pre-birthday poem

The piano has been drinking.
It plays the tune of a whore.

I am the mess you made me leave behind
in a spillway where dry docks scar from salt.

Pour me a little more.
I know it's late, but pour me a little more
before my teeth catch words falling out of my mouth.

Waterbaby

It's the end of November and last week marked two years since I underwent surgery for vadge cancer and the subsequent CCC (c**t cancer coma). I celebrated by starting my training programme for the Mooloolaba triathlon, but don't get too excited — I'm only doing the 1km ocean swim.

I was more than happy with my first session, as I had only planned to swim five hundred metres. After I'd swum/swan/swammed/swummed my desired distance I was feeling strong, having slipped into a comfortable rhythm. And so I thought, 'If I can do five hundred, I can do six hundred, and if I can do six hundred, I can do seven hundred' and so on, until I reached the eight hundred metre mark. I could have done the full kilometre, but didn't want to go bull at a gate Carls-style (it's genetic — thanks Dad) and end up eating pain cake the following day, thereby sabotaging thwarting hindering my training.

I did a lot of swimming training when I was a wee lass. I'm a born water baby, and exercise — particularly swimming — was encouraged* when I was growing up. As a result of this chlorinated goodness, I never lost my 'swimmers shoulders', even when I became reed thin pre-transplant.

And so the joy continued, despite having a kid who's probably not even aged in double figures yet, clawing at my feet like a buzzard. After willing him to pass (after rising from the water to death stare it him), he probably pissed in his wake to smite me. Squad swimmers: the bane of the casual lap swimmer.

I was doing some kick board work last week when I paused to adjust my goggles. I dipped my head below the waterline and listened. The wake of other swimmers lapped around my ears and I found myself in a place of perfect peace. The water buffeted my ears and purled around my body, shrouding all sound. I floated until all I could hear was my heartbeat and breath, then I closed my eyes and felt the joyous ache of gliding through water. I became aware of my breath and took in lungfuls of air. I then felt aware of how lucky I am to be able to gulp lungfuls of air in the first place. I have a close friend in Melbourne who is critically ill and waiting on a double lung transplant, so I took the biggest breaths for her.

F. Scott Fitzgerald — a master architect of the English language — once said, 'All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.'

Swimming under water, holding your breath; these things take practice and patience and develop over time. And so it is with writing and all that holds any substantial meaning for me.

I have always returned to the water and always will. It softens my heart.

Another thing I'm doing is a detox of sorts, except this is a long-term detox where I'm introducing 'raw' food while steadily reducing foods that are heavily refined. Suffice to say, my green grocer loves me. This is what I've been having for lunch and occasionally for dinner — green smoothies!



Blended!



Because I'm exercising, eating raw food and trying to cut refined food and sugar out of my diet, my life is one big salad. My BSL's (blood sugar levels) have dropped significantly and I've had to adjust my insulin which has lead to a couple of scary hypo's (dangerously low blood sugar levels). Some fine tuning of my insulin is all that's needed to avoid these and I always have fairy floss at the ready (it's the only time I get to eat it). In the meantime, I'm waiting for my sugar cravings to abate. When I do crave something sweet, I make a green smoothie and am so full that the very thought of junk food makes me feel horrendous.

I have a notorious sweet tooth (see fairy floss reference), but I'm confident that I'll be able to control my Diabetes with diet and exercise, with only the occasional injection of insulin. I've no doubt that my kidneys and pancreas will thank me.

I'm off to a fine start, am well and truly settled into my new pad and life is grand. Going swimmingly. Fucking fabulous.

* forced

Untitled 'haibun'

Salt shoots up my nose, ferried by the wind. Blasts of air, not sparing in their rhythm crawl over my skin and I pain for water. Untrammelled waves crush any sand that lays crumbling on the beach. I see the man I was with last night - a half-smoked cigarette cocked in his mouth.

He is still - kind of like he's stranded and doesn't know where to go; not sure about how to stamp one foot in front of the other, or even how to breathe. The cigarette recedes to his lips and he spits it onto the sand. I don't know who he is.

I walk to the bedroom, see the sheets and remember, nodding at the colours that have seeped through to the mattress. Worry abates, curiosity turns my lips upward. The wind shuttles between the terrace door and the kitchen table and I walk to where the kettle clings to the bench, closer to the edge than I would like. I push it back, smell him behind me and drop my head.

Salt on skin
like raw sugar
though not sweet at all.

5.9.09

1.50pm @ Tallebudgera surf club (yes, I know - what. the. fuck.)

