Julia: a story

Welcome!

Spring delight

The first spring flush is passing now in the Adelaide Hills. I am trying to be diligent to remove spent flowers in the hope of a new flush in a few weeks’ time. I find it a challenge to manage that, weeding, fertilising, mulching and watering all at once! I don’t have a green thumb but I start each growing season full of hope.

The fruit trees are producing mixed results. Lemon – fabulous; one of the apples – very promising; nectarine – nothing at all after a serious infestation of aphids; apricot – a decent crop. Unforeseen disasters may occur, of course – growing things is a risky hobby.

Do you enjoy dreaming? I love it; it’s like reading without the book. Not always as satisfying but often intriguing. Today’s story is a drama that started with a dream I had.

Julia

He was looking directly at me as I stood in the phone booth, about to make a difficult call. He was the archetypal gentleman, from his well-cut suit and his neatly trimmed beard to the way he held his tall body with perfect ease and grace.

I banged the receiver down awkwardly and left the booth.

‘I hate strangers staring at me, ‘ I muttered, forced to walk past him to get to my room. Once I was around the corner, I ran, holding two thoughts at once. The first was to lock myself in my room and stay out of sight until I was sure he had left the premises. The second was his odd reply to my outburst: ‘I know what you mean.’

I knew who he was, though what he was doing in an ordinary London boarding hostel, I had no idea.

The hostel was pleasant enough, and I was one of the lucky two boarders who had ground floor rooms with big windows and a little patch of grass beyond the back door. I was careful to keep those big windows covered with their heavy drapes when there were strangers around, but as I slammed the door behind me and pushed the bolt, I realised that if I was to remain out of sight I had no time to close them again. I had opened them only a short time before to allow the rare sunshine in.

I heard his voice from my hiding place under the bed on the far side of the room.

‘Madam? Are you all right? I meant no disrespect.’

I could just see him as he stood on the little lawn, his handsome face filled with concern. I knew who he was and that he meant well, but I stayed where I was until he left.

Fate kept placing George and me in the same public locations for some months after that, as if London were too small for two strangers to not connect. I pretended not to see him on each occasion and, since I would not look at him after the first recognition of his presence, I could not know if he had seen me. Finally there came a day when we communicated, and for that I will be eternally grateful.

It was not fate that caused Wade to turn up at various junctures of my life. On this day, a brisk spring day with its usual dose of wind and rain, he ran into me as I left Sloane Square station.

‘Julia,’ I heard a voice say behind me. I froze.

He came around to face me, pushing me gently to the edge of the pavement where the eaves of an apartment block gave a little protection and the stream of commuters flowed past us without interruption. I stared at my feet, unable to think straight, which was typical when Wade was around.

‘You didn’t give me an answer after last time,’ he said. Even into the low voice he used to keep our conversation private, he managed to inject poison. I felt it leaking into me from my ears steadily towards my heart. I had no antidote; I just waited for it to take familiar effect.

‘You know my answer,’ I said, forcing the words from my lips.

But he knew my weakness. ‘You say that, but you’ll do what I say. If you don’t add my name to your account by the end of the week, I’ll make sure Alexa knows exactly what you did on the night she was conceived. Every bloody detail.’

Alexa was my five year old daughter, who lived in the care of my sister in a village in Devon. I didn’t put it past Wade to have worked out where she was, nor to tell a child things no child should know.

I had practised what I should say, but now I could not remember the words or any sense of how I could resist his threat. But before I was forced to respond, a third person joined us. George.

‘Is there a problem here?’ he asked in his fine English that made Wade’s private school accent sound common.

My fuddled brain had had no chance to plan for an event unforeseen. ‘He’s trying to blackmail me,’ I blurted, looking George in the eyes for the first time since our encounter at the phone booth. Then my eyes flew to Wade’s face and I blushed. Wade always made me feel that my actions were wrong.

Only this time it was Wade who did not know how to respond.

