We took my sister-in-law and her partner to Guildford the other day. This is Guildford Castle.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
My cyber friend!!
My Jonathan Seagull
by Wisp
My dear friend....
You came into my life so unexpectedly..
Little did I know what was to lie ahead
For the longest time you were a click of a mouse, words on my screen
Hugs that warmed my days.. and secured my nights
Within the many hours of our private room,
You showed me strength, when I showed you my weaknesses.
You taught me the importance of believing in myself,
When I thought there was nothing to believe in
You taught me so much, in ways I never knew
You stood behind me when I began to fall.
Along side of me when I needed a friend
In front of me when I needed a guide
You showed me my ability to fly...
How to reach places I had only dreamed of
You saw me with your heart and not your eyes
But more importantly you gave me a piece of you
A gift worth far more than money could buy.
You gave me a floor to dance on..
A song in my heart that I finally understand the words to
And a peacefulness in my heart...
where you will live forever..
I hope everyone finds a "YOU"
Says it all !!
by Wisp
My dear friend....
You came into my life so unexpectedly..
Little did I know what was to lie ahead
For the longest time you were a click of a mouse, words on my screen
Hugs that warmed my days.. and secured my nights
Within the many hours of our private room,
You showed me strength, when I showed you my weaknesses.
You taught me the importance of believing in myself,
When I thought there was nothing to believe in
You taught me so much, in ways I never knew
You stood behind me when I began to fall.
Along side of me when I needed a friend
In front of me when I needed a guide
You showed me my ability to fly...
How to reach places I had only dreamed of
You saw me with your heart and not your eyes
But more importantly you gave me a piece of you
A gift worth far more than money could buy.
You gave me a floor to dance on..
A song in my heart that I finally understand the words to
And a peacefulness in my heart...
where you will live forever..
I hope everyone finds a "YOU"
Says it all !!
Monday, February 23, 2009
Media pack
I am the fourth person to arrive, I give everyone a cheery "good morning" but am met with silence. Oh well, nothing has changed. Gradually, Channel 9 arrives, various photographers with enormous lens I lust after come and begin to check their apertures, shooting off the odd image for practise. Some rehearse a pan move, others just joke and chat with each other. I stride the flowerbeds, I am above, and behind, exactly where I want to be.
Taxis arrive, men who should be slimmer get out, eventually; I am a little stressed, hurry up, get out of the way, will I get my shot, and then another cab arrives. This takes ages to leave, and finally Channel 10 erect their aerial to transmit the live images.
'Here she is!' the cry goes up.
A huddle, jostling, all decorum out the window.
I shoot and forget to turn on my video, even though I have the wretched phone held up. *click, *click *click.
She doesn't wind the window down, unlike Beattie, who did.
Turning quickly I shoot from behind, getting the scrum and the two receeding cars driving up the driveway. I am striding towards my car and on the way home as they are still checking their images. All good.
Anna Bligh to Government House
Heard on the radio that Anna Bligh was on her way to ask the Governor to allow her to go to the polls, so rushed out the door with my camera and phone.
My dad's work in the church
My dad was a priest in the Anglican church, after 6 years of war on the frontlines, after raising 5 children and living on an aboriginal community (Lockhart River Mission, I named my son after this place, we loved living there despite its tremendous hardships) for 9 years as superintendent; ensuring everyone has clean running water, proper housing, food, education, job training and self empowerment by starting the first aboriginal co-operative in Australia. All stuff Noel Pearson is now trying to implement. Dad did it 50 years ago.
He built a church in 6 weeks, from bush materials. Six weeks! It was a beautiful church, St James. He was still planting banana plants at the front as the Bishop’s boat sailed around the point to consecrate it.
He was aged then around 35, and was very much a can-do man.
He struggled for aboriginal land rights rights for years in Rockhampton. He set up Bolsovler Street, a haven for homeless and travelling aboriginals coming in from Woorabinda, somewhere to rest and refresh, to shower and to eat. It nearly killed him, they wore him out with constant demands. It was what is was. Later, after numerous fights with council, police, neighbours, dad started Milby Farm, another place out of town where brain damaged aboriginals and the homeless could go and grow their own vegetables, and live in peace without fear from others.
