Redcliffe with Market Hearts

Earlier this year, before my brain aneurysm surgery, I had become involved with Climate Channel, Get Up, Fight for the Reef, March Against Australia, and most of anything that I felt up with and could help with. Just today there was planned on being another march in Brisbane, and I had determined to join it. Unfortunately my day time has slowed right down, and sometimes I find it very difficult to arrange to get a bus then a train to get into CBD. It seems to works some days, but not every day.

So this day made me decide to stay at home, especially getting back into bed if I became extra tired. I chose to visit the Redcliffe day market, and then return home as soon as I’d spent enough time there. It was a lot easier to do, just catch a short bus there and back.

The market certainly got into me. I love markets – I’d previously visited Rocklea quite a few times, visited Wynnum, walked through the Gold Coast market in the evening, hopped around whatever I found on my old holidays. It was lovely. Redcliffe is its own panther, with a huge amount of purring to set the visitor just right. There were a whole lot of market holders and a whole different lot of who held what. From veges to soap stalls, female clothing to wooden ornaments, kids rainbow coloured clothes to takeaway food. I found a lovely women’s clothing stall which had 2 for $10 – oh yes, I could just pay that for something for me! I talked to the stall holder and found out that she was from Woody Point. Perhaps I will meet her another day.

There were still at least a couple of music herds. I’d got pretty wrapped in what I’d heard, but I’d just spent a wee bit for a Futurizms CD from Matt James which is very musical and caught my ear.

Within the stall market there were a few dogs, all different breeds – some special – but simply on their leash, listening to their owner rather than pulling to meet other people. I know my Jordie would have pulled against me, she feels like a pretty popular dog! Some of the stalls sell pet stuff but previously I’d been into the actually pet shop, just around the corner from the new Woolworths. I didn’t really need to buy anything for dogs - mine would just eat!

Redcliffe has a street which is used just for pedestrians at these markets, but there are other things along the side which people can read about and touch. I found a wonderful presentation, described as “Apparatus for Non-destructive Transmission of Biological Visualisation (ANTVB)”. I didn’t look through it as there were a number of people choosing to do so, but the expression says “Miraculously, the machine still contains a projected image of a strange creature captured over 80 years ago. Is this evidence of existence of an underwater world which he believed was populated by mermaids?” Who knows – does it? This large, amazing NTV is something right real out of our own reality.

Still there are plenty of real cafes in the real estate behind the markets, on the street which is only allowed until 2pm for pedestrians, not vehicles. Most of them are pretty full, with food designed slightly more price than the market food stall dealers, but sitting in the shade with a late breakfast and a coffee is just what I needed to do. I found a seat inside, looking outside. So much to just watch and be entertained.

After a meal I walked down to the Redcliffe jetty, which I still remembered from our Ulysses motor bike around this area. It’s 6 or so years since I’ve been here, but it has grown of population, even on the jetty or on the beach or in the adjoining playground. No-one really knows whether or not people will be drawn away if there are no markets, but the basic busy day is certainly a lot different than the overall sleepy populace years ago.

Today was so summer-like, yet spring doesn’t start until tomorrow – and is celebrated next weekend by Redcliffe from Woody Point to the other side of Redcliffe. Next weekend I’ll work in the KiteFest celebration in Clontarf, neighbor to Woody Point. I reckon that will be just about as wonderful as Redcliffe has been today.

Moving on...

Moving to Woody Point in north shore of Brisbane was a wonderful life location handed to me. With a few days and nights of wet, I shrugged my shoulders at that and waited for sunshine days. They didn’t make me wait too long, they came into my life. The rental house might never have been great, but it was homely, happy, and so close to the beach. I have sighed in realise that this place is so different than where I have lived previously in Brisbane. I love it.

Many years ago I would ride my Ulysses group around the Woody Point road, out to Redcliffe, further out. The road has a Dugong road sign, and there is nothing to disagree with that. Now I live in Woody Point, mastered by the Dugong road sites.

I’ve only been here for 2 weeks, but it’s just wonderful. Next door neighbours are wonderful – not just next door, but people up the street who are introducing themselves. I haven’t had that in…. years, not in Brisbane!

The beach walk is perfect for dogs, especially old dogs who don’t walk fast. When the sun rises in the morning across the long sea, the air becomes warm and calls me for observation. In good mornings there are no hard winds, just wonderful warm air for walking dogs – or self. 

