A tale from the base of Olympus – Parts Seven & Eight

Posted on April 21, 2012 by Watershedd
This is a continuation of earlier posts. Context is found in previous parts.

Part Seven

She is burning, my Alexandria. I can smell the smoke, long before I see it and know that the marauding plague has penetrated my precious city’s quake-weakened walls, seeping into the life-giving water, a black scum over the surface. I must hurry if I am to limit the damage; my salvaged city will not withstand much more attack.

I arrive to find the fire in the Lighthouse still burning, but with people fighting the fire in their midst none has thought to restock the fuel or clear out the ashes. I set to the task myself; the ships bringing supplies and the fresh troops I have requested will not land safely without it. It is dusk when I begin and by the time Selene has risen and Apollo has taken his mighty orb westward I am exhausted, yet I cannot sleep. There can be not even the smallest luxury if my city is to survive.

Seeking out my comrades I find them battling on several fronts, keeping the worst of the viscous slime at bay, but the dregs that still seep through the embattlements have been enough to start the fires. They are stretched, stretched to a limit in protecting the city that for each of us has its own precious quarter, each working to protect that wall or some structure that holds some sweet memory. My Great Library is at greatest risk, sitting at the junction point where the slime has reached, but not yet the fire. I rush to the sea for sand, hauling it back in my wagon, my belongings discarded in some darkened alleyway. They will be worthless anyway if my Alexandria is lost.

The menacing flames are scorching, the heat barely contained by my flimsy shirt. I want to roll up the sleeves, but I know that to do so would be to be burned. I throw sand on the slime that is not yet ignited in hopes that it will contain the approaching fires. As each cartload is emptied I return again to the shores to gather more sand, to throw more of Atlas’ grains on the plague. Be with me now, great Titan, if my comrade you truly be.

It is late, I am weary and I allow myself a moment to stop, the progress of the fires at least halted if not entirely smothered. My Alexandria still stands, the custodians of the Library as determined as I to protect that which is so valuable. I have gathered a little water from one of the jars in the nearby Temple of Asclepius and am sitting on the Library steps when I am attacked by one carrying the plague, a rebel within our own walls. The stench of the vile slime is overpowering. I am repulsed. I struggle to back away, to extricate myself, at the same time realizing that my Library is at immediate risk. I am unaware that I am not the only one being attacked; there are more rebels than I could have imagined. All across the city in what can only be a coordinated attack the people are fighting. Houses are being razed, granaries lost, banks looted. Each struggles for what seems an eternity, exhausted and fragile, trying to save the writings, the knowledge, the means to rebuild and repair, to save my Alexandria. By dawn, the attack has been foiled, but at a cost I could not have foreseen.

Great oozing welts mark my arms. I had rolled up the sleeves in the end, when the flames had abated. It matters not; the oily slime would have melted the fabric on contact anyway; the burns would have simply been melded to cloth. It is better this way, easier to clean. Noted, but knowing there are more urgent matters, I leave the wounds untended and dash about my city to inspect the damage. The devastation is total. Houses gone, their livelihoods ruined. The quake was bad enough; now there are not even four walls left standing. This is my ten of swords. I rush about my Alexandria and find that whilst my Great Library has withstood the attack, almost all else is razed.

I reach the harbour to find dawn’s light illuminating the visage I have so come to cherish, the Lighthouse still turning on the headland, but the light-keeper’s house smoldering at it’s side. The troops I had called to support my Alexandria did not come. Delayed? It matters not, they are too late.

I stand in the dawn’s light under a great pine, an old woman behind me wailing “Why?” beside the ashes of her once humble home, a younger couple standing ahead of me near the sand, staring dazed over the harbour. The cool morning breeze plays at my hair, pretending nothing has happened, that what Apollo promises will be a perfect autumn day is the truth, not the destruction surrounding me. I am detached, clinical; the pain has been burned from me.

The albatross are absent from the harbour, driven away by the fracas; only the crabs remain. Without the sound of wildlife, my Alexandria is a sullen, eerie place, all sound replaced by the voices of a broken people. They say that in years to come, when others asked what happened to my Alexandria, when they ask when this city of light and learning had changed, they will point to this day. I know it to be true. The scars on my arms will be the reminder of how all changed on this single day, how my Alexandria was attacked not just by those without, but by those within her very walls, by those I trusted.

