It wasn’t so long ago, that if you saw someone walking along the street talking to themselves you instantly knew they had some kind of mental illness. Nowadays, thanks to the mobile phone and the mp3 player and the proliferation of headsets, you just can’t tell anymore. I’ve actually become one of those people who walks around talking to themselves. In Swedish no less, as I listen to lessons and give the responses out loud. “Vad heter du?”, the mp3 player says. “Jag heter James”, I repeat out load. So far it’s only managed to get me one strange look, and that was from a couple of Swedish backpackers on George Street.
Although they probably thought I sounded totally stupid, like a two year old speaking Swedish, I’m making some progress, though I still feel a long way short of having a half-decent conversation. I’m hopeful that, like when I went to Germany having learned German in High School, a lot of it will suddenly become more apparent. It’s not much fun just talking to yourself everyday. I wish I had a Swedish partner, for example, to chat with. But I don’t, so I’m left talking to myself on the streets of Sydney.
I met the owner of the recently reopened Mecca Cafe in Lismore and shared my family’s connection to the place. “My granny was a cook here, and my dad used to play in bands here,” I told him, recalling how it was a staple of the 1930s and 40s.
Even though those days were before my time, I still have fond memories of the cafe.
The Mecca had been closed for four years, and the devastating flood that hit Lismore a couple of years ago had caused significant damage, leaving the building empty. Many people wondered what would become of the space, but now, it’s finally back.
The Mecca has a rich history that stretches back to the heart of Lismore’s cafe culture. Established in 1933 by James Forrester and Cliff Gray, it quickly became a local landmark, celebrated for its unique “Art Moderne” style.
The cafe was a hub of activity and a true social institution, famous for its booths with individual jukeboxes—a detail that sparked a shared memory with another customer who came to see the reopening.
The owner and I had a great chat and discovered a serendipitous connection: he used to live in the same suburb as I do, at The Kirk, with Gretel aka “Madam Lash”, just around the corner from my house.
He also shared his own story of resilience, describing how he rebuilt his life after the flood. It was clear this cafe was a new, meaningful step for him.
While we spoke, other people were also coming in to see the revived institution, including memories of the jukeboxes!
The Mecca holds a special place in the hearts of Lismore residents, and it was heartening to see the smiles on everyone’s faces.
As I was talking with the owner, a thought crossed my mind: this would make a great story for the local ABC station, ABC North Coast. It turns out I wasn’t the only one who thought so. I later found out that Bridie from the ABC had left a note under their door, expressing interest in doing a story. It gave me a great feeling to know that there’s so much community interest in seeing a beloved part of our town brought back to life.
I’m not one for royalty of any persuasion, though I do love a good “royal story”. In modern times, who can resist the story from beginning to end of Diana, Princess of Wales? As an Australian, it’s equally impossible to not find the story of Mary Donaldson interesting, after all she met Crown Prince Fredrik of Denmark in a dodgy bar in Sydney during the Olympic Games. Who of us hadn’t been in a dodgy bar during the Olympic Games? And in Sweden, it’s the story of Princess Lilian.
Princess Lilian died on the weekend and flags are flying at half-mast today in Stockholm. In fact, I was near the Royal Palace when the roads were closed off, as the King and Queen (and I think the Crown Princess and her husband) drove by (in a carriage), making their way back from Drottingholm, the palace on the outskirts of the city, to the Royal Palace right in the centre of town
I first became aware of the story of Princess Lilian about two years ago when the Crown Princess got married. I remember it was reported at the time the “much loved” Princess Lilian would be unable to attend the wedding due to her condition with Alzheimer’s Disease. On the television this morning, Lilian was described as like the “grandmother” the Crown Princess never had. Despite this, for many years Lilian remained “unrecognised” by the Swedish Royal Family.
Lilian was born in the UK in 1915, married an actor, and later divorced, but not until two years after she began having an affair with Prince Bertil, who was second in line to the throne. Despite the “progressive” persona of Sweden on the international stage, during the 1940s and 1950s there was still a barrier to him becoming King with a divorced wife. If you care to read the Wikipedia Article about her, you’ll see they lived “in secret” for many years.
It wasn’t until the 1970s when the current King took over the throne that Bertil was “off the hook”, and with no chance of him ever becoming King, he and Lilian were finally allowed to marry. With official recognition, she became Princess Lilian, and apparently has been held in high esteem in Sweden ever since. Although I hate to make a dumb-arse comparison, it seems she was a little like the Queen Mother in how she was regarded by the public.
