Melbourne Story

[Boss]

Thank you Cate. Thank you for actually reading my stuff. Robin Williams was masterful. There are two pieces in motion picture history that forever lay embedded in my heart. One is a section in 'Gandhi' right at the end when he fasts on the roof of a Muslim friend's house in Calcutta, and he talks with a young Hindu man who has killed a child. The other is this http://youtu.be/j64SctPKmqk When convention is bad and wrong, it must be challenged. Our world today is bad, it is lost. And this must be changed for something new. And this calls you Cate and in the end it calls everybody. For love cannot be killed. No, it only grows stronger with every passing second.

Adam

[Boss]

I posted this a short time ago. I feel it is worthy of a re-run. I have edited it. Ta

Amal

For Amal Amjad Uwaida, five years old. A girl from Rafah who was killed on the 4th of August, 2014.

This five year old girl from Rafah will never see the sky again, not the clouds, not a bird. She'll never have her legs buckle to the undertow, suck the lips of a blue sea breeze, taste the salt on her skin. She'll never laugh again with her school mates, never try maths and geography, never play hopscotch. She won't taste apple or sugar or bread. She won't see herself in a mirror, chase her shadow down the road, get fitted for a dress. She won't dream about her marriage, go to the carnival, talk with her Mum. This girl, Amal Amjad Uwaida, was murdered, not by the weapon that killed her, but by a few men in charge of the warring sides. Indeed, it is not the people and even armies of Hamas and Israel who are to blame, it is the few men who have the finger on every single button. If they say kill, people kill. If they say stop, they stop. This is true all over the world. A few men, 'the global elite', control you. It is imperative for the 'machine' they built that they get their way. They know how to pull the strings of weak biased capitalism or stale impolite communism. They get to us with new and updated bubblegum or cheap oil or Walmart specials. We are swayed by crafty brainwashing religious leaders who never knew spiritual anything. Who never understood their parents' lack of love. But you don't believe me. You don't believe that Amal would be alive today if it wasn't for a man sitting behind a desk in Jerusalem or Gaza or Moscow or New York. They dropped the bomb on her, they shot her from a tank. They are responsible for the war industry, for the trillions of shekels or dollars or yuan that is involved. These mega rich and super powerful determine what we are and what we may know. This very small elite club who 'play with my world like it's (their) little toy' laughs at our obedience, our worship of them. They have done so since the dawn of civilisation. The death of this girl is their handiwork - it's what they do. But they camouflage it so well with their smiles on television and the vast array of people at their beck and call from spy organisations and company executives to scientists and accountants. They promise money (or their souls) to all of us. But secretly they take - and they take hard and they take ruthlessly. All to fill egos that were made empty and redundant many years ago. They will never be filled. Amal didn't know any of this. So called learned citizens in the West don't know it either. Put simply, in their mad scramble for wealth and power, our rulers don't care who they walk over, who they kill. Five year old girls in Rafah are written off as unimportant and in the way. 'Collateral damage' they say. It seems she was nothing in the scheme of things. But she was. She was a kid. And like all kids she wanted to live. 'The global elite' and all their selfish greed will end. Then children will dance on their memory. And they will sing again. And it will come sooner than you think.

[Boss]

It is Wednesday
windy, early Spring.
You lay in your
room asleep
or half awake.
The world outside
in a frenzy -
letters to be sent
working man's blues
pollen and bees
a Middle East hell.
But you doze on
dream of six kids
all alive and hungry
husband, pool, dog
school cut lunches
groovy '75 peace
the Shabbos affair.

It is 2:23pm
you wake
into relentless
depression that
shuts out the sun
takes all you got.
Anaemia raging
neuralgia gum
screaming,
the saddest past.
You question G-d
He knocks into
your dense pain -
but not much else.
Still you pray
you'll do it all day.
I stop you now
look into your face
your mouth uneven
eyes tight, glassy
you are so scared.
You ask me for
a milky tea.
I sip water
and go into
the kitchen

[Boss]

100 minutes (19/9/14)

I'm no daring Boss
I'm just a bloody fool
To really ever think
I'd learn enough to rule

I've always been so hated
My looks, my bloody brain
You think I am an enemy
You never knew the same

I tried so very hard
Or not enough at all
The party done and dusted
They still talk of The Fall

I listen Barry Manilow
Mandy the old song
The girl I caught a train for
When love was never wrong

