Balmy in a Bungalow

After dinner, it seemed the perfect time to write. The blokes have gone for a walk in the unexpectedly deserted beach, beer stubbies swaggering on hand. The evening air was balmy but not that nippy for this time of the year. The ocean let out a low key murmur and splash, and then went on repeatedly. There were no coconut trees overhead, for this was too far south the eastern seaboard of Australia, but the abandonment of care and the utter lack of sense of time was most rewarding and enveloped the young night.

And what a dinner it was. We started with a rather thick piece of individually served fresh salmon, doused lightly with a refreshing hint of garnish that brought out the inherent sense of the seas rather than overwhelm it. I saw on a side table the cupcakes and the strawberry gourmet ice cream dollops waiting for us. The main course caught me by surprise, a possibly fusion creation that combined soy sauced chicken cuts cooked lovingly in a curry that brought out sensations of cumin, cinnamon sticks and pomelo seeds. Its spiciness was not diluted but rose sufficiently above the savoury texture of double cooked chicken. It reminded me of a dish in the household of a marriage between a southern Chinese and a Brahmin Indian. And the common binding element was the fluffy well steamed rice.

The ice cream amazingly came with fresh mangosteen - the succulent white folds had a firm tastiness that offered a contrasting relief from the curry heat. This was much better than biting into cheese and biscuits at this juncture, and continued the tropical theme for the sit down meal. I thought of white planters from a few generations ago perhaps taking in all these in the middle of the plantation they were stationed in. They wore white - much more stark white than the white haziness of the insides of each purple-coloured mangosteen. Did they get salmon as the entree? Most probably not, in those times - it would have been just bread rolls and butter.

Yes, I was on holiday, and at that moment, nothing topped up a satisfying meal than a cupcake. I chose the apple flavoured version. A latte was the finale, a post script to the dry Carlton that accompanied the curry very well.

Truly, Madly, Deeply

Right: Developing Pomegranate from my Garden
You are obviously in love.

Every detailed thing that Darling does for you, you note and analyse like
a school lab frog - but I don't blame you, only to wish you receive
the love you deserve and that both of you are protected if things don't go the
way both Darling and you want.

I am sure you are in love because you lap up the good advice that Darling
gives you - like a little puppy, I must say. That is a sure sign of
the goodness of a positive relationship, in that it motivates you
further to do things that you know you want and you should, but just
require a little gentle push to actually do it!

You must be in love as well because you get all truly glad inside your
heart just to know that Darling is happy. Love, as I understand it, is
self-less, makes the lover forget his existence and willingly submerge
into the consciousness of the loved one. How well is the loved one
willing to infuse the dimension of this existence with you?

What is age and its niceties in deliberations of love? It's all
perception, hype and what both of you make of it. There are other more
significant things in a relationship, like the ability to blend
together in interests, personality, humour and sincerity. Others may
have their opinions, but like anything else, are they part of the
marriage? The bottom line is that only the two of you are going to
share and experience the joys, trials and camaraderie of a
partnership.

A gift is a symbolic token of the bigger perspectives of appreciation
and feeling. The precious gift of love must be used to build upon a
deeper and more thorough structuring of a meaningful relationship, one
that takes both of you through sunshine, high water, uncertainty and
resolve, one that combines with the other essential ingredients of a
true friendship, one that spices up the start of a solid bonding.

On a One-Horse Open Sleigh

Love works in strange ways.

Like finding the right house or the dreamed of car, it can be a logical result or just a sincere surprise when we least expect it. Logic can defy the choice, feelings arouse the instinctive and the bonding defies whatever convention that may apply to it.

Rouselavata had been trying. He had retained sufficient hope to not unnecessarily close any window of opportunity. At the same time, he had developed a workable sense of realism in whom he preferred and what could translate further into a meaningful relationship. All these may seem hypothetical and good in theory, and unless he could apply all these in one real example, it remained good only in planning and on paper.

One week it all came together. Someone turned up. Someone who could click so well with him in his interests of music, style of mingling and getting to know each other. Someone who added to stability and a heightened sense of living. Someone who made Rouselavata glow inside and made him share his new found joy with close relatives and good friends. Someone who made him walk tall and let the whole world know. Someone he would love to ride with, literally on a one-horse open sleigh.

Rouselavata at times had passing moments of doubt as to how long this would last. He however knew how to enjoy it, no matter what. As he lay in bed in blissful oblivion, he played again and again a short sweet rendition of a theme so popular at this time of the year. "Jingle bells, jingle bells...."

Moving On

It dawned that the need for accumulation was a fallacy. The more one gains, he thought, the more one has to lose.

