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Saturday 22 September 2012

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

Saturday 15 September 2012

Illusion and choice - two poems

                   Welcome!
fig leaves unfurling

The garden is growing out of control as spring takes hold (actually, I’ve never really managed to order it). It’s exciting to see some plants that were new in autumn now flowering and sprouting young growth. Deciduous trees coming into leaf, fruit trees forming tiny green fruits, grass needing mowing every week, weeds scattering their seed freely. Delightful chaos of growth and life.

Two poems for you this week, one humorous  and one a free verse revision of Robert Frost’s famous poem ‘The Road Less Traveled’. Enjoy!


Illusion
I was in the eye of my mother
who should have looked elsewhere
For from that moment’s seeing have I
been her heart’s despair.
A kit so sweet to look on,
A pair of eyes to make men pause
And gaze in raptures of delight –
My ragged fur enhanced the sight.
I purred and made my point – with teeth and claws.

The Chosen Way
Golden woods
Two trails through undergrowth
Of varied depth and beauty
Each delighting my eye, calling my feet,
My heart, tearing
My will, my yearning
To explore all ways.

But I must choose.

If this, not that
but where and then
what if?

One lures with promises of glory and song;
Could I return to follow its bright thread
Another day? The one
I feel a stronger pull toward
Is subtle, silent; a lonely road.

I go. And looking far ahead
To years when everything that now lies
Unknown, yet to be done,
Has been done,
Is known,
I'll think back to the choice I made
To seek the hidden way –
A way few try and fewer still endure –
The way which made me.

Until next week…
Claire Belberg



Saturday 8 September 2012

Grandy's House


                   Welcome!
heritage cottage
For a few days there last week we experienced the delightful side of spring – sun, light breeze, mild temperatures. By Monday it began to look like we’d skipped spring and launched into summer. Until Tuesday. And that’s why it’s called spring, I guess; the weather leaps about wildly, unable to determine which way is forward. Typical Adelaide to have Tuesday’s maximum temperature half that of Monday’s! Ah, weather – what would we complain about if we didn’t have it?

Here is a story set in the Coorong area of south-eastern South Australia, an area of rich natural and cultural history and few settlements. The Coorong is a body of salt water with high sand dunes on the coastal side and flat farmland and salt pans on the other. It flows from the Lower Lakes area near the mouth of the River Murray. Recent years of drought and overuse of the river all along its 2560km (1591 miles) length have seen the devastation of the Lower Lakes, and some restoration work is now being attempted. Such a beautiful, wild area, too precious to ignore.


