There’s a lemon verbena tree cocooned between brick walls in the courtyard of the Hunt Club. Last month, it extended its branches to carry the regrets of numerous people who anonymously wrote the things they wish they had of said on red ribbons. I thought it would be easy to let go, to translate ink into the unsaid words that have curdled with years but every ribbon felt like I was hanging my guts. But as other people hung their words and the ribbons increased, so did my courage. “I picked on you coz I was afraid to see me.” “I didn’t know how to love you back then.” “I’m sorry I swallowed your words with mine,” and other regrets decorated the branches of a tree that Uruguayans consider to be one of healing. Now, weeks later, the words that have haunted us with their silence have faded under the sun. So has the year. 2011 was anxious. The year my nerves jittered and strained under the weight of my sister’s wedding gown. The year I travelled the seas, found my writing a home at the Hunt Club, completed a draft of my second YA novel, battled my thoughts and learned how to still them. The year when death gave birth to love.

2011 was the year of change.

I’ve learnt to accept and not resist it. After all, change and love are the only constants.

Here’s to a lighter 2012 with less turbulence, good health, happiness and success. Happy new year!

they scald your mouth

burn

the tip of your tongue

and you swallow your words

with mine

We sat in a white room, nothing fancy, and it perched near a cloud that drifted at the speed of our family car.

“God,” I said, “please tell me what’s going to happen when I grow up?” Would the shrub of curls on my head grow longer? Would I have two children or three? Would I be pretty?

God sat quietly on his throne, his features blurred.

“Please?” I clasped my hands together in desperation, trying to coax the glittering future out of him. “I really want to know.”

“I will tell you,” God said, chuckling. “But what’s the point? You’re going to forget it the minute you get out of this room.”

“That’s okay, still tell me please!” You see I was going to trick God by retaining clues. A few words that would act as signposts, a feature of my future husband, an image of long locks. I was devising ways to recognise the clues when the wail of a Turkish folk song plonked me back into the scorching car. The room disappeared behind a cloud with my prophecy.

It’s been twenty-three years since then and I’ve tried relentlessly to get back into that room. I acquired a taste for Turkish coffee and learned the murky language of the coffee cup. Fish, seahorses, giraffes, kangaroos delivered auspicious messages from above regarding my future. ‘See the bird’s beak? Yes, the good news you’ve been waiting for is nearly at your door step!’ When the brown symbols blurred, the birds froze midflight and these conversations became a repetitive mantra, oracles took over. Fairies, angels, the Major Arcana encouraged me to follow my dream to become a writer, to travel, to apply for that course.

But my impatience to know, that eager need to fill in the unknown with the promising contents of the future grew along with my hair.

I wanted evidence. I wanted another rendezvous in that white room.

It wasn’t until I took a day trip to Sydney’s Red Gum Forest to attend my first alternative lifestyle festival that God showed up. I was slightly overdressed for the occasion. A black maxi dress, black suede flats, a grey tie up jacket on a drizzling day in the wilderness. Tents were set up randomly providing reiki and other healing practices. People were walking around barefoot, others sat in groups near their tents. This was no picnic. I followed the scent of burning wood, fighting off the leeches that were sucking my ankles and found myself at a tantric workshop. I was assigned a partner. I was ready to run.

“Stand a hand’s length away from your partner and close your eyes,” said the facilitator. “Do not touch them. Today we are working with each other’s energy.”

Ahem, right.

I took off my shoes, scouting for leeches. Confident that they couldn’t possibly crawl onto the tarp, I closed my eyes, raised my hands in front of me palms up, waved them slowly, careful not to poke my partner’s face.

“Take deep breaths,” said the facilitator. “Take note of your breathing, feel the ground underneath your feet.”

Ah. Yep. Okay, the ground full of leeches.

“You may feel a tingle in your hands…”

Someone was playing the flute and it had started to rain.

I focused on my palms, on the facilitator’s soothing voice until my thoughts drowned in the enchanting melody of the flute. I waved my hands up and down, over my partner’s torso, his face and they felt warmer and warmer. I took careful steps, circled my partner in a blind dance.

Until my right hand was burning.

I froze, still sceptical about this energy realm. I pried my eyes open to see the cause of the heat and there a few centimetres away from my right palm was his heart.

