Isobel Blackthorn's Blog, page 46

Asylum – 6th instalment of my serialised novel

To catch the beginning of this story go to Asylum – a novel in weekly parts

in which Yvette meets her online matches and goes to a party. Will her quest to meet the father of her children before she’s thirty be fulfilled?…

2.10

 

She met Frank in London Court. She was standing beneath the clock watching a throng of city-workers and tourists wander up and down the narrow thoroughfare of small shops and cafes. All the buildings had mock-Tudor facades, replete with dovecotes, gabled rooves and weather cocks, crenelated towers and wrought-iron gates, and gargoyles, shields, crests and statues. Nothing, it seemed, missing from that homage to an Elizabethan history Australia never experienced. An elaborate and expensive folly, but one undeniably attractive. At the first stroke of seven a gathering of tourists gazed at the clock above her head. She looked up as four mechanised knights moved around the clock face.

Frank was considerably shorter and older than his photograph suggested. Even at a distance of about fifteen metres Yvette knew he wasn’t her type. The closer he got, the stronger the feeling. He looked swanky in a loud open-necked shirt, beige trousers and patent leather shoes. With his hair swept back from a clean-shaven face, he had a rakish look about him. His face lit when he recognised her as the woman in the profile.

‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,’ he said, with a contrived chivalrous bow. At that moment she pictured him, an extra from the pageant of London Court, in a powdered wig, frilly collar, doublet and hose.

‘Shall we?’ He escorted her by her elbow back to his sports car, shiny and red with a plush interior.

As they headed towards his favourite restaurant, her mind raced faster than his driving. What was she doing with this man? For all she knew he was a lecherous creep using internet dating for easy sex.

The restaurant was set in a swathe of manicured lawns and carefully arranged plantings of native grasses, overlooking the sublime estuarine waters of the Swan River. The setting immediately brought to mind the original name of the Swan River, the Derbarl Yarrigan, so named by the Nyoongar people, the place of the fresh water turtle. The river was later renamed by Dutch explorer Willem de Vlamingh, Yvette recalled with irony, after the preponderance of black swans. Facts beaten into her class by Mrs Thoroughgood, who had a twisted sense of white dominion, an unvoiced yet discernable ethnocentric hatred of all migrants, and a palpable disdain for the Aboriginal custodians of the land, all of which she conveyed with sleight. For Mrs Thoroughgood, swans were eminently superior to turtles. No doubt swanky Frank felt the same.

Inside the restaurant, the tables were occupied by expensively-dressed couples murmuring conversations over softly glowing candles in ornate jars.

The maître d’ led them to their table and handed them each a menu before walking away.

‘Have whatever you want,’ Frank said, sweeping a limp hand above his menu.

Yvette chose modestly, goujons of chicken with steamed vegetables and mash. He chose the lobster, commenting that unlike his Irish forebears, he would never suffer a diet of potatoes.

Once the waiter, a thin and serious young man, had come and gone, Frank explained that his wife had died of a heart attack last year and he’d been lonely. Now he felt he’d recovered from the loss and was ready for romance. He reached across the table for her hand. ‘You don’t seem the sort of woman that’s only after a man’s money,’ he said, staring hard into her eyes.

‘Of course not,’ she said, shocked he should even suggest it. She pulled away her hand and took a large gulp of the Sancerre he insisted she should try because it was French. She didn’t bother telling him she’d visited France many times. Keen to divert his attention, she asked him about his interest in Renaissance portraiture.

‘I’m a collector.’

Figures, she thought. ‘Fascinating,’ she said. ‘But why that period?’

‘Good re-sale value. Art from that period doesn’t devalue.’

‘What sort of portraiture? Originals or reproductions.’ She couldn’t imagine anyone as crass as Frank being in the multi-million dollar fine-art market. She pictured in his house a reproduction of the Mona Lisa in a chunky faux gilt frame above the fireplace. Perhaps that was unfair. A Holbein then.

He looked offended. ‘I have a Goya and a Botticelli.’

‘Blimey,’ she said. But his claim did nothing to shake her scorn.

When the food arrived she paid close attention to her every bite, riding out the ordeal making small talk.

Once the meal was over, he made a show of paying the bill then offered to drive her home.

When they pulled up outside the flats he peered out the window.

‘You’re renting here?’ His tone was judgemental.

‘Yes.’ She said, suddenly defensive.

‘Well, it’s been lovely.’

‘Thank you.’ She opened the door.

He kept his hands on the steering wheel. He made no attempt at a kiss, not even a handshake. Instead he said, ‘Dating wealthy men isn’t the pathway to riches you know.’

She slammed the door on his remark and marched across the car park. How dare he judge her circumstances! Ostentatious twat!

 

2.11

 

The following evening, undeterred, Yvette was seated in Café Mocha, looking out for a swarthy thirty-something man with a shaven head, if Dimitri’s photo was honest. He appeared twenty minutes after the arranged time of six, decked out in black; leather jacket, T-shirt and jeans. He seemed flustered. Noticing her sitting alone at a table by the window, he quickly regained his composure and walked towards her wearing a charismatic smile.

‘Yvette,’ he said, taking up the other chair. ‘Sorry I’m late. Just finished a photo shoot. Damn model couldn’t hold a pose.’

Yvette offered him an understanding smile. He was handsome in a burly way with dark eyes and a sensual mouth. He seemed intriguing.

‘Have you ordered?’ he said as a waitress approached their table.

‘No.’

He took the menus and passed one to Yvette. The waitress stood over them, the cleavage of her bosom heaving above her tight blouse.

He scanned down the list of main dishes. ‘I’ll have the fettuccine con broccoli,’ he said, shooting Yvette an inquiring glance.

‘Vegetarian lasagne.’

He flicked over the menu card. ‘And a bottle of house red.’

The waitress returned with the wine. Dimitri poured, holding up his glass to Yvette before taking a swig. Buoyed by the wine, he launched into a detailed account of his day, of his creative frustrations and photographic successes. Several times Yvette opened her mouth to speak, hoping to break into his monologue, but without success. The food arrived and he was still talking.

Then at last he leaned back in his seat and acknowledged her, as if for the first time. ‘So, tell me about yourself.’

‘I paint,’ she said, convinced this remark would kill any further conversation about her.

‘Walls?’

‘Hardly.’ Suddenly wanting to impress him, she added, ‘My Masters focused on Precisionism.’

‘Sheeler?’

‘And O’Keeffe.’

‘Ah, now you’re talking. My favourite piece is Red Canna.’

‘I thought it might be,’ she said with a slow smile.

His eyes wandered across the room. She followed his gaze to the waitress leaning over a customer ordering from the menu, her bulging cleavage almost spilling out of her blouse.

‘Beautiful name, Yvette,’ he murmured, returning his gaze to her face. ‘Are you French?’

‘No.’

‘Pity.’

‘Why?’

He didn’t answer.

Yvette cut into her lasagne. She ate quickly, swallowing her discomfort with every bite.

Dimitri, it seemed, had latched on to her artistic tastes. When they were about half-way through their food, he pointed in her direction with the tines of his fork and said, ‘you must be a sensual woman to be into O’Keeffe.’

‘There’s more to her than just the flowers.’

‘Yeah, maybe. But what courage and audacity to convey the sexuality of the flowers so explicitly.’

‘I think you’re exaggerating. It’s all in the eye of the beholder.’

‘Ah, but there is always the artist’s intent.’

She avoided his gaze after that and they finished their meal in silence.

When Miss Busty cleared away their plates, Dimitri’s eyes never left her cleavage. He asked for the bill then followed her to the counter with his wallet. Yvette sat up straight, irritated and anxious to leave.

Outside, young couples with gay expressions strolled by beneath the limbs of small trees. Dimitri stood to one side, letting a woman holding the hands of two small children shamble past before he turned to Yvette.  ‘Would you like to take a walk?’ Without waiting for a reply he took her hand and they strolled to Russell Square.

The park appeared empty except for two figures embracing beneath the vast canopy of a Moreton Bay fig tree. Dimitri led Yvette across a swathe of lawn to the play equipment and invited her to climb up a ladder to a platform leading on to a wobbly bridge.

She gazed in the direction of the couple, wondering what she was doing here with this lascivious stranger, when he pulled her to him, wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her hard. Then he pressed his body to hers, grinding his loins, groaning. She felt the hard lump of his cock and struggled to repress a gasp. ‘God, I fancy you,’ he said. Without so much as a, “May I?’ he slid a hand beneath her skirt, pulling at her knickers.

‘You are adorable,’ he murmured in her ear, his hand pressing up between her legs. She was aroused, in spite of her misgivings. Yet before she had a chance to decide she didn’t want him, he’d unbuckled his trousers.

He thrust and squeezed and thrust and squeezed, moaning, ‘Honey, oh, oh,’ over and again, until his ohs and his honeys merged into one long whooooaaah.

And she was free of him.

‘Wow. Did you feel that?’

She said nothing.

‘That was intense.’

‘Really?’ she said, straightening her clothes, feeling a sudden rush of self-disgust.

