetypes and yet is all of them. He can shape-shift into whatever role he deems suitable to his purposes. He is able to effortlessly discern the counterfeit and has distinctly Shaman like qualities. Management is actually scared of this guy.”
In eons past, the reclusive Shaman was held in the highest of esteem. At a birth he would divine the spirit of the newborn and assign them a name.
Cudgee, herself a connoisseur of words expressed appreciation of The Chameleon’s style. She went on to explain that he was highly self-aware, his words were very deliberate, his tag ‘The Chameleon’ being a case in point.
Finally she said “He’s a good writer... why the interest?”
“So you think he’s a good writer?” Cudgee could not help noticing how chuffed he was by her final comment. Then just like in the movies, Cudgee did the mind flips finally speaking out aloud “You’re not... you are, aren’t you”. Many questions later Cudgee asked “Why The Chameleon?” He said decisively “It is to do with upper management in any large organisation – ‘a leopard can’t change its spots’”.
From day one they brought the best out in each other. By day four, The Chameleon and Cudgee were almost inseparable. They knew each other’s thoughts, finished each other’s sentences. They lived precariously on the Light Side of The Lunatic Fringe, knowingly tiptoeing around its edges.

The Understanding Islam Book - review

2011-03-28T18:09:00.000+10:00

by Christine Huda Dodge

Excerpted by Dawn Joyce

This book from the EVERYTHING Series comprises the author’s honest answers, based on her experience and understanding, about what Islam is and what Muslims feel is important about their faith. It also reveals a deep respect for learning.

The traditional Islamic greeting is Assalaamu alaykum, which means ‘Peace be with you’, and the appropriate response is Wa’alaykum salaam or ‘And peace also with you’. Arabic is a naturally poetic language with a wealth of expressive power and those who master the art are highly regarded.

The prophet Abraham was known to have two sons, Isaac and Ishmael. Tradition holds that the Jewish people are the descendants of Isaac and the Arabs are the descendants of Ishmael. The prophet Muhammad revived the Abrahamic faith for Arab peoples in the seventh century. The three Abrahamic faiths – Judaism, Christianity and Islam – share many of the same prophets, beliefs and historical accounts. Islam calls on people to engage in self evaluation, critically looking at each of the choices we make in life.

The Muslim empire had a vast influence on the development of the modern state, including the introduction of a postal system. The work of its scholars is reflected in the many English words that originated from the Arabic language. Some of these are algebra, almanac, atlas, cornea, monsoon, sofa, talc and zenith. In the Golden Age of Islamic civilisation, Muslims, Christians and Jews from all over the world came together to share knowledge, collaborate on research, discuss and debate. The scholarly work that was done at Islamic centres of learning helped to propel Europe out of the Dark Ages.

Seventy geographers worked together to produce the first map of the globe in 830. In the twelfth century, the Norman King of Sicily, Roger the Second, hired Al-Idrisi, a scholar from Cordoba, to produce a map of the world. Several of Al-Idrisi’s books were translated into Latin and his work spread rapidly through Europe. Christopher Columbus used a map that was derived from Al-Idrisi’s work in his explorations of the New World.

With the translation of Greek texts on medicine, the first modern hospital was created in Baghdad in 805. The Karouine University in Fez, Morocco, has the distinction of being the oldest university in the Western world that remains in use today. This centre of learning was founded by a Muslim woman, Fatima El-Fihria, in 859.

A Muslim woman retains her own family name upon marriage, rather than taking the name of her husband. This symbolic act emphasises that she remains her own person, with her own valid identity. Women are active in politics and education throughout the Muslim world. The Iranian parliament has more female members than the US senate. Muslim countries like Pakistan, Bangladesh, Indonesia and Turkey have had female prime ministers or presidents. In many Muslim countries, women make up the majority of college and graduate school students.

Today most Muslims recognise that reform is needed within the Muslim community. Such reform is based on several valuable and fundamental principles, including the concept of tawhid (unity), khilafa (trusteeship), ijtihad (reasoning), ijmah (consensus), shura (consultation) and istislah (public interest). Islam teaches that human beings have a special responsibility toward the earth and all things on it. It is a sad fact that most human beings, as the Qur’an remarks, ‘transgress beyond all bounds’.

Where There’s Smoke, There’s Fire !

2011-03-28T18:03:00.000+10:00

by Abu Nadira

How times have changed! What was socially acceptable and encouraged at one time can later become so disliked and subject to persecution. I started smoking on a daily basis when I was twelve. It was ‘the’ thing to do and regarded as one of the rites of passage to manhood. In our inner city ghetto almost everyone smoked, and if you didn’t smoke you were regarded a ‘sissy’, or a ‘big girl’s blouse’ as we say in ‘strine’. Tobacco ads were festooned everywhere; newspapers, magazines, huge billboards, buses, trains, on the sides of tall buildings, in cinemas and sporting venues. Ironically, cigarette manufacturers and breweries were the major sponsors of sporting events and teams. They all conveyed the same message, that smoking was good for you, a glamorous status symbol and the manly thing to do, and how that particular brand would achieve that for you. Smoking equalled success, was the message. The peer pressure was enormous and we felt so ‘cool’ and grown up when we smoked, although I felt sick and nauseated in the beginning. Smokers felt free to light up anywhere, be it restaurants, cars, workplaces, public transport, streets, etc; just about anywhere, without feeling the guilt and need to sneak off somewhere and have a furtive smoke, as is done nowadays. It was socially acceptable and encouraged.

One of my favourite actors, the legendary John Wayne of western cowboy movies fame, was a chain smoker; so we felt that smoking would make us as tough and heroic as he was against the ‘bad guys’. I aspired to be the hard adventurous ‘Malborough Man’, the epitome of manhood depicted in the film clips before the feature movie. Socrates, the brilliant captain of the very successful Brazilian soccer team, was a chain smoker, and regarded by us as a hero and justification for smoking. I can remember us smoking while discussing tactics immediately before a soccer match, and during half-time as well. Passive smoking was unheard of and non-smokers took no offence to smoking in their company. There certainly wasn’t the awareness of the adverse health effects we now have. In fact, quite the opposite. If someone suffered a smoking related illness like cancer or emphysema, he was regarded as having made a sacrifice for a worthy cause, almost as if he was a martyr, and deserved respect. You knew you were accepted when the bigger blokes offered you cigarettes.

