tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52787480248319625782024-03-13T10:52:46.698+10:00postcardsChristine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.comBlogger464125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-88332410022163380762021-12-17T11:28:00.002+10:002021-12-17T11:34:15.645+10:00monk<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">We neared the hut and heard it. Stifled screams. Grunts. As though his mouth was stuffed. Rhythmic, guttural, animalistic, anguished. Fear twisted my gut. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">We waited out of sight. A vast trunk. The shade of an ancient tree. A hulking figure opened the door and closed it behind him. A sleight of hand. Didn’t look around. Walked hurriedly away. Didn’t want to be seen. Head near-bald and skin pale – pallid. Dressed entirely in grey. Didn’t see his face.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">Three of us. Friends. Sisters. The door wasn’t locked. It was quiet outside, but inside … the silence cacophonous. His fresh brutality loud in the room. One window curtained. Door shut. Enough light to see. Like his clothes, everything grey. Except the streaks: red blood whipped the walls. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">Perspiration down my back. The air heavy. A sauna. His sweat. A raw stench. Evidence of self-flagellation strewn across the floor. A toppled prayer stool. A damp and bloodied sock. A gag. A corner full of candles. Not wax. Paper pulp or old cloth. Something coiled around itself. Grey. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">The other two searched the room. I paced about, frenzied. Desperate to leave. Desperate his evil, the guilt and torture he’d exorcised – his blood, his sweat, his tears, wet and hungry in the room – would not seep into our pores. Didn’t want to breathe the same air. Didn’t want his memories nesting, worming into my veins. Didn’t want to see. Didn’t want to know.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">But memories are like that. Thoughts transmit. Energy lives. Glimpses of deplorable acts flickered through my mind. Reanimated. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;">Too much. I woke.</p>Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-59018757323036882892020-04-17T10:27:00.002+10:002020-04-17T10:32:48.497+10:00my dog was hurt<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I walked towards home with my dog along Joslin Street, a
street in the suburb of Newcastle where I grew up. It was late afternoon and
the light was fading. My dog, Billie, was off-leash. We passed a house on the
opposite side of the road where an elderly woman lived with her three small
dogs. We’d walked only a short distance further, when behind us we heard the lady open her front
door and call to her dogs, ushering them inside. Billie ran back along the
path and crossed the road to play with the little dogs in her front
yard. I felt worried about Billie being on the road and also anxious the lady
would call Billie inside and attempt to take her from me. I wanted Billie back
by my side.</span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At the same time, ahead of me, another dog walked along the footpath
towards me. I was alarmed by this dog’s energy: it was menacing and dangerous. I
noticed its eyes were different colours – one blue, one brown – and its thick, bristly
coat was shades of grey, brown, black and white. It was a strong dog and, as it
reached me, it jumped up at me. I kept my voice steady and told it to stay
down, then I turned around to see where Billie was and what she was doing. I
knew I shouldn’t turn my back on this strange dog but my instinct was to
protect Billie. I called for my dog.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Billie ran back across the road, narrowly missing a car
driving at speed. When I saw she’d made it safely to this side of the street, I
turned around again to see what the other dog was up to. It wasn’t there. I
turned back around again, only to see my girl Billie surrounded – the dominant dog and
its pack were advancing on her, about to attack. Billie’s tail was down and she
was visibly shaking. I called her and she darted between them, finding the
courage to run to me. I shouted at the other dogs, sending them away.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I placed my hands on my dog, feeling her sides, her face, calming
her, but when I took my hands away, I saw blood on my palms. I looked more
closely and found bite marks on her body, the wounds deep. Somehow, in the time
it had taken me to turn around, she’d been hurt. Though she’s a big dog, I
picked her up and tenderly cradled her in my arms. She morphed a few times,
changing into a baby girl with big blue eyes and back into her dog form. Blood
trickled out of her eye and down her face. She looked beaten and I felt
devastated. I knew I had to get her quickly to a vet, but it was now night and
I was on foot. I woke.</span></span></span></div>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style>Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-78903202304370296382020-04-16T10:08:00.000+10:002020-04-16T10:13:21.031+10:00opportunities lost, obstacles and snakes<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">We sat down in the cinema, on the right-hand side towards
the front. As we settled, for some reason, I removed my boots. The movie was
soon to begin. I looked around in the semi-darkness and saw my friend sitting alone
in the furthest seat of the same row, over on the other side of the cinema. My heart leapt. My
partner left for a moment, perhaps to buy something to eat, and because I’d already
removed my boots, I decided to text my friend. ‘I can see you’, I attempted to
type, but all the letters turned into emojis and my message was indecipherable.