My day has been punctuated by sex. I've lingered on it too long; my tongue is sensitive and nerves sting when it brushes the roof of my mouth. Every appealing man is fair game, be they married, in a partnership, of age or otherwise. Even unappealing men; thicker, bearded, old, rough.

Sex.

I have grand designs of a penis puncturing my vagina. That - today, right now - is all I can think about. I want to be touched; I want someone to spread my legs, someone to push and spill into me so as create some sort of cheap mess.

Will I be able to eat my lunch? Fucking salmon.

Romancing the bone, or rather, postponing the bone ...

Sick this morning from the arsenal of narcotics I've been ingesting. The bone scan will be re-scheduled. Thank you opiates and anti-seizure meds. No, wait - fuck you, and while I'm at it, FUCK CANCER. That's for my friend Renee who is fighting (and winning) a war on lung and brain cancer over in California.

I have nothing on this girl. To learn more about her extraordinary story, check out http://www.reneebensonbelieve.com

BELIEVE.

Waking up

Of course I woke up. I did get to see daylight so my mum could take me to the hospital for some tests.

The sonography was not what I was expecting it to be, for the swelling and pain in my sub-clavian and axillary (essentially my clavicle and neck) was not a new DVT*. All the sonographer could see on the ultrasound was residual clot from the DVT I had six years ago and the one I had last May due to a radiologist dicking around for too long in my arm while inserting a PICC line.

A PICC line is inserted in a peripheral vein, such as the cephalic, basilic, or brachial vein; is advanced through larger veins toward the heart until the tip rests in the distal superior vena cava. Sounds complicated? Not really. It should take between 30-45 minutes to insert a PICC, but the radiologist who I took an instant dislike to before he even touched me, failed the first time, then stuffed around for nearly two hours with the line he eventually got in. Congratu-fucking-lations.

And so this clot stabilised, only to return in July when I was in Barcaldine. Fucking awesome. I self-diagnosed the clot and thought the Flying Doctors were going to have to land on Cumberland soil to spirit me back to Brisbane. Instead, Sue drove me to Barcy hospital, where the lovely Dr. Alfredo gave me some Clexane injections (anti-coagulants) for my trip home. Apparently I'm prone to being 'clotty.' How delightful.

Ten days after the ultrasound, a payload of narcotics which make me itch like a heroin addict and new anti-seizure medication which works with the pain receptors in my brain, it is just as painful and more swollen.

So there is no new clot and the pain hasn't developed into shingles.

It could be a crack or a stress fracture from sleeping in the wrong position, which despite my chalky bones, is highly unlikely. Another reason for the pain and swollen clavicle is something far more sinister.

Tomorrow I will have a bone scan where I'll be injected with kryptonite (radioactive material). Then I will wait for two hours so the nuclear medicine can soak into my body. I'll read, maybe see Dan and possibly fall asleep where I will dribble in public. I will then lay on a table as narrow and hard as a surfboard and I'll be shuttled into a strange, yet beautiful machine. Radiographers will study the images to try and form a diagnosis. If the bone scan is inconclusive, then an MRI or a PET scan may be neccessary.

I will laugh if I have bone cancer. I really will.


* deep vein thrombosis (something you don't fuck around with)

If I Die Before I Wake

Tonight, or rather, today, I am frightened to go to sleep because I may not wake up. This comes with the territory of the unknown.

You may wonder why I am sending this out into the void as my shoulders stiffen from the cold and unsettling breath of the reaper. If I don't survive the next few hours, at the very least I want to share a sliver of how my life works.

On Saturday, it was eleven years since my transplant and I have been feeling very well. The nature of the beast that is post-transplant means that nothing is certain and your life can turn on a dime where you find yourself in a place you only thought existed in night terrors.

I will have tests today and whatever the outcome, I will be coming home. I will not stay in hospital. I am coming home.

Affection

A soft gaggle rolled across the taut air of the morning. My lips fused to the vessel my coffee had been poured into. If the laughter were a fabric, it was velveteen. If it were a drink, it was a Merlot with fond notes of chocolate and berry.

I lay the flattering unction to one's soul*, rifling through the layers and seeing myself thirty years from now at peace, happy, grey, bespectacled and wearing polar fleece with pride. On second thoughts, hold the polar fleece - swathe me in cashmere and rabbit fur, but universe - please grant me the wisdom to embrace the silver fox within with a thick top knot bouncing around my sagacious head, and a head that has a satisfied mind.