Today I watched some kayak rowers rowing from the opposite side to the open ocean. There were planes flying in to the airport, across the bay. Some ships cruised in slowly to the unloading dock also across the bay. A few days ago I took the extra walkway around to the Gayundah wreckage at almost the front of Woody Point. It’s almost sad to look at it, but it’s very old. A few days ago a young couple took advantage of the tide out, and climbed around the ship wreck to take photos.

Looking out from the road, out over the beach and the walk path, is a good feeling. I walked my dogs down there, they love it. I can unleash one old girl and leave her walking slowly behind while I take the other – slightly better old guy - faster. There are quite a few of other people, some with other dogs. No-one abuses my dogs, most will say hello to both me and chaps. This morning I saw a German Shepherd running around in the water, loving it. Smaller dogs walked so well along the beach or the road.

Last night I walked my dogs down to the inner bay, knowing that the old fella would love walking in the water. Oh yes, he did! He gets a wee bit frustrated that the old girl, on leash, is so slow, so much more than him. He pulls every day, so if I can unleash her, he gets a bit more of excess freedom.  

There’s a lot of sociality to get used to in Woody Point – cafes, hairdressers, Aus Post, pub restaurants (and some pool tables), croquet club, kayak yacht, fishers out on the jetty, lots of kids in the playground on the beach. If I get tired of that, I can bus or walk 2kms up the road to Margate. Warm days make the walk seem the best – although I know that middle summer will be a little too hot.

If I don’t need to buy anything at Margate, I would be best to catch a bus a further couple of kms to Redcliffe – at Woody Point it’s signed on the beach road as being 4kms. That’s not far to walk, if you’re used to it. Redcliffe was a stop on my Ulysses group bikes, but I thank that group with learning some history about Redcliffe. Now days not able to work gives me a feeling of belonging in this area. I never had that, but who understands the true history?

Two weekends away will be the Redcliffe Festival, shared right down at Woody Point and Clontarf, with the kite experience at Pelican Park just as last year. I met that kite expo last year with a few Meetup people, who travelled out here and enjoyed the fullness in the park. This year I’ll be working it – volunteering as a barista. Oh yeah! There are so many activities in the Redcliffe Festival that, if I feel like it, I can check out what’s happening and get a bus up there. Just Woody Point is going to get fuller than a day time of life!

I have a long future, building myself up, restructuring after my surgery and stroke, but now living in Woody Point is so good. Wish me the best, friends.

When women were warriors

"Death is our destiny, and nothing matters. In the depths of the abyss the end of all things lies. Death is too small a word. It is annihilation ... of everything that lives and of the world itself. In the end the whole world will fall." - Catherine M Wilson, "When Women Were Warriors"

Before my hospital stay I was writing. Nearly two years ago my past history had deeply desolate me, and I wrote www.itsokaytobeangry.com and, later, www.reibus.com.au. In Reibus I used some description about words, and it wasn't until I read this again, after leaving PA, that I felt okay about writing poems, stories and even manuscripts. However, since coming home I couldn't write what I wanted, let alone be able to do what I wanted. I finally wrote a poem about my feelings. I didn't feel like a Warrior.

Late story

If you're awake, let me tell you all about
how I am feeling, how I am living it out
And how I can't talk most of the time -
just rolling my life in the wasted grime
If you're awake, let me tell you of all my life;
you'll listen, I'm sure, without your reply
You'll nod your head, you'll look at me,
you'll make a 'tsk' or 'oh dear' or 'gee'
Then you'll turn and go when I can't leave
from my own house; it's frustrating, believe
If you're awake, let me tell you how much
it's not fair in my life when I can't seem to touch
It's awful, and hard, and makes me feel
so silly, so stupid, no obvious 'real'
When I'm at home on my own, I find it so
much easier to be alone, be unable to go
I don't want to blame you, you're okay, just cool -
carry on and live your own life, no rules
Me? I'm okay to be on my own
I just say that, because you have to be gone
I have no history, I thought I remembered,
but this time it's disappeared, backed off, tempered
If you're awake, let me tell you about my past
because it's gone; I have no recent to last

I felt complete about this, even though I have had up and down feelings.  When I feel very dispirited I can understand everything that I included in my poem. When I am high - having good, positive thoughts - I can deal with my poem, because it's real. Sometimes, then, I feel that I am a Warrior!