I erased it and tried again but again my message changed. My partner returned and
announced there was something wrong in the projection room. It became clear the
movie wouldn’t be screened so people began to file out. I hurriedly tried to
put my boots back on but the process of lacing them took longer than usual. My
friend rose to leave and walked up the isle. I called out but there was too
much noise in the theatre and she left. I felt disappointed because I miss her
dearly. It was an opportunity lost. I finally finished lacing my boots and left
the cinema. My partner was nowhere to be seen. </span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Outside, I realised I was on a vast
university campus and I couldn’t remember the way out. There were market stalls
set up around the place and I had to walk through them to navigate my way across
the courtyard. I saw a beautiful striped shirt hanging on a wire hanger at the
end of a rack of clothing in one of the stalls. I doubled back to take a better
look but it had gone. I continued on but the courtyard merged into corridors,
which merged into vast auditoriums, then indoor swimming pools, then more rooms
with stairs and elevators. I slumped on the ground, exhausted, trying to fathom
my way. A couple of young women gave me directions and so I continued. More
courtyards, stairwells and such, then, finally, I found myself at the edge of
the campus but, now, night was falling and no one was around. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
hesitated and
turned around, thinking I might go back to try to find my partner but
stopped in horror. My path was
blocked by perhaps a hundred snakes of different sizes and colours. None
were
moving; rather, all were poised as though ready to strike, their bodies
frozen
mid attack. I knew one false move and they’d be upon me. In particular, I
noticed one enormous brown snake, his head almost as big as mine, his
body long
and powerful, each scale defined, his eyes alert. I daren’t run. I
couldn’t
move forward. Instead, I instinctively raised my arms and hands in front
of me
– a double stop signal – and commanded them to go away. ‘Get back,’ I
said. Nothing happened and I felt I needed to say it again, more loudly,
with more conviction
and power. Again, nothing happened. Instead, the most dangerous of the
snakes,
the king brown, advanced on me, threatening to attack. His face was only
a couple of feet from mine and I stared into his eyes. I straightened
my arms
in front of me, spread my fingers as wide as I could, summoned all my
power and
desperation, drew my strength from the earth, and this time yelled at
the snakes at the top of my lungs, swearing loudly, my true feelings
clear.
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Immediately
the snakes recoiled, each into its own brown paper bag. The ground
opened
beneath them and they fell into a pit. The pit was so wide, a couple of
young women
stumbled at its edge. One fell in and I caught the other and dragged her
away
from the hole to safety. I looked over the edge and saw all the snakes
writhing
away, ushered by men in white uniforms into a white room like a
laboratory. The young woman who’d
fallen was standing upright, calling out to say she was fine, she’d not
been
hurt, but rather than helping her back up, the men ushered her away with
the snakes. As they went, before the door closed behind them, I saw her
body begin to transform: her ribs extended out from her body, stretching
her
skin taut like an alien. I knew she’d been bitten and was changing form.</span></span></span></div>
Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-54628727207809940992018-11-19T09:06:00.001+10:002018-11-19T09:08:57.079+10:00beautiful manHe was a herculean man with long flaxen hair and pale golden skin that glowed with a certain sheen – a lustre – not unlike a pearl. He seemed lit from within. He stood outside the crowded hotel in a state of half-undress and enacted some kind of dance. It was as though the madness had taken him too far. I didn’t see it happen, but I knew he would be beaten and left for dead, for the man was too beautiful for this world. Sure enough, when next I looked, he was lying in a shallow sea. The water was shadowy and green but so clean and clear, I could see every detail of his being. A weak stream of bubbles escaped from his lips and rose to the surface. I was not certain if he was barely alive, the bubbles his breath, or if his dead body was simply deflating. As I watched, a mermaid creature swam over him. I could not see her face as she was fixated on the beautiful man, but her hair was long and green like seaweed, her skin was cast with an algae-like hue and her scaly, emerald tail shimmered like peacock feathers. She waved her arms over his body, covered him with her hair and embraced him. In her arms, I could see his form reviving, reverting, revisiting his childhood. I knew she would take him to be with her, under the sea. As though she sensed me watching her, the mermaid suddenly looked directly up at me from under the water, startled, and I was surprised to see her face was that of a cat’s – a furry grey face with candescent sea-green eyes. In an instant, she somersaulted and flicked her powerful tail, causing the waters to swirl and sand to rise, clouding the sea, and she and the man disappeared forever into the deep. <br />