I am already happy, bespectacled and content with who I am and where this journey is taking me. But back to that soft gaggle.

They laugh.

They are old friends and they are new friends. Five fine women and one man waving to passers by in between excitable banter, sips of steaming coffee and hands over mouths in mock shock. Perhaps someone lost a stitch knitting last night ...

My favourite lady has a topknot bobbing back and forth on her head; her body sheathed in purple polar fleece. She is a grand dame; a native apotheosis.

A stilettoed woman spoils the joy; her calves popping as though they're alive and trying to escape her chiseled legs. My attention turns to scalpels and excision. How I would appreciate cutting into those legs to see if those muscles really were alive. I would release them like one doeswith an undersized fish; grant them absolution in their desperation to escape her skin.

But slicing into strangers is a felony.

I've downed my second double shot of coffee and it's time to go and collect my copy of 'Blankets', an illustrated novel by Craig Thompson in all of it's 582 pages of black and white divinity. And then there is the most anticipated book of the year - my friend and peer Krissy Kneen's sexual memoir 'Affection'. It is being launched tomorrow evening at Avid Reader in West End. Krissy encouraged me to begin writing my own memoir, as well as to finish my verse novel which she says kind things about.

And so tomorrow evening. There may be nudity. There will be talk of vaginas, orgasm, fucking and fisting. There will also be wine.

Below is a sliver from Krissy's blog, Furious Vaginas. Buy her book. Re-discover your sex. Reclaim your desires. Rip open that bodice. Learn.

best anti climax

I remember rare moments of post orgasmic bliss. The times I have wanted to lie with it. The ones that lasted days, little jolts of memory. Instant replays unexpectedly. So rare. I remember the ones I have had. Wish I could have more. But this kind of thing would wear thin. I must wait for the sneak attack. Sex in the afternoon and the sun falling on my naked body. First time with a new lover. The consummation of something coveted.

*Hamlet

post-script

Running couples. They seem so fucking organised. Everything is a routine. Do they have marathon sex? Probably. Do they time their marathon sex? Maybe. Do they plan for sex like they would a practice run for a marathon? I hope not.

Run, Forrest, run!

Fuck, Forrest, fuck!

Time

Gold Coast Marathon - 5.7.09 6.35am

Human Indy.

Cattle call.

Restless as horses on the inside of the gate, scratching skin and bloodshot eyes.

Kids madly pedalling on a monorail that skims an inconsequential beach.

Maybe I’ll dance on the sand. I'll twirl, churning sand under my feet, mincing it between my toes. I'm listening to Dr. Hook’s ‘The Cover of a Rolling Stone’, after all.

People will surmise the departure of the ordinary and the strange nature of my movement, but they’ve been up since 4am, have been running hundreds of kilometres for months and have ligament damage they take fistfuls of anti-inflammatories for. Now THAT is strange.

I have a need for coffee. I’m in a place where desire has been outstripped by a blinding need.

Daylight now, the orange having been wiped clean from the sky, sucking Venus back into the orbit of the earth. The sun bursts through, tingling my skin until it blushes. A warm sweep. Kindle for a cold and aching body.

It bores heat into me; bouncing off my cheek, splicing light through my hair and seeking out my mandarin coloured scarf.

The sun climbs.

Men stretch limbs.

Women stride broadly.

People smile, wrapped in black rubbish bags to keep the wind chill at bay.

Children laugh and squeal – it’s all a big game. Silly grown ups wearing funny get up. There’s a leprechaun, a couple of Superman’s, permatans as far as the eye can see, popping muscles and people bending over a little too far – presenting themselves, Roy and HG Sydney 2000 Olympics style.

Daybreak lends itself to friendlier faces and fire dancers keep twirling, their flames now muted from the scowl of the sun.

I notice the proliferation of sports bandages and compression sleeves for arms, legs and bellies. Ah, yes – the running wounded. I have been up since 4.30am, walked in the dark to the starting point, ached to the messy roots of my molars and chapped my skin. Somehow, I understand and I have understood it before. I understand why there are morning people. I wish I was a morning person, but I’m a night owl. I do my best work at night and it is odd if I get to bed before 1am.

Morning. It really is perfect; unstained with the mess that becomes a day. It’s a narrow window where everything – and everyone – is clean; your connection to the earth pure and true. Try it. Grind your feet into the ground – sand if you have it – and slip into the brevity of quietude that only an early morning can give.

