Blak is Cracked, Contemporary and Classic

Out of the crazy Queensland brain of Sean Choolburra comes this health message. Who cares if it works or not (ok we do care), I just love the brother is out their creating contemporary culture for all of our consideration and entertainment..

Keeping Tropical Water Lillies

Tips on keeping water lillies from field botanist Diane Lucas:

Peak flowering is the dry season (up north), and the best environment is a still, permanent water source.

Waterlily ponds need to be at least 35 to 60 centimetres deep and have a surface area of at least 1 square metre, for a good carbon and oxygen exchange between the air and water. They should be self-regulating and never need cleaning if you have the right balance of plants and fish.

To keep the water healthy, plant two oxygenating plants, like grasses or reeds, to one waterlily.

Plant waterlily root stock in a large pot of almost pure compost. They're very hungry plants. Cover the soil with about 5 centimetres of gravel. That's to stop yabbies and fish digging and uprooting the plant. It also stops the soil discolouring the water.

Fertilise three times a year with fertiliser tablets. Wrap them in a cloth and bury under the soil. Don’t put them straight into the pond because they'll poison the fish.

Waterlilies like full sun, but a combination of full sun and dappled shade for part of the day is best. Direct sun will increase evaporation.

Water lillies carry cultural significance for Indigenous peoples including being a great food source.

I am a Chocolate Homing Pigeon





*Serving suggestion - objects might be closer than they appear





In a totally realistic attempt to reach the achievable goal to become totally buff, I have limited my intake of food to a variety of pre-cooked proportion controlled meals, breakfasts of porridge, baked beans or nourishing cereals (yummo), snack foods like popcorn, Indian Bhuja mix (I always want to call it Bhudju!) and fruit.  Life is worth living.



In the same intervening period, the teenager has developed a predilection for concocting experiments, influenced by the internet. The key ingredients for these experiments are pretzels, melted chocolate and peanut butter. At first these experiments looked vaguely like some sort of worthwhile food group. Peanut butter is sandwiched together by two perfectly baked pretzels, dipped in melted chocolate which is left to harden and could passably be presented on a chocolate tray at one of Melbourne's many chocolatiers. But as the experiments develop, they have become streamlined into a kind of TV dinner style porridge. The food group varieties are dispensed with and the peanut butter is let go. Think Goldilocks meets Pimp My Snack.

In my food austerity I have put food away, found containers for foodstuffs previously uncontained.  The only chocolate in the house, which admittedly is my only stumbling block, is a svelte mini-bar of Monsieur Truffe 60% Grenada Dark Chocolate.

But wait! While putting things away I have espied the chocolate melts required for above experiment. I find a suitable jar and make them airtight.  I go about my biz, but find I am strangely drawn to the kitchen. The jar sits on the bench in the kitchen next to the room where I write. It is only on the third trip I become conscious of the chocolate homing pigeon. I find every punctuation mark requires an automated trip to the kitchen. I am unaware of the travel. I simply make a key stroke, comma, my body rises, my feet take five short steps, a side step down into the corridor, a turn, a wingflap to the kitchen bench also incorporates the twisting of the jar lid, the coop has been found. I wander back to the desk, a handful of stolen chocolate buttons, discretely nestled in the palm of my hand. They are scoffed down until the next question mark is employed and the homing begins anew.

Obviously the Teenager has chosen the optimum time to make this scientific pursuit. Our affinity in purpose is uncanny. Can I ban the teenager from such pertinent experimentation in the quest for my own buff-ness? Which one is more selfish? On balance, my life is pretty much defunct, while the Teenager’s is just begun. I will sacrifice my purpose for the greater good. The enquiring mind must be encouraged.



Maya Angelou's Poem About Michael Jackson

We Had Him

Beloveds, now we know that we know nothing, now that our bright and shining star can slip away from our fingertips like a puff of summer wind.


Without notice, our dear love can escape our doting embrace. Sing our songs among the stars and walk our dances across the face of the moon.


In the instant that Michael is gone, we know nothing. No clocks can tell time. No oceans can rush our tides with the abrupt absence of our treasure.


Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone, piercingly alone.


Only when we confess our confusion can we remember that he was a gift to us and we did have him.


He came to us from the creator, trailing creativity in abundance.


Despite the anguish, his life was sheathed in mother love, family love, and survived and did more than that.


He thrived with passion and compassion, humor and style. We had him whether we know who he was or did not know, he was ours and we were his.


We had him, beautiful, delighting our eyes.


His hat, aslant over his brow, and took a pose on his toes for all of us.


And we laughed and stomped our feet for him.


