The man was going to a Turkish barber in a nondescript northern German town. He had heard that in this establishment, he could get all of his hair needs met, right down to his nasal hair, and cheap at that. Not that he particularly wanted his nasal hair messed with. As he was about to enter the place he, literally, ran into an expensively dressed young woman who was so intensely staring at her mobile phone that she paid scant attention to either him, or the uneven footpath, partly covered in dirty, icy snow. The action of the physical meeting of the two bodies caused the aforementioned phone to fly out of her hand and into a pile of less dirty, but no less icy snow, now on the side of the footpath. Unfortunately, both parties dived for the phone at the same time; the young man out of an apologetic attempt at recovering the situation, and the young woman in an attempt to quickly regain her most important possession, and this resulted in their crashing heads and her falling awkwardly to the ground. In this she was aided by the overly high, spindly heels of her rather white boots.

Every day she tried to talk herself out of wearing these boots, and into something more practical. But as a result of the most uncomfortable and embarrassing situation she currently found herself in, she felt that something more than her head had been knocked. She sat there for a while, no longer trying to reach for her phone, and looked at her shoes- those white boots she was wearing. One day, actually, today, this had to stop. Gingerly she reached down and slowly unzipped each boot. Whilst the young man fussed around, talking rapidly and generally trying to help, she slowly pulled off the boots, and let her feet out into the cold. She slowly wriggled her toes. The young man’s frantic attempts to talk to her made little effect, as they didn’t have his language in common. Still dazed, and in English, she looked up and asked him if he knew where in this town she could find a sensible pair of shoes. And thus, the man never discovered the potential joys of a Turkish barber.

Once upon a time, she thought she understood the ground was solid. That life had an arc, a flow that could be relied upon. Like the rising of the sun and the afternoon sea breeze that moved her mother’s sheets on the line. The air contained the sweet smell of the honeysuckle that grew on the fence along the shipyard. Would it forever hold her in this place, in this moment? A sense of sadness. A feeling of being alone. Of being left. The smell of his aftershave was leaving her, she felt around the back of her neck where his hand had been as he drew her towards the ship porthole to kiss her. He said he would write as soon as he got to Fremantle. She knew everyday, as she walked to the post office to see if there were mail, she would be here again – alone watching the ship move out beyond the headland. She would feel this mixture of loss and anticipation. Fremantle. Fremantle. It was an unknown word, in another language, it was a place she could not know. It was time to be getting back home. There was the normal life of the house to continue. Her mother, her father, the family business. The bigness and smallness of her life – the only arc she had known.

Days alone, amongst the normalness of her life, turned to weeks. Each day she carried the hollow of loss and anticipation somewhere in her chest. He would write. He would write soon. One day, when walking along the cliffs, she thought she saw him, his shoulders, walking along the road into town. She called his name and in her mind she started to run. He Turned. She wasn’t running but standing, fixed, not breathing, her hand in the air. He smiled, but it was not his face, his smile. Embarrassed she dropped her hand and turned. Because of that moment, the next day she couldn’t bring herself to walk the familiar path of her childhood to a town, which was all she knew – her life had gotten smaller.

She’d taken the sheets out of the copper and was adjusting the posts that held the line up. Nick, the young constable from town, appeared at the fence. He looked down at the ground and asked would she come into town. There had been news. But he didn’t really know much about it. If she could just come with him, everything would be explained at the station.

The ground, her new ground, was gone now. Because of that news she would be in black now. She would not know Fremantle. Her hands would grow old here and finally she would be buried on this island, like her mother would be buried here and all the mothers before. Men left the island. They were poor, but a window on the world opened sometimes, just a slither, and it allowed a man to squeeze through if he was game. Sometimes the world just swallowed them whole. Sometimes they found new land, a new place to bring others too. But this would not be her story now.

What does the phrase Fully Sick bring to mind for you? Is it the frightening call of 90’s youths, or some bozo in a KFC ad trying to be cool? Is it outdated? Offensive? Did it make you feel something? I hope so.