We even smoked at high school. There was an area at the rear of the school grounds called ‘smokers corner’, with an unspoken rule that the teachers kept away during break times when there would be more than a hundred young puffers blowing clouds of smoke. Come to think of it, students were there throughout the day; on the pretext of a toilet break, some errand, or ‘wagging’ a class; especially when exams or tests were inflicted on us. Eventually smoking in the toilets was abandoned after the caretaker had been instructed to turn the fire hose on any toilet emitting smoke. Many a student had suffered the shock and indignity of being blasted by a strong jet of cold water coming over the top of the door.

Some enterprising students staked out their particular spot where they sold single cigs to students for 5 cents each by holding a pack in each hand; one a lighter brand called ‘Peter Stuyvesant’ for those who couldn’t handle the other heavier brand called ‘Rothmans’. Packets of cigarettes were relatively cheap and so much more attractively packaged than they are nowadays. We spent a lot of time discussing the so called virtues of each of our particular brand of preference, so much so that the brand of cigarette seemed to reflect the personality of the smoker. You were either a Rothman’s man, a Ransom man, a Dunhill man, and so on. Brand loyalty was fierce and well respected.

It became a ritual for me on my home to buy a smoke off the bloke selling on the street corner. I had it so well timed that I would finish the ‘cig’ just as I was approaching the landing to our fourth floor unit. As luck would have it, on one unforgettable occasion I was making my way up the stairs when I heard a cough from the landing above. I instantly recognized it as dad’s cough and was panic stricken. It was unusual for dad to be home at this time of the day, and I was taken completely off guard. Dad hated the fact that we smoked, and took every opportunity to warn us of the recent awareness of the harmful effects of smoking. Quite often he would ask us to read an article in the newspaper or the Readers Digest on the adverse effects of smoking, with the added threat of dealing with us in the severest of manner if he caught us smoking.

I had been holding the cig between my thumb and forefinger. I don’t know why I did it, but I cupped my other three fingers around the cig and stuck my hand into the pocket of my school pants. It must have been the instinct to preserve my precious smoke and avert the impending danger to my life. We often smoked by concealing the cig in this manner while moving our hands continuously to disperse the smoke; but this was the first time I had ever attempted hiding one in my pocket. We even held the smoke in as long as possible so that there would hardly be any smoke visible when we exhaled. This had the added effect of making us light headed.

Outside of home dad was taciturn and rarely spoke to us, except for a public reprimand, a mumbled comment or greeting, or just a slight nod of acknowledgement and brief scrutiny. As dad rounded the corner I tried to maintain an innocent expression, but dad had a sixth sense that was perfectly tuned into our mischief. This time he decided to ask me about my day at school and my results in the monthly test. As dad prolonged his interrogation I felt the most excrutiating pain. My thigh and fingers were burning. I tried to maintain my composure, but this was impossible as I started squirming and hopping from foot to foot as the pain increased. When dad asked why I was behaving so strangely, I could barely reply that I was ‘bursting’ and needed to get to the toilet as soon as possible.

The ruse almost succeeded until he noticed smoke coming from the region of my thigh. The cig was burning a hole through my school pants, giving off lots of smoke with an acrid smell of burning flesh and wool cloth combined. He pulled my hand out of my pocket and instantly realized what was going on. Dad had heavy strong hands which he used vey effectively as a short hard slap to the side of my head stung me, and another slap to my to the other side of my head made my head swim, and another slap had me reeling against the wall and sliding down to my knees. Dad took the trouble to explain very succinctly that one slap was for smoking, the second for lying, and the third for ruining my pants, and that this was just a taste of what was to come that night.

After that incident I became an expert at smoking without being detected. Best or worst of all, I have a lovely round lifelong scar to remind me of the incident. Now, many years later I am a passionate advocate against smoking and regret my self-destructive behaviour in the past.

Sweet Revenge

2011-02-28T17:27:00.000+10:00

By Abu Nadira

My three girls woke up in the morning to find their chocolates had disappeared from the fridge once again. Gold coins had miraculously appeared in place of the chocolates. They knew immediately who the culprit was. The poor little darlings had been to the shops the previous evening, and having resisted the urge for immediate gratification, had chosen instead to take their treats to school the following day. I locked myself in the toilet before they could turn their wrath on me. The vigorous thumping of three pairs of hands on the toilet door indicated that the limits of their tolerance had been breached. Eventually the furore and recriminations abated. The girls threatened to ‘fix me up’ and went off to school. I put this down to an empty threat and was sure that daddy’s girls would forgive him yet again.

That very evening Zara, the youngest, proudly announced at the dinner table that she had taken the chocolate wrappers to school for ‘show and tell’ as proof that dad had stolen their chocolates. I was mortified to learn that word had spread amongst shocked students and very amused teachers. ‘Whatever would they think of me stealing from my children?’ Well, I was guilty as charged. If this humiliation was the ‘fix me up’ they had threatened, then I could live with it. It was a small price to pay for the immense pleasure I had derived. Stolen chocolates tasted so much better, apart from the joy of deriving such an unexpected windfall.

Anyway, after some time had passed and the drama of the incident faded, Jameela, the eldest one, returned from school one day and informed us that her Chinese teacher had chosen her to represent the school at a competition. I thought that it would be a small competition with only a few schools involved. After all, she was only eleven years old and in grade five. For the next two weeks she diligently practised her speech in spite of teasing and mimicking from her sisters. When I asked what her speech was about, she said it involved saying a few things on her family and refused to divulge any further information. Mum and the girls had that knowing look of conspiracy. Eventually I gave up asking and accepted her decision to reveal the contents of the speech after the competition.

On the morning of the big day I was surprised to learn that the competition was being held at the Griffith University, and that it had been organised by the Chinese Embassy. This was much bigger than I had thought. I was amazed at the number of participants and the size of the audience. I felt apprehensive on Jameela’s behalf and tried to suppress my anxiety. How would she cope with this kind of pressure? The vast majority of the participants were of Chinese origin. The one consolation was that the competition had been divided into different age categories.

Soon it was Jameela’s turn. I said a silent prayer. She looked confident and her delivery appeared to be flawless, judging by her teacher’s very pleased expression. At one point in her speech everyone burst out laughing and turned around to look at me. I was so pleased that she had included a joke in her speech. ‘That’s my girl!’ I thought, as I looked around with a big smile while enjoying the attention. I was basking in the glory, even though I didn’t know what the joke was about. I was so proud!

