Writer and Artist
The bird that never flew, The fish that never swam and the bell that never rang.
My next job will be to decide how to put some colour into the piece. I feel colour would add more interest but I don’t want to destroy the unity of the different elements of the sculpture. However, I can experiment, knowing that if I don’t like the result, a coat of white acrylic paint can take me back to try again.
Hopefully, the next blog will show the finished piece … have fun.
No Use Crying Now
Ten years ago, I discovered a friend, almost collapsing with distress. A secret she’d kept hidden all her life had turned up, literally, knocking on her door. A secret she had kept for over 40 years from family and friends.
Memories of her 16-year-old self now invaded her, forcing her to relive all the guilt and shame heaped upon her all those years ago when she ‘fell’ pregnant out of wedlock. She became ‘a fallen woman’. No sooner had I come to terms with that revelation when another very similar drama unfolded involving another friend. However, this time the woman went looking for and found her son.
And then a strange thing happened. A small drama, I had completely forgotten for nearly 40 years, rose from my subconscious. I lay in King Edward Hospital awaiting the birth of my second son. My first son had taken ages to arrive, so I’d come down from the hills armed with Colleen McCullough’s book, The Thorn Birds. Much like a soap-opera, it kept my mind occupied. Time passed quickly. Towards evening, I heard weeping through the open french doors of my ward. It was mid-December and warm. In my gown and slippers, I waddled along the second-floor-verandah and in through another set of french doors. A young girl lay weeping loudly. I sat on the edge of her bed, assuming she was frightened of what lay ahead, comforting her with well-meant lies, not stopping to ask myself why she was so alone.
A nurse swept in from the corridor and shooed me out like an annoying fly. As I fled back through the french doors, it shocked me to hear the harshness in her voice. ‘No use crying now, girlie. You got yourself into this mess.’
I reached my room, and with that, my waters broke. The birth of my son, born shortly after, pushed everything else out of my mind and I didn’t give that poor girl another thought. It was not until after my friend revealed her secret that I remembered and wondered if the young stranger had been in the same situation.
And I asked myself, what about the other parties, the ones who did the impregnating? Were they made to feel shame and guilt, labelled fallen and wanton? No, in those days there would have been a cover-up and even a sneaking admiration for the ‘sowing of wild oats.’
Curious to know how many girls this happened to, I went looking in the Battye Library and was surprised by what I found.
.
AGAIN
Her net flies sunlit corona submerging 'neath sunlit surface cerulean brine beckons below fish feed glassy bubbles rise in celebration again.
Her net drops a watery waltz sinking, searching fickle currents snag on rock strands stretch, fray, snap again.
Tenacious sea tugs clutches rope, net entangled birds, slime, weeds snag trapped fish freed netted dreams dashed again.
Pulling on oars beckoning shores waves carry safe on sabulous shore shadowy boat shelters warm sand embrace mending the net again.