Before he could, George spoke again. ‘If anything suspicious happens in this woman’s life, ever, you will feel the full weight of the law.’ He looked directly at Wade for a moment that carried the significance of years, and then turned to me.

Handing me a business card, he said, ‘You can contact me any time if he gives you more trouble.’ Then he touched his right hand to his head in that ageless gesture of the English gentleman, and walked in the direction of all the other morning commuters. It struck me for the first time that George used public transport like the rest of us.

Wade found his words, and his venom. ‘Oh yes, he’s going to solve the sordid dealings of a bitch on the street.’ He had regained his usual place of power between us. ‘Who does he think he is?’

‘George Pennington, QC,’ I said, reading the card.

‘Some fancy lawyer type. He’ll have forgotten you by the time he’s finished reading the Times.’ He seemed to need to convince himself.

‘He’ll remember,’ I said. ‘We have met before. And he’s renowned for his memory of detail.’

Wade’s confidence was shaken, and in like measure mine was increasing.

‘You don’t know who he is, do you, Wade?’ I pressed. ‘He’s literally a QC – counsel to the royal family.’

And then I did what I should have done years earlier. I said, ‘Goodbye, Wade,’ and turned my back on him.

I walked in the direction George had walked, simply because he had; that was all the sense of direction I needed. Of course I did not see him. In fact, we never met again. Nor did I suffer further threats from Wade Chandler.

Have a happy November!

See you next time!

Claire Belberg

The case of Arthur: a narrative poem

Welcome!

westringia glabra - thriving

This spring is hotter than average. That’s really no news at all, given Adelaide’s renowned weather variability. And the Bureau of Meteorology said it would be the case. I just hope the tender new growth in my garden will not be as shocked as I am at temperatures in the 30s (Celsius) so early in the season. We have already had to start cooling the house with the evaporative system.

The other part of the BOM’s forecast was for wetter than average, but unfortunately they got that wrong. After a much lower rainfall in the winter just past, these hot days are beginning to use up our limited water supply. If the worst comes to the worst, we might even use the water we pay $1 million a day to produce in spite of having sufficient natural water available ever since the plant was opened two and a half years ago.

I’m working on doing more efficient watering this summer, using deep watering less often. I thought I was already doing that until I read about a Hills nursery and realised that ‘deep’ means the dripper system being on for many more hours than I had scheduled. Our water bill is never negligible, but my goal is to make the plants more drought-proof and use no more water than in the previous summers. Of course, I won’t know if I’ve achieved it until I get the bill at the end of the season…

Okay, enough worrying about possible futures. Right now I’m loving the vitality of the spring garden. Some of the plants I’ve been carefully nurturing for far too long are actually starting to thrive! I’m so happy with the westringias growing where nothing else copes that I’ve bought three more.

This month’s poem is a humorous narrative in blank verse. As usual, it has nothing to do with all that stuff you just read!

The Case of Arthur

The carousel slid bags and packs towards

a neatly dressed and bland-faced man. He claimed

a case with practised swing, then strode outside.

He caught a taxi home with rising hopes.

The man (his name was Arthur) took his time –

changed into trackies, brewed his fav’rite caf –

before he started on the joyous task

of sorting through the contents of the case.

A well-worn bathrobe Arthur thrust aside

to start the pile of items to be thrown.

The common stuff – holed socks and underwear

with sagged elastic – tossed, the out-pile grew.

But Arthur held his hopes in spite of these

poor specimens. He knew that treasure hides

itself in rags to mask the trail. He kept

his cool and checked each piece with measured pace.

Dress shoes, Van Heusen business shirt – all good

for keeping Arthur fitted out for work.

But wait! Inside the shirt was something firm.

He held his breath as wrappings fell away.

The prize! His searching years were done. He’d found

the willow-patterned plate for which he’d yearned.

His joy knew full expression:  Arthur sang

as he displayed the plate in pride of place.

His travel days were done, he told himself,

And gave the lucky suitcase to his niece.

