Lesley Truffle's Blog, page 18

Moira Finucane’s Rapture

The crucifix stage is a raised catwalk illuminated with bare light bulbs. Two mysterious shrouded women sing while the audience take their places at small cabaret tables.

There’s haze. A hell of a lot of hazy stage mist is being pumped from an industrial machine. Something perfumes the air and evokes the smell of church incense. Anticipation mounts as drinks are ordered and winter coats are shed and arranged on the backs of chairs.

The woman sitting next to us leans forward with a with a wicked grin and whispers, ‘Mind the tomato sauce‘. On the catwalk directly in front of us, there’s two litres of the stuff lying innocently on its side, alongside a glistening ceramic pineapple and a twisted black shawl.

We grin conspiratorially for Moira Finucane is infamous for her antics with liquid food stuffs. Not that long ago she was letting loose with litres of milk. The audience in the front rows had to lurk under industrial plastic until she’d sprayed the whole damn lot over the stage, herself and the plastic covered audience members.

The lights dim. The pianist, Miss Chief, accompanies the unearthly choir of: Mama Alto, Clare St Clare and Shirley Cattunar.

Suddenly Finucane is amongst us. With long tapering finger sticks and a magnificent crown which accentuates her height. From where I’m sitting she appears to be about seven feet tall and strongly resembles Eurpides’ tragic enchantress, Medea.  The three singers – in their elegant Grecian tunics – morph into the Greek Chorus so familiar to Euripides’ tragedies.

Finucane’s costumes are gorgeous and fantastical. Rapture has been costumed and bejeweled by avant garde designers such as Kate Durham, Keon Couture, Gun Shy and Anastasia La Fey. But even when buck naked, Finucane is imposing. As she stated in a recent interview in The AGE Spectrum (June 2017), ‘When you see me naked on stage it’s about power; its’s about humanity … and sometimes I’m going to look like a monster.’

What occurs onstage switches from drama, to melodrama and onto to comedy in quick succession. Finucane’s voice is a magnificent instrument that can go from a deep throaty pitch to male baritone and quickly back to a girly giggle.

Finucane is a brilliant story teller and her stories draw on mystical events, erotica and some of the grimmer fairy tales. She has ability to pull you into her gothic world, and once there you’re susceptible to whatever she feels like laying on you. As the publicity flyer puts it Rapture is, ‘a party on the edge of the abyss’. Yes please.

Nothing Finucane does or says is without meaning. She’s a passionate woman and her professional background in environmental science and human rights permeates and fuels her performances. At a time when many have turned their faces away from the global refugee situation, Finucane tackles the issue head on – she’s a woman who actually does give a damn.

Her work is frequently described as transgressive which suggests that she operates outside the perimeters of conventional theatre. Finucane tackles political issues such as gender violence and environmental sustainability, and she does so forcefully utilizing bait and switch – so we lurch from an impassioned hard-hitting piece on refugees to brilliant social satire.

Back to the two litres of tomato sauce. The sauce had its moment when it was smeared all over Finucane’s naked body and squirted onto the black stage flooring. This happened during a dramatic fable about gender violence, murder and the mistreatment of women. But Finucane then effortlessly segued into a clever satire that made us laugh.

What else can I say? Superlatives are not enough. It really is ‘a party on the edge of the abyss’. Catch it if you can.

 

The Rapture is at fortyfivedownstairs, 45 Flinders Lane, Melbourne until 16 July 2017, before touring China and Germany.

Photograph above: detail from 1898 poster by Alfrons Mucha: Sarah Bernhardt as Medea.

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Melbourne Trams in Autumn

It’s been a particularly lovely Melbourne autumn this year but now the days are getting shorter and we are heading into winter. Taking the city bound tram and heading off early to work on golden autumn mornings has been fabulous.

The late nineteenth century trees that line both sides of St Kilda Road looked particularly stunning as they shed their golden-brown leaves. It upsets me to think that we won’t have these beautiful trees for much longer.