Fully Sick is the name of the podcast I’m developing at the moment. I’m a community radio nerd of ten years experience both in broadcasting and pain disorder. You may refer to it as feeling like crap every day or chronic pain. This is not a sad story, but bear with me while I approach my point. Imagine feeling jetlagged every day and then stacking it on your pushbike and rattling your bones. That’s sort of how I feel most days. A few years ago I saw Stella Young’s show at the comedy festival and since then I proudly call myself a crip. Rolls off the tongue far more nicely than the long, boring scientific explanation of what’s going on.

Last winter I had interactions with two separate young women in similar rowboats who asked the pertinent question ‘how the fuck do I get through this day let alone this bullshit winter?’ One woman and I sorted out the woes of the world on a Facebook chat thread, the other I went to visit. We sat in her lounge room with the heater on and gabbed away the afternoon. We both have The Chronic Pains, we’re both pretty young, we’re both in creative fields and have a lot to make and give and bucketloads of kisses (etc.) to dispense. Fuck me if we both didn’t feel like a million bucks after talking to someone who gets it. It was a million miles away from whinging and whining. It was a fizzy, upbeat conversation, ripe with common ground, handy hints, lightning flashes of “I never knew anyone else would understand this weird thought/way I do things/system for living”. I drove away wishing I could bottle that feeling, and badda bing badda boom the podcast was born.

Late last year I started recording. I’ve got footage of conversations with people with skin disorders, mental health issues, painful vaginas, blood clots in the brain, feeling sick and tired all the time for no good reason and autoimmune diseases. I’ve been covered with goosebumps listening to these people as they hit that nail on the head of humanity. I don’t care who you are – we’ve all got something going on that other people don’t see. So what’s the answer? How do we keep going when the wind is blowing us sideways and there’s no way forward?

The one thing everyone ends up saying is that until they learned to give themselves permission to do what really helped, life was miserable.

Let that sink in for a moment. What could you be doing right now, that will help you to feel good? Or human, or healthy, or alive? Why won’t you give yourself permission?

You’re worth it, I don’t even know you but I do know that to be true. Except for you there, puppy murderer. Stop that this instant. You are not tough OR cool.

A lot of people reading this will need to write regularly to feel human. Are you doing that? You may need to hydrate more regularly. Or get into baking to express your creativity. Adopt a dog to have that level of companionship. Do some volunteer work to connect with your fellow whoa-man. Change your career if you’re miserable in your job. Eat more than two meals a day if you’re time-poor and lazy about your own catering situation. Get off the ciggies or the booze if they’re ageing you prematurely and you can feel it in your organs.

The people I’m talking to for Fully Sick have found that giving themselves permission to do things like: Take a hot water bottle to work and use it. Take ten seconds to breathe when feeling the stress rise. Work from home, in bed, in their jimmy jams. Work for an hour then rest for an hour; these choices make the biggest difference in the world. The difference between feeling alive or pushing it and feeling mostly dead and far away down a tunnel of illness. The world/society/Tony Abbott/whoever project this belief that to be young is to be healthy is to be a machine. It can feel embarrassing to need tiny things like this to keep going, so we ignore those needs and get sicker and sicker.

Crips like me can do a hell of a lot and have a lot to offer, as long as we understand what we need to pump it out. We’re not weak and damaged, we’re stronger than you could ever imagine.

Watch this space. Fully Sick will be out there as a podcast sooner rather than later now I’ve had a big kick up the bum from Dev at the Gunnas class!

http://www.joyfulceremonies.com.au

http://jennyojoy.tumblr.com/

jennyojoy@gmail.com

I never did the party thing – here in Melbourne or overseas.

I married at age 19. It was 1991 and it wasn’t exactly common though it wasn’t as uncommon as it is today. My eldest daughter is 18. Deep in my solar plexus I grow heavy if I think of her marrying. Only recently have I ever pondered my mother’s thoughts on my wedding at that age. My daughter is in a place where I have been. I can remember being there. I didn’t doubt myself then – now I’m not so sure. I know less at 44 than I did at 18. I don’t say this as a judgement on her or myself. The things that I thought I knew just no longer seem so concrete. That’s the way it’s been for maybe ten years or so.