Today I have written a very short story, which is about a women who is questioning her medical letter. This subject is so close to me, but I think I'm just a bit too timid. Am I a Warrior? Perhaps one day...

No alcohol

No alcohol, she was told. It was not compliant with her medical prescription. She was told.

Or at least, she was told in her medical letter. Patients were “advised to abstain from alcohol” until their own doctor allowed them to drink.  Trouble was, this had come since 1950. Into 2000. Now 2014. Surely that wasn’t right? She’d checked out some websites, found out what she thought, found some truth.

She looked at one of the bottles which had sit in her cabinet since before she went into hospital for whatever she had had to put up with. What was it – some surgery? Oh yeah. With a mistake. Leading her into some lock ward. Kept her for too long, and no-one really wanted to release her. But she’d finally talked herself out of there.

She looked again at the bottle. It seemed to talk nicely to her. “Open me, girl. Have a drink, I’m sooooo good!” She smiled. She knew. And besides, her letter was – supposedly – only “recommendations”. Was this alcohol, small, not often, to repeat patient conditions? She thought not.

She unscrewed the bottle lid and took a deep breath of the scent of the red wine. Oh yes, it was sooooo good. Why would that be non-compliant with her medicals? She wasn’t even on medicals. Now. She’d stopped them a couple of weeks ago, and felt so much better now than she had been when she was on them. She pulled out her medical discharge letter again. “Do not consume alcohol for a minimum of two years.” Why? What would alcohol do to her body which some stupid surgeon had done? He’d made her un-wrong, un-normal, sort of…. different. Why would her alcohol be some real enemy? Wasn’t he?

She fetched a glass out of her cupboard, a proper wine glass, large.  She poured half way into it and sat it in front of herself. She didn’t feel completely good, as if she was doing some bad practice. After all, wasn’t she doing something that her letter told her not to do? Or wasn’t this not illegal?

This was silly though. She wasn’t really taking any medicals, especially not the stuff that was supposed to interfere with her whether or not she was going to drink. So if she wasn’t on medicals, why couldn’t she drink? Occasionally. Once or twice a week.

She picked up the glass, smelled inside it, felt good. She breathed deeply, taking the smell deep into her lungs, licked her lips, tipped the glass just a tiny bit. Until she got a small sip. Oh, that tasted so good, felt so good, casted away her memory of her letter. She rolled the sip around her mouth, over her teeth, down her throat. She closed her eyes, breath deeper. She remembered her wine, drank so well. Now again.

She was doing the “okay” thing. Yes, she thought. She put her recliner out and listened to her music, while she had a – small – glass. Only one.

One day, perhaps, I will be a Warrior. I'm pretty sure that would be okay for me.

The challenging

Music. I'm sure it's a pretty definite challenge in most people's lives, but, at my age, I know my own challenge is different than most younger people. Why? Because I know who I should listen to, and I am very guilty about turning off those I don't really like. Or don't like at all. It's an interesting thought.

Tchaikovsky

Earlier in my life I had a lot of mum and dad's favourite music. It was pretty good, I thought at age 6. Or 7, or 10. Dad still played some old stuff, on 78 records or with larger holes in 45s. The 78s held so much of Strauss, and I have remembered so much of it that, once upon a time ago, I bought CDs with some famous classical performers playing or having written. Beethoven, Chopin, Strauss, Dvorak, Tchaikovsky, Vivaldi, many others. So good.

Dad often played some funny music about pubs without beers, or Australian Waltzing Matilda, or any music from Perry Como, Burt Ives or Bing Crosby. (Do you know them? I do. Or, at least, I did.)

Growing into my teenageship made me a "favourite fan" of David Cassidy, who was lead in the Partridge Family. Oh, I loved it! Actually, I'm sure I truly loved David, but he was so far away I couldn't even make a call to him. Oh well.... 