Give me nineteen ninety
Just give me sixty eight
The ends that never met
Too young to question hate

I listen to new Cohen
He says 'You got me singing'
You did nothing of the sort
But unfold your Inquisition

Off into the valuable
The money now your lie
I hate you, yes I hate you
I'll just curl up and die

For I took all that I could
I waited for you thrice
Once your body, once your soul
Once even for your Christ

The party it is over
There's less and less to say
No one needs me, no one will
I bid to you good day

[Boss]

Not

I'll always be an extra
Uncool and never hot
Don't wanna be a rocker
My humdrum tells me not
I am a hippy drop out
My peace gregarious
My hair is long, music loud
I wrote Aquarius
Don't want no fancy life
Don't want no dandy fame
I'll eat some humble pie
Ain't no one else to blame
I ask around the billabong
How'd it ever get so sad
Cohen has a brand new song
He's famous but I'm glad
I look out for my Momma
She needs a helpful plan
A doting old babicka
My one and only fan
I've never been a class act
It's true I tell no lies
I'm living in the outback
The dust, the sheep and flies
"Be silent now! Obey!"
It's you the winning mob
Power to your sensei
I shut my manic gob
I am a broken dude
Confused, all swept aside
I know this by vicissitude
And meekness open wide
I'm nothing in your vista
I'm dirt, I'm fucking clay
You spit on my dead sister
I do just what you say
You my master, you my boss
I lick your ego dry
You my master, you my boss
I please you till I die

[Tchocolatl]

A lot of rhythm and blues in the swing, Boss.

[Boss]

Thank you for helping me see

[Boss]

I

In the Western Hemisphere just below Angular Point is a little farm called Springbrook. Here a husband and wife dote on their three children - Fran, Bertie and John. They are a happy lot. Sharing the chores, following Jesus and playing their tunes everyday. Mom and Pa are in their mid thirties, their kids are fifteen, ten and nine respectively. On Sundays they go to their local church at 10am and listen attentively to Pastor Mick. He speaks of biblical lore, morals and righteousness. It is all so neat, all so calm. Fran attends Clyde High. She catches the bus to and from. This morning she got on, paid her way and ambled down the aisle to her friend Chloe. They always met like this. They stood. They chatted away furtively, giggled and smiled. At the very back of the bus, the last row, sat the usual louts Tommy, Hank and JJ. They shared a smoke. The bus came up to Thistlewaite St. It stopped. Fran looked to see who was coming on. A discrete woman, an old timer and then someone new. A Middle Eastern lad all of sixteen. She was transfixed. She stared into the jet black hair, his nose, black eyes. He had her school' s jumper on, he spoke to the driver in broken English. Fran was entranced. They took off, he walked down, passed her and proceeded to the back. There was a seat near JJ. He took it. Tommy looked up, "Who the fuck are you?"
"I am Mohammed."
"So you're Muslim."
"Yes."
"And you think you're coming to Clyde?"
"Of course."
Hank clenched his fist, stood and lunged at Mohammed. The new lad raised his right hand. And inexplicably, Hank fell back in his seat. There had been no contact whatsoever; Fran was testament to that. She was perplexed. She didn't understand. He only lifted his hand. What was this? Magic? Hank was dazed. JJ and Tommy were stunned and then incensed. Tommy yelled out, "Let's get him!" And the two louts rose to their feet. Once again Mohammed lifted his right hand, once again the attackers fell back down. The bus reached Clyde. It emptied. The three louts got off, Fran and Chloe disembarked and cool as a cucumber Mohammed climbed down. The farmer girl looked into his eyes and said, "Who are you?" The boy answered, "I am one and I am all. You knew me then, you know me now, you'll know me tomorrow." He smiled and walked away.

In the evening about seven thirty, Fran sat with her Pa on the rickety verandah. It was early Spring, the stars dotted the dark. They sat in silence, the last of the birds made their song. Tyson the Labrador sat at Pa's feet. Still thinking of Mohammed's exploits, Fran asked, "Pa, do you believe in miracles?"
"Why Jesus performed countless, you know that."
"Well can a sixteen year old boy, a Muslim boy, perform them?"
"No, he cannot."
"Why? Why not?"
"Because he is infidel. He cannot know God."
Pa emptied his pipe, chuckled and went inside. Fran looked west at the old tree by the derelict well. She closed her eyes. Cool April air brushed her cheeks. Who was this guy? Who?