When the results were announced I was so happy that she had placed second. After the prizes were awarded and many pictures taken of Jameela with her family and teacher, I finally asked about her speech, especially eager to know what had evoked so much laughter. With a smug look, and sniggering from her sisters, she replied that she had related a few things about each member of her family. ‘What was my part and what was the big joke’, I enquired. ‘All I said was: My dad has a very big fat nose because he steals our chocolates’, she replied with feigned innocence. I was stunned. ‘How could you say that to so many people, especially at such an important event?’ ‘Dad, you do have a big nose and everyone can see that, and the chocolates make it look even bigger and fatter.’

This was her revenge. I never stole a chocolate again. Worse still was the lifelong complex I developed over my supposedly big fat nose.

Abu Nadira

Issue 6

2011-01-31T20:52:00.000+10:00

Feelings by Mark Thorne
The 'Boss Cocky' by Abu Jameela

The 'Boss Cocky'

2011-01-31T15:25:00.000+10:00

By Abu Jameela

As the bus got closer to the town, I saw a sign alongside the road saying ‘Welcome to Wangaratta, The Gateway to the Mountains’. Sounds Indigenous, I thought, as I tried to spot an Indigenous person on the main drag … without success. Not one.

I was travelling up from Melbourne for a job interview. “Who in their right mind would give me a job?” I thought as I pondered my condition and appearance, and tried to imagine how I looked to others. The physical injuries had healed, but the mental scars were as fresh as ever. I was lonely, homesick, anxious, and very depressed. I had dark circles around my eyes, and my reflection in the window showed a gaunt and troubled soul. I had trouble focussing my thoughts and my eyes were glazed. I was trying to think through a thick mental fog. My eardrums were perforated and I was having difficulty hearing. Thoughts of my wife and my two lovely girls, who I had left behind, brought tears to my eye. I couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for myself.

I had fled my home country within a few hours of a state of emergency and martial law being declared. The country was in political upheaval, and the response of the state to peaceful protest was brutal. It was carte blanche for the police, army, and massive intelligence organization. So many were shot, killed, arrested, beaten or tortured. Many had simply disappeared, never to be seen alive again. There was no way I was going to let myself be arrested again. Political detainees were completely at the mercy of the system. Even common criminals enjoyed some rights, but political prisoners had none.

Now, as I was being led through the textile mill by Frank, the personnel officer, I prayed for a job. Any job. I was desperate. According to the conditions of my temporary visa I was not allowed to work until a decision was made about my application for political asylum or residence based on humane and compassionate grounds. Thus far I had survived on odd jobs, and the generosity of a few good people; I just could not bring myself to approach any of the charitable organizations.

During the tour Frank introduced me to various supervisors. I didn’t know what they were saying. I was desperately trying to read their lips. They managed to speak without opening their mouths. All I could do was smile and nod my head, and hope I didn’t come across as a strange and stupid foreigner. The buildings were huge and filled with massive, noisy machines. We came across a group of workers gathered around a supervisor. Frank introduced me to the supervisor who said something I didn’t catch. Everyone burst out laughing … except me. It was obvious he had cracked a joke. I was still staring intently at his lips trying to figure out what he had said. Till then I had not said a word. He looked at me and realized I had not understood. Then he very slowly and deliberately said “Do … you … speak … English?”, emphasizing each word with a wave of his index finger . I was so frustrated that I blurted, “Of course I speak English, I just don’t speak Australian.” It just popped out of my mouth before I could stop myself. “This is a bad start” I thought to myself. “I’ve blown it.” I was surprised when everybody laughed, most of all the supervisor. “You’ll be right, mate,” he said. I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded positive.

I scored my first job. I was so relieved and yet so apprehensive. I had never operated such huge machines. For the next few weeks I was shunted around the factory, working wherever an extra pair of hands was needed. On one occasion I was sent to the preparation plant to help the supervisor. The place was full of big and rough looking blokes. He was not in his office, so I sat down to wait for him. In walked a bloke in grubby overalls, looked me up and down, and said very loudly with a strong Aussie twang, “Hey, mate, you the new boss cocky?” Puzzled, I asked him what a boss cocky was. “Mate … don’t ya know what a boss cocky is?” he asked in amazement. He’s the cocky that sits right at the top of the tree … and shits on all the other cockies.” Well I knew what a ‘cocky’ was, and what a ‘boss’ was. I was trying to visualize a big bossy cocky sitting atop a very tall tree and maintaining the pecking order in the strangest of ways. “No,” I finally replied. “I’m here to help the boss cocky.”

This was my introduction to the colourful world of Australian idioms and the larrikin humour of country Australia . Within a few months I was speaking ‘Strine with the best of them, and well on my way to being a dinki di, fair dinkum, true blue aussie.

Issue 5

2010-12-06T17:48:00.001+10:00

A Leopard Can't Change its Spots by Russell Korn

A Leopard Can’t Change its Spots, Episode 2

2010-12-06T17:30:00.000+10:00

By Russell Korn

Having supplied that assurance, some two weeks later, a response to The Chameleon’s submission appeared on The Line. The Departmental Head’s position came in the form of a somewhat submissive request: “Can you help with our focus, by isolating the essential problems to address and the subsequent direction to take?” This was as music to The Chameleon’s ears and aligned perfectly with his intentions.

With said response in hand, The Chameleon paid a visit to his best friend ‘Bilby’, as The Chameleon called him, who headed up the department’s Environmental Branch. Bilby was a man of great commitment and integrity and could be much relied on for honest and reliable feedback. The Chameleon waited patiently while his friend read the submission and response, until a wry smile formed on Bilby’s face, with accompanying laughter. This brought forth an enquiry from The Chameleon as to the nature of his mirth. Bilby replied “I’ve just got to this part where the Departmental Head regards you to be gifted with innate and personal genius.” The Chameleon asked “What do you think of that comment?” Bilby replied “This guy has vastly underestimated you, hasn’t he?” His remark filled the room with much merriment.

