Category Archives: #Melbourne

Change only ever happens forever

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Dusk is approaching in all its hues of greys and blues, tinged in the palest of peaches and apricot blooms. In the gloom is the speckling of orange blossoms that twinkle as the signifying promise of the new.

Wisping clouds and heavy snowfall swill over mountain peaks, for a merging of line and lust as dusk grows ever darker. A quiet deriding veils in to blowing winds that howl and wail. It’s the ominous warning of what’s to come.

In the dusking light, the dark looms in anxious wait, pondering how big the risk, how big the devastation and change it will ejaculate.

And from its miraging wait, it powers in, muscling in force of fear and dread of the unseen, a don’t-mess-with-me brash. It brings the formidable, the trembling and spinning. Snow squalls and fireball blizzards, lashing in pitting and pelting on the whim of the wind. Rain and hail and snow and ice, fire and spark, together they become the one gale of gusting force.

It’s here. Inescapable. Darkness void of any light, blinded in a flogging fog and smoking smog.

And yet in the dark, is where it happens; in the dark is where the greatest of us is born. Big and small, great and tall, it can linger fearful and bashful, or screech promiscuous in cockatiel call.

Any which way it comes, it comes for one and all.

Whether bumbling through the blurring of fire-balling winds, or hopping and skipping over rocks, embers and charred out remains littering ice and sleet, it comes with a taunt in gnarling roar over mountains spiked in slivering soar.

Over ravines and avalanches of ashen valleys, it comes unceremoniously, it comes blatantly broad.

In the dash of ill health or dire of loss, as a swoop and swing of the axe, a shatter of a broken heart, life drained to an end.

The crush, the smash, the raze of the driest of tinder box, it comes in blasts of blacks and blings, in shearing calamity. It’s the change that must come for any hint of the bloom of the new.

It’s always the way, always comes with a distress and pain, loss and dire bleak, a crushing despair.

But then, when breath seems lost and all is resigned to the helpless, in it comes, the pale lime green that springs to the new, of growth and awe of wow that distinguishes from the dead and dread.

From nothing, it comes. It’s a change that’s blinding and radiating, quivering and heartbreakingly so.

It comes in the glint of an eye, a cheeky wry, the smile that always warms.

It comes in the heart warming that halts the tear drop, catches it from falling to a nothing bed.

It comes in a spirit that can never be seen, until there is dread.

It comes as change. Towering, cataclysmic change, for transformation and rebirth.

There’s a poignancy that comes with it: an acceptance to ride with the bumps and never hold stiff, to relax into the slip and flow, ease into the darkness as life’s constant correction, where nothing and everything is one and the same.

All that is, is now. All that is, is hope in the dark.

All that exists is an instinct to live in a way that is living for each.

Breathe into it, a way will always be shown, even in the midst of nothing and nowhere, desolation, destruction and despair. A diffused light will guide the way.

It’s in that last moment of the darkness that comes the dawn of the new and it’s in the new that a nourishment grows beyond that can be understood in the dark.

That’s the lesson of the dark, to do and be, to feel the dread for the birth of the new.

Slide over the jagged and pitted and accept them as part of the passage to the new, hold steady in those gailing winds for that’s where that pale lime green will sprout again once the wind has blown through, and orange blossoms can anchor and grow for a new.

Deny that and deny the chance for a bounty and beauty of expression not experienced before. Trust that to happen. Have hope in the despair of change.

Slip into the darkness, trust in the diffused light guiding the way.

It will take time to regenerate, to ease into the new. No matter how daunting the mountain to climb or trying the loss, when all has been quashed to dull and null, change will inevitably come for the chance at the new.

Find the hope and courage in the change blazing through, for change only ever happens forever.

 

Farm Reflections: Gratitude

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It seems fitting that finishing off my PhD research should come with a last Farm Reflection. I only wrote a few over the three years of the research and perhaps should’ve written more, but this last reflection is a most important one.

