Ghost Story (Australia vol. 1)

 

Discussed:  seasonal rearrangements, cultural contrasts, a strange big island, mass musical culture, family ghosts, werewolves.

Carol and I get in the car with our friend Kristin’s boyfriend’s son’s girlfriend Nadia on Tuesday Feb. 21, 2023.  We are shuttled 50 miles to Portland, and pay Nadia $100.  We have the folding bike loaded into the cargo bay. We sit in the plane, get off and soon get on another, try to sleep. We walk off the plane 15 hours later, gathering our stuff and greeting my niece Anna on a bright sunny humid Thursday afternoon in Melbourne. It’s 6 months into the past or the future, and 80 degrees not 40.  Not taking it for granted, I accept this as a journey on a magic carpet, woven from ancient fossils we have taken to calling fuel.

Adventure ensues.  We encounter all manner of animals and birds and plants that confirm the alchemy of the carpet.  We notice that the land is enchanted but the people are strangely just like us.  What are they doing here? Were they shipwrecked on a strange big island?  My wife and I slide off the carpet with my sister and her husband and join with niece Anna and her Western Australian boyfriend Luke for another fossil-enabled ride, this time to a suburb of Melbourne called Preston.  A couple days later we will join them with their dog Lucy, rent a place in Ballarat just NW of the city and attend the Red Hot Summer Tour.  An intergenerational musical love fest featuring Australian artists somehow voted to be the most widely enjoyed by a radio station (I think), the crowd participation was resounding and I theorized that there is a stronger sense of In-This-Togetherness among Australians than among Americans.  Then again, it was a music festival after all and I’d just been on a magic carpet ride.

All singing together, we were enchanted. No relation. Pretty much all locals. 

                                    

Ghost Story. 

The trip was a family affair.  That’s because my wife and I were traveling with my sister who’s the youngest of our original family, 6 years younger than I.  And she and I of course have that family thing. You know it unless you are an only.  I became quite aware that my sister was sounding like and moving like our mom. I guess you see these things more clearly on extended trips.  

The Road Belongs to All of Us. I couldn't agree more.  Let's be nice to each other while we share. 

Like I would be walking down a Laneway (alley) in Melbourne, and would notice that she is tacking to port, and has a certain swing in the sweep of arms that is that very specific thing that mom… what’s mom doing here? And later, in the car, there’s that thing dad always does and she’s doing it. Mom and Dad are here.  What about them? Why are they here?  Well, everything can be about them, came from them, set in motion by them.  Like if you feel that something is wrong or missing or if you have regrets.  Did your ship of self sail off from your original home prepared for troubled waters?  Can’t we blame someone (perhaps our parents) for a ship with torn sails?  I do not really blame them, because blame is not really the best word.  Accept, recognize, feel and explore maybe. Childhood trauma.  OK, but this has been illuminating for me. I am so grateful to therapists. 

 This is deep enough for  a blog post, we are talking about real magic, we must not enter these waters furthur.  But just so you know why I brought this up at all:  that "wire I tripped" while loading our rental car  in a New South Wales parking lot flipped the lid of a basket of stuff that I keep in my gut cargo bay, and the explosion triggered both of us and we were feeling it, like only brother and sister can.  I still feel the scattered debris settling.  This is early childhood shit, formative experiences, depth psychology. And one of the most treasured gifts I brought home.  See, I am a child. A Child in These Hills is a song by Jackson Browne, an artist that touched both our hearts deeply, sister and brother. I am so thankful that we can go deep together, manifesting our distinctive, related selves, produced in the same cauldron. More magic on these waters. 

I'm thinking Gen Alpha

Now, of course Sydney was phenomenal, the trees awe-inspiring, the birds beyond compare.  My god, the rainbow lorakeets!  And the little shops, the laneways in the city featuring inspired street art.  The 80,000 Footy fans gathered at a round stadium to watch the 36 players and 4 umpires run around doing mysterious things. Bike riding in Melbourne, beach exploring in Sydney,  the protected eucalyptus forest on the coast west of the city, sunset and kangaroos at Jervis Bay. 

Pests. Or a wonderful thing to see on an early morning walk. 

All the beautiful people. All of it almost unbearably complicated, wonderful, mysterious. I keep thinking about everything that made the creation of that magic carpet possible, and I keep thinking, and then I realize the treasures I now have in these memories.

Laneways.  Everywhere in Melbourne, hard to find in Sydney. 

OK, I just have to stop trying to get these captions to be in their proper place. I think I need a new platform for this blog.   Anyway, you can see the laneways with the murals, but what is this stairway?  It immediately felt welcoming to me but in the way of doors in movies that you know the characters shouldn't enter, compelling and ominous.  Luke's parents  Maryanne and Gavin were visiting Victoria from their home in Western Australia to see Luke and Anna, and happily our visits coincided.  They enlightened us when we shared a meal elsewhere later.  I had no idea about this restaurant.  By the way, the food was indeed sublime.  Curious? You know what to do.