But habits of longstanding keep their grip;

our Arthur missed the thrill of baggage claim.

So do not be surprised if, when you fly,

Your suitcase disappears without a trace.

Don’t say you haven’t been warned!

See you next time J

Claire Belberg

A Month On: the final poem of a trilogy

                         Welcome!

Absent - one rosella

Others may disagree, but I think this spring in the Adelaide Hills has performed a rare show of warming up gradually. This is a pleasant and wondrous phenomenon. Typically, Adelaide’s weather seems to know little moderation; it’s hot as, or it’s cold (by comparison). One can never adapt because the range varies so much, often changing the maximum temperature by 10 degrees Celsius from one day to the next, in either direction. Thank you, Spring, for a gentle introduction to the heat and dryness of a Mediterranean summer downunder.

The final poem of the trilogy 'The futility of attempting capture' is here unveiled. I have added the first two poems (in grey) before it so that you can easily read the whole set. Scroll down to the new one if it all seems too familiar!

Calling card

This morning I communed with a rosella

through the dusty glass of my window.

He perched on a swaying twig of bottlebrush,

seeking a companion

with the ringing call of his kind,

glowing red and orange in the sunshine.

Then he turned an eye towards me

and began bobbing and chucking like a budgie,

inquiring.

With gentle movement, talking and singing,

I sent him on his search with a blessing.

My friend rosella was, vividly tangible,

God’s calling card,

for I, too, had been looking for company,

responding to the song of the creator

and listening, heart open, to his words

as he blessed me on my way.

‘Oh Bobby’

I called him Bobby after that first visit

when he’d warmed my heart

and charmed my imagination with his antics of bird curiosity.

He returned to that lichened twig by my window

several times a day

and I determined to capture it,

to celebrate our friendship

with a photograph, framed

neatly by the window (now washed).

Friendship, huh.

‘Oh Bobby’ became the wail of my longing

as all that remained of every attempt –

me creeping close with the camera poised

while he watched with one eye,

twitched and flew before the shutter closed.

The best I managed was a blurry shot, claimed

in triumph

and accidentally erased the same day –

all that remained was the flash of colour as he retreated,

to return another time with

his luring call and practised nonchalance.

A month on

I imagined he was alone

because he was seeking, waiting

for the right one in this season

of mating and ritual.

Daily I heard the ringing ‘pip, pip’ of the mate-call,

daily I caught up the camera

to frame him in his rosella glory

arrayed just out of reach.

The calls sounded

and I stopped whatever I was doing:

‘This time…’

I have become the lover

at the end of your siren song,

You, wild and free, calling

Me, captive to the intent of a perfect picture, answering.

But your only reply

is that lichened twig where we first met,

quivering with your absence.

I'd love to read your stories of communing with wild creatures, so why not post a comment with your own story here?

Until next week…

Claire Belberg

Lucky Beanie

Welcome!

Already the grass is drying out in the absence of rain. As much as I enjoy the weather warming up (and it has done this quite gently this year, unlike the typical skip-the-middle-numbers temperature spikes), the yellowing as the season marches towards summer is a bit depressing. It gets harder and harder to water the garden enough (while trying to be responsible with our limited water resources), and the risk of bushfire increases. Still, if the possums and parrots don’t get them first, we do have wonderful summer fruits to look forward to. It’s difficult to be too sad about summer.

The story for this week is a quirky play on a song my daughters sang as a warm-up exercise for choir rehearsals. Let me know if you recognise the song!

Lucky Beanie

I pressed the end-call button on my mobile before I let myself go.

            'I did it! I got myself a gig at the Crooked Crown. It's my break, Seona! Do you know who hangs out at the Crown? Talent spotters for record companies, that's who!' I whooped and danced around our flat like a tribal, singing an impromptu tribute to my lucky gig beanie. I just knew that beanie would give me the edge I needed to become a famous singer-songwriter.