St Kilda Road residents are opposing the Victorian Government’s plans to destroy the elm and plane trees as part of the Metro Tunnel Project. Already several magnificent mature trees have been cut down and hundreds more are expected to be ripped out. About 900 trees could be removed along the tunnel route. This includes about 223 trees in the precinct surrounding the Shrine of Remembrance. It seems that concerns about the environmental impact of the project are not a high priority.

Recently on my tram line, the older trams – which are less than half the size of the newer trams – have been in service first thing in the mornings. This means that by the time we hit St Kilda Road things are getting more than a tad cosy.

There are so many passengers crammed onto the tram that it’s impossible not to stand on toes or inadvertently whack another commuter with bags, elbows or furled umbrellas. Fortunately, most city workers are adept at keeping themselves nice in tight situations.

There is however the odd unfortunate situation – such as the tall businessman who was strap hanging when he accidentally sneezed on my hair. It was very quiet on the tram and several passengers immediately snouted up from their mobile devices. I suspected that they were gleefully anticipating a little morning argy-bargy.

The businessman was mortified and apologised fervently as I pulled out some tissues.  As I dabbed away at my hair he apologised all over again. Even though I assured him that I knew it was accidental, it made no  difference because several passengers were glaring at him. One woman was making furious tut-tutting noises. I had to repress the urge to laugh as I felt sorry for the guy.

It was obvious when the businessman kept glancing at the door, that he was trying to decide if he should just get the hell off the tram at the next stop and leave his embarrassment behind. He stuck it out till Flinders Street and then bolted with his head down.

There is a code of ethics on public transport that is enforced by the dirty look. Even more effective are the commuters who can pull off a withering look. This is usually reserved for passengers hog more than one seat, or those who use mobiles on speaker phone, while having a domestic argument with their partner.

One gentleman kept it up for thirty minutes and we were spared nothing. Neither dirty looks nor withering looks – skilfully delivered by battle-hardened veteran passengers  – managed to penetrate his egocentricity.

The older trams don’t have recorded messaging or moving signage announcing stops. So adding to the chaos is the tram driver’s voice which usually kicks in about Flinders Street. My favourite tram driver speaks very slowly, articulating every vowel. Presumably he does so as not to confuse the International tourists onboard. This results in his amplified voice resembling an out of whack robot from a B-grade science fiction film – ‘Fl-in-ders-St-r-ee-t … Col-lins-St-ree-t … Bo-uke-St-r-ee-t.’

Most folk have their noses buried in a mobile device of some sort of mobile device, so the strange disembodied voice doesn’t register with them. But sometimes when I glance up from my newspaper, a commuter catches my eye and we end up grinning conspiratorially at each other.

by Lesley Truffle

Photograph above: Melbourne bayside cafe in autumn by Lesley Truffle.

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The Romance of the Fungus World

 

Ever since I read, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, I’ve had a thing for mushrooms. I was about six when I first came across the notorious Alice Liddell, disappearing down the rabbit hole into a fantastical world. The scene where she comes across the caterpillar sucking on a hookah – while seated on a sinister looking mushroom – really tickled me.

The caterpillar was imperious in manner and rude to Alice, “Who are YOU?”  I was very taken with the notion that if you scored a chunk of the caterpillar’s mushroom, you’d be able to grow or shrink at will. Fortunately, I’ve since discovered that premium champagne can produce a similar effect.

Autumn in Melbourne is a fine time to take a trip to the Prahran Market and visit Damien Pike: Wild Mushroom Specialist. For over thirty years he’s been sourcing and selling mushrooms to shoppers. But a lot of his delectable produce gets devoured in Melbourne’s fine dining restaurants.

A few autumns ago, my first purchase from Damien’s stall was a plump, speckled pine mushroom. It spoke to me as I walked past. Pine mushrooms are also known as Lactarius deliciosus, Saffron Milk Caps or Orange Fly Caps and are usually found under pine trees.

Pine mushrooms are significantly more expensive than your everyday breakfast mushrooms but I couldn’t resist their exotic orange colour. Being cash strapped I opted to buy just one big one. I was a tad embarrassed because there were chefs present, busily loading up boxes of mushrooms, but Damien treated my modest purchase graciously and bagged it for me so it wouldn’t get damaged.