‘Hold the dawn close to your chest
to stop the sun climbing;
shredding lines of clouds where
sins are churned into sweetness
for a short while.’ (CJM 2008)

And so now I understand. I get it. I get the running thing. I can appreciate and respect why people lug their bodies forwards for hundreds of kilometres. Some do it gracefully, others not so. It’s a sweaty tangle of pumping arms and jerking movements of the knee, the leg, the shin, the ankle and the foot. It’s a jumble of iron will that ends with jelly legs.

Then there are skins, ITB rollers, orthotics, glucose jellies to suck on and electrolyte balance powders. And then there’s the socks ...

Eliza beat her PB by thirteen minutes. She has been training on her own, without the camaraderie of a running squad or the attention of a coach - two things that many people cannot get by without - and she smashed her PB by thirteen minutes.

All on her own.

To capture the elation is impossible, even with the photographs I took of my beautiful friend with her medal. Not even they can show what it meant to her – and to so many others – who finished the race.

What does one hour and five minutes signify? For Eliza, it was everything. It was happiness, grief, pride, humility, triumph and relief. She had proud flesh. A necklace of sweat had made its familiar passage down the hollows of her heaving chest as we both jumped for joy, high fived and 'fuck yeah-ed!'

And so I was inspired. I read a running magazine when we returned to our apartment (which just happened to house the most *amazing* couch in the world), and I circled a few races I want to try.

My mate Ed who three weeks ago received his second double lung transplant, decided that he would do the 10km Bridge to Brisbane. And so, Team Ed was born. There are quite a number of Team Ed members doing the Bridge to Brisbane in honour of Ed and our respective donors and their families. I suggested that we source a couple of Segways a la Gob Bluth with a soundtrack of ‘The Final Countdown’ on repeat to rip past people who are walking/running/doing the Cliffy Young shuffle. There has been much interest about the procurement of the Segway, but we really have no choice except to walk or shuffle the 10km unless we hijack some yuppies in New York. Yep - we're walking. There has been talk (mostly by me) that we be escorted to the Brekkie Creek Hotel by paramedics where we will be re-hydrated with IV fluids and beer. Or just IV beer. And steak. Still mooing steak with all that bloody protein goodness.

My eleven year Transplanniversary is fast approaching (it falls on 22nd August). I know certain information about my donor that I should not. Some readers may find the following information distressing, so please read with caution.

I know that I received female lungs and my donor was in her early twenties and died at the Royal Brisbane Hospital from a cerebral haemorrhage (a brain bleed). I also know that her family donated most of her organs and while I wrote them letters of thanksgiving, they moved on with no forwarding address which I both understand and respect.

Yes, I would like to meet my donor family and yes, I plan to go to Births, Death and Marriages before my Transplanniversary so I can rifle through the death notices for the 21st and 22nd August 1998. It used to be that my mum was far more curious than I, but ever since I hit a decade last year, I have become more insistent on knowing who my donor is.

I want to know her name. I want to know her parent’s names and if she has siblings or a partner. I have no romantic notions about my donor and while there is a part of me who doesn’t ‘care’ about what she did in her life, there is a far larger chunk of me that yearns to know what her life was like. What music she listened to, what books she read; what films she loved. Was she a student? Was she working? Had she been overseas? Was she happy? Did she have any premonitions of dying? Where did she collapse? Was it at home, at work, at uni, in the street? These are things I want to know, yet in all likelihood, never will.

The day after my Transplanniversary is the Brisbane Marathon and I’m competing (against myself) in the 8km walk which will be fairly cruisy. I walked 6km at the Gold Coast marathon IN MY CONVERSE and didn’t end up with shin splints. I’m sure that would be razor blades to any podiatrist worth their toenails, but I was damn impressed, as was the boy. I said to Eliza and her friends Libby and Pete, who did the 10km run, that getting up at sparrow's and being active made me feel alive – REALLY ALIVE.

It is nearly eleven years. We eat up time and time feasts on us. Time is an odd beast - it can be our ally and it can be our undoing. Time can soften pain and grief, but it at it's very core, it is predatory and brutal.

Time is not the same in every culture or circumstance.

Time is physical and psychological. It is growth, ageing, living and dying, sacrifice, penance, redemption and salvation.

Time is cyclical, calendrical and developmental.

What does time mean to you? Do you think about your time? Do you use it wisely? Do you analyse it, watch the clock or not think about it at all?


'As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.'
Henry David Thoreau

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!

Today is my Dad's 60th birthday. Words do not come easily when I speak or write of my loved ones. Sometimes I don't know where to begin and if I do begin, where do I end?

