Rosanne's Lounge

It’s always bizarre putting images of yourself on the Internet…

Most of the photos of me are now in the album I made.

For Brian Widdows, Jaime’s daughter Kaya and Ceredwyn and Keith’s cousin

There is an infinite sadness
in certain acts that cannot be escaped
and tonight I grapple with the trifecta:
A murder, a suicide, the death of a baby
moments before it entered the world

Around me, friends reel, grieve, fume,
plant trees, hug, weep, scream, rock
— I presume. They are far away
and I am alone with infinite aches,
a deep spiraling starscape of unending.

There is no comfort in this cold place.
Only wine, and silence and little waves
of melancholy, that there is such hate
in the world, that there is such despair
in the world, that life can be so random
and steal breath from delicate souls.

Lay roses, lay lilies, lay lavender
at their gravesides. Plant seeds.
Love.

When we were young
we watched incandescent flickering images
of people rising like a sea from train stations,
koyaanisqatsi in the Valhalla cinema
on Glebe Point Road late at night
and we swore we would never become
one of these faceless creatures
on escalators, on crosswalks,
mooching to jobs in dim airless offices.

We were determined to be kecak
singers rocking in jungles,
hippies digging our own vegetables,
late night intellectuals with coffee
and guitars in Seattle cafés forever.

But it is cold and here we are back
in a chilly Sydney morning crossing
from Central to the bus stop at UTS
along with 100 other workers;
the lights change and we move as one
off the kerb.

Speed us up and we will be the same
as those flickering beings
from 30 years ago
because this much doesn’t change,
not here, not that quickly at least.

Whenever I’ve raised the complex interactions I see around the arrest of Wikileaks founder Julian Assange, I find myself mired in defending my position.

If I say I support his work and that I welcome the new world where governments cannot collude in corruption, feminist friends (rightly) point out that rape should be dealt with seriously and argue that this if this guy is guilty as charged, he shouldn’t be nominated for nice human being let alone Australian of the Year.

If I say I’m concerned that the charges are being glossed over and that charming men still need to be called to account for their actions, lefty and anarchist friends (rightly) point out that the accusations are awfully convenient, argue that he’s being “framed” and present me with a list of reasons why the women in question are tainted witnesses. The problem is that both sides have a point. (I’m leaving out the mad right-wingers who want him assassinated because that’s part of the unconscionable rhetoric supporters of Wikileaks want stopped). Continue reading

In October, we went to the US on what Doug called the Tour de Harper. The timing was partly to make it to my cousin David’s wedding to the ever awesome Rachel and partly to get in before Harper’s plane ticket actually cost money. We ended up on nine planes in 30 days (enough that Harper soon learned the sign for plane and started making that sign — thankfully accompanied by happy smiles — every time she saw us packing suitcases).

The highlights of the trip were my cousin’s wedding (a beautiful, beautiful wedding, fantastic food and my gorgeous daughter dancing to music on the stage with anyone who would take her there); watching Harper bond with her niece (who is two months older than her); a day-trip across the Puget Sound on the ferry (I’m such a Grey’s Anatomy fan) and lunch at a gorgeous little café on Bainbridge Island by myself; dinner at Gorgeous George’s (oh my stars, the lamb… mmmmmmmm) followed by amazing, sexy, delightful circus at Versatile Arts, run by my friend Bev; watching Harper with her Aunt Linda and Uncle Michael and seeing her dressed for Halloween; watching Harper play with Laurel and Annika, the children of our US friends.

There are so many pictures — currently on my Facebook (I’m once again having thoughts about how I manage all my blogs and so on and I think I may need to set aside some of this time while I’m between contracts to consolidate and re-import various things into various places… and probably update the themes here, again).

Anyhow, that’s the personal musing…

In the beginning
Love is wordless
It is the touch of skin
Suckling. A cuddle in the dark.

Then love is simple
I love you mama
Means you are my world
And you are comfort and
Healing to me

In teenhood love is mercenary.
I love you ma means
Thanks for letting me
Borrow the car
Or stay out late
Or for buying those shoes
I asked for.

For a while, love is complex.
It is heady and passionate
With the new lover.
Then edged with trust and hope,
Then our own children come and
I love you is amazement and joy
Abundance of love while
I love you mum is now
Deeper and filled with new respect

At some point perhaps
I love you is bitter or painful
A holding on or a working hard
And sometimes a letting go

And I suspect
Right at the end
Holding someone’s hand
Eyes moist
That love is wordless again.

