Bradman

This song has never resonated with me.

Talking in songs makes me shy.

So shy.

BUT – I have something to say about this song now, I have a place inside me that resonates with it.

Here are the first few lines of Paul Kelly’s song:

“Sydney, 1926, this is the story of a man, just a kid in from the sticks, just a kid with a plan.  St George took a gamble, played him in the first grade.  Pretty soon that young man showed them how to flash the blade.”

Last week I realised this happened in Petersham Park, not twenty metres from where I currently live.  The park itself is verdant, cool, home to kiddies, office types enjoying dappled sun on their lunch breaks, moreton bay figs, jacarandas, roses, clover, magpies, fruit bats, swallows, palm trees.  Petersham Park oval was opened in 1924, around the same time I think my small apartment block was built.  This morning I stepped out of my front door and imagined what it would have been like over 80 years ago.  Probably not much different.  On weekend mornings I lie in bed with the Malteser sound asleep behind me, his face buried in my neck, and I listen to the action on the oval.  As the morning moves on, the ages of the cricketers grow…voices change from alto squeals to baritonal bellows.  I try to imagine what it may have sounded like on the cricket pitch back then and decide it probably sounded exactly the same.

When I was a kid I was obsessed with books about girls travelling through time…Playing Beattie Bow, Eureka Street, Charlotte Sometimes…I occasionally still indulge these romantic thoughts when walking through the Rocks.  I’ve started indulging them here at home.  I imagine stepping out of my apartment in 1926, seeing the same trees that I see here in 2010, seeing the men gathering on the field in front of me and not knowing that the beginning of a remarkable career was about to take place.

Some photos for you:

We don’t do street signs in Petersham, we embed them into the sidewalk.

My little housie.

An avenue.

Another avenue.  We are crazy ape BONKERS for them in the ‘Sham!

Rotunda

Beautiful little rusted out birds.

Is it a rotunda, is it a cathedral?  Who can say.  Probably me.  But I won’t.

All palings lead to rotundas.

I think these are the cheap seats.

No, wait.  Those are the cheap seats.  Down near the fence.

Petersham Park A Reserve seating.

Petersham Park AA Reserve.  NOT ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS RESERVE.  Ploise.  We don’t do that here in Petersham.

The grandstand.  I need to come over here on a Saturday so I can get inside…

The walk.

 

 

 

Beggar on the street of love

- “I can’t sleep after the show”

….a line from the song previously written about, but totally appropriate to my current life.  I get home at 10.30, exhausted and wired.  A strange mix.  The show I’m currently working on is fantastic, and the final 10 minutes where I get to stand on stage and smile back at a giant room full of beaming, happy, elated faces gives me enough of a buzz that it takes me hours to wind down.  I usually creep around the house, trying not to wake anyone up, rifling through cupboards for snacks, watching the first 15 minutes of the Letterman show (the only bit worth watching).

But I thought I might write a bit more tonight, instead of my usual mooching.

I’ve decided that while I’m writing these little posts about the songs I’m not going to initially find them in my library and listen to them.  I’m going to sit in my body and see how it hums the ones that it wants to hum.  So when I read the lyrics for Beggar on the street of love today, I actually didn’t hear Paul Kelly’s voice.  I heard Jenny Morris’s.  Let me tell you, that bird is seriously underrated.  Please.  Please.  If you haven’t quietly lost your shit somewhere to The Day You Went Away, then you have a heart of coal.  Don’t argue with me, cos it’s pretty much the truth.  Her version of Beggar is so full of not just longing but exasperation.  And that’s what I love the most about it.  Until The Malteser took me under his wing, before he picked me, I was absolutely this lady on this street.  Jenny would sing to me in my 1983 Mazda and I’d think yes, Jenny, I’m right there with you.  Someone needs to cut us a fucking break and hold our hand.  And give us a little kiss on the cheek.

But I have all that now, so her longingdrenched version of this song is a reminder of what I wanted and what I have now.

It’s been a good day for me and cover versions.  I listened to a lot of Aretha Franklin today, and here are some more covers you should really get into.  She really is the high priestess of covers.  Here’s what you need, in no particular order:

• Son of a Preacher Man (simmering, brooding, soaking)
• I Say A Little Prayer (the best version of this song ever, hands down.  No arguments welcome.)
• Border Song (Holy Moses)

After The Show

I don’t know this song at all, so I thought I’d type the title and Paul Kelly’s name into YouTube to have a listen. Apparently YouTube doesn’t know it either, because it suggested that this might be close to what I need:

Ummm… hmmmmm. Ya.

I won’t write many posts about the songs I don’t know, but the YouTube suggestion was too good to not post! I’m gonna sew some pants now, and listen to Aretha and Otis.

