Things of Wonder

Things of wonder

I wonder if people know the Kangaroo and Emu were chosen for the Arms because neither can take a step backwards.

I wonder about the practice of releasing on bail, mentally unstable individuals who have a string of offences. I wonder if that process needs review.

I wonder about the attitude of an individual’s rights being equally applied to all.

I wonder if asylum refugees should be provided opportunity to re-offend the laws and morality of the land that allows them to remain in the land they chose to nurture them.

I am in wonder at the generosity of spirit, inclusiveness and the understanding of #ILLRIDEWITHYOU.

I am in wonder at the depth of openhearted support that flows from true Australians, from every walk of life. 

I wonder too, at the proven professionalism and effectiveness of the authorities we give power to.

I wonder at the bravery of a café manager and of a young barrister who attempt to protect others, at their own ultimate cost.

I am in awe from a distance. 

I am there in my sorrow and respect.

A day in the Pennines

The People You Meet...

Peel Tower, Ramsbottom, Lancashire U.K.

The road is more of a worn remnant track. The climb a steady haul up from the town centre where the steam trains drag tourists in from Manchester for a day in the foothills of the Pennines. It was our first visit to this place and we had been encouraged to take the challenge and walk to the tower. The brochure at the library said the tower was built to remember a local boy made good. If you call twice becoming a Victorian-age prime minister a good thing.  It helps to have come from the right family stock.  The day was typically overcast and the view limited but occasionally rewarded us with steam trails striping the valley as the trains whistled their entry into and puffed their way out of tunnels.

We passed him mid way way up, his rain soaked dog ignored as it faithfully carried a much chewed stick. The man’s drab face was down cast, absorbed in a depth of consciousness unfathomable to us.  I’d guess he was in his mid thirties, a physique reflecting past athleticism well wrapped against the November bleakness.  He blankly passed by us ignoring my nodded greeting and her hellos. Our cheery enquiry to the dog as to its enjoyment of the stick was ignored by both man and beast as they stoically trudged on their way. We glanced at each other in mute affront. We were used to the open Yorkshire ways of walkers and this Lancastrian snub was unexpected. Why would you choose to walk these scenic paths and ignore the vista, not be involved in the stimulation of the climb or acknowledge the happy banter of the people you passed en route?

Our target was the landmark tower, and we proceeded on our way, unused to the exertion we unwittingly restricted our conversation and I began to wonder as to the man’s demeanour.  A glumness had surrounded his plodding gate, there seemed no expectation from his hound that the master would respond, the stick was carried in habit rather than anticipation. And that man’s numb slog from the tower, his head held down , a mind otherwise absorbed. I suspected a depression within. 

Peel Tower had fallen to decrepitude, three times in fact, since its prolific and feted construction. Its roof and stairway has rotted and been replaced twice by wealthy politicised patrons and once by 20th century community obligation.  Modern times sees it again a falling, neglected, a future ruin sealed from access lest perchance people throw themselves from its mighty height. It now stands as a crumbling unintentional phallic reminder of its historic past.

The climb was arduous but we managed the higher crest and absorbed the vista around all compass points in a respectful silence, occasionally pointing to features as the clouds revealed further expanses.
Again he walked by us.
Again he ignored our politeness.
Again the bedraggled mutt snubbed our entreaty for affection.
Again his head down and oblivious, emotionally dumb and paying no attention to his surrounds. It was well, I thought, the tower was sealed. My heart felt for the loyalty of the hound, committed to endlessly trail a thankless leader.

The Shoulder of Mutton pub was so named from an ancient trial where a mighty greased pole was set up to be scaled, the victor obtaining a joint of meat skewered at its summit.  So said the menu sheet from which we selected our luncheon while sipping our well earned libations.   It was here we saw him again, his dog, sans stick, lay at his foot beneath his table. The man remained downcast, head dipped, involved in a secret depth. We avoided making another greeting comment, and lowered our cheery banter.  His mood pervaded our sense of accomplishment and I made to move from our choice of table. It was then she prodded me and directed me to look towards him.  He had lifted his gaze and was reaching down to his pet, tousling the beast’s ears and smiling in the gormless way of a besotted master into his charge's face. A smart phone screen slowly faded to black on the table next to him as his other hand removed earphones,  the thump of a contented tail beat a tattoo on the old oak floor.