I had returned from my first ever solo travel journey at age 33 and I realised that I had returned to a place where I no longer wanted to be. It was really tricky to know that although you still felt love for your nearest and dearest (well my children at least) , it no longer felt like home. I no longer knew where I belonged. It was the first time that I was searching for my home. There was a song popular on the radio with a line “a place like home”. I no longer knew where that was. It took me many many years to make my own “place like home”.

I couldn’t even take any solace in my parental home. They didn’t approve of my actions. He hadn’t physically abused me. He had financially provided for us. My spiritual and emotional growth wasn’t accounted for but that did not feature a tot. I no longer felt welcome in the home of my parents. There was no solace to be found anywhere with friends or family. That was new for me. I never felt so alienated.

So now I’m turning 44 and I no longer feel up to or have a desire to do the party thing – here or overseas. Don’t get me wrong – I like a drink or three as much or more as the next person.

In the recent past, I realised that I was living in the wrong place; somehow it just happened. One thing lead to another and there you go – I was living in a place to which I didn’t belong. Please don’t misinterpret me. I loved my house. I had friends in the local area. There were some great shops, cafes and public transport within walking distance. It’s visually pleasing, mostly quiet and I mostly had good neighbours.  It’s just that I didn’t belong there.

I didn’t feel like they were my people. I often found myself at odds when discussing ideas or issues. The main thrust of my artwork usually was greeted with raised eyebrows and an open mouth. Worse – I found myself censoring what I showed and (here’s the real kicker) even what I created.

It wasn’t where I wanted to be – literally.

So I moved. I upped and cut ties. Left my place of paid employment, changed Pilates class, found a new GP. More than that was I changed how I lived

Now I walk most every day. I listen to podcasts. I create more art and I’m much more experimental with ideas. I go new places. I walk sometimes with purpose and sometimes aimlessly. I drink coffee in cafes I’ve never before stepped inside. I look new people in the eye and have new conversations.

I don’t yet know if I belong here though.

https://www.facebook.com/amanda.kennedy.526438/

http://artbyamandakennedy.blogspot.com.au/

Once upon a time there lived a calico cat named Patches who believed inside her skin that she was not a cat at all but a human just like the members of the family that she watched everyday through the window as she sat on the window ledge.

Patches was never allowed inside in case she dropped fur all over the human’s clothes or scratched the furniture. She felt very alone and separate from everybody.

Everyday Patches would dream about how it would be if she were one of them. “If only” she would say over and over again and lick her lips at the thought of sitting down to afternoon tea with those pretty cakes and the steaming liquid she saw them put into those pretty cups. She would tell herself that to make certain that you put in extra milk when she was pouring tea.

As she watched all that the family did together, singing along beside the piano, playing hide and go seek, throwing the ball, dressing up to go out, she longed more and more for that human that she was to get out from the cat body. She so wanted to belong and have fun too.

If only she would repeat over and over, if only they could see me as I really am.

One day when she saw the family go out leaving her all alone, she did something she had never done before…. she sneaked through an open window and got inside. Now she pretended that she was indeed human so she first decided to try and sit like they did. She sidled up to the chair hopped up as graciously as she could and tried ever so hard to sit like she had seen the family sit many times before.

She was so pleased with herself that it was so easy! Then she imagined that she was at her first tea party with all those pretty little cakes and that milky drink in those pretty little cups. Oh how good they tasted in her mind.

Then she felt she needed to be dressed up just like the family did for special occasions so she hopped off the chair made her way to the little girl’s bedroom and by good luck the wardrobe door was opened and she looked at all the dresses inside and fell in love with the long white dress. First I have to walk like a human she thought and so she stretched herself all the way up using the chair at first and when she was stretched as far up as she could go she took her first step and then another pretty soon she was walking on her two back legs like a human.

Next she tried on the long white dress and looked in the mirror, she was so proud to see not the old calico dress that she had always worn but this soft white linen and lace dress and looked just like the humans.

And because of that wish that had allowed her to find the courage to follow her heart she felt now brave enough to go walking. However as sh looked outside it was raining and the one thing Patches disliked most of all was being outside and getting wet.

She really disliked the water on her feet and back but most of all her fur could stink when it was wet. What to do she thought as now she didn’t want to get the lovely white dress wet either and yet…she longed to go walking in her new body.