He lived in constant criticism of his work, we all did, from people who should have known better but we all believed that what he was doing was good, and right, and we wouldn’t have had it any other way. But it did take its toll on our own family. He went guarantor for peoples cars, many times losing money. “Oh dad!” we would all shout, but in our hearts we knew we were always destined to be poor, to remain poor, as dad would give all our money away. Money? What money, priests don’t earn that much, gees.
No one could fault his passion and commitment though, and I admire him now as an adult and hope some of my energy and enthusiasm comes from him.
He marched in the legal, and the illegal land rights marches during the Commonwealth Games.
He was awarded Queenslander of the Year in 1987 for his work. Later that night, in the men’s toilets, a black tie’d man came and said to him “You shouldn’t have won”. People have no respect or manners.
I understand commitment and struggle. Lived it. Breathed it. Gave our mouldy bread to the sick and homeless at the back door of the Rectory. “But dad,” I would say, “this is all we have to eat ourselves.”
“We will eat tomorrow, “ he would reply, “but they might not.”
Lived it Breathed it.
I understand commitment and passion.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
St Mary's – West End.
Sitting on a small hilly rise, in the setting sun and a slow Sunday afternoon, St Mary’s waits for my friend CJ and I to arrive. Outside, agitated flags flap, and people congregate to talk and chatter and exchange news.
There are two dome tents set up either side of the entry. They look expensive. Next to them, t-shirted women lean placard signs against their shins.
FATHER PETER FOR POPE.
They discuss politics of the Church.
Inside, the building is gloomy and dark; people shuffle to find a good seat. CJ wants to sit to the back near the door for coolness, but I want front row. I have come to watch, to witness, and so I shall.
A Church lady – a kind Church lady – brings 2 folding chairs for us to sit on. We are both impressed with her welcoming manner, and sit close to the front, instead of on the ground. I just can’t sit on the floor for extended periods now.
We both have a printed out Service to follow, and so we sit and people-watch until the time has come to start. People continue to flock into the room. Seated behind us are a couple who have travelled down from Toowoomba, they too are Anglican like me.“Anglicans rock!” shouts the man to me, I grin and make the V peace sign to him. Odd thing to say, really, but we are all here to see and witness and support in our own ways.
Older men in various stages of baldness, young toddlers in various stages of behaviour, a small white fairy-bride girl dances around her seated mother, placing a rainbow bracelet on her head like a crown. The mother beams. To my left, another bub, his hair kissed in blonde down. To my right, two young girls looking fashionably un-trendy; there, a boy on the threshold of his teenage angst, skin so smooth is glows in the afternoon sun. He looks interested, alert. I wonder what he will be when he grows up?
Such a selection of humanity sits before us.
I see Fr Peter over to the rear of the Church, speaking to various members of the community. Helen Abrahams is there (I think it’s her anyway) and chats, Sam Watson is there, taking up room of three people in his pew.
I take photos and email them to myself. And then we begin.
Aunty starts the Service with a welcome to country. She appears apprehensive and shy. She welcomes us to her land under the various tribal names. She has trouble remembering them all. Smiling sheepishly, she explains she is nervous. Although it’s a nice touch to be welcomed, I wonder if it’s all necessary, really.
Someone speaks into a mike, and the crowd start clapping madly, I can’t see who is speaking, but the mood is energetic and charged. Fr Peter also welcomes us, but I can’t see him either; everyone is standing; it’s a sea of heads, I can’t see the man I really came to see. We are all asked say hello to the person next to us, expectations are high.
Soon we are into the swing of things, the usual responses, hymns and so on, we stand and sing Alleluia, it’s lovely, I throw my head back and “sing loud” enjoying being in the flow.
We are asked to hold hands. I grab the woman next to me, and we strangers pray together for this and that. Five hundred people breathe in and out as one.
Breathe in.
Out.
As one.
Interestingly, we say the Lords Prayer, the old version, the one I know and love. A radical Church saying the Old version, love it.
Then it’s Communion time, and I crane my head to watch the proceedings. Shocked at what I am seeing, not Fr Peter Kennedy, but some other young bloke wearing a stole and holding the alter bread up high.
“We are the body of Christ, for we all partake in the one bread.”
