I sat here at my computer, in my office/writer’s studio, overlooking the farm that I love and have been a part of for so long, contemplating what I was going to share with you today. I wondered for a moment if anyone really cares. There is one couple – old friends – who tell me they look forward to my blog each month (thank you Dianne and Marco), and my Google Analytics tell me how many others read them, but I don’t know who or where you are. It would be lovely to know. I read something the other day to the effect that what we, as writers, write, stays behind when we leave. What we read, we take with us. A lovely thought.
I was looking up how many booksellers are now selling my book. The list seems to be growing, which never ceases to amaze me. People around the world are reading it. It thrills me that these readers from so far away are learning something of our country’s traditions, customs, characters, stories and landscape.
As I was browsing I saw that the titles of some of my blogs are out there, standing alone, on the internet. It was a strange feeling. So far, I’ve felt that my blogs are closeted within my own website, and that people have to concertedly visit it to read them. Now people can come across them just by typing in my name.
So I guess what I am doing as I blog, is preserving what I write. It will now always be out there – my contribution to the literary world, such as my scribblings are. My little mark. Before the internet, it would all still have been on paper and vulnerable to fire, flood, someone deciding, after my kids and I have gone, to bundle it up of one accord, and relegate it to the incinerator. Not for a moment do I think my kids would do that, but I can’t imagine any of my family having time to read through it all.
So if by doing this I am leaving a small mark, what would people like to read? About my life?
I am currently reading Archie Roach’s ‘Tell Me Why.’ It’s the open and honest story of his life. After his passing just a year ago today, Bhiamie Williamson wrote of him –
‘He gave us – and all of Australia – an image of an Aboriginal man, tender and humble. An image long denied us … Through his life, his dedication to Aunty Ruby, his devotion to his sons, his work with disengaged youth and his profound love for his people, Uncle Archie gave the nation an image of an Aboriginal man seldom found in the national psyche.’
For me, this being privy to someone’s personal and rich life, is a gift. The book is drawing me in, and along, at a rapid rate. We all have a voice. They are to be ‘heard’ in books like these, in all the wonderful stories, movies, documentaries to be seen on NITV, in paintings, in photography, in music. Archie’s song ‘Rally Round the Drum’ – written in collaboration with Paul Kelly – tells of his time in the boxing tents as a youth – coerced as he was, into doing it. He didn’t have the heart for fighting. But it is a poignantly beautiful song made all the more so for me, by having read of the time in his life it refers to.
So, what of my life at the moment?
I continue to reduce the clutter and trappings of the farm-yard. I was driving through the Adelaide Hills the other day, and stopped in Woodside for a stroll along the street. Came across a placard at the entrance to an interesting little lane-way. On it was written ‘The Warehouse – Antiques, Old Tools & Hardware’ – an absolute wonder-ground of old wares. Got chatting to the owner. Told him of my living amongst one hundred and thirty years’ worth of paraphernalia. Of course his interest was aroused. To cut to the chase he arrived at my property last week with ute and trailer. A nice bloke. We walked around the farm-yard for two hours, and his eagle-eye didn’t miss a thing. We made little deals along the way. I wrote down his offers. Not surprisingly these were not as high as I had hoped for. He is a business man and has to outlay money for things that may sit in his shop for months, or even years. I had to keep thinking I was making more than if I were selling it all as scrap metal. Not as much as if I were to sell them on FB Market-place but then I wouldn’t want a hundred people coming to my property to buy the hundred items he bought in one sweep. At the end of the foray, and after he’d left, I did have a couple of regrets. I was afraid of that. An old square galvanised bucket that I remember Warren feeding his pigs with, a huge hand-forged iron hook, and an old, rusty, ornate hinge. But then I reminded myself that when I’m no longer here, they would be moved on anyway. I’m keeping much. I want to create a museum area in one of the sheds. So much history here – from the farm’s inception.
I recently had an old friend from interstate staying with me. It was so nice to have some-one in the house with whom to talk, share a meal and a glass or two of wine. We went out and about in the Barossa, and I was reminded even more of what a unique and interesting place we live in. We went to a couple of the smaller wineries and chatted to the owner of one and manager of another. My friend has a hunger for knowledge around wine and wine-making. We visited the places where Warren’s people had first settled – charming and well-maintained clusters of old stone buildings and barns and even remains of small wineries – all embellished by huge river red gums and heritage gardens.
We went to the poetry reading I had been looking forward to when I wrote my last blog. Just a handful of poets in a cosy boutique winery – sampling the wine of the makers, being warmed by a wood-fire and best of all enjoying the camaraderie and poetry of odd fellows like me.
The two poems I read on the day I’ve already posted in previous blogs, so I will now try to find a new one to put up today.
Ok, so just picked out the first one I came across. A strange little poem written in the seventies, and probably inspired by someone like Allen Ginsberg.
MULTI-COLOURED TRAVELLING CAT
You see I knew this guy who had blown my mind
man really dragged me under
So I took myself up and thoughtfully ambled
to the musty crusty dusty den
of my psychopathic headshrinker
I laid myself down ‘pon the shabby upholstery
and began to babble
(quite coherently I’m inclined to think)
of a multi-coloured cat I had just observed
travelling in the rear of a Mercedes Benz –
a cat that knew of happy times
alley grime
nine-ish lives
and happy hippy pussy dives
I know it did
You should have seen the contented grin
that settled beneath those cat o’the world whiskers
My affable analyst
re-arranged the bottle-top collection
adorning his desk
but then remarked admonishingly
that these days one need not be wealthy
to own a Mercedes Benz
to which I randomly replied
Surely one need not be a Burmese cat
to belong to an all-out plutocrat
All for now my friends. If you’re reading this on your iphone, turn it sideways so that the poem’s format is as it should be.
A cold, wintry day here again – it is winter. My house is quiet as I write – save for the rattling of an old sash window, the barking of my dog telling me its time she ate – again, and the murmer of the fan delivering comforting heat from my wood fire. Methinks it’s time for a red.
Cheers for now,
Sue
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