…

A whisper on the wind, meant only for me comes from some unknown source: it can be restored. To believe the secret deity that speaks for only my mind’s ear now is to subscribe to yet more pain, I think. I waver, for the first time my resolve to save my Alexandria questioned. I look deep inside myself and wonder, but am met only by the silent depths of my own soul.

 Part Eight

So, these burns do hurt. I had thought I had become inured to the sting of fire or the melt of acid. It’s a good thing; how else would I know I was alive, that I could care?

One of the custodians of the Library, himself injured in the battle, sent me back to the Temple of Asclepius, where the heat of the battle had seared my bare flesh, for healing. I resisted; the simple memory of the attack on the steps of one dedicated to healing brought intense fear. I wanted instead, to sit by my harbour, to bathe in my city’s sea-salt air and be soothed by the gentle swoosh of her waves. Away he said, away to the healer. These shores have been here a thousand years, they will be here a thousand years more, be you here or not. He knew I needed healing for more than just those visible injuries, but the flesh wounds needed more immediate attention. A thick unguent was applied to my wounds just once, enough to awaken the senses to the pain that lay beneath.

It has been some weeks since my Alexandria was so devastated. The pain of the burns to which I was once so detached has met its crescendo and now simpers to a gradual diminuendo. There is still a tenderness, but the biting, searing sting has gone.

I was forced to leave my Alexandria before much could be done in way of repairs. I gathered the pitiful remains of the few broken dreams that had remained intact after the quake and carried them back to Away & Beyond, unsure what I was going to be able do with pieces. I had never been the craftsman of these precious pieces of golden and silver light, only their custodian. All the way the pieces jangled in my wagon, not completely cleaned of the sea-salt or sand on which they had been broken. Their constant rattle sliced at my soul.

The calmness of Away & Beyond held no comfort. I wandered the streets and looked to the distance for any sense of peace. I shut myself away lest the burns send me mad, until such time as their pain had eased; I conversed with none. The last vestiges of my dreams I lay within the grounds of another temple dedicated to the gods of healing and left them there. There could be no greater loss if the pieces should remain as such and so I walked away, resolved to accept whatever outcome the gods saw fit. My soul, a broken and leaking vessel, was useless without these simple dreams.

I toiled despite my wounds, keeping them covered in the presence of my new acquaintances. No questions were asked, because none did know, what my Alexandria and I had suffered. At night, I prayed for Morpheus to spirit me to a place devoid of anything but blackness, taking a little of that sweet liquid the Christians strangely believe is magically the new god’s blood in order to buy a more restful night.

Finally, I was bade return to the temple and found the pieces of my dreams repaired. The damage was barely noticeable for some and I marveled at the skill of those who worked in the name of the healing gods. I was told the warmth of Apollo’s mighty orb would repair the remaining fractures and the brilliance would similarly return. The leaking vessel that was my soul they gave a salve and sent me back to the plains of Away & Beyond.

Now weeks hence, the fracture lines are almost healed. My soul no longer leaks and I am preparing to return again to my Alexandria. I have sent what supplies I could to help with the city’s repairs and have attempted to ensure that there remain no rebels within the confines of my Great Library, although I have no means of knowing if I have succeeded. Atlas, true to his word, has remained steady at my feet. The pieces of Egypt remain at my neck, the reminder that my Great Library still holds all its works and my Alexandria awaits my return. I count the days until I can sit on her shores, even briefly, once more.

This tale is still evolving even as the words are committed to paper. Each post is likely to be a chaplet (a dedication or prayer) in itself. You are free to share this journey with me, even as I know not where it will end.
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A tale from the base of Olympus – Parts Five & Six

Posted on April 7, 2012 by Watershedd
This is a continuation of earlier posts. Context is found in previous parts.

Part Five

I have stood at the end of the road, watching others haul their carts, laden with salvage away from the rising waters. The floods I had feared on this wide open plain have been realized. I made my choice to build at some distance from the river, too afraid of losing the little I have been able to keep from my Alexandria. I haul water in buckets rather than dig an irrigation channel, knowing that it will stunt the growth of my plants, limit the fruit. Everything is in pots anyway. I can load them onto my cart if I should need to leave. I’m not ready for the risks that come with acts of permanency, be they trenches for water or trees in the ground.