            Seona just smiled, the crinkles at the corner of her eyes revealing her genuine, otherwise unexpressed, pleasure. 'Oh, and thanks for the idea,' I mumbled. Seona doesn't say much, but she's so smart, what she does say is worth more than I can think in a week.

            I stayed up late that night finishing off a song I thought I'd debut at the gig. I spent the next two weeks planning and rehearsing my bracket. I made flyers and handed them out to my friends, hoping they'd turn up to boost the friendly numbers. I even told my parents ─ and then had to invent a good line to prevent them from coming. I knew they'd be proud of me, but performing to old folk whose idea of real music is a violin virtuoso in a painfully silent room doesn't bring out my best.

            I should've realised the dream was doomed by the way everything rolled along so easily ─ until Friday.

            On Friday I thought I'd pop by the hotel to suss it out. It's one weird place.   While I was there, I had a chat with the manager who, after some checking and rechecking, finally accepted that it was me who would be playing between nine and ten the next night, and that, in fact, I would be playing a twelve-string guitar and singing original songs, not doing a stand-up comedy act accompanied by a trombone. It's all good, I say.

            At home I pulled out my guitar ─ my favourite, still-paying-the-mortgage guitar ─ to find pale green and black slime all over the fretboard and dropping in lumps into the sound hole. Ah yes, the snack I'd packed for my last band practice and forgotten to eat. Fortunately avocado doesn't smell too strongly.

            Yep, it's all good. Then, as I cleaned the strings, the top E-string snapped. Hurried phone calls to the guitar-playing friends since the shops had shut by then. They'd open the next morning to find a large number of guitarists keen on buying spare E-strings because it turned out that none of them had one. And to make sure they didn't sell out before I rocked up, I camped on the doorstep from six in the morning. Only got moved on twice by the police and once by a drunk who thought I looked like his last landlady.

            By 9:03 I'd been told that the distributors were currently having difficulty supplying steel strings. At 10:03 I found the spare E-string I suddenly remembered I had. Why I had hidden it in a hiking boot remains a mystery. It's just a good thing I tipped up all my shoes in order to find my beanie.

            You've got to understand about my lucky beanie. It's as ugly as heck, murky brown wool mixed with something like sludge green in a rough fibre. It was once my Great Aunt Farula's. I remember the way her eyes sank into the layers of wrinkled skin covering her skeletal head ─ and the beanie she always wore, which I studied intently to avoid looking at her face. Somehow I knew when I inherited it that it was going to change my life.

            I hunted through all my shoes, all my drawers, the dirty washing, the ironing pile and the bags of clothes waiting to be sent to the refugees. I found the much-needed E-string, but not my beanie.

            It was getting dark. I sat in the cramped lounge of our third floor flat, looking around the room at every picture, poster, photograph and ornament as if they might turn into the mysteriously absent beanie. I was out of ideas. I was working hard to push aside the terrifying thought of appearing at the Crown, on this, the night of my big break, minus the beanie. Deep, agonised silence. My thoughts had collapsed into a soggy formless lump.

            Who knows how long I might have remained in this state if my beanie had not inched its way, with jerks and jumps, before my initially unseeing eyes. It was most of the way to the kitchen before eternity thawed into a distinct now.

            I pounced. My beanie screeched. I picked it up. It shuddered. I dropped it. My beanie had never behaved this way before. In fact, it had never behaved. What had gotten into it? I flipped it over ─ and stared, uncomprehending.

            Clinging to the inside was a jelly-like purple thing with tiny nose, mouth, limbs and claws. It quivered but it wouldn't fall out no matter how hard I shook the beanie. I turned the beanie inside out; the purple creature stretched to cover what was now the outside. How dare it take over my lucky beanie! I put it under the tap, first the cold, and then, with a rush of jealousy, the hot water. It made no difference, other than the thing spraying me like a dog shaking to get dry.

            The time was nearing seven. I had to eat, dress, and catch a bus to the hotel by eight-thirty. I left the beanie on the kitchen bench while I prepared some food I had no appetite to eat. I wondered whether Seona would come home, turn up at the hotel, or spend the evening in the library as usual. I cooked her some fried rice anyway.