II

Mohammed and his father Ahmed fled Syria by foot into Lebanon. Mohammed's Mom and sister were caught in an Assad raid. Both perished. At age fourteen the boy was strong. The plan was to get to America at any cost. Anything to get out of that hellhole. They walked, hitched even swam. They crossed the border into a UN camp. In a week of recuperation, Mohammed met lots of kids. And he also met Ali a man in his eighties who was in tune with the mystics. Bearded with leather like skin, Mohammed was amazed. And Ali saw something in the kid. While his father haggled to find a way on to a ship, any ship, Mohammed searched out Ali more and more. The old man would sit cross legged in the heat and ramble - about history, pride and about the mysterious ways of Allah. Mohammed was enraptured. The boy regained his strength. Ali told him, "Know this. Many will call you friend but not many will be that. It is not their fault. They are tied to things - money, dogma, fame. They are not yet ready to see that everything is made of Allah. Everything is Him. They toil for bread and revenge and pleasure. You must know that this is transitory. It passes. But Allah does not. People call Him by many names - He is one. Anyone can know Him you only need ask."
"Ask what?"
"For the wonder."
That evening Mohammed prayed on his mat. He asked - deeply from his fledgling soul. He had no doubt left. He let down his guard. He cried. He was only fourteen and life had asked so much already. Inside his tent the boy saw a small tear in the canvas. He stared at it. It was moving! It wrote a letter. The first of his name. It spelled on to complete his name. The boy was fearful, the boy was rapt. It wrote a sentence then another few lines and then it was just a tear.

III

It was Tuesday and Fran, Chloe and their friend Sue sat in the stands of the athletics track. Fran had banana sandwiches and a Coke, the two others ate crisps. "So what do you think of him?"
"Who Fran?" asked Sue.
"You know the Syrian."
"He's not my type," chimed in Chloe. Anyway he's Muslim."
"Yeah, he is. My Pa would freak."

Mohammed sat alone reading Kahlil Gibran. He chewed Lebanese bread with veges. He'd only been to school in America about two years but he'd caught on well. Indeed his English marks were high B's, but philosophy was his penchant. His father found English more difficult and thus had a job picking up work. They only got to Angular Point four days ago as Ahmed was chasing the fruit picking. Mohammed was proud of his old man, Ahmed only wanted his son to have all he never could. They were staying in a trailer park.

The bell sounded the end of lunch. Sue had History, Chloe sport. Fran walked slowly to the library. She had a free. Past the basketball courts Mohammed got up. He thought he'd return the Gibran. The two passed each other in the quadrangle. Fran couldn't contain her excitement. With audacity and downright guts she called out, "Mohammed!" The boy looked up.

To be continued...

---

Note - I wrote the start of this last night and the middle and end today. It just came out - there was little editing. The reason I am writing so ferociously of late is because I am caring for my Mum who is unwell. Writing keeps me from getting down.

[Tchocolatl]

I don't have the time to read it all, I scanned the paragraphs (I'll come back in a few weeks to read). Feel like smooth writing, keep going. Best health wishes to your Mum!

[Boss]

Tchoc, if you knew you'd read it through

But you don't

Enjoy Shabbat and Shana Tova to you!

[Cate]

well I don't know, but then if we do have predetermined paths I'm not meant to know and accept that. I did read through, enjoyed and am looking forward to the next part.

p.s. writing - glad that you are doing something that is helping to keep your spirits (I find it helpful as well)

[Boss]

We do have predetermined paths - that is what fate and destiny are all tied up in. But, paradoxically, we create our futures. The two work hand in hand. Tchoc, I apologise. Just me right now. Read it when you can. Boss

[Tchocolatl]

No offense. I will read it all, Adam. I don't want to go too fast and, I want to take the time it deserves.

"When life gives you lemons, make limonade." This is how some people are saying it.

I also do believe that we co-create, but with the matter on hand. Which is also not a sole destiny, but many possibilities, and also many impossibilities. It is amazing, though, how life is generous and it gives when you work it, like the earth.

More good health wishes to the household!