I watch the people of Away & Beyond, pitying them as they rush to save their precious belongings. But at the same time as pitying, I am envious. They have time. They have warning. The rains that fell for days on end further upstream have swelled the creeks and rivulets in a predictable rise, villagers along the length of the waterways being alerted by messengers from afar. And so, with warning, these people that I simultaneously pity and envy, have been able to take those belongings they most cherish, rescue those they love from the inevitable floods that have engulfed their open plains. They have lost their houses, will have to rebuild, but they have saved more than I.

Wariness is my bed mate now. I have prepared my cart in case the water rises any higher. I have surveyed my route of escape, set aside a little extra preserved food in case it is needed. The reality is that I will most likely be safe. The town clerks surveying the damage to the outlying areas have noted the water’s rise slowing and expect it will peak this evening, receding again on the morrow. But I have taken the warning to heart and I am ready leave if the water reaches my neighbour’s furthermost fence, even if others choose to stay.

Word of others forced to leave my Alexandria, even temporarily has reached me in my exile. The Great Library continues even though I have been forced to leave it in the care of others. It pleases me that my efforts have not been in vain. It is the one thing that makes living away from my cherished city of learning bearable. Away & Beyond is the only thing standing between saving that cherished knowledge and its loss for eternity.

The plains in Away & Beyond renewed by the rains and flooding waters will bear strong fruit, even for my potted saplings, although they will take another year or two before they fruit. I will need to transfer them to the grounds soon, I suppose, lest their roots become bound. This saturated soil being renewed with the silt carried on the river’s broken breadth will feed animal and vegetable alike well.

Planting, establishing roots. It’s inconceivable to my Alexandrian mind. To plant is to commit to new horizons I am not willing to accept as mine. I still see the sun rising over the broad ocean’s shimmer and set on the houses and hills so absent from the flat landscape I see now. I am not ready for this new world. I will wait a little longer and hope that the river’s waters stay away from all that is mine, at least for now.

Part Six

The day has been long, long but satisfying in Away & Beyond. Despite the turn of the seasons with the cooling days it brings I can see my labours bearing fruit. I am tired, but for once, once in some months, I feel satisfied. I permit myself the luxury of an apple, a pear from the fruiterer by the road. Their sweetness soothes my craving.

Others have moved back to their own homes, taking with them brooms to sweep out the debris left by the floods. I did not need to move afterall; Tyche spared me, this time at least. I’m not sure I would have survived another disaster and I give thanks at the city walls, even though I live beyond their bounds for it was the people of the city that saved the land near me. I stroll by the watercourse toward my abode once my thanks are made, watching the darkening sky. The night is still warm and my meandering along the drying banks shows me a beauty in the dim half-light I had not appreciated until now.

A messenger comes, cloaked to blend with the night galloping on blackest steed, the glint of his stirrups, the horse bit, the late notice of his approach in the moonlight. I expect him to pass me by on his way to some more important person in some grand abode; instead, he halts abruptly by me.

“Ariadne, you would be she? They told me to look on the plains to the south for the woman wearing a neck-band, green-blue as only Egypt fashions.”

My necklace, a gift I wear constantly given to me in my Alexandria. It is my constant reminder of my Great Library. “You saw such hues in darkened night from high upon you horse? The eyes of a eagle must be your gift!” I am wary. I am not well known here, too new, too laboured to have time to form close bonds as I’ve sought to re-establish some semblance of stability. The plains here are wide. How did he find me?

“I have traveled far, farther than you may expect, asking wherever I may for the woman so described. You are elusive; I was told you would be cautious. I bring you news from Alexandria.”

My heart stops. What news could be so desperate as to send me a rider from so far?

“Who are you, messenger and why do you seek me?”

“My name is Hermes. I have traveled by way of Rome and visited your Alexandria before seeking you under instruction of Atlas himself. He regrets the great upheaval his shifting position has wrought upon your city.”

Hermes. Atlas has sent one of his own line to speak to me? “A Titan, pitying my insubstantial human? Can it be so?” I do not realize I have spoken aloud.

“Even a Titan respects the honest of the earth. The gods know the damages caused by their supreme battles and sometimes note those deserving of their peace. We gods would cease to exist if there were none such as you, believing in our power. A little advantage now and then preserves our very being.”

Pieces on a chess board, that’s how most people think the Gods treat us. They move us where they see fit; to hardship, from safety, by pleasure, through pain. I wonder which I am being moved to now.

