Nostalgia

Photo of rare white-haired Suttonese mushroom hunter.

Circa 2014 A.D.

Hand painted pebble by native Suttonese artist 

gifted to Indian explorer.

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 nos·tal·gia noun nostalgia plural noun nostalgias
A sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.
Something done or presented in order to evoke feelings of nostalgia.

Brisbane

A photograph never grows old. You and I change, people change all through the months and years but a photograph always remains the same...that is why I think a photograph can be kind.

~ Albert Einstein

Well over a decade ago I somehow managed to escape the clutches of a bunch of vile Neanderthals with whom I had existed in a dark, stinking soul destroying cesspool. I fled to Brisbane. It was a city which was quite literally heaven on earth. The dazzling Tropic of Capricorn sunshine made everything sparkle. The city was clean and green. The people were friendly, kind and happy. The food was delicious. And the sapphire blue Brisbane River, beside which I lived, carried me on a ferry during my explorations all over that paradise on earth. I met wonderful people there, lifelong friends who made me laugh once more, changed my perceptions, taught me to draw again and most important of all, taught me never to be ashamed of being myself.

But it looks like my life has never been without its ironies. While over the years I’ve created a heaven here for myself with whatever I had, that heaven I once knew and which was once so important to me, suddenly no longer exists. It is Brisbane that has turned into a cesspool. All that remains of that world now are idealized memories and old photographs.  What is most painful is that I don’t even know whether the people I once knew and befriended even exist anymore. If I could I would fly there in a second to help clean up that city that I once loved so much and still do. I wonder what it takes to offer a helping hand from a different continent. While the virtual world in which we exist so much of the time is a powerful tool, it looks like it ceases to be effective when it comes to doing things that really matter during a calamity.

Germaine Greer's Article on the Australian Floods >>

Seeds

My grandmother always carried Cosmos seeds on her person like she did her snuff box. Where ever she went, who ever she met, if there was some earth present in the scene, even in a pot, then the Cosmos seeds were doled out with the same solemnity  used to take a pinch of snuff before it went up the nose – a careful drawing together of the thumb and  forefinger so that just the right amount was gathered between them. When grandmother gave, recipients did as instructed so that plants would shoot up and flowers would splash out their myriad hues of glorious colour.  Thus my grandmother left a trail of colourful Cosmos behind her the way some women leave a whiff of memorable perfume as they drift out of a room. 

Hair Myth

I was told my grandmother had hair so long it reached her knees. I was told her hair was so thick and curly that after it was washed it took two women to detangle it and spread it out to dry. I was told that when it was tied up my grandmother’s head would tilt backwards due to the weight of her hair which is why I envisioned my grandmother spending most of her long haired youth staring at the ceiling. Each time I was told the story of my grandmother’s hair, the hair grew longer and longer within the story until it touched the ground and the last time I heard the story I remember I was told that it trailed behind her on the floor.

A House I Once Knew

From the plum tree

When I unwrapped layers of time and peered in, I found what was once so large and almost tangible seemed smaller, diminished. However, what pervaded the air around me was the colour of the memory, the scent of its emotion, as real as the time I was standing in now as I lost myself in the past.