Adult Non Fiction - Winning Entries 2008
Warning: Some entries deal with adult themes. The reality of living with blindness and low vision can often raise complex issues that may be better understood by mature audiences.
First place: Sleep!
Author: Mark Enston (WA)
Damn! My talking clock says 4am. Too many years of playing music, bands, late nights and long daytime sleeps. Sleeping pills are no option. I feel sleep coming down but I am in need of a little proof. Sleep has taken much, but not all.
Morning or midday light filtered into the room through threadbare curtains. A big night, my tongue was a fish, my head throbbed and bed was the logical centre of the universe. I stretched and felt Deb beside me as I recalled last night. Sydney, Bondi, the Astra Hotel, live music, alcohol and Debbie giving me a couple of reds, or happy pills. I had two and Deb had a handful; she will sleep till next week. What did Deb need happy pills for? The mid-wife smacked her and she giggled. Last night she laughed hysterically when she saw I was wearing odd socks.
I curled up and nudged Debbie. My skin goosed and my breath stuck. Something was not kosher; something was rotten in an old share house in Bondi road. From the depths of my hangover I propped on my elbow and looked at the sleeping visage.
“Deb?”
I put my ear to her mouth; nothing!
“Debbie!” I screamed. “Debbie! Don’t do this to me!”
I rolled her over and, thank god, she breathed out. I melted with relief and was soaked with sweat and trembled. I shook her shoulder again when the breath was not followed by another. I screamed out to her house-mates and tried to pull her arms back for resuscitation. I was too late. I moved her arms but they were in quicksand; her body was already stiff. Karen and Charlene flew into the room as I listened for breathing. I had revived several heroin overdosees, but I was ignoring the logic which told me Debbie’s eighteenth birthday, next week, would be a wake. The head-shaking verdict of the ambulance guy was confirmed by the coroner two weeks later as death due to misadventure with secobarbital sodium and alcohol. Deb was never to vote.
Eleven years later, I walked back to my flat in Neptune Street, St Kilda, after a gig at the Prince of Wales. I bumped into a parking meter, my guitar fell out of its case and Helen laughed at my drunken antics. She did not know I’d sunk only two beers all night. I’d not seen the meter due to my advanced diabetic eye condition, but I laughed along with her; denial worked for me.
The morning Melbourne sun warmed my face through my threadbare curtains so I opened my eyes and stared into midnight. The last of my eyesight had snuck off in my sleep. I had known it was going to happen but I always thought it was something that happened to other people. I wasn’t in any pain so I sat up on my pillows and felt for my smokes. We’d had one before sleep came down last night and the sight of our breath coming out our noses and mouths had reassured me. I lit up and despite not being able to see the smoke, I could smell the air thicken as testimony that I was still breathing. Sleep had not robbed me of everything.
“Can I make some coffee?” asked Helen upon waking.
I was glad she offered to get up first because I was not about to get down on the floor and grovel around naked, feeling for my clothes, in front of somebody I only met last night. I told her the news.
“Blind?” she asked. “What do you mean by blind?”
“Blind blind,” I said. “Like I can’t-see blind.”
“You’ve got a black sense of humour Mark,” she said.
Her bracelets jingled as she waved her hand in front of my eyes.
“Quit it!” she screamed. “I’m not in the mood for joking; you’re frightening me Mark!”
Helen was a nurse and should have been used to this medical problem; diabetes is a common cause of blindness. I dealt with my blindness better than Helen but I had been forewarned and had probably been steeling myself for the past year during the gradual demise of my sight.
Eleven years later and I still fight sleep. I blow cigarette smoke toward the ceiling and smell it in the air, on my breath; I breathe! If you held a mirror up to my mouth, it would steam up; I’m alive! I squeeze the cigarette into the groove on the side of the ashtray and walk into my three year old daughter’s room. In the silence I hear the steady ebb and flow of her breath. My son, in the next room, mutters something in his sleep turns over and resumes his slumber. Bella, my Rottweiler guide-dog, growls at a rabbit she is chasing and continues her snoring from the lounge room. My clock says 4:30am.
