- S c a b b a n a l i a -: Star Gazing

[ The 2020's ]

He's made it into his 80's. This is either the last, or not the last. It's anyone's guess.

It has been (still is) a great journey, although he has no idea why the time went so fast, tells himself it must be either all part of God's Plan, or simply Nature's turnover. He keeps casting about as if he'll find The Answer nearby but deep down in his thinking hidey-hole he knows there isn't any Answer. Only speculation. And pre-packaged Theories. Most of them unbecoming of any rational modern human.

So where is he up to? His eyes are getting tired and his legs and arms have gone skinny and his bum has disappeared and he has to have a few rather unlovely bits burnt off his outer layer every so often for fear of turning into The Elephant Man. But he's still watching and listening, and his Mind is ticking over well, maybe better than ever, navigating towards a wisdom fine-tuned by experience and reflection. And his Spirit is healthy too, still checks out the stars at 5.15am most mornings just in case. Just in case God has left a message.

But Fish has turned into full-time Smudge and is about to Master the Arts. (But always has a great hug at the ready). And Ace is out there somewhere helping keep the techno world spinning madly for the masses. And the kid's are middle-aged but have a full life, so there's mostly just him and her. Comfortable. Propping each other up. All roughly as it should be.

He's still reading, writing, and researching, but now it has an urgency, because there's still so much to be explored. To be understood. Which means he's developed a mania for suddenly scribbling words on scraps of paper while the inspiration or the question or the answer is still captive, then often has trouble reading his own writing. But when he cracks it, he feels that old rush, that sweet old rush, that aerodynamic lift. Knows that when it finally goes, he goes.

So, as long he keeps on adding to these scribbles, he's breathing..

<<<<<<<<<<<<<< >>>>>>>>>>>>>

ELEVEN WORDS

I read
to know you
but, I write
to know myself

T.R.E. (2021)

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

1940

there’s a print on his study wall
two Supermarine Spitfires looking sleek
sleek and deadly
and there lies the conflict
how anything so beautiful
could kill you so well

in another life
he flew one of these
up there in that vast blue freedom
of kill or be killed
an unlovely duel
that looks and sounds like chivalry
but it’s just another anonymous death for one
death by cleverness and a .303 gunbelt
where the measure of a man

is a split second of difference
between a sharp lefthand bank
and the Spitfire’s inate ability
to turn inside the ME 109’s
frantic escape trail

     it’s an elegant machine
the Supermarine Spitfire
   ask anyone who’s flown one
anyone that lasted the distance that is
they’ll tell you –
you don’t fly it, they’ll say
you put it on
      and it flies you

looking at it now
he remembers
in 1940
when he put one on
and was a god and a valkyrie
for a few beautiful and elegant moments
but only a few

T.R.E. (2020)

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

THE MILK TRUCK SAVIOUR

she tells me she’s found God
not that I’d asked mind you
it just spills out
right there in the street
well, that’s nice I say
but make the mistake of asking
and how’d that happen then?

it was last week
the day after my husband asked
if he could bring his girlfriend in
to live with us
not that he was actually asking
it’s just how he does his humiliation thing

but I says NO, no bloody way you fuckhead
so he beats the shit outa me
so I decide I’m going to end it all
so next day I get dressed in my best stuff
and go out the front and wait
wait for the morning milk truck
the milk truck with the big wheels
the milk truck that’s fat and busy
and as reliable as sun-up

but,
(and she looks at me with – well – radiance!)
but I waited and waited and stayed ready
ready to die under those wheels
and for the first time ever in its whole life
the milk truck was late!
(and she adds, like some sort of explanation)
and it’s NEVER late
never, never at all

so,
I suddenly see, see it clear
it’s a sign from God!
so I went to that church
the one that saves you for God and for Jesus
and got myself baptised
what do you think of that?

I’m stuck for any quick answers
not without sounding – like – sceptical
like pouring cold water
as her eyes, as I said, had a certain...
radiance
well, there’s worse ways of finding God I s’pose
and she smiled
and went on her way.

