A tale from the base of Olympus

Posted on January 27, 2012 by Watershedd

Part One

Atlas shrugged. Perhaps you felt it. Your world gave a shudder, like a cold chill up your spine. And as quickly as the feeling came, it went, leaving nary a trace. You got up from bed the next day and all was in its usual place. You are lucky.

In my world the ground shifted so greatly that there is no level surface upon which to rebuild. The ocean at my door recedes and I know that I must run, run to higher ground away from the inevitable tsunami of grief. Can I run fast enough? More importantly, in my broken Alexandria, do I want to run? It would be so much easier to just be overwhelmed.

I was paralyzed for a time after the earth quaked. I stood frozen in place and cried with fear at the devastation, mired at my epicentre. I knew what had to be done, I knew that I had to prioritize, but I was so stunned by the sudden impact and resulting panic that I simply could not move. My brain was simply unable to process anything other than what it saw, to pick over the wreckage looking for anything, any means of salvage.

I’m picking up pieces now, but I know I can’t stay. This Alexandria is now my Christchurch and I know I cannot rebuild on the same ground. Much of what is here will have to be left behind. So strange. I’d never wanted to live here. It was always someone else’s Utopia, but it became without me even realizing it, the crucible of my Dreams. And whilst I never expected to stay here forever, I did not foresee the dislocation that would tear me from so much of what I cherished.

Away & Beyond lies the unbroken ground, flat and broad. I must go there and rebuild, taking my undamaged salvage … taking even a few fractured remnants, because I cannot bear to let them go. I know these pieces will crowd me in their uselessness, but I cannot let them go, not yet.

Away & Beyond doesn’t look inviting to me. It’s just somewhere to rebuild, a place to re-establish my reserves and hopefully find my future again. There is no joy in the move for I know what I leave behind and I see the hard, drought ravaged land that I must break in order to build my new city. Temporary shelter will have to suffice initially until I can find some source of irrigation to soften the soil and feed the soul.

I’ll go. But I’m not running. I’m leaving markers to find my way back, to maintain claim to my broken ground, even if I do know it’s no longer stable. Hmph. Sorrow is like that. You get so wrapped up in the overwhelming loss that even with the salvaged remains you cling to a past that can never be again. I know that’s what I’m doing. And I know that even as I slowly turn to walk away if the tsunami should overtake me I would not fight it, for it would take with it the broken remnants I cherish. It would be easier than rebuilding with the fragments of Alexandria anyway.

Part Two

The after-tremors have ceased. The spasm that took hold of Atlas’ shoulder has been relieved by someone else taking his burden for a time, allowing him to stretch before resuming his genuflection to the Olympians. With the ground now settled I’ve considered staying in my shattered Alexandria, but without what Away & Beyond offers, rebuilding will take longer, possibly too long; without Away & Beyond, there may never be a new place for my Great Library.

I’ve laid claim to my salvage and secured the walls as best I can. The gates are back in place, although they need work if they are to last more than a few weeks or months. It’s work that will take a year, possibly more; hard back-breaking work. I know I have the ability to do this, but like some survivor of an unforeseen conflict, one that I failed to predict, I worry that it will happen again. I fear the disaster that will take the shards of my Dreams from me and leave but the scars. I’m so scared of a horizon I cannot see that I don’t want to move. Is this what they call post traumatic stress? I don’t know. I just know that even in my leaving Alexandria for the flat, broad grounds of the open plain, I fear the floods and drought that are the unpredictable threats capable of stripping what little I have left.

I keep thinking of the day Atlas shrugged, how perfect it was in Summer’s brilliant heat. It shouldn’t have been such a stunning day, the day my Alexandria was broken. “… and I thought that it would rain, on a day like today …” It is me who is on the buses and trains, put there out of necessity, leaving my Alexandria, the city I never thought I could love.

I haven’t packed. I will cram my few possessions into a couple of bags at the last possible moment. I want to sit in my Alexandria for as long as I possibly can, until leaving is the now that must be, rather than the future I would rather ignore. I am resisting the inevitable, the ostrich in this newly desolate landscape.

“What do we leave …
Nothing much,
Only Anatevka …
… where else could summer feel so sweet?”

I DO NOT WANT TO LEAVE! I BELONG IN MY ALEXANDRIA!