We were enchanted with his passion because he held nothing. He gave us all he had been given.


Today in Tokyo, beneath the Eiffel Tower, in Ghana's Black Star Square.


In Johannesburg and Pittsburgh, in Birmingham, Alabama, and Birmingham, England


We are missing Michael.


But we do know we had him, and we are the world.

Maya Angelou, July 2009

 

Lisa Bellear’s 50th Birthday

Today we celebrated the 50^th birthday of warrior woman and mighty poet, Lisa Bellear. Melbourne friends and family gathered for a bittersweet celebration of our friend, cousin, role model, mentor, advocate and artist.  Bitter because Lisa passed away without warning almost five years ago at age 45. Sweet because the occasion called for the telling of stories, the looking at photographs, the eating of favourite foods, the recitation of poetry and the playing of spoons.

The guest list was compiled from a quick whip around of friends from her hundred walks of life – poets, artists, activists, survivors, warriors, dancers, educators, writers, broadcasters, the babysat and the mentored.  A last minute do, but one that had been brewing amongst a group of us who think almost daily about Lisa. A graveside party was contemplated, but the distance was prohibitive. What then?  A do would certainly do.

All the elements were there. The tender lamb chops, bottles of Queen Adelaide, Dionne Warwick belting out Walk on By, poetry and poets, photographers and photographs. Even the barbecue played its part, erupting into a flaming urban campfire – Lisa’s pyromaniac spirit was saluted.

At first I wanted to read Maya Angelou’s tribute to Michael Jackson, We Had Him to kick off the poetry. Maya is a national treasure for good reason. A poet who can capture a mood, the feeling of a time and pot it. Just like Lisa. A poem which tells the loss of a star gone too soon, but lingers on the brilliance left behind.  I will post the full poem in a separate post in case the link above ever expires.

But as we started the readings, her book, Dreaming in Urban Areas (UQP, 1996) fell open at Tanna Man, and so we started with this. A fine beginning, one of connection, roots and a need for justice.

Tanna Man

(for Faith Bandler)

Cuts cane

As white men

With long slim noses

And whips

Curse him.

Faster “nigger” harder.

Each piece of cane he cuts

represents and islander from home,

kidnapped, black birded, stolen.

Mango trees echo vision,

Freedom, isn’t meant to be

a luxury for idle white boss men

To contemplate and dwell.

June 1993

The poem was met with cries of ‘Strong ay!’ and the crowd rallied to the call for more readings.

Brunswick poets read more poems and sister Kylie read  A Suitcase Full of Mould, one of Lisa’s most poignant, prophetic and painful.

Technology failed us on a few fronts as we tried to show a slideshow of photos of Lisa but we saw footage of her comedy routine from Natives Getting Funny!, and her cameos in Destiny Deacon’s video work.

But suddenly one of her writing buddies, Christine Gillespie, popped on screen and read one of the favourite poems, changing the words slightly from Koori woman, to Warrior Woman:

Chops ‘n’ Things

(for Eva Johnson)

I can’t wait to curl around

a lemon scented tree

light a fire and

watch it burn down to

the embers as the sun

floats away, far away

our ancestors are

yarning and laughing

at this Koori woman

and through the

flames, the embers

and the burnt chops

and charcoaled

potatoes wrapped in foil

they’re saying, tidda girl

you’re okay.

keep on dreaming

keep on believing

September 1991

The night ended in hilarity including ukulele renditions,  dancing and spoon playing but one of the highlights was definitely Ardy Tibby’s poem, written a year after Lisa’s death.

LISA

Quickly, and often late, she'd arrive

In a flurry of curls

With much clanking of equipment and

rummaging about

in an ever enlarging carry bag

Would plunk down in a heap with a glass

of plonk

To be reclaimed later.

Laughing and running about to photograph

everyone and everything.

Then a lift home,

Gone with a smile and a wave.

Then

GONE

June 2006

But between the dancing and drinking, uncontrollable fire and comedy routines, the fine dining and the fine words, it was like Lisa was there, and the spirits and ancestors were yarning and laughing too.

You Can't Change the Rhythm of My Soul

A couple of weeks back Archie Roach was our guest on ARTSUP! for the first time, although he'd been a regular on its predecessor, Not Another Koorie Show, especially in the mid 80's (presenter Lisa Bellear was a massive fan). He was with us talking about the forthcoming Bilyana Festival.  While chatting he brought up a great anecdote about touring with the Black Arm Band and when they visited London.

