365. The power of transformation

Success being 90% perspiration, and 10% inspiration is the sort of annoying aphorism that says if I want something hard enough, then I have to work my butt off, not just sit back and expect, or hope, it will fall in my lap. I know this in theory, but achieving the reality is another escarpment altogether.

I want to be able to write. Like Hemingway, I want to be able to write just one good sentence. Not write like Hemingway. Just achieve one good sentence. Or was that Fitzgerald who said that. Needless, how do I go about achieving that? How do I learn to write one good sentence?

To be able to write one good sentence, one must read other writers who write not only one good sentence, but can string good sentences together into one good paragraph.

I push into another year, exploring within my imagination for one good sentence.

364. One person's end, is another's beginning

All her life, Valerie had been unable - or unwilling - to see beyond the obvious. To take that leap of faith that indicated that what she could not see, she could at least imagine. Her life was firmly rooted in the here and the now. Jobs needed to be done now; play would come later. And, this turned her into a Jill, with all work and no play.

To Val, the next corner heralded just more of the same. Over the next rise, would simply be more rises. And so it turned out to be. For her at any rate. They say that revolutions begin not with despair, but with hope. Had Valerie been able to conceive of a better life, or simply just a different life, she might have lived in hope. But she couldn’t, so she didn’t.

Not that she wallowed in despair either. It was worse than that.

363. Failure of the imagination

His knuckles were white as he gripped the railing. The reed-encrusted pond floated out in front of him, and the chatter of happy picnickers resounded behind him. All as in a vacuum. It was not like he was in pain. Not physical pain. And Norm had never been one for attributing any credence whatsoever to pain of the soul. So he was left in a quandary as to what was engulfing him.

He swayed, which is why he grasped the rail. There was an echo effect. Like both his eyes and his ears were doing a backflip. Telling him to stop. Stop right now. Take it in. Now. Smell the roses.

Like hell. What a load of balderdash. Roses are over-rated plants with thorns. The cut-type in the corner shop wilt after being in a vase for less than a day. And as for perfume. None. Been bred out of them.

362. Long time since

They haven’t sat there since the autumn, when the light was brighter, and their love just that less brittle. Not that their union is in danger. They are past that point, like realising when cleaning the house that you have less to go than you have already accomplished, and might as well push on. Not that they discuss it. Not with each other, at any rate. Not even with friends. Just with visiting relatives who have suffered the same ennui.

Interesting thing about who you discuss what with. Fran had long realised that she was fair game. Hardly anything was off-radar for frank and free discussions with her. Brush off the fallen leaves, remove the webs of long gone spiders, and the gloves come off. Just add a couple of flat whites, and a spare hour or three. Family laundry is fluttering in the breeze before the sugar is stirred.

361. Can't see a good thing when staring it in the face

For a switched on chick, Carol was often a connundrum. At times she had her head wedged so firmly in the past that her friends despaired. She looked out of time, with her bloomers flapping in the past. She had a penchant for the out-of-fashion, rather than the old-fashioned, dated clothing rather than vintage.

And this matched her social attitudes. Carol still thought it okay for a man to 'show her a good time' without there being the inevitable equal but opposite reaction. To some extent, she had a lot more take than give. Not that Carol is not a nice person, as nice people go. She was just out of time, inhabiting another era.

Take her approach to inheritance. Carol had this firmly entrenched view that her children would inherit her estate, and, as such, she wanted it to be worth-while. No matter that she would live out her old age in penury. Carol was asset rich but cash poor.

360. One foot in the grave

It was not as though Imogen was squeamish, more that she did not want to cause offence. Every one had to die at some time,and many people recognised this. Well, recognised it in theory. Recognised it in others. However, when it came to their own death, most people turned a blind eye, or a deaf ear. However one looks at it, people simply could not recognise when their own demise was nigh.

Jack was close to death. He was dying. Actually, the other way around: close to death is closer than merely dying. Dying is still in the back straight, whereas close to death is within bull's roar of the finish line.

Jack was so close to death, his skin was sloughing, and his eyes full of eternal light, yet still he would deny it.

359. The power of the bottom line

Bums on seats is what is crucial. The thorny issue of how to get paying customers through the front door, is one that should be addressed - and solved - before any new venture is embarked upon.