A rising surge of good feeling swept through as he looked at the papers shredded or thrown away in heaps. It was symbolic of the loss he felt inside, the loss of his sincere trust in certain others who manipulated or used him like a paper doll. Funny that such people can misplace his extended hand of friendship to them. Sad and disappointing, but in the end, for them. The physical disposal was also reflected in electronic deletion. He did not understand why certain individuals around the place were deluding themselves creating imagined needs and ordering others to duplicate things in so many dimensions, as if paranoid that these duplicates would be required in the future - or is it that these individuals actually had nothing of value to contribute and had to make a semblance of activity and importance around their wrapped minds?

It was not that amazing that so many things kept were not utilised, or missed, in the past few years. Now with a sprint of vitality, he slashed and cut, thankful it was not other people's livelihoods, income or jobs that were being destroyed, but only false clinging to things that will never be, never have been and better to be let go in the constant swirl of Nature's winds. People around him continue to be deluded and seemed to take pride basking in their delusion. Detachment was the best thing he awakened to, and now he was free.

At times it was not easy to move on, even if he had wanted to. Things kept coming in another channel at the same furious pace that he was letting go in another way. He contained the things he was responsible for into one corner, while at the same time he felt like bailing out rushing water from a possibly impossible situation. He was very strict with himself, not letting in the pessimism, the negative games and false pretences that certain other individuals imposed on him. These individuals continued to behave , perhaps in desperation, in the same mannerisms as if he could not see through and through. How despicable these characters can be, and now they are drowning in their own making and not knowing it.

A House in Goulburn

Lucia huddled on the rocking chair, warmed up and content. Outside the window it was as grey as the foggy cloudy overlay of the sky in June. The fireplace was not working but messed up with soot. Not that she cared. She had woken up with the radio station alarm announcing a hearty welcome to a day starting at minus five degrees.
Dawn was the best time, a quiet time without care, schedules and chores wating to be paid attention to. The steam of a freshly prepared coffee or oats boiling on the stove symbolised cosiness.

The house was solid brick. There is a comfort about countryside houses, Lucia thought. One that brought back memories of simpler times. One that fitted with the harsh climes and beautiful sceneries not matched in most capital city locations. She could see the bare branches of several trees outside the window, and the trellis pattern provided a sense of stark perspective. She could smell the wood of the house and feel the roughness of the open brick. She felt the house had as much character as she did.

Over toast and muesli, she mused about the path she had chosen. In the beginning, it was hard to resist the lure of the Big Smoke. At the end it was easy to forgo the false promises of short-sighted commercialism. Lucia recalled how she read about a corporate lawyer in Singapore giving up the apparent riches of a mercantile career to live the life of a hermit nun in a cave in Nepal. She also felt strong empathy for an ex-banker who was forsaken by her employer despite being on the apparently winning side of a mega merger of two companies. Society teaches so many to fall for doomed things, she thought. Life's potential in each of us was more fulfilled beyond the glitter of the momentary and the greed of the short-sighted.

Half-read books and various tapestries were strewn on the timber flooring. A neighbour unexpectedly dropped by to say hello and pass on some freshly baked muffins. "The wheat fields still have the frost on their tips", he remarked, having just driven in from Yass. The breath from his mouth showed up as thick as the mist surounding the inland valley town of Goulburn. Once there was much promise of this settlement becoming even the capital of the whole nation. Now it lay forgotten, apparrently in the middle of nowhere, and having an economy sucked off its vitality by drought and the dwindling interest in its pride and joy, the State police training Academy. The iconic Big Merino, really just a three-storey souvenir shop,had been resited away from the town's main thoroughfare. It was interesting that this had happened, just like the Hume Highway bypassing the place long ago, together with its droves of passer by traffic and spending.

Did it really mean doom and gloom? Lucia thought Goulburn, her adopted town, had a rare chance to go back to its roots. It must rely on its own character and stride out accordingly. It can offer a refuge to the tired souls from misshapen urban experiences. It can refresh young individuals who have aged unnaturally. It has the air quality that many in countries further north yearn for. It can provide retreats to nurture the inner self.

Lucia had a lift in her step as she walked out into her garden. The clear sunshine contrasted with the bitter cold. Yes, it can be unbearably hot in January here - and she decided to enjoy the cold air instead. Whatever disadvantages Goulburn has must be embraced and turned to an advantage.

Windy Cold

A throbbing pain on the left side of the forehead. Persistently.

Like moss embedded on to a branch or a wall, it seemed inextricably hopeless to get rid of it. It's like often bumping into the very individuals whom you subconsciously try to or hope to avoid. By chance or design, these very same persons have to turn up, to confuse, to destabilise and to create mischief.