A dear friend sent me this quote when I began my research and told me to stick it on my wall in my office, knowing what only a few knew at the time, of the turbulent change occurring in my life. And so I did, stuck it right above my computer monitor so I could see it daily, or at least every time I looked up.

Part of me dismissed the quote though, as being some new age saying. I believed that hard, tough change could never be gorgeous at the end. Change was happening all around me and I found it anything but gorgeous. But I did realise fairly quickly that part of the change I had to make was to loosen my noose of independence and stop believing I could do everything myself. I had always been the solver of problems and issues in my ‘other’ work, and I was a mother working inside and outside of the home. I knew nothing other than being Ms Independent.

Undertaking research meant I didn’t have answers: the whole point of research was to find them. It meant I had to ask questions, and ask people those questions to find those answers; that meant asking for their help.

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Interestingly and without realising, I’d put the quote beside another quote on my wall, about giving things a try. If ever I was being ‘told’, this was it: “Give it a try” whispered the heart. So with much effort, I began to ask the questions, and ask people to take time out of their day to help me. It was a tough mountain to climb.

Three years later, I have no idea how many people I have asked for help. Hundreds of people, I guess. And people have responded most generously, spending hours talking to me, sharing photos and other memorabilia, helping me to piece together the puzzle of the social history of the Metropolitan Sewerage Farm. My family and friends, supporting me to the finish, even when I had to disappear into a cave over the last six months to write up findings and finish by Christmas.

I’ve been able to write over 100 years of social history into a book and have enough material to write two more books at least. I don’t have any publishing details as yet, however I will share them when I do have them.

Even in the last weeks, after I finished my thesis and handed it in to the university for examination, people are still helping me to create a picture of the cricket team that formed on the Metropolitan Sewerage Farm in 1897, before the Metro Farm football team. Information on the cricket has been scarce until recently, but is now starting to form. It will most definitely feature in the second book.

The thing is, without the generosity of so many people giving their time and being patient to chat with me, even when I may have been a pest with a constant stream of questions and being pedantic with details, the work would not have been completed. It’s like there exists this band of pixie helpers who are invisible until I ask a question and then out they fly, from everywhere.

Generosity comes with kindness, and a willingness to help. The world can’t have enough of the stuff. Kindness and generosity are incredibly humbling too. I’ve often been blown away by people’s willingness to help and their patience and grace in doing so. It has inspired me to make the research count and that what is captured, is authentic and real. The harder I worked and the more questions I asked, the more obvious it became that documenting the social history of the Metropolitan Sewerage Farm was important to many.

The act of giving is so selfless, so sincere, warming and nourishing, and then to receive it …. it melts my heart, makes me gooey putty in anybody’s hands. Had I known this sooner, I would have learnt to ask for help a long time ago. In fact, if I could bottle it, I would. But I wouldn’t sell it. It’s too precious to sell. I’d give it away.

So, my public announcement here: my eternal and sincerest of most precious thanks to everyone connected to this research — the Metropolitan Sewerage Farm community, their families and friends; my university research team, family and friends; my special HDR writing group and fellow PhDers; organisations, the media, politicians, everyone involved that has supported me and the research, and who has an interest in the Metropolitan Sewerage Farm and its social history.

Thank you. Without you, we would not have captured a truly significant part of Melbourne’s history. We would not have been able to document the first social history of its kind of the community behind the making of one of Australia’s most important civic works projects in the 1890s and into the 1900s. And away from the Metropolitan Sewerage Farm, the work gives a new understanding of communities living isolated from broader society. The findings can be applied to any isolated community.

I’m most grateful for the time you’ve given me. It has been an honour working with you. You generosity and kindness has overwhelmed me at times, and inspired me.

I can vouch for change being hard and messy, but oh so, so gorgeous at the end.

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I should add that the two quotes sit next to another quote on my wall, about life being too short to not just go for it and never regretting anything that makes you smile. Life’s too short for regret. And we all want to be happy. Life is all a learning.