And this is intricately involved with the substance of the venture itself. What is it that is on offer, are people likely to want it , and will people pay sufficiently to enable the business case to stack up in the real world? Take three brain-waves out the trillions that are conjured out of thin air each year: a computer networking consultancy; a child care establishment; and, a retail photography venture.

There is certainly a demand for child care places, but parents are loathe to pay the economic cost, thinking it to be little more than baby-sitting, and besides they can do it themselves. There is certainly a market for photography, but most people contend they can do just as well themselves, and portraiture is so very subjective.

Which leaves us with networking computers.

358 Cecile's folly

Some ideas just don't have legs. But it is very hard to persuade certain people of this once their heart is set upon something. Cecile was one such person.

Cecile had worked her entire life in a factory in Marrickville as a machinist. Then when she was 57 she won some money in lotto. That was how she expressed it in public, but the reality of the situation was that Cecile won some few million dollars, just slightly less than ten. She and Henry had never known such wealth, and had no idea what to do with it. They did not talk about it with friends, because they might think they had tickets on themselves. They did not talk about it with a financial adviser, because he might suggest the stock market or government bonds.

Cecile and Henry wanted to invest in bricks an mortar. Something to take them away from the industrial wasteland that had been their lot in life until now.

So, they invested in a Bed & Breakfast. As a hobby. To keep them in their old age.

357. Every so often life surprises

Elise was peeved because her pink gloves had perished and she had to do the dishes by hand. Would that she had a brand-spanking machine like Nerida next door.

Nerida was a puzzlement really. You could swear she was all show with nothing on the inside. What with her navy blue immaculate French-cut nails and her hair always immaculately coiffed. Elise would never dream of wearing a linen skirt, as the creases would just emphasise her pudgey backside. Nothing like this would sway Nerida; linen skirts would never dream of creasing on her. They wouldn't dare. It was easy to judge this book by its cover.

Until her Rodney died.
.
Until her Rodney died, Elise had no need to look to Nerida's interior.

356. There is a blue hill far away beyond the city wall

Evelyn leant on her veranda and looked into the purple haze. Her coffee mug was balanced on the ledge, her chin propped up by her elbows.

Her gaze lifted over the first ridge of indigo hills, then the second, her imagination realizing they stretched on ad infinitum, could her eyes but discern them. Lucky life is not a straight line, she mused. The destination would be achieved all too soon. Evelyn thanked her lucky stars for not flying like a crow. Instead she cogitated on up hill and down dale, and the peregrinations of both bush-walking and life. How some people spent all their life following the stream, never venturing to clamber up the more difficult inclines.

Then she saw the ridge of blue stretched across the expanse of the sky, and wondered where the trudging ended and the flying commenced.

355. Growth rings

Ron had always been attracted to wood. Attracted is not strong enough; mesmerised is more accurate.

He liked the smell of it, even when it was being hewn, with the sap seeping, and the tree creaking in agony. He liked the smell of it being milled, as the shower of wood-dust filled the air and weeped into a heap beneath the sawn lumber. He liked the feel of it, running the pads of his fingers gently over the whorls and knots and growth rings.

But especially, Ron liked to work timber, to mould it, and shape it, and make it into something attractive to the eye. He could put his skill to the building of a house, or a slip and rail fence, or an ornate fruit bowl. But one of Ron's life long passions was using his lathe to create the smooth shape of the female body from wood.

354. To each his own

There is no accounting for taste – whether in garden ornaments, or lovers. One should never criticise the person that attracts a friend. Attraction is a conundrum. Some people are attracted to the clothes people wear, the car they may drive, or the company they keep. Other people may be attracted by smell. I read in scientific articles that this is based on fact. I struggle with this as an attractant.

I am attracted by things that cannot be seen – like smell, I guess. Maybe it is the way he walks, or shuffles, or drags his wooden leg. Maybe, it is the spark of wit in the corner of an eye. They say opposites attract, but I fail to see the logic in this. What would opposites have in common? Maybe it is that complementaries.attract .

Suffice to say, I am not attracted to this type of garden ornament.

353.Other times, other manners

This is what she said, but in another language altogether. Which no doubt carried other connotations. But, I understood her meaning, and did not chastise her cliché. For what is a cliché if not a vehicle for truth over time. Things were done differently in the past, is what she wanted to say, and which I understood, from the cliché. Others may have chastised, if they felt awkward, if it limited their understanding, if they felt inadequate. Perhaps, for some, a cliché carries too much of the minutae of past learnings.