I nudge CJ. Look. Look! Is he a priest? He must be, he MUST be, surely. I continue to watch. Several stations are held to distribute the bread and wine. I move up to receive my communion, but the wine is over there, and there’s no way I can realistically get to it. A disabled man in a huge wheelchair holds the bread wafers for the communion. I am not in his queue, so my bread is given by a tall man. I am half blessed today, I didn’t receive the wine. Another day perhaps.
Then it’s homework time, Fr Peter says “I am a media star, I am a media tart!” and I nod and hiss to CJ, “boom boom”. He is loving it, the crowd clapping everything he says, everything he sings, they clap in between fanning themselves, to the rhythm of their heartbeats. He has even taken singing lessons for a solo he croons us with. It’s extraordinary stuff, this singing priest and his offshoot, the pony tailed bloke with the communion. They are an act, laughing and playing off each other like comrades.
He jokes “I did singing lessons because I might have to give up my day job” and the crowd love it.
They even have a cd of songs to sell! A few more plugs, a young girl pleading for sponsors to shave off her hair for cancer, a cursory nod to the bushfire victims, but not really, even though it’s a nation day of mourning. This evening, as lights flicker on finally, it’s all about St Mary’s and the poor-bugger-me attitude. We are all victims.
We sing a final song or two; my foot tapping in time, my hips start to sway in a figure eight, despite myself. ‘We shall not, we shall not be moved” and at the last paragraph I place my words on the seat and sing loud, clapping in time.
I have joined them.
I wonder how it will all end.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Rockhampton Trip Feb 09
9.15am Valentine’s Day Eve. Jetstar.
“Lovely flowers,” she says.
Yes, it’s my husband’s and my wedding anniversary, I lie. She doesn’t need to know it was only our first date. An anniversary is an anniversary.
“How long have you been married?” She’s almost interested.
Twenty three years.
***
The plane takes off urgently.
I think I can, I think I can. I must! I must! I must!
The engines whine until suddenly we are up, over the industrial sheds, over the yellow trucks, over the emergency fire station, looking very ‘Tonka-ed’ and neat. In an emergency, neatness counts.
Over the bay, the salty land reclamation, the muddied Moreton Bay waters.
It stops raining.
***
“Have a good weekend with your mum,” she smiles.
Our hands reach out, but don’t touch.
It’s the thought that binds.
Thanks darl, it’ll be great, I chat back, grinning.
From nowhere, tears.
Shocked, thinking, trying to justify.
I am better loved, in Rockhampton.
It’s silly being with my 89yo mother instead of hubby for our anniversary and Valentine’s Day. But I am better loved.
***
I check the pockets in front of me as we taxi to the stop. I know there’s nothing to find, but I check it anyway – it’s what you do at my age. I pat them down.
***
Leaving Rockhampton
The plane stops at the runway’s end. Takes a deep breath.
Jiggling, we run and run until our skirts are lifted, the wheels kookaburra, laughing their way to safety, retreated. Within.
This morning at home, a crow laughed the sun up.
Ha. Haa. HA. HAR. HARR.
I can see the Fitzroy River, running to the sea, to the ocean and clean waves, to wash the silt and very brown ordinariness of itself. To refresh.
It winds its way, this way and that, undecided, loose and free. Where it flows past the city of Rockhampton, it is a straight-up, well behaved river…by the time it gets to Lakes Creek, past the meatworks and fatalistic cows, it’s gone mad.
Like a cut snake.
Like a river gone mad.
Affected by the town. The town’s people. Tired of behaving, the river kicks and bucks giddingly to the sea. A wild child.
It almost sings in its freedom. Free at last!
Free at last!
It regurgitates it’s contents to the ocean. The waves roll it back, unwanted. The river flows on.
There is no sound.
***
Clouds
Puffing fat-bellied across the sky. Chuff! Chuff! Chuff! They gather in groups to gossip on what they have seen from their viewpoint. Gently they bump, and part, old friends and newly acquainted.
Longer clouds wait like dropped stitches, ready to sew the sky together with weather.
Below, the paddocks and grass and land and solid earth preens itself in glorious colour.
Deep emeralds, brilliant greens and jewelled sapphire blue of mountains and shade. The clouds remain white. Silvered. Silenced.