… but I will pick up the pieces of my Dreams, those sacred parts of my being and carry them someplace safe and bury them, deep in the ground away from Alexandria. I will consign them to the protection of the very element that Atlas disrupted, far from the broken Alexandria, far from Away & Beyond. I do not know if I will ever be able to return to collect them, but the place of their internment, the contents of the crypt will never be lost to me. Perhaps they will become relics, discovered by archeologists, a time capsule of a day long gone to intrigue future generations. I hope not. I only wish that I could see again, beyond the wide barren plains of Away & Beyond, where I may very well walk forever and never cross another oasis of philosophy and thought.

Ah Alexandria, will I rebuild your Lighthouse, or will you be forever lost to me by the vagaries of a single Titan’s weary body?

Posted in Art, Love, Matters of the soul, Prose | Leave a comment

The Impossible Dream?

Posted on January 1, 2012 by Watershedd

I have a dream that one day my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin, but by the content of their character.

… And when this happens and when we allow let freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty, we are free at last!”

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

August 28, 1963, Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C.

This little blog of mine has been somewhat neglected these past few months. A job change, setting up and managing a new site, administrating another interest and generally just trying to be a devoted and helpful partner seemed to take up much of my time. I’m not sure if 2012 will see that improve, but whatever the coming leap year brings, at least I’ll have an extra day to squeeze it all in!

My attitude to religion, to freedom of speech and human rights initiatives has developed enormously over 2011. I feel much more spiritually aware than I have in previous years, accepting that my belief in a particular religious dogma has faded to obscurity and instead opening myself to the possibilities of all philosophical and theological modes of thought. It’s probably got something to do with living with and ancient god (they have their own demands, you know!), but we are far from agreeance in all things spiritual. It makes for some very good conversations. You should have heard the one we had the other night about Socrates and what I see as the catch 22 his own philosophy put him in when his own argument about democracy wound up chasing it’s own arse! And of course, I had go open Pandora’s Box and write a post about being “good”. Ei-yi-yi! I really need to read more philosophy!

As a child I used to love to listen to the soundtrack from Man of La Mancha. The romantic tale of a knight who held in his heart the fictitious Dulcinea el Toboso gave me hope that I, a measly peasant, might someday be so adored.

“… her name is Dulcinea, her country El Toboso, a village of La Mancha, her rank must be at least that of a princess, since she is my queen and lady …”

Somewhat older and no longer wearing the rose coloured glasses of naivety I see the tale a little differently, but despite the eyes of maturity I know I have found in Cervantes tale an interpretation deeper than simply romantic conquest or a madman tilting at windmills.

Don Quixote is the perfect, impractical, but most honourable idealist. He believes only in the purest intentions, which underpin all his deeds. It’s a pity so many see him as a crackpot, for whilst he is returned to his health he it is only to be consumed by reality and leading to a cynicism in which he threatens to disinherit his niece if she marries a man who reads about chivalry. They say the death of chivalry is a modern affliction borne of the womens’ rights movements, but it would seem that perhaps even in the seventeenth century chivalry had it’s limits. It’s a sad indictment of the race of men that overwhelmingly, they would settle for the quiet life rather than to fight for what they truly believe in. I rather admire the man whose reach exceeds his grasp and there are so few of those.

Martin Luther King was such an idealist. He did not plead for equality, he assumed it was every person’s right, regardless of creed or colour. The black civil rights movement of the 1960s shifted the bounds of acceptable behaviour and broke many chains in many Western nations, but almost forty years later we still grapple with issues of black versus white in Australia. Oh, if we only had a Don Quixote to tilt at the spewing sewerage in Lake Burley Griffin or to blow cool air into the withering flags on a hot breathless day on Capital Hill.

The GOFA was somewhat surprised to discover my love for the tale of Don Quixote, a tale he also enjoys. So he let the artist in him out for a while and worked for months on the perfect birthday gift. Now, with an artist, you have to accept that sometimes they never feel like their work is finished – da Vinci worked on the Mona Lisa for forty years – so waiting six months for my gift was pretty good going! He is carved, most appropriately, from olive wood, a native timber of Spain and I think he totally rocks! How lucky am I, to have a one-off piece from my very own artist?