My house breathes; beautiful! I breathe out loudly, smile and now, just maybe, I might risk a little rest, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep.
Equal Second place: Not yet an angel
Author: Janelle Colquhoun (QLD)
Sometimes I feel like the sole survivor of a plane crash. Around me lies debris, the injured, the dead. What went wrong? Why weren’t there more survivors? Was it the impact, the injuries, the fatigue, the battle?
My friends and I sauntered onboard, excited by the journey. We chose our seats. Some lazed by the windows in the sun, quaffed cognac, sucked fat cigars, ingested greasy fries, or like me, simply gazed at the horizon. Nothing could harm us, bad things happened to other people. But the jet engines faltered and we spiralled downwards.
My husband and I lay together crying, his arms offering strength but no security. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, we were supposed to grow old together. Why me? I’m not a smoker, drinker, asbestos worker, I don’t eat unhealthily or to excess, and I rarely go in the sun and when I do, like a sponge cake covered in cream. Why did cancer wrap her poisonous tentacles around my shoulders?
I boasted: “I can’t get cancer, it’s not diabetes-related!” A lifetime of diabetes resulted in blindness, nerve damage and kidney disease. The doctors presumed my latest symptoms were “just diabetes”. I was belligerent. They needed to investigate my difficulty swallowing, reflux, blocked sinuses, loss of appetite, upset stomach and burps so skanky a whiff would peel fresh paint.
In desperation I complained to my renal specialist: “I have spent 4 years waiting for a kidney and pancreas transplant, yet I will starve to death before I get it!”
“How about another endoscopy?” he indulged, patting my head.
The plane lurched, spilling drinks and sending me sprawling.
I was serene, drinking tea in the recovery room. The gastro specialist motioned toward his office.
“I’m right!” I declared, “There is something wrong? I haven’t imagined it?”
“No,” he answered, dry as dust, “You haven’t imagined it.” I heard him hesitate. He knew I was only 38. He knew his words would change my life. “You’ve got stomach cancer.”
The engines of the plane shuddered to a stop. The airstream turned the propellers noiselessly as we lost altitude, gliding slowly earthwards.
We were silent. What should we say? Thoughts skittered round my head like a caged rat scrabbling to escape. My husband gulped a breath: “Are you sure? Don’t you need to wait for the biopsy?”
“I’m sure. It’s cancer.”
He made phone calls, an appointment with the surgeon. No discussions, no time to think, we were spinning in a nosedive.
We were numb, shocked, scared, confused. Why me? Why now?
“Mum,” my voice cracked, “I’ve got cancer.” The words foreign, guttural. How do you tell family and friends? By email, phone call, letter, obituary? She spoke silence. What could she say? I began to sob, deep, breathless gasps.
However planes have lifejackets, oxygen masks, escape chutes, surely there is hope? I searched the Internet, perused cancer sites, browsed alternatives, scoffed the conspiracies, absorbed the gloomy prognosis and dissected a stomach removal operation. Horrendous!
The plane impacted. Fuselage, seats, baggage, bodies lay scattered and condemned. The surgeon was stunned. Patients accept his advice; they don’t challenge and argue.
“I don’t want an operation, it will destroy my kidneys, my voice. I have a career, plans, concerts to sing in Bermuda next month. I won’t cancel!”
So I held on, I fought. Passengers said I was inspirational. I felt I was a child battling in the trenches of Gallipoli with a water pistol.
I called my biochemist friend: “Greg. What can you do for stomach cancer?”
He prepared cordials with cancer-fighting ingredients. Broccoli ginger, an unpalatable mulled vegetable stock, kale ginger, a fruity green sludge, and ultimately his renowned Ginger Punch.
The surgeon thought I was crazy. He begged me to reconsider. “Without a full gastrectomy you’ll be dead in 3 to 12 months.”
“I’ll die if you operate. I’ll do it to spite you!”