They headed back to the café.  Dimitri paused beside a silver hatchback. ‘Here’s my car.’ He pulled his keys from a trouser pocket. ‘It’s been nice. We must do this again sometime.’

‘Absolutely,’ she said, but what she thought was absolutely not. Dimitri belonged in her pantheon of self-centred men she had known. His ego more precious to him that his Nikon.

 

2.12

 

Lee, the music teacher, was no better, although she thought he might have been at first. The day they met, she’d found him charming. He was medium in height with a light build, cropped black hair framing a genial face. They’d strolled up James Street on their way to a café, chatting happily. He told her he was half Chinese half Portuguese, his mother marrying a businessman from Hong Kong. He’d asked her where she was from, took an interest in her family and her past and when she supplied him with carefully crafted vignettes he interjected here and there with a polite comment. He’d seemed a sensitive and well-mannered man.

Two dates in and he was lounging on her sofa in a green polo top and a pair of loose track pants. He’d been there since he’d arrived that afternoon. It was a bum note in his symphony of charm. A full hour had passed and he’d done nothing but recline with his hands behind his head, talking to her about how superb last night’s school concert turned out to be, how accomplished the ensemble, the orchestra, the quartet and the solos. She concluded that his tender gestures, cupping her hand in his, stroking her cheek, smoothing her hair, were practiced behaviours. He was a man adept at getting what he wanted by the most pleasant means. And once he had, or thought he had achieved his aim, complacency held sway.

Her weak affections for Lee took a farewell bow as she asked him to leave, conjuring by way of excuse a throbbing headache and mumbling that she needed an early night.

She’d been right all along, you can’t force fate. Yet left with no-one to soothe her longing, her thoughts wandered back to Carlos.

Dearest Carlos. Dear Carlos. No, Hi Carlos.

She pictured him, watering the plants in the courtyard. The stone staircase winding up to the bedroom, their bedroom, with the four-poster bed and the rocking chair and the window overlooking the flat roofs of the village. Her heart was still bound to that house. Only a small part of her, that skerrick of common sense and the instinct of self-preservation, had escaped. Were her belongings still there? She thought of retrieving them. She didn’t expect he’d ship them to Australia on her behalf. More likely he’d use them to tempt her back. She wondered where he was. At home planning his next adventure? There was no phone in his house, he never answered his mobile and he didn’t use email. She’d already sent three letters. He wasn’t the sort to reply.

With her elbows on the table, she rested her face in her hands and gazed in the direction of the kettle. She thought about working on a sketch but felt too bleak to try. There had to be a man out there, a man capable of eclipsing Carlos. That palm reader had looked too fey to be a charlatan. Mustering her resolve, she refused to give up hope.

A cockroach meandered across the kitchen bench.

 

2.13

 

Her mother phoned the following afternoon, as she did once every week, partly to find out if Yvette had heard from the DIBP. Yvette told her she hadn’t.

‘Met any nice men yet?’

‘No, Mum. Not yet.’

Yvette couldn’t bring herself to tell her mother she’d been doing online dating. She was certain Leah wouldn’t approve. After her second husband had died, Leah remained a widow, concentrating her affections upon her grandchildren and her cat.

‘I saw Terry the other day,’ she said, lightly.

‘Did you speak to him?’

‘Not really. He was in a hurry. He looked preoccupied.’

‘Oh well.’

‘You should have married him Yvette. It would have saved all this waiting.’

Yvette said nothing. She listened with forced patience to her mother’s update on the progress of the forthcoming agricultural show and Debbie’s run-in with her son Peter’s current teacher over a low grade for his geography project. ‘Keeping busy?’

‘Yes Mum.’

She said her goodbyes and hung up her phone.

 

2.14

 

The following evening, Yvette adjusted the fall of her short black skirt and slipped on the loose batik top she’d bought in Bali. She brushed her hair and applied a thin smear of tinted balm on her lips. Thomas was due at the flat any minute. He’d been attending an acting course and the tutor was having an end-of-semester celebration at his house in Subiaco. The Honda Civic was having clutch repairs so Thomas had arranged for his friend Rhys to drive them there.

In response to a soft knock, she swung open the door. Thomas and Rhys stood side-by-side, dressed like twins in plain Ben Sherman shirts and chinos. Thomas kissed her cheek and Rhys, small and thin with short mousy hair, a dimpled chin and an overbite, offered her the limp handshake she’d anticipated. They were early so she suggested a cup of tea.

Ignoring Rhys hovering near the sofa, Thomas followed Yvette to the kitchen and leaned against the bench. Looking past him at Rhys, still standing as if he needed permission to sit, she said, ‘please, sit down,’ and he did.

She flicked on the kettle. ‘How’s it going?’ she said, quietly.

‘Better, I think. Anthony strays but he keeps coming back. He says no-one else satisfies his intellect.’

‘There’s hope then. Excuse me.’ She went to open the cupboard door nearest his face. He moved away and joined Rhys on the sofa.

‘What do you do Rhys?’ she called out.

‘I’m studying for a certificate in small business.’

‘What for?’

‘I want to open a model and hobby shop.’

‘Good for you,’ she said, encouragingly. ‘Tell me, how did you two meet?’

‘In the stairwell. I used to rent a flat on the ground floor.’

Yvette succumbed to a sudden rush of repugnance, comparing herself to the sorts of tenants that live in this block. ‘Where are you now?’

‘Back with my parents in Inglewood.’

‘The ancestral home?’

‘Yeah.’

She set down on the coffee table three mugs, a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar.

‘Milk?’ she asked Rhys, catching his eye.

‘Er, yes please,’ he said, blushing.

‘Sugar?’

‘No, er, no thank you.’ He took the mug from her hand and knocked his elbow on the arm rest, spilling tea on the floor.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, wincing.

‘Don’t worry. The carpet’s absorbed worse.’

She felt unexpectedly sympathetic. He was artless and unsophisticated. She was pleased he’d come: Thomas seemed a little less intense in his company. And having lived his whole life in Perth, Rhys was bound to find his way to Subiaco without a hitch.

 

Rhys drove a dark-blue sedan. Yvette was sitting in the back behind Rhys, relieved she didn’t need to navigate. Heading for a route that circumvented the city centre, Rhys swung the car into Beaufort Street. The setting sun cast a redemptive glow on the lacklustre flat-roofed buildings. They waited in the right-turn only lane at a set of traffic lights.

The lights changed.

‘Walcott Street,’ Yvette said, reading a street sign.

‘Walcott Street?’ Thomas said, puzzled. ‘Don’t we need Vincent Street?’

‘Woops,’ said Rhys. ‘I took a wrong turn.’

He slowed, indicated and swung the car back down the street, narrowly missing an oncoming vehicle. Thomas stiffened.

Two right turns and they drove down Vincent Street.

‘I need to take a left somewhere up here,’ Rhys said. ‘Yep, this is it.’

Charles Street. Yvette watched the approaching city lights.

‘I don’t think this is the right road,’ Thomas said. ‘We don’t want to end up in the city.’

‘I’ll turn off,’ said Rhys, heading up a slip road to a roundabout. ‘We’ll be able to cut across the freeway.’

He changed lanes and exited down another slip road. The road swept in a wide arc, entering the Mitchell Freeway. Even with her limited knowledge of Perth, Yvette knew they needed to head across the city centre towards the ocean, then veer south to Subiaco. Which meant they did not want the Mitchell freeway.

‘Damn!’ said Rhys. ‘Which way are we heading?’

‘North,’ she said. ‘The city lights are behind us.’

‘I’ll take the first exit.’

‘That’ll be the Vincent Street exit,’ Thomas said.

Before long they were back at the Charles Street intersection.

‘We’ve been here before,’ she said, wryly.

Rhys indicated right.

‘Don’t you need to turn left?’ Thomas said.

‘That’s what I did before. I’ll turn right this time.’

‘But we’ve come at the intersection from the opposite direction,’ she said, thinking Rhys couldn’t navigate his way round a figure-of-eight slot-car race track.

‘I’m sure there’s a way across the freeway if we head up here.’

He swung up the slip way to the freeway roundabout again.

This time he took a different exit, veering in a downward arc. The camber seemed strange.

When they entered the freeway Thomas yelled, ‘Wrong Way, Turn Back!’ as three lanes of cars raced towards them with flashing headlights.

Thomas gripped his seat.

Rhys braked hard, threw the gear stick into reverse and screamed back up the slip road, chased by a roaring semi-trailer blaring its horn.

One laborious three-point turn, three times round the roundabout and Rhys chose another exit.

Now they were heading south on the freeway.

Yvette groaned.

Thomas stabbed the air frantically. ‘Take the next exit! Riverside Drive.’

‘No. That’ll take us into the city.’

‘But we’re about to cross the river!’

They had to stay on the Kwinana Freeway for about five kilometres until the next exit. Thomas could scarcely disguise his exasperation. Speaking between locked teeth in a hissing monotone, he fed Rhys’s every manoeuvre. ‘Now stay in this lane. The exit we need is up ahead. See it approaching. Now indicate. Yes this is the right road. Up here.’

