All posts tagged: death

How I climbed a small mountain, did something slightly ‘illegal’, & created the sacred

I chewed my quinoa and baked veg salad looking up at her; in 2 hours from now, it would start. After 16 years of no access, 500 locals had registered for ‘The Chinny Charge’, a 7km run/walk up our tiny but omnipresent Mount Chincogan, near Byron Bay. The queue to collect our numbers was long, and you could feel the buzz of excitement; even Colin, who won the first ever Chinny Charge in 1967 with a time of 38 minutes and a $20 bar tab prize, was enthusiastic (in that utterly laid-back, short-phrased Australian country way) “Stick to the rules, so we can hopefully do it again next year: wear shoes, don’t litter, stick to the path, and no fighting.” [Fighting? I’m going to be struggling just to breathe aren’t I? What exactly went on in the olde days round here??] Yup, I’m happy to agree to all that. The tiny mountain is on private property, so unless the landowners give specific permission (which they do a few times a year to local  school groups), …

Prepare to lie. Prepare to buy. Prepare to die. Part Three.

No one wants to die right? Unless you’re in intense pain, physical or psychological. We all know we’re going to die eventually, although a lot of time, effort and money go into denying that. I’m sure we all hope we die peacefully, in our sleep, in good health, aged over 90… Or the majority of us anyway. I turned 50 last year, as I’m sure many of you have too. There comes with this birthday a realization that I’m probably more than half way through my time on this earth, and certainly the most energetic, adventurous, undefeatable half. Now my back aches if I try to camp & sleep on the beach, plus I feel the burden of mortgages and school fees cramping my style if I get the urge to up and travel to South America on a whim for example. Oh how the freedoms and vitality of the youth is under-appreciated by them! Now that I’m half a century old, I’m pretty sure I’m never going to do many things I dreamt of …

Prose: phosphate of calcium- John Berger

I used to share an old wooden school house with two friends. My bedroom was the attic, and because we were all under 30 and single, there were countless noisy dinners, impromptu dance parties, and deep meaningful conversations from bath tub to kitchen (there was no door on either room). Because we were all under 30 and single, there was also a lot of lovin’ and romance. And because the house was very old, with thick wooden floorboards and rickety walls, chocked up on stumps to keep it out of flood waters, if any of us made love, the house would literally sway. Just a little, but enough to know. On a wall near my mattress on the floor, under the green cotton mosquito net, I had a handwritten copy of something I’d found while researching ideas for a dance piece. I’d stuck it up and taken it down as I’d moved from house to house, so it was stained and somewhat torn. But it hummed with possibility for me; I read it quietly sometimes …