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-->Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-42645347059165788582017-05-10T13:03:00.001+10:002017-05-10T13:03:35.750+10:00willpowerI walked the streets of an unfamiliar town on dusk. There was a pub on every corner. No traffic, just men, who walked the town and mooched about outside pub doors. I felt uncomfortable, so I willed myself up into the air. Rather than walking through the crowd, I floated above, out of reach.<br />
<br />
Later, I walked out of a doorway into the street. Tall men mooned about and violence seemed certain to erupt. This time, I willed myself down under the ground where I swam through earth. I thought of underground creatures, like ants and snakes, but I felt more comfortable in this subterranean world than wading through the throng of men above ground. Once I'd passed under the crowd, I emerged from the earth and went on my way.<br />
<br />
Still later, I watched as a woman of around sixty years clutched at her chest. She was in great pain and it seemed she was having a heart attack. Moments later, she shrugged it off, recovering quickly. I realised she was extremely fit –– someone who trained every day. Again, she grabbed at her chest, her heart paining her, and again, she regained her composure quickly. The woman called a friend to ask what was happening to her. Her friend told her her enemy was attempting to kill her by willing her to have a heart attack, but her level of fitness protected her.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-81771432300980118302017-04-05T09:29:00.002+10:002017-04-05T09:29:34.670+10:00winning gold and cultI was visiting a local shopping centre and decided to enter a competition of some kind. It was not a test of skill; rather, it was much like winning a lottery –– a game of chance. I purchased a digital 'ticket' by swiping my mobile phone, and pressed 'play'. I watched my mobile screen as numbers and symbols spun around on three reels, as they do on a standard poker machine. I pressed 'stop' and my screen lit up and music played. The phone showed gold coins spilling out of a casket and piling higher and higher. A cash amount flashed on the screen –– around $36, 000 (I cannot recall the exact figure). I was very excited and immediately began to budget out my winnings.<br />
<br />
Later, I dreamed I was in a huge hall with hundreds of other people. We'd gathered to attend a weekend workshop of some kind. There were various crew members –– both women and men –– walking around, attending to the audience, and a few women on stage, talking to the crowd. All of the crew appeared to be fit and healthy, and I gathered I was there to learn about health. I could see a few family members and close friends also gathered in the hall. As a woman on stage spoke, the man sitting next to me whispered a few asides: 'You know they change an annual fee of $700 dollars, don't you?', 'Just wait until we've all signed in. Everything changes.', 'Once you're in, you're in. Don't say I didn't warn you.' –– that kind of thing. I grew increasingly alarmed. I looked around and noticed the crew were now walking through the audience, taking hair samples from everyone. Each person was to cut a lock of their hair and give it to the crew, who would then place and seal it in a small plastic bag. Some people were readily snipping off samples of their hair, obliging and even proud to follow the directive. Others seemed uncertain. I asked my friend if she intended to give a hair sample and she answered, 'Of course. Why not?' I didn't like it. I wondered why they wanted our hair. I wondered what they were going to do with it and felt worried they'd somehow use our DNA. Follow-up crew were now getting around the crowd, having people sign a form –– a permission form? I knew I had to leave, although I was bound to cause a scene as I was sitting in the middle of a row towards the back of the hall, and would have to walk through the audience up to the very front to make it out the door. I hoped my family and friends would follow.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-10950979610099320122016-10-29T12:20:00.000+10:002016-10-29T13:44:32.061+10:00humanityThere was a creature rising from the earth, made from flesh and from the earth itself. It was born of the earth, one with the earth and decaying back in to the earth. It was human, or rather, it was once human; the source of all humanity and the place to where we return once we die. It was compost. The creature breathed on me, a long, slow breath, drawn up from its unfathomable depths. Its breath smelled sweet and rotten, fecund and ancient. I could smell life and death and time. As it breathed on me I understood that we are all born of the same flesh. We each enter the world, of the world. We are an expression, an extension of the same force, the same source. We are an organism. A living, breathing energy spreading across the earth. Unstoppable, almost, but for the earth itself, which will consume us just as we consume the earth. We are driven to survive and change and, I understood, what sets us apart is our constant striving. Striving to be better, to have more, to change, to succeed, to overcome, to create, to build. Striving. Just as in our bodies how when a cell dies it is swept away, I saw how when we stop striving we die and decompose back into the earth. We need to move to survive. To stagnate is death. At the same time, it is our striving that will finish us. I breathed in the breath of this original human creature and understood, and then I woke.