When I sheepishly admitted I didn’t know what the hell to do with it, Damien laughed and gave me advice on the best way to cook it. The result was so delicious that I now pounce on pine mushrooms whenever I see them at the market.

A splendid book on mushrooms was published in 1925, The Romance of the Fungus World by mycologists R.T. Rolfe and F.W. Rolfe. The foreword is supplied by John Ramsbottom, former President of the venerated British Mycological Society.

Between 1925 – 2014, eighteen editions were published, including a 1974 edition featuring a trippy purple cover with an illustration of the caterpillar from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. It perfectly suits the decadent era of LSD, hallucinogenics, Pink Floyd, David Bowie and exotic smoking drugs imbibed from hookahs and bongs. The 1974 cover is a long way from the original 1925 edition with its tasteful, gold embossed cover (see photograph above).

The wonderful thing about The Romance of the Fungus World is that it seriously examines the gastronomic delights offered by mushrooms, their medicinal uses and the effects of poisonous fungi. Yet this scientific information sits comfortably with the esoteric, mystical side of fungi.

A whole chapter is dedicated to fungi lore and mythology: predominately the association between fungi and devils, witches, elves and fairies.

Toadstools in a circular formation (known as fairy rings) have numerous mythologies explaining their existence. One ancient story has it that after the wee people had danced around in a circle, toadstools grew on the grass where they’d danced, and were used by elves and fairies to rest their tired feet.

An old English West-country superstition held that if a maiden wanted to improve her complexion, all she had to do was to nip outside on a May morning and rub dew from the grass all over her face. However, it was imperative that the maiden didn’t intrude inside the fairy ring, for the wee people might get angry and take their revenge by giving her a hideous rash.

Strange things happened to folk who were foolish enough to step into the fairy rings. In Germany it was once believed that the bare portion of the ring was the place where a fiery dragon had rested in his nocturnal wanderings.

The dedication in the 1925 edition is quite lovely: To the memory of George Edward Massee … to whom the Authors are indebted for their first glimpses of the Fungus World, and in whose company, in field and by fireside, they spent many delightful hours.

by Lesley Truffle  

Photograph by Lesley Truffle: The Romance of the Fungus World (1925 edition) by R.T. Rolfe & F.W. Rolfe

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Putting on the Ritz

London’s fictitious Hotel du Barry is nine floors of wickedness, jealousies, aberrant desires and delectable sins. It’s a darkly humorous tale fuelled by gin and murderous intent.

I had lot of fun writing the Hotel du Barry. I wanted to create a palace akin to the Vatican, a place of mystery and imagination. It would be a city: self-contained, self-possessed with the emphasis on fine living and extreme luxury.

My research began with the luxurious European hotels established in the late 1800’s to early 20th Century: The Savoy London, Claridges London, The Ritz London and the Paris Ritz.

The original Ritz hotels seized my imagination. César Ritz – known as king of hoteliers, and hotelier to kings – established the Ritz London in May 1906. This was just eight years after he’d opened the quintessentially French Ritz Hotel in Paris.

There were stringent height restrictions in London. Legend has it that when Queen Victoria gazed out her Buckingham palace window, she became incensed that her view of Parliament was obscured by a block of flats in Westminster.

Nobody messed with the Queen’s view and legislation governing height restrictions was introduced in 1894. Subsequently for over 250 years, St Pauls Cathedral was the tallest building in London.

This didn’t deter me. I decided the Hotel du Barry London would simply expand sideways. So I burnt down the magnificent theatre next door and some other buildings to facilitate the hotel’s colonization of the area.

The Hotel du Barry was established in 1907. Although it is only nine storeys, it overlooks the Thames River and sprawls over several blocks of prime real estate.

The hotel was built from tough American steel, on top of the double basement known as the labyrinth. Several kitchens, storerooms, dining rooms, cellars and staff offices are secreted down there.

Lavish European style, obscures the hotel’s pragmatic mercenary intent. And every accoutrement in the hotel whispers – don’t even try to resist me.

