SOLITARY CONFINEMENT

SOLITARY CONFINEMENT.                                                             VGow  20/04/12

Catch the train from Florence to Certaldo. In just under an hour this pleasant ride meanders through the pencil pined countryside of Italy. The symbol of the town is the onion. Onion shields present themselves on the walls of all the major buildings of the town. There is a handsome onion symbol at the entrance of the station. Out from that bleak station where morbidity hangs in the air, walk on and find a funicular. This cable car will take you up to the hilltop where the old, walled, medieval Tuscany town stands testimony to the vicissitudes of time.  Take care to search for a story.

Famous for growing the best purple onions in Italy this town was the home of Giovanni Boccaccio, the 14^th Century author of the Decameron. This is an epic story of 100 tales told in the vernacular to amuse the Florentines of the Renaissance period. The Decameron tells of ten people staying in a villa to escape the plague. Over ten days they tell ten stories based on certain themes, love lost, trickery, intrigue, some are the retelling of oral traditions. Most read like some back street gossip to stir up trouble or to give rise to scandal. The many layers of story are like peeling the onion.

Long ago Etruscans hid coins from ancient Lydia in the folds of the stone foundations of this place. The land between the Arno and the Tiber River held their stone temples and statues. Here they practised irrigation and their kings were perhaps the first Kings of Rome.700 years Before the Common Era. They also held storytelling sessions around campfires. Their seers read the future in dismembered entrails of sacrificial animals. The entrails were a powerful source of omens. Seers could tell a story of good fortune or bring down a curse that would smother the land and its people for years to come. It all depended on the rings that formed when the entrails were swished around and let settle in shape of sliced onion rings.

Romans mixed marriage with those of the elder race, languages blurred and time layered the land with a Common Era.  Florence became a Princely state and man decreed a Baron to rule over the onion lands. Hunts took place in the hills surrounding the hilltop town A great castle overlooked the forests. Barons grew rich on copper and iron trade. Agriculture was ample and the people well fed. The mighty purple onion spread its rings over the general population. Stories were told in praise of its magnificent onion soup.

Some say that Boccaccio danced with ancient seers on moonlit nights in the woods. Some say this is where he found his muse. Certainly, Boccaccio made fun of nobles and church in his tales, but he was protected by high birth from despoilment. However, his cohorts would be punished instead. Boccaccio would lose his muse. He could be made solitary by taking away the people who reveled in his playmaking and he would be confined to his own company. Humble seers were rounded up and deposited underground in dank dungeons in the castle on top of the hill town.  They were placed in solitary confinement, where they could not alter the success of the town.

Imprisoned by the Baron, who was the butt of one of Boccaccio’s tales, was a beautiful girl of fifteen. Her father was an onion grower of a quiet nature. The Baron desired her but she was promised to another.  She was of the elder race, and her eyes had a seer quality. The Baron did not stand for any refusal. Summonsing her father and mother, he drew his sword and quickly dispatched them.  The Baron then made short work of the promised youth, too. He threw the girl into solitary confinement.

Being below ground she crawled around in her cell, until her hand found a chink in the crumbling stonewall. Something was embedded into the wall. It was an old coin from Lydia. Often the story had been told around the fires at night of the power of a wish one would have on the finding of such a coin.  She rubbed the coin and it glowed.

Catch the train from Florence to Certaldo, ride the funicular up to the hilltop castle. Slip a lira into the hands of the caretaker. He will undo the lock, allow you to go down, under the ground where the cells for solitary confinement stand mute in their walled misery. There find the old storyteller fingering an ancient coin attached to a dulled gold chain around her throat.  Ask her to reveal the aonions grow over these hillsides of Tuscany.

LAUGHTER

LAUGHTER                                          Virginia Gow 10/04/12

Sydney, Australia, is blessed with a temperate climate all year round. This allows its citizens to work and play in wonderful weather. In the winter month of June the city hosts a Vivid Festival of urban light design, music and drama. Amazing light shows of moving visions shimmer across the city’s iconic buildings. All of these treats play out along the foreshores of a harbour of sparkling beauty. They beckon the traveler from near and far to come and enjoy this feast of colour.

Opera House sails soar with multi-coloured transparent draperies of artistic patterns beamed from laser projectiles. Stately churches light moving film frescos of waterfalls whilst people skate on a man made rink below. The Sydney Town Hall is endowed with moving creations of angels whilst office blocks at Circular Quay play host to paisley prints.  