Finally she turned around and spotted a tall vase near the front door that has a rainbow coloured umbrella in it. “Yes” she cried” that is exactly what I need, that’s how they do it”

As she stepped outside clutching the umbrella proudly step by step she disengaged with her cat body and cat thinking and walked towards her family knowing she was now one of them and would not be kept outside again

It was a bad night to be driving. Pot holes gape in the road, speed limits are never observed. The road asks for hot Holdens to wheel spin and drop black rubber as evidence of last night’s hoon attacks. Somebody once said this part of the world is where murderers would dump bodies. Everything is dumped here. There is a small greasy toy teddy bear holding onto the fence with its little sad paws halfway along the road. It was raining that night, the light was split into shafts of black and blinding white. Rainspots on the window, fork lightning cracking somewhere up in the hills.
Mates. there were always mates. Johnny had lots of mates. Mates for drinking, mates for drugging, mates for watching your back, mates for lining you up with women.
On this night it was the mates he went cruising with. They were all soldiers, good boys, they all loved their mothers. Just sometimes they did bad things.
It was the road. That fucking dirty, pot holed road in the middle of nowhere. The source for their inspiration.

I found a pair of shorts, a green t shirt a cigarette box and a beer can. All in a pile, like some poor soul has sat here, smoked, drank and taken off their clothes and left them here. Thistles grow around everywhere, the only bit of colour. Purple, the colour of hope and for God’s sake they need a truckload of it out here.

So Johnny what happened? Were you pushed or did you jump? Did that train slam you against those blue stones covered with bird shit and second rate graffiti. Or did you jump? You know if you jumped you couldn’t have killed yourself,it’s not high enough but who gives a fuck when it comes to suicide, just so long as you finish the job. And so here am I looking at you and your soldier boy uniform and thinking about you. You know what Johnny boy? I feel so sorry for you and your cross. And your dirty brass name plate. Sitting here amongst  the crumpled cigarette packets and cheap whiskey cans. And rotten weeds.  But you know there was someone who remembered you. Amongst all this shit.  They’ve made you a cross and planted a cypress tree.
All bets were off. Whoever could bottom out the car under the bridge and get around that impossible corner won. Sam and Jake all got through.
Johnny was last. He missed the corner. The bridge took him out.
He sleeps here now, amongst the dirt and rubbish with the stumpy cypress tree sitting beside him. Johnny boy, lest we forget.

Once upon a time, Fred was an earth loving, dreadlocked hippie.

He wore jeans with tears and frays, jandals and T shirts worn back to front.

For breakfast he took eight weetbix, smothered them with condensed milk and spoonfuls of tinned Ardmona sliced peaches. The milk curdled with the peach syrup and this reaction he particularly liked.

Everyday, he’d sit on his piece of sawn off salmon gum, and clean his bowl while he thought tree wizard thoughts, ever hopeful that he’d have a gumnut moment. He was desperate for a project.

One day, three weetbix in, with the sea glinting diamond sparkles, he was doing his sitting thing at which he was very expert. Just sitting, looking up to the pale moon in the new day before it turned it’s man face away, letting random thoughts pass from his right brain to his left brain.

Because of that, he’d sit and sit some more, leaves sometimes swirling downwards. He liked how they twisted and turned in perfect synchronisation. He needed this project brainchill to hit him fast.

His store of tinned peaches was getting low, his jeans hanging together by threads, His jandals were rubber thin and he was becoming a bore to himself.

Being a hippie was tiring and he’d meditated out his heart and head.

His Krishna Das song list was overdone and he needed a big hit of doof doof music to bump up the beat of his roughly sketched lyrics to songlines he wrote down – when he could be bothered.

And because of that, he was woken from his interminable monotony of being by a piercing stab of pain on his left ankle. He was alarmed!

He looked around him, a big black ant wondered off into the sands of time. No worries, he’d live.

He looked at the trees in which he’d built his tree house and noticed the long flexing tree roots which were hanging in the air. He thought back to his Grade four and five years, when he kinda could focus on school and find excitement in the routine.

The days when he’d tumble on to the red gym mat in PE class with the student PE teacher who was really into kids doing their thing and who didn’t get hung up on the what if’s and the fear of breaking bones.