So I will say this ... I love you, Dad. You have loved me unconditionally, fought for me when I could not and you never gave up when things were seemingly insurmountable. Thank you for loving me, protecting me and fighting for me.

Here are a few photographs that capture me and Rosco.


After my 'pre-designer vagina' party (maybe just a little bit drunk)



Good times at a C.F Ball ...



A few days after my c**t cancer surgery in November 2007. This was before the coma, when Dad fought for me when I couldn't.



More good times (very drunk)

Hello, hello, hello, hello ... goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye ...

Leaves that are Green
(Paul Simon, 1965)

I was twenty-one years when I wrote this song
I'm twenty-two now but I won't be for long
Time hurries on.
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither in the wind
And they crumble in your hand

Once my heart was filled with the love of a girl
I held her close but she faded in the night
Like a poem I meant to write.
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither in the wind
And they crumble in your hand

I threw a pebble in a brook
And watched the ripple run away
And they never made a sound
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither in the wind
And they crumble in your hand

Hello, hello, hello, hello
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
That's all there is.
And the leaves that are green turn to brown
And they wither in the wind
And they crumble in your hand.

Too much information

18.6.09 8.44pm

Being with a man who has lived a good, full life has many unexpected benefits. One that had me jumping around the room tonight was his record collection. Here are a few reasons why:

Hawks and Doves (Neil Young)

Back in Black (one copy was pressed in Australia and is quite rare)

Rumours (Fleetwood Mac)

Harvest (Neil Young)

A couple of others I set the needle onto included The Church, Gangajang, Do Re Mi and The Clash ...

Okay, so that was more than a few - the boy has milk crates stacked with vinyl. Records. They are tactile and real and my fingers tingle when I pull them out of their plastic slips and lay them down on the turntable. The boy and I had been talking about one of the strongest foundations of our relationship thus far – music. We met on a night dedicated to soul music and we're on the same page when it comes to what tunes we pepper our days and nights with.

So we began comparing concert stories after I had given him an unabridged version of what was Wednesday night which has turned out to be a highlight of my life, musically speaking (yes, there are many lives – music, reading, film, cars, typewriters etc.). Last night I saw something that I never thought I would get to see in my lifetime – Simon and Garfunkel live - and no further than ten metres away. These 'Old Friends' punctuated my childhood, adolescence and beyond - something which has essentially shaped me, like a plane on a surfboard to give it a decent curve.

My sister and I listened to Simon and Garfunkel in utero and my father courted my mother with their songs and would serenade her with ‘Sparrow’, 'The Boxer', 'El Condor Pasa' and ‘Scarborough Fair'. My parents have been waiting since the early days of their courtship to see Paul and Arty live and on Wednesday night they were reminiscing and holding hands. My sister and I agreed that it was nothing short of adorable. The first LP my father ever bought was 'Wednesday Morning, 3am’, closely followed by ‘The Graduate', which also happens to be his favourite film.

From beginning to end, the night was really quite extraordinary. Unto Rosco’s (Dad's) knowledge, my brother-in-law had organised a brand spankin’ new, eleven seater limousine to transport us to my sister’s and said brother-in-law’s house in style. We collected them for a night of overwhelming sentiment and reaction and thus began a night of *perfection*.

Murray, our driver for the night made us feel very loved and welcome - thanks Muzza! He had Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Live in Central Park’ DVD playing and gave us a directive to crank the (kick arse) sound system as we deemed suitable, and crank it we did. We took stupid, funny photos of ourselves in this cavernous car and by the time we got to Nik’s, we were really just warming up. My four nephews had to practically scoop their jaws off the ground when we arrived. They each had a climb through and marvelled at the buttons and funky lights. They took turns sitting in the driver's seat where Murray commandeers and steers this monster of an automobile, then Rosco basically had to drag poor little Sammy out so we could get on the road. Dad is convinced that Sam's first words will be, ‘I hate you, Grandad’. Que sera.

Nik and Paulie hopped in, we cracked some Becks, toasted the awesomeness that is Simon and Garfunkel and cranked the music. Now this was an extra special night for my Dad because he’s turning 60 next week. Did I mention that he bought himself an early birthday present in the form of a 1959 XK150 Jag? No? Well he did. Happy birthday, Rosco! I shall post some photographs of the beast when I remember.