The Moisturehenge

In our marital bedroom we have a clock. It is an alarm clock. It wakes us up when asked and displays the progress of the day should either of us enter the room or rouse in the night and wonder as to the hour. It is a useful device upon which I have held some reliance but no particular emotional attachment.

It is my casual reliance on discerning the early hours in which I am finding a frustrating obstruction. My darling partner, my first wife, the girl whom I chose so many years ago as the supreme companion, she has a sense of self awareness. This is displayed in part by her desire to retain the looks we all lose as the aggressions and joys of life are worn into our hide and become amplified by the gravity of our world.

A clock and wrinkles. I never thought a time in my life would come where these two things would stand so firmly in conflict.

One of the key aspects of placing a clock in place is so as to enable a casual observer to determine time at a swift glance. To facilitate this, it is appropriate for the face of the clock to remain largely unobstructed and displayed to a wide range of vantage points within the room.

A wrinkle is, I am told, an unsightly reminder of lost youth, a denizen of evils past and must be defeated, disguised or destroyed. While I am complacent about my body’s marks of experience it seems I am alone in this. The lady of the house has potions. She scours the world, or more correctly the world’s purveyors scour her resources, to experiment with creams, lotions, powders and oils of various origin all claiming efficacy in wrinkle removal, or reduction, or calming, or shrinking or some-such. I am no vain man but I do not think that my regime of occasional facial bathing has proven to be any less efficient at dealing with wrinkles than has the produce of global scientific research as applied or implied by her potions. In a phrase, we both look our age.

The problem is, if one considers there is any veracity in the claims of the wrinkle charlatans, then one is required to practice application, rubbing, soaking and massage at specific times of the day. Regrettably a clock is not required for this timing. One simply needs to understand the intent of directions that give application times as ‘on rising’ ‘as needed’ and ‘prior to retiring’. I know of no clock that can prescribe these periods.

I guess the conflict may well not be anchored in our differences in wrinkle treatment. It may be that I am a morning person who wakes, occasionally prematurely, with a desire to know the time, while she is an evening person who relies on the alarm to awaken her from slumber. She needs to rise at varying times for work, I awake early for my day as a routine. I like to see the clock, she likes to hear the alarm.

As her potions are required to be applied at times that mainly correspond with rising or retiring, the potion pots, tubes, tubs and cartons are assembled on her bedside table. The clock is electric with a lead extending to the power point and no farther. The clock is therefore on her bedside table. The moisturehenge obscures the clock. The moisturehenge is of considerable complexity, volume, and variety. One has to say an impenetrable henge of horologic obstruction.

So, I can’t see the clock. A solution is impossible while retaining a conjugal sleeping arrangement. I worry about it and it may be causing furrows in my brow. There is no solution to that. 

Of that I am certain. 

She has proved it.

Filthy Green

A green and pleasant place. 

Brand-labelled umbrellas, some opened, others hanging at angles, all blooming from the winter-worn and drink-stained tables at the front of the pub. The locals sat, either studying their phone, as pairs locked in conversation, or as groups of friends boldly stating opinions and bias.

Old stone walls and ancient windows stood dried and transformed by the warm day. Crisp packets of sunshine drifted a welcome glare across bare shoulders and new sunglasses before softening behind a breeze to glow, appreciated but unnoticed.

Off to one side, in a corner formed between the car park wall and the front of the pub, a pair of black dogs lay beneath a table over which two middle aged blokes lent, one distraught, one feeling inept at providing advice.  Two pints sat at hand, awkwardly angled on the warped planks, a sip or two depleted but destined to join their froth-ringed predecessors gathered to the side. A forehead was pressed on bent fingers and propped by an elbow. It supported a dejected face unwilling to rise to the ruddy ale-fuelled compassion being proffered by the owner of the dogs.