“The shifting that so shuddered your world has ceased, but there now comes another threat. The marauding plagues of vile darkness that once were content to watch from afar now gather to encircle your Great Library. They are cloaked in slime and seek to smother that which underpins truth and knowledge. It cannot be allowed.”

Pain. And hardship. Again. He has brought me pain and hardship. The satisfaction of my day has dissipated entirely and I sink to sit on a fallen tree. I know not what to do.

“So much for so long. It took millennia to build the Great Library, the resources and knowledge of eons are collected there. Why must others seek to destroy what is light and truth? Is a world where we all feel safe not to be?” I am frustrated, I am angry. These marauding hordes from some unknown threat have been seen at a distance before. I wish I had been able to neutralize them then. Keeping all in darkness is their way, for in that they seek to rule, destroying the legitimacy of the true Gods so they die when men turn their backs on them, when men cease to believe.

Hermes places continues. “You have time. And you have this.” He hands me a small laden pouch, the string drawn tight. Within, I find silver pieces. “A little weight to you hands, to help with the search. Use these pieces of Laurium well. Perhaps you will strike gold and save your Great Library.”

Save my Great Library. With silver from the fabled mine. I only hope I will not be using them pay Charon instead. I look at the watercourse to my side and wonder if I will be returning to my Alexandria not to celebrate in its restoration, but to send custodians of my Great Library across Styx.

The messenger leaves me, no more said, disappearing into the woods. I remain on the mound, wondering where to begin. I had dared to hope for renewal. It seems that I must first work still to save what remains before there can be any new growth. My Alexandria. It seems I will be home to visit sooner than I expected.

This tale is still evolving even as the words are committed to paper. Each post is likely to be a chaplet (a dedication or prayer) in itself. You are free to share this journey with me, even as I know not where it will end.
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Ovarian cancer, the silent killer

Posted on March 18, 2012 by Watershedd

I was not quite twelve when my aunt died. Ever watchful of her figure, a fastidious housekeeper and the perfect hostess in that 1950s full-skirted style, she accepted the changes in her body with a grace I have rarely seen in another. But grace only goes so far and once cancer hits a certain point there’s no denying that you are very, very ill.

Minnie was diagnosed with ovarian cancer at the start of the 80s. For sometime she’d noticed changes in bowel habit and lower abdominal bloating, but had been reassured by her doctor after various tests that there was nothing to worry about. It was not his fault; in that day it was so difficult to diagnose and the sensitivity of many tests was so much less than today.

By the time the cancer was diagnosed, Minnie’s disease was at a late stage. She persisted with the housework and cooking, keeping the most pristine living environment in spite of her treatments – and I do mean in spite, not despite. She did not believe she would die until the very end.

My mother was a nurse, molded in a cast of the classical Florence Nightingale figure. Having married Minnie’s brother our two families grew up spending a great deal of time together. Minnie held my parents first grandchild, but never saw her own granddaughter. The photograph shows a terribly cachexic woman with the most beautiful coifed hair beaming at the camera holding her grand niece in the flowing lace christening gown. She was so pleased to hold that child.

In 1982, Minnie’s health deteriorated dramatically. She did not wish to die in hospital, so Mum coordinated her home care, teaching Minnie’s family how to care for her. The doctor visited her at home when she became too ill to attend his surgery. Mum managed the drugs, especially the pain killers that became rapidly more necessary in her final days. In the wee hours of the morning the phone would ring. My mother would answer and whilst I was in my own bed supposedly asleep, I could here Minnie’s scream emanate through the earpiece. Not a word would be said to the caller as Mum simply hung up the phone and left the house. She would generally make it back in time to get me ready for school despite having driven halfway across Melbourne and was almost always home when I got back at the end of the day. During school hours, Mum was caring for Minnie as well.

In her final days, Minnie would sit in the sunroom at the rear of the house with her beautiful enormous German shepherd; it was the only room her adored hound was allowed into, a concession she made when she could no longer get down the steep steps to the yard. On Easter Monday of 1982, Minnie passed away. It left a hole in my father’s heart and a bond between him and his nieces that cannot be described. Minnie did not see her 54th birthday.