[Boss]

Thank you again, Tchoc. It is nearly Shabbat but I'll post today's effort after the last:

In the Western Hemisphere just below Angular Point is a little farm called Springbrook. Here a husband and wife dote on their three children - Fran, Bertie and John. They are a happy lot. Sharing the chores, following Jesus and playing their tunes everyday. Mom and Pa are in their mid thirties, their kids are fifteen, ten and nine respectively. On Sundays they go to their local church at 10am and listen attentively to Pastor Mick. He speaks of biblical lore, morals and righteousness. It is all so neat, all so calm. Fran attends Clyde High. She catches the bus to and from. This morning she got on, paid her way and ambled down the aisle to her friend Chloe. They always met like this. They stood. They chatted away furtively, giggled and smiled. At the very back of the bus, the last row, sat the usual louts Tommy, Hank and JJ. They shared a smoke. The bus came up to Thistlewaite St. It stopped. Fran looked to see who was coming on. A discrete woman, an old timer and then someone new. A Middle Eastern lad all of sixteen. She was transfixed. She stared into the jet black hair, his nose, black eyes. He had her school' s jumper on, he spoke to the driver in broken English. Fran was entranced. They took off, he walked down, passed her and proceeded to the back. There was a seat near JJ. He took it. Tommy looked up, "Who the fuck are you?"
"I am Mohammed."
"So you're Muslim."
"Yes."
"And you think you're coming to Clyde?"
"Of course."
Hank clenched his fist, stood and lunged at Mohammed. The new lad raised his right hand. And inexplicably, Hank fell back in his seat. There had been no contact whatsoever; Fran was testament to that. She was perplexed. She didn't understand. He only lifted his hand. What was this? Magic? Hank was dazed. JJ and Tommy were stunned and then incensed. Tommy yelled out, "Let's get him!" And the two louts rose to their feet. Once again Mohammed lifted his right hand, once again the attackers fell back down. The bus reached Clyde. It emptied. The three louts got off, Fran and Chloe disembarked and cool as a cucumber Mohammed climbed down. The farmer girl looked into his eyes and said, "Who are you?" The boy answered, "I am one and I am all. You knew me then, you know me now, you'll know me tomorrow." He smiled and walked away.

In the evening about seven thirty, Fran sat with her Pa on the rickety verandah. It was early Spring, the stars dotted the dark. They sat in silence, the last of the birds made their song. Tyson the Labrador sat at Pa's feet. Still thinking of Mohammed's exploits, Fran asked, "Pa, do you believe in miracles?"
"Why Jesus performed countless, you know that."
"Well can a sixteen year old boy, a Muslim boy, perform them?"
"No, he cannot."
"Why? Why not?"
"Because he is infidel. He cannot know God."
Pa emptied his pipe, chuckled and went inside. Fran looked west at the old tree by the derelict well. She closed her eyes. Cool April air brushed her cheeks. Who was this guy? Who?

II

Mohammed and his father Ahmed fled Syria by foot into Lebanon. Mohammed's Mom and sister were caught in an Assad raid. Both perished. At age fourteen the boy was strong. The plan was to get to America at any cost. Anything to get out of that hellhole. They walked, hitched even swam. They crossed the border into a UN camp. In a week of recuperation, Mohammed met lots of kids. And he also met Ali a man in his eighties who was in tune with the mystics. Bearded with leather like skin, Mohammed was amazed. And Ali saw something in the kid. While his father haggled to find a way on to a ship, any ship, Mohammed searched out Ali more and more. The old man would sit cross legged in the heat and ramble - about history, pride and about the mysterious ways of Allah. Mohammed was enraptured. The boy regained his strength. Ali told him, "Know this. Many will call you friend but not many will be that. It is not their fault. They are tied to things - money, dogma, fame. They are not yet ready to see that everything is made of Allah. Everything is Him. They toil for bread and revenge and pleasure. You must know that this is transitory. It passes. But Allah does not. People call Him by many names - He is one. Anyone can know Him you only need ask."
"Ask what?"
"For the wonder."
That evening Mohammed prayed on his mat. He asked - deeply from his fledgling soul. He had no doubt left. He let down his guard. He cried. He was only fourteen and life had asked so much already. Inside his tent the boy saw a small tear in the canvas. He stared at it. It was moving! It wrote a letter. The first of his name. It spelled on to complete his name. The boy was fearful, the boy was rapt. It wrote a sentence then another few lines and then it was just a tear.

III

It was Tuesday and Fran, Chloe and their friend Sue sat in the stands of the athletics track. Fran had banana sandwiches and a Coke, the two others ate crisps. "So what do you think of him?"
"Who Fran?" asked Sue.
"You know the Syrian."
"He's not my type," chimed in Chloe. Anyway he's Muslim."
"Yeah, he is. My Pa would freak."