I hope that the Don in many of us comes to the fore before the losses of freedoms and the callousness in our hearts becomes so embedded that we know not how we lost our souls. The inequalities that continue to undermine our Indigenous countrymen, the paranoia of immigrants and the unwillingness of our governments and corporations to admit to errors of judgment and then setting out to rectify the damage point to the antithesis of chivalry; they point to hubris. I will continue to sing with Jim Nabors, another man who felt the sting of discrimination in the homophobic 1960s, and to dream the impossible dream with my GOFA. I hope 2012 brings us all the most impossible of dreams.

Posted in Art, Faith, Matters of the soul, Voices in the dark | Leave a comment

Io Saturnalia!

Posted on December 21, 2011 by Watershedd

A large bowl of dried, semi-dried and not-so dried fruit sits soaking on my kitchen table, absorbing the plonk and orange juice I liberally dispensed a couple of nights ago. You know I love to bake, especially fruit cakes, but my Christmas fruit cake is so late that it’s seriously at risk of missing the big day, but with a week to go I’ll get it in the oven and iced by next weekend. As it has done for the past seven years, the recipe has had to evolve yet again. No pineapple to be found in anything other than cans. No glace, no dried. Necessity being the mother cooking, I took what was available and am experimenting with canned chopped pineapple (minus the juice). This cake is now so far from the original recipe – no chocolate, no palm sugar, a vastly different array of fruits and plonk – that it really no longer resembles its ancient forebear, an apt metaphor for the Yuletide itself.

I was raised in a Roman Catholic home, the youngest child in a large family. Sunday church was expected; the only leeway permitted was through illness, working the whole weekend or where it was geographically impossible to attend a service. Practice in my faith found me involved with youth groups and music ministries and consumed by what a friend I met many years later called ‘catholic guilt’ for all my many failings. If there’s one thing that I found in my practice of religion beyond how loving God is supposed to be, it’s that I could never be good enough, because I was born and would always be, a sinner. Talk about damning a child from birth. It’s a stark contrast to the concept of enlightenment that underpins the belief that we all have Buddha nature.

I’ve always had a tendency to befriend others with less than me. Like the smelly boy that everyone, even the teachers, ridiculed. His mother simply didn’t cope and his father was long gone. To this day, one enduring memory I have of my primary school days is of that smelly boy being forcibly carried out of the classroom by four teachers, a limb apiece. This in a catholic primary school that otherwise, imparted the most exceptional sense of equality among its multi-cultural students. In Australia, a country that prides itself on the ‘melting-pot’ of many cultures, it was the Australian child dragged from the classroom. To this ten year old girl, the scene was immensely distressing; I called this boy my friend, even if he did punch me when I was eight.

By the time I traveled overseas in my early twenties I was questioning religion. Living and working in Northern Ireland where Christian fought against Christian, I experienced first hand the constant overarching authority of the British Army and RUC (Royal Ulster Constabulary). Now, let me be up front and say that I never encountered any problems with the RUC; they were professional and courteous whenever I crossed their path. Largely the army were too, but it was them that crouched hiding behind fences with their semi-automatic weapons, so that when I walked past I would find one trained upon me; it was the soldiers who, in the armoured four wheel drives, viewed me through their sights; one even said ‘bang’ just audibly enough for me to hear as the vehicle passed. This was Belfast in the early 1990s, toward the end of ‘The Troubles’. This is what those of my generation in Northern Ireland considered normal. They had never known any different.

I spent the first two weeks in Belfast terrified, until I decided that if I was to enjoy this jaunt I would simply have to get over my fear and live as if the army was not there. So I wore my loudest, psychedelic tights among the locals in their greys and blacks, I told the soldiers they weren’t doing much to make tourists feel welcome when I found they’d trained their guns on me and I found my Irish boyfriend keeping about ten feet away from me whenever I was in such a mood! My Aussie accent obviously startled the soldiers a few times; it’s somewhat satisfying to break the composure of one so highly trained with just a phrase! All the while, living in Northern Ireland, I was aware of where my place was, as a Catholic, even if I was Australian. I never wore my cross or claddagh in protestant areas, I made sure people heard my accent, I discussed the issues of life in the province only with people with whom I felt comfortable. I began as a spectator. I morphed into a local with my own opinions, gained from the very personal understanding about indoctrination, acceptance, bigotry, suppression, fear, self-preservation and protection, the sort of lessons that can only be gained through living in an a place where governance is so very in your face.

