Open Writing

I’m sitting in my house on a wet cold day wondering why nothing is happening.

Nothing’s going to happen. It’s like being a spider in a bucket. You just sit there and wait.

What am I going to do about it? Maybe nothing. I’ll go inside myself, into a parallel universe, where I’m another me.

In this other universe, I have a gift of healing and a sound knowledge of local plants and their properties.

My assistant is a Noongar girl, Jackie, who was educated at New Norcia and whose mother was an authority on herbal lore.

When a new mother could not produce a milk flow, Jackie’s mother used to give her as an astringent the leaves from a local native plant, which stimulated rivers of milk. The next problem was to make it stop.

“Don’t make it stop,” the mother would advise. “Or you’ll get pregnant again.”

Jackie drives me around in her four-wheel drive. I sit in the front with her, and listen to Noongar radio. I’m white outside but black inside. What the aboriginals call a flour bag, as distinct from a coconut – a deadly insult to another black, saying that despite his appearance he’s white inside.

I’ve always been interested in insults. They make good reading.

“May your woman’s pubic hair turn into fish hooks,” was a famous Arab one I heard once.

Or a Scottish one, “ may your unshriven soul shrivel and squirm on the hot hob of hell.” That’s one for those who like alliteration.

A more sinister, modern Chinese curse is “May you live in interesting times.”

So I’m wandering along the banks of the creek with Jackie collecting swamp wort, an arthritis cure, when she reaches across my waist and stops me.

“What?” I ask.

She points to the path ahead, where, coiled in the sun on the banks of the creek lies a large tiger snake.

“I have no use for it” I say.

“Silly,” she says. “That’s a good luck sign. The snake is my totem.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask.

“Show respect,” she says. “He recently lost his partner and is grieving.”

I don’t know how she knows these things. We step off the path and walk around the snake. The bush suddenly comes alive. Birds call. The country looks like fairy land with little flowers sprung up everywhere. More interestingly, there are spider orchids, donkey orchids, cowslip orchids and monkshood. Nature’s precious pharmacy. Unfortunately, I had to look up that spelling and the spell broke. I’m back in my bucket like the spider. With a heavy sigh, I reach for a clean glass and the bottle of brandy. For me some things never change.