The Chameleon decided to respond to the Departmental Head in a very personal way, which was meant for him only. Unfortunately, an administrative error led to the submission being posted on a departmental wide daily message board. This left The Chameleon exposed and vulnerable and wondering where the future would take him. Again, after considerable time, The Departmental Head responded to the latest submission, confessing that he saw The Chameleon’s focus as being wider and deeper way than anything he could comprehend. Nevertheless, the Departmental Head extended an invitation to The Chameleon to proactively engage with him in a meaningful way accompanied by an assurance that there had been no attempt to determine his identity. This was hardly grounds for The Chameleon to extend his trust considering the ‘anonymous’ investigation which had already taken place.

Issue 4

2010-11-29T18:11:00.000+10:00

The Dead Death Adder Snake was Barred by David Brownsey
He Roamed by Ruth Westbrook

The Dead Death Adder Snake was Barred

2010-11-29T17:26:00.000+10:00

By David Brownsey

The location was the Carmila Hotel bar, in the cane growing area just south of Sarina near Mackay, North Queensland.

It was the cane harvesting season. The cane had been burnt to remove all vermin, except the death adder snake. The death adder snake would still lie in the trash with it's tail poking through, waiting for a bird to land and see what this "worm" was. Next second, the bird would be seized by the death adder snake and eaten. The snake would be about twenty-seven inches long and about three inches wide when flat out. The death adder snake was feared as it could easily be stood on and it's bite was deadly; at the time no venom antidote known.

The conversation in the crowded bar turned to snakes and the death adder was named. "Yes," said someone, "I have a 'live one' in the ute," and went out to get it. He returned with a sugar bag as it were simulating a live snake movement.

The movement as that snake hit the bar caused total clearance of the bar room floor in two seconds flat. Out the door.

Cautiously, some time later, heads poked arund the corner to survey the scene. The dead death adder was still on the bar, motionless. Everyone returned, certain words were said, everyone had a good laugh and everyone continued drinking.

He Roamed

2010-11-29T16:59:00.000+10:00

by Ruth Westbrook

A raunchy reptilian at Ramsgate
roamed the rickety stairs
he roamed and he roamed
and was rare with delight
when his rambunctious mate
remailed a reply.

Issue 3

2010-10-18T10:40:00.000+10:00

A Leopard Can't Change Its Spots, Episode 1 by Russell Korn
Bordi, the Sacred Board Shorts by Abu Jameela
A Cameo for a World in Crisis by Dawn Joyce

A Leopard Can’t Change Its Spots, Episode 1

2010-10-18T10:36:00.000+10:00

By Russell Korn

The department’s electronic public forum was known as ‘The Line’. Here lay an opportunity for disgruntled employees to anonymously air their frustrations and grievances or make a plea as to where to go, how to do or who to tell. Most of the submissions were answered by the powers that be within several days of being lodged. However there was one particular entry that had lain dormant for many weeks. Unlike the majority, this proposal focused totally on the positive. The subject matter was ‘Innovation and Creativity’ and it came with a mysterious accompanying tag - ‘Regards - The Chameleon’. The regular followers of ‘The Line’ were abuzz with anticipation as they waited for the reply. Behind the scenes, though, there was movement aplenty. This Chameleon was known only to the chosen few. One of such was his divisional director, who The Chameleon referred to as Sahib. Sahib was a Rhodes Scholar and someone who challenged authority in an anarchist-type of way. He had been The Chameleon’s mentor for a number of decades.

The Chameleon’s proactive attitude often found him embroiled in controversy; being summoned to the ‘headmaster’s office’ was part and parcel of that experience. However, Sahib was two levels above ‘the headmaster’. The sudden request for an impromptu meeting to do the ‘Please Explain’ came as a surprise, even to the highly intuitive Chameleon. The subject matter was yet to be made known to The Chameleon but as Sahib closed the doors to the conference room The Chameleon guessed it wasn’t a catering issue.

Sahib explained that ‘The Line’ was an anonymous forum, so he had been anonymously instructed by an anonymous source to anonymously approach the anonymous writer who identified himself as The Chameleon. During the next half hour his mentor spoke at length while The Chameleon barely said a word. In all the years that he had known him, The Chameleon had never seen Sahib cry, not even at his son’s funeral. So it came as a shock when a tearful Sahib voiced his perspective on The Chameleon’s ‘priest-like’ nature and the heart he had for people. Departmental policy, however, dictated that certain procedures had to be followed in relation to ‘terrorist alert protocols’. Sahib’s personal assurances in relation to The Chameleon’s good character were insufficient to appease the demons of bureaucracy. What he required from The Chameleon was an assurance that his intentions were honourable and without terrorist intent.

To be continued ...

Bordi, the Sacred Board Shorts

2010-10-11T15:11:00.000+10:00

By Abu Jameela

We were newly married, and in her blissful state my wife insisted on dragging me off to a fancy department store to buy me a pair of bathers. The longest pair of board shorts I had ever seen caught my attention immediately. I was drawn to them. They came well below the knees and were made of nylon panels in dull red and matt black. The right leg was red in front and black at the back; the left leg was black in front and red at the back. A single black patch pocket at the back was contrasted against the red panel. Across the back, in big white stylized writing, was the trademark ‘Billabong’. What an unusual name. Obviously foreign. What did it mean, if anything?
The waistband of the shorts was black with a four eyelet cord tie at the front. They were good quality and well constructed.

All of these favourable considerations vanished when I looked at the price tag. “$79 !!!” it screamed: as much as a good pair of dress pants. My darling wife was not to be deterred and virtually dragged me to the fitting room. The board shorts fitted so well and looked so good on me. Well, what the hell, I thought. I wasn’t paying and if it made her happy it was a ‘win win’ situation (how I hate that term). I was getting beautiful board shorts; she was happy, and her happiness would certainly benefit me in so many ways.

I couldn’t help trying them on repeatedly at home, and I took my family on a trip to the beach as soon as possible. I had always been self conscious of my skinny, scrawny body at the beach, but now I walked with an exaggerated swagger. Everyone liked it, even if they didn’t like me. I enjoyed the attention in a very affected nonchalant manner.

When I fled my home, the land of my birth, a few years later, I had barely enough time to throw a few things together. I was heading for London, where the weather would rule out any need for bathers, and there were many more important things I could have taken, but Bordi just had to go with me. He was by now a fully-fledged person with a distinct personality. I had no idea as to which country I would eventually go; fortunately for Bordi and I we ended up in Australia, where the mystery of ‘Billabong’ was finally revealed. How amazing that my close companion Bordi was born in ‘oz’, and both of us would find found ourselves in ‘oz’ many years later! Perhaps it was predestined, a quirk of fate. One of the many mysteries of the universe.