‘But…’

‘Yes, yes, we do need to get back on the freeway.’

As they crossed back over the river, approaching a sign for Riverside Drive, Thomas shouted, ‘Take this exit! And turn left.’

Flustered, Rhys headed down the slip road.

‘Left! Left!’

Rhys veered right.

‘Oh no!’ Thomas covered his face with his hands. ‘We’ve missed the turn!’

They were on Riverside Drive, heading straight for the city.

Rhys braked and steered the car towards the narrow hard shoulder flanking the central reservation.

‘What are you pulling up here for?!’

‘I need to see the street directory.’

‘You can’t stop here!’

‘You don’t need a street directory,’ Yvette said, struggling to suppress a laugh, ‘The sunset is behind us. That’s west. That’s the direction we need to go.’

Thomas was shaking his head. Rhys switched on the interior light then rifled through the directory. When he found the right page he poured over the map. Eventually he said, ‘You’re right. I need to turn around.’ He started the engine, made a U-turn at the first opportunity and managed to take the Subiaco exit at the roundabout.

‘Now, just keep going,’ Thomas said.

Reflections of city lights danced on the river. To her right, King’s Park was a dark swathe of native bush blanketing Mount Eliza, so vast for a few moments she lost all sense of her location. Sitting in the back seat of the car, bearing witness to the most ludicrous navigational experience of her life, she couldn’t resist imagining that a battle of competing fates was occurring over the course of her life, Rhys and Thomas unwitting agents of Hope and Doom. She had no means of discerning which was which.

Thomas directed Rhys the rest of the way to Subiaco. They were nearly there when the car spluttered, slowed and came to halt beside a small park.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

‘I think we’ve run out of petrol.’

‘Oh my god,’ Thomas said softly.

‘It’s okay. I’ve got a petrol can in the boot,’ Rhys said. ‘Any idea where the nearest petrol station is?’

‘We passed one back there,’ she said, pointing behind her.

When they were standing on the pavement, Rhys took out his wallet and searched inside. ‘Err…You don’t have any cash I could borrow?’

Thomas caught Yvette’s eye. She shrugged. He reached in his back pocket for his wallet and extracted a five-dollar bill.

‘Do you want us to wait here?’

‘We’ll walk the rest of the way,’ Thomas said. ‘I feel like some air.’

At the end of the first street, Yvette said, ‘I thought Rhys knew his way around Perth.’

‘Fair assumption.’

‘He should stick to remote-control cars.’

‘He’ll be U-turn Rhys forever more.’

Thomas sniggered, holding his hand to his mouth. Yvette laughed along with him and soon they were both doubled over, wiping tears from their eyes. It was the first time she’d seen Thomas relaxed and happy since she’d arrived in Perth. She hoped for his sake it marked a U-turn in his life. He needed to move on from his obsession with Anthony. Maybe find someone else.

Before long they passed an imposing flat-roofed building of pinkish-brick that bore down on the surrounding houses. Yvette read the sign out the front, ‘King Edward Memorial Hospital for Women.’ Now guilt passed through her like a deluge, as if the building itself were admonishing her and she’d no right, no right at all, to enjoy even the simplest of pleasures.

They crossed the road and the railway line and went down a side street.

Thomas stopped outside a quaint, weatherboard cottage set in a compact garden filled with ornamental plants. She followed him to the front porch. A suave-looking man dressed flamboyantly in a Chinese silk jacket and fisherman’s pants swung open the door upon Thomas’ rapid knock and greeted him with an effusive embrace. Then he took Yvette’s hand in both of his and looked straight into her eyes. ‘Welcome,’ he said with theatrical sincerity. ‘I’m Anton. Come on through.’

The living room was spacious with polished floorboards, leather sofas and an open fireplace at one end. Filled with anticipation she looked around at the other guests. Her quest uppermost in her mind, she ignored the women and scrutinised the men. The majority were unappealing. Some were too short, some too fat, others too raucous or shy. With unflagging optimism she persisted, mingling here and there, exchanging brief niceties, then heading first to the kitchen, where a clutch of women in flowing dresses giggled inanely, and through to an enclosed veranda out the back.

Immediately, she saw him, standing in a group of men gathered beside a table laid out with a buffet of finger food. Dashing, in tight high-waisted pants and an open-neck peasant shirt, thick and long fiery red hair loosely pinned back in a ponytail at the nape of the neck. He towered above the others. His eyes, a pale haze of blue, caught hers. She edged closer. There was a mystique about him, not the demonstrative charisma of Carlos, all bombast and camaraderie, here was someone gentle and serene. He turned to her with interest and smiled.

She smiled back. ‘Hi. I’m Yvette.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said in a soft accented voice. ‘I’m Varg.’

‘Varg. Hi Varg.’ Varg? He was a Viking then, standing at the helm of a longship, bearskin for warmth, hair blowing back behind him beneath a horned helmet, a battle axe in one hand and a pewter mug of mead in the other. An image at once absurd and intoxicating.

He held her gaze, eyes searching, lips turned up slightly at the corners. He had an angular face, strong jaw and heavy brow. She felt herself floating. The room emptied, the others taking their plates and glasses back to living room.

They chatted. In five minutes she established he was single, a carpenter from Norway with aspirations to become a professional actor. He had an air of the thespian. His graceful manner put her at ease. He asked where she lived. She described the flat, minus the cockroaches. He listened, attentively.

‘Do you eat meat?’ he said, taking a plate. He selected a few titbits from the buffet, arranging them neatly. She didn’t, not for one moment, question his sincerity. Just what she may have looked for in a man he revealed in perfect measure.

When he offered to drive her home she was thrilled. She found Thomas chatting to Rhys in the living room as she followed Varg to the front door. ‘See you later,’ she said, breezily. She didn’t wait for a reply.

Varg unlocked the passenger-side door of his white Celica. ‘Now where exactly do you live?’

She told him as she sat back in her seat. His driving was smooth. He headed straight to her flat with unfaltering ease. She finished telling him the story of U-turn Rhys as he pulled into the car park. He looked up at the flats without judgement.

‘Can I have your phone number?’

She wrote it on the back of an old receipt.

He walked her to her door, kissed her cheek and turned to go. With the key in the lock she looked up at him and said, ‘Fancy a nightcap?’

He smiled and followed her into the flat.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: asylum, asylum seekers, black comedy, free novel, online dating, Perth

The moral descent of Australia’s policy on asylum seekers

I was appalled when I learned of Morrison’s move to restrict asylum seekers in Indonesia from applying to resettle in Australia. Here’s my response, in a piece published in the e-journal On Line Opinion.

”In the place of compassion, empathy and understanding, qualities that make us truly human, the basest of all emotions have anchored themselves in the collective heart…”

http://www.onlineopinion.com.au/view.asp?article=16892

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: asylum, asylum seekers, Australia, Australian media, boat people, illegals, Indonesia, nature of humanity, Tony Abbott

A trigger moment

I will never forget the day I was standing at my laundry trough and my former husband entered the room. I knew it was him. I sensed him behind me and made to turn and say Hi. I think of that recognition as logical, rational deduction. But something else happened. My body gave a jolt and I yelped. It was the delay between the two reactions that struck me as odd. And it’s why I believe cognitive behaviour therapy (CBT) in the treatment of trauma-related amygdala damage can only ever hope to manage the symptoms and offers no cure.

The amygdala are our emotional (including fight-flight) response mechanism, closely tied to the hypothalamus which regulates the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems, and the hippocampus or memory storage unit. Here’s a good summation of the interactions of these three brain areas and how they are affected by trauma. http://www.washacadsci.org/Journal/Journalarticles/V.93-3-Post%20Traumatic%20Stress%20Disorder.%20Sethanne%20Howard%20and%20Mark%20Crandalll.pdf

”Cognitive behavioral psychotherapy is a treatment approach that addresses the thought processes which trigger a person’s emotional responses. Instead of perceiving a situation as threatening, individuals learn to use logical thinking processes to change how they perceive a situation.”  http://www.ehow.com/about_5372442_amygdala-anxiety-cure.html For a fuller account go here – http://www.aacbt.org/viewStory/WHAT+IS+CBT%3F

In the example above, my thought processes had not triggered the emotional response. It was as if my brain was split, with one part functioning in its ordinary way, and another in a traumatised way.  My husband was equally surprised. ”Why did you jump like that when you knew it was me?” I had no answer. I had not perceived the situation of his presence as threatening. I had no reason to feel frightened or on edge.

Which is why I assert that CBT, while of great value, cannot change perception in advance. It can only change the thought processes that may reinforce a particular sort of emotional response, create a more positive and calm mental environment, and alter perceptions through positive rationalisations or self-talk after the trigger event.

Whether CBT, along with self-regulation, mindfulness, meditation, relaxation and EMDR, can retrain the amygdala is as far as I can tell, unknown. I have not found scientific evidence that demonstrates a cure of damaged amygdala. While there are claims that such a thing can be achieved, my investigations have led me to conclude that false claims by sham operators promoting their ”proven” techniques abound.