The conspiracy of silence makes it inadvertently worse. Actual suffering of pain is supposed to be accompanied by perceptions of gain, but only in theory. I finally understand that silence can be deafening, when it is applied in a discriminate manner, to surprise when one least expects it.

Biting cold can be overwhelming, but when supported by the wind, the chill permeates.
When mixed with a sense of helplessness, one gulps for air, hopefully only in a figurative sense. It still feels real, like the rush for air from below a raging watery surface. There is truly a psychological and physiological urge to be freed.

I look for ways out. At times, the warmth I expect in normal protection mechanisms amazingly does not appear. Is this the onset of hypothermia? I require to encourage circulation and flow, and I may not even get a chance to break the ice. The attacks seem unrelenting.

Just when I am expected to give up, I get a second wind, not one from down the mountains but surging from within myself. It is the human instinct to rebel and renew when unreasonably pressed. It may have seemed physically impossible a minute ago, but at the point of no way out, the mental takes over, buttressed by the soul and inner determination. Extreme impossibilities bring out extreme solutions in me.

The throbbing has changed course and nature. It now becomes the sensation of overcoming anything in its path, including the windy cold.

The Wind

Slight branches with leafy brushes were strewn almost everywhere on both sides of the road. There was a sense of pandemonium and yet at the same time, a feeling of cleansing. The howl of the gushing air overhead underlined the dynamics of whatever caused the swirling and twirling of atmospheric forces. Things that stood in the way were showered with debris, or were buried by fallen things. Both Nature's creations and human artifacts were affected, if they had not not been secured properly.

I was up on a mountain road, eagerly dashing to hope to see someone. At times it may have seemed futile, for the winds from the heavens roared, as if to tease me and make it difficult. Overhead, the skies moved at frightening speed, with dark clouds changing their positions in a furious and obvious agitated dimension.It was an impeding storm, but up on the twists and turns of sloping roads, I could see the potential havoc thrown at the plains below. I had to see someone, whether or not it was sane or reasonable. Something in me had this relentless grip and spell that was only broken by knowing where this someone was that Sunday morning.

It was not exactly riding a wild horse bareback and galloping away to the object of my affection. Maybe it was better and faster, with a good performing engine of the car I was driving. The gush of wind reflected the climax of longing and passion that was teased and tested. The winds whipped up from the open ocean below was a mixture of uncertainty, the lure of feelings fulfilled and the hope of satisfaction. This potent combination decided that I had to do something.

I found the house. It was all closed up but not empty. Despite the wind, I had arrived. Maybe because of the wind, I had found myself so near. The wind in my heart was equally volatile. Nor rain or hail, nor wind or other obstacle, placed before me, I had made it to the inner sanctum of the one I sought.

Not What It Seems To Be

She felt like one of the spiked pollen balls being blown away from a tree by a divergent gush of breeze. She likened herself trapped in a translucent ball of white furry fluff, helplessly and reluctantly removed from the people she loves. Subject to the whimsical vagaries of the wind, she did not even know where she was heading next.

Below this figurative ball, she could still hear the laughter, chatter and varying din caused by collective and separate conversations. More importantly, as she was reluctantly being whisked away, as if in some cinematic glazed photographic effect, she could still see the facial expressions of a particular person who had surprised - and mystified - her that evening.

She loved this dashing chap, but with no prospect of a return to her of the care she consciously and sub-consciously projected for him, she had decided that "to truly love someone is to let him go free". It was perhaps some convoluted thinking on her part, but this very subject of much love had on this occasion accompanied a serious lover of his own. She desperately - and instinctively - wanted to be nice to this new someone, who now takes care of her object of her affection. Her object of unconditional love did enthusiastically greet her, despite the crowdedness of the small hall. At first, she did not even realise that the stranger sitting a few seats away from her is the new love of her continuing love. She was not introduced to this person, when others were, throughout the progress of the function, but she was anyway, for most of the night, oblivious to the variety of developing social scenarios playing out at the party.

After dinner was over, and when it was time for the guests to move on, she was finally introduced to the new person in the life of her loved one. She tried to make small talk with this new person, but she sensed an increasing steely look of indifference - and ultimately clear signs of no intention of being even superficially friendly - from this potential acquaintance. How ironic, how strange, she thought, that she was left almost talking to herself, with no response afforded her in return. Did she wear a confronting perfume, or was this new person unfriendly with the other party goers too? Honestly, she did not know what to do for more than a few frantic minutes.

In life, she wanted to avoid the average and allow more love to come in to her realm. She was already having difficulty trying to connect in this simple social scenario. Was it her fault, did she do anything to deserve this cold treatment? Things happen for a reason - but she was just first trying to figure out the reason itself. In the warm night air, it dawned on her that, as her little pollen ball rose even further away from all these things, everyone else, including the subject of her affection, had been so nice. It finally put her frame of mind in perspective; more so, her little pollen ball was carrying her to a new realm of life's possibilities.