Bordi and I spent many happy years together in our new home. With such frequent use over the years the waistband and hems slowly unravelled. The combination of sun, sea and chlorine gradually faded the colours. Eventually the elastic in the waistband lost all its stretch, forcing me to constantly try and spread the bunched up fabric. I was using an increasing number of safety pins to hold the waistband together. In hindsight I can claim to have inspired the idea of body piercing.

My wife and kids were disgusted. They pretended not to know me at the beach or pool, or wherever I had Bordi with me. They maintained a discreet distance, almost as if we were lepers. My bond with Bordi grew in direct proportion to my family’s harassment and criticism. They tried to shame me. The subject was deliberately inserted into almost every conversation, especially when we had friends over. They took to displaying my shorts to all and sundry, much to the general delight. We became the butt of jokes at ‘barbies’, picnics, or any outing that included Bordi. Some people even suggested I was stingy, broke or very eccentric. My friends and family took up a collection for a new pair of shorts, regardless of the cost, on condition that I surrendered Bordi for a communal burning ceremony. How utterly cruel and callous! They were the sort of fickle people who would euthanize their most beloved at the earliest opportunity. Most disappointing was the occasion of my birthday when I received six pairs of board shorts!

But it was like water off a duck’s back. I was resolute. The girls tried everything. My youngest daughter even dared to suggest taking Bordi to school for ‘show and tell’. They bought the latest and most expensive style of shorts. But in comparison with Bordi, the stylish bathers had no personality, no character, no attachment, no history or bond with me. They were a beautiful acquaintance at most.

When my daughters threatened to cut Bordi into little pieces I was horrified. I took to hiding Bordi in a secure location, both for his safety and my peace of mind. I thought of offering a compromise by asking them to repair Bordi to their satisfaction, but given the depth of their feelings I knew I couldn’t trust them. I would bring Bordi out of hiding only when we planned to go out alone, just Bordi and I.

Then one day Bordi disappeared. Vanished! My suspicions were aroused. Despite all my cajoling, threats, or offers of reward, no one would admit to abducting my beloved companion. Eventually I concentrated my efforts on trying to ‘crack’ the youngest one, ‘Daddy’s girl’, but it proved to be a futile pursuit. She had obviously been too well groomed by her older sisters.

The conspiracy of silence was deafening. To my daughters, Bordi was just a pair of board shorts; to me he was so much more. I regularly took to lecturing the girls on respecting the property of others, to no effect. In turn, I was lectured on self respect, dressing appropriately, considering the opinions of others, saving my loved ones from embarrassment, and going against my own principles.

My sense of loss persisted, and I finally realized what Bordi really meant to me. We had been through so much together, and survived so many things. He was my close companion and my flag, the symbol of triumph over adversity. I resent not having the opportunity to say goodbye to Bordi, and not being able to give him a decent burial.

All is not lost, I hope. Recently the girls have been asking about my feelings towards the long lost Bordi, and subtly hinting that Bordi may be alive after all.

A Cameo for a World in Crisis

2010-10-02T16:43:00.000+10:00

By Dawn Joyce

After a long-term fascination with Rapa Nui, or Easter Island, I eventually made a pilgrimage there. I have returned with sober impressions of the complexity of existence on a fertile but ravaged speck of land. While ripe avocados and mangoes fall like jacaranda blossoms on the coastal plains, denuded hillsides are deeply eroded.

Rapa Nui lies directly to the east of Brisbane, almost two-thirds of the way to the South American continent. This most remote of all islands is also known to the local people as Te Pito o Te Henua – The Navel of the World. It was named Easter Island by Jacob Roggeveen, a seafarer from Holland, on Easter Sunday 1722.

As an example of a collapsed civilisation, Rapa Nui serves as a cameo for a world on the brink of disaster. For the Polynesians who came by boat and settled there, the apparent wealth of resources allowed for the development of a class of artisans which produced the much famed monumental statues. Moreover, fertility cults led to excessive population and overexploitation of the environment. The delicate balance was destroyed and there was environmental, cultural and social crisis.

What is interesting is that out of the chaos, a system of cooperation emerged. Statues were toppled and competition that depleted the scarce resources was replaced by the yearly ‘Bird man’ competition. This island version of the Olympic Games conferred status on the group whose athlete swam to a nesting colony and secured the first egg of the season. The Rapanuians have a saying: When we work together, that is mana (power).

Unfortunately, depredation by slave traders caused a loss of cultural continuity including knowledge of the rongo rongo script, unique to Rapa Nui and anomalous in an otherwise non literate, oral culture. The few slaves who returned to the island brought back sickness and disease. Between 1862 and 1877, the population was reduced from around 6000 to only 111.

Despite this enormous loss, Rapanuians present as culturally strong and there is a lively will for autonomy from Chile. Rapanuians comprise 70% of the current population of 3000, the remainder being mostly from Chile. There is a parliament building, but it is unfurnished and is used for gatherings and to produce posters promoting autonomy. The tourist potential of the island is undeniable due to its archaeology and sheer remoteness, but much needs to be done before this colonial outpost can be self sufficient.

Presently, there is no system of taxation on the island. Much infrastructure is needed including an additional runway. The four kilometre airstrip was built by NASA as a default landing site for the space shuttle. There is a pressing need for a second runway given the frequency of flights, prevalence of high winds, and the lack of any alternative landing site for a plane low on fuel. Any mishap could have spiralling consequences should it block the only runway.

Fuel is delivered bimonthly. Reducing diesel consumption could be achieved by a program of photovoltaic cell installation and solar hot water systems. There may also be a possibility of wind turbine power generation and small-scale biogas generation. At present there is no recycling system, but A Po, the Rapa Nui Youth Involvement Program, could possibly spearhead such an initiative, with assistance from the schools.

I saw two specimens of the woody shrub Toromiro (Sophora toromiro) both about 1.5 m, one struggling and the other flourishing. They were in adjacent manavai, the stone walled gardens that were built to conserve water and protect food crops. This species, endemic to the island, became extinct in the wild in 1960. There is a multi-site program to preserve the species which includes plantings in Melbourne, however, given the latitude of the island, it may be that Brisbane would be more suited as a partner for reintroduction programs. Revegetation projects using eucalypts have resulted in vigorous growth of these introduced species. These do serve to provide wood and reduce erosion, but do not foster diversity.