Despite this, there weren’t huge crowds at the Royal Palace today. It was, after all, a work day, and it was also very chilly. There were probably only a hundred or so people standing by as the King and Queen went past in the royal carriage. And of those of us who were in the vicinity, I’d say half of us were tourists. There were indeed probably many more Royal Guards and Police Officers than ordinary Swedish citizens. Presumably when there’s a state funeral there’ll be more people who’ll turn out to observe.
In fact it was probably the Royal Guards I felt most sorry for today. Of the couple of hundred of them who were standing on the roadside as the Royal Procession went past, about half were in sunlight, and the other half were in standing in the shade (and freezing cold). There was one in particular I noticed whose face was almost blue, his bottom lip was trembling, and his legs were shaking. Yes, it was really that cold.
Flags at half-mast in Stockholm today for the death of Princess Lilian
Flags at half-mast in Stockholm today for the death of Princess Lilian
It’s Tuesday night and it’s still quite warm, although not as hot as it has been over the last few days. A few things have happened since last I wrote.
On Saturday night I was keen to go and see some live theatre. I had the choice of two plays that I wanted to see – both student productions – “Jonah” or “Unidentified Human Remains and the True Nature of Love”. Colin had highly recommeded “Jonah” which is a musical “Set in the teeming, inner city slum of Sydney early last century this is the rags to riches story of Jonah Jones, orphan, hunchback and larrikin who claws his way up from the back streets to become king of the boot trade.” However, in the end, nudity, coarse language and adult themes won out and I chose “Unidentified Human Remains and the True Nature of Love”.
The cast wasn’t great: most of them over-acted or under-acted and had terrible voices. A bloke called Gibson Nolte – who was very good – plays the lead role of David, a young man in love with a straight friend, simultaneously trying to deal with the affections of a workmate. The workmate was played by a young bloke called Tom (something or other) who I thought was quite good (“Neighbours” material). Overall it was a pretty good evening, with some very funny moments. The Hayman Theatre at Curtin University is VERY difficult to find… as the carpark is miles from the theatre itself. Not for next time!
Sunday was bloody hot. The temperature reached almost forty degrees. To get out of the heat this afternoon I went to the Art Gallery of Western Australia.
There is a major retrospective of Howard Taylor called “Phenomena” which, “brings together work from all phases of the artist’s career. The principle emphasis of the exhibition focuses on work from the 1980s and 1990s. The dominant themes from this period: “light and space”; “forest figures”; “landscape colonnades”; “natural phenomena”;, and “forest regeneration”;
guide an exploration of his work and trace the origins of these motifs from their earliest articulations between the 1950s and the 1970s to the present.
In the State Art Collection (which comprises more than 15,000 works), there were two aboriginal artists which really stood out. Amongst paintings by Emily and Rover etc., there was a wonderful piece by Butcher Cherel Janangoo (now living in Fitzroy Crossing) and by a young artist (born 1979) called Ben Pushman. His first solo exhibition was all about scarring – both ritual and contemporary – in Nyoongar culture.
Work has been reasonably full-on, though there’s nothing much to report.
I’ve sent a few posts into ABBAMAIL, including one in response to Randy who watched half an episode of Parkinson and then bleated about how it wasn’t as good as Letterman, Leno, etc. to which I replied….
Scenario 1: David Letterman
“And tonight’s Top 10 is sexy Swedish babes…”
Scenario 2: Conan O’Brien
“Tell me, do Swedes really speak like the Muppet Chef…”
Scenario 3: Jay Leno
“I went to see a great show called Mamma Mia. Have you seen that
yet…”
Scenario 4: Oprah Winfrey
“After 17 years all alone Agnetha is back. You go girl..”
Scenario 5: Jerry Springer
“Agnetha Faltskog. We’ve managed to track down your stalker,
Gert. Come out from behind the screen…”
Scenario 6: Terry Wogan
“And so do you still like ice-cream time….?”
Unlike many other talk show hosts, Parkinson takes a real interest in the guest. He reads their books. He listens to their records. He watches their movies. Parkinson is not a P.R. show. Parkinson is not about Parkinson. Parkinson is about the guest being given the opportunity to honestly tell their story.
Unlike Randy’s assessment of the show as a humourless “interrogation” the program is also usually bloody funny. Witness regular episodes featuring the likes of Billy Connolly, Steven Fry and Robin Williams, where Parkinson gives them room to move, never interrupting with his own stupid one liners.