Northern Ireland was very much home for a time. I loved being there, but the rot had set in to my acceptance of religion. A few years later I learned a bit more about church ‘legalities’ and politics, leaving me teetering on the edge with my faith. The final nail in the coffin came when I noted the lack of concern from the community my parents had attended and worked within for over 45 years when both fell ill for a few months. Not even the priest visited them at home. That was the final straw for my own Catholic faith. I cannot abide Sunday Catholics.

In the years since, I have had fruitful discussions with Muslims whom I would call friends and attended Buddhist meditation sessions. I’ve worked with Hindus and Jews and now share my life with an Indigenous Australian man who calls both Muslims and Jews friends, has a penchant for philosophy, spiritualism and Greek mythology and still has his Dreams and honours those of his ancestors. I’ve learned of the origins of Channukah, a celebration commemorating the oil that lasted eight days after the Temple had been reclaimed from Antiochus IV, when it should not have stretched beyond one and tales of both Adam and the Hasmoneans that provide the foundations the Jewish observance of the feast that last year, coincided with Christmas. I’ve even learned a bit about Saturn and Mithra and the pagan feasts that preceded the Christmas and Channukah traditions. There’s much more to read there.

For me, Christmas is a celebration of family, friends and the shared humanity of all people. We can all take a day to forget the cares of the world, to be grateful for the people in our lives who bring meaning to our days, and to share a little with those who may not have the benefit of family. That does not require a belief in any religion, only a simple sense of gratitude and compassion. It’s good for the soul, something that whilst I follow no religious dogma, I still very much believe in. Christmas, Channukah or Saturnalia has always been a time of thankfulness for abundance, be it of family, oil or food, honouring whichever deity has dominated in the period. A Christian friend once commented to me that we are all traveling to the same place, aiming for the pinnacle of the same mountain, but we each take our own path. If our paths cross, I hope you’ll do me the courtesy of respecting my choice of direction, just as I will yours.

Posted in Faith, Matters of the soul | 1 Comment

Sunday Selections: Because I love to bake!

Posted on October 9, 2011 by Watershedd

Fruit cakes are an oft baked item in my home as the GOFA is quite partial to them, as are others around him. They get sent on to others, shared by many. My standard boiled fruit cake is easy to make and I have the starts of one sitting on the stove now for my beloved’s birthday. The fruit cake steep a while longer yet.

I’ve been absent for way too long from Kim’s Sunday Selections and I may not get another post up anytime soon, but this one needs to be written, complete with pictures, because this selection of photographs documents the creation of Kim’s daughter’s wedding cake. Now, I know Veronica has more than one type of cake in the planning, but she was keen, when asked, to have a traditional fruit cake. So, I’ve pulled out my ever evolving Christmas cake recipe, put it through another generation of evolution and created what I suspect is going to be a rip-snorter of a deep, rich, slab of fruit cake-lovers’ delight!

Sounds a bit early to be making the cake, I hear you say? Well, the Christmas cake was always made at least 3 months ahead in my childhood home and the puddings in mid year, hung in calico in the garage. The flavours mature and I can tell you that a pudding will keep easily for two years if you prepare the calico properly. I know, I’ve kept one that Mum made and then eaten it two years on. But puddings are a different post. This is about a wedding cake.

First thing, is to steep the fruit in a generous amount of alcohol. My plonk of choice, after some experimentation is either Lochan Ora or Glayva. Both are scotch liqueurs with a strong citrus flavour that I really like infused through the fruit.

Lochan Ora. Note that the bottle is half empty - all over the fruit!

I’ve also used white port, tawny port, scotch and brandy. I my opinion, the liqueurs result in the best flavour, but if citrus is not your thing, just pick another one. Regardless of the plonk you choose, if you are making a cake for a special occasion don’t skimp on the quality of the alcohol. It really does make a difference to the final product.

As I said, this cake had to go through another evolution as I’m finding it harder each year to find the glace fruits I usually use for my special cakes. They used to be available in mid year but now they only seem to be readily found in November. After discussion with Mum, I took the plunge and bought dried fruits. Pears, apples, pineapple, peel as well as semi-dried apricots. I threw in more glace cherries and altered the balance of the sultanas and currants.

Dried pineapple, beside a piece that's soaked for two weeks. Yum!

