Orange star rising

Nearly three years ago, I skated and passed my first Orange Star test with Canberra Roller Derby League. Since then I have had to do the equivalent thing three more times. Twice with Perth Roller Derby (where the test is just called the Level 3) - the first time to transfer and the second (in February this year) because I had skipped 6 months of training!

Today I did it again with CRDL, because I was transferring back to the League after more than 2 years away. I passed, and even though I already have one orange star sticker on my helmet I thought I'd add this second one too, because I really feel that I have earned it. In so many ways returning to the League feels like I've come full circle.

Returning to Canberra also feels like I've come full circle. I feel so much more grateful now for everything I have here! After being stripped of so much of my support network while living on the other side of the country, I realise now how much being close to my friends and family means to me.

I feel revitalised and rejuvenated. I know part of this has to do with the fact that I haven't been at work now for over a month (which always helps!), but a lot of it also has to do with feeling connected once again to the people and places that matter in my life. I am incredibly, unbelievably happy to be back in Canberra. Which wasn't something I ever really thought I'd say!

Between returning from Tonga and leaving for Perth I was pretty down on this place. It did occur to me while I was in WA that perhaps the whole life lesson I was supposed to learn was about how good I'd had it in Canberra, so I'd be able to embrace it when we returned. Whether or not that's what the Universe was trying to teach me, it certainly reflects how I feel!

Wave Rock and surrounds

Day one and two of my little road trip with Dog Friday comprised the area around Hyden, including the various rock formations known as Wave Rock (a small part of a larger granite outcrop known as Hyden Rock), the Humps and Mulka's cave. These rocks were amazing, as were the wildflowers.

Despite its beauty, the area is seriously affected by salinity, which has rendered all the once-fresh water systems salty.

 

  

 

 

 

The Tin Horse Highway

Way back when I first moved here, I attended a conference paper given about the Tin Horse Highway, a stretch of road running from the wheatbelt town of Kulin to the local bush racetrack. I pretty much decided then and there that I had to see it for myself, and now, in closing my Westralian Experience, I have done (am still doing!) a little week-long road trip, encompassing the wheatbelt and the south coast, and including the Tin Horse Highway.

Below are pics of some of my favourites, though eventually I got sick of pulling my car over every hundred metres, and decided to stop photographing after the first two dozen or so!

Dad's Poem

My Dad wrote me a poem before he died. He was known for his poems, which he'd whip out at our various family gatherings - engagement parties, visiting relatives from overseas, any occasion was enough for Dad to write a poem about.

But he'd never written one for me until last year, after he learned he was dying. He read it aloud the last time the Menzies family were all together, in February of 2012. I found it today while going through my filing cabinet in preparation for the move, and because I only have the hard copy that he gave me I thought I'd spend the time and tears transcribing it.

So here it is.

TO ISA

Twelve thirty-eight, a miracle of the night,

No crying, slow blinks in Leboyer-dim light,

Dark hair, perplexed peeps,

Mouth agape while mother weeps,

Into water, first bath by sire,

Shaking hands, brain on fire.

Clumsy mitts that can’t disguise,

A first look into those dark eyes,

Gazes meet and one heart soars,

Misty eyes, the clench of jaws,

Nurse has seen it all before,

Grabs new baby, out the door.

Pediatrics now ensue,

She’s overcooked, but she will do,

Yaya arrives with second sight,

Adds more chaos to the night,

Mother sleeps and dad departs,

To Sydney Faculty of Arts.

Cigars all round that no-one smokes,

Lots of laughter, sleepless jokes,

Pheromones on overtime,

Exhaustion sweet, joy sublime,

Back to Crown Street, one more peek,

Through thick glass, view oblique.

Home at last, but colic bound,

Baby cries, a ghastly sound,

We helpless as that week-old child,

Doc assures us symptoms mild,

Try telling that to parents new,

Frantic learning, brains askew.

Lying on the bed one day,

Gibberish babbled, three at play.

Baby chokes and ceases breath,

Scares us shitless, imminent death?

