Remembering

Wild winds have a way of tugging on the memories of my adolescence. It's a gravity of sorts, then comes the traction serving as a perpetual reminder of things done and said, things you wish you could undo and the deafening silence of words not spoken. I did most of my growing up in the RH (river house), so fortunate enough to spend my time water ski-ing, swimming and writing. I remember when I would sit almost level with the waterline. I'd lay on my belly at high tide and meditate so that I felt like I was laying on a bed of mud coloured water. I have such affection for both the river and the RH. There was high school, my first love, sex, rum, university, the business of life and death and everything in between.

These squally winter outbursts create a warmth in my belly and I've had the challenge shoved in my face to find somewhere that makes me feel as settled as the RH did. Re-possessing thoughts of the past, the cogs in my head begin to tick over and I can go to a place where everything really was okay. At the place before the RH, I remember when afternoons of gusts would shake the leaves off the two mango trees that shaded part of the house. They littered the pool and I'd pluck them out, one by one; making sure they were free from spiders that had spun their webs, all sticky like moths with wet wings. From my room at the RH, eucalypts speared into the sky for what looked like hundreds of feet and I could see across to Indooroopilly Island where a colony of bats quite literally hung out during the day, waiting until dusk so they could fly. Even in winter when the sea had swallowed the sun, the night sky surrendered to flapping wings. A different story for earth - bats shit, and they shit big time. Trivia ... bat shit is highly acidic. You could (and still can) see them piercing the sky. They can also be heard beating their leathery wings, ‘whoosh, whoosh, whoosh’.

The bougainvilleas across the river, untamed with their rambling pink and purple flowers, so fat full of colour, sprawled so far and oh, so high. I could see them from every room in the house, and I had a bird’s eye view from where I sat at my desk, which is where I wrote. Coincidentally, I still write at a desk.

The eyes are a marvellous tool for understanding, not just for observing and ‘seeing’. It would happen fast and I don’t know if anyone in my family remembers this one BBT (big brown tree) which could have looked out of place if it wasn't such a striking contrast of verdant green. A black splotch on a blank canvas is one lame analogy (it's late). The BBT was suffering from the black sheep syndrome – it’s there, but it’s as though it’s spoiling an otherwise perfect image. I fell in love with that particular black sheep. My soul ached when the leaves turned brown and gold, because I knew that everything would be okay.

Where I live now, there are a couple of things and places that give me peace. Armed with the knowledge that everything will work out and whatever is meant to be, is meant to be, is serving me well. I’ll not be revealing where these places are because they’re an intimate part of my being, and it is a part of me I don’t want tarnished through memories and people who have a blackness in their heart.

This week I am feeling lucky. Even though the cancer has manifested itself elsewhere (not my yin-yang), the marvel of modern medicine is on my side, as are my family and friends and my drive to write. What else can I say, except that I really am so fucking blessed?

A few weeks ago I travelled to Barcaldine on the ‘Spirit of the Outback’. It was seriously one of the *coolest* things I’ve ever done. Despite having to cut my stay short because I found another clot in my sub-clavian and axillary (neck and arm), I’m planning on going back out in September with Mum so we can participate in the ‘Meagan Walker Mini-Marathon’ (Fuck walking, I'll be getting myself a horse) in memory of my beautiful friend Meag’s who passed away from C.F about nine months after I received my transplant. Survivor’s guilt ... now that’s another story.

My Mumma has never been to 'Cumberland' which is the cattle stud Meag’s family has. It’s one of my favourite places in the world. Meag’s is there so I never feel alone. She may no longer be with us bodily, but she never left this earth because her presence hangs thickly in the air and she is there on the faces of her family.

'Rest little one, rest'

Adventures and ventures

Ahhh, the month of July. I have excellent news - I am no longer taking the rat poison that is Warfarin :) I began bleeding, and as gross as it sounds, I was losing cupfuls of blood and it was sucking the life out of me. It was surprising I didn't need a blood transfusion because I seriously thought I was dying. Seriously. The smaller things in life are often the most marvellous. No more needles three times a week; I'm not bruising like I was and I feel a little more than sub-human again. Well, I actually feel incredible and very human. Much has happened in the last few weeks. I have been asked to write a book for a family who were in a horrendous car crash (99.9% of the time it's a crash, not an accident). Their 22 month old son was killed, his older brother is a paraplegic, and their mother suffered horrific injuries that would churn the gut of any nurse, paramedic or cop, and they come from the Police family.

I feel incredibly honoured that they have entrusted me with writing about the crash, the implications, the ripple effect. So far, it has been an uplifting experience, because the last thing we want is the story to reek of negativity. I have to say that this will be the most noble 'thing' I will ever do. And it's progressing beautifully - moving at a rate of knots in fact and from the beginning, before I took the book on, I found myself already consumed by the sheer magnitude of the project and the beauty of redemption.

I'm boarding the 'Spirit of the Outback' out to Barcaldine on Saturday. One of my very close C.F friends Meagan, who died about six months after my transplant, I go to see her beautiful family who have a cattle station in Barcy. Meag's had always wanted me to go out, as did I, but either she was sick and in hospital having intensive treatment, or I was. Her resting place is under a striking weeping willow; her ashes in a granite boulder. I did my first trip to Barcy about 18 months after Meag's passed away. I feel such peace when I am out at Cumberland, with Meag's folks and her two sisters. I've been out nearly every year since, although last year and 2006 had, unfortunately, not been kind to me health wise. Now? I feel refreshed, excited and happy. The Walker's have a pet sheep called Mare, who loves being fed rice crackers and bleats when I or anyone else make a show of hands to symbolise that we're out of crackers. It's her favourite snack food :) And then there is the beef - Santa Gertrudis, baby! Here is a photograph of Meag's at her 21st birthday ...



I'm hanging to go horse riding, whether it's mustering or just giving it a good run around the property. This place that I am so fortunate to visit exudes calm and peace. Meagan's family are truly amazing. They have lost their daughter, but they are never short of a laugh - such beautiful souls, just like Meag's. It's not entirely strange, but I can feel Meagan there, both in the house and in their *amazing* garden. Who would have thought that such a magnificent garden with it's rambling rose garden and arbours could survive in one of Queensland's hottest cores? The Walker family are both humble and proud; it is simply not in their nature to back down or quit. Their lives go on, and I say that with affection because it could come off as sounding cold. But lives do go on.

So with my new HP mini-note (it's the size of a clutch bag), I will board that train on Saturday where I will read, write and maybe get a little drunk in the dining car. The silence at the homestead is like a little aural haven - that is until I get out the shotty and go stalking kangaroos. This time I'll be wearing more than a string bikini and RM's. Maybe.

I'm looking forward to writing out there - my writing seems to be pushed (or pulled) in so many directions, in that the narrative and tone twists and turns into unexpected veins. It's sensitive territory, writing about the dead. It's inextricably personal; sacred and intimate. That's enough introspection for one night. I am uber-excited about picking up my new tech tomorrow - thanks Dan!!!!