song of longing (haibun)

across a wide land
the snaking path of the river
rainbow light

rocky outcrop
the body of an ancestor spirit
casts shade

First of all apologies. Apologies to every aboriginal person whose eyes I have avoided because I could not bear your pain, I could not bear what my people have done, are still doing, to your people. I am sorry. Even when I was a child I knew the great wells of sadness in your eyes and how they can change in an instant to humour, the depth of love there, the depth of grief. And I am sorry.

I grew up on Country. I don’t know whose Country, just that I loved it. It fed my body and my bones grew.

alone
in miles of bush
the dark haired child

pathless path
spinifex stings
on thin legs

Interesting that, though I knew nothing of aboriginal culture at the time, I knew there were places I should not go and places that welcomed my small female body with mother’s arms.

Dad showed me bora rings once. They were circles and paths edged with white stones amid the thin shade of lanky bush trees. We stood amongst them, where once ceremonies were performed, feet danced the earth, songs and clapsticks filled the air.

shimmering heat
just the whine of flies
amid stones

The whole area was dotted with stones. One could miss the bora rings. Dad said he and my brothers had ridden past for years not seeing. Perhaps the spirit of the land had accepted them enough to open their eyes.

The aboriginal people say the Dreamtime (creation) is not only some distant past, it is also now. Creation is still happening. It is why they must dance the totems of the animals, plants, birds, and earth. They must sing the paths of ancestor beings.

dust puffs
from black feet
rhythm sticks

Apparently the songlines cross the country. If one knows the song, one would never get lost on that unmapped path even though they extend thousands of kilometres across land never seen. And they must be sung.

I hope there is a songline from where I live now in South Australia to the North Queensland country of my youth because my heart sings the songs of both places and sometimes my eyes are sad for the other.

rolling hills and farmlands
my heart in the rocky places
of my youth

Carpe Diem #473, Creation 

The Royal Flying Doctor Service

A crackle of static from the transceiver and, somehow, old Vern at the base station always knew whose crackle it was, would transmit a telegram or receive one, reading it back to make sure he had it right, sometimes quite private stuff.

monsoon rain
falling straight down
mating cane toads

family card games
at the round table
100% humidity

Eight in the mornings was the weather. People would call in with their rainfall and we would know what to expect at our end of the river.

Once a day I sat at the desk and pushed the little button for School of the Air: a chaos of static and small voices, as eager as puppies, a teacher miles away asking and answering questions, speaking to one child at a time because if two people spoke at once all you heard was garble.

bare feet swing
under a vinyl chair
distance education

Some times emergencies would interrupt School of the Air. Conversations with the Flying Doctor that, of course, everyone would listen to. If needed, an ambulance plane would land on your local road or your bush airstrip if it was safe.

a dust trail
the aircraft
dips its wings

Jimmy Jackson went that way. We heard his mother explain,
‘Timmy’s cut Jimmy’s finger orf.’
With an axe apparently. THe doctor told her to wash the finger in milk, if it was dirty, 
and to put it back on Jimmy’s hand.
‘Will powdered milk do?’ she asked.
I don’t know what happened to Timmy, but Jimmy lost his finger.

And when I was grown and far away, I sent this: BABY GIRL HANA BORN MIDDAY SIX THREE STOP ALL WELL STOP my message across all those lonely miles, travelling on air, down the receiver aerial and out of a transceiver with its little glowing lights.
‘Received that Vern, over,’ said my mother.

red dust dusk
a country woman waits
to share good news

.

Afterword: This is from my childhood in outback North Queensland.

http://royalflyingdoctorservice.wordpress.com here is the RFDS’s blog. This one further west than we were, but you’ll get the idea. Ours was based in Charters Towers. They run a fantastic service.

Milk of Pig Kindness

When my daughter was a teenager, she came home from school one day and said to Ervin, ‘Where’s Mum?’ and Ervin said, ‘I swapped her for a piggy.’ and Hana said, ‘Where’s the piggy?’ So they referred to me as The Piggy for a while. I didn’t mind; I love pigs.

We kept them when I was a child. My brothers would catch the slowest piglets from a wild brood. One or two at a time. My first pig was called James Cook Memorial Pig (James for short) because it was the bicentennial of Cook’s landing in Australia that year and I was learning all about it in social studies. (Well, all about the white side of it.)

Inky and Pinky. These were never quiet. Perhaps because they had each other they stayed wild. Then they escaped and were never seen again.

Did you know that pig is the closest to human milk? If you’re going to give your baby another animal’s milk, it would be best to use pig!

My sister Sal and Inky.

Here, the local council insists that we can’t keep pigs, except on concrete floors attached to a septic system, because we are in the city’s water catchment, and because pigs are genetically so close to humans that we share the same diseases. Meanwhile apples rot on the earth of orchards and the farmers spray the trees with chemicals because codling moth over-winters in windfalls. Pigs and apples go together. Poisons and people don’t.

Nonetheless, despite the council, a couple of years ago a pig appeared at our place.

We called her Alice, as in wonderland. She ploughed up the dirt all around the house with her nose. The council said it wasn’t their problem, that they only collect stray dogs, not stray pigs. The RSPCA said that they only deal with animals in distress. The police said they could only act if she was on the road.
I said, ‘But we live on a blind corner. Someone’ll run into her. Have you ever hit a pig? My dad hit a pig; it’s like hitting a rock.’
‘Look, there’s nothing we can do.’
So Alice stayed, for a week, and then one morning she wasn’t there. She probably went home and became the ‘pig on spit saturday’ advertised at the local pub.

Pigs are very nice people. They smile and nudge your leg for scratches. They leave round muddy nose prints on your bare legs as a gesture of affection. Given room they create their own toilet patch. Perhaps it would be best not to fall down amongst feral pigs if they were hungry, but they haven’t created any wars and, if they know you, they love you. Easily as intelligent as a dog and nicer really, because they don’t need a pack.

And then you eat them. I ate James and several other friends. It’s the simple reality of life. Life eats life.  Life eats death. Even a lettuce loves its life; all it wants is to produce seed. Right now my body hosts several kilos of life forms that are not what I call me. When I kark it we will all add to the great mass of life with the nutrients that are our bodies. Piggy will go back to earth. From whence we came.