He’d flip somersaults and flip handstands one after the other and scurry up ropes and turn himself upside down when he was half way up to the ceiling.

The other kids loved it and would give him high fives and feed his daring to be different.

He was happy and having a blast. The student teacher left and PE became a boring set of catching and throwing the ball and running around the footy pitch. He lost interest in school then and took himself into his imagination.

He dreamed of rocket ships and astral travel. He wrote a few poems and songs he might sing when he was a rock n roll singer when he grew up. He was drifting further away from the mainstream.

Fred was a pretty practical hippie. He could tie knots, build tree huts and had a great way with people. He hadn’t met the mermaid to match his merman passions – yet.

Until finally, Fred saw those hanging tree roots, and suddenly the gumnut moment came to him.

He emptied the Weetbix box, tore it inside out and grabbed the pencil from the empty wooden wine box bookshelf.

He drew pictures of how he could make the tree roots into aerial trapezes and the amazing sculpted outfit he’d design to catch the punters’ attention as he flipped in the air and climbed the tree ropes.

He’d call his mate from school who he’d heard was making outlandish costumes for burlesque performers hitting the straps across the American theatre landscapes. In Melbourne, his mate was providing new scripts to Melbourne ladies in need of something shocking to talk about around the bridge tables.

He liked how he was thinking. Tree wizardry was taking on whole new meanings.

Enthused, and knowing neither fear, nor boundaries, he jumped up and down on the spot for three minutes, ran along the shoreline for ten minutes, threw himself on to the forest floor and managed ten push ups.

He was pumped. Yes, he had his project. He was gunna create his own hippie tree circus act. He had it mapped out.

And he’d write moonstruck songs, find a drummer who could keep a beat and still have the headspace to check out the girls in the audience. Cos that what drummers do. He’d find his mermaid.

He had it mapped out. Yes, he could do this. And from that gumnut moment, Fred started to live happily ever after.

Lindi Forde

www.lindiforde.com

I wonder what he’s doing right now? Well, really, I know. He’s sleeping as where he lives it’s now night-time. Has probably drunk a few palm wines or some other local hooch . Why the alcohol? There’s been a death in the family. When a family member dies, usually there is a substantial wake. A reason to break out, indulge, have a huge piss-up and mourn his passing.   Distant and not-so-distant family emerge from the bush and it’s Gil’s job to feed and accommodate them all. Fourth cousins thrice removed come to the family compound to acknowledge the passing of a distant uncle not seen by some for twenty years, where they sit under the mango trees, drink, eat, doze and catch up on the family micro-news. Women, babies, children, men young and old, never less than thirty at any one time. It’s his uncle, the chief of their encampement who has died after all so charcoal fires are lit, chickens killed and cooked, rice by the sackload bought from the market to feed the unending procession who arrive over the next week or two.

How did they know he’d died? It’s bush telegraph at its finest. Nothing happens in the smallest village without relatives in the city 700 kms away being aware within days of its occurrence. That, and the ubiquitous mobile phone that has revolutionised African bush communication. Not uncommon for one person to be carrying three or four, each one with a different service provider, in the event of the frequent failure of one of them.

This also is not the only funeral for the departed. This is merely “le petit funerale” – the village funeral. The “grande funerale” will be in two month’s time down in the city. That will be an even grander, boozier affair. Men wearing their impressive tribal garments, women with exquisitely braided hair and tight alluring national costumes. A competition for each to show the others how beautiful they are, how regal they look, how well off they have become. I suppose this is the equivalent to wearing Sunday Best for us. How important it is to look good. But also to show respect for the occasion.

Last but not least is the music. Wherever it is, whatever the occasion, always music. The thump, thump, thumpthumpthump of West Africa. Alpha Blondy reggae, the raw passion of Les Garagistes. Music blaring from massive loud speakers positioned for maximum effect, the bass vibrating to the very bone marrow. From early morning to early next morning, stopping only when intoxicated exhaustion has forced the last reveller to take rest.