 ‘At night it was floodlit and fiery; a flamboyant mishmash of Italianate and Venetian architecture, with a few quirky Renaissance and classic Greek elements added on. As a wedding cake, it was an architectural masterpiece of reckless proportions.’

The Hotel du Barry’s nine floors soar up towards the ranks of sooty chimneys. And leering down from the pavilion roof are copper gargoyles, similar to Notre Dame’s gargoyles. The hotel’s imperiousness makes all the other buildings on the street cringe back down on their haunches.

Situated on the roof of the Hotel du Barry is the Winter Garden – a massive glass house, filled with exotic plants, treacherous cats and glittering chandeliers. Wild parties are held in the Winter Garden to mark the Winter Solstice, Christmas and births and deaths.

The hotel’s interior bears homage to Louis 14th’s Versailles. It’s chockers with crystal chandeliers, ornate gilding, curved staircases, French classic ironwork, massive marble columns and as much gilt and bronze as can possibly be crammed among the mirrors, palms, statues and frescoes.

The moneyed clientele ensconced in their palatial suites can obtain anything they desire from Henri Dupont the concierge. Anything. And even the more modest hotel rooms have their own bathrooms, equipped with thick peach coloured towels. Why peach? Because it is more flattering against a lady’s complexion in the harsh morning light.

All equipment and furnishings are of the finest available, with elegant French silverware and Baccarat crystal much in evidence. The lighting is warm and discreet, the open fires well stoked and the food and wine sublime. At night, the plush woollen rugs are soft and sensuous under one’s bare toes.

In short, the fictitious Hotel du Barry invents itself as the mother of all Belle Époque hotels.

And I discovered that writing fiction can be immensely satisfying, because you can reshape grim reality into something infinitely more agreeable.

As Andy Warhol shamelessly put it – ‘Art is what you can get away with.’

 by Lesley Truffle

 Photograph by Lesley Truffle (above) – Labassa Mansion, Melbourne.  The facade of Labassa is in the French ‘Renaissance’ style of architecture. Featuring: Corinthian columns, arcaded verandas, classical decoration & sculptures, Italian marble panels and exquisite relief work.

 

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Let them eat cake

 

In my second novel, The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte, I acknowledge Ian Kelly’s wonderful non-fiction book, Cooking for Kings: The Life of Antonin Carȇme, the First Celebrity Chef (Walker & Company, New York).

After her grandfather gifts her several leather-bound copies of Carȇme’s superb cookbooks, Sasha Torte – the fictitious, future Tasmanian pastry chef – becomes a devotee of real life Parisian chef and pâtissier, Antonin Carȇme.

Carȇme’s cookbooks were written in French, published in Paris in the 1820’s -1830’s, and illustrated with Carȇme’s fine line drawings. Sasha simply can’t resist them. She lies awake at night, in Wolfftown on the wild, wild West Coast of Tasmania, thinking about Carȇme’s sensational recipes. Sasha becomes obsessed with Carȇme’s extraordinaires; fantastical creations of marzipan, spun sugar, exotic fruits and pastry.

The extraordinaires were large sculptural centerpieces of temples, ruins, landscapes and architectural follies. Only some sections of the structures were edible and the rest was often reused. They created a sensation whenever Carȇme presented them at large dinners and celebratory events.

To recreate Carȇme’s fabulous recipes, Sasha has to improve her French language skills. Fortunately, her French tutor, Pierre Dumaurier, is willing to forgive her prior disinterest and truancy.

It’s not just Carȇme’s recipes that seduce Sasha. Pierre enlightens her about Carȇme’s childhood, and she immediately identifies with him because she too was abandoned by her parents. However, Carȇme’s abandonment was significantly more brutal than Sasha’s.

In 1792 Carȇme’s father dumped him on the streets of Paris during the terror of the French Revolution. The Parisian streets were grim and bloodied. Heads and body parts were paraded about on pikes by the rioting citizens. It must have been traumatic for a small abandoned child, penniless, with nobody to protect him.