Maybe for some, this stairway from the road to a park, is dangerous and should be replaced. But I find it charming. A reminder that, in the past, we were not so hung up with public liability. We expected citizens to look out for themselves, to take due care. Now we live in a nanny state, with apron strings.

352. Attraction in the eye of the beholder

She could have been walking Rue Soufflot in the autumn, but she wasn't. She saw it by chance, from across the busy Sydney street in the early summer after a sudden shower.

It was not the brioche that attracted. Well, it was and, then again, it wasn't. It attracted her taste-buds, but turned her stomach. Her stomach reacted to the settling of fats. Before, she would purchase in haste, and repent at leisure. But, no longer. Now she appreciates from a distance. She finds other aspects more tempting.

Like the printing. The shape like the ooze of the custard filling. Like the skill that went into the formation of each letter. Once completed by quill, but now likely by fine-point. She appreciates the complexity of the printing. Its ability to link both the similar and the disparate. Like the window links a street in Paris to a street in Paddington.

351. Wishful thinking

She knew the ivy to be counter-productive, that its beauty would be overwhelmed by its destructiveness. But, the destruction would be then, whereas the beauty is now. She often erred on the side of the present. She never knew what the future may hold; nor whether she would be part of it. Death may intervene. So, the ivy stayed.

Until long after her marriage, which was destructive in the here and now. Interesting how a partnership can be destructive, without either participant wanting it to be, or being so in themselves. It is in the coming together that the capacity for such evil is born. But, a house is not a home, nor does the presence of beauty make it so. With other partners, this house could have become a home, a place of joy, and even contentment.

But not in this marriage, under this roof, surrounded by her ivy.

350. Behind closed doors

Through the years, Michelle had come to regard the Beaudan’s as her family. Not that she was related to any of them. Indeed, not that she had even been introduced, neither she to them, nor they to her. It was an intense sense of ownership, rather than a personal knowledge that informed Michelle’s affection. She was much too reticent to be so forward.

She had watched them with a fond regard, as she trudged up Ormond Street each morning, and wearily down again later that same afternoon. She admired their sense of beauty and design, acknowledging their apparent innate ability to match colour with line, shape with texture. She envied their restraint when youth and vitality toppled over into age and decay; their ability to see the beauty within manifest externally.

Next time she passed one of them in the garden tying up the sasanquas, Michelle determined to nod good-day.

349. The road is long

Valerie’s head spun. It seemed filled with the softest of down. Her path became obscured, but she trusted her sense of direction. On either side of her, the way was blocked, and impediments of all colour and size shaped her progress. Knowing not whether to watch where she trod or where she was going, she became confused and lost heart.

She paused a moment. She reflected upon her purpose. Did she want to get somewhere by a specific hour? Was this a necessary pathway for getting from one point to another across the hillside? Or was there time to simply smell the roses?

She turned from the way ahead to the flowers tumbling over the brick wall to her left. She reached out her hand, turning the delicate white petals to face her. She took a deep draught of their heady aroma.

Then she turned, and continued down the laneway.

348. She claims a right

Barbara has lived beside Olive Lane for over forty years now. She has expectations; she has rights; she has a voice. There are ways of behaving that are considerate, and nice. Building a new retirement home on the other side of Olive Lane is not playing the game according to the rules. To Barbara’s rules – the ones she wishes constrained the world.

Think of the huge number of trees that will have to be removed and the amount of carbon dioxide left to rot the atmosphere. Think of the increase in the number of vehicles each day that will clog the narrow local streets. And then, there are the increased movements of delivery and service vehicles. And there will be ambulances at all hours of the day and night taking away the bodies of the deceased. The height of the building will block the sun.

It will just not do.

347. Dirty pretty things

Her blood singing within her veins, Nicolette flutters around her shop, checking that all is in readiness. Not that she expects a flood of customers on her opening day, but she likes things to be just so. This is a big week for her. Three years out of CoFA and opening her own shop-front, with two rooms out the back, one for design and the other for sewing.

Nicolette stands on the front steps and surveys her new world. She thinks she has chosen her site well. What is it they say? Position, position, position? This intersection says it all for her. It is away from the hurly-burly of the food precinct, yet nestled nicely up against galleries and home-furnishing establishments.

She turns to check her window display yet again, and chuckles, remembering her mother’s bewilderment over signage. Nicolette enjoys the tension within the name: it speaks her street language.