I haven’t seen my Dad this excited for a very long time and he did totally unexpected and random things at the concert which I’ll get to later. So we’re still in the limo on our way to the hole that is the Boondocks (so very happy AC/DC is playing at ANZ stadium), all the while playing musical seats. Well, Mum, Nikki and I were, anyway. The boys sat up the end sucking back Becks and talking about man stuff. I’m guessing that that means they were talking about man flu, the price of beer, cars and asking questions like, ‘why do they do that?’ about us three who were sliding up and down each end of the limo taking crazy pictures. Because we’re crazy like three foxes. Or something.

The last time I was at the Boondocks was with my bro-in-law last February when Santana came to town. Santana were sublime and it was go good to see Carlos rockin’ out, much like Carole King did at her concert a couple of years ago. The woman has still got it. We decided to make a reservation for dinner on our way which was possibly the best decision of the evening because we ended up a little smashed. Smashed and at Santana. It was fucking great. But back to playing musical seats ...

We arrived at the Boondocks where the place was crawling with equal parts baby boomer and lapsed beatniks (my folks fall into both groups for which I am PROUD) and young folk, mostly Generation Xers. As we ascended the stairs, we literally ran into two women who had travelled interstate to see their heroes and man, were they living the dream. The mean half of my brain would say that it looked like Woodstock had vomited all over them, but the kind half of my brain was saying ‘interstate woman number one is a massive tie-dyed swathe of fabric and her friend has magenta coloured hair and is wearing bright yellow platform fuck me boots – COOL!’ And they were cool. Having waited thirty years to see these two prodigal sons from New York, nothing was going to stop these ladies. They had dressed to make an impression and that they did ...

I was wearing my folk vest in honour of Art Garfunkel’s penchant for all things vestie, so imagine my surprise (after I had stopped crying tears of joy) when I realised that there was NO VEST. No vest? Me publicly crying? Stranger things have happened. No, wait – they haven’t. I don’t do public crying. I’ve done it once this year, but would have called my personal integrity into question if I hadn’t when I found myself in the situation I did. I cried the other day when one of my closest friends told me she was pregnant, but that’s not really public crying because it was just with her and my Mum, and it was induced through joy.

But I digress (again). We walked down to our seats and we were all of nine rows from front of stage *scoops up jaw off floor*. We knew we had seats of superiority, but this was just insane. The audience went ballistic when they trundled onstage, and when Art placed his hand on his heart, the lump in my throat rose up and into me like a tide and my cheekbones ached as it surged up to my head.

‘Old friends’ is the name of their current – and sadly, their last – tour, and so it was this revelation of a song that began a night of magic. As any aficionado would know, ‘Old Friends’ leads into ‘Bookends’. As fast as the tears of awe dried and fused to my salty cheeks, the rush came again when Paul Simon began picking through those familiar notes with his guitar.

There is a story behind ‘Bookends’, because there is always a story. In February 1996, I lost one of my close friends to infection which lead to multiple organ failure. The night cut through all of us who were with Michelle when she died in Intensive Care after she went into cardiac arrest - something she was never going to recover from. Michelle was a heart-lung transplant recipient and was with us for five years which for both her and us, was never going to be enough. She was to be married in the April and I was to be one of her bridesmaids, so instead of a wedding, there was a funeral. Michelle, in her stubborn nature, singlehandedly organised the first Cystic Fibrosis ball in 1990. She was a Mama Bear in the C.F family. The year she died, I was asked to be guest speaker at the ball and by that stage, my Mum had been organising the C.F Ball since the second in 1991. Mum put together a photo montage of Michelle that was presented after my speech, which was essentially a tribute to Michelle, and the song Dad suggested was ‘Bookends’.

'Time it was and what a time it was, it was,
a time of innocence, a time of confidences.

Long ago it must be, I have a photograph
preserve your memories, they're all that's left you.'

It was a night so raw with equal parts pain and love, people bled a little. Michelle's fiance was there, as were several of the people who were with her when her life support was withdrawn. That was the 11th February 1996. My grandmother was in the same hospital dying of cancer, so I was moving between floors that night, though it felt more akin to moving between worlds. My grandmother died the next day on the 12th February. It was a difficult week. Two deaths, one day of reprieve, then two funerals.

Now getting back to Simon et Garfunkel, what struck me was how repressed the audience was. People were just sitting, barely tapping their feet. We were on our feet, yelling and woohoo-ing; we were applauding with arms high over our heads. Dad was totally enarmoured and would stand and clap and wave and shout 'MORE'!