Terror was a daily event. Not only was there excessive street violence but foreigners, vagrants and children were frequently and randomly massacred. Decapitation was common practice and the guillotine ensured that vast numbers of people were executed swiftly. It became a grotesque public spectacle attended by many.

Fortunately for Carȇme he was quickly taken in by a busy cook to work as a scullery boy. And not only did he survive but Carȇme went on to become a famous chef and a brilliant pâtissier.

Many of his recipes are still in use today as are his sauces and theories about pastry making and spun sugars. And he’s credited with inventing the chef’s hat, the toque.

Carȇme’s reputation grew and soon he was working as a chef and patissier to European royalty, politicians such as Talleyrand and the very rich including James Rothschild. He revolutionized not only the way food is created but also the way in which it is served.

In his spare time Carȇme swotted up in the Bibliothèque Nationale print room. His drawings provided inspiration for his extraordinaire’s of temples, pyramids and ancient ruins.

At twenty-five, Carȇme was considered handsome with his hair cut in the style of Lord Byron – tousled and brushed forward – a clever solution for young gentlemen with receding hairlines. He had a lean physique, an open face and was known in Napoleonic Paris as being witty, highly creative and clever.

In The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte, Sasha creates her own extraordinaire for the Dasher Winter Ball. It’s a massive towering croquembouche carried on a gold platter by six handsome young men. The bearers are coated in gold paint and wearing nothing but black kohl around their eyes and skimpy red satin loincloths.

Sasha’s creation is no ordinary croquembouche. It’s a huge, conical mass of choux profiteroles, filled with whipped cream that’s been blended with a strange elixir. The foreign elixir tastes delicious, forbidden and is scented with attar of roses.

Bonded with golden toffee and smothered in red rose petals Sasha’s croquembouche provides a spectacular grand finale for the midnight champagne supper.

The guest’s reaction to the fabulous midnight supper cements Sasha’s reputation as a brilliant pâtissière and puts her on the primrose path to fame. But the event also initiates a string of unfortunate events that lead to her public downfall.

In conclusion, I should mention that many historians are still debating who actually said, ‘Let them eat cake’. Supposedly Marie Antoinette uttered the callous phrase in 1789 when the poor were enduring daily hunger due to a massive bread shortage. However, ‘Let them eat cake’  has also been attributed to several other European women including Queen Maria Theresa, the Spanish princess who married Louis XIV.

 

by Lesley Truffle

The image above is a portrait of Antonin Carȇme (Public Domain). He was known as Le Roi des Chefs et le Chef des Rois – ‘the King of Chefs, and the Chef of Kings.’

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She purred like a tiger

 

In 1903 Mrs Elinor Glyn published, Three Weeks. These days the novel is considered a bizarre but fairly tame read, but back then it was the Edwardians version of Fifty Shades of Grey and sold about 2 million copies.

In the opening pages of my novel, The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte is the quote:

Would you like to sin

With Elinor Glyn

On a tiger skin?

Or would you prefer

To err

With her

On some other fur?

                            Anonymous

Three Weeks is about a passionate three week affair between a wickedly sophisticated woman – with a dark past – and an inexperienced younger man. Purple cushions and sumptuous Tiger rugs feature quite heavily, usually with The Lady squirming around, playing guitar or posing languidly – inciting her lover to fits of passion and despairing love.

When the lady tosses a scarlet rose to Paul he wants to strangle her with love – but instead he bites the rose. Hard. There are many torrid passages and it comes as no surprise the novel later inspired much satire and ribald humor. Glyn’s prose is gloriously over the top and unintentionally humorous, ‘She purred like a tiger while she undulated like a snake.’

The photographer, Cecil Beaton, revealed that Glyn was venerated by his Harrow school chums who appreciated high camp humor.

Glyn also wrote ‘It’, a novel in 1927,  and created the concept of It to describe a person who possesses a strange magnetism that attracts both sexes – they are fascinating, mysterious and unbiddable. Glyn – who was born in Britain in 1864 – lived by her wits.