Amid the programs of interest is a workshop on Laughter. A cosmic comic musician, Laaragi, offers two hours of “Meditation and Laughter”. He is reported to be a global musician of ambient music and as such a welcomed addition to the Vivid Festival.  Traveling around the world, this Afro American spends his life laughing.

Ginny receives a gift in the mail from her friend, Ulli. It is a ticket to attend the Laughter workshop by Laaragi. Ulli informs her that she met up with Laaragi at Venice Beach, California, years ago. Ulli requested that Ginny introduce herself to him after the workshop. With a lightness of heart, Ginny embarks on her laughter journey.

Nearly 40 years ago Jorn Utzon’s schematic design was chosen over 200 other international designs as the concept for the building of the Sydney Opera House. The geometrics for its curved sails caused great worry, not laughter, when this building was constructed. Utzon was dismissed as architect and left Australia’s shores vowing never to return. This was no laughing matter. Years later he was honoured with an architectural award for his design of the Sydney Opera House.

The Utzon Room is the venue for the Laughter and Meditation workshop. Massive concrete structural beams reflect the window light from floor to ceiling. An easterly view of Sydney Harbour allows for wonder. Natural timbers warm to the sounds of laughter as around one hundred people sit or stand around a figure on a raised platform.

Laaragi is dressed in bright orange corduroy trousers. His feet are encased in orange sneakers with lime green laces. Over an orange shirt he wears a waistcoat of sequenced purple satin. The golden sequences reflect and dazzle the eyes as they catch the light beaming in from outside. He rings a bell, strikes a gong, and plays on a jaw harp. He dances and twirls for his audience. Throwing his head back, he roars with laughter.

Different sounds of laughter are presented to the group. From the soft chuckle, the silly giggle, the madman lilt, the joyful sound, the polite ‘time to laugh in chorus’, the hunter’s sneering cackle, the knowing HA HA, the smiling laugh, the spontaneous rattle, to the full belly roll thunder, Laaragi gives each type of laugh a name and a number. He calls upon his converts to answer when a number is called and the room is alive with laughter sounds until tears run from eyes and some people run for the door. A litany of sound assails the ears and all reason is reduced to tatters. Time is immaterial. Faces display clown features, the plain is made beautiful and the room echoes to a cacophony of voices. People light up from within; hug the stranger next to them and laughter rolls on and ripples out to titivate harbour waves.

As black is to white, laughter is to tears, and through all the joy there is sorrow. Conjure up a laugh and awaken the tears, positive to negative and back again. There is pain in laughter for it triggers the memory and thoughts sneak in when the guard is down. Always there is a price to pay for happiness.

Laaagi is please to meet a friend of Ulli. He wishes her well and tells her he is off to Israel to teach laughter to the conscripts in the Army. Giggling his way through to Germany, Spain will next be open to silliness.

On he travels in his gypsy clothes, to laugh around the world. In his wake, laughter clubs are springing up. If there is one near you, lift your spirits, have a laugh.

ONCE UPON BLACKWATER

BLACKWATER RAFTING                                    Virginia Gow              26/03/12

A hush of expectation lay upon the land. The black hole yawned at the travellers as they stood gazing at this outcrop with excitement and some trepidation. Seven people, two women and five men, were about to go caving. Forward they would go, into this black hole to attempt black water rafting.

In the northwest of the South Island of New Zealand there is a cave system with the deepest sinkhole in the Southern Hemisphere, a freefall of 182 meters.  An underground stream dances and tumbles over inky waterfalls. It feeds this dark abyss. Tales of deep glowworm grottoes that can only be reached by black water rafting conjure up a singular splendid vision, to be glimpsed by the few who dare to enter this lost world.

Taniwhas of Maori legends are the underground spirit dragons that dwell in gloomy places. They are protective spirits who help people cope with adversity. When entering a domain of a Taniwha, one offers a green twig and an incantation for safe passage.  The group has ample offerings to make and their leader knows the incantation well. The power of positive thinking helps overcome the hidden fear that bubbles forth and embraces this intrepid group of people standing outside the black hole.

Wearing a rubber wetsuit, river shoes, helmet with a light attached and clutching an inner tube rubber tyre, Ginny stares at the offending hole and wonders, ‘what on earth am I doing here?’