I chose to use more prunes in place of dates for the extra moisture they offered. I threw in the rind of a freshly grated orange, more orange juice than usual and half the bottle of Loch Ora. *Hic* The whole lot sat in a bowl for two weeks, in the corner of my kitchen gradually soaking in the alcohol, the dried fruit reconstituting and suffusing my home with an aroma a distillery would have been proud of.

The fruit, having steeped for two weeks.

I’ve left fruit to soak for up to a month before using it. I’ve even added more alcohol as I’ve given it the occasional stir and thought it all seemed a bit dry. In this case, Veronica’s cake got no more alcohol; it didn’t seem to need it. On baking day, I add chopped pecans. I’m not terribly found of the bitterness of walnuts.

Come baking day I prepared my cake tin, lined on base and sides with Glad Bake, the only product I will use for my cakes. I’ve had disasters with cheaper options and no longer bother with alternatives. Although the paper is greased on both sides I still grease the pan as well and then carefully grease the paper itself once I’ve lined the pan. My paper always slips off without problem after the cake has cooked. In fact. One of the signs the cake is cooked, is if you tug at it and it easily slips between the cake and the tin. But I’m getting ahead of myself …

This is a BIG cake. I have no bowl large enough to mix this cake in, so out comes my enormous stockpot. Eggs are added one or two at a time to ensure that they mix in well.

The flour is sifted once only. This is not a light, fluffy sponge; it is a solid, weighty, traditional rich fruit cake. There is, in my opinion, no point in sifting the flour three times. What’s more, I sift the dry ingredients directly into the butter mixture. I like dark brown sugar for it’s extra depth of flavour, that little bit of molasses, but it can turn your cake very dark and not everyone likes that. I tend to use about 1/5th caster sugar as well. The other things that make your cake dark are the choice of fruit (try to use more with a pale flesh) and bicarbonate of soda.

The flour, all spice, nutmeg, cinnamon, and other dry ingredients are sifted in with the butter mixture in portions, along with the steeped fruit. I sourced fresh cinnamon and nutmeg for this cake; I don’t usually, but thought it would help with the flavour and I was rewarded with the lovely aroma of the spices as they were grated.

Cinnamon

Nutmeg

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once all ingredients were combined, the mixture was poured into the prepared tin. You’ll see I globbed a bit on the edge up high. No need to fuss, I was just a bit untidy! The mixture was spread evenly in the pan and then a slight indentation created in the middle to allow for the cake rising while baking. As you can see, the mixture is not terribly dark and the final result should be a deep golden cake when it’s cut.

About halfway through the process of mixing the cake I set my convection oven to preheat at 130oC. It only takes about 5 minutes to heat and the oven will turn itself off if I don’t start using it within about ten minutes once it has reached temperature. If I was to bake it in a conventional oven without a fan, I’d probably aim for about 145oC. The biggest challenge is not baking this cake too fast. As I said, it is BIG! If you get the temperature right, it should rise modestly, but remain fairly flat on top without cracking. Cook too fast and the centre will be under cooked, the cake may dome, probably burn on the tops and sides and it will crack. Cook it too slow and it may stay flat but fail to rise much and the sugars will caramelize and you’re likely to burn the top (but not the sides).

I baked the cake for about 5 hours. After about 3 hours I decided to take the temperature up to 140oC, as it  hadn’t quite leveled in the middle where I made the mix a little more shallow to accommodate the rise. I cannot increase the temp on my convection oven in 5oC lots … I would have if I could. I also put a layer of Glad Bake over the top to prevent the top from browning any further. This is always the case when baking this cake, and I always keep a piece ready to add once the top is dark enough.

When you can smell the cake throughout the house, it’s time to for the paper tug-test. It’s only a gentle tug, but if the edges are cooked, the paper should slide easily. The other test is the skewer in the middle. Now, you expect to pick up a wee bit of fruit, but if there’s heaps of fruit and/or uncooked cake mix, it’s underdone and you need to raise the temperature a tad or you’ll be going to bed when the birds start their morning song!

The final step in creating Veronica’s cake was to glaze it whilst still hot with another 50-100 ml of Lochan Ora.

Glazing the hot cake, just out of the oven. It smells divine!

Wrap the whole thing in aluminium foil and leave the cake to cool completely in the tin. There was still some warmth in the tin when I got up for work the next morning, some 12 hours later, so I left it there to deal with when I got home that night.

Cooling.

