Stream to sea

Place: Mission Beach, Queensland

Mangroves hold the stream on course until surging forth it carves through sand, hungry for embrace of the sea god.

The beaches - Misson and Wongaling - split by the fast flowing torrent, rise up to silent scrub, two lines of debris between the curling lips of the sea and the clinging roots of creepers, she-oaks, melaleucas, coconut palms.

The demarcation lines of baby shells and smaller crushed fragments, then higher up the bigger coral chunks, cuttlefish spines, sticks, rocks and shells - high, mid and low tide.

The sea now receded, clawing at the sand as invisible moon fingers tug at the watery shroud, pulling the lovers apart, revealing secrets to the sky.

Place

Here I am. At the Tully Show.

A couple of unusual observations: It's not raining; the Tully Sugar Mill is crushing full bore; and I'm here early on the second day, the morning after the fireworks and band playing into the night.

There's a few hardy souls stirring, grinding the show back into gear for another day of rides, junk food, show bags, a plethora of competitions in the pavilions, cattle judging, chook judging, horse jumping, wood chopping, dare-devil bike riding, whip cracking, lies, stories and catch-ups at the bar, service clubs vying for dollars with their various fundraising activities.

I am here to cook chips in the Coast Guard van. Next to us is the Lions Club stall serving pies and drinks and next to them, with a line stretching back to the oval, is Rotary selling steak burgers.

We sell more than a few buckets of chips to successful burger buyers, then direct them for drinks to the Lions.

It's all friendly. Many of them have worked or work together at the mill or as cane farmers and go back generations.

There's also the banana contingent but with fairy floss smoke from the mill stacks creating exclamation marks high above the Ferris Wheel, the sugar is sweet on everyone's lips.

"Can't afford to shut the mill for the show this year."

"Too much cane to crush. Might have to leave some standing."

"I remember when the mill'd stop and the workers'd be sent over to the show."

"Can't afford the time now."

The MC welcomes everyone over a PA that must be powered by three phase. No-one escapes the commentary, particularly those contestants riding to win in the horse jumping arena. Particularly the young rider whose horse refuses a jump three times, unseating him on the third attempt.

A rural lesson in humility as the discussion booms publicly.

The chook pavilion has been rocking since dawn with roosters determined to out crow each other, and in the bovine area, cattle have been fed, groomed and fussed over, ready for another day of the judges' critical gazes.

The 'horsies' are hunkered down in swags next to floats and communal breakfasts in the early sun are in full swing, with stragglers yawning, sporting pj's and towels, heading for the toilet block.

In the early morning, as I wander through the sleeping sideshow alley, the pervasive smell of old grease follows me into the animal areas where it is layered with cow breath and manure, Lucerne hay and horse sweat.

It takes me back to every show I've attended as a rural reporter, or a child, - to the essence and heart of rural life.

Back at the van selling chippies, I catch snatches of conversation about how good the show is this year but the worry of whether it will be able to keep going if no-one steps up to take over from the old folks.

Next year is 80 years of the Tully Show. It will be the same for some of its main organisers. They reckon 80 might pull them up.

Then what?

Writing workshops

CREATING THROUGH WORKSHOPS

I love creative writing workshops, or any creative workshop really. 

No matter if they're up to your expectation or not, they all have something to offer. I have found that workshops are stepping stones to ideas, connections and a sense of creative community that give you the impetus to go back to yourself and create with renewed enthusiasm.

I haven't been to or held a workshop for a long time, but while going back through some poetry books I reconnected with one of my early favourite poets from Richmond, Peter Bakowski. bakowskipoetrynews.blogspot.com

I first discovered his work in the Deakin magazine, Mattoid, and from there ended up buying five of his seven books as he published them, and hosting him, then him and his wife and son, when they were on several of their many 'book tours'. 

Peter's first book published was thunder road, thunder heart, by Nosukumo, Melbourne in 1988.

He went on to publish In the human night (1995), the heart at 3a.m. (1998), The Neon Hunger (2000) and Days That We Couldn't Rehearse (2002). 

His other two books, which I have not read, are Beneath Our Armour and Personal Weather. In February last year, Editions Doucey of Paris also published a bilingual edition of 'the heart at 3a.m./Le coeur a trois heures du matin.

The poems inspired, gave solace and helped me stay sane in my own human journey at the time.

Billeting Peter and his little family on their 'loaded car' book tours around regional Australia also helped give a connection to the writing and its context in human form.

Talking with Peter about writing was for me like having my own little mini workshops and when he left for the next town, I would be full to the brim with ideas for my work.

So when I decided to check the net for what he was up to now, I was delighted to see that he will be featuring in two workshops and a discussion on poetry at the Bellingen Writers Festival from June 8.

www.bellingenwritersfestival.com.au

He is part of a discussion titled 'Why Write Poetry When Nobody Ever Reads It?' and is running one-on-one poetry writing sessions, plus a workshop on poetry tips.

If anyone can argue the necessity of poetry for writers and readers, it's Peter.

Poem

Eight

It is the rock pools

green swaying womb

waters that draw me in

the quiet enclaves of 

melancholy nurturing

spineless fingers

and silver glints of spawning

warm Greek bays

side-slips in

the choleric fission

frothing on the teeth

of Arthur Daly barnacles

- an octopus

clinging with seven

while eight swings freely

hungry -

eight is the number

you died when I was 

eight

leaving me swinging

and clinging

hungry for the rock pools

in a sea 

gone mad.