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-42811021605829110292016-10-09T11:59:00.001+10:002016-10-09T11:59:09.749+10:00summitI was driving the roads of my hometown. The houses were absent and there were no buildings, as far as the eye could see; yet, I recognised this place - the rise and fall of the landscape. My car laboured up a steep slope, but I was preoccupied, surprised by the changed flora: fruit trees laden with fruit grew jungle-like, fringing the road. Through the trees I could glimpse the sea, skirting the hill up which I drove. I realised I had my handbrake on, so I released it and found the car travelled more swiftly. However, the fruit trees now grew so densely they blocked the road ahead. I left my car and continued on foot, the ground sandy beneath my feet, the road now a narrow track. There was only a short walk up the hill - not more than a minute - before I reached the crest, but I was fearful. To go on, I would need to climb over branches and sidle around trunks. I thought of snakes. I felt alone. I knew, from the summit, I'd likely see the lay of the land and the ocean around me. I knew I'd witness the beauty of place and feel a sense of freedom. Yet, I turned back.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-6358258143763074072015-05-07T21:18:00.001+10:002015-05-07T21:18:36.309+10:00bionic bloodI was with a practitioner of Chinese medicine. The doctor, a man, asked for my finger and he pricked it with a pin, squeezed it and drew blood. Red blood dripped into a petrie dish. Upon pooling, the blood grew luminous green crystals, tiny jewels glittering like precious green diamonds. The doctor was surprised and told me it was as though I was bionic; I had bionic blood. I felt pleased, as though I had supreme health. I understood <i>bionic</i> to mean super-human. My blood was bursting with health.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-24409751161235690662014-12-03T11:14:00.001+10:002014-12-03T11:15:12.902+10:00dead head and crossroadsTwo dreams:<br />
A head was on the table, lying on its back, facing the ceiling. The head of a man my friend used to know, she told me. I picked it up and looked at it. He looked to be in his fifties. He had good skin for his age and an honest face. He had a beard. I turned the head over in my hands and found it was flat at the back, as though it had been sitting on the table a very long time and had, over time, flattened. I stroked the face of the man and noticed a tear escape from the man's eye and travel down his cheek. I was surprised and, feeling for the man, I spoke to him. He opened his eyes - blue - and asked me to sing him a song. The song that came to mind was a chorus I'd learned in church as a teenager. So, I sang him the song and he cried.<br />
I was walking across a road flanked by tall trees. Although I couldn't see it from where I was, I knew I was walking toward the ocean. I became aware I was being watched and looked up into the branches of the trees to the northern end of the road. A pair of Wedge-tailed eagles perched there, and one of them flew at me, swooping down close to my head, before rising and landing in a tree south of me. The other eagle followed, diving down and narrowly missing my head, before flying up to meet its mate in the tree down the road. Suddenly, there were two more birds - a pair of griffon vultures - perched in the trees to the west of the road. In the same way, they began, one at a time, swooping me, flying down, close to my head, and back up to perch in the trees to the east. The eagles and the vultures kept swooping me and, for a while, I was stuck in the middle of the road, covering my head, not knowing which way to turn to escape. I began to run south, although I wanted to go east, and as I ran I dipped down to scoop up a handful of damp sand, which I shaped into a ball, planning on throwing the sand at the birds as they rushed at me. I looked up behind me and saw the first eagle flying, but it was tangled in a string of bunting flags. I was both relieved and concerned for the eagle; although they seemed intent on harming me or driving me away, I wanted the birds to be safe.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-62095930247771664292014-11-04T13:57:00.000+10:002014-11-04T14:00:00.571+10:00the rules that bind usI was with an old friend I've not seen, in waking life, for years. He had his arm around me as we walked the streets to his car, having just left a gathering of his friends. He had invited me along and I had been the only woman there. I knew my being there had caused the men to alter their behaviour, to behave more respectfully than they would have usually, these being rather androcentric men. As we walked, I thanked my friend for inviting me and said I hoped the group had not been put out. He nodded and accepted my thanks, but, even as I spoke the words, I wished I hadn't and I resented his superior attitude. Why should I apologise for my attendance at his invitation? How was my presence any less worthy than any other there? I had not enjoyed the evening with the the boys' club and, rather than now behaving pleasantly and doing what was expected of me, I wished I had spoken my truth or held my tongue. I silently vowed to fight against my learned cultural urge to be nice, play second and not stand in my full power. When we reached his car, we noticed a hibiscus shrub had grown, arching over the car and sprouting red and yellow flowers in through the ajar windows. We had to wind down the windows fully to free the car of flowers. I noticed another car parked close by. It was almost covered by grass, the roots having grown up the tyres and over the car body. Imagine, said my friend, if we'd stayed here a week; that's what would have happened to our car. Upon getting into his car, I realised he had a driver. The driver sat in the driver's