His friend Pete Postlethwaite, who he'd met through the project Lyarrn Nyarn performed a Welcome to Country for the touring artists. He'd experienced welcomes while in Australia and now he was returning the favour. The cultural exchange had come full circle and the act reminds us that the English were connected to Mother Earth somewhere back in time.

The London tour is captured in the documentary Murundak: Songs of Freedom and the potency of singing Songs of Freedom at the seat of Australia's colonial power is not lost on the touring company or the filmmakers. To illustrate this, they show the magnificent footage of Burnum Burnum claiming England in the name of all Aboriginal people of Australia. A classic moment in history.

Seeing Murundak: Songs of Freedom has reminded me of the privilege of hearing first hand the words and music of some of Australia's powerful songmen.  Experiencing the eloquence of artists like Joe Geia, Bart Willoughby, Peter Rotumah, Ruby Hunter and Archie Roach is something to be savoured. Sometimes we've heard them speak and sing so often, we forget their power.

Power to the filmmakers Natasha Gadd and Rhys Graham, who spent four years following the Black Arm Band around from concert halls to red neck towns to remote communities.  The gaze is very respectful in capturing the musicality, stage presence, performance and charisma of some of the most powerful songwriters under the sun. To hear the musicians' personal stories, how their expression has been shaped  and to see it brought to life with archival footage of the protest movement brings heart to the film.

To see footage of Brisbane protests while Joe Geia talks about how he was shaped by Bjelke-Petersen's Queensland reminds us of where we have come from and the vestiges that linger.

To be reminded of the legacy of the mighty warrior Bart Willoughby and to see footage from the seminal film Wrong Side of the Road reminds us of his lyrical and musical genius from the get go.

We have land within our soul, within our soul

To hear Archie and Ruby share their story of removal and living on the streets brings home the continued history of dispossession. To see their love for each other shining in their eyes reminds us of the power of love to conquer all.

Down city streets, I would roam, use my fingers as a comb

To hear Emma Donovan learn about the powerful Gurindji history by learning a song, and then bringing her own powerful voice and interpretation to the now classic ballad affirms the important tradition of storytelling.

Don't stop a good thing, yeah

To see Dan Sultan discard all his big city ways as he wraps his arms around his skin mother in Alice Springs kindles a new kind of respect.

It's how I make my connection

The film ends with a poignant reminder of the need for protest and songs of freedom. In the life of the project three of the artists have passed away. Arguably some of the most powerful Australian singers of all time. Certainly one for me, the Blak Mick Jagger, is at the top of my record pile.

And I feel I'm close now, to where it must be

To see and hear Steve Pigram talk about Bart Willoughby's songwriting - to try the song out in his mouth and savour it -announcing the opening line to We have Survived is the best line ever, we know it to be true. We've always known it's true, since the first moment we heard it. A beautiful moment in film, to see our heroes think like we do.

You can't change the rhythm of my soul

When we hear their songs, go to their gigs, dance in the moonlight (or at least the reflected glow of the stage lights at the pub), when their lyrics run through our bodies, we know our heroes think like we do.  And we need songs to galvanise us together, to rally behind, to know we are not alone, so we can continue to get out of bed every day, find strength and keep standing our ground.

40,000 years is a long long time. Long long time, still on my mind

 

On Turning Seventeen (in collaboration with mentioned Teenager)

This week the usual day to day objects - homework, moulding apricots, to-do notes and the bits and pieces one* never knows what to do with, were removed and the table was scrubbed and made ready for the traditional birthday table. A collection of missives from various Elder stateswomen were at the centre. Letters and cards, wise words and bon mots from Great Aunts, Grandmothers and others brought a sense of worth and belonging to the occasion. The neat, delicate and florid handwritings, next to stamps of Kookaburras and ‘Par Avion’, the carefully chosen words, that confirm connection and celebrate, remind us of our strong culture and history across continents.

These sat next to the heady scented roses from the yard, picked fresh that morning, which sat quietly next to a contented (and yummy) looking chocolate rabbit and other gifts.  The table was completed with a pot of tea and fresh pancakes served with strawberries and cream, lemon and maple syrup. Disconcertingly a birthday card from the Electoral Commission reminded The Teenager to enrol to vote. They’ve got her number already! Another rite of passage, or an alarming intrusion by Big Brother?

The rituals continued. The Numbawan Aunt rang and streamed Stevie Wonder’s Happy Birthday down the phone and we danced around until the dining room was Hotter than July. I recounted the oft** repeated story of how The Teenager was considerate enough to be born in time for me to watch Wheel of Fortune(bring back Burgo).