I am also aware that in the field of practitioner psychotherapists, the urge to fix is paramount. And the profession does a great job in the area of effective symptom relief. Yet clients come in, do some sessions, leave after some positive results, and that tends to be it. Where’s the follow up? How are these types in two, five years time?

I am not a neuroscientist or a psychologist. All I know is that I live intimately with my own brain. After decades of therapy and bucket loads of self-help I am aware of its shenanigans. I make every effort not to enter negative and fear-reinforcing thought patterns. I undo every knot I can find. It’s a lonely and vulnerable place to be.

Placing my creative self at the centre of my being has been my most successful move to date. Yet doing so is also a risk for she is shadow material, ill-formed, almost deranged by raw emotion, exceptionally driven and, having lived in a cage in a dungeon for decades, she’s shifted her cage upstairs. After wondering for years why I’ve been retreating from the world around me in order to write my books, I suddenly understood that I’m dumped in the cage with her. Looking out through the bars, I smile, for I am aware. She has become my master, and I her dutiful slave and together we tell tales. Sometimes the urge to reveal my truth overcomes me, as occurred when I wrote The edge will do just fine for ABC Open.

I’m writing this blog piece in response to well-meaning types who have been telling me lately that I can be fixed. I don’t get a chance to tell them I’m still managing a dicky amygdala and the consequent responses in my sympathetic nervous system before they leap in with advice. The implication in their words is that I am still not fixed because I am stuck, stubbornly holding on to negative thoughts, to memories, to past hurts, and that I must learn to forgive and let go.

All that I am is negated through their words. All that occurs in me in these moments is a quiet shrinking away.

I hope I have made clear here that my difficulties do not begin and end with healing the wounds.

My creativity is called Scarlet and we are besties. I’m not lonely any more and I am less and less vulnerable and more and more defiant. Scarlet is a veil stripper and I must let her have her voice. So be it.

 

 

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: amygdala, CBT, child abuse, cognitive behaviour therapy, complex ptsd, domestic violence, emotional response, post traumatic stress disorder, ptsd, therapy, thought processes, trauma, trigger response

Reality Check

I was troubled this morning to read of the 10,000 people who lost their lives in the UK in 2013 as a result of fuel poverty. Fuel Poverty Action is taking action. ”They’re targeting Energy UK, the lobbyists for the tax dodging, huge profit making, Big Six energy companies.” http://www.ukuncut.org.uk/blog/guest-blog-no-more-deaths-from-fuel-poverty/ And  I was troubled for a second time in the face of the injustice that has caused citizens to take to the streets of Ferguson; in a nation where the police are in service of corporations and not the citizenry. https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=482387718569407 And at risk of bathos, here in Australia, our government has just axed the budget of our much loved and non-commercial ABC and it’s sister television station SBS, both known for their cutting edge news and documentaries, their efforts to present balanced and alternative views, and their coverage of serious issues.

All this news caused me to pause. I knew instinctively that all three dreadful bits of news were connected. I needed to do a reality check. I had to remind myself of why these things are happening and happening in Western democracies. I thought again of that fabulous book Democracy Inc by Sheldon S Wolin. I share with Chris Hedges a passion for Democracy Inc. for it explains what is happening to democracy and why. It isn’t a light read. But sometimes things are too damn important to treat lightly. The more of us who take the trouble to give the book a go the better, for it does more than offer an explanation. The book occupies the ground otherwise too easily labelled conspiracy theory and what is going on behind the scenes is in fact a conspiracy and not theoretical at all!!

Here’s the way I see the con.

Reality check:

1/ The Sting. The GFC was caused by the banks who were then bailed out by governments with tax payers’ money. Government is now in debt to the banks. Citizens pay the banks (again) via austerity measures. Bankers are laughing all the way to their own front doors. Read Matt Taibbi’s Griftopia for a punchy and entertaining portrayal of what went on.

2/ The Second Sting. Behind the veil of budget deficit every small fragment of social democracy that can be privatised is being privatised. Once privatised the operating systems will be corporatised (asset stripped and so on) and services rendered both expensive and inadequate. The minimum will be provided, for the maximum profit. For an insight into how corporations operate as vulture capitalists read Antony Loewenstein’s Profits of Doom.

In the corporatised scenario citizens often pay for services that used to be provided for by government. Citizens also pay for the same services through their taxes, which go into the government outsourcing coffers to pay the new corporate service providers. So we pay for the same service twice. And the corporations are dizzy with delight.

3/ The Third Sting is the corporatisation of government itself. Imagine that our elected representatives are not representing us at all. They have been swallowed by the corporate sector. They have been bought, groomed, placed or otherwise corrupted to serve the interests of Capital and not the people. They wear false cloaks and false smiles. They hold our babies and steal our wallets. The best encapsulation of this sting is the revolving door, where individuals move back and forth from plum jobs in government to plum jobs in the corporate sector.

Studies have shown that the Corporation is psychopathic The hallmark of a psychopath is a distinct lack of empathy. As an entity a corporation is also a breeding ground for psychopaths. For people who lie, who deceive, who con, who cheat; heartless bastards whose capacity for cruelty is vast, whose capacity for blithe indifference equally vast.

It’s been six years since the GFC turned the screws on social democracy and created this latest horror show. Dystopia is upon us and many are accusing their governments of blatant fascism. We can and we must fight this beast. Not by following the ruthless cruelty of organisations like Islamic State, which are both corporate democracy’s nemesis and mirror, ( in effect a Fourth Sting fomented by corporate democracy to engender widespread fear and tighten security and surveillance laws). Instead, we must protest and campaign and educate and keep on shining a spotlight on reality. To that end I will from time to time hold up my own thin candle and shout.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: ABC, American empire, antony loewenstein, budget cuts, Chris Hedges, corporation, Corruption, Democracy Inc, dystopia, empire, Ferguson, globalisation, government, Griftopia, Matt Taibbi, neoliberalism, New Age, Power, profits of doom, Psychopath, SBS, Sheldon S Wolin, social democracy, Tony Abbott, vulture capitalist

Asylum Part Two (cont)

To catch the beginning of this story go to Asylum – a novel in weekly parts

In which Yvette receives a surprising gift and  takes action in an effort to fulfill her destiny…

2.7

 

It was another hot and breezeless day, the sun burning a dazzling hole in the vast canvas of the sky. After half an hour of navigational bickering – which way right, which left and the correct manner to hold a street directory – Yvette was relieved when Thomas drove down an open tree-lined street in the evidently trendy suburb of Northbridge, pulling up outside Café Mocha. Housed in a neo-gothic building sandwiched between two low-rise concrete shopfronts, the café exuded cosmopolitan glamour. She admired the façade, the stucco quoining, the tall and narrow windows, while Thomas fumbled with the steering lock. She had to repress an urge to tell him she was sure the car would be fine, they’d be able to watch it through the café windows.

Inside, the café was cool. Fans whirred in the high ceiling. A long glitzy counter stretched along the side wall and sofas accompanied standard café-style tables and chairs. There were books, magazines and newspapers for the patrons’ edification and vibrant artworks covered every inch of hanging space: Expressionist in style, desert-scapes and seascapes, riotous dances of wild flowers beneath ubiquitous blue skies; thick smears of ochres and cadmiums untamed by white or grey, overbearing, and yet she was envious of all that paint at the artist’s disposal. The paintings taunted her.

Thomas headed for the back corner, where a good-looking man was seated at a table.

The man looked up from his newspaper. ‘Hey Thomas! How’re you doing?’

‘Good thanks.’ They shook hands.

The man turned to Yvette and smiled broadly. She smiled back.

‘I’m Yvette.’

‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’

His handshake was firm and she warmed to him immediately. He was tall, sun-tanned with sandy-hair and a friendly open face.

They sat down as a waitress approached, and ordered the coffee and cake special.

‘Yvette, that’s a French name’ said Dan.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Do you have any French connections?’

‘Afraid not.’

She caught Thomas stifling a snigger. Then he shot a glance at the newspaper and asked Dan what he thought of the new Prime Minister. Dan rolled his eyes. The two men began to chat about various public figures Yvette hadn’t heard of and she soon stopped listening. She hadn’t engaged with local politics since she’d arrived in Australia. She was of the view that one incumbent was as bad as another and since she couldn’t vote, she had no need to form an opinion. She stared past the other diners and out the window at Thomas’s car, wondering who out of the fresh-faced throng that walked by would want to steal a Honda Civic.

She was drawn back to the conversation when Thomas mentioned asylum seekers.

‘It’s Tampa again,’ Dan said, sourly.

Yvette looked puzzled.

‘The children overboard debacle. Weren’t you here when that happened?’ said Thomas.

‘When was it?’

‘Twelve years ago.’

‘Um, no.’ She was in London, adjusting to her mother’s new husband.

‘The government of the day made false allegations that refugees had threatened to throw their own children overboard in a ploy to secure rescue and passage to Australia,’ said Dan. ‘That was when asylum seekers, so-called boat people, were taken to a detention centre on Manus Island for processing.’

‘The Pacific Solution,’ Thomas said.

Yvette leaned forward. ‘Some solution.’