Then there was the sit dancing. Sit dancing is an art I like to believe I pioneered - though I'm fairly certain I did not - but hey, I took it and owned it well before I was on the transplant list. There were just some nights where I was too sick to get on the dance floor with my friends and get on down for a boogie, so my friends would find a chair/stool/tabletop for me to sit on and they would dance around me – kind of like my own little harem which brings me to how I will never understand how people can stay still when a there's a killer tune playing. We talked about the repressive nature of the Brisbane audience in the ensuing autopsy of the night of wonder. It’s not the first time I’ve seen people sitting in their seats like mannequins at a concert. There is little wonder why Rod Stewart got the shits with Brisbane when he last toured. As hard as he tried to work the room, people just weren’t responding. Thank gumdrops Wednesday night concert goers did , though there were still quite a few uptight twats who just couldn't cut loose ...

And so the boy and I talked about music and how it can run like a freight train through your heart. He gets it. He gets me. Nothing is too much trouble. He isn’t going to freak out and cower in a corner like a child if or when I get sick.

Slow burns are better than a flash fire, just like a tide is far friendlier than a flood.

I can’t wait to take him to see The Wilson Pickers and The Gin Club. I want to share with him what he’s shared with me. So as I sit here with a cup of tea, listening to some vintage Santana, I look to the cratefuls of vinyl and one of his surfboards, almost pinching myself with the last couple of days and indeed, about what I have here right now.

about a boy

People say they have met someone and while this is partly true, I haven't just met someone - I have found someone. To the unassuming eye or astute ear they seem to be closely bound, but I find the two quite removed from each other. I've surrendered myself to the love and care he is bestowing on me and it's as if I'm on this long, slow slide into love. Not a descent - more of a melt.

He recites Keats and Orwell. He surfs, reads David Sedaris, makes me dinner and won't let me help him clean up. Instead, he makes me cups of tea and tells me to relax.

He touches me with meaningful hands and gestures of kindness. He is wise and has an enduring love for soul music. He makes me laugh. We make each other laugh. His hair is soft as lanugo and he has a vinyl collection that is not to be sneezed at. He is a man - a real one.

First Edition copy of 'Ariel'

So I finally picked up my parcel today - a first edition copy of Sylvia Plath's 'Ariel'. Despite it not having the original dust jacket, it's in even finer condition than I initially thought and is therefore already worth at least ten times what I paid for it. A first edition with a dust jacket is currently listed at US$4,000 with James S. Jaffe Rare Books - not that I care about its monetary value. I'm a small time book collector, so the fact that the book is devoid of graffiti (aka pen and/or pencil marks), is an absolute joy.



Embarrassing closeup ...



With my copy of Andersen's Fairy Tales, published in 1891



Contents page




'Daddy'

perfect and brave

A decade seems a long time, doesn't it? Try telling a family who have lost their child such a thing.

Today is all about Meagan Walker.

This day ten years ago one of the most beautiful people to grace the earth lost her fight with Cystic Fibrosis. There are only a couple of people I can say are truly perfect and beautiful. Meagan is one, while another is a friend who also died from C.F in 1988. In fact, Meagan and Ineka share many of the same traits - both tiny in stature, but giants of courage, beauty and spirit. They are the brave ones.

Meag's died about ten months after my transplant. The guilt was tremendous, simply because I had survived and she had not. Meagan grew up on the land in Barcaldine and we had both always wanted to spend some time out there together. I had heard of this 'Barcy' place, but it was only after Meag's death that I was able to get out to Cumberland - the cattle station where she had been raised with her two sisters. Like most people from the city, I had never been to the outback and while I wasn't - and never have been - hit with culture shock, everything changes when you leave the city. The silence really is deafening, as hackneyed as that sounds and I soon discovered (and have to remind myself every time I head out to Barcy), that it takes a week to settle into the moods and layers of the land.

Meagan's family welcomed me into their home and into their lives. I was introduced to the terrain and so began my love affair with the outback. I rode a horse for the first time and rode on horseback for the annual Meagan Walker Mini-Marathon which Meagan's Aunt Midge created to both raise money for C.F and to celebrate her life. I sure as hell wasn't going to walk for eleven kilometres and despite being unable to move the next day because I was on a horse for two hours and only for the second time, every trot and every stinking turd Sally the horse dumped on the road to Longway (Aunt Midge's place), it was all worth it.

I galloped through the gates of Longway like I was chasing down the dawn, knowing Meag's was looking after me as my tits nearly popped out of my singlet. I can imagine her giggling with her hand over her mouth saying, 'oh my god, Carly!' which is exactly what her Mum said. I'm not sure whether it was the threat of flying breasts or that it looked liked I had a death wish. I was flying, and not just because I hammered my feet into Sally's flanks. I felt I was setting my grief free with every single beat of a hoof that stomped the rust coloured dirt. I sent my regret over choosing to not see Meagan the day before she passed away out into the void where it belonged. I was no longer tied to it, yet I felt closer to Meagan.