Paul Kelly A-Z aka Thank You For The Music

When I met Paul Kelly last year, it was kind of a big deal.  For me.  And for my best friend Ellen, but not really for anyone else. Saying you met Paul Kelly is like saying you saw Tim Rogers playing kick to kick with himself at the Alma Rd Park.  It happens.  But I’d never met him, and I’d moved to Sydney and happened to be back in Melbourne playing Schoenberg at a fundraiser for a hospital in East Timor.  And he was there with his lovely lady, who I know from singing circles.  She asked about my move to Sydney and why I’d done it.  As I swallowed down the end of my tiny party sandwich I looked at them both and thought that of all the people I didn’t know, here was someone I wouldn’t have to make things out to be better than they were.  So I said it.

“I was in love with a guy who lived in Sydney and I thought that if we lived in the same city it might work out, so I moved and it went to shit before I even got there really, but I’m there now, so I’m gonna give it a crack.”

I’m not sure I was ever that honest with my friends about my moving away.  Paul and his lady smiled and Paul said “I think that’s how most people end up in Sydney.” I know it was probably just a really nice man saying a very nice thing, but it suddenly felt like I wasn’t one silly girl, a trailblazer for fuck ups the world over, but just one member of a very populated club of grand proportions – people fucking up in the name of love and lust the world over.  And not only that, but people turning fuck ups into better situations.  It was a small moment, but it was good. 

And then we went inside and I sat down at a giant Steinway in a tiny parlour and played Schoenberg.

Today I finally got my paws on a copy of Paul Kelly’s memoirs, How to make gravy.  As I scan through the song lists, I realise just how much his music and lyrics have worked their way under my skin.  To Her Door reminds me of the Hartz Mountains in Tassie, From St Kilda to Kings Cross of the Townsville Strand, and Adelaide reminds of Adelaide.  Natch.  I’ve been thinking about Paul Kelly a lot this year, and listening to him a lot, and contemplating dropping him a line to say thanks.  But that seems a bit fan-ny and not really my speed.  So I thought that while I’m reading How to make gravy  I might write responses to the songs  I’ve never been able to get away from.  I read the first two songs this afternoon, sitting in the sun at Petersham Park (where Don Bradman scored his first professional century), across the road from my beautiful apartment, surrounded by rosellas and kookaburras, kids leaving the Fanny Durack Memorial Pool (who was this bird?  Why do I need to remember her?), girls tanning on the cricket oval (no groundskeeper to be seen today), mongrels chasing balls, jackarandas and roses in bloom.  I am feeling lonely today, but I know that this would not be rectified by my having everyone I love around me.  Everyone in my family has days like these, a possible genetic trait I hope I don’t pass onto my children.  I am learning how to ride these waves, how to not fight them, to struggle against the tidal motions of my emotional life.  I swallow the lump and read about Adelaide.

Adelaide

Whenever friends from my classical music world talk about Adelaide, they invariably invoke the expression and tune of the Beethoven lied, Adelaide.  Except it’s pronounced ”adel-i-eeda.” And there’s an umlaut somewhere, one of those double dot things that sit above a vowel.  Don’t ask me where, I don’t know where.  Maybe above the i.  So I always feel a tiny sense of betrayal when my mind, instead of being instantly drawn to Beethoven, is drawn to Paul Kelly’s song.  The thing is, I don’t really have much of a connection to the place.  I’ve done some gigs there, stayed in amazing hotels where they brought me tiny pots of honey and asked how I wanted my eggs cooked.  I’ve walked along the poor excuse for a river (I don’t even know what it’s called) in the pouring rain with precious friends old and new, eaten the best of food and the absolute WORST.  I’ve gotten riotously drunk and had childhood heros of mine say to me: “you’re all types of wonderful, aren’t you?” Yes Phil Scott, I am.  If you say so, then I totally am.  I’ve partied pretty hard in Adelaide, but I don’t feel any affinity for the place.  But when someone mentions Adelaide to me, instantly I’m singing the chorus “Adelaaaaaaaaide, adelaaaaaaaaaide” like it’s 4am and I’m in the Macdonalds on Hindley St ordering two Fillet o Fish and YES I WANT A LARGE FRIES TOO.  I think the chorus does that to me.  If writing out the chorus to Adelaide was an aural test, I think I’d barely pass.  Those two beautiful downward moving lines.  How are they different?  Where do they go?  The memory of the melody is so vague in my mind, yet it’s rock solid. 

Me Me Me-Re-Do So. Me Me Re-Do-La So.

That’s what I think it is.  I know I could just go to a piano and bash it out, but I like the guessing and the confusion.  

A Meeting

My boat, my little boat, is as big as a washing basket and made of wood. No sail, no rudder, no oars. One hand holding onto each side, this is how I sit. Bobbing, bobbing, sometimes a wave slaps me but I’m not scared. It’s not a scary thing. In my minds eye I imagine what I look like. A thimble in a swimming pool.