And in that moment, that presence, I felt God on solid ground.

And I didn’t have a single question. On a grey day in the NSW wilderness I found my answer. I’d been so busy chasing the future that I was chasing away the present. I was so engrossed in wanting to know, to grow up, get my writing published, “start” my career that I was living in the shadow of a future. I didn’t realise that the future was being created with each moment.

So I stopped searching.

And today I have conversations with god without words.

Like an unannounced visitor it arrives on your doorstep. No time to clean the dishes that have cluttered the benchtop, no time to tame the frizz jutting out like antennas. You refuse to open the door, lock it for good measure but change helps itself in through the kitchen window. It settles in your lounge, smiles at the framed moments lining the walls, looks out of place on your favourite leather couch.

Your palms sweat, stomach churns with nerves and hunger. You force a smile like a good host when all you want to do is grab its lanky arm and throw it out. You make small talk to ease your fear.

“Would you like a drink?” you say, voice shaky.

“No thank you. You could use one.”

You find Change’s arrogance more unnerving than its stern voice.

“What do you want then?”

“There’s plenty of time to figure it out.” Change stretches its legs, knocks the ten-year-old vase off the coffee table.

You stare at the scattered glass.

“Oops,” says change, holding its hands up.

A whimpering escapes your mouth as you try to pick up the pieces while Change gets comfortable on your couch.

With no reservations.

This book delivers “The Secret” of life in a smelly, unjust, chaotic package laced with little miracles.

You become a part of the tapestry as four characters stitch their fates together in a desperate India in the midst of political unrest.

Read it with your mind and eyes wide open…and a strong heart.

Yes we are many, but how are we one?

What makes us Australian?

I want to capture the voices of our nation, the nitty gritty, the polished, the broken, the loud, the proud, the silent. I want to rummage through the cracks in our society to see what makes us stick.

While multiculturalism is the heart of our nation, ignorance is our downfall. We need to communicate without the help of sensationalist media or the labels that pepper our society. Only then can we integrate. It’s time to break the silence, to write these stories, capture the faces, to bridge the gap and see what an Australian looks like.

It’s time to find a collective identity beyond hot pies and footy.

Who knows, maybe our difference is the very thing that binds us.

I’m going to find out.

Who’s with me?

Is nothing but a pain in the arse.

Full of history.

Who cares if some guy with a tin head roamed the bush, saved the day. What’s that gonna change now?

And what’s with Pythagoras and his theory. Doesn’t make sense.

Let me tell you what does.

History is what happens to blokes at school who like to take it up the arse. Tin armour can’t protect them.

Wogs multiply and are taking over school.

English is everyone’s second language. Just listen.

You want discussion questions?

Are Asians wogs?

What do Aussies look like?

What am I?

12 Noon Cab Ride

I hop in the back.

The taxi smells like breath when it’s starving.

Maybe he’s one of them people that fasts.

“I’m going to Coburg. Pitt Street.” I place the cake on my lap. Her favourite.

“I know Corburg. Is my area,” says the cabbie. He’s got a hat that looks like a beehive on his head.

I don’t care. “I’m in a hurry.” I stare at the meter. If I had a job that turned cents into dollars that quick I’d be laughing.

She’ll be okay. Once I get home.

I’ll make it. Just.

“You ditch school, huh?” He eyes my uniform. His eyes dart from side to side in the rear view mirror, like them ping-pong balls.

Is this guy for real?

He taps the steering wheel, his hand big and brown.

Like mine. Almost.

Except his are cracked like them drought areas they show on the news. We could be related.

Hope not.

“I ask no more questions to you,” he says.

But can’t know for sure with my mysterious genes. “You reckon you can go faster?”

He nods. The beehive moves. “Ah,” he says, his eyebrows creasing his forehead. “You meeting girl.”

“Hmm…yeah.” Like I’d ever see a chick in this uniform. It’s green. Does me no favours. I look like an asparagus, tall and lanky, rough on top. “Can you drive faster?”

He hits the gas for a few seconds. “I tell something to you. I have wife I love. But this job I meet many people. Many woman. Sometimes devil tempt me. You know?”

This guy is shitting me.

“You know?”

Na, the devil doesn’t do it for me. Tight jeans and the right arse does.

