justafalsealarm
A ghost of aviation She was swallowed by the sky Or by the sea, like me she had a dream to fly Like icarus ascending On beautiful foolish arms Amelia, it was just a false alarm Maybe I’ve never really loved I guess that is the truth I’ve spent my whole life in clouds at icy altitude And looking down on everything I crashed into his arms Amelia, it was just a false alarm
Thursday, July 4, 2024
STATES OF MIND
Sunday, February 27, 2022
MEETING COLM TOIBIN ON HIS HOME TURF
Wednesday, December 22, 2021
ISN'T IT A PITY: A LOOK AT PART 1 OF A NEW BEATLES DOCUMENTARY
Wednesday, September 8, 2021
The Bookshop of my Dreams
Saturday, July 3, 2021
The New Boy
Saturday, December 19, 2020
Tuesday, December 8, 2020
TRANSITION. DECEMBER 2020
We drove- or rather I
drove- all the way to Richmond in traffic whilst you sat in the back seat with
your older sister- a more experienced
traveller at almost 15, but still naïve and high school inexperienced in many
ways. Then you, on the precipice of change, chatting away at 12 and waiting,
expectant, but no doubt trying to push things to the side or back of your mind.
Things. What things? New encounters, mixing with people you do not know, a sea
of unfamiliar faces and unfamiliar experiences awaiting you like a grey tide of
uncertainty.
When we arrived, we parked
just before the school crossing and I could see that you didn’t really want to
get out of the car. The short walk across the road and into the grounds of the
school were probably mildly terrifying; similar, but at the same time so different,
from Mandela’s walk out of the prison on Robben Island. His was freedom, yours
not so embracing.
Inside the gate there were
adult helpers who told us about the lists. I found yours first. Melba 2, it said.
Your sister told you she was in Melba 1 when she was in Year 7 last year. Then your
sister simply disappeared. The right attitude. ‘Stand up, like I had to do last
year’, would have been the silent message. And that philosophy was the same
kind of thing for me. The clutch of Melba 1 students- maybe about a quarter of
them- were sitting underneath a tree, and there was no adult in sight. I was
glad I was not holding your hand. And I was glad that you didn’t insist I stay
and sit with you.
In fact, I was impressed
with your fortitude, which you somehow dragged up from the depths of your soul.
I briefly introduced you to a couple of girls- ‘I’m from a primary in South
Yarra…’, etc, one said, and I asked if you could sit down, then after a few
minutes I told you I would be back soon. I went to another ‘house’ and looked
for the only other girl you knew beside your sister, but just fleetingly. As a
reinforcement during the day if you needed it. I glanced over to you, often,
and caught your eye a couple of times with a little wave, but mostly watched
you clandestinely, noticing your attentiveness to the other girls. Not talking,
but listening, and learning, and navigating that awkward situation where you
know nobody but other people seem to have some knowledge of each other as they
sit smiling. You, a portrait of innocence, your childish multi-coloured backpack,
your hair in plaits with a red heart-shaped adornment on each braid.
In desultory, threatening
weather and a soft cool breeze, it started to rain, and the Melba 2 group
leader- very young looking herself- began dragging you all away. I wandered
over and said ‘have fun, darling’, and I was away. The sky turning charcoal and
me hoping it wasn’t an omen.
I think back to a similar
day two years ago with your sister- in fact it was the first day of the school
year- and recall her anticipation and nervousness. I think of these days accurately
or otherwise as being like Wordsworth’s ‘spots of time’, encounters that are
completely new and challenging but will define you and shape you. Experiences you
will always remember, like a wedding day, or a particular birthday, but
essentially experiences that herald change or growth or some kind of
significance in you.
I know you are 12 but it
still feels a little like I abandoned you, but not abandonment in the gross or
cruel sense, but rather leaving you in a foreign and challenging environment, but
hopefully not a hostile one. I sit here at home typing this some hours into the
day, with our newly arrived dog next to me, sitting on the couch. And I wonder
how it is going. Have you found someone to chat to? Are other kids aware of
you? Have you made them aware of you? Are you thinking ‘this new place- you
know, may be ok after all. I look forward
to 2021.’ Or is it all horribly different to this?
Another spots of time
moment for both of you, was the first day of primary school. You both had
someone you would grow to care for next to you. For the eldest, Liberty, and
still probably a best friend, even though you are now at different schools. For
you, it was Holly, Liberty’s sister, who was here just last night. So, Holly
and Liberty are experiencing the same thing as you two- a year 8 girl about to
share the school with her little sister- except different schools.
Postscript:
I watched you come out of
the wrought iron gates, waiting expectantly with a multitude of other parents. Your
face. Drained of colour and exhausted looking. Not sad as such but relieved, a
trial over for one day, only for it to be renewed in a couple of months. Will day
one next year be any easier?
‘ What would you give it
out of ten?’
‘Six out of ten’, you replied.
We climbed back into the
car to navigate the traffic home. You unpacked your emotions. Steady, calm,
even perhaps a little indifferent. Relief.