Grandy’s House

Disappointment slammed into her like a personal tsunami. This was the house she had inherited, this the setting for her grandfather's stories? The hard, bare ground around the walls was littered with pieces of the white stone that looked exactly like lumps of stale bread. She wondered what kind of rats could chew out solid stone walls. Rhianna felt like vomiting.
            It had been difficult saying goodbye to her beloved Grandy. His death was still a raw wound, an aching emptiness. She longed for the hollowness to be filled, but she never wanted to forget him. He was the one who had given Rhianna, his only grandchild, a sense of family identity. She had thrived on the repetition of his stories. She could picture his parents, his siblings, his daughter – Rhianna's mother – as a child as if she'd been among them. But Grandy was the only one she ever knew; only a few ragged photographs existed of the rest, including the mother Rhianna had lost when only a baby. Grandy was her family.
            There was a photograph of the house Grandy's father had built south of the Coorong, with massive sand dunes behind. Grandy had spent his childhood there until the family had fallen on hard times – drought and debt had forced them to sell the old house for a fraction of its worth.
            She could barely see the likeness of this shell to that early photograph. Then the house had looked gracious with its wide stone steps leading up to a double wooden front door, the wide verandah all around. The steps were gone now, and the entrance looked secretive. There was no floor for the verandah, just rocky dirt and weeds. Windows were filthy and several were cracked. The house was on raised ground, facing east and overlooking a small salt lake. She had driven on a causeway to cross the salt, the only road access to the property. Stretching her imagination, she could picture it as an imposing but open refuge in the lonely wilderness. As it stood, she was more inclined to escape from what it had become.
            Shadows lengthened as Rhianna plodded around the house, trying to find the courage to enter it. Night time would only make it worse, she thought, so she unlocked the back door and stepped cautiously in. Feeling automatically for a light switch, she remembered that there was no power or water to the house any more. She backtracked and went to the car for a torch. No time for this messing around, she told herself sternly. I don't want to pitch a tent in the dark.
            There was no way she was sleeping in this creepy hulk. She couldn't get rid of the image of enormous stone-chewing rats, but even the ordinary kind gave her the horrors.
            A quick look through the house confirmed her fears – the place was entirely dilapidated. She couldn't imagine where she would begin to restore it, or whether she would even try. Think about it in the morning, girl.
            In the welcoming light of dawn, Rhianna woke to the sound of snuffling. Whatever it was sounded large, but the memory of giant rats seemed ludicrous in the new day. She rolled over in her sleeping bag to unzip the tent. A wombat! She'd never seen them in the wild before.
            Waiting until the animal had shuffled away, Rhianna dressed and went to the car for food. It promised to be a warm day; the morning was already heating up. She looked around at the open space, the low shrubby trees beyond the salt lake, and felt the presence of the dunes behind the house. Once she had satisfied her hunger, she took another look inside the house, this time noting the dark timber of the floorboards and the plaster patterns on the ceiling of what must have been a parlour or drawing room. The kitchen had an old wood stove – how often that had featured in Grandy's tales! She liked the idea of learning to use it.
            She'd known it would be a bigger job than she could handle when Grandy had told her about his desire for her to take it on. He had been ecstatic when the house had come back to him through a strange string of circumstances. He had fondly believed she was capable of anything, including the restoration of the family property. She was more realistic. Or perhaps he had not understood how run down it had become. Nothing of value was free, she reminded herself; even a gift costs the giver. This was a gift – how valuable it was to her she hadn't yet decided – but it was going to cost her plenty if she accepted it.
            The call of the Southern Ocean on the other side of the dunes worked its way into Rhianna's awareness. She grabbed her bathers, towel and hat, and headed up the gentle slope behind the house. Huge burrows pocked the ground, and prickly plants of various types caught at her socks. It was good she had not changed for swimming yet – this was not your suburban beach walk. She wondered about the holes until she remembered the wombat.
            The walk grew steeper and sandier, winding through stiff shrubs which blocked her view. She simply worked her way uphill and seaward, hoping it was that easy. And it was, although it took a good twenty minutes and a breath-challenging climb. The views from the top of the dunes reinvigorated her.
            At the first high point, Rhianna looked back at the old house to see how it fitted into its context. It was nestled at the bottom of a low, vegetated dune at its north-western corner – that would be where the kitchen is, she thought – and watched over cleared land to the north and south, as well as the stretch of pink, patchy salt to the east. It was not arable land; she had read that somewhere, and Grandy's stories had made it clear enough. Maybe she could keep a few sheep, and build up a vegetable patch to supply her own needs. She grimaced at her dreams, pulling back to remind herself that she had not decided to do it yet. She could just sell it and leave it in the memory of Grandy's stories.
            Rhianna turned and walked over the cool white sand to the next peak. There were clumps of reedy grasses growing in a few spots, and a groundcover clinging to other patches. She marvelled that life could take root with so little to nourish it. The sand was gently patterned with wind-sculpted ridges. Rhianna felt guilty for smashing the design, making clumsy footprints as if it were any old beach. And then she saw the ocean.
            There was something primeval about the feeling of standing alone in the breeze on top of a mountain of sand, and facing the ocean which came all the way from Antarctica. She felt as if she had been lifted out of historical time onto a plane of the eternal moment. The wind floated her hair around her face, twitching at the sand, inviting her to fly. A seagull dipped and wheeled on an air current not far beyond her. Rhianna spread out her arms and launched herself down the face of the dune, her feet running and spilling the cool sand until her shoes filled, wadded with accumulated sand. She skidded down the rest of the way, yanking off her shoes as she slowed. Dumping her gear, she ran, swirling and dancing along the long, flat, empty beach as the southern rollers roared in and out to meet her.
            That's done it, she thought, catching her breath. She dabbled in the icy water while her eyes feasted on the length and the smoothness of the beach, first in one direction and then the other. Sure she could see some litter here and there on the loose sand at the back of the beach. Other people came here, then. But it felt like hers. And it had invited her. She would stay.

Until next week
Claire Belberg

Saturday 1 September 2012

Night on the water

                         Welcome!
violets in spring

It's here! Spring has arrived, and for once it seems the weather and the calendar are in agreement. Today is sunny and warmer. Tomorrow will be another story...but that's spring for you. I feel hopefulness in the air, new things growing and blooming, things of the earth and of the heart. Everything good and joyful seems possible! 

That reminds me of sailing on inland lakes in my youth. Here is a poem about those days (and nights).


Night on the Water

Evening settles in stillness, amber sun like caramel poured
On barely rippled water, satin stretching to sunset skyline.
Our island bunkhouse noses into waterfowl feeding forest
Of reeds, with whispering rustle in absence of breeze, unexplored.
We and the squawkers and splashers nestle, wrapped in darkness benign.
Tonight we sleep to the soft slap and splish, sharing nature's nest.


Until next week

Claire Belberg