seat, my friend sat in the front of the car in the middle space between the driver's seat and the passenger seat, and I sat in the back seat in the middle of the car, directly behind my friend. For the first time that night, it seemed my friend and I could speak, regardless of the presence of the driver; I felt the driver and he were close friends and he certainly knew the ins and outs of my friend's life. I asked my friend how he was, really. Immediately and unreservedly he told me (and the driver) that his marriage was terrible and his life was a sham. I noticed we were driving the streets of my childhood, towards my family home where the driver would presumably drop me off. I felt the driver had heard the story many times before and my friend was chained to his life by the rules laid down by the society in which he existed. He felt he couldn't escape.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-90786694673214049822014-03-30T15:51:00.001+10:002014-03-30T15:51:43.075+10:00an uncertain roadIt was a dark night in the city and I needed to be somewhere. To get there, had to ride a bicycle far too big for me - my feet didn't touch the ground. It was an usual bike: the seat faced backwards so that, riding it, I could only see where I had been, not where I was going. Not only that, the roads were all downhill and the bike had no brakes. I was scared, but knew it was what I had to do. I rode the big bike - backwards, down the hill, with no brakes, in the dark - twisting around to attempt to see where I was going, dodging traffic and hoping I would not crash or fall. Eventually, I arrived at a midway point where I naturally slowed and dismounted. I walked through a maze of a high-rise building - corridors, rooms, more corridors - until I reached a door blocked by a stack of boxes, both full and empty. I rearranged them, careful not to damage them, basically tunnelling my way through. Once through, I descended the stairs and found myself in the basement carpark of the building, thinking I'd find my car and drive the rest of the way. I saw what I thought was my car, but someone was in the driver's seat about to drive away. 'Wait,' I called. 'You're in the wrong car.' As they drove away, I could see it was not my car after all. I wondered how I would travel the final leg to my destination when someone asked me, 'Well, how did you get here?' I realised I needed to find the bicycle and brave the dangerous, uncertain journey - to dare - if I were to arrive.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-47694818871379695422014-02-22T10:24:00.001+10:002014-02-22T10:24:29.886+10:00unearthing treasureWe were living in an old, rambling home with many bedrooms - a Queenslander, of sorts - perched on the edge of a hill with a view to sea. The backyard sloped down away from the house and flattened out, so as to create a natural sitting area. The yard was overgrown and bushes flanked the back fence - actually, it was a wall, a faded terracotta wall. We were down there, looking at the potential of our home and grounds, as though seeing them for the first time. A man was digging away at the earth, assessing it; taking a look to see how much work we had in front of us to create a lush vegetable garden. As he dug, he unearthed some terracotta and blue tiles. We realised that, buried under the earth, were the remains of an old Italian courtyard - the ideal site to restore and turn into a beautiful hillside outdoor cafe. We also realised we could rent out the many rooms of the house to create an income. I was excited to think of the changes in front of us, thrilled to uncover the existing possibilities. It was like discovering treasure already owned; we just had to open our eyes.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-51855435967865523252014-02-20T08:16:00.001+10:002014-02-20T08:16:19.449+10:00booksI was in a room, much like a meeting room, and through the glass windows I could see the night sky. The walls of the room were lined with shelves of books, and several tables housed stacks and piles more. I was excited for I'd had an idea and was here to explain it to a woman I took to be my mentor. I sorted through the books quickly, searching for a few particular editions to show her my source of inspiration. I found a black-covered book with old-fashioned type. It was an illustrated novel for older youth. The words were shaped into loosely formed paragraphs and arranged to frame, even merge with, the illustrations. The illustrations were black-line drawings, gorgeously rendered. One was of a grizzly bear - a fat and bristle-furred fellow; another, of a six-stringed guitar. I particularly noticed the lines and the space between them, and I felt thrilled by the design. I showed my mentor and explained my concept while sketching words and images in a notebook. She was approving and supportive, and I felt elated. A new project!Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-62290032704693071192014-01-17T10:22:00.002+10:002014-01-17T10:24:56.993+10:00teaching my first movement classI was at my maternal grandparents' home - the home they lived in when they were alive - in the 'number one' bedroom: the room I used to sleep in when I stayed with them as a child. The room was now much bigger with windows lining the entirety of one wall. I was about to teach a movement class and realised I had not prepared. This was somewhat alarming as it was my first-ever class. Even so, participants had arrived and were in the process of laying thick blue yoga mats in a grid on the wooden floor. I had to proceed. I lay my mat on the floor on a diagonal in a corner, facing the class, with the windowed wall to my right. I could see the sun going down and knew we would soon experience the peace and ambience of dusk. The room was full to capacity - perhaps 20 people, both male and female, with room around each to stretch and move. I knew I had the perfect playlist; I'd been creating it for years. I had to trust all I'd learned - all the dance and movement I'd done in my lifetime, the warm-ups, breathing, stretching, moves and cooling-down relaxations - would come back to me now.