Weathered in Brisbane.
Does a woman get weathered or wise? Does a man mature into a man, and a woman into middle age? Ok I’ve been feeling tired lately. And I just read Jung’s ‘Aspects of the Masculine’. When I said read, I meant one or two pages. Once I got to his ‘something in us wishes to remain a child’ (28) and that this clinging to a childhood level of consciousness causes a variety of neurosis. Hmm. And today, was it the chocolate or the onset of my periods, or the feeling that I am tired after having slept for seven hours. Yesterday I was on fire, I was in all senses fiery. You see I enquired about organising a poetry or music event but apparently the Queensland Library doesn’t do those. The cafe does, but they already have something running. I was feeling a little trapped. And then I went to the 4th Level of the Museum to read about the fight for Indigenous rights only to have a man a few metres away say to his daughter,’and they call us racists, they burn the flag’.
‘excuse me what did you say?’ I enquired.
‘I wasn’t talking to you’ he responds and his daughter moves off embarassed. He stands there hovering, unsure what I’m going to do next.
‘Well this is public space and you are engaged in public discourse. Why bother to be here when you are encased in your
priveledged white male bubble. Will you stay there forever?’
By this time I was shaking and Nick came over to see what was going on. I walked towards this big bulk of a man and I saw him move to seek the comfort of his wife sitting amidst images of Indigenous Australians speaking eloquently about the plight of Indigenous Australia on walls around them.
Finally I managed to get out of the museum and go sit near the state library to play uke with Nick. I felt so overwhelming lost in Brisbane. And even when I did tell a lovely woman at GOMA about my encounter, she told me it happens there too and that I shouldn’t let it get to me. It made me even more forlorn. Finally we sat in the dark with a moving image of a man walking with a brick wall behind him while Nick Cave played for the image. We were dreaming of playing music, of poetry and of spaces where it was possible to breathe We cried in GOMA. No-one saw us.
And I woke up today so tired and feeling defeated. I thought of all those girls and boys I knew in English Lit classes who now live in New York and do marvellous things. And I feel sorry for myself and I HATE that. Sometimes this place is like the epicentre of dislocation and isolation. Maybe I don’t know enough good people here.
I want to dance with you outside the library. I want to laugh with you. I don’t think you’re weird. I want your poetry and music and I want it now. I want to know you want to do it no matter what. Hey we didn’t get into that event, can we do poetry on the corner. I know people won’t stop very often, but sometimes they might.