Earlier she had met up with a traveler who had climbed Mount Everest with Edmund Hillary and Tensing Norgay. This 72-year-old veteran and his wife were travelling around New Zealand in a campervan. Over a cup of sweet tea, he had told her of the delight of black water rafting and the sublime joy of floating down an underground river into a glowworm cave.  His wife offered to mind Ginny’s backpack. Ginny thought that the delights of caving would be an exhilarating experience.

The group slowly crawls into the gaping black hole, single file. With the aid of their headlights, they manage to slip slide and squeeze through spaces that seemed to be carved out by a mighty Taniwha.  After an eternity they come to a rushing, gushing waterfall. As they stand on the ledge and look over into the small pool five meters below, their leader shines his torch and picks out a spot in the middle of the pool.  ‘Throw your tyre into the pool, then jump!’ he said.

When it is time for Ginny’s epic leap of faith she is instructed to stare at the spot of light and jump only to that point.  The leader explains that jagged submerged rocks line this pool. The leader does not fancy trying to rescue someone from this underground playground. Ginny is terrified but she makes the jump. There is no way she is going to crawl back through the labyrinth by herself.    

A huge wave of relief sears through her body. Locating her inner tube, she crawls into the tyre and switches off her headlight as per instruction. Darkness engulfs her as the underground river carries her away.

Now she floats into a space where time is suspended. All thought is banished. She enters blackness so total that the ‘self’ disappears. She is the river, the rock, the Earth.  She surrenders to the ultimate good will of the universe. As the black water raft carries her through grottoes of glowworm palaces, immense wellbeing and gratitude flood her mind and body. A myriad of beacons on the walls bestow on her an unearthly light.  This is an internal earthly galaxy. She floats clear out into daylight, to where the river greets the land.

The travellers lay on the banks of a crystal clear river, deeply thankful that all is well. They are exhausted. Slowly they make their way back to the jeep. The leader tells Ginny ‘If you are traveling up to the North Island, check out the Waitomo caves. The acoustics are so perfect; Dame Kiri Te Kanawa attracts audiences from around the world to hear her song. Excellent black water rafting there.’ Ginny smiles, and offers an incantation to the Taniwha, ‘this is sufficient excitement for one small person. I will not push the river.’

TRIAL BY FIRE

                           

A gentle breeze ruffled the trees by Arnott’s Lodge on the big island of Hawaii. Ginny was shading from the midday sun, reading a brochure. On offer was a trip to see lava pour into the sea. The trip promised to let visitors see land being born and it fascinated her. 

The receptionist at Arnott’s Lodge described the walk as a piece of cake. A ranger would drive the group to the lava flow, then after only four hours walking on flat terrain, they would arrive at the spot where the lava flowed down and emptied itself into the Pacific Ocean. All that was needed were walking shoes, a stick, and two litres of water.  

Ginny decided that this would be wonderful inspiration for her next series of paintings and signed up for the next trip.  

Early the next morning the party set off led by a rugged young American ranger. The group consisted of two young State-side women, eager to impress the ranger, a quick, slick Jewish New Yorker who was ready to be the hero of this quest, a quiet English couple, dressed in the strong steady boots of the serious walker, and Ginny, an Australian, twice the age of any in the party. 

Glowing accounts of lava bubbling forth and new earth being born spurred the party forward. Across razor sharp black glass they travelled. The heat was intense. It was like being in an oven.  The party drifted ahead of Ginny, who was being extra cautious. She had been warned by the ranger not to step on whirl shaped glass, as it could collapse and she would be cast into the belly of the flow.  He had uttered this warning whilst she was standing on a whirl.

Fear pushed her forward and she vowed that she would never attempt anything like this again. 

She thought of the ancient Hawaiians and how they would view this modern day adventure. Things must be a little crazy for adults to attempt such a journey and pay for the privilege of walking through Hell. The Hawaiians would only cross this flow in extreme emergency.   

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Ginny was aware that she slowed the group down, but she could not see the point of rushing

across the blackened glass without taking in the amazing surreal landscape in all its tortured beauty. 

Finally, they came to the place where the earth was bubbling up, like a pudding on a stove. They all stuck their sticks into the red bubbles, and instantly the sticks ignited. Some of the group wanted to stay until sunset to appreciate the red glow that would engulf them at nightfall. They would cross back over the broken field of glass by torchlight. 