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-50068194555707300252014-01-17T10:09:00.002+10:002014-01-17T10:09:55.738+10:00changing old habitsI was at a party in my family home. Not the house my parents live in now, but the house we built and lived in while I was growing up. Friends, family and strangers gathered in the lounge room and kitchen. As the party started, I poured a white wine for my friend and myself, then we spent the afternoon and evening hosting the guests. As the party was winding up, with only a few guests remaining, I offered my friend another glass of wine, which she refused. Although I didn't really feel like a wine, I found it difficult to get my head around that I'd only had one the whole party. I was experiencing inner conflict, which sometimes coincides with change - hanging on to old habits. Finally, the party finished, everyone had gone and I stood alone in the lounge room. My family were downstairs. I looked around and realised everyone had brought presents. Opened presents and wrapping paper were strewn all over the lounge room floor and I realised they were all for me. Although exciting, the room was a mess. I was tired, so I wondered if I could simply close the door, block out the mess and return to clean it tomorrow. I went to the doorway leading to downstairs and saw opened presents and their wrapping everywhere - on the landing, down the stairs and beyond. 'Did everyone think this was a house warming party?' I asked my parents. I realised I needed to begin the sorting process now.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-37400490080150641762013-09-27T12:58:00.000+10:002014-11-04T14:08:21.025+10:00night pythonIn the early hours of the morning, before dawn, I was sleeping in a dormitory with around twenty others. My eyes closed, I sensed something move above me and heard soft sniffing near my face - something breathing in my scent. I knew without a doubt it was a python, and I instinctively knew exactly where it was and what I should do. Without moving any other part of my body, I stabbed my right arm into the air and gripped the snake around its throat below its head, so it could not swing back and bite me. I opened my eyes and stood up in the darkness, taking hold of the snake's tail in my left hand. Once secured, I moved through the grid of beds to the door and quietly let myself out, not wanting to wake the others. Outside, the sky was slowly changing to grey and I could see fields before me. I did not want to harm the python, but neither was I comfortable with the situation. I desperately wanted to find someone who knew what to do, how to handle the animal and relocate it somewhere far from me. It was heavy, so - still with its throat in my right hand, its tail in my left - I draped its long body over my shoulders and set off on foot. I could see a group of Indigenous people ahead, gathering for a dawn meeting, and thought they may be able to advise me. As I approached, a dear friend entered the field, standing tall on the path between me and the group of people. When she saw me, she went to hug me and seemed not to see the snake until I stopped her and held it up to show her. Rather than responding with fright, she laid a gentle hand on its head. I noticed her hand was older now, more weathered, but still I thought it beautiful. I knew she could not take the python from me; even so, I felt comforted by her presence. The snake began to struggle so I tightened my grip. Its emerald-green, diamond-patterned body writhed and it managed to push its head back far enough to sink its fangs a little way into the back of my hand. I wondered if it were poisonous.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-80500861084144919452013-07-18T20:43:00.000+10:002013-07-18T20:43:10.874+10:00feathers growing on my headI was talking with a new friend and noticed she had tiny opalescent feathers growing from her scalp around her hairline. I touched them to feel their softness. I went out of the room for a moment and into another room I understood to be mine, and looked in the mirror. Seeing her feathers had sparked a memory: didn't I have feathers growing from my scalp too? I felt through my hair, searching for feathers and, sure enough, I found the stem of a large feather growing at the base of my head. I freed the feather from hair, being careful not to pull it out, and revealed a white feather stamped with a black mandala pattern. It looked to be symbolic. The feather also looked a little battered, as though it had seen better days. I went back into the first room to show my friend. She was amazed I too grew feathers and wondered why mine seemed older than hers. I imagined it was mostly because I was at least ten years older than her, and perhaps because I had forgotten my feathers.