Dan caught her eye. His face wore a solemn expression, the harsh and unfair treatment of asylum seekers clearly an offence to his sense of justice. She liked the man.

‘It’s getting worse,’ he said. ‘These people might now be denied any sort of permanent residency or even access to Australia. Seems the unenlightened many, or at least the present government, wants refugees to live the rest of their days on some remote island that can barely sustain its own people.’

‘Dreadful.’

‘Worse. They want to close all avenues of justice.’

‘You mean rights of appeal?’ Thomas said.

‘Yes. And any free access to legal representation.’

‘Sounds like Guantanamo. Held forever then tried by a military court.’

‘Not quite, but might as well be.’

‘A kangaroo court then.’

‘Yeah. Welcome to fortress Australia.’

‘I heard the government want refugees to sign a code of conduct.’

‘You are kidding?’

‘Nope. Anyone on a bridging visa will have to comply.’

‘What? Thous shalt not spit?’

‘Or swear, or annoy. Or be in any way anti-social.’

‘We might as well all leave now. That would apply to everyone in the country.’

‘Everyone except a saint.’

Thomas looked thoughtful. ‘Ethically and logistically brilliant,’ he said, narrowing his eyes.

‘Worthy of the Adolph Eichmann Memorial Prize,’ Dan quipped.

They all laughed, yet Yvette felt guilty. It didn’t seem right that she was entirely free to sit here in this café, walk out the door and on down the pavement, work, shop, eat and sleep, all without any sort of censure. ‘It’s unconscionable,’ she murmured, not sure as she spoke if she was referring to the treatment of asylum seekers or her own comparative freedoms.

‘It is,’ Dan said in reply.

There was a moment of silence. At last the waitress, dressed neatly in bistro black, came with the cake and the lattes, topped, Yvette noticed with a wry twinge, with a flower exquisitely sculpted in brown.

‘Is Anthony here or in Kalgoorlie?’ she asked Thomas, watching him give his sugared latte a rigorous stir, the froth sliding down the sides of his glass.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘He’s spending the weekend at my place.’

‘I haven’t seen him in ages.’

Thomas didn’t reply.

‘Is he planning on teaching out at that school when his placement expires?’ Dan said.

‘Placement?’

‘The only way to get staff out to rural schools in Western Australia is through special placements for qualifying teachers.’

‘Incentives,’ Thomas said, setting down his glass.

‘No-one wants to go out there.’

‘Is it that bad?’ Yvette said, spooning the froth on her latte.

‘I wouldn’t call it bad. But even so, teachers used to be bonded.’

‘Bonded? Sounds like slavery.’

‘It was in some ways. Hence Wake in Fright.’

Thomas laughed. ‘Brilliant movie.’

‘You’ve seen it?’

‘Anthony’s favourite.’

‘It is a good film. If you don’t mind the slaughter.’

Thomas shovelled into his mouth a hunk of mudcake. Dan stirred his coffee and levered the tines of his fork into the slice of lemon cheesecake on his plate.

‘So, is Anthony going to stay out there?’ he said, between mouthfuls.

‘I doubt they’ll keep him on,’ said Thomas.

‘Oh?’

‘He’s crafted quite a reputation.’ Thomas demurred, his eyes darting back and forth from Dan to Yvette. He lowered his voice. ‘On a school trip to Perth he took a group of students to a strip club.’

‘Outrageous,’ said Dan. ‘They were boys?’

‘He sees himself as the Pied Piper.’

‘Luring the young to take a leap into the unknown,’ Yvette said.

‘And he’s still employed?!’ Dan shook his head in disbelief.

Yvette was astonished that a person charged with professionalism would choose to behave so recklessly. Still, she’d have benefited from the maverick. Instead, in her primary years she suffered Mrs Thoroughgood, whose wrath descended on tender hearts for the mildest misdemeanour. She was a dreadful introduction to Australia.

Thomas slurped the dregs of his coffee and glanced at his watch.

‘I better go. I’m meeting him in half an hour.’ Something like guilt flitted across his face.

Yvette gave way to disappointment. She had no idea she’d be making her own way home. Not that she minded catching the train. But the thought of entering that flat to spend another evening alone was depressing. Her despondency must have shown on her face. The moment Thomas left, paying his bill on the way out, Dan said, ‘You’re in Maylands?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can drive you home if you like.’

She hesitated.

‘It’s on my way,’ he said, standing.

He went to the counter and paid for the two of them, refusing her contribution with a wave of his hand. ‘Thanks,’ she said, following him outside to his car.

Dan’s driving was smooth. She sat back in the passenger seat and relaxed. They headed to Mount Lawley along Beaufort Street, a flat straight road through another uninspiring thoroughfare. The stark light of the Western Australian sun bouncing off concrete and glass gave the whole place the look of an over-exposed photograph.

They were both silent for a while. Then Dan said, ‘What do you do?’

Yvette was disconcerted by the question. She didn’t know where to take it. She answered, tentatively. ‘I’m an artist.’

‘Amazing! Painting, sketching, sculpture?’

Now she felt embarrassed. ‘Um, painting. Or I would, if I had any paint.’

‘Did you train?’

‘Goldsmiths. I did my masters at the Royal College of Art.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘Don’t be. After five years of study I’d had enough and took off to Malta.’

‘Why Malta?’

‘At first to work in a bar. Then I met a man and my whole life changed.’ She explained her story, from Carlos right through to the cockroaches. His interest seemed genuine and keen.

‘Are you in a hurry?’ he said. ‘I’d like to swing by my office. I have something that might interest you.’

‘I’m in no rush,’ she said, her curiosity aroused.

His office was a featureless rectangle crammed with the paraphernalia of an academic life. He knelt down behind the door and pulled from a bottom shelf a large box. ‘I’m not using these. Take a look.’

She knelt on the carpet and opened the lid.

Art materials!

She was quivering like a dog forced to sit before its dinner bowl. She wanted to devour the contents in one gulp. There were tubes of acrylics of every hue, a tray of oily pastels, charcoal, watercolours, bristle and sable brushes of all shapes and sizes, a pack of Derwents, a small bundle of acquerello and, most thrilling of all, tucked in one corner, a tray of high quality oils.

‘Are you sure?’ she said, amazed by his generosity.

‘I’m never going to use them.’

‘But…’

‘I insist.’

‘Thank you so much.’

‘Don’t mention it. I did a couple of introductory art courses at my local community centre. I bought all the gear then discovered I had no aptitude. I was about to take the box to Vinnies.’

‘You’ve no idea what this means to me.’

‘I think I might. All you need now is paper and some sketching pencils.’

‘I have the pencils.’ She’d never been without her tin box of assorted pencils. That tin box had for years been part of her miniscule collection of favoured possessions, surviving, along with her pink alarm clock and a green comb, every one of her pre-move culls.

 

2.8

 

The sunset muted from crimson to a diffused apricot. Back at the flat, Yvette had arranged her art materials in a row on the sofa. A soft glow infused the room. She gazed at her paints covetously, still stunned by the gift, at once marvelling over the surreal unfolding of her new life in Perth: Already filled with chance encounters and good fortune, it had taken on a sort of mythic reality, as if she’d slipped between the covers of a fantasy novel simply through her chosen quest to fulfil a prophecy. She couldn’t fathom the cause of the events. That inquiry seemed to her taboo. She absently stroked her chin, before reaching for the charcoal.

Her preferred medium was oil, but she had so far sketched nothing worthy of the concentration and labour required for an oil painting. Besides, she lacked a canvas.

Ideas buzzed around her like flies. At art school she’d gravitated towards precisionism upon her early encounter with O’Keeffe’s works, and inspired as well by Sheeler, the portrayal of the industrial landscapes of 1920’s modernity seeming to her then, apt: London’s cityscape had changed with the millennium. There was the Dome, the Eye, the Gherkin and Broadgate Tower. Precisionism went with the cool indifference of the modern corporate world. Yet what had once appealed to her, the clean lines, the exactitude, the at times photographic quality of her work now seemed sterile and devoid of emotion. And here, reverberating around the walls of this drab grey flat were the moans and cries of all those who’d passed through Curtin and Christmas Island. She would never be an expressionist painter, that would be going too far in the opposite direction, but she had to find a way to convey the raw dark emotion, the images that ferried her way like boats on Acheron.

She looked up. Something small and black scuttled down the kitchen wall. She switched on the overhead light and opened cupboards, drawers and doors to find the cockroaches had survived their Armageddon and taken up their stations throughout the flat.

She groaned. She was a prisoner in this concrete cell, trapped in an underworld six storey’s high. She was a modern day Persephone. And, she noted with bitter irony, she first came across the Queen of the Underworld shortly after she’d met Thomas. In a pub one night they’d been listening to the Persephone track by The Cocteau Twins on her iPod, sharing the ear piece. She’d mispronounced the name, (she thought the word rhymed with telephone) and Thomas, after sniggering to himself for a humiliatingly long time, corrected her. Per-seph-oh-nee, he said, then sniggered on for even longer, before giving her the gist of the myth. She couldn’t have known it then, that he’d install her in his own pestilent hell.