My home is down over there. I can’t see it but I can feel it. I can always feel it, even when my thimble takes me across the world. Off in the distance I can see a different island. Tiny and green, green from the seeds and the straw in the mattresses on the ships that were broken on the rocks. And tiny because it’s tiny.

My mind is loose and my spirit calm when the ocean on one side of my boat starts to groan. Inhaling, sucking, splitting, my boat keens as I grip on. Stretching, bubbling, the water begins arcing upwards. I’m wet from the rain that’s suddenly appeared but when I lick my lips I find that the rain is salty. And then – an eye. Watching and waiting.

No warning, it feels like a storm hits my boat, giant waves come from nowhere and I almost tip over and I can’t feel the sun on my face, I look up and there are no clouds, no clouds at all, but what there is is a body, a big giant body, leapsailing over the top of me and raining down salty rain, a little piece of seaweed falls on my arm and then on the other side of my boat a sound like God has clapped his hands. And the rain pours down.

The pitching of my boat slows and I turn to look.

- Hi
- Hi there, I reply.
- Was that good?
- Ya it was pretty good.

He turns to look at the island in the distance then turns back to me.

- You see that island?
- Ya, I can see it.
- I’m gonna jump it.
- The island?
- Yeah, I’m gonna jump it.

I don’t know what else to say. We bob and watch each other. I shrug.

- Huh.
- Yeah. So I’ll see you later.
- Ya. See you.

The barnacles on his tail glimmer as I watch him disappear over the horizon.
And I sit in my boat, my little boat.

Bobbing bobbing bobbing.

Gary

I have to say that I don’t know my uncle Gary that well. For vast periods of my growing up years he would be interstate, riding his motorbike, working, and, I imagined, having amazing girlfriends with luscious hair and just the right kind of clothes that a biker’s girl should have.

When I did see him though, he got it seriously fucking right. The Christmas I was 9 I remember noticing how excited he was as he handed me my present. I hadn’t seen him for easily a year, and yet he managed to get me the best present of that years haul – plastic make it yourself jewellry. Beads I could string along, flat plastic tiles that snapped together to make any sort of fancy bracelet I wanted. My mind melted with happiness.

There’s a photo of me aged 13, wearing a smart denim/rugby top combo. Sitting in front of me is a cake. It’s in the shape of a grand piano. I can’t remember how he made the legs, but I remember that the lid was up – it was UP!!! – and that the stick for the piano lid was made out of a round chocolate wafer. My Uncle Gary had insisted on getting out of the car at the bottom of the driveway and walking its full, shitty, boggy gravellyness instead of risking going over a bump too fast and the cake piano lid slamming shut. my excitement and awe in the photo is palpable.

I didn’t see him for years again after this. I remember him coming to visit once with his girlfriend at the time. they blew my mind with their relaxedness, smoking, drinking beers, laughing, wanting to know what music I was into. I felt like I was hanging out with the cool kids. I WAS hanging out with the cool kids!

About a year later my Mum described to me taking Gary to the doctor for an appointment. he was in his early 30s, younger than I am now, and had just been diagnosed with MS. She described to me the obvious effort that went into his walking from the car to the waiting room and my mind screamed and twisted, trying to get away from or around the fact that my uncle wasn’t the untouchable god that I had thought he was.

Almost 20 years on and my uncle Gary continues to kick some serious ass. He and his fabulous lady live in the middle of Tassie in a sandstone cottage. I really only see him once a year now. I like seeing the herb garden. I like seeing his antique bottle collection. I like seeing him so relaxed and happy. I like seeing him.

This year, for the first time, MS Australia has begun an adult version of the MS Readathon called the Novel Challenge. My goal is to raise $2000 so that other dudes like my fabulous uncle can have an easier time of it. Please take a moment to click on the link. Even $10 will help me achieve my goal. For cake makin, jewellry wieldin uncles, aunts, cousins, mums, dads, friends, etc… please donate!

http://register.thenovelchallenge.org.au/The-Novel-Challenge/Hods/&utm_source=Facebook&utm_medium=Share_My_Page&utm_campaign=Adult_Readathon

Two haikus for youse

2009 In Review:

many risks taken
who am I? what’s important?
love made and love lost

My New Job:

hey, I’m the boss, man
I can’t believe it either
but a fact’s a fact

Facebook

hmmmm…. I spend a lot of time on it. And I’d like to spend less. I love my iPhone so much, and I think I have genuine reasons for loving it (hello maps, hello metronome, hello bus/train timetables), but I haven’t loved how hooked on facebook it’s made me.