Australia has technological resources that could be shared. Should we wish to cooperate with this microcosm of ecological recovery, there is much that we could learn from a culture that has already endured so much. One day, we might even see the Toromiro growing in the wild again on the slopes of the volcanic craters of Rapa Nui.

Our world has worshipped the gods of war, consumerism and doctrinal superiority for too long. We need to topple them and to embrace universalism, cooperation and sustainable practice. Then, like the Rapanuians, our children’s children may have a chance to tell the stories of how their ancestors changed their ways.

Issue 2

2010-09-29T16:09:00.000+10:00

People of Purple Persuasion by Ruth Westbrook
The Keeper of the Fire by Abu Jameela

People of Purple Persuasion

2010-09-29T14:34:00.000+10:00

By Ruth Westbrook

Once upon at time, in a land not so far away, there was a village full of different coloured people. There were red people, blue people and even yellow people. Almost every household also included a person of the purple persuasion. Although it was not lawful to discriminate against persons of purple colouring, it still happened. For instance, when it came to the recent sharing out of weekly rations of M and M’s and Smarties, people who were purple received less. As the event took place a peculiar thing arose; everybody began to turn a slightly darker shade – that is, those who weren’t of purple persuasion. As time went by, everybody began to show more and more signs of becoming completely purple. The entire village was forced to look at themselves and others with a new awareness. Everyone was now the same, not only in colour, but in all aspects of village life. Injustice could no more flourish.

The Keeper of the Fire

2010-09-02T13:26:00.000+10:00

By Abu Jameela

Growing up in the 60s and 70s was mind-blowing. There was so much happening: a cultural revolution the likes of which never before witnessed; there was Woodstock, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Beatles, hippies with flower power and peace signs and a whole array of recreational drugs, free love and sex, the first man on the moon, détente and the cold war, Vietnam, Cambodia and Pol Pot, Che Guevera, Cuban missile crisis, mass civil rights campaigns, anti-establishment and anti-war sentiments and movements, the demise of colonialism, the Middle East crisis and so much more.

Growing up in an inner city ghetto in apartheid South Africa lent a very different dimension to my life . High-density living in high-rise buildings, very busy multi-lane roads
, bus ranks, taxi ranks, timber merchants, a railway station, supermarkets and shops, alleys, cinemas, clubs, traffic noise, gangs, drugs, prostitution and hawkers, and continuous activity and noise day and night. It was a veritable concrete jungle. I would go to sleep with bright neon signs flashing on me. The city was interesting, but there were so many drawbacks. Space was restricted and there were no parks or trees, or any sort of greenery.

Because there was no place for sport or any other healthy recreational activity we spent most of our time hanging around the very busy streets, so there was great excitement when the older blokes on our street organised a camping trip. Most of us had never been camping, nor had much opportunity to enjoy the great outdoors. I got along very well with the older boys and was really chuffed to be the only younger bloke to be included, even though I suspected that I would most likely be coerced into being the cook and the ‘go for’.

Two hours out of the city we arrived at a little village on the coast consisting of a few houses well spread out along the beach. It was idyllic and perfect for us; we could party and be rowdy as we could without offending anyone.

After much difficulty and many heated arguments we finally pitched the tent. We were in high spirits and so excited to escape the city that we started partying immediately with the ample supplies of booze and pot. The afternoon passed quickly with swimming, soccer, and exploring the area, so it was well after sunset and dark before we realized we had no firewood. Although the weather had turned a little bit chilly there was no dire need for a fire, but we had to have one. What is a camping trip without fire, especially for blokes from the city who had only enjoyed a fire when one of the buildings on our street had burnt down a few a months ago?

I was stoned and a bit drunk when my friend ‘Mad Max’ asked “Yer wanna drop acid?”. Not having tried LSD before I was very keen to experiment and impress the older blokes, and at the same time a little apprehensive. But I was in the company of blokes who would look out for me, so I popped this little micro-dot and eagerly waited for something dramatic to happen. Psychedelic is the perfect description. I had never felt this way before. ‘Spaced out’ would be another way of putting it. I saw vivid colours and patterns. I was ‘tripping’, and all I could do was lay down and enjoy the ‘trip’.

Without warning I was pulled to my feet and a small axe and torch were thrust into my hands. I was told in no uncertain terms “Get some wood or don’t come back”. In spite of my condition, and my protests and pitiful pleading, I was ‘volunteered’ to do the seemingly impossible; it was a dark and overcast night, with limited visibility and no moon. I stumbled about aimlessly in the dark for what seemed like an eternity, tripping over every little obstacle. It took tremendous effort on my part to focus on my objective. “Wood, wood, wood …” I kept repeating to myself.

Suddenly, without warning, something collided with my head and I fell to the ground. As I was trying to pick myself up I turned the torch on the offending object. It was a six foot pole stuck in the ground and it took my dazed and befuddled mind a few moments to realize it was what I was searching for. Wood!

The boys were really impressed with my find, and more so with the fact that I had found wood against all odds. I set to starting a fire with twigs and paper, and very soon we had a sizable fire going. I was instantly bestowed with the grand title of “Keeper of the Fire”. I was very proud of my new found status, although I had hallucinations involving vivid visions of being the horned devil welcoming victims through the gates of eternal damnation into the hell fire, ‘the mother of all fires’. We discovered that treated hardwood burns well, so it wasn’t long before we decided to turn this lovely fire into a great big bonfire.

I was dispatched again, in spite of my protestations, to obtain more of this miraculous wood. I stumbled and tripped about in the general direction of my previous foraging, and against all expectations soon bumped into another pole of the same kind. I was so relieved. I was having difficulty focusing and staying on my feet. ‘Chop, chop, chop,….and I soon found myself back at the fire enjoying the praise and applause. The fire soon took on epic proportions, and I lost count of the number of times I was roused from my twilight zone to fetch more wood. The raging glorious fire burned throughout the night, and it became impossible to sit close to it.