Mohammed sat alone reading Kahlil Gibran. He chewed Lebanese bread with veges. He'd only been to school in America about two years but he'd caught on well. Indeed his English marks were high B's, but philosophy was his penchant. His father found English more difficult and thus had a job picking up work. They only got to Angular Point four days ago as Ahmed was chasing the fruit picking. Mohammed was proud of his old man, Ahmed only wanted his son to have all he never could. They were staying in a trailer park.

The bell sounded the end of lunch. Sue had History, Chloe sport. Fran walked slowly to the library. She had a free. Past the basketball courts Mohammed got up. He thought he'd return the Gibran. The two passed each other in the quadrangle. Fran couldn't contain her excitement. With audacity and downright guts she called out, "Mohammed!" The boy looked up.

IV

"No! No Mohammed, no! How could you even think? What would your mother say, Allah bless her? There are Muslim women all over this country, everywhere. How could you my son, how?"
"Father, we love one another. For three years I deceived you, we kept it secret. All through school, now in my first year of university. And Fran, you know what she studies? Early childhood studies. She is a beautiful soul, Father. Meet her, please just meet her."
The middle aged man looked at his son. "I will never on the grave of your mother and sister meet this woman. Never! You shame me, you shame your ancestors. You shame Islam!"
Mohammed tried to swallow, he clasped his hands and thought of old Ali in Lebanon. The old man couldn't help him now. So what could? Of course - the wonder. The young man went to his cramped room, brushed the open books of Plato and Tagore off his bed and lay there, the feint sunlight sneaking around the blinds. He cleared his throat and invoked the Ancient One and all his majesty. He moaned, then sang, lifting his arms in perfect motion. He closed his weary dark eyes and fell silent. Seconds passed. He was in trouble. He loved Fran fiercely. Since the first day on the bus. He had been honourable, they had never done it. A few times the desire was way too much. But they remained stoic. They knew their parents would never give consent, it was a battle royale, it was Romeo and Juliet all over again. What would Shakespeare advise or Bertrand Russell? He needed something from Allah. He needed a sign. He lay still for half an hour, so still he heard his heart beat. Then he remembered the UN refugee camp, the tear in the tent. He remembered the writing. What did it say? "When you find love, do not ever deny her for she is the nectar of Allah. Leaving her for one second will ruin your life. When you know love, hold it eternally." Mohammed knew in that instant, they must elope.

Fran nervously found the courage. When her parents and brothers were quiet eating she said it, "Someone asked for my hand in marriage." Bertie and John kept stuffing the lamb and three vege in as adolescent boys do but Mom and Pa stopped dead.
Pa coughed up, "But you haven't courted for so long."
And Mom, "For goodness sakes Fran girl, you're only eighteen. You have just started your course. And what about Timmy Stewart? Gloria and I have had you two in mind since you were toddlers. And he is Pastor Mick's son you know. Who is this man Fran girl. Do I know him? Huh?"
Fran felt anxiety ripple all over her body. She knew she had no hope, she never had a chance. Pa was so controlled by Mom, he never had a say. And Mom she was Dragonlady incarnate. She didn't have a way out. She had decided earlier she'd just tell them. "His name is Mohammed. He is Syrian, he is a Mus..."
"Watch your dirty mouth you slut! Bertie, John get out! Pa, listen to me. If she marries this heathen I am moving into my mother's. I swear it you'll never see me or the boys again!"
"Okay Mom, she wouldn't do it, wreck this family. Fran, your Mom is right. You cannot marry this man. What would the guys think, the church? Your Mom is right, surely you won't marry a terrorist! Surely."
"I had to try. You'll be losing your daughter. Pa, I've thought of this for a long time. If you grew some balls life would just be so much better. And Mom, if you stopped worrying about what everyone else thought and started worrying about and serving your husband, things would change. But both of you won't and nothing will change. I am leaving now!" Pa and Mom were speechless, they had never known Fran like this. Ever.
"Damn foreigners!" Mom walked into the garden and lit a Marlboro. Pa cleared the table

To be continued...

---

I gave the household your best wishes. Mum says thanks for your concern and good Shabbos. Cheers

[Tchocolatl]

Done, now.

Makes me think of Fall on your Knees a novel written by the Canadian tragedian Ann-Marie MacDonald.

I'll come back to read the "to be continued".

Shabbat Shalom!