Mum-Mum had a stroke on Friday. She is now in Kempsey hospital. She has no use of one arm and her voice has gone strange. She can speak, but in a different voice.
From Prague for Green Left Weekly:
Transcribed from journal written on European grid-pattern paper. Undated.
I’m on a train*. Blackness outside, the occasional light lives and dies, streaking past like a glow worm. Brown vinyl seats, crumbs from the packet of butter biscuits. My destination is Greece.
I’m on a train, FS. Destination Greece, because I want to get my passport stamped, not a good reason. And I wouldn’t mind seeing the Acropolis, blue sky, white stone buildings and olive trees; a slightly better reason. Blackness outside, I could be anywhere, although the man in the corner gives this compartment an Italian feel. He’s squat, dark, asleep.
Brown vinyl seats, crumbs from my packet of butter biscuits. “Finish sandwiches sorry,” so I paid 900 lira for the biscuits. But I don’t have a good reason for being here. To be brutally honest, I’m doing it to be “interesting”. To have been & seen & done. The stamped passport.
The man has opened his eyes. He caught me resting my head on the window. He gives me a steamy look.
Bridgette said, always get into a compartment with other women & children. Never sit alone in a compartment with a man. But it’s alright because the door is wide open, the light on, and there are women in the next compartmnet. In in the corner, resting my pad on my knee. The train is slowing down, stopping, orange lights outside. My glasses are lying brokenly on the pull-out table, beside a plastic cup.
I don’t want to reach Bari. I don’t know what will happen when I do. Im a long way from home. Where’s home? New Norcia. Mum, Dad & Debbie live there. I lived there for a while this year. But when people ask me where I’m from, I say, “Perth.”
I’m getting pissed off. I’m writing badly. I’m trying to write and nothing is happening. My mind has gone into relapse. I may have to wait till next year, when I start studying, for it to work again.
PISSED OFF PISSED OFF PISSED OFF
* Here’s a link to a train on Flickr. I Googled “train to Bari, 1982”. This would be about right.
The following (undated) must have been written in London, towards the end of the trip:
I want a Vegemite sandwich. Fresh brown sliced bread & margarine and vegemite spread evenly in between. The sandwich is wrapped in Glad wrap and put in the bottom of a fishing bag. The sandwich is eaten a few hours later, a mile or so from its birth, in the open air. Every bites are alternated with sips of hot strong tea; the water having been boiled over a little campfire. Actually there are 2 or even 3 rounds of the Vegemite sandwiches, and a green apple to have after.
I am, of course, hungry, with no hope of food until 7.30 tomorrow morning. So when I get back to New Norcia, one of the first things I must do is eat Vegemite sandwiches beside a campfire. Knowing that I will do this gives me something to look forward to and when I get to Perth I’ll go to a bad little cafe and have chicken with greasy chips & a cup of over-milky tea, which is what I’d like to have now, in this setting. Perth is a poor substitute for London.
I’ve just been to Brixton; rubbish in the streets, reggae, spiritual singers, “get the police off the streets”, a white man selling pro-Black papers, police everywhere on the streets, shabby
Flunked maths. Human biol was unbelievably easy. My spirits soared when I opened it up and found a great big picture of the heart, all ready to label. I’d studied and studied the heart; also the brain, and there was a diagram of the brain, too. I was so happy that I filled it all out in CAPITAL LETTERS. Some of the multiple choice was unfamiliar, but mostly it could be done by a process of elimination. For instance, “A complaint often suffered by older men is …” Well, you can cross out cancer of the cervix straight away. That’s how easy it was! We had to pick two essays from a choice of six. Most of them asked for detailed factual information, on subjects I knew little of. Then there were two very general questions concerning evolution and puberty so pounced on them and wrote exactly three pages on each. Anyway it was all very simple. After that there was a long period of waiting for five o clock with absolutely nothing to do. After one has checked and checked and looked at the clock and Michael Caunt’s back and the ceiling, one gets kinda bored. I tallied up all the points I would definitely have gained; they came to 72%. So I should be fairly right.
But maths. Didn’t even finish the stupid thing, bombed out completely on one question and probably made stupid mistakes. Can’t bare to think about it. How ill I ever get to WAIT if I go on like this? Oh well, year 12 again isn’t such a dreadful thought … oh yes it is! I want to go to WAIT!!
