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Wishes - Dreams - Memories


Gloria Jean's Coffees

I stepped down from the 422 bus in January 2006 onto the pavement in front of Gloria Jean’s Coffees, as a light drizzle of rain danced on King Street, Newtown. I walked past the row of metal chairs and tables on the street for patrons who wish to smoke and sit with their pets. The interior of this American-style coffee house has that of a Parisian atmosphere, mixed with the non-matching clutter of retro furniture. A large painting, resembling a chalkboard with a stretched feminine face drinking coffee, is on the wall of stripped bricks.

I stepped aside to let a young deathly pale woman float past me dressed in a black corset with a flowing black crepe dress. This Goth woman was leading a small silky-haired terrier dog wearing a smaller version of the corset. I was sorry I did not have a camera in my possession as this moment was one I wished to capture for infinity. The population of Newtown consists of a bizarre mix of individuals including myself which is why I choose to live here. I then noticed Anthony, my friend, sitting in the middle of Gloria Jean’s Coffee sipping a light Latte, engrossed in reading a scientific magazine.

“I sensed it was you”, said Anthony as he continued to read an article on solar panels.

I sat down on the armchair opposite him, “How is life treating you on the whole”, I asked somewhat guardedly. There appeared to be no response to my question.

Irritated, I decided to go and view the delicious, examples of cakes and fruit breads; which can make for a difficult choice. I decided on my order consisting of a light French vanilla slice and a large strawberries and cream drink. Rony who was also the Master Franchisee took my money and attended to matter of blending my drink and adding extra whipped cream. The French vanilla slice was also served with three swirls of whipped cream.

“I must congratulate you on getting a place at UTS” said Rony with great pride

I was surprised as I had not informed him of this fact.

I should not be so surprised, as he showed me a great kindness when I had a very bad fall as a result of being pushed down the stairs by a Chinese male relative near the Sydney Opera House last year. Rony supplied me with more than ample supply of ice to stem the haemorrhaging of my bruises on my left knee and leg. I had been expecting a new black bar refrigerator to be delivered the next day and I had defrosted the old one which was way past its use by date.

I collected my order and sat down opposite Anthony.

“I would like to show you my text message from Janet”, said Anthony, with an anxious tone in his voice.

I read a request that he should make her pregnant and sought an explanation from him.

Anthony said, somewhat sheepishly, “Janet is frightened that time was running out for her to have a baby”.

I had the impression of Anthony putting himself forward as an item of interest in an auction catalogue waiting for the highest bid to unfold. My reaction was somewhat hostile as I said, to his astonishment, “I believe this is too much information.”

I could almost hear the ticking of Janet’s biological clock and how it would be the downfall of my friend Anthony. “You are adult enough to make your own decisions in regard to what you want from life”, I remarked somewhat coldly.

I stood up slowly and walked outside to escape into the day which had turned very dark. On reflection, I realise that Anthony was trying to push the boundaries of our friendship into a more personal domain. He will learn as time passes that I will always love another man from my past life in the twentieth century. The rain pelted down in sheets of damp despair on a day I could well do without.

The Sydney Opera House



The Sydney Opera House’s design consists of white ceramic tiles covering the concrete shell-like roof of sails, attached to granite-faced-platform-styled building on the foreshore. The conceptual image of a ship in full sail complements the starkness of public promenades against the ever-changing shades of the rippling seawater of Sydney Harbour. The old sea walls create a buffer against the stringing seaspray as the wharf next to the Sydney Opera House moves with the comforting motion of the waves. The lush greenery of the garden landscape of Bennelong Ridge counters the steel-gray shape of the Harbour Bridge in the overly bright hues of the sky. Circular Quay appears like an outdated shabby structure not quite blending in with the Sydney Opera House’s modern statement of an architectural masterpiece transcending both the twentieth and the twenty-first centuries.

Everyone has a place, be it the land, the ocean, a childhood memory or a family house steeped in ancestral history with the skeletons dancing in the ballroom. There is also my heart-space where my mirror image will be truly loved within the divine embrace of infinity8. The Savilles’ were seafaring people and as such the sense of place was the ocean and the spirit of self was within the worship of the Supreme Sun God RA. My late mother’s personal sense of place was the murky waters of the Sydney Harbour forever changing into so many different hues of green/blue emotions and her spirit of self was embodied within the performing spaces of the Sydney Opera House. Therefore, my mother’s wish to be cremated into white-hot ashes will ensure the cleansing of the soul for one of the divine bloodline of RA. This last act was the final expression of respect for this disciple of RA shredding her skin of mortality within the welcoming embrace of the burning red/purple feathers of the divine phoenix the heart-soul of RA.

Every year on the anniversary of my mother’s death on the 11th of April the month of the Divine Phoenix I will cast eight sunflowers of mourning into the seawater of the Sydney Harbour to recall the senses of respect for a mother who gave me life. The sea-salt-kissed breeze whispers the Prayer of Allah written by my mother’s father William Somerset Maugham the master story-teller of the twentieth century. My only regret I have is that my mother’s first husband the Admiral is never there to pay his respects to his woman. I know that the bitter/sweet sensations of the loss of my mother will always burn for infinity within his Jewish blood. My mother sacrificed too much on my behalf to protect me from the relatives who wish to harm her daughter considered being a genetic mistake. A Spanish princess introduced this curse of this extremely rare form of haemophilia into the families’ blood too long ago. There is a Spanish proverb that says "To live in fear, is to live half a life," which has always been the case for me in the twentieth and the twenty-first century. One day if RA is willing, I will slip from behind my mask of the phoenix to reveal my true self to the man dearest to my heart, my beloved pearl dragon.

I recall the day of my overwhelming grief in 2000 concerning the scattering of my mother’s ashes into the morbid reflections of Sydney Harbour’s seawater in this place deemed to be so special and spiritual because of the sea-faring nature of the Savilles’. There is also an interconnecting relationship with the Aborigines of the Kimberley whose religious beliefs ties and empowers their identity with the spirits of the ‘Yorro Yorro’ the Ancient Gods of Creation of the Wandjina region of Western Australia. The sense of place and the spirit of self are recorded through the love of the land connecting with the sacred laws, customs and culture older than time. The rock art can be interpreted on so many levels so as to enlighten or confuse the narrative attached to each piece dating back to a time so far back. There will always be the sense of place and spirit of self within the memories of the ancient narratives recorded by the Aboriginal story-teller David Mowaljarlai concerning his book Yorro Yorro: everything standing up alive: spirit of the Kimberley. Religion will always be interpreted in different ways depending on the race of people worshiping but there will always be a Creator God mentioned somewhere in the equation.