To Gather the Minds of Men Out of Their Brains

It’s holiday time in Australia – something that millions of people from third world countries possibly have no concept of. In news items, movies and docos we see of war-torn, poverty-stricken nations, populated with the starving, infirm, motherless, spouseless – at menial work, or begging on the streets to make or glean enough to stay alive.

Here in Australia we put up social media posts about our joyful and abundant festive seasons – family gatherings, sumptuous spreads, children dressed as angels and shepherds, presents piled high under twinkling Christmas trees. Is this how the world sees Australia? Truth be known, this picture is probably not the norm. There is much that goes on in our country too that is way below this idyllic picture.

Having said all this, I am about to tell you of a couple of my recent (Australian) holidays. Naturally I would prefer to have had a cherished partner at my side but next best thing is close family or friends, or maybe both. OR maybe none.

Soon after I lost Warren, I hit the road by myself. Pushed through the pain barrier after having been joined at the hip for more than fifty years come rain, hail or shine.

I haven’t travelled alone for a couple of years. It’s fun to be with friends and family but it leaves no room in your head for deep, quiet, creative contemplation. This is taking me back to one of my favorite poems – Walt Whitman’s ‘Song of the Open Road.’ It’s a long poem and I have written extracts from it before. But here are a few lines that depict well the virtues, for me, of being on the open road –

‘Allons’ (French for ‘Let’s go’) ‘to that which is endless as it was beginningless
To undergo tramps of days, rests of nights
To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach and pass
To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach and pass
To look up or down no road that doesn’t stretch and wait for you
however long
To see no possession but you may possess it
enjoying all without labor or purchase
abstracting the feast yet not abstracting one particle of it (I love this line, meaning feast for the eyes)
To take the best of the farmer’s farm and the rich man’s villa
the fruits of orchards and flowers of gardens
To carry buildings and streets with you afterwards
wherever you go
To gather the minds of men out of their brains as you encounter them
To gather the love out of their hearts
To take your lovers on the road with you
To know the universe itself as a road
as many roads
as roads for travelling souls.’

When you’re travelling alone, you see and experience all this, and have time to think. Or you can sit in a cafe or a park and watch people. You can gather stories about them – in the way they dress, the paraphernalia they carry with them, their body language, the joy, love, bitterness or sadness in their eyes. There is no noise from someone next to you and you can stack up these observations in your memory, for later – for writing, or for your continuing understanding of the human beast.

So I travelled in October to Kangaroo Island, with family. My brother has just recently bought a cottage there, at Island Beach – about 16 kms south-east of Penneshaw. He has loved Kangaroo Island for decades – a love born of idyllic times spent there in my mum’s cottage as a young bush-loving, sea-loving creative, through the seventies and eighties. He has been looking for the right holiday house there for years.

My sister and I drove down to Cape Jervis where we caught the ferry on a perfect day – blue sky, calm sea, twenty six degrees. Our brother and his partner were there at Penneshaw to meet us and take us to his new holiday habitat. Island Beach is a unique little hamlet – unassuming dwellings dotted throughout the bush amongst the sandhills. You feel isolated, until you gain some height and see the settlement spread out before you. The first evening there, we took our chairs, champagne flutes and a bottle of bubbles to a spot – not fifty metres from our place – that overlooked the houses in the scrub and the sea. Each of us bush-lovers, we chatted a little, but took long, quiet draughts of the heavenly bush and sea air as well. Then back down to the house for a meal of fresh King George whiting with a crisp green salad, a biting cold Riesling, and the hilarity that is emblematic of our family, particularly with a glass or two of wine under our belts.

Next day brother Dale took us for a long drive. A third of the island is national park with rugged, spectacular landscapes and an amazing diversity of wildlife.

We had lunch at False Cape Wines, about 10 kilometres from Island Beach. Scattered across the island these days are some exquisite world class restaurants, and this is one of them. Quality fresh food with fine in-house wine in an isolated bush setting was an experience amongst some of the best for me.

We drove to Pelican Lagoon across from American River and walked a stretch of beach there. It was an overcast, bleak day with not another soul in sight, but we rugged up and left our trail of footprints – not together. I think that when walking a beach with others, each has their own rhythm – for walking faster, or slower, or stopping altogether. There are things we see that draw us to a point. For me, maybe something that needs to be photographed – a filigree of seaweed draped over a pebble, a piece of driftwood with a faraway story to be imagined, or some sand ripples, well defined by the coming in and going out of gentle waves, and the glisten of sun on their wetness. Beaches have a therapeutic magic for me.

There were more days like this. With healthy appetites from these long daily walks, our evening meals would be hearty – intermingled with good conversation and laughter. A family sense of humour is an interesting phenomenon isn’t it?
Here is an aside – I am currently reading Sam Neill’s autobiography. I mostly read in bed at night. Last night I was reading his chapter on music. He mentioned some bands I had never really listened to, and he raved about them. There were several songs and a classical piece that he heaped accolades upon, as some of the best works ever written. I listened to them (always have my Spotify on hand) and thought ‘Sam, are you serious?’ They did nothing for me (except maybe Sibelius’s ‘Finlandia’). So it is perhaps the same with a family sense of humour. Outsiders may think us weird, to hear some of the things that amuse us, even crack us up. I love laughter. Strangely though, one would not think so to see most photos of me. I can rarely summon a carefree smile for the camera. I always look pensive. I guess that’s the way I look to the world, most of the time.

Well I’ve digressed a bit today. Was going to tell you about my other holiday – to the Coorong – one of my favorite places. But it warrants a lot of words which won’t have a place here today, as I want to put up another of my poems. To put one a month up here is a way of compiling them for posterity.

I’ve been thinking about the people of Northern Queensland who have suffered devastating floods – Christmas ruined for them. This poem was written just before the great floods of ’74. We were in Narrabri. It’s called ‘Narrabri Sunday.’ If you’re reading this on your iPhone, turn it sideways to read in the intended format

Narrabri Sunday

The hell-cat rain broke loose
strong-armed
offered me a lifeline
ravished me and urged me to break free

I yearned to walk in it
to let it permeate my clothes
my skin
the dank oppression of the laughless weeks gone by
until
I ran in it
and leapt
and scuffed through hour-old puddles
head held high
and eyes like embers
smiling
from the corners first
till fury-purged
I loosed my hectic grip

The sky moved as I passed and peered
into long shallow pools
and upside down it grasped my feet
and toppled me
into confused suspension
almost out of balance
as I walked on level ground

Chooks in old groups scratched in backward ardour
among the bygone peels and hollows
of their skew whiff
dung-packed
sag-wired
citadels

I passed a row of backyards
smoldering with deluged dump fires
lying almond-treed and half-mown-grassed
and keeping kittens peeping out of wood-piles
far from frolic

I saw a town boy
scurrying for shelter from the big hard drops
that heralded the next Niagara
trying not to muddy up
his dressed up jeans n things

I wandered to the river’s edge
and listened
to the crickets
frogs
the distant aggravation
of the township’s tribulation

Rain shone quick
on sun-smeared grasses
Beetles touched my languid hand

That’s all for today. Another year turning over very soon. I have some dreams and goals for ’24. Hope you do too. I hope that through the year I can share with you that some of mine have been achieved.

Warmly,

Sue

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