Her party trick was to pop a cherry in her mouth and bring it back out with the stalk tied into a neat bow. And despite her sensuous appearance – whitened skin, flaming red hair, kohl-rimmed eyes and black fur trimmed gowns – she swore that love interested her much more than sex.

Cecil Beaton – who photographed Mrs Glyn in glamorous soft-focus, maintained that she’d often been faced with the prospect of either becoming a prostitute or making a living writing. And she chose the pen.

When her husband turned out to be a financially ruinous chancer, Glyn churned out a book a year and produced novellas within days – sometimes staying in bed all day in order to get the job done. Breakfast, lunch and dinner would be delivered on a tray.

She wrote forty books and several successful screen plays in America. In the 1920’s she was one of the most famous female screen writers and later she directed silent films.

Glyn scrubbed her face with cold water and a wire brush. She was an early devotee of cosmetic surgery and had her jaw surgically lifted forward and her teeth fixed in a forward position.

Cecil Beaton recalls that Charlie Chaplin had observed that when she was laughing she had trouble adjusting her lips back over her teeth. She wrote a beauty book had a strong belief in her own psychic powers.

Glyn’s party trick was to could pop a cherry into her mouth and bring it back out with the stalk tied into a bow. She had many friends, a huge number of fans, was great company and remained a formidable presence until her death in 1943.

by Lesley Truffle

Photograph above (Public Domain) is a portrait of author, scriptwriter and film director Elinor Glyn.

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Forest Bathing

When I was living and working near Tokyo a few years ago, I got to know a Japanese bullet train driver. Roshi is a witty joker, a rabid opera lover and a layback kind of guy. He drives trains on the Tōhoku Shinkansen line. Back then the speeds were probably around 320km/h to 443km/h. However, it’s since been reported that speeds on the Shinkansen line have greatly increased following the development of Japan’s magnetic levitation trains.

Roshi’s job carries a lot of responsibility and daily stress. When I asked him how he manages to retain his cool, he told me that he and his buddies regularly head off to a forest region that features natural hot springs and set up camp.

Deep in the forest they get naked, dig a hole big enough to contain them all and sit there late into the night, drinking iced beer and talking shite as the hot springs work their magic. Roshi laughingly told me that getting rat-faced on premium beer was crucial to the cure – it facilitated communication not just with his buddies, but with Mother Nature herself.

Later I learnt about Shinrin-Yoku – forest bathing. The idea is simply to walk into a forest, relax and let go. It seems that beer and hot springs are not mandatory. Apparently, many folk around the world believe that consciously breathing in or taking in the forest atmosphere can lead to feelings of well-being, reduced stress and nourishing rejuvenative benefits.

This week I decided to give Shinrin-Yoku a go when I was visiting Dorrigo National Park. It’s situated about 60 kilometres south-west of Coffs Harbour, in the Gondwana Rainforests of Australia World Heritage Area.

The Dorrigo Rainforest is known for being the habitat of rare and threatened species. There are numerous ground dwelling birds, including lyrebirds. Unfortunately I didn’t manage to see any but I was chuffed to hear that there are red-necked pademelons, and coloured wompoo fruit-dove hiding out in the forest.

As we walked through the undergrowth, I read the discreet signs that the rangers had put up – warning walkers about cunning plants that might spike us and all the voracious insects eager to chomp into our flesh.

The forest is home to plants such as strangler figs, giant stinging trees and prickly ash. Such exotica adds a certain frisson to the desire to commune with nature. After a while my imagination seized control and the benign rustling noises became venomous snakes slithering through the fallen leaves.

So, did I manage to breathe in the forest and achieve a state of Zen relaxation? Unfortunately, I didn’t – but I absolutely loved being in the presence of 600-year-old trees, breathing in the pristine air and listening to the native birds chortling, whistling and carrying on.

I kept thinking it’s a great privilege to be able to experience a primal rainforest, given that NASA has predicted – if the current rate of deforestation continues – the world’s rainforests will all vanish within 100 years.

by Lesley Truffle

Image above: (Public Domain)  is part of a photograph taken in 1911 by an unknown photographer. There is a long Australian tradition of beer being essential to wilderness areas. Here we see railway workers pushing 300 barrels of beer along the Cairns to Kuranda railway lines, after a rock fall landslide blocked one of the tunnels.