Once completely cooled turn the cake out – keeping the paper in tact as much as possible – and take a look at the underside. You only need to peel the paper a tad. If it’s all looking good, then keep the paper on that you cooked in, and use another layer to keep the moisture in. I then wrap the whole thing in aluminium foil, before wrapping again, as tightly as possible in cling wrap. Try to get as much air out as possible. I even use tape to ensure the cling wrap does not peel open. Put the cake away and leave to mature over the coming weeks or months. A cake like this will easily keep for 3months, if you wrap it carefully.

When it’s time to serve the cake, you can decorate with almond icing (the GOFA’s favourite icing, sweet tooth that he is!) or serve au naturel. If you know that it will not be iced you can decorate the top with cherries and pecans before baking. Keep in a tin or cake container that has a good seal and the cake should last without problem for up to 3 weeks. Remember, it’s been pickled within an inch of it’s life! All the alcohol has evaporated in the baking process, except for that which was used to glaze. Do be careful if you have P or L plate drivers eating a slice of cake made in this manner though, as they may register a reading on the breathalyzer due to the glaze (but not on the blood test)!

So there you have it, one wedding cake made with lots of love for my Bloggy Big Sister! It’s sitting, wrapped in my kitchen until I can get it down to Tassie’s shores in time for Veronica to arrange whatever decorations she chooses. Now, if anyone is heading that way from Sydney in the coming weeks, let me know. I’ve got a package that needs delivering!

Posted in Love | 8 Comments

Realising the surreal

Posted on October 3, 2011 by Watershedd

Four years ago I had an idea, a concept for a textbook. Four years ago, I played around with it and turned it over in all directions to see if it had any promise.

Three years, I approached a publisher with my concept, 5000 words of drafted chapter and a proposal for the place of my book idea in the marketplace.

Two and half years ago, I got the verbal go ahead, although the contract was a little slower in coming. Some things in publishing move very fast, others I’ve learned not to stress about – it all happens in its own time.

Two months ago, I saw the final product of my idea and was treated to an unofficial launch at a regional seminar by the writer of the foreword. It was a very surreal moment, seeing the finished product and giving away a copy.  I am still stunned at how a concept three years old, entirely my own, has reached a tangible reality. And I know that whilst not everyone may agree with what I’ve written, I’ve done the best I could with the time and resources I had and I can say I gave it go.

It feels really lovely to be able to say I am an author. Now I want to write more, but this time it will be fiction. Three years again, do you think?

Posted in The Book, Work | 1 Comment

Good news that won’t wait

Posted on September 28, 2011 by Watershedd

Some news is too good not to advertise, even this wee blog isn’t much a vehicle. In my post  Wedging the Gap I mentioned Andrew Bolt. Along with many others including my GOFA, I’ve been awaiting the outcome of the racial discrimination case that’s been in the Federal Court.

Let’s get this straight people – people are about so much more than colour. Race is not determined or even demonstrated by colour. Identifying as Australian DOES NOT EXCLUDE a person from also identifying as an Indigenous person, just as it does not preclude identification with Irish, English, German or Jewish heritage.

This judgement warms my soul a little and restores a modicum of the faith in the democracy of the Australian legal system that I have feared (still fear) is dying. It is a good day for moving forward as a nation and undoing the damage of one very ignorant and manipulative public persona.

Posted in Universal truths, Voices in the dark | Leave a comment

Vienna vs Egypt and ethical advertising

Posted on September 17, 2011 by Watershedd

Last weekend the GOFA and I took a rare break visiting family and enjoying Melbourne’s delights. It was a chance to take a copy of my book, finally published, down to my parents and spend a little time reacquainting ourselves.

Melbourne gave us a taste of winter’s tail, with overcast skies, a little drizzle and a brisk breeze, but nothing like it can be. Two exhibitions were on our mind and we debated about whether we had time to see both. Thinking we may not and knowing that we had other expenses that weekend to absorb, we opted for the exhibition at the Melbourne Museum, Tutankhamun and the Golden Age of the Pharaohs. Tickets were far from cheap at $35 and we considered whether to skip it once we realised the cost. The museum and National Gallery of Victoria are not terribly close together and we had limited time before we were to go out that evening, so Tut it was.