And so on that note, I’m taking a break to explore and hopefully see the northern lights in the arctic circle.

Happy new year and I hope 2020 flares exceptionally for you.

 

 

 

NOTES

These Farm Reflections come from a PhD research project investigating a community that grew after the Melbourne and Metropolitan Board of Works was founded in 1891 to treat Melbourne’s sewage at Werribee. As Melbourne grew, so did the work force to manage the treatment of the sewage, and a community of workers and their families grew to live on the Metropolitan Sewerage Farm. The population peaked to over 500 in the 1950s. The last family moved off the main part of the sewerage farm in 1984, while a few employees and their families lived on the boundary of the Metropolitan Sewerage Farm into the 1990s. However they lived as part of the main Werribee community.

The plant continues to treat Melbourne’s sewage and is now known as Melbourne Water’s Western Treatment Plant.

For more information on the research project, please visit https://www.facebook.com/MetropolitanSewerageFarm

If you’d like to read other Farm Reflections, they can be found here:

https://gr8word.com/index.php/entry/farm-reflections-the-hickeys

https://gr8word.com/index.php/entry/farm-reflections-beryl

https://gr8word.com/index.php/entry/farm-reflections-a-faraway-land

https://gr8word.com/index.php/entry/farm-reflections-the-migrant-camp

https://gr8word.com/index.php/entry/melbung-smellee-welly-high

https://gr8word.com/index.php/entry/lands-faraway

 

 

 

 

 

Slinking sea

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Twirling, swirling, spinning and furling … stretching for skies of deep sapphire that dazzle in a virtue only Mother Nature can perfect.

Higher and higher they rise above glowing jetty lights reflecting off soothing, rippling waters , bigger and brighter than sea stars dimpled in ambers and aquamarines with elongated arms of claret, some shorter and regenerating after being lost or damaged. They zap tendrils wisping sensuous, of the jelly fish and butterflies of the sea and eels slithering in tails of ruffled seaweed, longing for that pinnacle of spasmed peak.

Riding the lustre of a full moon, circling round and round until the luminous longing entwines. And grips.

Dance jellies, dance staries; pirouette into the flowing of the butterflies of the sea, slink into cerulean skies.

Flounders skate under the jetty and spring up into spears flashing in arc upon arc as shooting stars streaking light over dark. Banjo sharks, eels and flatheads too, pipis and oysters, the nebulous arms of the octopus … all in a shimmy of sky high.

Suddenly, curiously, from the joy and glee, she appears. Eyes of jet pierce from skin of caramel blended in the clay of earth and ash of the phoenix, a transcendence of ethereal beauty.

It’s her. Queen of the night, Queen of the Quantum. Dark in her shadows yet light in her essence, she is the radiant energy that magnetises, compels to be.

The lure is fierce. Locks. We embrace. We kiss in the flounce of delicate seaweed frills fluttering under a shower of salting sea, the carnival of confetti. The contrast of night and day unite as the yin and yang. We are we.

Eels electrify in zesting iridescence, illuminate in the jewelled transparencies of kelping sea tangle. They entwine with jellies and staries on the languishing limbs of the octopus and swirl into an entwine of water and sky. The interweave of bewitching encircles us in a lime-green filigree as the French lace of the sea.

We’re kyanized, into the heavens of being.

Spirit of Earth, Soul of Sea, a sea spray of yesterday.

Melbung smellee welly high

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It’s hard to imagine that almost 130 years ago, Melbourne in Australia was considered the smelliest city in the world when today, year after year, it’s voted the world’s most liveable city.

The Melbourne and Metropolitan Board of Works was established in 1891 to manage Melbourne’s sewage. Its crest bears the motto ‘salas mea publica merces’, meaning ‘public health is my reward’.

I think they call that transformation.