Image digitized by State Library of Queensland.

 

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Messing Around in Boats

 

I always think that summertime is synonymous with sailing and boats. As the Water Rat in the book, Wind in the Willows, sagely advises the mole,

“Believe me, my young friend, there is nothing – absolutely nothing –  half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.”

I messed around in boats when I learned to sail a few summers ago on a lake. It was comedic right from the start. We were a flotilla of twelve adult learners – crammed into six child-sized sailing boats. It’s difficult dodging a swinging boon when your knees are wedged up around your goddamn ears.

Choosing our sailing partners reminded me of primary school when the sports teams were chosen. We kids used to pray like mad that we’d be among the first to be picked by the designated captains. Those known to be crap at sport were the last to be picked, and none of us wanted to be publicly humiliated.

So I was immeasurably pleased when a competent looking bloke – big shoulders, strong hands, trustworthy smile – boldly stepped up and asked if I’d like to partner up. Hell yes. He looked like he was built to wrangle sail boats. And frankly, I knew that I needed all the help I could get.

Up in the club house we’d all paid attention to the whiteboard and then practiced rigging the sails and mastering a few essentials. The more serious learners took notes. Then we’d toppled into the sailing dinghies and headed straight into a significant head wind. The dinghies promptly capsized and we all ended up in the drink.

Even before we capsized I’d noticed that – let’s call him Jim – was becoming extremely emotional at the prospect of getting wet. He was jumpy, his eyes unfocused and he seemed acutely distressed. Jim grasped the tiller and whipped it around negligently, while barking out nonsensical instructions. I decided it was best not to get distracted and concentrated on sorting the tangled jib while trying to balance the rocking boat. Our comrades screamed and gestured crazily as we narrowly avoided ramming their boats. It was chaos and I shut my eyes when we nearly took out the instructor’s boat.

When we capsized Jim cursed, yelped and clung to the hull like a drowning man. I had to swim over to his side and coax him into relaxing his grip. Fortunately our instructor intervened and talked Jim down.

Back at the clubhouse Jim admitted to me that he hated all boats, dreaded open waters and didn’t know how to swim. I asked him why he’d decided to sail and he confessed that sailing was number one on his list of Primary Fears.

Death by drowning was Jim’s reoccurring nightmare and it haunted him. But he believed if he could conquer his fear, he’d be able to power on down the rest of his list with confidence. I wanted Jim to succeed, so as we recklessly sailed around the lake, I tried to distract him by chatting about the novels that were on his list of 100 Books I Must Read. He was big on Hemingway.

I only discovered the joy of sailing when Jim took a few weeks off to regroup and I was paired with another guy whose sailing partner had bailed out. Sailing with someone who was not paralyzed with fear, meant that on the rare occasion we capsized we could quickly right the boat and laugh as we bucketed out the murky water. Nobody knew what lay at the bottom of lake but there were rumors of sinister goings on involving dead folk.

After I’d successfully completed the sailing course, I joined a local yacht club but somehow never developed the desire to crew competitively in yacht races. I do like the big boats though – especially those that have a well-stocked bar. It’s splendid being ensconced on the captain’s deck at twilight, with a glass of premium chilled champagne in hand.

The Water Rat was right – messing about with boats is fun.

by Lesley Truffle

Photo by Lesley Truffle – taken from the Cowes pier after a twilight sail around Phillip Island.

 

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It’s Raining in Space

 

Terry Virts – US Air Force Colonel and retired NASA Astronaut – was in town last night at a School of Life event, talking about his three spacewalks and 200 days in space. Virts has been the Commander of the International Space Station (ISS), piloted the NASA space shuttle and flown on the Russian Soyuz spacecraft.

The astronaut flashed up digital photographs he’d taken on the cinema-sized screen at the Melbourne Convention Centre. These were stunning images of the earth, the moon, the Northern Lights and other strange but beautiful phenomena.