The reason I’m telling you all this is because now, thirty years later, the diagnosis of ovarian cancer remains as elusive as it did when Minnie was diagnosed. There is no definitive test. The disease occurs in 1 in every 77 women; for 75% of those women it will be diagnosed at a late stage, when the cancer has already spread to other organs. Radical surgeries that remove organs such as the uterus, bowel, bladder may be necessary, leaving the patient with a colostomy or urinary bag for the remainder of their life. Radiotherapy and chemotherapy are other treatment possibilities. And the saddest thing about this is that the disease, when caught early, can be curved in 80% of women.

Breast cancer has received enormous funding from so many sources and awareness has improved since the 1990s, making services and survival rates increase dramatically; but ovarian cancer, which shares some of the genetic risks factors with breast cancer, has gone mostly unnoticed. Women with the high risk BRCA1 and BRCA2 genetic mutations sometimes elect to have both their breasts and ovaries removed long before cancer appears. Research into these two gene groups provides data for both breast and ovarian cancer, but the publicity of ovarian cancer remains poor and the lack of a highly diagnostic, specific test remains the single greatest concern.

Ovarian cancer symptoms are subtle: changes in bowel habit, weight loss or gain, bloating, vaginal bleeding, back pain, nausea, indigestion, fatigue, urinary frequency, reduction in or loss of appetite. It cannot be diagnosed by a pap smear. Symptoms such as those described can fit a range of problems, from bowel cancer to irritable bowel, Crohn’s disease and just the vagaries of the menstrual cycle. But if your bodily habits change with no recognizable cause, you should be seeking advice from your doctor.

There are other factors that have been suggested in the development of the disease, that are still under investigation. Talcum powder used in the genital region is one of them. Rather than take the risk when having your bikini wax done, why not request that the beautician not use the talc? Other risk factors include the long term use of oestrogen only hormone replacement or multiple exposures to fertility drugs, obesity, a high fat diet and smoking. These are all things within our control. There are others that are not so much, such as a small number of or no pregnancies and Ashkenazi Jewish heritage.

What I want you all to take from this story is two things. Go to your doctor and push for answers if your bodily habits change and be sure an explanation is found that fits with your symptoms. Treatment should ameliorate the discomforts and be proof that you’ve found the cause. If not, ask the doctor to do further investigation. Secondly, get behind ovarian cancer research and fundraising. Until there is a definitive test women will continue to be diagnosed at a late stage and far too many women will die before they have the chance to hold their grandchildren. After thirty years, the fact this disease remains so poorly understood and vastly devastating is simply unacceptable. I’d like to see a definitive test before another thirty have passed.

You can find further information at Ovarian Cancer Australia.

This is not a sponsored post. It is, quite simply, a cause close to heart. Minnie suffered as no-one should suffer.

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A tale from the base of Olympus – Part Four

Posted on March 4, 2012 by Watershedd
This is the third chaplet in a series, a reflection and meditation on recent events.

The sun, blazing in a deep blue sky unmarred by wisp of cotton-cloud is searing everything its rays touch in Away & Beyond. Day after day I seek shelter from the scorching heat, behind walls, under trees. I can only work for short periods in the clay based soil before I must retreat to the shade again. I am not accustomed to this type of heat, this dry, unforgiving heat. The people here complain of humidity; they know not what humid is.

Others have siphoned off water from a small river winding its way across the plain. This is a good year they tell me, there’s been plenty of rain. And yet, the ground remains like concrete to my spade as I work to dig a hole deep enough to bury the roots of the trees that will provide my sustenance in the coming spring. It’s the wrong time of year to plant, I know, but with all I’ve left behind I am left with no choice. In the end, I decide that it would be better to grow the plants in pots for while. I hope someone is nurturing my orchard back in Alexandria. In reality, the fruit has probably been stolen from the trees or left to rot on the ground. I guess it doesn’t matter if I’m not there to enjoy the juice of the peaches I tended so carefully.

I’ve constructed a lean-to, fashioned from pieces that have drifted by. A piece of wood here, a length of canvas there. One or two things have been provided to me and I am grateful; I expect no-one to offer me anything other than what I earn through my labours. So many others have been forced to leave their homes with so much less than I; they have nothing salvaged. I at least have my loaded wagon. I wonder how the others here with so little will survive the winter’s ice in just a few months time. I see what they endure now and realize just how close I have come to sharing their fates. I will not allow that to happen. Industry has become my ethos so that I can rebuild my Alexandria and return to my beloved Great Library. I am told that the scrolled parchments and shelves of learning stand safe for now; my efforts put in place before departing have apparently prevented the cherished learnings from being damaged by the tsunami’s salty seas. I am relieved. And grateful. I only railed against the gods in my despair; I am fortunate I was not smite for my insolence.