T.R.E. 2020

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

SOMETHING

        a lot of times
  you don't feel like writing something
  until
  you start writing something
  then
  the life comes back
  and you're free again

T.R.E. 2021

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

MARGERY & RON

she’s old and hunched
shuffles her walking frame along
as she diminishes ever so surely
day by day

he’s old and intolerant
saunters ahead of her as if she’s baggage
because he’s still thinking he’s vibrant
like back in his glory trekking days

Kate has known her for years
coincidental morning coffee partners
from back when Margery
still had a decent measure of mojo

but slowly slowly over the years
she watched Margery give up on Ron
often suggesting there’s nothing left
nothing between them any more

today Kate bumps into her on the street
Margery on her own, more hunched than ever
like her horizon is completely gone
says Ron’s wandered off on his own

so, how are you going? Kate asks
and the shell that used to be Margery says
I wish I was dead, then adds
Ron wishes I was dead too

Kate struggles for that - something
a something to plug the angry space
well, you’ve both got that in common at least!
and the two of them have a stupid laugh

but, better than no laugh at all

T.R.E. 2020

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

PANDORA’S BOX

everyone has a pandora's box
full of their life stuff
all different and all the same
and I believe that
if we opened every pandora's box in the whole world
simultaneously and inya face
wham! – out would come the entire history
of the human race

now, my pandora’s box
is a questionable thing
made from strips of tar-paper, bits of string
some maidenshair
a chunk of something that could be
part of an elizabethan chair
oak spruce pinus radiata
balsa teak chestnut mulga
even some leftover Noah gopherwood
every plank stained
with the strains of Dvorak’s missed sonata

ohmygod look at it!
it’s been scribbled on sat on shat on kicked
pissed on by Gauls Brits Gaels Picts
and it’s as old as methuselah - what can I say?
it’s been around (and around and around and around)
every whichway

but what it looks like is not the point
it’s what’ll be left – y’know – inside
when I’m done
when the last word is writ wrote conjured up
when the very last heatbeat beats
when the last of the music has ... finally ... died

so open mine with care when I’m gone
care and respect (and trepidation, say)
maybe cross y’rself first even
if y’r that way inclined
(t’ keep that eternal boogeyman at bay)
because it’s mostly full of words
spawned from neurons tendons ink pen
words and part-words, sketchy sorta words
y’know - like those Iron Age pot bits on TV
word sherds
waiting to be whole again

but the thing is, it’s their wholeness
(once jumped out and running free)
that will tell us the stories
all the stories we ever wrote
or might write
you and me

and not only but also
maybe, just maybe, finally
out would fly
the Big Answer to the Big Why?
Why in God’s Name did all this happen?
geez that’s one I’d love to see
yessireebob
it’d be worth coming back
one more time
to actually find out
what I was meant to be

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

GREAT-AUNT’S MAGPIE

My old Aunt Theo had a pet magpie.
It was a bastard of a thing.

When we went to visit her
you’d never know when it was going to
suddenly appear from the bushes
and ATTACK!

And you couldn’t kick it the guts
that’d just make it hate you even more next time
AND you’d be in trouble with Mum
and old Aunt Theo.

The worst of it was,
it knew it had you intimidated,
it was in the way it strutted about
in a parade of ego and self-congratulation,
SO pleased with itself.

A local dog with heaps more aggro than the bird
got it in the end
tore its stupid bloody head off.

Aunt Theo was heartbroken.

Me? - best news I’d had for years.

T.R.E. 2021

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

THE DISMANTLERS

they mean well
the boffins
well ... they probably think so
believe they can find the spirit
in the words
if they pull all them words apart

     it’s like the physicists
who reckon they can find
    The God Particle
in the atom
as if they only need to break it down
into enough pieces
and there it’ll be
     The Answer
like the ghost in the machine
hiding behind some quark

likewise
the writing-meaning-tellyou experts
have pulled apart Michael Dransfield’s words
so they can show you Michael
and be such oh-so clever bastards
but – dunno about you – but
all they do is make me just a touch angry
make me want to grunt
grunt something like –
leave him fuckenwell alone
use something else to be clever on
you won’t find Michael that way
because he’s gone
and taken his ghost with him
best you can hope
is that you’ll glimpse yourself
in the wholeness on the page
if you’re lucky

T.R.E. 2020

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

DRIVING WITH GRANDPA

when my grandfather took me driving
he would give himself marks out of ten
for the smoothness of each gear change
“whoops, that one was only about an eight”
when his ageing reflexes
and sense of timing
would misfire a touch
and the car would hesitate
or the engine over-rev
just the smallest amount.

as a young man
he was a chauffeur in England
so he told me
drove some titled gent around
in a Rolls Bloody Royce
told me that many times
always the same way
and with the same emphasis
and he’d wag his head, just a little
like it was both pride and amusement
mixed together

he said he’d had to do a course in driving
with the actual Rolls people
before he could take the job
and one of the tests was for the instructor
to sit in the back seat
pour a glass of champagne
and stand it on a drop-down table
for the whole time
“told me if the champagne spilled at all I wouldn’t pass”
and he’d wag his head again, sometimes wink