            I made a crucial decision while I was eating: I would wear the beanie, even with the purple creature inside if it came to that. The beanie hadn't moved for ages. Maybe the thing slept. Maybe it had gone when I wasn't looking. Anyway, I didn't have to wear the beanie until I played, so I stuffed it into my backpack.

            By 8:35 I was at the Crooked Crown. Not a lot of people yet. Which ones were the talent scouts? Couldn't tell, so I searched for faces of friends. Couldn't see any. I dumped my gear at a table near the corner where a couple of guys were playing bass guitars and singing tunelessly. I sat at the bar with a Coke, taking in the smell of stale beer and the distant clatter of poker machines, trying to tune into the mood of the place. Not much mood; everyone was ignoring the musicians. Good, I thought, they'll be fresh for me. I couldn't wait to get started.

            When I returned to my gear, I thought for a moment the backpack had moved. I intercepted a look from one of the bass players, whose gaze returned to the pack just as it lurched towards him. I looked inside, acting nonchalance. Everything seemed as I'd left it. The beanie was still and silent again.

            The guys finished their bracket to a few slow claps, packed up and pushed through the drinkers. I took a deep breath, said a prayer, and moved into the corner to set up. A couple of friends turned up, and sat at my table.

            'Hey, Jodie,' boomed Sasha. 'Looks like Mara's about to play. Should be a great show!' He winked at Jodie.

            I stepped up to the mic quickly. 'Good evening, all. My name's Mara Simbaya, and I'm going to entertain you with some of my original songs. I hope you'll enjoy them. I'll be around afterwards for a chat. So lean back and feel the flow of good vibes.' I pulled the beanie over my dark hair, strummed some chords and launched into an old favourite. It felt good, and the crowd settled to a quiet hum of contentment, while Sasha and Jodie clapped and cheered.

            As my confidence gained momentum and the audience seemed to be eating out of my hand, I tried a few one liners as I moved between songs. They went down well. But in my fourth song the mood shifted. The crowd were watching me closely but they seemed distracted. My song wasn't reaching them. Sweat trickled from my forehead into my eyes; my confidence leaked away. How had I lost my audience? And my best songs were yet to come.

            'Oh my God!' Jodie screeched. 'It's moving! Look at the beanie!'

            Her words drew me out of a desperate focus on the song to the strange sensation on my head. I realised it had been happening for a while. My hair was being nibbled and tugged, accompanied by a squelching sound. I quit strumming to peal the beanie off, intending to throw it aside. It wouldn't budge. I finished the song, and tried some banter into the microphone while I wrestled with my beanie, subtly at first, then with growing urgency. It was beginning to hurt.

            My audience was laughing, clapping and throwing comments to me. Sasha and Jodie had slunk away. I had attention; I wished I was invisible.

            Seona! I saw her at the edge of the crowd. I tried to telegraph her with my eyebrows to come and help me. She saw, watched some more, and then began an infuriatingly calm progress towards me. Nobody rushes Seona. When she reached my side she whispered, 'It's a purple people-eater. Loves hair. Very rare. I borrowed it from the laboratory but I've got to return it on Monday.' She slipped her hand under the back of the beanie, flicked, and removed the beanie without too much of my remaining hair being pulled out. I was free.

            I could feel the heat of the lights on a patch near my crown. I resolutely continued my bracket, but I had no energy for performing, and the listeners drifted away. The last twenty minutes dragged. I couldn't satisfy the half-hearted calls for jokes; I couldn't think. When the feature band of the night moved to take over, I fled to the bathroom. I couldn't see it but I felt a bald patch on the top of my head, and the slight dents of teeth marks in the tender flesh.

            I tried to sneak out the back way, but the manager caught me by the kitchen door.

            'It might have worked better with a trombone,' he said, his droopy eyes flicking past mine, cold as a lizard's. I left without answering. What can you say when your dream dies at birth?

