Stunned Mullet...

... for Knots in the String.

I’m a stunned mullet – a person who is completely and utterly stunned, amazed, dazed or otherwise stonkered. A classic piece of Aussie slang from the 1950s. (A mullet is an Australian species of fish, and stunning fish before despatching is common practice amongst fishermen.)

This last week the world continues to spin toward black holes and dark shadows so yes, I’m … stunned. There are so many expletives that spring to mind, but it does nothing except tie one further into knots.

Besides, I live as I’ve oft said, on a tiny island which is a speck of dolomite in the vast Southern Ocean. For the explorers amongst us, it’s 42 degrees south latitude. It’s far from the madding crowd, from the USA, Russia, Ukraine, Gaza, China, North Korea and any other of the boiling pots in the world. And yet, how far is far enough? Patently not far enough as news seeps through and I hear my global friends’ anxieties. So what to do?

My Canadian friend, Sue, had the perfect idea. It defused my week and I asked her if I could pilfer the idea as there’s no doubt there’s a need for joy.

My most favourite things are soul-deep – my family, my coast, the ocean, my late Terrier, The Pup, my kindred spirits and my gardens. Somehow, with international political developments, things of importance are refined and defined. But nevertheless, I wander and find some tangible things that matter to my heart.

There are two oil paintings on the wall. They possibly date from the 1920’s and are of Tasmanian coastal landmarks. One is Cape Pillar and the other, a coastal beach on the Tasman Peninsula . I love the paintings not just because they portray the alternate moods of the coast, but because they’ve been in my family since the 1920’s. I suspect they were part of a barter during tough times. My grandfather was a funeral director, and it was not unusual for loved ones to pay for the funeral service and burial of their kin with goods when money was tight. Whoever painted these had soft hands, a good eye and was an instinctive colourist. I think of the artist and wonder, ‘Did you suffer during The Great Depression? Was this payment to Pa for the burial of your wife or husband, perhaps even your child?’ I wish I knew the provenance of the artwork.

Further, I find a Murano paperweight my son bought me whilst he was in Venice. When I look deep into the millefiori, it stirs my imagination. So much that in 2012, a fantasy novel titled A Thousand Glass Flowers was published. It became an award winner and a best seller on Amazon that year and it was rather thrilling.

Onward, and on a bookshelf are two rare pieces of brick from the 19^th century from Tasmanian east coast convict-built structures. The arrows are the convicts’ own marks. I look at them and take joy in the fact that men who had been transported from Britain for a crime as small as stealing a loaf of bread to survive, were able to make their mark. To say, ‘I made these. I am, despite it all, a maker of beautiful buildings. In my own way and despite the colonial government, I’m the master of me and my destiny.’

The other small fragment was sent to me by my much-missed French researcher, the late Brian Cobb. It’s from a French 12^th century Templar commanderie which featured in The Gisborne Saga. Brian inveigled his way into the privately-owned premises and was taken on a tour and whilst in the yard, found this small fragment for me.

I touch it and I think of the Knights Templar, that lofty military order founded to protect Christian penitents travelling to and from Jerusalem. The templars are featuring in a further hist fict that’s currently in hiatus while I write a contemporary fiction.

Another piece that sparks immense pride is a handmade artist’s box with two artist’s books within. Some years ago, myself, a doctor and a lawyer took two developers to local council, then to a state tribunal to prevent them building large private jetties over a significant piece of river beach in Orford where I live.

It took the three of us two years of research and argument and eventually, despite much money being thrown from the developers, we won our case. Thanks to a small estuarine weed that is under threat. I suspect the decision in our favour creates a legal precedent for future protection. But just in case, for the rest of my life I’m on watch to save that little piece of beach and its seaweed.

The box and its books were a gift from my daughter, a talented ‘book and paper’ artist. She tailored the piece to my history but also made similar books for the doctor and the lawyer in celebration of a win for the little man against monied men of no principle. (Now, isn’t there a message there?)

As I walk from room to room, there are things that spark love, joy – all the memorable things in life and I think on these words from The Great Gatsby: "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." Perhaps it was said in a negative sense in Gatsby, but I see it as me rowing hard against a strong, even vicious current, back to times of significance, where inspiring stories were told and brave men and women birthed families who could carry the stories onward against the odds…

Music for this week? Very difficult. Mullet, fish, sea shanties, tough men sailing against the odds? It’s a metaphor for all of us who are on turbulent waters just now.

And just to let you know, writing this and listening to the music, I feel less like a stunned mullet than an hour ago.