The rescuers hadn’t arrived. Wounds festered, passengers starved, some surrendered. Stubbornly I refused. I was anaemic, haggard, vomiting and had beer brewing in my belly. I was sure the cancer had spread, her spindly grey fingers combing my body like spaghetti.
Except it was not the cancer. I had total kidney failure, I needed dialysis.
“Cancer patients aren’t eligible for dialysis. You won’t celebrate another Christmas.”
I survived eleven months until the rescuers arrived. I was withered, yet composed and calm as blue water. Now it was surgery or death. No more battle, no alternatives, the kidneys had decided.
“I’m amazed you’ve survived. The cancer hasn't spread.”
They wheeled me in the theatre, sterile as a foil-wrapped Mentos.
“I googled you,” the anaesthetist announced, pricking my vein with sleep, “You’re a good singer.”
“Yeah, and I hope to be afterwards.” I handed the surgeon my cd: “Please be careful.”
John, Francis, Jann, Herb, Lee, Marilyn, Ken, Pappy. Lung, breast, tongue, prostate, skin, bone, liver, bowel. We were on the same flight, whispered the same prayers. They succumbed, I survived.
I stabbed at my fortieth birthday cake, made my wish.
“Two years cancer free,” they promised, “Then maybe you can re-join the transplant waiting list.”
Time advanced like a glacier. Would they ever put me back on that list? Without a transplant, I couldn’t survive.
The transplant team were adamant: “You can’t fight cancer on immunosuppressives. You can’t fight anything. We must be sure.”
There were tests, so many bloody tests. “Abnormal nodes near your liver. The PET and ultrasound inconclusive. You’ll need a colonoscopy.” I researched, I self-diagnosed bowel cancer. No!!! I can’t go through it all again, I’ll sing with my friends.
But I was cancer-free. The choir of angels wasn’t ready for me yet.
They gave me a second chance. Two new organs.
Now I stare down the runway, waiting to take-off on another journey. I take the aisle seat, careful to stay out of the sun forever. I’ve been warned, a transplant means skin cancer for nearly all transplant recipients. Still, I’m a survivor and I won’t miss my flight.
Equal Second place: When East is East
Author: Gwenyth Simcoe (VIC)
Life in Burma had accustomed us to strange requests from the household staff", some Indian, some Burmese, but when our Derwen or night watchman begged time off 'to walk the fire' we were stunned.
"Ask him why", we said to Burmese nannie who, on many occasions, proudly interpreted our English into an assortment of Burmese dialects or, as in this instance, into Hindi. It was a lengthy and voluble discussion before she was satisfied with the explanatory facts. "Recently", she said, "Derwen's no. 1 son was very ill. So ill in fact that Derwen promised his God he would 'walk the fire' in gratitude if the boy survived. Now he wishes to fulfill his promise".
Derwen seemed little more than a child himself. At twenty he looked fifteen, although he was already the father of two. He was a good looking ever-smiling boy, conscientious and proud of his job of guarding us against insurgents who roamed at night. He scarcely appeared the type to express religious fervour by the barbaric act of fire-walking. However, permission was given for leave to cover the necessary preparation time and we received in return an earnest request to come and see him discharge his commitment.
For six days the participants lived in isolation under the guidance of venerable Hindu leaders of this rite. They fasted, with the exception of a little milk, while contemplation, meditation, prayer chanting and drum beating transported them, in their weakened state, to a non-feeling euphoria, neither hypnosis or trance.
The day of the ceremony arrived. To be less conspicuous as Europeans we chose to walk with the mass of spectators to the designated area on the outskirts of Rangoon city. The occasion surpassed the festivity of any religious festival we had ever witnessed.
Vivid Indian saris and Burmese longhis blazoned in the hot sun, gold and silver jewellery flashed with the movement of its wearers; all vying in gaiety with the many coloured hibiscus and orchids in the glossy dark hair of the chattering, excited throng. Food sellers shouted their wares from stalls set up under the shade of flame trees lining the route. Flower sellers with deft fingers threaded frangipani and the orange marigold, emblem of the Hindu faith, into garlands worn by men and women alike. The spicy smell of curried foodstuffs mingled with the heady perfume of exotic tropical flowers and burning incense, to hang in the stifling, dusty heat.