* * *   

That was last week. Last week, last year, time frozen in eternal wastelands.

            I visit Seona at her laboratory on my way to the city, offering to donate the traitorous beanie to support her research on irritating jelly-like creatures.

            'So what's your plan?' Seona asks as she stares at the beanie, which still has a skein of my crinkly hair attached to it. I can see her mind is somewhere else.

            'Some woman rang and asked me to meet her at the Blue Fish Café for lunch. She didn't say much, just said she had an offer she wanted to put to me. No idea what it's about, but I haven't got a life anymore, and, hey, it's a free lunch.'

            Seona is with me now. She's grinning. She knows something I don't ─ so what's new? Her smile stirs hope in me though.

She offers me the beanie. ‘You’ll be needing this, Mara.’  

Until next week…

Claire Belberg

'Oh Bobby'

                   Welcome!

gelder roses

The garden is flourishing this spring. Blooms are larger, more voluptuous than they have been for some years. I would like to think it was because of my attentions, but I suspect it’s mostly two years of adequate rains and milder temperatures. The gelder roses have never been such an impressive size. I hope the conditions continue to favour my new plants, replacements for the many we lost because of drought and water restrictions. If I have chosen well and been faithful in establishing them, the new plants will thrive when the next drought comes – an Australian certainty.

This week we have the second poem of the trilogy, ‘The futility of attempting capture’. The first poem is also shown (in grey) so that you can see the first two parts together. Stay tuned for the final in a fortnight (and an unrelated story next week, for those who prefer fiction to poetry).

Calling card

This morning I communed with a rosella

through the dusty glass of my window.

He perched on a swaying twig of bottlebrush,

seeking a companion

with the ringing call of his kind,

glowing red and orange in the sunshine.

Then he turned an eye towards me

and began bobbing and chucking like a budgie,

inquiring.

With gentle movement, talking and singing,

I sent him on his search with a blessing.

                 

My friend rosella was, vividly tangible,

God’s calling card,

for I, too, had been looking for company,

responding to the song of the creator

and listening, heart open, to his words

as he blessed me on my way.

‘Oh Bobby’

I called him Bobby after that first visit

when he’d warmed my heart

and charmed my imagination with his antics of bird curiosity.

He returned to that lichened twig by my window

several times a day

and I determined to capture it,

to celebrate our friendship

with a photograph, framed

neatly by the window (now washed).

Friendship, huh.

‘Oh Bobby’ became the wail of my longing

as all that remained of every attempt –

me creeping close with the camera poised

while he watched with one eye,

twitched and flew before the shutter closed.

The best I managed was a blurry shot, claimed

in triumph

and accidentally erased the same day –

all that remained was the flash of colour as he retreated,

to return another time with

his luring call and practised nonchalance.

Until next week…

Claire Belberg

Waiting, watching

Welcome!

Native hibiscus (alyogyne)

It’s a wonderful thing that the spring-flowering plants don’t change their minds like the weather. Can you imagine if all the flowers of camellia, wisteria, flowering fruits, and Australian native plants like the pictured alyogyne, westringia, prostanthera, etcetera opened on the sunny days and hid on the cloudy ones? Those would be particularly dismal days. But the flowers, having made their choice to bloom, go boldly onward.

These changeable days are for living as much as any other day, but they also seem to say, ‘Wait and watch! Summer is coming.’ The ‘stream of consciousness’ poem below is not about spring but it plays with the same idea, as the name suggests.

Waiting, watching

           

Sun bright

on my paper, pen shadowed

in sharp relief.

            DON'T WALK

Man with sunglasses waiting

at traffic lights, craning

to see the sign,

waiting

jiggling.

Gleaming silver cars stop.

            WALK

towards stunted plants in terracotta

brown-tipped leaves sparse

trapped, collecting fumes

memorial to a million passing cars.

Nature inserted at strategic points.

            DON'T WALK

I chose this place

sitting in the sun, watching.