Acropolis was limping badly this morning. I went out in the car with Debbie and Mum cos Debbie was late for school and had to be driven out at quarter to 9. I went too, so we could feed Croppy, drop Debbie off at school, pick up the chaff from Mr Stoney and take me to the Civic Centre all in one hit. But even after all that there was time to kill. I went to the public loos just outside the centre. The inside of the ladies’ smelt rather foul, and every inch of the walls, the doors, the window sills was covered in graffiti. At lest it wasn’t going to be boring, as I waited for twenty past nine. I reflected that this would probably be the last time in my life I’d be in those loos. On impulse, I decided to add my bit to that which was written. I was excited by my secret, daring little decision, but unable to think of what to write. That silly Italian song that everybody’s singing was going around in my head – “What’s a matter you, hey? Gotta no respect, hey? Whatta you think you do, hey? Why you look so sad, hey? It’s a not so bad, It’s a nice-a place, Oh Shut up a you face!” So I scawled “It’s a nice place” with one o fthe new 2B pencils I’d just bought from Elders (also to kill time).
And then I was late.
The lady was nice, she led self-conscious little me to my seat and asked if my number was right. I nodded dumbly, inwardly kicking myself.
The scaling test itself was fascinating: not really terribly hard, just challenging. The most interesting part was where we had to match statements with various examples of a modern painter’s art. An Englishman, oh, I can’t remember his name; I remember telling myself not to forget his name. Anyway, they were exciting pictures (especially for me, who has not seen much “real” art) and a welcome change in the middle of a booklet full of mathematical problems and endless graphs. But the paintings part was the hardest, because I felt that none of the statements really matched the pieces. It’s hard to tell whether or not I went well in that particular section, but I’m confident that the rest worked out OK. I finished with about fifteen minutes to spare and went back over and checked it. When it was all finished, it was surpising to see that I was the only girl left in the place; the rest had all left early. Most of the boys roared off in somebody’s car, but MW was walking in my direction. Since I was slightly ahead of him I wondered if I should slow down so we could talk about it. I really wanted to talk about it with somebody, as is my custom after an important exam. There is always the lengthy post-mortem. But I didn’t slow down, so I didn’t end up having the customary discussion.
I’m embroidering a dressing-table cover. I started it about a year ago and have been doing it spasmodically ever since. In times of stress or frustration it’s nice to do cross stitch in red and blue cotton on calico. It will be finished by the time we get to our new permanent place to live. I won’t use it before then, it will christen my new room. I wonder what that will be like, and where it will be …
The camels stirred up all the horses at Pony Club today. Croppy forgot about his sore leg and took off, along with all the rest of them. One horse jumped the unjumpable fence over into Croppy’s yard and they both kicked and worried, with eyes bulging. All over a few scrawny old disinterested camels. Debbie was furious and Fordy laughed. Finally she got Mum to politely ask the camel man if he could just move his camels a little as they were upsetting the horses. Debbie calmed Croppy down and led him out of the Pony Club grounds for a long walk so he could get away from it all for a while.
I bet the camel man reveled in the stir. In his book to be written after his epic journey on foot with camels around the Australian coast (and after having the feat included in the Guinness Book of Records) he can write a few paragraphs about the day the Pony Club horses went bezerk.
And then there’s the camel/horse race on Sunday. If today’s horsey reactions are anything to go by, it’ll probably be a shambles – with the camels going in one direction and the horses, without hesitation, in the other.
I didn’t see anything of it, unfortunately; got the story second hand off Mum. I was at home “studying” ie lazily flicking through the pages of a big fat book on evolution. Couldn’t settle into Human Biol or probability. After an all-morning exam I seem to be drained, mentally and physically.
Mum’s metal tape-measure exploded today. I was sitting at the table, varnishing my nails, when there was a loud “sprong” sound and a clatter and slither as the thin wound-up metal tape undid itself and the whole twenty-odd metres curled and kinked on the floor. It used to be a compact little case with a slit where the tape came out like a long, thin tongue; it no longer exists as such. Mum didn’t mind, she thought it was funny that it should pack it in right on the last curtain job for Carnarvon. She said, “I could frame a bit of it as a reminder of my old curtain days, but I won’t, I’ll chuck it out.” Which she did. Everything is winding up and getting finished…