In the early hours of the morning I succumbed to effects of my enormous efforts, not to mention all the substances I had ingested, and literally blacked out. Not too long after sunrise I crawled groggily across many bodies to answer the call of nature. My bladder was bursting, and having ignored it’s urgent signals for so long and trying to sleep through the danger of wetting myself, I finally poked my head out of the tent. I was blinded by the sunlight and my befuddled mind and my bloodshot eyes took a while to adjust. After relieving myself I was finally able to take in my surroundings. I glanced across the road and was startled to see a police car, and the police officer speaking to a man who appeared to be the owner of the house. With the drugs we had on us, the last thing we wanted was to be anywhere near the police.

The owner was pointing to several stumps in the ground and shaking his head animatedly. He had obviously been in the process of putting up a fence the previous day, and secured all the poles in the ground with the aim of completing the task the next day. It took a while for my mind to register that I was responsible for the stumps. I was instantly sober and panic driven into covering up the remains of the fire, and digging a hole to hide the remains of the poles, and digging another hole for all the illegal substances. I shook everyone awake vigorously and warned them not to think or say anything about poles. I had compelling visions of being arrested for malicious damage to private property. It took tremendous effort for me to appear calm and innocent and stop myself shaking when the police officer did come over to question us.

In spite of his suspicions and sly expression, the lack of evidence and the innocuous appearance of the hung-over campers, who were eager to offer him coffee and lots of smiles, he soon departed. The incident of the fire and my role in keeping it became legend and was related many times over the years. I was secretly pleased to have acquired such a notorious reputation and to have secured my standing with the older blokes.

Issue 1

2010-08-21T14:46:00.000+10:00

The Time of My Life by Ruth Westbrook
ConsiderAtion by Dawn Joyce
How Good is 4th Place?? by Rashid Omarjee

The Time of My Life

2010-08-21T08:58:00.001+10:00

By Ruth Westbrook

She sat down
Said “come sit on my knee”
Let me be like a mum to you
What a joyous five minutes
More than words
true compassion
Her family may never know
the model mother they have
BLESS YOU darling
for I will never forget you
I’ll never forget that day

To live a life trying to understand

yet not
Find facts
Fitting the pieces from things people say
Did I do right?
Did I do wrong?
Now I really know
It was the best I could do
It was all I knew

Struggling with an issue
far too big for life
It will end
It will pass
Just keep on
It too shall pass

***

Nothing to eat
Yes, here is your tea
How is it?
Fine…
As I pick cockroaches out of the stew
and butter some bread
picking flies out of the butter.
Do not feel like eating now
but I am so hungry

Living in the midst of love
never touching
never feeling
loving till your love runs dry
Then,
knowing love
touching love
the mind
the soul
love of another kind
Love that flickers and stays,
not fades
Love to warm the coldest
breast

***

Rising on the wings of eagles
growing strong
growing away
away from the past
This time
this time it is for real
No more clipped wings
Fly stumble
Fly stumble
and then victory
Flying high
Perfect flight
Perfect strength
For I’m leaning on His power
flying upon His strength

Spurts of joy
like the love of a good friend
One of those rare moments
when life brings some peace
some joy
to break the loneliness
of a broken heart
To ease the pain
of so many rejections

Home is where the heart is
My heart lies here for now
broken and abandoned
but thrilled to be here.
Others like me
killing themselves to be free
but happy to be here
Our roads merged
Our paths crossed
We had some fun with our pain
guardianed by angels
who gave of them selves
which was a life-giving gift
to a frail heart
that needs the encouragement
We were sisters
sharing some sinister secrets
united by chance
forever by spirit
I thought if I moved
the memories would go away
but they never did
Just as alive
Just as bad
I felt just as dead

To live life
dying on the inside
alive on the outside
To psychoanalyze thoughts
and feelings, which are
beyond them
Normality the state of mind
according to one
as a rational possibility
from one who is supposed
to know
Yet, knows no better
than you or I.

Days of thunder.
A black mist permeated every
part of my body.
The thunder roared for 21 years.
Occasionally lightening hit and
more damage was done.
The hail hit hard
The rains came down. Never ceasing
Never light to see the damage done.
…now I look back and try to re-
plant the damaged part with healthy
stuff after the clouds have departed
the thunder and lightening has
ceased and the rains gone away
my eyes still getting accustomed to
light and peace as I repair the
damage I can see and watch buds
never seen before bloom into some-
thing beautiful. I can stop and smell
those flowers, I’ve waited long
enough. Everything seems new now,
a little scary and hard work to re-
build. But the storm is passed.
I’d never seen a cloudless day
What beauty it brings.

***

The tunnel darkness
Please help me
Help me see the pleasant
The loving, the kind
the gentle
The part of life that’s fun
Tender moments
not violent
The love of a good man
a steady job
a good family
Someone waiting for me at home

***

You abandoned me
but I forgave
I thought you did not know
You let them degrade me
I forgave
I thought you did not realize
You told lies about me
I forgave
I thought you were hurting
You let them torture me with drugs
I forgave
I thought you knew what is best
You threw me out
I forgave
I thought you had no room
You let them torture me
and you made my life misery
But I forgave
Because I thought you cared
But all along, you schemed
All along, you covered up
You used me and mistreated me
and left me to die at the hands of others
with hardly one look back
You lied about our family
for they’re not all saints
You broke my heart
and broke my being
But I still forgive
But I only forgive because otherwise
I would be eaten by unforgiveness
I do this for me
and for my sanity

***

I am free
Free to love
To rebuild my life
and make it something great
I am a conqueror
over past hurts
and see in the future
a dream a dream of hope and peace

Living in the midst of love
never touching
never feeling
Loving till your love runs dry
Then,
knowing love
touching love
experiencing love
The heart
The mind
The soul
Love of another kind
Love that flickers and stays,
not fades
Love to warm the coldest
breath

***

Those six inch eyelashes
hiding her ignorance
She is a lovely person
gentle
kind and considerate
I envy her innocence
So bad, I feel around her
I will never have that innocence

considerAtion

2010-08-11T00:56:00.000+10:00

By Dawn Joyce

How Good is 4th Place??

2010-08-11T00:48:00.000+10:00

By Rashid Omarjee

Without intending to sound malicious, I can only describe my cousin, Don, as a country bumpkin. He lived in a small country town five hours by train from the city. Now Donald was not his real name, but we had called him Don for so long that we forgot his real name, for reasons I will now try to explain. He had a bit of a protruding jaw which was accentuated by his habit of moving his jaw from side to side, especially when he chewed gum or peanuts. That’s why we called him ‘Donald Duck’, or Don for short. This habit annoyed us so much that he was banned from consuming these treats in our company on pain of death.