Eating quiche and salad with a view

justifies spying,

plate glass window my screen

between the world walking by

and my curiosity

            WALK

Old man totters

jaywalking up the road,

just a few steps closer to the post office,

while drivers wait,

tapping.

            DON'T WALK

Sun intensifies through glass,

melts the chocolate waiting for me

on the saucer of vienna coffee.

I eat sporadically,

write quickly to capture

images, and snatches of thought they inspire.

Lettuce and balsamic vinegar ─

      whatever happened to iceberg and vinaigrette?

Wilted image, names without lyric ─

now we have rocket

                                    oakleaf           

                                                   mignonette ─ but no crunch.

            WALK

A shopper strides past my window, staring in,

the watcher watched

           
But I was eating, not writing,

wrestling to fork leaves with no crunch.

            DON'T WALK

My mouth waters, waiting as

food falls from my fork, splattering into balsamic puddle,

soggy, tangy carrot

browned off with vinegar.

And the quiche, enticing,

tasteless.

            WALK

Young legs in black stockings,

two girls saunter in unison,

tartan skirts short-changed

like their hours of schooling

this winter's day.

            DON'T WALK

I watch from the corner of my eye;

'uniforms' but

not the same shape

not unformed

not anonymous

my daughters' peers.

            WALK           

Ah, there's the bank's security man

on his lunch break,

sees me ─

knows me?

Does familiarity compromise integrity?

            DON'T WALK

I remember.

I remember this place

this piece of ground

used to be Penno's Hardware,

boots and wheelbarrows,

meet your neighbours on Saturday morning.

Now a coffee shop changing

ownership as regularly

as the traffic lights its windows frame.

            DON'T WALK

Time

to drink that waiting coffee.

Sure enough, the chocolate

has melted onto the sun-warmed spoon,

wasted on the paper doily.

I lick the spoon,

lick the inside rim of the latte glass,

wasting nothing;

wasting no memories,

holding them in the sun,

tasting them again ─

more satisfying than coffee and chocolate.

Coffee gone.

Chocolate eaten.

Fingers licked.

Warm in the sun

Lights change, cars stop, people cross.

I watch

            DON'T WALK

I wait to capture time.

Until next week…

Claire Belberg

Collection Therapy

Welcome!

camellia glory

The rosy glow the camellias lend to my room on a sunny morning seems a fit metaphor for the joy of spring. I open the curtains, and the sun shining through the camellia casts its blush onto the walls and ceiling. What a way to wake up! It’s like being bathed in hope.

Put on your rose-coloured glasses for this week's story, a satire of consumerism.

Collection Therapy

 Bootstrapping: The Self-Help Journal

  (PO Box 15, Wisdem, Saga City 13245)

Staff Memo

To: Morsley Pertwing

From: Byron Bayly, Bootstrapping Editor in Chief etc

Mors, I need a favour. Got this transcript of a phone call from a guy called Bruno offering his story. I think it might be what we're after for our first edition, but I've got to tell you, the guy's no writer. Do you think you could knock it into shape?

            Thanks buddy,

            BB

Transcript of phone call from 'Bruno', 12/2/06, 10:45am

Receptionist: Good morning, Bootstrapping: The Self-help Journal, Kara speaking.

Caller: Name's Bruno. 'eard ya wanted stories. Yeah, well I got one. Make ya readers real glad. Ready? [pause] I always liked stuff. Stuff's good f'ya, ya need lots. I didn't have lots before. Ma said it was greedy t'ave too much. Can't 'ave too much. Don't hafta be perfect neither. Any stuff'll do. Like my tennis racquet, see. No 'andle but real nice on toppa my other stuff. Gotta tie it up, or it all falls out, see. An' some people, some people don't respect it neither, so I tie it up so it stays there. Pop said stuff won't make ya happy. Th' ol' codger din't know nothin', did 'e? I'm 'appy. Why not? Don't need frien's nor fancy 'ouse nor edjacation. Na, stuff's good. An' plenty f'rall. Ya should get more. 'ard rubbish'll do ya, an' skips out th'backa shops. Like where I live. Paradise, I call it. Plentya stuff. [pause]Got all that, girly?