Ginny reasoned with them and as everyone was low on water her wish was granted and they decided to head back. 

Two hours into this intrepid journey the ranger had told them that often Pele, 

the goddess of the volcano would cause one of the party to have an accident. 

One would fall prey to the wrath of the volcano and so pay the price for this adventure. 

Thus when one of the young women slipped and her lower leg ripped open, the ranger told the group to head back quickly and he would slowly bring back the wounded one. 

Truth be told it was Ginny who led the party home, virtually skipping over the lava field. Very sure footed was she on the way back, joyous with every step. She was so glad to be rid of this trial by fire. Everyone’s strength had been shaken by the accident. They had figured that if anyone would fall prey to Pele it would be Ginny. Ginny would fall prey to her fear.  

How were they to know that Ginny had made the traditional sacrifice of fruit and flowers to the goddess Pele when she first landed on the big island?  

Returning to the safety of the road the group gathered to watch the sunset. Without the aid of the sun, the black glass turned to red, a ribbon of red flowing down to the sea.   

THE RUBY RING

THE RUBY RING                                                                        Virginia Gow 19/03/12

No breezes flow in from the Persian Gulf to cool this golden city on the Arabian Peninsula. This ancient town has always been a trading center for East and West. Here is free trade. It is within the Arabian Desert and its fine clean white sand dunes are made from crushed shell and coral. Up the wadi, waterholes and gorges fill up then run dry, water is precious here. No oasis in this desert landscape, just the creek that slowly flows into the Persian Gulf.

Mid morning sunlight embraces the ankle length flowing white kandura, the national dress of the men of Dubai. They glide in twos and threes effortlessly down the ancient roads. Theirs is a serene world populated by a wealthy community with three quarters of the population brought in from Asia to carry out all manual labour. The indigenous people of Dubai have left their desert wanderings long ago. Theirs is a trading tradition and as such they now embark on managing oil, tourism, financial services, construction and world class sporting events.

Now their minds are taken up with perpetuating their capital flow and the Constitutional Monarchy that rules is able to manage investments effectively. The Sheikhdom flourishes and it has one of the busiest airports in the world. Ties with Britain assure a prominent position in world affairs.

 Women enjoy the morning shopping at the giant shopping malls. The locals call them ‘blackbirds’. They dress in abaya, the black over-garment covering most parts of the body. These women are aware they have more freedom here than elsewhere in the Arab States.  The malls have all the latest fashions from a western world eager for their patronage and willing to trade. This is the shopping capital of the Middle East with Bedouin folk music piped through modern speakers.

In this playground of wealth people can stay on a man-made island hotel built in the shape of a sail for over $1000 a night.  One has to arrange a visit one day in advance because this is a highly sought after gated community. Passport numbers are listed on entry, names checked off at the guardhouse. Guests are ferried around in golf buggies. Golden pillars surround the foyer and glass lifts fly effortlessly 200 meters above sea level to a cocktail lounge. Guests dine al fresco on the beach. Lanterns flutter on the hookah shadows as a pipe is passed around scenting the air with apple, cloves and tobacco. A soft-slippered boy from Pakistan delivers spiced desert food to a discreet table by the water’s edge.

Septic tankers are used to convey waste away to sewerage works that convert the sludge  to manure. There is a small sign warning, ‘Beware of swimming at Jumeirah Beach’. Some people are not prepared to pay the price for waste disposal and they dump it at night into the sea. It creates health problems for the beach.

Dubai Creek is the waterway for the town. The Creek is dredged to enable dhours to anchor. These colourful boats have been coming and going from the Far East, China, Sri Lanka and India for centuries.

Nobody bothers the two ladies from overseas as they walk down to Dubai Creek.Ginny and Yvonne have spent many years traveling the globe together. They dress in the code of the country and are respectful of its laws. They are leaving the modern world in search of the ancient life. The smuggling trade is brisk in Old Dubai but they are not interested in that trade. They seek the souks adjacent to the docks. It is rumoured that the gold souk in Deira houses two hundred and fifty gold retail shops, tiny jeweller shops crammed together in a labyrinth. Cross the Creek and enter another world. Here there is no sense of danger, only a sense of the exotic that is the Middle East. Anybody found bothering travellers quietly disappears.