These are some of the things i’ve given up for Lent in the past:

- tuna
- diet coke
- celibacy (that old chestnut)
- sugar
- chocolate

….. there’s myriad other things I’ve given up in the past, but I can’t remember them. I’m no christian, and I change my mind almost daily about god , but I do love a Lenten clean out. I had a friend at school that gave up her favourite Andy Preboy song. Everytime it came on the radio she had to switch it off.

My heart raced as I deleted Facebook from my phone tonight, and that made me think I’ve probably done the right thing. My brain turns to mush when im on Facebook, and i think i could be feeding my grey matter more nutritious arrangements. You, dear reader, will hopefully reap some benefits from it. I’d like to spend my newly discovered free time reading, sewing and writing. And recital planning.

I’ll see how I go…..

Physical Altercation/Sordid Double Life

As the corner of the table rushed to meet the curve of his skull, he noticed coffee cup rings stained into the laminate.

Couldn’t they afford coasters? The table ploughed through his skull to the soft mousse underneath, and he thought about the coasters he and his wife had bought on their last trip to Tasmania. Huon Pine.

Eyes glassing over, profanities and moans in the background, he thought of her. He thought of her.

A story based upon earlier conversations.

The music stopped, I punched the air and froze. Kim did too. Fuck he was good at air punching. High, low, whatever. Wherever the air needed to be punched, he could punch it and punch it good. A single bead of sweat ran down my nose, and I stopped myself from wiping it off. The tension in the room was so fucking electric that I didn’t dare move, for fear of breaking it. My arms were sore- I was playing on a shitty keyboard, Chain Reaction was a much harder piece to play than it looked, and I hadn’t been able to refrain from air punching in every quaver rest I had.

But now: silence. Silence apart from the heaving of mine and Kim’s chests. Michelle, standing in the corner, let out a single sob. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her body shaking with every cry she tried to hold in. She was exhausted. It was clear that she had the physical and genetic make required for air punching to Chain Reaction by Diana Ross, but none of the discipline, training or clarity of line that Kim had. Her sob made my eyes cloud over and sting- from sweat or tears I’m not sure -and I felt my legs begin to slide out from under me. Reaching for the Casio on the way down, I opened my mouth to apologised to Kim for ruining the moment when WHA?! I stopped falling. The arms enfolding me felt calm, assertive. Strong. Turning my head to see who my saviour was, my cheek grazed the rough denim sleeve of the jacket they were wearing, and my heart quickened.

Barack.

It was Barack, wearing the denim jacket that Kim had presented to him as I was setting up the keyboard. The colours of the puff paint Kim had chosen to decorate it with didn’t really reflect Barack’s skin tones, but Kim had spent so long at Century 21 choosing the jacket that by the time we got to the art supplies store they were all out of good colours. Easing me back onto my feet, he turned to pour me a glass of water, giving me my first glance at Kim’s artwork on the back of the jacket.

Grey Y, mustard A, cream Y, navy P, red R, brown E, grey Z, mustard exclamation mark. Although I felt a twinge of disappointment that the art supply store only had 6 colours left and not the 8 needed to write every letter in a different colour, Kim had still done a magnfiicent job.

Barack handed me the glass, but his gaze was at something across my shoulder. I turned.

Kim was still frozen in his final triumphant pose: fists in the air and a downward determined gaze. Did he mean to do this? His pose perfectly reflected the podium stance of Tommie Smith at the 1968 Olympics, and the symbolism of a young white man striking this particular pose in the boudoir of the Black House was not lost on me. I wondered if maybe we should have done Fight The Power by Public Enemy, but the opening eight bars of Chain Reaction provided such great opportunities for Kim to make a dramatic entrance from behind the beadhead, that I knew we’d made the right choice artistically. And besides, Diana Ross was black. Somewhat.

I was so proud. He was always so professional! So good at air punches, so good at entrances. And now, in amongst my swooning, my Casio scrabbling, he continued to hold his pose. I stared, Michelle stared, Barack stared, the other people in the line stared. I was especially nervous because I knew from our rehearsals just how long Kim could hold these poses for, and my hypoglycemia was starting to set in. The costume Kom had designed for me had no pockets, and while I knew it was risky not taking my almonds with me, I really had no choice. But I would need them soon.

Then. Pop. Kim’s head flipped up and his arms casually released down to his sides. The whole room gasped in shock and relief before erupting into whooping ad whistling. Kim’s smile was careful, enigmatic, but I could see the fire in his eyes. It had gone way better than expected, way better than last year, or the year before that. Barack and Michelle crowded around Kim, my Kim, smiling and asking questions about future appearances. I carefully wound up the power cord and slid the keyboard into its leatherette case with shaking, sugar deprived hands.

Kim caught my eye as Barack was bringing up the planner on his Blackberry and winked. His outfit caught the late winter afternoon sun that was streaming in through the windows. Silver, changing to green, reflecting purple.

It was the best President’s Day ever.