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How fine this grand Dame of cities is, my Melbourne town. Yet such a past has she, before the first sewage flows from the All England Eleven Hotel in Port Melbourne traversed pastures of graded green at the Metropolitan Farm in 1897.

Ten years earlier, mortality rates from diphtheria and typhoid in our fair Melbourne town numbered 86.3 for every 100,000 inhabitants, compared with 16 in London and 66 in Paris. The idea to establish a Royal Commission to inquire and report on Melbourne’s sanitary condition was indeed, a splendid one. It came at the eleventh-hour when our fair city was gripped by demonic disease.

Very soon after, in 1891, the authoritative and very official Melbourne and Metropolitan Board of Works was formed. Their business was to provide water supply, sewerage and sewage treatment for our fair city.

Until that time, this admired Queen City of the South had a rather unsavoury means for disposing sewage.

All liquid waste, one day to become known as liquid gold, was thrown into the streets to mix as free as those on the recline of debauchery at Madame Brussels in Bourke Street. My Melbourne town had ‘borne testimony to her evil reputation among travellers as one of the unhealthiest cities in the world,’ according to a journalist of the time.

We all saw it, couldn’t hide from it. Slums in Melbourne town as far back as the 1850s spored faster than mushrooms in an asexual orgy steeped in high humidity and moist damp. People lived in squalor, with no bathrooms or sewerage and in homes held together on scant thread. Rooves leaked and drafts blew through holes in walls. People crammed in close and often shared beds. There was little room to hang laundered washing out to dry and keeping it clean was nigh impossible.

slumsStrolling through streets and children playing outdoors meant an Irish jig within a cesspool of urine, night soil, kitchen and bath water, soap suds from washing clothes, drainage from stables and cow sheds, liquids from trades and manufacturers, and water running off rooves and overland. All would meet in open street channels made from stone, often running into earthen ditches as sluggish glob or collecting in pools that would flood and overflow in rain, giving it free reign to meander into waterways.

‘Tis no wonder typhoid and diphtheria proliferated. No adult or child was safe, even when many claimed it was purely in the slums.

‘Twas an inclement falsity. From mine church cometh my dark demise.

 

Riverine Grazier, Friday 15 February 1889

MARVELLOUS SMELLBOURNE.

[by an original in the Adelaide Observer]

“Those who know say that Port Said is the champion filthy city of the universe. If we are to believe Mr Cosmo Newbury, Melbourne, which claims to be ‘the Queen City of the South,’ is in a fair way to thrust Port Said from that eminence” – Register.

“Bill,’ said I to my erratic Friend, who’s travelled just a bit,

“Name the strongest aromatic City you have ever hit.”

Then he bowed his head in silence, And a study that was brown,

And – when out of reach of violence – Said “I name your Melbourne town!”

“William,” said I, “thou art witty with the music of thy mouth!

Knowest thou that glorious city is the Queen of all the South?”

“Yes,” he answered; “well I know it! Heard it till mine ears do ache;

And, believe me, gentle poet Still in this she takes the cake!”

Then I asked a chewing Yankee, Lantern-jawed and most uncouth,

One of that cadaverous lanky Sort who always tells the truth.

Wal, Siree, he kinder reckoned Melbourne’s people like to blow,

So he’d mark her down as second, Just to give Port Said a show.

Then I asked a dark Egyptian, Who had sojourned in the East,

Answering the true description Swathed in linen like a priest;

Rarer far, he said, and rankers than others Melbourne’s ware

Ah, she had a lot to thank her stars for in the way of air!

Then a frugal child of China for an answer I cajole –

One of those who can combine a head and tail upon one poll;

One who’d found a way of making both ends meet.

To him I cry –

And he says, with laughter shaking –

“Melbung smellee welly high!”

Then said I, the fates are in it! When will Melbourne’s honours stop?

Others have no chance to win it, For she always comes out top!

Energy? She’d do without it! And ascribes it not to pluck!

This it is, and do not doubt it – Melbourne’s wonderful for luck!

 

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