Later, unable to sleep, she spent the whole night sketching, occasionally looking up to check on the occupiers’ movements.

 

2.9

 

Her creative upwelling vanished with daylight. After a shower and breakfast she packed away her art materials and cleaned the flat, leaving for Leederville before the sun had begun scorching the day.

At work she was dreamy and distracted. When she wasn’t serving, she wandered around the café absently wiping tables. Heather didn’t appear and she was surprised to find herself disappointed. She viewed the diners, mostly women and retired couples, not an eligible-looking man among them. She couldn’t imagine meeting a half-decent man in here. She wasn’t likely to meet a suitor through Thomas’s network, and as for Heather, she seemed too matronly for girl’s nights out on the pull.

When a mother walked in cradling a new-born baby, Yvette’s longing for a child of her own returned with force.

Towards the end of her shift two plump, middle-aged women sat at a table near the counter. Yvette tidied the kebab wrappers, listening to their conversation.

‘You should try it. My aunt met the love of her life through Love Station.’

‘Yeah? I bet she had to sieve through a load of creeps before she met him.’

‘What have you got to lose? It’s free.’

‘Aw, I dunno.’

‘Everyone’s doing it. These sites are filled with profiles.’

After the women left, she cleared their table. The West Australian was folded open at the personals column. There, below a string of chat-lines and massage services, was a large listing for Love Station. She glanced over at the counter. Pinar was standing beside the till, chatting with a customer. Yvette quickly tore out the page and stuffed it in her trouser pocket.

On her way back to the flat she went to the library, the one five minutes away that Thomas had mentioned. This library was smaller and there were few visitors. She was able to secure a computer session without a wait.

Ignoring the corpulent, balding man seated to her left, she logged on and found the Love Station website. Joining was free as the woman in the café had said, so she filled out the registration form and scanned through the other profiles. There were thousands of hopefuls of all ages. Kind, fun-loving forty-something women without ties seeking adventurous, sincere gents for romance. There must have been hundreds like that. The financially secure seeking the well-groomed. GSOH essential. The generous looking for loyal, the natural looking for fit. Already she was composing a profile in her mind.

The man beside her shifted in his seat so she leaned forward, placing her shoulder bag on the desk, hoping it was between his line of sight and her screen.

She filled out her details in the fields. She found a photo attached to an old email, taken in Malta, and uploaded it. She looked good in that photo, suntanned, round lips spread in a comely smile, hazel eyes lively and inviting, wavy copper hair cut short. What sort of man was she looking for? Must have artistic interests. She didn’t want to be more specific.

She clicked submit then scanned her emails. There was nothing of interest, nothing but junk, nothing from Malta. Nothing.

The fat man, whose presence beside her was making her feel sleazy, rose laboriously from his seat and walked away. She sat back with relief and placed her bag on the floor at her feet.

Ten minutes later she clicked back to her profile. There were thirty-two hits.

She was flabbergasted. She had no idea she’d be so popular.

With anticipation moiling in her belly, she scanned the photographs and immediately eliminated half the contenders – Men too old, too fat, too showy, too geeky. She examined the others more closely. Three computer programmers, a welder, a pig farmer, four public servants, two science teachers, a lawyer and a real estate agent ended up on her reject pile. She doubted any of them knew a thing about art.

The remaining three seemed promising: Frank, a fund manager from Applecross with an interest in Renaissance portraiture; Dimitri, a professional photographer from Cottesloe; and Lee, a music teacher from Scarborough, who made no mention of visual art but music was close enough. She wondered how these men would view her.

Doubt shimmered briefly in her mind, doused by an upsurge of excitement. Two weeks and all she’d managed were a few outings and dinner at Thomas’s place. Time was running out. She knew it was crazy to attach so much significance to the words of a palm reader, but some irrational part of her thought otherwise, determined as ever to have its way. So, she reasoned, if it was preordained that she’d meet the father of her children before she was thirty then she mustn’t be obstructive by isolating herself. She needed to be out and about making friends. A heroic figure in a black polo neck wasn’t about to abseil down to her balcony with chocolates, red roses and a declaration of eternal love.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: antony loewenstein, asylum, asylum seekers, black comedy, boat people, free novel, illegals, literary fiction, northbridge, profits of doom, visa overstayers

The Edge Will Do Just Fine

ABC Open have just published my story on violence against women. I smashed it out yesterday and hit send before I lost my nerve. Big breath because it’s very revealing. While last week our leader and self-appointed Minister for Women Tony Abbott had the nerve to state before the United Nations Committee Against Torture that violence against women does not constitute torture, this story is testimony to the opposite. I was tortured, I bear the physical and psychological scars of that torture and I’m prepared now to come out publicly and add to the dialogue. Here’s a taste:

He’s dead now, which is why I can write about him and not the others.

If he was still alive he’d sue me for defamation the moment his eyes read this page. How can I know for sure? He tried it once before when I warned him away with an allegation and a veiled threat of court.

I never thought my father would be litigious against his own daughter. He must have thought himself innocent.

He wasn’t.

Follow the link to read the whole story https://open.abc.net.au/explore/58en0aa

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: child abuse, domestic violence, ptsd, survivors, Tony Abbott, torture, trauma, UN Committee Against Torture

Asylum – the Story behind the Story

My serialised novel, Asylum, started life as a sequel to my memoir, Lovesick. I hadn’t wanted to write a sequel but many readers were demanding to know what happened next. About three chapters in I decided to fictionalise the story. This meant creating plotlines based on, but not strictly tied to, reality. It took about a year to produce a draft and I thought of submitting but then started to have deep misgivings. My protagonist Yvette Grimm was a bit too much like me and the story seemed to meander on, reaching a conclusion that felt flat. So I set the draft aside, reasonably happy never to look at it again. Yet the draft nagged me. Asylum seemed a good title, with its double meaning well worth exploring, but how?

Months later a friend from Perth posted on facebook a link to a book. It was Profits of Doom by Antony Loewenstein. I borrowed a copy from the library and read it from cover to cover in two days, then promptly bought a copy for my mum. Profits of Doom led me to explore the plight of asylum seekers and I soon found many facebook groups, pages and friends, a plethora of online commentary, and much activism around the country. I began to wonder how I could contribute.

It was a gnawing sense of injustice that caused me to return to that draft of Asylum. I axed half the text, ripping into the narrative scene upon scene until the barest bones were left. I set about making visa overstayer Yvette Grimm an artist. I managed to work Profits of Doom into a scene. Things were progressing well but towards the end the narrative still lacked intensity.

That was when a friend, Georgia Matthey came round for dinner and after I had outlined how things were in the fictional land of Asylum, she began to describe a recent event in her life. Seeing the potential straight away, I grabbed paper and pen and wrote down her vignette and with her permission used it to shape the climax of Asylum.

The resulting story still contains much that has its basis in my own life, yet now carrying the theme of seeking asylum, Yvette juxtaposing her experiences with those of asylum seekers being held in detention. It is my sincerest wish that the story both entertains and contributes to the larger dialogue on the treatment of asylum seekers in Australia.

(I also co-ordinate homestay respite holidays for asylum seekers on bridging visas under the auspices of Home Among the Gum Trees.)

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: antony loewenstein, asylum, asylum seekers, boat people, free novel, illegals, Jasmina Brankovich, profits of doom, rural australians for refugees, visa overstayer, visa overstayers, Yvette Grimm

Asylum Part Two (cont)

To catch the beginning of this story go to Asylum – a novel in weekly parts

 

In which Yvette battles on in her dismal Maylands flat and makes an unexpected discovery…

2.4

 

With a mug of tea in hand, Yvette was sitting on the balcony floor, back against the wall, warming her legs in the morning sun, squinting at the small ads in the local newspaper she’d grabbed in the supermarket yesterday. A Turkish café in Leederville was looking for waitresses. She pushed aside her misgivings, based on a rather superficial loyalty to the original inhabitants of her beloved island, Malta. She’d acquired a tendency to be wary of all things Turkish, largely from Carlos who held a number of bombastic prejudices, especially towards those descendants of the Ottoman Empire. She knew at the time her attitude was ludicrously inconsistent. Following that path, she ought to be wary of the French, the Lebanese and anyone from England. And she was hardly inclined to be wary of herself.

She went inside and looked up Leederville on her street map. It was just a few train stops away. She went back outside and dialled the number provided in the ad and arranged an interview for later in the day.

The newly-opened café was in a newly-opened shopping mall, pristine and smelling of fresh paint, with glass walls looking out on the car park and the main road. Muzak blended with all the chatter and bustle in the mall, culminating in a wall of loud but muffled echoes. A nominal attempt had been made by the interior designers to instil character into this intrinsically characterless box, towering philodendrons in large terracotta tubs book-ending park benches. But for Yvette, the singular attraction of the place was the air-conditioning.

Rows of circular tables filled the café’s spacious interior. Three o’clock and there were no customers. The counter was long with an espresso machine at one end and a cash register at the other. Behind the salad bar a petite woman of about forty with smooth black hair pinned back from her face was piling baklava onto a large platter.

