Galahs, dirt and basil

This is the first night I've spent alone in Alice since I moved here 3 months ago. The weeks go by so fast. The weekends are a flurry of drinking and other things. I knew the time would go by fast before I came here. I wanted it to. "Time heals all wounds." Logic, then, dictates that the more time you can get between yourself and the wound, the better.

Is it better not to think? Is it better to become absorbed in a new way of life until it doesn't hurt anymore? I don't know. I guess there is no healthy way. No "normal" way. 

Look at me - all gloomy on my night alone. I may be gloomy but it feels nice to have the space to be melancholy for once. It's nice to have space enough to think. 

I'm sitting at the dining table in a beautiful house. It's not my house. We're house sitting for our neighbours. The house is filled with Aboriginal art. Every wall is crammed with dots and colours and patterns and stories. This is exactly the kind of house I hope to live in one day, when I'm older and have my shit together. There are pots full of basil and parsley and oregano in the back yard. The bookshelves are lined with interesting and important titles without being pretentious. The animals that live here are affectionate strays that found a home. When the owners were here the kitchen always had dinner cooking and bottles of nice red wine open. At the moment there's dinner cooking and cheap cask wine. But that sits ok with me.

Last night my flat mates and I went to "boot camp" (a hideous outdoor exercise class we mistakenly enrolled in). As we flung our protesting bodies up Billy Goat Hill (as they call it) I saw a rusty brown kangaroo bound away across the rocks. It's not every day you see something like that.

And here's something else for you - every morning I leave the house for work and across the road my neighbour's yard is full of pink and grey galahs, quietly milling about. How'd you like them apples?

Sometimes it's nice to be alone for long enough to contemplate the galahs, the red dirt and the basil in the back yard.

Last night I heard the screaming

On Friday night this week my flat mates and I held a small dinner party. We drank red wine. The entree was broccoli and chilli soup. The main was carrot and ricotta filo parcels. We had a rather disastrous custard and raspberry tart for dessert which provided much amusement. At around 11p.m. we decided to go into town to see a band and all six of us hopped into Danielle's five seater car. 

As we pulled out of the driveway, Danielle slowed the car, looking in her rear vision mirror. A woman was running towards our car, chased by a man. She was shouting to us to stop. We wound down a window to speak to her, but she kept circling the car, keeping the car between herself and the man. He chased her around and around. She was screaming. We locked our doors.

I called the police. It was the first time I have ever called the police. While I was on the phone everyone in the car was shouting. Someone shouted "I think she's pregnant." The woman on the end of the phone asked me "Are they Aboriginal or white?" I was so surprised by her question. I hesitated and said "They're both Aboriginal." The voice on the end of the phone seemed to be asking me more and more irrelevant questions. "You need to send someone now," I kept repeating. Her attitude to my call seemed to change markedly after she learned the race of the woman. I had a sinking feeling that the police would not come.

We drove around the block and called the police again. But by this time the woman and the man had gotten into a car and were driving away from the house. We watched as they drove straight past us. We gave the police the number plate and make. This time the question was "Are they caucasian or Indigenous?" 

We still drove into town to see our band. We drove in silence. Half an hour later the police called us back and said they'd attended the premises and they were vacant. I don't believe that they would have gone out at all, had we not placed the second call. 

Later in a bar, we sat drinking gin. All of us felt very strange about what had happened. Should we have opened the car door, pulled her in and driven her to the women's shelter? Could we have done more? We live in that street - is it right think of our own safety before someone else's? What happened to her?  Should we have let her know that we called the police so that she wouldn't have gotten in that car? 

It's very easy to walk around with blinkers on. We are all aware of the rates of domestic and family violence here and on community but I have never seen it. It's easy to sit next door and drink red and talk about social justice. It's not easy to see a woman being threatened with violence. It's not easy to work out what to do about it. It's not easy to genuinely commit to helping. And it's definitely not easy for the people who live it. 

The magnificence and the tragedy

I write this with a vodka apple cranberry by my bed. I just got off the phone from a friend who tells me he's going to see a movie called "Wake in Fright" this Saturday. It's showing as part of the Sydney film festival this year. It's the movie they made of my grandfather's novel of the same name. Apparently the original negatives of the film have been lost for years and two men made it their business to track down the only surviving copy, which happened to be in a warehouse in Pittsburg, marked "to be destroyed." So much of life is accidental.

To me the re-release of this film has huge significance. It's come at an extremely turbulent time in my family's history. We've suffered recent tragedy. On top of less recent but still fresh tragedy. My grandfather's personality, though he died when I was three, has been a strong influence in my life for as long as I can remember. In some ways his personality serves as a thread that runs through our family, making sense of the magnificence and the tragedy. He had a remarkable talent. He was a story teller. He told stories about the great Australian outback. Stories about the harsh brutality, the surprising beauty and the complexity and simplicity that co-exist out here. We all aspire to greatness, to making a decent contribution, and I've always felt I wanted to live up to his legacy.

At my uncle's funeral, before I came to Alice, I was suddenly struck by how important it is to have lived a life, which when you die, people who knew you will say you lived a worthwhile life. Say that you contributed something. My uncle contributed a huge amount. Everyone contributes in different ways. I may not write novels like my grandfather. I may not defend the rights of the oppressed and systematically disadvantaged like my uncle. But I will add to the dialogue. The stories of the past that contribute to our present and future should never be underestimated.

A vision of metropolitan glamour

Change is a gradual process. Often, while we are changing as human beings, we are not aware of the process of change. It can be so gradual in fact, that you will not suspect a thing, until one day BAM! you wake up and realise that your sole criteria in a prospective male partner is the ability to spell correctly.

This can be troubling for some people. Others embrace change. I think that I first became aware of the change I had gone through when my old friend from Sydney came to visit me last weekend. As he stepped out of the cab he looked somewhat like a movie star to my Alice Springs-oriented eyes. He looked clean and suave, like someone from a magazine and sported a pair of stylish Wayfarers. He spoke in whole sentences and didn't have bloodshot eyes. His palms were soft, from a life as something other than a "bacon and egg builder." In Sydney, my friend seems relatively normal, but after two months in Alice Springs he appeared to me like a vision of metropolitan glamour. 

Despite the relative rarity of men that don't spell "great" as though it's something one does with parmesan cheese, I'm coming to think there's a certain magic about this town. There's something about the slow-paced, community-oriented lifestyle in Alice Springs that is extremely seductive. I love my metropolitan glamour, Wayfarers and all (and it's possible that once ensconced in Sydney life again, the romantic hue around the Alice will fade) but, cycling home this afternoon, the sky was a clear blue backdrop to the red ochre Macdonnell Ranges and I thought "It just doesn't get much better than this."