(C) Pru McAlpin Saimoun

REVIEW: The Fishermen

The Fishermen by Chigozie Obioma

Published by Scribe 2015

I love reading books written by people from cultures not my own. The novel, The Fishermen, based in western Nigeria, delivers everything I expect from such a story.

It is rich in Nigerian landscape, language and culture. Obioma is a skilled storyteller who seamlessly carries you along the line of ever deepening doom into a madness that like the river featured, pulls you into the current and washes you ashore, a different person.

It is based around four brothers who become 'fishermen' in the prohibited 'evil' river near their house after the rock of the family, the revered and feared father has to move away from home for work.


Set against the unstable political background of Nigeria, the evangelical Christianity of the time and the undercurrent of superstitions encompassing ghosts and mad prophets, the characters of the boys, their family and neighbours, are shaped into beings they never thought possible.

I was pulled into this book by the seemingly effortless writing, the metamorphis of the characters and the horror of the story unfolding.

I wanted to stop reading at times, but could not walk away from knowing how it ended. I could not even skip to the end because I would have missed the the subtle shaping of the characters that led to the final word.

This is a book that stays with you, resonating through hidden places of your consciousness, bringing forth questions on the human condition you think you don't need to ask.

For me, that's a book worth reading.

Review: Right of Thirst

REVIEW

Right of Thirst

by Frank Huyler

Published by Harper Perennial 2009

A lucky find in an op shop, Right of Thirst, speaks directly to what it is to be human - and struggling to come to terms with the flaws that create who we are, despite our best efforts.

Frank Huyler is an extraordinary writer with observation powers as sharp as any surgeon's knife, and honed on the whetting stone of his own travels and consultations with patients over many years.

This perception is applied with a light but penetrating touch to the characters in this deceptively slow-paced story of a man brought up short by his wife's death and his role in it, and the need to find something within himself that will bring some sort of redemption.

It is also a novel about how the best of intentions can result in the worst of outcomes and the difficulty in being benevolent. Who are we serving really?

Totally recommend reading this book and gave it nine out of ten.

Frank Huyler has also written an essay collection: The Blood of Strangers, 1999; The Laws of Invisible Things, 2004; and The Castaway: A Novella, 2013.

http://www.frankhuyler.com/

In the beginning

There were words written on pages and while I remember the frustration of having to work my way through the incredibly boring readers in early primary school at a rate that could not keep me interested - John and Betty! - I was rewarded by being allowed to choose books from the public library.

Bliss, joy, heaven. My world that centred around our street, the river and school suddenly grew into immense proportions. The Enchanted Forest, The Fabulous Four, The Famous Five, the paperback Adventure series that took me around the world, Billy Bunting, Coles Funny Picture Books, then a bit later, Ray Bradbury and a dive into the deeper literature, poetry, plays and writing in response.

Little wonder my chosen career was journalism and my sought after companions were writers and artists - and books!

Oh the books I've had and still have.

Some have travelled with me since childhood: just can't let go for love or money.

                                          Did anyone grow up with these?

Others have joined, stayed a while and been passed on to others, or joined at a certain stage and stayed because of what they represent or have taught me and continue to remind me.

My latest move of 1600km saw me shed a few books but the biggest percentage of the load of furniture in the truck was boxes of words. The small house we have moved into was sold to us with every room containing stacks of books - 90 per cent non-fiction. How could we not buy the house?

So my book collection has now tripled in size and I am looking at becoming a book seller. It's going to be hard; this is a new role. 

I recently read (no it's not for sale cos I need to reread it) 'Breaking the Habit of Being Yourself', by Dr Joe Dispenza and had toyed with the idea of becoming someone who doesn't read or write but just 'does' stuff. Imagine everything I could accomplish if I was a doer. No books, no paper, no ideas for stories or poems or art works, just 'do it' to borrow that hideous slogan.

But as I contemplated the horror of life barren of those things, I realised that what I actually had to break the habit of, was procrastination. I have brilliant (of course they are) ideas of writing and art projects that I am going to do, but the doing needs to be in the area that I love. I need to get brave in the areas where I am most afraid to go ie. writing and art and putting myself on the line, and grow a spine. 

So all things books - and art. This is my space.

Book friends

BFF Books

Some people would say that books make the best friends because they accept you as you are and how you interpret them - and they don't answer back.

Depends on your interpretation of 'friend' I guess. Books have been there for me in some pretty bleak times and  that's one criteria of a good friend. I have gained knowledge (not sure about wisdom), comfort, joy, laughter, escape, insight into emotions, other cultures and other perceptions of the world from books, but could I just live with books and not people?

Maybe short term, but I need other people to discuss the books with and the things I find in the books, to really bring them into reality. A good book can make you look at the people and environment around you differently as well. You enter the book and come out a different person.

Jasper Fforde's 'Lost in a Good Book' delighted me with the plot of just that - getting lost in a good book. I gave it eight out ten and eagerly sought out his other titles. I didn't get as 'lost' in the next ones, but the first one was a hard act to follow.

When my kids were young, I used books as pure escape. They have told me since that if they saw me reading a book, often while multi-tasking, they knew I was unreachable. Writing poetry at that time was the only way I could write. I would grab what was in my head as I changed nappies, washed, cleaned, supervised, cooked, and scribble it on whatever was at hand before it disappeared into the daily chaos.

Needless to say however, they loved books and being read to. Years after the kids were grown and we were running a cafe on the Sunshine Coast, Queensland, the publisher of my son's favourite book gave me that book and several others for us to have in the cafe to occupy children of the customers.

The cycle spirals around again

Greatly satisfying to see kids choosing a book and poring over it while the adults conversed.