The ever increasing throb of the drum-beat signaled the proximity of our destination until rounding a bend in the road we sighted a clearing. The green of the rice paddy was split by a shimmering glow. Like a red wound in the scorched earth the fire stretched its frightening forty feet.
The humidity and temperature we had so far experienced, both nearing 100 seemed reasonable compared to the searing blast of furnace-like heat which hit us as we neared to take up position.
Wrinkled grey-bearded Indians clad in loin cloths meticulously raked the coals, ensuring an even surface which hopefully would prevent stumbling. They stopped at frequent intervals to drink and to dipper a shower of water onto their sweat-glistening bodies and smouldering rakes. When from long experience they deemed the fire ready, the hot coals were doused, turning the red pit into a hissing white-hot hell and the shimmering heat haze above it into a steaming, smoky inferno.
Grouped at one end were the walkers. Some stood as in a trance; ash painted, flower garlanded, still. Others moved in a frenzied shaking, chanting gibberish in time with the incessant drum rhythm. Many carried pictures of family or Gods on a metal framework supported by arrows pierced through thick folds of skin on chest or back, or cheek to cheek. The drums increased to a last frantic crescendo. Wonder, horror and apprehension filled our minds.
Abruptly the noise ceased and the crowd’s subsequent silence gave way to a unified gasp. The first participant was in his way. On his shoulders he carried a small child. He was prepared, the child was not and we shared the anguish and fear of the terrified boy as his father staggered the long white-hot walk. One after another they came, men and a few women, mostly calm but occasionally in an advanced state of uncontrollable hysteria. Those whose movements predicted danger from a fall were bodily restrained by the wise old men whose experienced judgment prevented possible death.
We awaited with dread the appearance of Derwen; our connection with him suddenly assuming a family attachment in our abhorrence of his ordeal. Draped with marigold garlands and carrying his son's photograph, he approached and with serene calmness he slowly walked his tortuous path.
That evening Derwen returned to his job. He conveyed to us that he was a little tired but blissful happiness had restored his broad smile. He had no recollection of his experience and his feet were completely unmarked by the fire. Yet we still carried in our minds the vivid colour of the scene; the sounds of chanting, wailing and cries of children; the smell of sweltering bodies, dust and burning incense. Above all was the never to be forgotten revulsion and awe of what we had witnessed.
'East is east and west is west' had been demonstrated once again. Our enquiries into this spiritual and medical enigma met with many theories but no feasible explanation. Firewalking like many eastern rites remains the inexplicable hereditary mysticism of another race.
Honorable Mention: Beyond Post-Modernism
Author: Michael Hunt (NSW)
Yesterday I received a bit of a shock when I went to my usual sandwich shop and asked for my usual sandwich – pesto and smoked salmon on linseed sourdough.
“We don’t make those any more,” said the kid behind the counter. “Nobody asks for that these days.”
“So what’s in at the moment,” I enquired.
“Sauerkraut and rat-milk cheese on sun-dried lentil–bread, garnished with the outer leaves of a cabbage.”
So I ordered one. Who was I to argue? This kid has a Masters degree in business management. Most kitchen-hands do these days. But I was suspicious, so I asked him how long this new concoction had been in vogue.
“Heaps long,” he replied.
But I persisted. “Exactly when did you make the first one?”
“Was it Monday arv?” he pondered, “or Tewsdy moorning?”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I don’t really want to know.”
I just can’t keep up with it any more. The pace of Post-Modernism is so frenetic everything seems to become obsolete almost before it’s been invented. For example: for most of the last century we used record players to listen to music, supplemented later on by the amazing new cassette player. But in the last decade, we’ve been confronted with CDs, Digital Audio Tapes, mini-discs, MP3, DVD and ipod.