The Sheer Airiness of Meaninglessness

The emerging sunlight promises to come gradually, and then blasts full on, literally, like a spotlight shining suddenly into the calmness of his developing dream. Shucks, he had forgotten to close the window curtains – or did he leave it open on intention, to receive the benign effects of last night's moon glow?

Oh yes, another day, another promise of new things beginning. Or is it? What used to be the thing that made him want to jump out of bed and look forward to the possibilities of a new day, had just, well become, just mere possibilities.

His optimism had been progressively whittled by the cumulative acts of an uncaring culture, bred and nurtured by selfishness, the inability of most to see beyond the confines of their narrow thinking and the provincialism of a few go-getters who did not realise that they could not flex their perceived might beyond their little pond of existence.

He observed that most others had withdrawn into a kind of so-called protective shell in a knee-jerk reaction to an existence not offering growth beyond what they had already reached. Their resulting reduced expectations were perhaps a consequence not so much from a numbness that decided not to fight anymore, but to lie low and wait out the time they had been most probably given. Meanwhile the few controlled the many; the foolish could not recognize the wise and the superior did not acknowledge their inferiority and fear.

His routine became unbearable, the organized became oppressive. He searched for meaning to rediscover his motivation, but meaning became lost in the mundane, the necessary and the required. He began to see repetition, things copied in distractions, diversions and in the regimen of life. He tried to break free, but saw certain patterns, of maybe being used at times, of definitely being used on other occasions. He heard accounts of how wealth does not guarantee happiness, of how power can drive some to delusion and of how reaching out to others can lead to abandonment. What was the meaning of all this? It was meaningless, cruelly meaningless.

The more he gathered the disparate drifting things around his world, the more they seemed to randomly disperse. Is it better to just let all go, to allow things unplanned and to not over analyse? The trust he thought he could rely upon can be dissipated in one unanticipated disagreement. He treasured gestures of friendship and communication, but these all seemed to mean nothing after business hours. He could not stand the culture that cuts and divides life before and after working hours.

He felt excluded. He tried not to feel it like this, but when he thought of the best in others, some others treated him as if he was being viewed in the worst light, whether he deserved it or not. He felt there was a two-tier system, maybe more of a multiple layered system, where he was to just do the work and he did not matter more to "them" - those he tried to do more for than just the necessary. His views were not sought out to be understood, but just judged on a presumptuous basis, without being able for him to offer his side of the story.

He was rudely told off, even when he had no intentions of doing anything of the sort he was suspected or accused of. It dawned on him that there was a set of rules for him, and a kinder set for others. He saw how some could willingly and smilingly do some things for others, but not for him. He never asked for gratitude, for anything in return, but just for a gesture of fairness and being not accused of things that he had no inkling of. He was reminded of unfair things, even if he had not asked for them. His love shown to some was returned in haughtiness and lack of consideration. His care was returned with disdain, and his heart finally broke.

The pieces of his heart flew into nothingness, just to escape the underlying pain. He joined the masses, who, preceding him, had withdrawn into this protective shell he had earlier observed from the outside. Now he was inside this same shell, and he did not even realize this. But it felt good. Really good, in a sort of meaningless, floating way.

Along The Way

Grapefruit,they must be that, all of them fat, with rounded plum bottoms and the unmistakable green colour that should then yellow, if left uneaten for too long.
We had momentarily disembarked at a convenience stop along the highway, and other coaches also disgorged their passengers to use toilets and visit fruit stalls. The majority of the vendors were brown-skinned, but the sellers of the supposedly grapefruit outlet were fairer, and elderly, older than the others.

Passing rain showers broke the monotony of the ride from a capital city to this tropical island enclave that we were heading to. The experience was not unpleasant, starting right after lunch hour and we expected to have a seafood dinner under palm trees with our toes massaging into warm sand. It was humid outside, but not in the cocooned comfort of air-conditioning inside.

The only irritating thing was a loud woman mouthing a variety of languages on to her hand phone, English included. From what was forced for the others to hear, we reckoned that she was moving to either Melbourne or Perth later in the year, although right now this was no where near those cities. Her voice competed with the audio from a movie playing on a screen near the coach driver.

Palm trees gave way to rubber plantations. The flat alluvial plains on both sides soon changed to a climb up through a mountainous area, thick with equatorial forests. Is it true that life happens while we are waiting for someone or something better? Is life going on when travelling on a coach in a foreign land? Is time better spent eating and dancing with family and friends, or being submerged in some personally obsessive cultural pursuit? Another afternoon passes, and soon we saw the setting sun behind the hills of the isle we were travelling to.