If Agnetha agrees to an interview with him, I believe he would treat her as a mature woman of fifty three, not some basket case that needs to be treated like a child. He would ask her about the music, why she chose particular songs. He would ask her about the joys and disappointments of being in ABBA. He would ask about her relationship with psycho-boy. If she had a good story to tell, he would be quiet and let her tell the story. But if she was evasive and dishonest – as many celebrities are – he would challenge her.
The reality is that Agnetha is not going to be turning up on every talk show under the sun. I’d hate the thought of her turning up on Breakfast television. I’d groan if she appeared in Australia on Rove Live. She’s going to be doing one or two interviews… probably one for tv, one for radio and one for the press. I would rather it was an honest, informed one, than a piece mindless public relations pap.
Colin, Peter and I crossed the bridge tonight to see “The God Committee” at The Ensemble which was a really enjoyable, interesting play.
The setting for the play is a hospital meeting room in an American city somewhere, where a committee must make decisions about candidates for transplant surgery.
They have a set of “independant criteria” such as the candidates not being drug users, having a good support network and so on.
But the play demonstrates the apparent greyness of these criteria. On the issue of drug use, for example, I learned from the play amoxicillin can provide a false test positive for cocaine. On the issue of “support networks”, the argument explored is whether someone with a large family is necessarily more supported than someone with just one friend, or someone with a rich family. Who is the more supported?
Thus, at the heart of the play there is argument that even “facts” and “independant criteria” can be valued laden and open to many different interpretations.
A timely play for a few reasons, as the issue of God’s existence (or at least the existence of a creator) has come up a lot in various conversations I’ve had in the last twenty four hours. At the pub last night, a colleague mentioned growing up in a household where his father was an atheist and his mother was a pagan. Today at work we discussed the forthcoming canonisation of Mary McKillop.
And then tonight I tweeted what I thought was a rather amusing comment that, “Atheists are quite strong in their belief eh? Wondering if they appreciate the irony?”. The stone-faced response from someone I’ve never heard of was.. ” nope – atheism isnt a belief system. Instead its the position where one states the evidence for any god just isnt enough. And by a huge margin ;)”
Strictly speaking that’s not correct: atheists are people who do not believe in the existence of God or gods. If you think there’s a possibility of the existence of God if there’s enough evidence, you’re not an atheist. You need to find another word for what you believe because atheist isn’t the right one.
And frankly I think atheism IS a belief system. It’s a belief-system based around a notion that things like “science” and “facts” are somehow non-subjective interpretations of reality.
The first virus was only found 100 years ago. Prior to that science offered a different explanation for a range of medical conditions. In 100 years time, many of the conditions we currently face we may well come to understand as the cause by something else we do not know or understand.
I’m willing to accept that if 99 people look at a car and say it’s a car, and 1 person says it’s an elephant, that it’s probably a car. But we’re dealing with far more complex matters. Matters which have fascinated humans for, presumably, as long we’ve existed.
When it comes to the creation story, I lack the absolute certainty of both the fundamentalist and the atheist. Obviously either one or the other position is correct, that’s logical. I just don’t accept the evidence-based so-called scientific approach will you give you answer, as much as the absolutism of literal biblical interpretation. Both “searches for meaning” are based around a set of assumptions.
And that, I guess gets back to the heart of “The God Committee” as a play: that so-called reality is subjective.
It reminds me of a quote from a book by Caroline Jones which I read years ago, and which I often quote. She said, “More many years people have argued that seeing is believing. Now, many others are saying that believing is seeing”.
It’s good to be back in Sydney, though the temperature drop compared with Darwin was certainly a shock to the system! Stepping off the plane into the crisp air, it’s noticeably cooler than the tropical heat I’ve grown used to over the last month.
Wrapping up my time with the team in Darwin was bittersweet. I’ve officially taken co-ownership of the office staff award, which was a lovely parting gift. We also celebrated with a cake that wished me a “Happy Birthday”—it’s definitely not my birthday, but it was the only one left in the shop! Huge thanks to Letitia for organising the sugar hit; it’s been a privilege working with such a great team.