The exhibition consists of 10 small galleries, the first five devoted to Tut’s ancestors and the period of the pharaohs. The remaining five small galleries are devoted to Tut himself. There are some lovely artefacts and it is a highly polished display, including a sarcophagus of one of his non-royal but patently well favoured ancestors, given the extravagance of the burial. We wandered through the displays for about 1 ½ hours until we reached the final gallery, which, quite frankly, I found an immense let down. There was an excellent video display of Tut’s burial showing how each casket fit within the next. There were small items found within Tut’s bindings and on his body, such as head dress and a necklace, but there was little else in this room to make me go “Wow!”

So what was the let down? The death mask. It simply was not there, not even a good copy or image of the mask was shown. There was no sarcophagus. There was a platform onto which was displayed still images of Tut’s opened sarcophagus, viewed from above. The images were a succession of shots showing where certain items were found, such as the necklace.

I was very disappointed at the anit-climax. The advertising billed it as about Tutankhamun and the pharaohs, so I expected a mixture, but as the main draw card they played upon in the adverts (first name, separate line, much larger font size, different font colour) and they had used an image of a “golden coffinette” that looked deceptively like the funerary mask, that is what I expected to see.

Had I known that Tut’s death mask was not included in the exhibition, would I have gone? Quite simply, with only two days in town and limited spending money, the answer is no. When others asked about the exhibition and I told them that the mask was absent, they agreed that they would not pay so much to gain entry and be corralled like sheep (that’s what it felt like to both of us) to enter in the first place unless the mask was there. I do, quite frankly, feel misled by the curators on this exhibition, based upon the advertising. Admittedly, nowhere in the website does it say that Tut’s mask would be part of the exhibition. If you read the feedback it is explicitly mentioned, but only when others have drawn attention to the fact. Equally, the advertising does not mention the absence of the mask and the use of the image of the coffinette (which is beautiful, but not terribly large and certainly not the mask) as the main drawcard in the advertising I consider to be very misleading.

With our activities after Tut being less costly than expected, the GOFA and I decided that we would go see the Vienna exhibition at the NGV after all the next day before we flew home, in hopes that it would satisfy our more artistic desires. There, we saw original works by Gustav Klimt, whom I have very much decided is one of my favourite artists, as well as a painting by Moll that spurred the GOFA onto his own artistic pursuits as a younger man. We were not corralled into a small space to enter the exhibition and we wandered back and forth between the artworks that absorbed us totally. The GOFA was able to reminisce about his own artistic days and I was able to learn a bit more about what I like in art and why. At $24, we did not feel cheated. The advertising shown used a Klimt painting that did not mislead the patron about what they would see in the exhibition. We also came away with more from the gift shop, including the program as a keepsake.

So, value for money, Tut v Vienna, there’s my $59 dollars worth. I will be taking a closer look at what the Melbourne Museum advertise in future. Scratch that; I’ll be taking a closer look at what ANY exhibition suggests in advertising in future. Picasso is coming and there’s to be a Renaissance exhibition soon too, but I’ll be looking for the value in my buck’s worth. We had a lovely weekend, with family and in our time alone, but next time the museum will not be my first port of call when I seek artistic pleasures in Melbourne.

Posted in Art | Leave a comment

Reflecting on a legacy

Posted on September 11, 2011 by Watershedd

On this tenth anniversary of September 11 and all the horrors associated with it, I am writing at Black and Black. Please pop on over and consider things from my point of view a decade into the new millennium.

Posted in Universal truths, Voices in the dark | Leave a comment

Bless me bloggers

Posted on August 28, 2011 by Watershedd

Bless me bloggers, for I have sinned; it has been two 2 ½ months since my last post and these are the things I have done wrong: slept and recharged my batteries, been on a brief break with the GOFA, written a couple of posts for him and debated about what to do with all my spare time now that I have regular hours. Well there’s not really that much spare time, but it’s a little easier to arrange to do some things. It’s not a change I’ve come to regret.

Which is good, because I’m not one for regrets. A regret is a wish hung on the maybe of presumption that has an uncertain path and an even a less predictable endpoint. Regrets are wasted worry and a belief that, had you your time over, you would behave differently. I have but one regret, which means of course that I would have done one thing in my life differently had I my time over. But for that one, there is nothing in the way I have lived that I would change. I am who I am because of all the experiences in my life, regardless of the joy or pain, benefits or loss of face that they have brought to me.

Regret steals your future. It mires your mind in the quicksand of what-ifs and strips you of your confidence. Without confidence, you have not the courage to move forward for fear of making another mistake, for fear of losing something or someone else that your cherish.