To cross the Creek Ginny and Yvonne are directed to a dhour, the old long boats that make the crossing of the creek possible. There are no safety rails or boarding planks. They jump onto the boat. On these simple ferries one rides for a dollar at one’s own risk. The ladies alight at the Spice Souk Station. They are amazed at the aromas that drift from every shop window.  Through the bustling shopping area of market stalls, two enormous wooden gates beckon them into a dazzling endless maze of gold.

Policing is strict and illegal shops spring up and close down in a day. Beware the dodgy seller who only has fools’ gold. Raids are frequent and happen on a daily basis.  When such a raid happens in a shop they have entered, they quietly exit and watch from a safe distance as police close up shop and everybody drifts away.

Wandering around alleyways of golden shops displaying necklaces fit for an Empress, they finally come to a small corner shop where seven Abaya clad ladies are enjoying themselves and buying gold.   The two western ladies decide to enter that shop because the local customers give them a good sign of fair dealing. One of the blackbirds comes from Canada. She says that by buying her own gold she is marrying herself and all her shopping friends are joining in her party. She states that she comes here every year to buy gold.

Encouraging the newcomers to partake of this game, everyone is overjoyed when Ginny chooses a ruby ring and a simple gold band. Truth be told, she has left her rings at home, and has realized that it’s far safer to travel with a band of gold then with no ring on her finger.

On the way back, the dhour is stuffed full with workers from Asia.  Ginny is aware that they are housed in stable-like conditions while the money earned is sent home to families. They are all men wearing raggedy clothes. The ratio of men to women in Dubai is five to one. The ladies keep to themselves. Leaving the vessel, Ginny slips and stares at creek water. A tired worn out worker saves her by extending his arm. No small feat for a Muslim man.

Ginny and Yvonne enjoy going up the wadi, camel riding and falconing, being tattooed with henna in a Bedouin camp but for all these interesting adventures Ginny prefers meeting with the blackbirds in the old gold souk and having a ruby ring to remind her of this epic journey.

LAMENT FOR BIRDY AND DAUGHTERS

BLACK FOG                                                                                                VGOW 14/03/12

Mobile rings in the soft light of morning

Heralding a message wailing the blues

Filtering out the dawn’s tuneless dreaming

Everyday tragedy, everyday news.

A father, two daughters, smiling and fair

Wend their way homeward, song lifting the air

Descant through black fog, lose control on a bend

Too late the four-wheeler – crescendo - the end.

Three souls together, through time and through space

Sing up the sunrise, having left this life’s race

Now bound forever in death’s harmony

Ride the wings of the rainbow, liltingly free.

Eternal lament of sorrow and pain

Shrouds their mother now, who waits home in vain.

Ulli's Epic Event

ULLI’S EPIC EVENT

27^TH NOVEMBER 2010

Night sparkles in the starlight.

Wind dances with trees outside.

Dappled-pink Fiona lilts a magic carpet song

Sways, playing sweetly on silver guitar.

Chloe, the dog, dances with Flame.

Fiona’s son, Josh, merrily drumming

Giving his all, answers the call.

Flame, gong a’whirling, 
'laughter filling the room' says Nicole.

Sweet Martha dreaming a memory tale.

Phil panning away with flute and recorder.

Robyn, Ulli, Phil and Alex jaw harping finger pianos.

Rosie warbles a whistle.

Annie claps hand-painted wooden spoons.

Kerry and Chu dance in rhythm.

Iggy tells of being at Joshua Tree.

Nicole swans, curling up on the couch.

Sharon and Uren (his name it means pine tree) tell of delights.

They have five children and an adventurous life.

Micha gives invites to his exhibition.

'Yes, we will go', says Nicole, with glee.

Barbara toned to the inky, blue night.

Possum vaudevilles, storytelling and dancing. 

Welcomes all wth Gurringai song.

Magic orbs filter through the open doorway.

'Glad to be here, Ulli', they say.

'Welcome, welcome cosmic light

Come and visit us tonight.' 

Ulli sings up this delight.

'There she sits in regal splendour, 

a music queen upon her throne', states Nicole, on our way home.

Silver top hat is her crown.  

We love coming to your home.

Thank you for your hospitality,

Your gifts of music, time and space.

We hover on the edge of dreams,

To fall asleep in reality’s grace.

Virginia Gow

28/11/2010