Road to Bedourie


Massive sky,
Baby boy knit blue
Stretching far and wide.

Sea of stones hard as diamonds.
Pink pastel and oche talc.
Chipped rock in two tone.

Carcasses rot and scavengers feast.
Stunted trees pierce the landscape,
Old olive and weathered.

Such pretty contrasting shapes.
Undulating hills gently drawing me into nowhere

I would definitely die out there.

A cattle grid painted white appears up ahead.
A star feature in that snap shot of plain and sky.
We clunk over it.

Now, two white horses and a dappled gray,
Manes flying.
I blink and they are gone.

The road becomes gray burnt bitumen.
It’s smooth and sexy like silk.

We arrive.
Satellite dishes and telegraph poles,
Corrugation and XXXX signs.
All rust and dust beneath
that baby boy knit blue.

Friday July 30, 1999



Waiting Room

This little piece of writing I would describe as a creative, comedic look inside a depressed mind. It’s about being in a depressive state but told with a dash of humor…not that depression is funny. It’s not. Depression hurts all over, but sometimes if you look closely into the greyest fog you can see something that makes the side of your mouth twist up a little. It’s all a part of who we are. It’s ok to find this funny. Peace to you. 

Waiting Room

My life is a waiting room. It’s where I wait to die.

It’s a room where I wait and do things to pass the time. 

In essence it’s always the same stuff.

I sit and look at my phone. I check my Facebook notifications. I don’t really give a shit about those little red circles with those little fucking numbers, but I have to clear them anyway.

I’m OCD that way. They mean nothing but I have to make them go away.

I stare at my shoes. I got them on sale. I look at my stomach and tell myself I’m going to run that fat off.

I look around. I’m alone.  There are crappy, dog eared magazines on the table that I don’t want to touch.

I look at my phone again. I check emails. I respond to some. I delete many. It makes me feel tired. 

There is a water dispenser but I’m not thirsty. I just stare at it.

The woman behind the counter is a pure bitch. I smile pleasantly at her even though I hate her.

Everyday I smile at people. Everyday I go through the motions. I’m so lovely. I’m so lonely. I smile a lot.

I look at my phone again. I see I have texts. I ignore them. They are mostly from people telling me to do shit.

I need some caffeine. 

I think about fucking. Then I think about how I don’t want to fuck anyone. 

I think about becoming a nun but then I decide that I’m probably not cut out for that line of work.

I think about God and can’t understand why everyone seems to have one except me.

I think about what my higher power could be. I tell myself I am my higher power. Then I think I’m full of shit.

There is a door to the waiting room and I stare at it.

The clock over the door just ticks away the seconds. Second after second after second after second.

The door is always there and I wait for it to open. It will one day.

I look at my phone again.

My life is a waiting room where I wait to die. Second after second after second.

February 14, 2017

Rule the World

Corruption has moved into the big White House. It lurks in those offices, and slides through spaces that are steeped in history. Spaces where many have stood before, shoulders heavy with the weight of responsibility and hearts bursting with the honor that comes with this privilege.

This corruption feels like sickness. It looks like dirt.

Many others have passed through those hallways. Gifted, eloquent,  experienced and there to serve. Diplomatic. Politically astute. Carrying out their duties with care and conscience. Sometimes misguided in my opinion. Sometimes leaning in a direction I couldn’t appreciate, but never like this.

Never this low.

Rotting trash thrown on a national treasure. Staining the walls, marring the floors, bringing damage to what was once intact. Systems established and finetuned over 240 years with mechanisms in place for social change, political discourse, and progress. Imperfect and flawed but accountable and functional for the most part. Government polished and aged.

Fourty four leaders, versed in civics and policy with a respect for the law and our democracy, to varying degrees, and I admit for a couple, this description does not fit well, but they at least maintained a basic level of decorum when dealing with other world leaders, the press and the scientific community.

The fourty fifth is something else.

Now I smell the stench of corruption seeping out from within those White House walls, wafting across our cities, permeating our open land, sinking into the earth, into our lives, into our future.

I want to wash it away, wash it all away.

It is like the sticky remnants of a terror filled dream that leave you feeling like everything has changed and all is wrong now. You can taste the dread and the dawn light doesn’t help you feel any better. The gloom stays with you, like a heavy cloud. Gray and ominous.

They are darkness, greed and trickery. They laugh at us. They marvel at how easy it was to convince so many to open the gate for them.

They formed a plan, made some deals, pushed some lies, and then bristled with pride and glory as their supporters pumped their fists and bared their teeth.

They rode in on a wave of hate, fear and resentment. They pitched us against each other. They divided and conquered.

They are drunk with their rank and self righteousness and they think they can do anything.

They think they can do anything…

They think they rule the world.

Perhaps now they do.