Dad grabs child by legs and feet,

Inverted shakes above the sheet,

Bub comes to with awful cry,

Relief abundant she didn’t die.

Trained from two as pillion child,

Dad rides carefully, never wild,

Off to playschool on seat of tank,

Back at 3 and draw a blank.

“The bleeding’s stopped,” I hear the cry,

News to me, now what’s awry?

Shovel blow into the skull,

By rival child, slightly dull.

Ambos called, panic surging,

Siren blares at Isa’s urging.

Off to Daceyville,

In school band,

Cacophony,

Dad thinks it’s grand,

Flat and sharp,

Who needs a key?

The tears still flow

And all agree

That these kids are just talent plus,

A bandmaster’s genius.

But better for the education,

Is some global perambulation.

So round the world six months is spent,

In countries new, of vast extent.

And travel through these sprawling nations,

Means lots of time at railway stations

Playing cards while others view,

Dad and daughter stuck like glue.

Then it’s time for secondary learning,

Dad wins vote for school discerning,

St Catherine’s is the choice at last,

Not for snobbery, or chasing caste,

Just to give his precious girl,

A better chance at life’s pearl.

Alas she was her father’s child,

For private school a bit too wild.

So off to high school, where things smooth out,

Many fewer rules to flout,

There’s still some wilfulness observed,

But also teacher-praise incurred,

She sticks to it to some degree,

And does quite well in the HSC

Well it’s off to the Gong with Dad in tow,

Orientation, all that show.

But Gongoloids don’t suit young Eees,

Nor does uni, she’s not at peace.

A month or six of break’s required,

Before once again she is inspired.

So ay out west she stakes a claim,

Straight HDs in the BA game.

By now Dad’s skint and not around,

To have his ear upon the ground.

And many are the things, he fears,

Troubling Isa, bringing on tears.

Accumulated listings of regret,

Are bigger than the national debt.

And sometimes with the weekly post,

She fires arrows, with Dad the roast.

But this too passes, as time immemorial,

She does more study, a Masters curatorial,

Then finds her life-long niche at last,

Museums, curation, nothing half-arsed.

Joins the derby, learns to skate,

A gentle sport to participate

In clashes wild she busts a knee,

Expressing her femininity.

Then there is her perfect feller,

Her Clinton – the calm co-dweller.

A perfect match in many ways,

For him there can be no better praise,

Than making happy a dad’s only child,

Truly on whom fortune smiled.

So young miracle of the night,

I know this sounds a little trite,

But I really have to say aloud,

You’ve made your Dad, so bloody proud.

Road Trip 1

In my last few weeks in WA I am trying to do a spot of sight-seeing. This place truly is beautiful, and it seems a shame that I have seen so little of it in my two years here. So earlier this week Janet, Heath and I took a quick 3-day road trip to the Pinnacles on the coast, and New Norcia a little bit inland, all within a couple of hundred kilometres of Perth.

Arriving early to catch the sunrise

This odd assortment of shapes and sizes covers a relatively small area, and the theories around their formation are just that - theories.

Sunrise!

One theory is that these lumps were once the root system of large tuart trees, and that the original soil line was much higher than what we see now.

Wildflowers at the side of the road

The New Norcia Hotel, where we stayed. Originally built as accommodation for the parents visiting the pupils at the (European) schools.

The Abbey Church

Decorated in the 1960s using a traditional style, where coloured plaster is put on the walls in layers, and then scraped back to give the effect of illustration

The monastery where the Benedictine monks live

Abandoned building made from bricks manufactured onsite

Oven doors of the now-defunct Mill House

Inside the chapel of the (European) Boy's School

There were lots of walls everywhere - walls to keep boys away from girls, and to keep Aboriginals away from Europeans

 

Chapel in the (European) Girls' School, Saint Gertrudes

I know that often when you look back on things after the fact it's hard to see why you made such a big deal about them in the first place. Two instances from my own life come to mind immediately.