He would quite often come down to the city to holiday with us and enjoy the bright lights with wide-eyes, an open-mouth, and a ‘dopey’ expression of awe. We took to sticking our fingers in his mouth in an effort to keep his mouth closed, and to save ourselves embarrassment. His slow speech, choice of words, mannerisms and the way he walked and carried himself identified him instantly as a ‘hick’, or what the Yanks would label a ‘hillbilly’, to everyone. But no one had the courage to call him names or laugh at him, except us, for reasons I will explain later.

His dress sense, if you can call it that, was atrocious. Nothing matched!! Everything clashed!! He was certainly not a sight for sore eyes. He wore his pants well above his ankles, displaying colourful tartan socks. In work wear best suited to the farm (with lots of visible mending), or one of his horrible polyester pants and shirts in styles and patterns several years out of date, he looked like his clothes had been picked out by his mum at a thrift shop. Often he would forget to put on his belt, which forced him to constantly hitch up his pants, and he left his shirt tucked in at the front and hanging out down to his thighs at the back.

His shoes, which were scuffed and in dire need of polish, were best suited for work in heavy industry, and we called his boots ‘Nazi’ boots because they looked so heavy, mean and vicious and forced him to stomp heavily with every step. His favourite cap, which we called ‘the monkey cap’, was made of black PVC with grey fleece lining and flaps over the ears. In a futile attempt to prevent him from wearing this hideous thing, we took to constantly knocking it off his head, and we eventually had to confiscate it to and hide it.

To add further insult to the injury, his hair was cut by his dad in a style which we called a ‘dish cut’, as if a small dish had been placed on his head and all the exposed hair shorn off, very much like the hairstyle of ‘The Three Stooges’ or ‘Laurel and Hardy’ in the old black and white comedy movies. On the one and only occasion that he tried wearing socks with sandals in our company, we put an immediate stop to any repeat performance by threatening to burn them.

But we loved him dearly, in spite of coming close to strangling him on a daily basis out of sheer exasperation. His naivety and childish innocence were a mixed blessing as he tried to take in the sounds and sights and wonders of the city. He came across as a simpleton, which he certainly was not, though we could hardly regard him as bright by any means. We enjoyed making him the fall guy and the butt of our jokes. He never got upset in spite of what we put him through, and always maintained his good nature with a permanent smile on his face. He was just so happy to be in our company, and his loyalty to us was total and unfailing.

Apart from our being so fond of him, there were many advantages to having him around. For one thing, he was immensely strong and muscular, and towered more than a foot above me, although he was a year younger than me, and I am not short by any measure. His stature must have been the result of all that fresh and healthy country air and food and the heavy farm work. His hands were big, calloused, and very rough and he didn’t seem to feel pain. We appointed him our personal body guard and protector, a role he was totally committed to performing on command without question. With him around we had and opportunity to settle a lot of scores with the bigger bullies in our inner city ghetto, a task he accomplished with utter devotion and very little effort. In fact we enjoyed provoking trouble, totally confident in Don’s ability to protect us and emerge victorious. Blokes went out of their way to be nice to us, and long-time foes became suddenly very friendly as they tried to ingratiate themselves with us.

Don was good for laughs on a daily basis without intending to be. On one memorable occasion, we asked Don if he would like to race us down the street. Don was proud of his physical prowess and running ability, and always keen to impress us. We all lined up, and upon giving the signal to start the race we deliberately let Don get way ahead of us. We then pretended we were chasing him while shouting, “Catch him. Pickpocket. Catch him. Catch him!” We knew full well that the Zulu night watchman at the end of the street, who was well known to us, would definitely respond. Poor Don was so intent on winning the race that he didn’t realize what was happening.

Baba, the big burly Zulu, immediately jumped up and seized Don, who was in full flight. Poor Don was bewildered and trying very hard to escape Baba’s vice-like grip. His face was red and he appeared shocked as he tried to make sense of what was happening. As we drew level we thanked Baba for catching him, and asked him to please hold Don while we went on to call the police. Poor Don was sputtering curses while casting murderous glances at us and protesting his innocence to no avail. Baba had no intention of releasing this criminal and simply tightened his grip. We enjoyed a leisurely walk to the tearoom while holding our stomachs and laughing.

On the way back we explained to Baba that there was a mistake and we had the wrong person. Baba was not keen on surrendering his captive and cutting short his heroic act. It took a while to convince him. Needless to say Don was furious, but helpless to do anything. We were secure in the knowledge that he could never ever bring himself to retaliate against us.

Another incident comes to mind because it was so funny. Dad was fond of holding court at the dinner table, lecturing us on various things. Apart from our behaviour and misdeeds, his favourite topic was the need to apply ourselves diligently and acquire a good education. His persistence on this topic was understandable given the lack of opportunities he had experienced in his youth. We were far removed from being regarded as good students and would look at one another and roll our eyes. Dad’s conversation acquired oratory qualities when we had company.

We were at the dinner table when Dad focussed his attention on Don and warmed up to his speciality. “Oh no, here we go again. Not in the holidays as well. Give us a break,” I thought. “What position did you get?” Dad enquired of Don, which sounded like the beginning of an interrogation.

“Fourth” replied Don, with obvious pride. Dad was suitably impressed and held Don up as a fine example for us, especially for me, who had placed 28^thin a class of 45 after the year-end final exams. Don basked in the glory and praise while we sniggered and tried very hard not to laugh. We exchanged knowing looks. We knew something that Dad didn’t, but we dared not interrupt and enlighten him for fear of prolonging the speech and agony.

After holding forth in the same vein for almost the entire duration of the meal, Dad chanced to ask Don how many students were there in his class. Now I must explain that Don’s school was a one-room affair with one teacher and several grades in a composite class, and Don wasn’t the brightest of blokes, to put it mildly. “Four,” replied Don, without in the least suspecting that he had inadvertently burst Dad’s bubble and let the cat out of the bag. Dad was left speechless as we all burst out laughing, Mum included. We were delighted! After a few mumbled comments, Dad excused himself very quickly from the table. We were grateful to Don for the rest of the holidays for saving us from further speeches.