Yvette approached wearing a cheery smile and said, ‘hi. I’ve come about the job.’

The woman looked up, her eyes sliding to Yvette’s apparel, taking in the loose, thigh-length frock and leather sandals that Yvette had thought until that moment adequately smart.

The woman wiped her hands on her apron and Yvette followed her to a small table positioned against the back wall beneath a lively crewelwork wall hanging. The kitchen door swung open and a solid-looking man, also wearing an apron, carried a platter of sweetmeats to the counter. The woman smiled over at him before returning her gaze to Yvette.

‘My name is Pinar,’ she said in a strongly-accented voice. ‘My husband and I looking for nice waitress.’

She asked some questions. Yvette fabricated vignettes, holding Pinar’s gaze, doing her best to exude charm. Pinar seemed doubtful. Yvette wondered what to say to clinch the interview. Glancing up at the wall hanging, she said with a measure of sincerity, ‘What a beautiful tapestry.’ She placed a hand on her chest. ‘I wish I knew how to make something like that.’

Pinar’s face lit with interest. ‘My mother made it.’

‘Really? I adore it.’

Pinar looked over at a woman with four children walking towards the counter. Then she leaned forward and said in a low voice, ‘You work for cash?’

‘Yes.’ Yvette was at once relieved and bemused. Pinar must be taking an enormous risk in this regulation-bound nation. Still, she was not about to question her new employer’s subterfuge any more than she questioned Brenda’s at the Cobargo hotel.

‘You start work tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘You be here at nine.’

Pinar told Yvette to wear black with closed-in shoes. On her way home she went to Vinnies and bought a pair of black drain-pipe jeans and a loose-fitting black T-shirt.

It was a mistake.

When Yvette arrived at the café for her first shift, Pinar was neatly dressed in black tailored pants and a pressed cotton blouse. She looked at Yvette with mild disapproval before ushering her behind the counter. Humiliation pinged in Yvette’s guts. Already she regretted insinuating her way into a job she knew she’d despise.

Yvette followed Pinar up and down the servery, watching attentively as Pinar taught her how to use the espresso machine and assemble and wrap kebabs. She served her first customers with Pinar watching her with equal intensity.

Yvette was keen to impress. She split the pitta bread with finesse. She rolled kebabs tightly. She was polite to customers. Pinar seemed satisfied and left her alone. Determined to convince Pinar of her worth, Yvette cleared tables without being prompted. She cleaned. She re-stocked. She did everything well. She even managed to make acceptable lattes and cappuccinos. But Pinar prided herself on perfect coffee, the milk topped with velvety foam, and decorated with a love-heart pattern. Yvette applied all her training and determination but whenever she passed by with a cup in her hand, Pinar looked disappointed.

 

2.5

 

The customers didn’t seem to mind Yvette’s distorted love hearts. One woman of about her age had come in every morning in that first week, ordered a latte and sat at a table by the window. She was a large woman with a kind face and she’d opened a book the moment she was seated. She seemed self-contained; Yvette hardly gave her a second glance. Their only interaction occurred when Yvette set down her latte and the woman made a brief comment about the haphazard brown shape floating on the froth.

On Friday, as Yvette set down her cup the woman chuckled and said, ‘Different every time eh?’

‘I’m not good with love hearts,’ Yvette said, apologetically.

‘I’m sure you are.’

The woman beamed good will. She was dressed today in a flowing burgundy frock. Long beaded necklaces rested on her full bosom. She closed her book and held Yvette’s gaze. Framed by locks of curly black hair, she had a round face with a pert nose, cupid lips, and blue-green eyes. Yvette felt a vague pulse of recognition. ‘Do you live near here?’

‘I work in that building across the car park.’ The woman pointed out the window at a white office block.

‘What do you do?’

‘Holistic counselling. I’m Heather.’ She held out her hand.

‘Yvette.’

‘Yvette?’ Heather paused and looked wistful. ‘I went to school with an Yvette.’

‘Rockingham Primary School?’

A look of amazement appeared in Heather’s face. ‘You’re never Yvette Grimm?’ She looked at Yvette closely and with genuine regard.

‘That’s me.’.

‘You do remember me?’

‘Heather? Heather McAllister?’ She repressed a cascade of feeling, at once cautious and intrigued. ‘You are still McAllister?’

‘Yeah. After a spell as someone else. And you’re still Grimm?’

They both laughed.

Heather still exuded the same maternal vibe. She had been, even at six, motherly and protective, shielding Yvette from the playground bullies. Heather wasn’t rough, but her bulk and the fiery look of her when roused were enough to arrest even the keenest thug. Heather had been Yvette’s fortress. School life hadn’t been easy back in London; she’d had little success on her own fending off the toughs.

‘We must catch up,’ Heather said, eagerly. ‘I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to all these years.’

‘We must,’ Yvette glanced back at the counter. Pinar was watching. ‘I better get back to work.’

 

A lonely, wispy cloud meandered across the face of the afternoon sun. Her phone rang. It was her mother.

Yes, she was settling in. Yes, she was enjoying the job. No, she hadn’t heard anything yet. Then Yvette mentioned Heather.

‘I went to school with her. I used to go to her house for sleepovers.’

‘That fat girl with the green eyes?’

‘She was my best friend.’

‘She was Scottish, wasn’t she?’

‘She was lovely and kind.’

‘I’m sure she was. You had a nice time with her anyway.’

A far, far better time than I’d had at home. She didn’t say it. She told her mother she was about to take a shower and hung up her phone.

 

2.6

 

Yvette’s shifts at the cafe brightened when Heather appeared and dimmed again when she left, snatches of conversation arousing flashes of fond memories. Of the day Heather’s father had taken them to Underwater World, and they’d held hands in awe of the sharks circling above them, all grey menace beyond a thickness of glass tube. Sting rays, with their ribboning fins and barbed tails, looming shadows gliding by. The sea horses adorned with befuddling ornamentations hovering above friezes of pretty coral. Heather’s older brother Angus had come along too, a sullen, spotty teenager interested only in spooking his little sister and her scrawny friend. Despite his efforts, they’d had a fabulous time. There were ice-creams and fish and chips and then the long drive home.

Back at the flat she applied herself to cockroach extermination. She placed baits in strategic corners, left trails of powder along every crack, crevice and skirting board, mashed borax with jam and put dollops in cupboards and under the fridge. Nothing worked. For every roach she killed, another ten appeared to replace it. She considered borrowing Kafka’s Metamorphosis to develop some empathy but thought better of it.

One morning, as day broke into the room, she noticed a cockroach crawling up the wall beside her bed. And another ambling along a skirting board. She’d thought cockroaches were light averse but this lot were in no hurry to escape back into the dark. And they’d become accustomed to her presence. They were familiar, like cats, wandering up to her inquiringly. Perhaps she’d like to chat?

Had the entire contingent of cockroaches in this wretched building moved into her flat? Or were the other residents plagued with the critters too? She had no idea. Two weeks and she hadn’t met her neighbours. No-one passed her in the corridor or on the stairs. She might be the only person in the entire block, a single human representative fending off a plague.

She went to the bathroom and glanced at the basin. One of her unwanted housemates was taking an interest in her toothbrush. Revulsion moiled through her. She declared war. She’d bomb the lot of them to oblivion.

It was nine o’clock when she exited the building and marched down several suburban streets to the hardware store. She returned about an hour later with two insecticide bombs.

Reading the instructions, she felt like America: Open every cupboard door, shut all windows and move furniture away from the walls. She had to stay away for eight hours. She scanned her street map and found the nearest library, about half an hour’s walk away. She stuffed a peanut butter sandwich and a bottle of tap water into her shoulder bag, set off the bombs and left the flat.

This time, when she opened the door at the bottom of the stairwell she was confronted by a barrage of hot air, the concrete car park radiating the sun’s ferocity. There was no breeze. Heading north, she walked along the nondescript suburban street ignoring with dogged intent the brick-and-tile houses with their verdant lawns. She crossed through a park where a few gum trees provided brief relief from the sun and the lawn was as lush as the lawns she’d just passed.

Back on the pavement the heat was excoriating. She crossed the dual carriageway at the traffic lights and walked along an arterial road bereft of shade and lined with a splash of crassly-presented car yards, petrol stations, pizza bars, milk bars and tacky discount stores. She ached for the streetscapes of Malta, berating herself for not returning with Carlos. She still could. She had a return ticket from Djakarta to Rome that didn’t expire until May. But there was a voice inside her adamant she had to stay. A voice she heeded convinced it represented the sensible part of her.

She turned down a side street and walked through another brick-and-tile housing estate. There had to be more to Perth than this. She couldn’t imagine the man in the palm-reader’s prophecy behind the windows of suburbia.

She walked through the library’s automatic sliding doors into the resurrecting cool of the air conditioning, determined to occupy the whole day here. She started towards the main room, passing through the foyer where shelves of reference books lined the bottom half of a wall, when among an array of encyclopaedias and dictionaries with dull dark spines, one volume caught her eye. She sensed the book didn’t belong there. Glossy white with Profits of Doom in bold black lettering down the spine, by someone called Antony Loewenstein. It was the word ‘doom’ that first caught her eye, thinking ironically that perhaps the book would explain how she might profit from her circumstances. She pulled the book from the shelf and went through to the back of the library where several arm chairs faced a low melamine table.