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-64970206344215776752013-06-01T13:14:00.000+10:002013-06-01T13:14:41.228+10:00night flyingWe were lying in bed in the quiet darkness of our home. Our 'home', however, was nothing like our real home. The house was entirely open-plan, with all 'rooms' on the one level, mapped out only by the furniture. The walls were cement rendered, the ceilings were extremely high and the windows had no glass; rather, the windows were simply vast openings with wide sills that looked out to the forest. The night was dark and, instead of sleeping, I was awake, lying on my back, staring up to and through the ceiling, for the ceiling above the bed was made of glass. I could see the night sky and hundreds of stars shining. Suddenly, a helicopter with bright lights beaming down circled the area. Another joined it, and together they flew around and around, looking for someone or something. I jumped out of bed - a king-sized mattress on the floor - and ran to the window to see if anything was amiss, my dog barking at my heels. The search lights panned the forest floor; the helicopter engines roared. And then, as suddenly as they'd appeared, the helicopters left, and the night was quiet once more. Peace returned. I sat awhile on the window sill and breathed in the fragrance of the forest. Frogs croaked and night creatures hummed. On my way back to bed, elated, I felt the urge to leap into the air and fly. I floated up to the ceiling, and hovered there. My dog gazed up at me, not entirely surprised, and I flew easily around the house in the darkness.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-78555178292926829752013-04-05T08:18:00.001+10:002013-04-05T08:18:12.558+10:00dance classI was on a raised stage, in character, teaching a dance class. People stood at the foot of the stage and all around me on the stage. Music pumped through the auditorium. I lead the class through a loosely choreographed routine, which was designed to make people let go, have fun and move. 'Imagine you are in a jungle,' I called to the class. 'Channel your inner jungle moves.' The entire group danced with abandon, many laughing hard and breathless. We danced our way through several tracks until the class came to an end. 'Remember,' I told the class, 'always see the opportunity for movement in every moment, for in movement you will find joy.'Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-24783361443822922312013-02-15T16:17:00.002+10:002013-02-15T16:17:22.333+10:00house of horrorI travelled to Brisbane for a friend's art exhibition in a house on James Street in Fortitude Valley. I arrived alone and on dusk, and I seemed to be the first person there. The door was ajar, but not open, and the lights were dim. I peered through the window and I was frightened. There, next to my friend's artwork, I saw old photographs of hags covering the walls of the room: old and ugly witches with cruel eyes, hooked noses and twisted mouths. The photographs seemed to be from various times throughout history - even well before the camera was invented. I gathered this was a record of the owner of the house's ancestry, and I was repelled. I did not want to go in, but I feared disappointing my friend. She arrived and went happily into the house, which was now somewhat lit up and open to the invited guests. A few people arrived and I was more or less ushered in with them. I barely saw my friend's artwork, I was so horrified by the photos lining the walls. Photo after photo of evil-looking and grotesque people. I went into the second room - a dining room - where we were to have supper and a lecture on art. As I was supposed to do, I sat at a mammoth dark-wood, highly polished table in the centre of the room. The walls were painted a lifeless grey and heavy teal curtains were closed against the world outside., concealing the room within. A tall man in a black suit dusted the curtains and polished silver ornaments. He kept his face turned away, but I knew he was the owner of the house and would wear the same dreadful countenance of his family line. I felt this was some kind of trap; a scene of a crime about to be committed. I woke up.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-24559311099674746322013-02-15T15:58:00.002+10:002013-02-15T20:04:08.018+10:00swimming, eel and chaseWe swam in a giant rock pool by the sea. The water was clear, turquoise and cold. It was like magic, diving like dolphin - so liberating. I swam with my family, my partner and my dog. We moved like fish in a school. After a time, someone announced they were going to reveal the giant eel in the pool. I was surprised as I hadn't seen an eel in the water, but unalarmed. We gathered around and a man tapped a rock, luring the eel to the surface. Sure enough, it came, but, at first, it seemed only to be the size of a tree snake. As we watched, it slowly revealed its full size: it was enormous; a giant, indeed. It's girth was perhaps a foot or more wide and, how long it was, I do not know, for it swam beneath the water - elusive, in and out of sight. At a guess, it may have been twenty metres or more. It was regally patterned, deep gold and black. I swore not to swim again and a man, upon hearing me, questioned why, when the water was so beautiful. I told him though the eel would not likely harm us, I couldn't risk it. 'I love my dog too much to see anything happen to her', I said. At that moment, a woman riding a very tall black horse rode past. She rode bareback and a young child sat in front of her. My dog ran after the horse and the woman slowed to reach down and raise my dog up onto the horse's back, between the child and herself. They rode away. I called out after them, but to no avail. I ran. I ran as fast as I possibly could, around the rocks and through the trees. I could see the horse ahead, but I could not gain ground. I noticed my dog was wagging her tail, enjoying the ride. I chased them through a shopping centre, pushing past shop assistants and customers. Up stairs, down stairs, around corners, in and out of buildings, but they were so fast and always ahead. Finally, I chased them right back to where the chase had begun: by the rock pool by the sea. The horse slowed and the woman alighted, bringing the child and my dog to the ground with her. I ran straight to her, gasping for breath, and hit her as hard as I could. 