When I am at Meagan's resting place which is where she grew up, I go on a writing bender. I've written some of my best work out there. For the final unit in my undergraduate degree, I was the only (idiotic) person who decided to write five thousand words of poetry. So I did. The poetry peeled away the layers of grief and cleansed me of the stink of the city. The poems covered all manner of terrain - pastoral themes; loss, hope, gardening, roo shooting, regret, trees, children, grief, string bikini's and Fleetwood Mac. Some of these poems have been published, as well as some of the non-fiction (which I will endeavour to post) I have written over the years while 'stationed' at Cumberland. There is one particular piece that I've not been able to locate despite it being published in book form. An old floppy disk will hold the key. Today has been hard to swallow. It is all hard to swallow. Meagan will never be far from me or my thoughts.

100th Post!

Welcome to my 100th post on The Lone Cypress! Much thanks to all of you readers for your support over the last year. I hope to double the amount of posts from now until next year, but for the time being, here is a lovely Monday 100th post surprise ...

Here is the link to the Stylus Poetry Journal where one of my poems was chosen for their first of four annual issues - http://www.styluspoetryjournal.com/main/master.asp?id=915 (yes, I know - you have to copy and paste it again).

I subbed the piece in December but never received any notification of their intention to publish it, so surprise, surprise when I had a look at the latest issue and found my work there. I am in fine company, with other poets such as David Prater, John Kinsella, Jaya Savige, Mandy Beaumont, Sarah Holland-Batt, B.R Dionysius and MTC Cronin having been included in past issues. How delightful.

Again, thank you for reading, commenting and word of mouth-ing. One very special mention must go to Krissy Kneen and Christopher Currie for their friendship, guidance and inspiration.

My Baby's Milestone

60,000 kilometres. That's right. On the weekend, Ms. Jay (my Jeep Wrangler - oh, how I love a wrangle), cracked 60,000 clicks, so naturally, I prepared a little photo documentary of the build up, the money shot and the aftermath. Here we go ...

At 59,990km - such a sexy number ...



59,995km - ooh, getting closer!



59,999km - I'm seriously about to pee my pants right now.



BOOYAH!!!!!



And this all happened in Derby Street, Coorparoo. Appropriate street to crack 60,000km, wouldn't you agree?

forgiveness through blinking

I like to watch men blink.

It is soft and beautiful and makes everything better. Watching men blink is a return to all that is good and pure and true. It is like coming home – a return of sorts where they are little boys again. This saddens me and I have to look away, then it makes me feel happy; hopeful.

Sometimes it makes me feel dirty, for I question what lies behind those eyes.

I watch my father blink. He has lashes like a fringe and the eyes of a bloodhound. He is beautiful. Sometimes when I watch him blink, I cry.

I wait. I am a patient; a human being who waits. When I am waiting and my belly groans in the ascent to anger, I look for the nearest man so I can watch him blink.

Some people go to their happy place, which might be a garden or a memory of a lover, but if I have men, all I need to do is watch them blink. Like butterfly wings, watching the fast fall and rise of eyelids soothes me.

Some men don't blink as much as they should and I imagine their eyes drying like the labia of an old woman, so I seek another who blinks with a regular rhythm, for when a man blinks, everything seems to be forgivable. Where there was a mess, it is scoured away and all that is left is a man blinking. And it is beautiful.

Stuff you do when you get new lungs

A few things I did shortly after transplant ...

- Re-learnt how to play the Cello
- Re-learnt how to tap dance
- Tried Tai Chi, got bored, so did boxing instead
- Went to my first Transplant Thanksgiving Service where I cried rivers
- Spent thousands of dollars on books I am still reading
- Talked to my Grandmother about sex, sex and more sex
- Found the perfect green peacoat
- Danced like a motherfucker at a Toothfaeries concert (and various other gigs)
- Went on a double date with my sister
- Found a lump in my breast
- Wrote 100,000 words of my first (and unfinished) novel
- Did a North African cooking class while in acute narcotic withdrawal
- Began writing to a prisoner in the United States
- Wrote a letter to my donor family
- Saw Raphael Wallfisch play Bach at St. Stephen's Cathedral (July 16, 1999)
- Went to The Red Garter and was shouted a lap dance (it was awesome, or rather she was awesome)