A youthful trio gathered around a smarter chrome and poly-cane table, its top scattered with mixers, straws and drained glasses.   A long haired, tattooed primary school teacher wearing a rock band vest, store-frayed jeans and a vintage armband was attempting to enthral two young girls with tales of his questionable adventures. The smitten blondes were lightly disputing his claims when a junior manager arrived, removing his tie before joining them with a high five and cheek touches. A laugh burst from the trio at his greeting and again as his bottle of white wine was shared out.

At a smaller white painted wrought-iron setting, restlessly exploring the extent of its floral lead, a small white something-poo snuffled around a pair of waxed, stiletto-propped legs. Their owner wistfully surveyed the laneway.  Next to her Fendi handbag a smart wine cooler projected a corkless neck and in her hand microbubbles trailed elegantly up a long-stemmed glass.

The sounds of the town were muted in the background. From the hedgerow surrounding the pub and from the backyards of the neighbouring homes, blackbird, robin and chaffinch song penetrated the patrons' babble. A collared dove perched atop a nearby roof, cooing for its mate, then took brief flight to resettle on a For Sale sign at the front gate of the house opposite.

A dark van slid quietly to a stop at the end of the laneway and a large BMW followed, gliding to rest without disturbing the dove. No one opened a door and both vehicles remained stationary. Their engines could be heard at idle, the air-con clicking on and off sporadically.

Four sets of nervous eyes surveyed the mechanical stakeout. Conversations hung, dogs got held to shorter leashes or were gathered to lap. The van’s side door slid open and with military precision eight helmeted, Kevlar-clad, weapon carrying solid bodies sprinted in a flank towards the drinkers.

The two dogs were pulled even closer as their owner reached over to his companion. “Keep it together Keith, don’t lose it now” . The faces of the teacher and junior manager drained to ash and the fingers of the waxen-legged beauty began to frantically delete contact lists from her 'phone.

The armed group crashed through the beer garden, yelling at everyone to stay put as behind them the BMW doors swung open and four even more heavily padded warriors burst out. Two ran to the rear of the For Sale property and the remaining two, the largest hefting an impact ram, smashed down the front door screaming "NO ONE MOVE!". Rapid shots were exchanged with flashes lighting up the feature windows of the 1940’s house. Half of the soldiers controlling the beer garden instantly broke formation and sprinted towards the house, the four remaining yelled at the patrons to keep their heads down.

The fracas abated quickly, a large covered truck sped up the lane and reversed into the front yard of the house. Three people, two bleeding from head wounds were bundled roughly out through the front door of the house and into the truck. The sound of steel doors being slammed inside the truck echoed around the beer garden. A lifeless form, smashed and spilling gore was dragged onto the front lawn, covered and lifted unceremoniously into the back of the truck. The rear door slammed and the truck moved off.

The four soldiers left on guard in the beer garden ensured the patrons remained low. From behind the wheel of the van slid an authoritative figure. She calmly approached the house, spoke to the guards at the door, glanced at the departing truck and made her way to the beer garden. Addressing the patrons she apologised for the trauma caused, explained the matter had been well planned and the outcome was expected.  With a hard smile she proffered that every caution had been taken to ensure their safety. Directing the soldiers in the distribution of cards she asked the patrons to contact the numbers listed for a de-brief the next day. With the identical precision of their arrival, all but two armed bodies returned to the vehicles and departed the scene. The two remaining soldiers stood brutish and helmeted outside the For Sale house.

Normality did not return easily to the beer garden. The paedophile and the corporate fraudster tried vainly to recover the earlier bonhomie with the frightened girls. The murderer downed his beer in a swallow, his distraught expression compounded now by confused relief. The Russian S&M madam lowered her fluffy dog to the ground and calmly dialled the elected member to defer their liaison.

Such a filthy little town in a green and deceptively pleasant land.   

TIME KEY

                                                                      

It was the last day of his trip, a mix of tours and treks which had sped by in an amazing five weeks.   Mark had made it to Teotihuacan, half a day before his bus was to leave for Mexico City.  He was spending a relaxed morning joking with the merchants as they set up to sell their wares in the quiet, tree lined square. 