'You took my dog,' I cried. She looked surprised, but not hurt. 'I was just taking her for a ride', she said.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-92181929164921440172013-01-26T12:53:00.000+10:002013-01-26T12:55:11.474+10:00horse rideSitting astride a caramel horse, inside a community hall, waiting while other people readied themselves with their horses. My horse, impatient to run, suddenly cantered out the door into a field of long grass. I rode with my left hand high in the air, my right holding onto the saddle. I didn't have any reins. I steadied myself using my body weight and slowly brought down my left hand to join my right, gripping the saddle fast. I wondered about the horse's hooves striking something unforeseen in the grass - a snake, a rock, a hole - but the horse ran with confidence. I began to enjoy the ride, not knowing where we would go. We rode through the rain: a stone-grey sky against yellow grass. We approached a low-set, rambling wooden house and rode up the balcony stairs, through the front door, along the hall past the kitchen and came to a stop near a second balcony where my family was gathered. I felt pleased and liberated after the ride. I jumped off the horse and it trotted away, back outside, into the grass. I noticed the horse had left a small puddle on the timber floor, but I was not concerned. I simply cleaned it up.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-84019875898736195402012-12-17T09:16:00.000+10:002013-01-26T12:58:57.558+10:00money in the windI was sitting inside at a vast open window, looking out at people passing by while I sharpened coloured pencils. There must have been hundreds of pencils and I had to sharpen them all before I could draw. The bucket of pencil shavings was half-full and my sharpener was dull. For some reason, my wallet was sitting on the window sill and every so often money would flutter out and blow into the street - ten dollars, twenty dollars, fifty dollars. Each time, people made an effort to help catch my money and return it, but a few times the money was lost. Once, a dog snatched my money out of the air and ran away with it in his teeth.Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5278748024831962578.post-41183995673455898792012-12-17T09:11:00.000+10:002013-01-26T13:04:11.875+10:00swept awayI lived in a home with a small back deck, backing onto a river. The deck had no railing and it was perched only a few feet above the water. A friend visited us and she was wearing amazing clothing: a black and red pin-striped three-piece suit, long black high-heeled boots under her pants, and a black suede coat with an intricate cut-out pattern. For some reason, she changed her outfit and left her incredible clothes on the deck. The next day, I was on the phone with another friend, pacing about the house. As I walked past the glass doors leading to the deck, I realised that during the night the tide had risen and water had washed over the deck, sweeping away the clothing. I hung up the phone and, wearing all my clothes, dived off the back deck into the water. Under the water, I could see her pants here, a boot there, but also some eels - fat eels with pronounced eyes and each with pinkish frill along its body. At first I was afraid but soon I realised they were simply curious; they meant no harm. I even saw one swim through the glass doors into the living room and out again. I only vaguely thought about whether this meant there was water in the house. Surfacing to deposit clothing on the back deck or to breathe, I slowly retrieved all of my friend's beautiful clothing. The next day my friend returned. We walked onto the back deck and, again, no clothes. The tide had risen a second time and swept her clothes into the river. Fully clothed, I dived into the river, this time with my friend. Peering around under the water, we could see her clothing here and there; most pieces had travelled further down the river this time. I felt something bite my arm and, looking down, I saw a worm burrowing into my skin. I grabbed its tail between my fingers and pulled. Its body broke in two, but both pieces wriggled away through the water. It looked remarkably like the eel with a pink frill around its body, but with no eyes to speak of. Another worm bit then burrowed into my skin. For a moment I was horrified, but it reappeared in one piece, seemingly no harm done. Again, we retrieved my friend's clothing. I noticed the feel of the quality fabric and the cut of the garments as I fished them out of the water. Suddenly, there was no water; just a dry river bed. We walked along, away from the house, following the trail of clothing. I looked back to the house and could see a wall of water rushing toward us. 'Jump up', I called to my friend, and we jumped and found ourselves swept along by the water, but safe on its surface. Later, back on the deck, I worried about the remaining items of clothing we'd not been able to retrieve. 'Don't worry about it', said my friend. 'It's only clothes.'Christine Sharphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16698990816350855727noreply@blogger.com0