Receptionist: Er, yes, I think so, Mr er . . .

Caller: just Bruno. I'll send ya a photo. See ya.

(Phone call ended at 10:47am) 

Bootstrapping: The Self-Help Journal, Autumn 2006, Vol. 1, No. 1, Ego Books, Saga City.

Start collecting . . . and find yourself: Bruno's story

(as told to Morsley Pertwing)

When you look at a recent photograph of me, you might find it difficult to believe that I used to lack the confidence to be myself. I was socially inept, moody and miserable. But I learned a secret which turned my life around. Knowing that many others suffer these problems, I share my secret with you. I am certain your life will be changed forever as you adopt the philosophies of what I call collection therapy.

            Psychologists tell us there are five levels of human need, but the truth is much simpler. We all have biological needs, such as food and shelter, and we all need safety from physical danger. Beyond that, I have discovered, there is just one other factor  which will bring our lives to completion.  But before I tell you the answer,  let's look at the problems you may be having.

            Are you socially isolated? Do you experience palpitations when you talk to strangers? Have you suffered the humiliation of people sneering at you (or worse) when passing you in the street? Or the indignity of your own family forgetting your name, or failing to invite you to important family events? I empathise with you. But do not lose hope – there is a solution.

            Many of us build our identity on what others think of us. This never fails to cause problems. We must find a more enduring foundation for life.

            We all know that our emotional and social difficulties typically spring from the patterns of our family life. One of our first baby words gives us a clue to something of utmost importance, and this is the point where almost all families make a huge mistake. It is in our parents' reaction to the word 'mine' where the damage begins.

            If, instead of attempting to turn our children from this natural and necessary urge to claim ownership over things, we encouraged it and gave them more opportunities to express it, I believe we would see a social revolution. No longer would we repress what is natural to all nature. But I am getting ahead of myself.

            My own development was typically thwarted: my parents insisted on us sharing, constantly telling us to be grateful for what we had. Ruinous attitudes! Parents, take note that this way of training has produced a world full of sad, lonely people. I grew up trying to be content with the little I had, trying to win approval by not having much, and shamefully repressing my desire for more. Eventually my lonely, maladjusted life was in tatters. I hit rock bottom.

            My journey to a life of purpose began with the hard rubbish collection. I literally stumbled across my first collection site, and without thinking I took hold of a trolley with one wheel missing and tugged it home with me. Once I had reached my home in the lee of the skip behind the local shops, I realised what I had done. It was a thrilling moment. For what use is a trolley if it's not filled with things? All this time I had been living in the land of plenty and not recognised it. It took some arguing with myself, but after a furious three minutes I was convinced. And I am pleased to say I have never looked back. For I had discovered the secret of my true identity – owning stuff.

            The fabulous fact of collection therapy is that there is more than enough stuff for all of us. While it is true that we tend to want certain items more strongly and are tempted to squabble over them as thoughtlessly as seagulls, those who have practised collection therapy for longer and accessed its deep capacity  for substitution can find themselves sublimely satisfied with other people's cast-offs. No matter if they are of no practical use – a tennis racquet with no handle, a trolley with no wheels, boxes and bags with holes, torn seams and broken zips, and all of it tied up so tightly that it would take us hours to undo if we could find a use for them – it is the mere fact that we own them that provides ultimate satisfaction.

            Owning stuff, practised diligently, will provide fulfilment of all emotional needs, including the need for belonging in relationships, the need for esteem, and the need for self-actualisation. All this can be yours simply by collecting stuff! What could be easier or more natural? No more loneliness, no more depression, no more awkward social contacts, no more fear of rejection.

            If this speaks to you, then stop worrying and start collecting! Your family won't recognise the new you.

            Start collecting, and find the true you today.

Until next week…

Claire Belberg