‘For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness.’

I have lost friends because I have refused to bend when I have known I am right or have defended someone I care about. I have lost a friend because I was asked to do something that made me uncomfortable, made me feel unsafe at a time when my own life was under strain. Do I regret that lost friendship? No, for to me the request of a friend must never come with a requirement to agree. True friends do not bind us with ties when they ask for favours or help. This is not usually the way of the friend whom I lost and I realise that it was a response to a feeling of abandonment. For that I am sorry; the offer of help I had made was honest and concrete, but what was asked was more than I could give at that time; the threat I perceived to my safety was to me, at that time, paralysing and I do not regret keeping myself out of a personal situation that I did not have the ability to manage.

‘When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the “nay” in your own mind, nor do you withhold the “ay.”’

Friendship can be such a fragile thing and most of us can count on the fingers of one hand those who will stand by us in the face of controversy. I can count on three fingers … perhaps four. And even if those people were to say to me that they were afraid and could not stand by me in the face of my own turmoil, I would understand and consider no less of them. Friendship in my eyes, suspends judgement because I have seen the soul of the person and know the conviction of their heart. Friendship is a gift, not a bind. People must have the right to decline an offer or retreat to the safety of their own walls. Friends only truly cease to be friends when they attack you or those you love, when they undermine what you cherish and judge what you say or do.

“And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.
For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.”

My truest and deepest friends know who they are. They are the ones to whom I speak sporadically and yet feel like I’ve seen only yesterday. They are the ones who seem to know when to call out of the blue. They are the ones to whom I feel I offer as much as I sometimes take.

Friendship and freedom go hand in hand. Without freedom of thought and action we disrespect the other and enforce a power play that is inappropriate. True friends do not require anything other than your honesty and openness. To demand anything else is to seek to control of the thoughts and actions of our friends, rather than accept them despite their frailties.

*Quotes from Kahlil Gibran’s “The Prophet”.

Posted in Friends, Love, Matters of the soul | Leave a comment

It’s nothing big

Posted on July 10, 2011 by Watershedd

Perhaps it’s been the changes of the past fortnight or the unexpected news that crept out of a corner I prefer not to go near. Perhaps I’m feeling a little guilty about being so self absorbed this past six months and neglecting those not in my immediate vicinity. Perhaps just turning the corner on the madness of the last year has allowed me to step out of what I now realise was a situation that had me operating under constant stress.

The relief I feel this week hasn’t gone unnoticed. A friend commented that I sound the best in a long time. My short and shabby fingernails are growing again; I’m not finding myself chewing on them so much, especially in the car. My nails are a very good indicator of my stress levels and for the past two years, they have been largely in shreds. Now, without any real effort, they are growing. It’s true what they say about how you become normalised to a situation and often don’t realise how emotionally draining it was until you are freed.

I adore my GOFA and I know he loves me. We’ve worked so hard to build a strong foundation for our relationship against some pretty enormous challenges. It now stands on a base that has weathered storms that most people would find insurmountable. It’s taken a huge effort that has included an other-focus, ignoring critics and a lot of trust. We both have business to manage outside of our day jobs and that can absorb the little intimacies that remind each other of the true depth of our feelings. For some reason a simple intimacy made me teary this weekend. Perhaps it’s tears of relief.

The Single Simple Word

You called me Darlin’!
It seems so long
Since the sweetness of such a simple word,
The honey that it drips
Has trickled cross the gossamer thread
That links your heart to mine.
The days that come with work to do,
The bleak and dreary tasks,
Subsume the little bits of love
That business makes it snuff;
And all the while I know you love
The me you’ve come to know,
But still one single simple word
Brings tears to morning tasks.
A letter there I need to send
And soon it will be done
But not afore I savour this,
The single simple word.

It’s such a trial to be apart
You know I hate the days
When coming home I know the house
Will lack the warm embrace
Of conversation, one who cares
Who sees me in his fate,
An ally in a costly war
That’s consumed our daily life.
The nights alone I sleep aside
A pillow turned clockwise
And snuggle in the space where you
Should be beside my side.
… You called me Darlin’,
Do you know just what that means?
When worries of the greater world
Intrude and take our days
To read that single, simple word
Makes mornings worth the wait.

Posted in Love, Matters of the soul, poetry | 1 Comment