***
We make a deliberate slow return to earth. A slow motion controlled nose dive. A rehearsed and much practised crash. It’s a beautiful day in Brisbane. I can see the bay below, way below, with its whales and sand dunes and dugongs feeding on grass under the water. The houses are arranged in demographics. The fighters. The single mothers. The dead. The married. With kids.
In between, lumps of green gasp, choked among the housing.
Magician’s clouds roll past - “and now ladeez and gentlemens!” - and are gone in a puff of smoke. Or cloud.
***
If I stare long enough I can recognise suburbs and districts. Below me my husband answers his telephone with a crisp and workman-like “Chris”.
Plump mangroves sit idly in the river, waiting for a tide.
There are six ships offshore. I count them twice, in case one moved. I would hate to miscount.
It is what it is.
Six.
The flat greenness of the airport yawns towards me; soon we will land, but not before we tickle the city with our fitted wings and annoy the neighbours. Letters to politicians might be written.
Then we will land, engines screaming, passengers silent. The odd white knuckle like a honeymooned bride; a quivering virgin tourist/traveller.
The wind makes skid marks on Moreton Bay seas. It won’t last. The wind will swing to the west bringing heat and mosquitos tonight.
We land.
***
The plane thunders across the tarmac. We roar! ROAR! I am mankind; see me defy the gods, the angels.
I too, can fly.
Chick Chick Clunk. We unbuckle our belts.
***
I can see the Qantas plane land in a puff of self-importance. This area is a masterpiece of science and technology. The engines whine shut like a dying animal – a low growl and the whiff of kero greets us.
I am home.
“Lovely flowers,” she says.
Yes, it’s my husband’s and my wedding anniversary, I lie. She doesn’t need to know it was only our first date. An anniversary is an anniversary.
“How long have you been married?” She’s almost interested.
Twenty three years.
***
The plane takes off urgently.
I think I can, I think I can. I must! I must! I must!
The engines whine until suddenly we are up, over the industrial sheds, over the yellow trucks, over the emergency fire station, looking very ‘Tonka-ed’ and neat. In an emergency, neatness counts.
Over the bay, the salty land reclamation, the muddied Moreton Bay waters.
It stops raining.
***
“Have a good weekend with your mum,” she smiles.
Our hands reach out, but don’t touch.
It’s the thought that binds.
Thanks darl, it’ll be great, I chat back, grinning.
From nowhere, tears.
Shocked, thinking, trying to justify.
I am better loved, in Rockhampton.
It’s silly being with my 89yo mother instead of hubby for our anniversary and Valentine’s Day. But I am better loved.
***
I check the pockets in front of me as we taxi to the stop. I know there’s nothing to find, but I check it anyway – it’s what you do at my age. I pat them down.
***
Leaving Rockhampton
The plane stops at the runway’s end. Takes a deep breath.
Jiggling, we run and run until our skirts are lifted, the wheels kookaburra, laughing their way to safety, retreated. Within.
This morning at home, a crow laughed the sun up.
Ha. Haa. HA. HAR. HARR.
I can see the Fitzroy River, running to the sea, to the ocean and clean waves, to wash the silt and very brown ordinariness of itself. To refresh.
It winds its way, this way and that, undecided, loose and free. Where it flows past the city of Rockhampton, it is a straight-up, well behaved river…by the time it gets to Lakes Creek, past the meatworks and fatalistic cows, it’s gone mad.
Like a cut snake.
Like a river gone mad.
Affected by the town. The town’s people. Tired of behaving, the river kicks and bucks giddingly to the sea. A wild child.
It almost sings in its freedom. Free at last!
Free at last!
It regurgitates it’s contents to the ocean. The waves roll it back, unwanted. The river flows on.
There is no sound.
***
Clouds
Puffing fat-bellied across the sky. Chuff! Chuff! Chuff! They gather in groups to gossip on what they have seen from their viewpoint. Gently they bump, and part, old friends and newly acquainted.
Longer clouds wait like dropped stitches, ready to sew the sky together with weather.
Below, the paddocks and grass and land and solid earth preens itself in glorious colour.
Deep emeralds, brilliant greens and jewelled sapphire blue of mountains and shade. The clouds remain white. Silvered. Silenced.
***
We make a deliberate slow return to earth. A slow motion controlled nose dive. A rehearsed and much practised crash. It’s a beautiful day in Brisbane. I can see the bay below, way below, with its whales and sand dunes and dugongs feeding on grass under the water. The houses are arranged in demographics. The fighters. The single mothers. The dead. The married. With kids.