Leaving home was to infuse me into other 1970s music. I discovered Led Zeppelin, Yes, Aqualung, Janis Joplin, Jimmi Hendrix. These days I can still choose music I knew then, even though many of the singers have gone. Have a look through Google - just type in "1970 musicians" and go to the "images" pages. There are so many pics of anyone that anyone must have known. Some were great, brilliant. Some were not, but I had a lot of 33rpm records. I played a lot of rock and metal, including Deep Purple, Gun 'n' Roses, Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, as well as those
who were more hippy than metal. I changed my own clothes to fit with my favourites. I learned how to play a basic guitar. I sang often, either at NZMCA events or at karaoke bars with friends. It was great fun but not "famous".

These days I seem to have had a challenge. After leaving the (recent) hospital I found myself at home alone, with music I could choose. So much I seem to have forgotten, but I jump around events that happened years ago. I didn't really want the TV but I preferred music, and I could imagine how precious that music, many years ago, could have been. These days, every morning, I play yoga music and then I start with my favourite groups - Pink Floyd, Alan Parsons Project, The Twine, Missy, Tori Amos, Seal, classical... so many. And they are always repeated.

So this is my challenge. Do I not like modern singers or musicians? Will I listen to them? What will I complain about? Or am I old(er) and stuck with my own music?

I'm sure I know where I am. Where are you?   

Finding out what I am living for

Being an “at home” older person, I am finding out what I am living for. It’s been 104 days today from my surgery. It’s been a hell living here, being responsible for my life which never seems to be as “normal” as it used to. Until I was in the surgery I had never had any stroke, or never anything that would turn against me. I thought I was okay, just get my aneurysm clipped and let me get out in 3-5 days. For me, after the stroke and surgery, it was 45 days, most of which I was in BIRU. Earlier, moving in, I caused a problem. I didn’t want to be in there, I’d never been told why, and I managed to get out of the (locked) door before I was stopped. But I was held onto as if I was a criminal. I was held at BIRU until June. When I got home, I felt – in my daydreams – fine.

When I was first in the hospital for my surgery, my lawyer had already lodged my case with court. He’d apparently gotten concerned. After I got home, he rang me and scolded me for my ABIOS carer. He told me he would talk about me to someone else and let me know. In the end, he backed off from my court case. I was angry and upset.

Since I came home I had noticed so many Facebook sites that I had joined earlier. I looked at them all and began to realise how low the government had dragged us, and how the lawyer had thought he did the “right” thing. What the lawyer failed to realise was legal disentrancement was building on me. I am an RRV, with right to Australian citizenship in February 2015, but that doesn’t hold me off any income such as DPS or anything from Centrelink, because I can’t work until I have completed medical recovery. I know that I am unable to work in my previous health, but I have been here for 9 years. Why does the government work the way they do?  

The FB sites covered so much information about how the government was dumping anything they regarded as non-rich. That includes alleged refugees and Kiwis. How can this be? So many people who now work within government seem to have lost their affiliation to anyone who is not – yet – an Australian citizen. Seems that they will carry on assuming you are a citizen, yet they will back off when they find out you are not. How does a person who has lived and worked here for 9 years get on for any sort of medical DPS?

My interview at Centrelink was sad, to me. I was told I could have a Newstart until my application had been approved. Until, of course, he found out I was only 9 years, not Australian citizen, and, despite my RRV, not entitled to Newstart. And no-one yet knows whether or not my DPS application will be approved. Later that same evening I watched some TV programmes about Kiwi youths, homeless, who don’t get any Australian sort of money. The trouble here is that most of these youth just moved over from NZ without understanding the government hernia. No-one in NZ will tell anyone the truth. Now so many of those who are homeless may only have to make their way back to NZ – if they can paid for their air ticket. How long have these people been here? Not 9 years, I’m sure of it. Yet after my own 9 years here, working, but now I’m not, I still can’t get any income.

I am an “at home” older person finding out what I am living for. I am starting to look into places I’d never been. Months ago I had joined many sites and many groups, including One Billion Rising, Emily’s List, GetUp, Climate Council, TEDxSBW, March for Australia, Fair Agenda and so many I don’t even remember. Why I had joined so many I am questioning about because I have had hardly anything to do with ones I wanted, needed. Now I am considering dropping some of them and getting in to the ones that work for me. Whatever I do, I need to ensure that sites and groups work for some people, involving those who will work for them.

Whatever the future choice happens, I know I still have problems in my head. I work on it most days, but I know I have a whole lot still to do. And I am an “at home” older person finding out what I am living for.

It’s my life.