I don’t really want to live in a mud hut or grow my own wheat using a pointed stick as a plough, but everything’s changing so fast I’m spending most of my time working for the money to buy new technology. Then my spare time is used up shopping, reading the instruction manuals of my ‘revolutionary new device/ appliance/ whatever’, and trying to read the tiny black insignia on the black buttons thereon.
So I never really use any of it. I don’t have enough time. My ancient Celtic ancestors living in their mud huts probably had a lot more leisure time on their hands. They were very lucky, in some respects. But I reckon there were a few who sat shivering through winter in their unwashed sheepskins, longing for another bowl of turnip soup, who wished they knew how to generate electricity and design computer games.
None of us really want to go back to mud huts and pointed sticks, but why does everything have to change so quickly? Just look at what’s happened in music. Classical music lasted for centuries; at least some of the symphonies did. But then, fortunately, along came jazz. It was popular for fifty years, until Louis Jordan (and others) invented rock’n’roll. Great, but in the seventies, just when things were developing nicely, something happened.
The earliest beginning of current Post-Modernism can be traced to flared trousers. Almost immediately we were hit with Disco, Punk and Reggae. Hard on their heels came Acid Rock, New Wave, Fusion and Heavy Metal. It became hard work keeping up with the innovations, but it was good practice for full-blown Post Modernism. Now a new genre is invented nearly every day. This week we’re listening to Techno-rap, Ska-punk, and Funk-Metal. Last week it was Grunge, Dub-reggae and Hip-hop. Next week it will be something else.
But even Post-Modernism has to go out of fashion soon, so here are a few pointers I downloaded from my brand new Fujitsu Digital Crystal Ball.
Food: A single species of genetically-modified fungus will be grown by computer-operated machinery. It will satisfy all our dietary requirements and nothing else, unless you like the taste of rotten fish and seaweed. It will be mashed, deep-fried, and sold from the drive-in take-away outlets of a single multinational corporation. Those without cars will be fed from troughs distributed around their ghettoes.
Music, Art and Cinema: The rush to dub shorter and shorter fragments of earlier work will result in songs being assembled from samples of previous versions of the same song, which in their turn were sampled from previous versions, and so on. Roll over Beethoven, and again.
Art and cinema are also traveling down the same path, and will just as surely plummet over the edge sometime soon. We can look forward to films constructed from millisecond cuts taken from old films, combined with some ‘new footage’ (to be called ‘millimetrage’) consisting of advertising and close-ups of the Director’s cat’s bum.
Social Security: This will be phased out and replaced with ‘Responsible, pro-active, needs-based technical solutions’. (See reference to troughs, under Food.)
The Environment: Everyone will simply give up. Despite the realities of global warming, nobody on earth wants to do without spa-baths, four-wheel-drives or battery operated toothbrushes. Nothing will change until the last drop of oil has been burnt and the last nuclear power station has blown itself to pieces. So we can all stop worrying about it. Australians will all be living along the east coast and using the regions west of the Great Divide as a toxic waste dump. Sunsets will be fantastic.
The World: A resurgent America will enjoy a ‘bombing-led recovery’, selectively aiding one faction against another, until every poor country has disintegrated. They will then establish ‘military protectorates’ over Asia, Africa and South America to ensure the flow of cash into America at levels nominated by the US Reserve. Thus will the world be made safe from the ‘Enemies of America’, until President George Bush III accidentally detonates America’s entire nuclear arsenal while playing a computer game with his senile father.
Yes, the blurry outlines of whatever will succeed Post-Modernism can already be discerned in my crystal ball. But what are we going to call it? We’ve already had Futurism and the New Age. How about Post-Modernism II – The Sequel? Or maybe it will be like a pre-war period, eventually known by whatever follows it - perhaps the Pre-Dingo-Worshipping Period.
I just hope it isn’t going to be the Pre Mutant-Vampire-Cockroach-Interlude, or the Pre-Comet-Collision Catastrophe. My crystal ball didn’t tell me that, but I’ll find out. I’m going to trade it in on the new squillion-megabyte, hyper-screen, satellite-dish model when it comes out next week.