In between, lumps of green gasp, choked among the housing.
Magician’s clouds roll past - “and now ladeez and gentlemens!” - and are gone in a puff of smoke. Or cloud.
***
If I stare long enough I can recognise suburbs and districts. Below me my husband answers his telephone with a crisp and workman-like “Chris”.
Plump mangroves sit idly in the river, waiting for a tide.
There are six ships offshore. I count them twice, in case one moved. I would hate to miscount.
It is what it is.
Six.
The flat greenness of the airport yawns towards me; soon we will land, but not before we tickle the city with our fitted wings and annoy the neighbours. Letters to politicians might be written.
Then we will land, engines screaming, passengers silent. The odd white knuckle like a honeymooned bride; a quivering virgin tourist/traveller.
The wind makes skid marks on Moreton Bay seas. It won’t last. The wind will swing to the west bringing heat and mosquitos tonight.
We land.
***
The plane thunders across the tarmac. We roar! ROAR! I am mankind; see me defy the gods, the angels.
I too, can fly.
Chick Chick Clunk. We unbuckle our belts.
***
I can see the Qantas plane land in a puff of self-importance. This area is a masterpiece of science and technology. The engines whine shut like a dying animal – a low growl and the whiff of kero greets us.
I am home.
Johnno on way to Ceduna
Johnno is now winging his way to Ceduna, a 5 hour flight. This is his Perth souvenir.
Street Cleaner
I was in the city when I noticed these blokes all standing around a new street cleaner. (Hubby was going to buy one of these 100 yets ago) and I watched the driver put on his seatblet.
Really?
It's going that fast you need a seat belt?
Better issue him with a mouthguard too in case he bumps into something and chips his tooth. What about a hat? A ear muffs for noise?
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Over Spencer Gulf
Our Johnno continues his flying adventure with his brother, what a wonderful expereince for them both.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Do Not Cry, by Jennifer Margaret Mcphillips
I found this poem when looking for a verse for my brothers eulogy, I think it is so simple, yet so beautiful.
Do not cry
Do not cry for me, my dear……
My last wish is for you to
Carry me with the breezes
When they swirl delicately
Beneath the storms you’ll
Gather amidst your spirit.
As rain pelts harshly against your heart,
Let the soothing trickle calm your soul,
When you feel like your drowning,
Lay down quietly and savour
The tranquillity of memories,
Allow them to cleanse your pain.
I’ll speak to you through nature’s gifts
And I’ll never be far from your door.
When colourless clouds surround your mind,
I’ll paint them brightly with tones of love.
I’ll ask the birds who sing so sweetly
If I can borrow their voice
To remind you that I haven’t gone far
Every leaf or feather you see floating
Is me, asking you not to cry,
Each pebble you see washed upon the shore
Is your reminder that I didn’t die.
The rippling waters are my giggles
And the wave tops are me saying hello,
Never forget how much I love you………
I’ll be here till you ask me to go.
This poem by Jennifer Margaret Mcphillips
Do not cry
Do not cry for me, my dear……
My last wish is for you to
Carry me with the breezes
When they swirl delicately
Beneath the storms you’ll
Gather amidst your spirit.
As rain pelts harshly against your heart,
Let the soothing trickle calm your soul,
When you feel like your drowning,
Lay down quietly and savour
The tranquillity of memories,
Allow them to cleanse your pain.
I’ll speak to you through nature’s gifts
And I’ll never be far from your door.
When colourless clouds surround your mind,
I’ll paint them brightly with tones of love.
I’ll ask the birds who sing so sweetly
If I can borrow their voice
To remind you that I haven’t gone far
Every leaf or feather you see floating
Is me, asking you not to cry,
Each pebble you see washed upon the shore
Is your reminder that I didn’t die.
The rippling waters are my giggles
And the wave tops are me saying hello,
Never forget how much I love you………
I’ll be here till you ask me to go.
This poem by Jennifer Margaret Mcphillips
Thursday, February 12, 2009
To Perth and back in 7 days
This sunday my brother and I are off on a trip in our Beech craft Barron to visit our shops in the other southern states 7 days of flying...woot!
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
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