I remember one time a funeral of a policeman being held in the street where I was living. A raucous affair but the music and noise failed to keep me awake. Then at midnight I was jolted from my slumber by the sound of fireworks in the street. Bang, bang, bang! Crack, crack and crack! I rolled over and nudged my man. “God what a bloody noise!” He patted my shoulder reassuringly and whispered “Reste tranquille, ma cherie. Seulement fusille.” What?? Bloody guns??? They’re shooting their guns into the air!   Sweet Jesus, what next?? The ensuing dark hours were spent with me lying rigid in bed, waiting for a barrage of drunken coppers to crash through the door, while my protector snored on serenely.

However, this is the way of farewelling the dead. Noise, dance, drink, food, family, occasional gunfire; sleep it off and start again next day until such time as money for food and grog has run out and all have left to return to their villages and farming life. A fitting send-off.

It looks like it’s going to be a nice morning, a really nice morning. It’s still warm, the temperature hasn’t really dropped overnight, the air is mild and the roughly mown grass just slightly damp with dew.  I can’t see the sun yet, but it’s on the rise, the sky doesn’t seem to be as navy as it was a minute ago, it’s definitely lightening to a deeper, lovelier blue. Today is going to be gorgeous, I can feel it in my bones.

I’m the first one up, I think, hold on….oh, no….I’m wrong. Goddamit Red! Here she comes. She’s old and doddery but still waltzes about, puffed up chest as if she just won a bloody Logie. She was on her own before I moved in. I know she lost her own family not too long ago, so it’s understandable that she’s super clingy.  Red seems to be able to sniff me out wherever I am. Can’t hardly blame her though, she obviously attracted to my youthful vitality. I know I should be grateful, I didn’t even have a home before I here, I was wandering the streets aimlessly, not sure where to go. I mean, I really love it here, but I just wish she’d leave me alone and give me some space. We hang out for a bit, observe the rising sun, ease into the morning, go for a lazy stroll.

Niceties done, can hardly call me rude, I’ve been civil enough. I know if I head to the garage, she wont follow me. She hates it in there, but I can’t get enough of it. That’s where it’s at, absolutely everything, it’s a veritable bounty of treasures and curios. I spend at least an hour in there each day. There’s a pool table up the back corner, its base is all bowed, the surface unplayable. An old workbench made out of railway sleepers occupies the length of the shed, tools haphazardly piled. There are boxes and boxes of stuff, never read books, kids toys, old school assignments that no one really cares about, six different types of tent for any and all camping occasions. There’s a motorbike in there, it’s old, the tank a dark blue with a slight sparkle to it. I don’t know what it is about it, but the bike intrigues me, it’s fascinating, despite the rust, the engine grime, the torn leather seat and the leaking oil. Every time I’m in here, I seem to end up filthy from messing around with it, all my whites turn to dirty, greasy grey.

I should go check on the babies, I need to be with them now. There’s two of them, but I’m really worried. I’m wary when I approach them, look cautiously, carefully, check every detail, look for signs. It seems there’s no change from yesterday, there’s no movement. I don’t understand, I can’t see what I’m doing wrong. All I can do is sit and wait and hope for the best. I’ve been through this before, it’s not easy, but I’m tough. I just don’t want anyone to take them away, I know I can do this. The day is starting to heat up, I’m uncomfortable, but it’s not about me right now, it’s about them.

I sit for what seems like hours. I can hear sounds in the distance, familiar voices. My heart starts to race, I know what’s coming. I can hear clanging, cupboard doors opening and shutting, I can hear water running, a metal spoon scrape a metal bowl. The security door rattles, I’m up and racing, running like an idiot, fat thighs circling comically, skinny legs dodging obstacles, before I even hear the words.

“Chook, chook chook chook. Here chook, chook, chook.”

I hop up the stairs and gaze up at the silver bowl. My stubby little wings wont get me very far, but they’ll get me where I want to be. I fly up and perch on the edge of the bowl and bury my beak into the warm mash, bits of oats sticking to my feathers. She walks while I balance capably, athletically. I can tell she’s impressed, she’s grinning. Red’s here as well, again, as always, but she couldn’t fly to save her life. She has to be content with waddling along after us. She puts both me and the bowl down, Red is right beside me and we feast as if we’ve never eaten before. I’m totally absorbed with the meal, too busy to notice what she’s doing. I look up, but it’s already too late…..

“Miss Prissy, two eggs today. How lovely, thank you!”

Noooooooooooo…………….