Ten pages in and her senses came alive. She was right there with Loewenstein in first Curtin then Christmas Island, with the refugees who come to Australia by boat. She’d had little idea till now the tragedy those people suffered. It was rapidly becoming unfathomable that she should have managed to remain so ignorant. Bowing to the demands of her art degrees, trapped inside her obsessive love then caged in a chamber of grief, all her adulthood she hadn’t once paid attention to the plight of boat arrivals. Still, she gave herself no shrift.

Large chunks of the narrative slipped by without her full comprehension. She knew little of neoliberalism and had never heard of Pilger or Klein. Hers was an empathic response. Amongst all the data there was embedded in the narrative the tears of the prisoners, their anguish, their loss of hope. The author was restrained.  Yet she could feel his frustration. She read, on and on, slipping outside to eat her sandwich in the violent sun, then heading back to the same seat, to journey on to PNG. Here she stopped. There was too much to absorb. She flicked back and re-read the descriptions of interviews with prisoners and the prison staff. Then she requested the use of one of the library’s computers and Googled images of both locations.

Curtin was located in one of the hottest places on earth, in a flat plain of scrub and red dust. A high chain link fence fringed with coils of razor wire contained a concatenation of grey demountables. Inside the prison there was little shade save for that cast by the buildings and the odd tree here and there. The Christmas Island centre was no better. Surrounded by lush forest, but the beauty stopped at the fence. Absolutely every feature of all the squashed-together buildings was grey, the roofs, walls, awnings, the concrete paths.

How could she be sitting here in this cool library, when her status was no different to those people? If anything, those refugees had a greater legitimacy being here than she. Men, women and even children, herded in, locked up and stripped of their identities. To be addressed, she noted with significance, not by their names, but by a number, their boat ID number. This was Auschwitz without the gas.

Already forming in her mind was a sketch. But she needed inspiration. She was out of practice so long had it been since she’d felt creative. She wandered around the stacks and found a small collection of art books in the non-fiction section. Setting aside her prejudice for all things Antipodean, she fished out a number of books on Australian art at random and returned to her seat.

She laid out the books on the table: Cubism and Australian Art, Joy Hester and Friends, a book on Sidney Nolan and another on Russell Drysdale. The Arthur Streeton she soon closed, and the Tom Roberts she set to one side without opening.

Soon she was gazing at plates and descriptions of the works of Arthur Boyd and Grace Cossington-Smith, Danila Vassilieff, Hester, Nolan and Drysdale. She had little idea what she was searching for. These were some of the Modernist painters whose works challenged the traditional realism staunchly favoured by the Australian art establishment of the early twentieth century, so said an introduction, the turning point coming late, but that was to be expected. Australia, she had long since decided, had always been culturally backward.

She derived little from Cossington-Smith’s work, finding the paintings too soft and cosy, almost quaint for all their post-impressionist technique. Hester’s work piqued her interest, portraying intense emotion in brush and ink, her use of expressionist strokes reminiscent of Picasso, the artist’s engagement with the news reels of Nazi concentration camps striking an inner bell. Yet she knew she had no capacity for such renditions of human tragedy.

Saving Drysdale’s landscapes for last without knowing why, she went on to contemplate the raw emotion of Vassilieff’s urban street scenes, followed by Nolan’s Ned Kelly series and Boyd’s Bride series, savouring each artist’s engagement with their subject, impressed with the way the artists conveyed the anxieties, the tensions and the alienation, noting as well the embedded social critique. Yet their expressionist renditions left her aesthetically unmoved.

It wasn’t until she studied Drysdale that she felt she’d found a home. His combination of realist and surrealist techniques in his depictions of the outback echoed her own love of O’Keeffe’s scenes of New Mexico. Both worked in oil on canvas. Both conveyed a stillness that was stark and evocative.

She was reminded of the day in her first year of university, when one of her lecturers, Dr Faultone, a wild-haired, bra-less woman in her fifties, required her students to research Modernism. The students were to select from three major artists, one that best represented their own artistic direction, Dr Faultone insisting that all art was derivative, there being no such thing as absolute originality, even innovators relying on their exposure to various cultural and intellectual currents and pre-existing works. For Dr Faultone’s previous assignment, students had to keep a journal of gallery visits and log their impressions of a range of works down the centuries. Yvette’s most memorable entry recorded a moment of epiphany she experienced while gazing at Stubbs’ Whistlejacket in the National Gallery, at once astonished that a painting of a horse could arouse in her such an intensity of emotion.

For Dr Faultone’s latest task, Yvette had sat in the university library surrounded by art books, discarding the works of artist upon artist, many of whom she had been forced to emulate at high school, succumbing to a mounting frustration, convinced she would never find a single Modernist artist that matched her own aspirations. Until she found and fell in love with O’Keeffe.

Now she’d found Drysdale and through his work gained a speck of appreciation of Australia.

Her senses aroused, imagination sparking, she went to the main desk and asked a librarian if she could join the library. The librarian handed her a leaflet. Yvette soon found she didn’t have enough ID. She returned the leaflet to the counter in disgust. You can’t fart in Australia without photo ID. She went back to the computer she’d been using and quickly checked her emails, disappointed a second time when she clicked on her inbox and found no word from Malta.

The moment she was back at the flat she opened all the windows wide and propped open the front door then sat out on the balcony. A magenta hue brushed the western horizon, accenting the rigid lines of the high rises on the city skyline. The sky to the east darkened, revealing the stars. Impressive, but not equal to what was occurring inside Yvette, who was succumbing an extraordinary sense of awe, her ordinary reality cracked open, revealing a human tragedy of unconscionable proportions, here, in Malta, no doubt in many lands the world over. She’d adopted unquestioningly the view promulgated by the media that people smugglers were to blame, and believed governments’ claims that if they didn’t impose severe deterrents their nation would be overrun. She’d paid no attention to the plight of millions, held the flimsiest of an understanding of the various causes – war, famine, natural disaster. Now she was beginning to question everything. She wanted to face it.

Later, she phoned Thomas and told him in a string of hurried sentences a blow-by-blow account of her day – the cockroach massacre, the book, her inspiration – she was soaring.

‘There’s a library about five minutes from your flat.’

‘I’m glad I didn’t know that.’

‘Why?’

Why? Hadn’t he heard anything she’d said?

‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ he said, quickly.

‘Nothing.’

‘I’m having coffee with a friend, Dan. He’s a lecturer in journalism. Want to come along?’

‘Sounds great.’

‘I’m meeting him in Northbridge. I’ll drive. Come over around two.’ And he hung up.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: antony loewenstein, asylum, asylum seekers, boat people, free novel, illegals, modernism, profits of doom

Dial up speed and the G20

Ten more days of dial up speed before the start of the new download cycle. Can I endure it? Facebook keeps stuffing up. I can’t follow links to articles unless I’m prepared to wait an age for the page to load. Cheers Telstra for your bargain basement plan only good for those who haven’t gotten past email and to whom the google maps man (aka by boyfriend and much loved touring partner) is as unreal as a flyer saucer. Why ever did I sign up to this measly plan?

Meanwhile, on my PC, two years and a month past warranty, I keep getting the blue screen of death. I feel an imminent technological meltdown and yet I restart and type blithely on, hoping all will be well when I know full well it will not. I’m playing brinkmanship with technology. If it happens before a solution is found I do have a back-up plan. I’ll dust off the dinosaur loaded with XP, trust there is still some life in it.

Meanwhile all the 20s are meeting in Brisbane, Gs and Bs and heaven knows who else, and maybe they’ll talk seriously about hot skies of death, auguring the imminent climate change meltdown. Or will they go blithely on, more concerned with the global economy, setting silly targets and hoping all will be well when they know full well it will not. Noble posturing on the parts of America and China, when no-one can breathe in Bejing, and America is busy blasting more of the Appalachians to smithereens for its filthy filthy coal. As for Australia’s political crowd, they’re in dial-up speed with the miners.

Brinkmanship with a dying PC is one thing. Our leaders are playing brinkmanship with nature. If the meltdown occurs before a solution is found there is no back-up plan. The dinosaurs are dead.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: climate change, dystopia, G20, globalisation, government, nature of humanity, Power

Remembrance Day

 

Remembrance Day and I cottoned on late to this fact – so I wanted to pay my respects, belatedly, to all who have lost their lives in war. Especially to those who have not lost their physical lives but their psychological wholeness, returned from horrors stripped of well being, doomed to suffer flashbacks and hyperarousal and numbing, hair trigger fight/flight moments, angry outbursts, despair, overwhelm and depression. Veterans who share a life narrative with victims  of domestic violence and child abuse, tortured captives and asylum seekers.

Yes, I will remember you and feel for you. I know it’s hard.

Peace.

Filed under: Uncategorized Tagged: domestic violence, Remembrance Day, veterans, war