Wednesday, February 3, 2016
Shebar, a good friend, who first introduced me to such things as blogging said some time ago as she watched my words dwindle in this public space, Joan, write about aging, write about your life there in Melbourne, there in that other place. I live with contradictions of beauty and sadness, with sunlight so bright it must be hidden from, from bush beauty that I have come to know--sharp, fractured, compelling it is grip on arid soil, small orchids pushing their anthems of color through the coarse grasses. My knowledge that this is country that belongs to living others, as America does as well, but that is a reality kept more hidden in my old country as least in the territories in which I lived, the urban canyons of the Northeast. The contradictions, my having been able to live in two places, while so many others are imprisoned behind walls or on small impoverished islands for wanting to live, really live, in just one promising place. At 75, I have not found peace or the wisdoms usually spoken about--I live with contradictions and the need for dire political action, with the need for interventions to stop State brutalities, with the need to be in the streets, with the need to take a nap.