One month gone and I survive. The next awaits, but a day away. And at its end is the promise of return, brief as it will be, to my Alexandria. How much of what I left behind will remain? Will the daphne flower in the shifted soils, will the wildlife have returned? I’m considering planting some bulbs in autumn’s cooler days so there will be some colour and life in the spring when I again return. With so many of the larger trees ripped asunder by Atlas’ spasm it’s only the smaller plants that will decorate the broken city I still call home come September. Perhaps others will return to visit too and see the colour and we can share a feast beneath Apollo’s mighty orb until his quadriga draws it westward and cedes to Hesperus.

I suppose I am not so dead inside, for I still dream the possibilities …

This tale is still evolving even as the words are committed to paper. Hence, this is the third post of a series of unknown total and frequency. Each post is likely to be a chaplet (a dedication or prayer) in itself. You are free to share this journey with me, even as I know not where it will end.
Posted in Alexandria, Art, Love, Matters of the soul, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

A tale from the base of Olympus-Part Three

Posted on February 11, 2012 by Watershedd
This is a continuation of an earlier post. For context, read Parts One and Two first.

Part Three

So you’ve come for me, Kairos; there is no avoiding you anymore. Your wings beat slower than I expected … a modicum of compassion on your part perhaps … and yet still, you’ve come too fast. I should be grateful, am grateful and yet the hour of parting is no less painful for the delay.

The ruins of my Alexandria have found a semblance of order, stone grouped in piles, the remaining columns reinforced to stabilize their once robust stature. Curtains and bedding not damaged when the great Titan shifted his stance have been packed or given to others. Goodbyes exchanged, I must now walk into my desert of denial and remake my life with the acceptance you have forced upon me.

The ocean’s tide is rising, rushing for the sand. I knew it would come. And yet, I know also that even without trying, I will evade the crushing blows that I had expected, had hoped would take the remnants of my soul so that I would not have to begin again alone. The tsunami of grief I so wished to welcome will batter and swirl at my knees as I wade slowly forwards to the dry plains of Away & Beyond.

My salvage is buried. I took the pieces a week ago and placed them in their jeweled box, the hopes left in the depths of my pretty box, now the source of such sorrows. I may have played with fire, but it was not I who opened the box and let the joys escape. And much as Zeus felt anger for the theft of his power, so I feel for he who betrayed my trust, tricking Atlas into shifting his stance.

My wagon, battered and worn by your brother Chronos is loaded only with the essentials. With no roof to my head I see little point in moving all I’ve salvaged to Away & Beyond. I’ll return when I have secured the few necessities I carry inland in some sterile structure that will become my new abode, devoid of the memories, love, peace that a home must absorb. Any ghosts at the windows or rattles at the doors will be nothing other than memories of another’s past; the house will have to absorb my life before it can ever be my home.

Yes, I know I must go Kairos. Patient have you been, graceful even as I’ve refused to acknowledge your approach. You cannot blame me for digging my heels in, you know. But you are only the bearer of the moments, not the hand that fashions my destiny. The Moirai may have spun and measured out the thread of my life, but even they must cede to my choices; even Zeus cannot interfere with man’s will. And so, I choose to meet you face to face, Kairos, an ally not a thief, even if I am reticent to go with you.

Give me my lantern, hand me my staff. It is time to leave my broken Alexandria. Take me before I lose this reluctant conviction, Kairos.

This tale is still evolving even as the words are committed to paper. Hence, this is the second post (third chaplet) of a series of unknown total and frequency. Each post is likely to be a chaplet (a dedication or prayer) in itself. You are free to share this journey with me, even as I know not where it will end.
Posted in Alexandria, Art, Love, Matters of the soul | Leave a comment

A tale from the base of Olympus-Parts One & Two

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 gaze at your Lighthouse, or will you be forever lost to me by the vagaries of a single Titan’s weary body?

This tale is still evolving even as the words are committed to paper. Hence, this post forms the first and second instalment of a series of unknown total and frequency. Each post is likely to be a chaplet (a dedication or prayer) in itself. You are free to share this journey with me, even as I know not where it will end.
Read Part Three.
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