346. The dawn’s early light

Frank never tired of the early rises that living on a dairy farm entailed. He felt privileged to be able to share in such beauty; a beauty available to most people if only they had the ability to appreciate it.

He would wander out of the wash shed wiping the last drops of his morning splash from around his neck, looking up at the line of pine trees stretched along the Aberdeen Road. As he strode over to his old tractor he would whistle the dogs, and then three great lungs-full of the morning crispness. Then off they would go down to the milking sheds.

The cows were on their way up the slope as soon as they heard the tractor roar into life. Some set to bellowing, others to trotting, all with their udders swinging this way and that. They liked this ritual as much as did the dogs.

345. Down the creek skimming

Kevin can see the creek in his mind’s eye to this day, although he had not even visited the farm since 1964. That would make it over 46 years, nearly half a century. And yet it was like yesterday. Memory plays tricks, that is for sure.

He can see Jimmy Wicks with the leather pouch that his old man gave him tied around his waist, walking along the creek bed choosing stones. Not just any old stone, mind you. They had to be chosen carefully for size, for weight and for shape. Jimmy made better choices than did he, Kevin freely acknowledged now. Kevin chose for colour. He liked the bright stones, and the mottled stones. And he wondered why Jimmy always won.

Jimmy, however, was motivated by the beauty of the trail of splash that the perfect stone left in its wake as it skidded across the still surface.

344. Home is where the hearth is

As Jill crested the rise, she felt an sadness engulf her. Tears stung her eyes. She could step no further.

She stood beneath the shade of the Camphor-Laurel tree from which her swing had dangled during her childhood. Down there, beyond the gate, was where the kelpie had her kennel.

And that chimney, all disrobed, with no house to call a home, was where they sat after dinner, Mum to the right, Dad to the left, the kids in the middle sprawled on the rug. Sat and listened to John Deece put another raft of contestants through the wringer. Sat and listened on a Sunday to Police Files, where they always got their man. Or to Bob and Dolly encourage people to take the money or pick a box.

So many memories, to cry tears over, and yet she had hated living here and could not wait to be gone.

343. Domestic disputations

There is a tug-of-war over which animal is Man’s-Better-Friend, the dog or the cat.

A dog is faithful and loving; a dog is full of enthusiasm and wants to play; a dog is loyal. When its human says ‘Stop’, a dog will stop. When its human says ‘Fetch’ a dog will fetch. Dogs are known to be outgoing, enthusiastic, and adaptable, and to be happy wherever their human is.

I have lived with cats nearly all my life. I like dogs, but I prefer cats. Cats are emotionally mature, whereas dogs rely on the love of a human for their emotional stability. Both my cats show affection and give affection. They work with me in the garden and watch television with me.

Moving from house to house has not overly upset them. They seem to be happy, to be able to adapt, provided I live there too – and feed them.

342.Choices

Sammy has been fishing from this same pier for the last fifteen years. He has seen ships come and go – large ships, small ships and all in between. He wonders where these ships go and what sort of people travel on them.

Why do some people go on journeys, yet Sammy is content to fish from the same pier for fifteen years? He could fish from another pier, but who’s to guarantee that the catch would be better ? There is more to fishing than just the catch.

Sammy likes to feel the wind on his face as he waits for that tug on his line. He likes to see the storms brewing down in the bay. Sammy enjoys the spray from the large waves as they smash on the rocks below.

And he likes to watch the big ships sail past.

Then he goes home and fries his catch.

341. Nature will out

As Philip had feared all his life, the truth does out.

He had tried to keep a lid on things, to keep his true character under wraps, but to no avail. Seeing how life treated his parents, especially his mother, he was desperate not to go down the same road. Life is what you make of it, how you carve it. And Philip wanted to pick his life up by the ears and give it a darned good shake. He refused to accept whatever chance happened to throw his way.

However, to achieve this Philip knew he had to change his essential character, because it was his character, his traits which he had inherited from his parents. And look what had happened to them. They got nowhere. They scrimped and saved, they argued and fought, they lied and cheated, and finally they bashed and murdered.

Well, one of them did.