I am not entirely certain
how any of us make it through unscathed,
what with spitting frying pans just out of reach
and the temptation of roundabouts
reversing cars in driveways
epidemics from exotic locales
the drunk driver who slams into the rear of the car
leukemia, accidental smothering, house fires, bush fires
and possibly lack of food since mother is
catatonic in the living room,
paranoid about what might happen
instead of out in the world
let alone here in this moment.

Here’s how I imagined it:
Take one house, preferably custom-built;
add careful wrought-iron fixtures and
a wooden spiral stair, ceiling-high bookshelves,
a garden filled with lavender and wisteria.
Place in a rolling yard backing onto rainforest,
a sandstone path meandering through,
a pond perhaps. Add ducks and koi last.

Reality is better though: take a small apartment,
gently fold in cats, a partner, a child.
Add a pinch of magic, warm snuggles,
as much love as you can handle,
the smell of a baby’s hair, smiles
and the look in your partner’s eyes
when he gazes on you both, tired but happy.

Rest for one hour and then let stew for a few years
until no juices run out when pressed.

In the still night, you, the moon, the water.
Safe in my belly, my little turtle,
Come venture into the light, my daughter

Amidst the chaos, her father caught her,
held her tight, so, tiny, poignant, mortal.
In the still night: you, the moon, the water.

Those first days were fire-filled, never hotter
Clear of sight, my nymph, my little angel,
Come venture into the light, my daughter

Now the days grow long, the nights grow shorter.
You gaze at the stars and do not startle
In the still night. You, the moon, the water,

the wild wind and rain that gives no quarter,
these will last the night and o’ercome this hurdle.
Come venture into the light, my daughter

This is your birthright, your brick, your mortar
Craft spells with me, touch flame to a candle
In the still night. You, the moon, the water:

Come venture into the light, my daughter.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl named Christina. She was as smart as she was brave and as brave as she was beautiful and she was very, very beautiful. She had long golden hair and she always wore green. She kept one plait in her hair as long as she could and never, ever cut it. It almost reached the ground and it had a bell in it for cats to play with. She loved animals and plants above all else and her favourite thing was to go skipping through meadows, picking daisies and then taking them home to cut them up and look at them under a scanning electron microscope with gold leaf. She had lots of friends, and even some people she loved, but she was still looking for something.

One day, a tall, dark, handsome man from a faraway land wrote her a letter. He was very, very tall, a little bit dark, and very handsome. More importantly, though, he was kind and funny and brave and he liked cats. He played saxophone and although he didn’t live *in* a castle, he lived in a little town where they had a castle, and really, what more can you ask for these days?

After a little while of gently falling in love, Christina made a very big hard decision to go and live in the faraway land with the tall man (whose name was Niels) and all of her friends were very, very sad and very, very happy all at the same time. (At this point in the story, you may have to forgive any typos, because your narrator is having difficulty seeing the screen.)

After a while, they knew they had done The Right Thing, mostly because their pusska was very, very happy, and things like that are Signs. So, they bought a house of their very own on the edge of a forest, and Christina was the happiest she’d ever been. There were squirrels in the back yard, and birds that came to sing to her, and in winter there was snow on the trees and in summer there was laughing and market-days and when it rained, there was Mah-Jong.

Of course, no fairytale is complete without a wedding, so finally, when they didn’t think it could get any more perfect, they decided to get married. People came from all corners of the earth to the wedding, and there was a little bit of crying and a lot of grinning and there was cake. I wish I could finish this tale in the Ukrainian way, and tell you that I know all this because I was there and I drank honey-wine; it flowed over my beard, but didn’t get into my mouth. That’s not true, though, and not just because I don’t have a beard. I was on the other side of the world, making this present for the happy couple and may they live joyously from this day for the rest of their lives.

[I love you, 'stina. So happy for you both. Really wish I could have been there. Congratulations again! I couldn't have hoped for a better partner for my best friend. He's awesome.]

You are lying on your back in a large lounge room. There is one exit to the south-west. There is a brightly coloured play gym on the floor, shaped like a butterfly.

> lick the play gym

The play gym tastes blue. There is a rattle under the play gym.

> pick up the rattle

Done. A large azure lizard appears and attacks you.

> hit it with the rattle

The lizard retreats.

> look

You are lying on your back in a large lounge room. There is one exit to the south-west. Your mother is an enormous geek.