One happened just last week, when a dehumidifyer in one of only two 'good' storage areas flooded into the carpet. The storage area, though not ideal, is one I established myself. It has climate control and a mobile dehumidifyer, so everything that has gone into it has been treated properly - cleaned, rehoused, accessioned, documented, and finally, stored. So when I saw that wet stain and smelled the musty air, all I could think of was the inevitable mould, and the wasted hours and hours of labour and effort that had gone into creating that space.

I just wanted to cry, because I didn't know how we could ever completely dry that carpet, and even if we were permitted to remove it, it would still be days before that happened. In a room already subject to rising damp this spill seemed the death knell of good storage, as mould really was the inevitable result.

Fortunately, the maintenance guy had the GENIUS idea of cutting out the entire square of wet carpet. The Property Manager uhmed and ahed a little, but we made it happen, and within an hour of me first becoming aware of the disaster I was smiling once again.

The other example I think of that looks completely different from this side of it was when C and I got trapped in a gorge on the Larapinta Trail for three days due to rain and rising water levels. At the time, that was really scary. We were in the middle of nowhere. We made one attempt to get out, but when C got wet and his lips turned blue, and our fingers went numb with the cold, I made the call to pitch the tent and stick it out.

We rationed our food and watched the water level on the creek next to us rising, and after 3 days of non-stop rain everything except our sleeping bags was sopping. We decided that if they too got wet then we'd set off our emergency beacon, because hypothermia was a real risk. On the fourth day we had to leave, because our food rations were so low we'd not otherwise be able to make it to our next food cache. Thankfully the sun shone for the first time in days, and we made it out fine. Sure we had to squeeze three days walking into two, but we got to our next food cache safely, and notified everyone that we weren't dead (after being reported missing by a friend!), and by the time we'd completed the total hike it was hard to remember what the whole fuss was about.

But at the time, I was aware that we were potentially in a life-or-death situation. Had we made a stupid decision, it's quite possible that we may not have made it out unharmed. But we didn't, and so we did.

I am trying to see my current situation like that. I am so flooded with anxiety right now and have been, let's face it, for months on end. I'm sure that by the time this is all far behind me I'll wonder what I made such a song and dance about. But at the moment, getting through this - even with the end now in sight - is challenging.

PS Re-reading this post I realise both the issues I outlined involve flooding! Perhaps I should just stay away from water!

Bitter. Sweet.

It's official, we're leaving WA! Clinton has accepted a job back at his former workplace in Canberra, and, though I do not yet have any work lined up, I won't be waiting to get a job before heading back.

Life is too short to be so miserable. I've had six job interviews in the last nine months with no result, so I don't want to stick around in the hope that I might get another job from here. Since I'm now willing to make compromises on things like accepting a contract position and taking a pay cut, I hope that actually being in Canberra will make things a bit easier in terms of employment. Plus, there's the whole PhD thing to be going on with!

The challenge for me now is to stick out the next few weeks - I'll be resigning hopefully tomorrow - without giving in to the inevitable bitterness I feel about my experience at the Prison. I could spend a lot of time ranting about the negative work culture I encountered, or my grave concerns about the approach being taken to the heritage there (basically stripping it back to the convict era, and not respecting the complexity and unique multi-layered-ness of the site), but I really just want to let it all go and move forward.

It was a little bit of an act of faith, coming over here. I certainly had expectations. These expectations were not only not met, but dashed, shredded, and destroyed. It's big-picture stuff, though - not just reflective of the Prison but of the state of cultural heritage throughout Western Australia. Nothing I can fix and totally outside my control. Also the big-picture stuff that happened in my own life since moving here, like my Dad dying, closely followed by his wife, and then the breakdown in relations with her family. Being so far from support networks during these events has just amplified how isolated I am here.

Moving back to Canberra feels like another act of faith, though I think this time I have fewer expectations. I'm shrugging my shoulders and just handing it all over to the Universe. There is nothing I can take from this experience but what I've learned, so over the coming weeks I aim to keep my shit together and focus on the positives of having been here.