Technically The Teenager turn 17 at 5.07pm. The thought was relished. There was enough time to watch Sixteen Candles after school one last time before turning 17.  Pancakes were scoffed, a few were wrapped up for lunch and we headed out the door. (Later I was told pancakes, three hash brown and chocolate cakes were eaten for lunch. Not bad birthday fare, really).

Seventeen is so much cooler than sixteen. Sixteen has too many connotations of bad songs written by wrong old men.  Seventeen is not as hung up as sixteen. Sixteen has so much riding on it. So much pressure to be this or that. Sweet. Or not. While there are still dodgy songs Seventeen is more about settling in to your own skin. Seventeen rolls nicely off the tongue, even in German (Siebzehn). Sinuous but not serpentine. It has its own sense of self.

Not to say it’s been a straightforward birth and everything is settled. All this week tongues have raged and minds have clashed. Angst about who should do what and how and when. The pushing and pulling from dependence to independence. Looks quite neat on the page, but off its a ragged-edged wound that is constantly worried and requiring attention.

An Italian restaurant was chosen to reflect The Teenager’s wish for maturity (not the regular, with the favourite spaghetti de la Nonna that has served so well until now) and comes replete with an appearance by Mick Gatto much to the titillation of a self confessed ‘crime-slag’ Aunt. Goodbye childhood. A satiating meal of figs wrapped with prosciutto and gorgonzola, Coniglio, Scallopini, and Prosecco. Followed by an awesomely gooey chocolate cake baked fresh by another Aunt and covered with raspberries and served with ice-cream. Yum.

The birthday festival is rounded off by a chocolate tour of Melbourne’s laneways, graced with another celebrity spotting, some dude from Think You Can Dance. The Teenager, walks on, unfazed. Much the same reaction as elicited by Mick Gatto. See? Seventeen is cool.

Chocolate tour evidence

Birthday festival closing thoughts on being 17 from the source: ‘Whatever. It’s just one step closer to the grave’.  Not original, but much cooler than “OMG I’m totes in love with Edward Cullen!”***

* DISCLAIMER: The Teenager’s grammar, not mine

**DISCLAIMER: My choice of word, not The Teenager’s

***DISCLAIMER: This statement did not and never will pass the lips of The Teenager in question

Overgrown Gardens and Overworked Ancestors

Not sure where the energy came from but somehow I was moved to cut back the Bougainvillea which has frozen up the hills hoist. Underneath the green canopy is a thick tangle of dead brambles. I started in with the secateurs but had to resort to the lopping shears to make any progress.

As I hacked further in I started swinging the side of the shears into the tangle like an axe. I pushed aside Dad’s voice in my head nagging, “Use the right tools for the right job!” and got right into the swinging and hacking, lopping and clearing, breaking and crunching. I had the same sensation as the last time I cut the Bougainvillea back. How my ancestors did this kind of work day after day in the Queensland cane fields, after being blackbirded from Vanuatu. How there is a certain satisfaction to it. Cut away the dead wood. Cut it away. Cut it away. I’m reminded of Johnny Harding’s song, Cutting Cane, and the line, ‘keeps me sane’, and wonder, did it, day after day, after day?

South Sea Islanders in Queensland cane fields

I was relieved from this by a phone call from Mum, a rambling yarn about health, food, weddings and rabbits. Then it swung around to the comments of Ralph Regenvanu, the recently appointed Minister for Justice for Vanuatu and the call from Vanuatu for recognition of the contribution of South Sea Islanders to the Australian economy. How did I miss this? I do a quick google, and god forbid, even the Herald Sun has picked it up and run a pretty good story. Mum informs me his father Sethy Regenvanu, was in the Walter Lini government. We whip into activist mode, as is our want, post the article around the net, Mum’s helped write the media release for Australian South Sea Islanders Port Jackson, and da da, we are now both bloggers. 

I’m blown away by Ralph Regenvanu. He’s 40 years old and done everything under the sun. Lauded as ‘Vanuatu’s first anthropologist’, Director of the Vanuatu Cultural Centre, was arrested for harbouring and aiding prisoners while a member of Parliament (the charges were dropped), worked for UNESCO, championed the traditional economy and formed his own political party. Go for it brother! Power to your arm. Strength to your bow (and arrow).

Ralph Regenvanu

How inspiring to see people out there fighting the good fight. Why isn’t there more recognition of Australian Kanaks? Where are the programs and policies for the descendants outside of Queensland? How heartening to hear this call from Vanuatu. Government to Government. I feel heart strong.

I’ve been sleeping under a pile of brambles and someone’s cut through and shown me the sun.

Laef Blong Mi, From Village to Nation by Sethy Regenvanu