“Okay, I ask no more questions.”

Like he’s offended.

Pascoe Vale Road rushes past the window. Boys with caps crowd Broady Station. Wog boys who think they’re ‘sick’. Yeah, they are. ‘Sick’ from being stupid. Boys with porcupine hair eye each other. Boys that can’t share Broady.

The cabbie gargles words.

Gotta get home before she does.

I nearly forgot.

Nearly.

I’m a great package.

Oh yeah.

Wrapped in brown cellophane.

Feet flat like slugs.

A real turn on.

Beasts                                                                                               

When people see me and Ma I know what they think. How can a beauty like her make a beast like me. I don’t blame them. I’m ugly. The guy people look twice at to gawk at my long chin. It juts out like them chillies they serve at Mexicano restaurants. That’s what happens when your father’s The Flash. You get stuck with random genes.  

Not Ma’s beautiful ones.

Nah.

I got a nose that belongs to Pinocchio. Black eyes like them olives Ma likes. I was made with raging hormones and alcohol in a bar. I’m thinking a dark corner. Music, beer, strangers bumping.

Pumping.  

Ready in a minute.

Point is, it ain’t Ma’s fault my features are sharp, jagged like them villains you see in cartoons.

It’s his.   

Whoever he is.

There must’ve been something about him that Ma liked. Even for a few minutes. 

Before he disappeared.

Obviously not his looks.

I couldn’t give a shit if he had personality or charisma.

It’s good looks that’s important. Not humour, not character. It’s the body, the physical package. And how you use it.

Coz in this world beauties get anything they want.

And beasts?

We get shit.

Lesson #1

Ma’s face is scrunched up like a bulldog.

Her forehead wet with fear.

“Phillip! Do not overtake the car! Do you hear me! Slow down!”

The L plate in the back shakes.

Like my insides.

Ma holds the dashboard, bones stretch her skin.

“Slow down, Phillip!”

Blind spot.

Check.

Sorry, Ma.

“If you overtake this car, Phillip, we’re having two movie nights this week!” Her fingers a big V in the air.

I hit the brakes.

Time for professional lessons.

My mind

Sixteen sucks girls fart and bleed they’re hot like Ma but not all there looks mean shit but the world says no not another damn movie night must get out must find a way to ditch Ma Hollywood and popcorn no more find a job Ma says I can’t remember when but he’s gone and here I am

My mind’s a cell for words that zoom at 100 kms an hour.

ID

The name’s Phillip. I look like one, sharp nose and all. It’s an ugly name that should be locked up in Buckingham Palace reserved for the royals. Where it belongs.

My uncle posed for a photograph in front of the tinted glass windows, looking smart in his tight brown pants and thick Turkish moustache. His smile was big, his back straight, eyes gleamed with expectation and hope. Australia was just like the glossy brochures had promised at the Turkish employment agency. This country even welcomed them with a band!

They settled on a park bench and listened to the foreign music that celebrated the opening of Melbourne Airport. But their ears were ringing with promises of a stable future without hunger drilling holes into their children’s stomachs and the desperation that marred the faces of so many in Adana, Turkey. In a few years, my uncle will bring his parents and five brothers and sisters to share in the riches of this country, to pick its fruit, to cook its food, to wipe its floors, to make its rope. This way, smiles will crease their faces, not hopelessness and my fourteen-year- old father will learn the intricacies of ropes and knots.

The rusted metallic sign at the entrance of Centre Place offers an eerie welcome to a gloomy lane full of contrasts. Once you walk down the narrow path, past the cafes reeking of coffee, the pretty boutique stores, the metallic apartment balconies, it’s hard not to be awed by the diversity cramped in such a small space. Centre place is pretty, it’s warm, it’s gothic with charcoal walls. But once you reach the adjoining lane at the end, Centre Place explodes with colour. The lane’s gloominess is swallowed by green, orange, pink graffiti that cover walls and garbage bins. Orange milk crates are scattered around like marbles providing businessmen and women a place to rest at lunch. Here, image is a mess of colours and pictures on a backstreet wall. We’ve reached the “the heart of the city” as the graffiti dictates near a giant green fist. But look carefully because it’s easy to miss. It’s there on the opposite wall near the entrance of Centre Place Arcade, the heart on a black door. “Le Sacre Coeur,” the Sacred Heart was made for Melbourne architect Paula Birch by jeweller boyfriend Kane Greenhatch. Kane created 12 clues, gave Paula a key and sent her on a hunt around the streets of Melbourne that eventually lead her to this heart fixed among graffiti, colour and peeling posters.