One native bloke who had just arrived was probably a thief Mark decided.  In a questionable attempt at legitimacy the guy had thrown a tattered blanket over couple of planks at the edge of the market.   From behind a mask of sweaty black hair he nervously darted glances around.  Each item he placed as if hoping no one would recognise it.  Mark was attracted by the quality of the pieces but concerned by their questionable provenance.  As each treasure was released from the filthy back pack to be displayed on the blanket, the sunlight would glint off their metal and sparkle from the faceted stones.  Mark got the even clearer impression the ne’er-do-well was laying out stolen goods.  He decided to walk on by but the villain reached out with the lightening speed of a pickpocket and touched his arm.

“Ah special Mister”   he croaked in an almost theatrical aside, “I have a treasure especially for you. ”  He turned his hand and displayed a small Inca calendar disk firmly held between his black rimmed fingernails.

Mark had to consciously stop his jaw from dropping.  Ever since he was a kid he had been studying the Aztec’s predictions, their amazing calendars and celestial maps.  Here was a beautiful disc, better than any he had researched.  Without thinking he saw his hand extend and the golden treasure fall from the dirty claws into his palm.  The detail was exquisite, the clarity of the carving unbelievably crisp and clear. It rested on his skin, its weighty authenticity vibrating to the pulse of Mark’s being.  Mark could read many of the symbols and letters and knew it was an excellent representation of the ancient artifacts that he had devoted so much study to. 

“Mister, this is real one, Yes?” enquired the thief.  Mark tore his eyes off the disc to stare into the dark face of the man.  Stained teeth smiled under a broad nose separating two of the deepest, blackest eyes Mark had ever stared into. 

“It is a very good copy” Mark demurred, transferring the disc to his left hand to see its other side.  The relief was even more intricate and Mark was desperate to translate the message.

“Ah, no, Special Mister” the villain crooned.  “This is real one from the ancients.  It is for you, this real one is for you” “The ancients, they tell me give it to you this day.  You take now,  You must take now” 

Mark glanced again at the small golden plate as his brain interpreted part of a date.  It was sometime in this year.  Obviously a fake copy then, but looking again, the disk had the look, the weight of gold, so it may be worth the price of a souvenir.    Still captivated by the design Mark asked  “So how much to the ancients tell you they want for it?” He turned the piece over and bought it closer to study more of the detail. Fake or copy, it would still reveal some sort of story once he had time to translate it.  And it would give him something to do on the plane.

The villain did not reply.

Mark looked up to re-phrase his question, but, the villain was nowhere to be seen.  The tatty rug was piled in a dusty lump, the two planks kicked in dirt and the trinkets, in fact all evidence of the thief had disappeared.  Mark asked the stall holder behind him where the thief had gone and the stall holder said he’d left hours ago.  The disc was still in Mark’s palm, it felt wonderful, it felt real. But time had warped, Reality had shifted. Mark was standing in a busy marketplace.  People were dodging around him.  His bus was parked up and the driver was loading bags into its belly.  Mark regained his composure and rushed over to join his fellow passengers to the airport.

 Helen was relieved.  When you travel alone out of Mexico you never know who you will end up sharing the next nine hours of your life with.  He had introduced himself as Mark, he seemed nice, smelled well traveled, you now, bathed but not able to clean your clothes that well.  Not unpleasant, sort of musky masculine.  And he was interesting too.  Been trekking and had found an artifact, was researching it on the way home.  It looked gorgeous.  Gold.  Lots of little circles and shapes like birds and forks.  Anyway he was quiet and absorbed so she could read books and watch a movie without more than the occasional interruption.

“Jesus!  It’s today’s bloody date” was one such outburst which he followed with an apology and explanation of how the hieroglyphs translated into a wormhole or some such tosh.

“Fuck me!  We’ll be flying right over this place!”  was the final vocal interruption Mark made into to her reading.

As he sat there cross-referencing the coin and his book, occasionally peering over her to see out the window, he began to toss the coin thing between his hands .  It looked like it was getting hot. He sat back and put the coin on his book.  It began to fume and burn the cover.  Helen stared at the coin. it rose in the air. The man sitting behind Helen kicked her seat  “ Hey !  No smoking on the plane fuckwit!”  Helen spun around “Piss off, something really weird’s happening! “ As she turned back her nice smelling companion grabbed the coin and vanished. 

Helen screamed.  She has not traveled since.