340. Before the rains came

Under this massive camphor-laurel is Greg’s favourite spot for lunch. He chugs the old Massey-Ferguson around the track past the top dam, parks her in the shade, clambers down for a well earned rest and a feed. Invariably, Molly has packed his favourite, his current favourite for, although some may doubt it, Greg does occasionally change. His favourite of the moment consists of four slices of Helga’s Pumpkin Seed loaf, spread with pure butter. He does choose ‘Low Salt’ in a concession to the health-nazis. This comes wrapped in cling-wrap. Beside it in the plastic lunch box, is a deep red truss-tomato and a handful of the latest designer green, baby spinach.

Greg assembles all this, leans back against the trunk of the tree, and takes a massive munch. As he chews, he lets his gaze ramble the beautiful countryside spread out before him.

It is good to be alive.

339.Shattered shards of memory

His life lay before him, a shattered wasteland. He juggled the pieces in his cupped hands, lacking the ability to put them together again. Not that they would fit. Unbeknownst to Lew, pieces were missing, pilfered by the light-fingered in our society.

He sat disconsolately on the bench, in the sun, his head cradled in his hands. Singular, soft tears of despair dripped from his craggy cheek, to fall, unremarked, onto the pavers beneath.

He looked up, with unseeing eyes, into the canopy of the Camphour-Laurel tree, wherein wheeled majestic Currawongs, burbling their song of joy to the tumbling white of the banking cloud.

Overwhelmed by such immensity, and such unrestrained freedom, Lew concentrated on the quick projecting from the nail of his right thumb. If he could but snip that lone piece of skin, all would be restored to right. He would be in control of his own destiny.

338.The green, green grass of home

Robert looks around guiltily, endeavouring to disguise his smug sense of pleasure, as though he were about to be sprung for a crime against humanity. He continues along the footpath with that jaunty air of a man satisfied with his lot. His brolly swings enthusiastically beside his side, whilst his brief-case speaks volumes about the substance of its owner. Robert nears his house, after a demanding day at the office.

The journey for Robert, although short, has been steep. He has not always resided here, among the leafy terraced laneways of Paddington. His earliest memories centre upon a ramshackle barn of a building rented by his parents on the sheep property at Wybong, where his father was a share-farmer. For Robert it was an early start, with the school bus picking him up from the distant front gate just before 6:30.

For Robert, regression was not to be countenanced. Ever.

337. The fruit of the vine

Julie enjoys connecting with her wider family, indeed wonders why she had not done so years earlier than now. She is humbled that they welcome her into their homes, yet at the same time, she is mortified that her own branch of the family is so distant and cold. Cousins all, descendents of two brothers who could not be more dissimilar if they tried. Which, Julie was just now starting to realise, maybe they had.

Just the previous evening, her own daughter had sent Julie an article entitled ‘Siblings share genes, but rarely personalities’, and this covered the gamut of differences that she could discern between her father and his elder brother. Gordon was jovial and outgoing, a networker with a big personality. Laurie was sullen and withdrawn, a loner with a mean and stubborn streak.

They say, the fruit of the vine does not fall far from the tree.

336. The best of both worlds

Running her hand down the glistening fur, Nerida reflected on the eternal conflict between freedom and security.

‘I don’t blame you, puddy-tat. I am not keen to venture out into that weather either’.

She pulled her jacket closer around her and took another sip of her coffee. The day was young, the light poor, and the weather lamentable, but a deadline is a deadline. She doodled the mouse across its pad. It occured to Nerida that this was, indeed, a nice little cocoon, for her as much as for the cat.

‘I am free to walk out that door, but I simply don’t have the guts to do it’.

She dragged the still soggy underwear from the front-loading washer and tossed them into the dryer.

‘How free am I then? I wonder if freedom is more a state of mind than a reality.’

She stood, staring out into the rain.

335. A fish out of water

Gaston guns his scooter to the max. The sun is shining. There is a light breeze wafting.

‘I could not ask for better, so why do I feel like throwing it all in?’

He checks the rear mirror to ensure he knows the dynamics at play. Judging distances and speed carefully, he executes a gentle swan dive behind the oncoming Lexus. He returns to the vertical and heads off down Merlin Street.

‘I like my job. I like my apartment. There is enough interest from the chicks to keep my hand in.’

He checks the road surface, before going up and over the culvert, the only entry into Gaussman Lane, avoiding the hole gouged out by the recent heavy downpour.

‘Hah!’

He brings the scooter to an easy stop and eases the helmet off his head. He shakes his head, and gives his hair a ruffle.

‘Not enough irrational chaos’.