T.R.E. 2020

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

STEPS

he steps it out
rare day midwinter
sky vast in a wash blue
heading for coffee
and a welter of scribble
but still cold at eight ay em
damn cold before the sun does its thing

first signs of life
a white van and two tradies
lumpy boots steel-capped
sand coloured
making their own dance

they shuffle about
huddle, slam doors
steam breathe the weekend footy
the weekend footy and ...
nup, just the footy

then the woman who it’s said
threw slices of bread on the roof
over the back fence
she’s out doing her own sad shuffle
up the middle of the street in slippers and gown
stepping on each centreline traffic bump
religiously

now two greek women
one, old in compulsory black
fitted with a widow hunch
and one, not so old but just as ancient
they share short tree-bole legs
head for prayers in an offstreet garage
but one sanctified by its icons
where they’ll pray to never die
even though its only Tuesday

next the flat-footed bus-chaser
duck runs like charlie chaplin
because his feet are either too long
or his morning is too short
he needs a new alarm clock
or a greater sense of decorum

other than that
there’s just ...
just invisible me
and a chortle of magpies

T.R.E. 2021

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

THE PUSHER MAN

he’s an old-ish bloke
and a bit scrubby
looks like he needs a shave and a haircut
but probably always does
even after having a shave and a haircut

they arrive together at the lights
she on her morning walk
him at the handles of a baby pusher
and they wait
just the two of them

the baby pusher is empty
except for a well-worn towel
and she casts an eye, a glance, curious
can’t help herself, has to ask
but smiling
you haven’t lost a baby somewhere...?
but he doesn’t smile back
not one of those people like her
who seek out the ridiculous
craft it into a laugh between strangers

I use ta havva dog he says
but the dog died
so I got a cat
but the cat buggered off
so now it’s me walking frame
cos me legs are stuffed
but still doesn’t smile
because...
because life is serious
and the button beeps and the lights change
and he shuffles off

     she sees him in the arcade
steering his baby-less dog-less cat-less pusher
into the bottle shop
humps a slab of beer
into that baby-less and dog-less and cat-less space
and throws the towel over it
   like it’s some sort of private men’s business
and heads back out the way he came
passes her with eyes somewhere else
on purpose

T.R.E. 2020

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

FINGERTIPS

keep your feet firmly on the ground
but...
put your head in the clouds
and then...
let the ghost dance
naked and unrestrained
dance dance dance
like the wildest fool

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

GOD THE INVENTOR

one day in his Middle Age
God invented tomatoes

it was well after he’d invented birds
volcanoes
quantum physics
sharks
black holes
Time
Infinity
and crocodiles

it was a delightfully sunny day
just after he’d invented that couple
that couple of trouble-makers

he decided the universe needed tomatoes
and he was right
so he did it

but
he thought about it
and he invented basil
thought about that
then invented feta cheese
but
knew he still wasn’t done

so he invented olives and olive oil
sat back
thought about inventing the Italians
but knew, in time, they’d invent themselves

then he left
his work was done

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

sometimes

      sometimes I need
  to talk about…
  books
  the ghost
  art
  dark realities
  light possibilities
  music
  a big land
  a big sky
  performance engines
  old cars
  old motorbikes
  old ideas
  new ideas
  cosmology
  evolution
  god
  stories
  people
  lives
  loves
  inspiration
  destination
  the journey
  and the why of it all

      …but I don’t
  maybe it’s the price you pay
  for being a little too
  hermit-y

>>>>>>>>>>>

the sound

Aaaaarrrgghhhnnnnuuuwwhoooo-uh-shit!

this is the sound
of an 82 year old man
bending down to unlace his shoes
after his four kilometre morning walk

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

THE MESSAGE

      a bit after five o’clock
  back lawn, early morning dark
  clear midwinter sky, old-ish man,
  he’s studying the stars

      he’s been doing this now
  these last forty-some years
  watching their annual progression
  around the firmament

      but a city back yard is no place
  for star and heaven gazing
  way too much light pollution
  which leaves him only The Few -

      alpha and beta centauri “the pointers”,
  and our own personal southern cross,
  and the saucepan in season,
  plus lots of imaginary shapes

      apparently we use the pointers to navigate
  alpha centauri is only 4.37 light years away
  but its detached mate beta is off in some other galaxy
  and they just look close, to us

      the southern cross’s stars are variously
  88 to 364 light years away
  so, at 10 trillion kms per light year
  we may never get to see them up close

      truth is, if anyone should ask (but they don’t)
  he’d say (wryly) he’s out there each morning
  looking for a message from God
  just in case ... just in case ...

      but, one morning, at age 82 earth years
  he realises (flash of insight) that the message
  has been there all the time, since Time
  so, all he has to do now is

work out what it’s saying

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

IMMERSION

to immerse yourself in a story
as a reader or a writer
is to find a special kind of solitude
an escape
where you can be both a spectator and a participant
a bit like… God

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>