As we took in one particularly surreal view of earth, Virts stated simply – ‘Humans should not be seeing this view.’ Later he admitted he wasn’t sure how he’d settle back on earth after his last space mission. Would he miss being in space?  But as it turned out his return to earthly life was relatively seamless.

Virts was candid about the fragility of life in space. In relation to spacewalks he said quietly, ‘There’s only a thin plastic visor between you and death.’

He also shared comedic details on board the space station, such as to how nervous he was while cutting an Italian astronaut’s hair. Pre-flight he’d spent a couple of hours being coached by Samantha Cristoferetti’s hairdresser in getting it just right. And as he snipped away on the ISS another astronaut hovered above their heads with a tubular vacuum cleaner to collect all the bits. Apparently any stray hairs can be a safety hazard in microgravity.

In microgravity, you have to move with your hands and hold things with your feet. Virts admitted he’s a man who likes to eat and the astronauts always looked forward to getting fresh supplies. Simple things such as fresh oranges meant a hell of a lot, as it brings back the smell of earth in an environment that’s very sterile. Bread is not an option in space as the crumbs are problematic – and the humble breakfast tortilla features heavily on the menu.

Recordings of sounds are very popular, such as birdsong or the sound of rain. One weekend the astronauts decided they would upload the sound of rain on every computer in the ISS – only to discover that just like folk on earth, after two days they’d had a gutful.

Most of Virt’s time on ISS was taken up with science experiments but he also had to become a plumber, lay cable,  morph into a medical practitioner or insert a dental filling. On top of this were the required two and a half hours’ gym work to prevent his muscles atrophying.

Despite a full schedule he found time – often when night fell on the continents below – to take photographs. For it was when a nation darkened that human activity could be perceived by the amount of light flaring up. The disparity of wealth was evident in Vert’s photographs – poorer countries with massive populations had minimal light spillage compared to wealthy nations with manageable populations. Kuwait looked like it was on fire.

Despite his stellar career Virts seemed curiously devoid of excessive ego. He came across as a man who is immensely grateful for the opportunities he’s had. I got the impression that Virts has developed cosmic consciousness. He believes that earth’s problems have a better chance of being solved if we connect and use our collective wisdom.

Having resigned from the NASA program Virts  is now looking forward to forging a new career, seeing more of earth in his travels and spending time in his own private shed at home.

by Lesley Truffle

 

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Les Tambours de Feu

 

The Devil’s soldier drummers are increasing the beats. Their faces sinister with heavy black brows, masks of white makeup and strange white horns. We’re all hoping something wicked is coming our way.

The Devil is now amongst us. He towers over everyone in his huge headdress of ram’s horns, beaked snout and flaming slashed eyes. When the drumming reaches a crescendo, fire spurts from the drummers’ shoulders. The antithesis of angels’ wings. The smell of fireworks. Our childish glee at the increasing chaos. Unleashing the secret pyromaniac in our souls as we whoop and holler.

The crowd in Federation Square has gone nuts. We are egging the Devil on to do his worst and many fall into line to follow the cavorting, dancing theatre troupe up into the dark alleys behind Flinders Street. It’s not every day you get to dance with the Devil.

There is however a dark history behind Correfoc (run with the fire). Starting back in the 17th Century – in Spain’s village of Zugarramurdi – there have been commemorations and celebrations for the thousands arrested and those who were burnt to death by The Inquisition for supposedly being witches.

Twenty years ago Oscar Castano ‘Garbitxu’ and Cesar Arroyo founded the Basque theatre company Deabru Beltzak – which translates as black devil. They began performing at the yearly pagan festival at Zugarramurdi and have been staging performances around the world ever since.

Les Tambours de Feu is brilliant. Catch it if you can.

by Lesley Truffle

Les Tambours de Feu happens for three nights only at 8.30-9.30 pm in Federation Square (Swanston Street Melbourne) from 6-8 October 2016. It’s a Melbourne Festival 2016 free event.

Photograph by Lesley Truffle. Flinders Street Melbourne during a performance of Tambours de Feu by Deabru Beltzak theatre company.

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