The office trophy for ABC Darwin
My final night in town was classic Darwin: a humid evening following a cracking afternoon thunderstorm. It was the perfect backdrop for the Penrith Panthers vs The Dolphins clash at TIO Stadium. Since I’ve been a “local” lately, I felt duty-bound to support the Dolphins as the home team. I didn’t quite make it to the final siren—the humidity and long days mean I tend to flag in the evenings—but it was a tight finish after a dominant first-half performance by the Panthers.
Dolphins v Panthers, NRL match in Darwin
The flight home was a fascinating cross-section of life. In the heart of AFL territory, the NRL is clearly making its mark; half the cabin was filled with Panthers players and supporters. It was slightly surreal watching them spend the four-hour flight with their heads down, intently reviewing match footage. The sea of black jerseys didn’t go unnoticed, either; a bloke in a bright red shirt (Dolphins) looked around and joked, “There’s a lot of black shirts on this flight,” which sparked a roar of laughter from everyone on board.
I also had the pleasure of meeting a lovely man named Ross while we were boarding. At 75, Ross has lived with cerebral palsy his entire life, and he described it more clearly than anyone I’ve ever met: “It’s like my body is made up of two halves.” He needed a hand with a few things—fastening his seatbelt, opening bottles, and cutting up his meal—but it was a joy to meet him.
Between the Darwin stint and my recent travels overseas, I feel like I’ve been away for a couple of months. It’s been an incredible stretch, but I’m well and truly looking forward to hanging up the bags and relaxing at home for a while.
You know how at the end of “The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy”, the meaning of life is famously revealed as “forty-two”? Reading the book as a child, I thought it was just a nonsense way of saying there is no universal meaning of life.
Many years later, and having interviewed Douglas Adams, I now think he was probably saying forty-two was about the age at which you discover your own meaning of life. Deep eh?
Forty-two is also about the number of beers I drank last night for my birthday drinks at “The Evening Star”.
Although I’ve been anticipating it for a while, and unlike most years, had actually given some thought to a drinks celebration, turning forty-two kinda surprised me when it arrived. I’ve been really busy at work lately, and so have been reasonably distracted until, all of a sudden, it happened.
Birthday Beers at The Evening Star
I’ve always been fairly conscious of the multiples of seven birthdays though. Long before new-age thinking, I remember, as a child, my dad telling me life life goes through seven year cycles. I still remember the conversation vividly, as it just seemed to come out of nowhere, though it was obviously something my dad believed.
The forty-second year brings a major change because it is the polarity of the twenty-eighth year. Here, the integration of the whole self occurs. The view is not, “World, what can you give me?” as in the twenty-eighth year, but, “World what have I got to give you?” It is the realization of all the growth that has occurred and the ability to use it in its most productive way.
At forty-two, you may begin to have doubts about your life. These doubts are not negative. They are based on the growth gained in the interim years between thirty-five and forty-two. This creates an ability to question whether you wish to maintain your life as it is or whether new changes are imminent. Doubt can be positive if it is leading you to be suspect of something in your life that is not good for you.
If past experience is anything to go by, I suspect changes in my life may also be imminent. Aged twenty-two, I quit my job at Coles and left Brisbane for Bourke in Western NSW (a big change) to follow my career dream. Aged twenty-nine, I fulfilled another long-term career goal, and also moved to Sydney. Aged thirty-six, I became single again, ending a reasonably long-relationship, and soon-after started on a new direction in my career. So strictly speaking, the changes in my life occur about twelve months after one of those multiple of seven birthdays.
And now, aged forty-two, like the hippies say, I find myself questioning my life again and wondering what’s next. I’m planning overseas travel next year, of maybe two or three months duration, so maybe that will be an opening to the next part of my life.
But in the meantime, it was great last night to get together and have a few drinks with mates. As previously noted, I have a broad cross-section of friends, and it was very nice to see them getting to meet each other last night. I loved hearing from workmates comments like “Your friends are VERY nice”, and hearing from friends comments like, “The people you work with are VERY interesting”. Maybe that’s what the meaning of life is – being surrounded by interesting, lovely people.
It wasn’t so long ago, that if you saw someone walking along the street talking to themselves you instantly knew they had some kind of mental illness. Nowadays, thanks to the mobile phone and the mp3 player and the proliferation of headsets, you just can’t tell anymore. I’ve actually become one of those people who walks around talking to themselves. In Swedish no less, as I listen to lessons and give the responses out loud. “Vad heter du?”, the mp3 player says. “Jag heter James”, I repeat out load. So far it’s only managed to get me one strange look, and that was from a couple of Swedish backpackers on George Street. 