An orchestral revolutionary concerto suit in 12 movements, darling, my opus to you. I have raised my hands to conduct. Keep close the key or the many doors will not open. With this message, Kane launched Paula into a two week hunt for the Sacred Heart. “When Paula moved to Melbourne she felt like she didn’t belong so I created a place for her,” Kane said, as we cramped around a small table opposite the heart. “This is her place.” I settled on the creaky stool near a garbage bin, awed by his gesture. This lane with its eccentric shops and groovy cafes was more than a canvas for street artists, it whispered stories.  Embedded on the wall near words of peace, balance and harmony is a door cementing a place for a friend and lover. “It’s a beautiful symbol of love and hope,” I said, nodding towards the heart. I fiddled with the clues I’d found online at Paula Birch’s website and was itching to decode them, to follow them around Melbourne the way she had a year and a half ago. The first clue led Paula to South Melbourne. Clarke and York Streets…Keys to lock things in, keys to lock things out. There Paula found a locked cupboard door. Her task was to find the screwdriver and take the door to Mario’s Cafe on Brunswick St Fitzroy. You and your door have a booking at the front bar. You must order a drink. You must leave the door behind you. Leave the key in the lock. Be exactly who you are and all the painted veils you will always see through. This is movement number two.

The lunchtime crowd rushed past, and a girl settled in a shabby archway near Centre Place Arcade. Kane’s sixth clue transported me to Toorak Road where Paula had to pick up onyx, silver, ivory, gold and diamond hearts from a jewellery shop and put them in a vial. Find the shop and the total weight of these hearts you must. Sometimes the most precious things we have we cannot hold or see. Movement number seven this shall be. From glamorous Toorak Road to grungy Brunswick Street, Kane enveloped the city with his love. When Paula finally got to the Sacred Heart and opened the door, she found a silver chain with a container for the vial of hearts. Carry safe my hearts and key was Kane’s concluding line. “It’s so romantic and creative,” I mumbled, taking notes, “so rare these days.” Kane shifted in his seat, sipped his beer. “No it’s not,” he said, “it’s a tragedy. We’re not together anymore.” Oh. Just as quickly as they’d arrived, the love hearts that were colouring this lane scattered like confetti. The gloom returned like a dark fog. Kane’s smile was thin and heavy with emotion. “I’m sorry,” I said, eyeballing the heart. I was no longer tracking a love story in a Melbourne laneway; I’d trespassed onto someone’s heartache and disappointment. I was so seduced by the Sacred Heart that I didn’t stop to think that hearts can break.

An awkward silence muted the noisy lane. Centre Place kept shifting. A part of me was pissed off. I felt cheated. I looked around, at the worn typewriter keys stuck haphazardly above the bin, at the cartoon of men parachuting down the walls, at the political propaganda staining the lane, at the painting of an Asian girl nuzzling a boy’s cheek. Centre Place was not the perfect setting for a love story. It was rough, it was ratty, and it was real. Just like the Sacred Heart. Kane looked at the door, shook his head.  “They vandalise it sometimes.” His hands curled around the beer bottle. “But we fix it up with paint and nail polish.” I smiled at these words. The surface of the heart was not smooth, it was patchy with maintenance. “We both still have a key,” he said, with a hint of a smile. “We leave random gifts for each other sometimes.” And once again, Centre Place flooded with hope. Faith crept beyond the cracked walls and peeling paint to bind two people together. This tattered heart wasn’t sacred for its shiny surface but for its courage. Here’s a heart that wasn’t afraid to see beyond the flaws, to take a risk, to have the guts to explore love and nurture it.  

When I left Centre Place it was with a little more courage. Here’s a lane where risks are taken with the stroke of a brush, with words, with pictures, with open hearts. Centre Place is gritty, stinky, and beautiful. It’s dark, it’s light, and it’s grey with untold stories. I uncovered the Sacred Heart, and in a way, it uncovered me.