February 2, 2017



When my daughter was very young, she was defiant and steady. Perfect before my eyes.

I remember. There was a golden line of silk that ran down her neck onto the smooth mound at the top of her back. It caught the morning light and shimmered softly and I marveled at that glory as I sipped my coffee, preparing to take on another day.

Her honey hair flowed down her nape and splayed playfully around her ears, eyes and jawline. The tips of her long lashes reached up toward her gentle brow that framed deep, green eyes.

Her mouth was, and still is a fine shape with fullness and promise, and the words she spoke were often sharp and insightful. She often surprised me with her candor and wit. She still does.

As a small child, her body was vital and well proportioned. She would stand steady, in command of herself. She always appeared ready to move and take you on. Ready to take it all on.

She smelled like apple spray detangler, vanilla and her own scent that I remember taking in at the precise moment that she was pulled out of me and placed upon my stomach, squirming, steaming, bloody and full of life.

Her laugh was always full bodied, uninhibited and free. She was her own person. I made her inside me but she wasn’t ever mine. I was, however, fully hers.

She is a strong young woman. As a child, when she held on to me, it was with intensity. She always held on hard.

It was with intensity that I held her with my gaze and with my heart. I still do.

The ropes are getting frayed now and she bucks like a filly wanting to bolt. Her eye is on the horizon. I can see it too, the point she wants to rush towards. It is all beauty and light, passion and life.

I feel her pulling away. My body tenses with each tug. Soon she will be out beyond the skyline and I will stand in my place and love her quietly, the ropes limp in my wrinkled hands, drooping to the ground, my muscles relaxed and tired but I’ll cradle her in my heart still. I’ll rock her steady. My heart will always hold on hard.

Started October 27, 2012 and completed January 16, 2017

I’m Still There

I’m yearning for my home country more now than ever.

I miss the smell of the eucalypts, the searing heat of summer and seeing the air quiver violently over the almost molten asphalt.

How the horizon shimmers through the windscreen on those hot country roads, driving to visit my Aunt and Uncle out west. Splattered bugs on the glass. Peering through dust and streaks as I drive. Sometimes driving through the night, Darkness pushed back by the headlights. High beams on and off. Roos scattering out of the way just in the nick of time.

Ghostly white gums lining the way under a velvet, star sprinkled blanket of a sky.

Out in Orange, eating cherries and watermelon and drinking cold beer in December. Feet in a bucket of cold water. The kind of heat that can kill you if you aren’t careful.

The gusty Wollongong wind that hits you like a physical force while walking to the local shops, in the winter time. Gray days. Howling winds beating against the screens. Beating against the gutters, threatening the roof top. It cuts right through whatever you have on for protection. Your coat is a joke. You can lean into that force and it will hold you up steady. You can feel it in your bones, that chill. Then when you are out of it, it rings in your ears for a while. Through the window you see the white billowy clouds overhead and the bright blue sky. You see leaves scattering about on the concrete, swirling in circular motion. It’s wild outside.

Inside the house feels still, a sanctuary and you love being alive now warm and sipping tea away from the grasp of that gale. The air is still in your nostrils and lungs from before, so cold and clear.

Watching those summer storm clouds roll in over the rainforested hills of Murwillumbah. Dark and heavy. The electricity in the air making the hairs on my arms stand up. Making me feel like jittering and squealing at once like a child, the energy in the space vibrating through me and all around me.

And the rain. Torrential. Hitting the corrugated iron hard and making a sound that can only be Australia. The smell of wet earth and the steam coming off the foot path. The grass a shade deeper now, and soaking in places. Tiny snails hang off long stems sprouting from the cracks in the driveway. Rain drops like crystals cling to the blades.

The way the Pacific shore feels and smells. Old seaweed. Shellfish drying out in the sun. The Sydney sandstone gold and gray lattice, a work of art framed with coastal scrub speckled with wattle and bottlebrush and lantana.

The way that the sun burns. The heat beats down on you and you squint at the sun. Covered with freckles, I am damaged by years in that sun. Skin unprotected, exposed and vulnerable. Skin wrinkled and scarred. The sun damaged me but those days were free. Those days I was free.

The kookaburras laugh and the cockatoos screech. The color. Wings and voices up against the wide, sapphire sky.

The dark, brutal history. The pain that exists there today. Maybe I could do something.  Maybe I could change something. Maybe I could make a difference in my home country, a place that exists inside my frame, my heart and mind and spirit.

Maybe I could return and find me waiting there, waiting all along. Maybe I never left. Maybe I’ll never leave. Maybe I’m still there.


A Wave


A wave in a sea of waves.

Like a moment in a lifetime of moments.

We are waves. Beautiful, powerful and so very real until we are no longer.

The ocean is vast. Like a human heart that knows no bounds when it comes to love.

That’s what she taught me.

February 10, 2016