Just a Pile of Rocks

I suppose a few rocks piled one on top of the other would have no significance to anyone really. Just some fools monument that has no meaning to anyone. But these stood as a memorial of a time nearly 26 years ago when I would share the last few days with a good friend.

I first saw this memorial on the way to a school camp. We had to walk to the camp as the bus we rode could not cross the ferry. I walked with my mate some distance to the camp where we would spend the week for school. It was about this time that I was first developing my love of photography and would carry a camera everywhere I went. On the walk and barely stopping I spotted this monument and took a snap. At the time it amused me that someone would take the time to stack a pile of rocks in such a fashion. I knew the picture would not turn out so great but to my surprise it did, though I always promised myself that I would go back some day and take a better one.

Just a few days after that camp, my good friend died in a car accident. It would be the fist time that I would feel the weight of a coffin as a pall bearer but sadly not the last. I remember getting the pictures back and showing my friend and we both agreed that one day we would take the trip together and do it again. Sadly that will never happen but, Andrew, I kept my part of the deal.

I met the son of the owner today and he took the time to show me the camp. He told me that it was his grandfather that had erected the pile of stones. He told me that stones had no significance other than to be a decoration. It is funny how they look so much smaller than I remember them. As I walked, I saw the shack we stayed in as well as the hall. All I could see was a young boy sitting in the spot smiling and sharing jokes, a young boy that would never grow old. Even after all this time and nothing to go on but a memory, I found those rocks.

I went to a bar and had a few drinks and my mind dwelled on how circumstance had brought me to a place so near these rocks. I reflected how life can bring you so close to keeping a promise but keep you distracted enough not keep it. But today I kept that promise.

The Wog

To those who are not familiar with the term “Wog”, it is a colloquial term for someone who is an immigrant to Australia, and can be extended to the children of said people. It is usually a derogatory term used to express bigotry toward your heritage. It is in some way, a way to make you feel inferior to those who were born here and have blood lines that extend to England. Due to my olive skin, brown eyes and black hair, I am branded with this title form time to time. My father is an immigrant and my grandparents on my mother’s side did too. Had I not inherited the Mediterranean complexion, and more the “Arian” of my mother’s side, people would not have a clue to my heritage. It is usually during the winter months that I find trouble as I still appear tanned.

When growing up as a child I was feared to be deaf because I didn’t speak. It was ruled out because I would do as I was asked. However, I would be asked to do things in three different languages, all of which I still understand and two of which I can speak fluently now. With immigrant parents you are exposed to cultures that extend for thousands of years. They are the product of them, passed down by countless generations but you are on your own. You don’t belong to one or the other and have to find a compromise to satisfy all of them, a perpetual world of understanding without belonging and continually judged on things that were not of your choosing.

I had been recently called a “Wog”. The distaste of this label was exasperated by the person calling me it. Here I was confronted by a person that had not worked a day in their life. Their only claim to being Australian was the fact that they had been born here and had family ties to convicts. A person who had health issues because of their obesity and lifestyle. A person who’s self obsession is their self and that everyone around them is inferior to them. I get called this, when this person knows, I have represented and served for this country. I have worn its uniform and stood accountable with my life for it. I have earned everything I have ever owned and my title of being Australian.

The Ideal is Love

I am not here to give any definitive answer on what love is, only to say that it is an ideal and as in all ideals it is flawed. It is something that people try to achieve without really knowing what it is. Having said that I write this in reaction to be called homophobic without anyone knowing what my views on the subject really is. So I write it hear and say that they are the thoughts form my point of view. I respect that yours may differ but allow me the respect to voice mine.

There is definite distinction between what “love” is perceived as and sex. Some may use sex as a way of communicating love while others may use it as a “sport and others have a combination of the two. I accept all of the above. I accept all of the above regardless of whether if is of mixed gender of same gender.

I think love as a beautiful thing that is shared between two people; I also accept that it comes in many forms. I believe it to be an ideal that two people share and strive to achieve. It is a subjective ideal that the two share and in that regard is beyond any judgment. I don’t have a problem with two people being of the same sex striving for that ideal.

Having said that, the only problem with homosexual groups is that they are formed on their preference on “bed fellows”. It has the same relevance to me as choosing the chicken or the beef. If a person has a preference to one over the other, what difference is it to what I choose? There are those that will have an appetite for both. Using this image, I may not like having the opposite to my appetite being presented on my plate but that has nothing to do with who is eating the chicken or the beef. What a person has an appetite for has nothing do with me because I will choose my preferred dish. I demand the respect of having my choice just as I accept you having yours.

I now stand by what I said above. It is my subjective point of view. I accept that yours many differ and accept that. But as to labeling me as a homophobic, having said my mind, I would ask who has the problem?

The Journey

I have long professed that life is not about the destination but the journey. That along the way you can find some things of beauty that would otherwise be insignificant. Sometimes it is worth just taking the time out along the way or turning your head while you walk to just enjoy the view, even to stop every once and a while to breath. Beauty can be all around you sometimes if you take the time to see it.

Mr. GPS

There seems to be a phenomenon happening in front of my house. I think that there must be an antenna stuck on top of my head that gives it away. I think that I have mistaken for a mobile GPS. Even in a street full of people, a lost person seems to choose me to ask for directions. Even people driving by seem to do it too. I am wondering if my love of maps is written on my face. Give me a map and compass and I am in my element.

Celebrating Pointlessness

I would like to see the rule book that states that I have love football just because of my sex. To take that a step further, any ball sport. I have no fondness for them what so ever and see them as pointless. Is it because I have balls that I have to have some sympathetic tie to them? I just don’t see the point. It is not that I don’t like sport, quite the contrary; it is just that I like things that have a point to them, where some value can be derived from the effort. In the case of football, I can only see the value as training better shop lifters, where you take an item and try to dodge those trying to arrest you. But that is almost honorable because there is a point to effort and the prize is the stolen good. In the case of “game”, you have stupid rules governing how you can handle the ball and how to arrest the progress of the one carrying it. Then if they are injured, the news is littered with poor overpaid player. Don’t even get me started on soccer.

Scar Tissue

Any patch, on any repair, requires the addition of extra material to cover and protect the wounded area. The result of such a repairs results in a toughening of the compromised area so it will not fail again or cause failure to the unit is a part of. No matter how much integrity the wounded area once had it is now a point of weakness. The patch is a physical display of where the wound is and an area that may need defending. The same can said of emotions, even if there is no physical patch that you can see.

In male culture, it is unmanly to show signs of weakness. Exposing your vulnerabilities is something that is not done. Live long enough and you will find someone that you can think you can confide in you can expose your weakness too in the name of honesty. For a man with any honor, truthfulness is a high quality that they try to live up to. If lucky he would have chosen the right person and never have his weakness used against him. If not he feels compelled to suffer the anguish alone while giving the appearance of being unscathed.

If you get into a conversation with such a man you will find that he picks up on certain things, a look, a reaction. All of a sudden he appears to be very insightful into emotional pain which surprises since he appears bulletproof. What he has done is pick up on something he feels like he wants to do but is compelled not too. His insights are based on his own experience and he has milled over on his own to find a way out. Males who don’t find that way out see death as their only release. Statistically males are more prone to suicide. For those who have been emotionally destroyed, there is no experience sharing because to do that would be to expose the wound but they are very mindful of seeing it in others. The trick is trying to approach those males without them losing face of compromising their manliness.

If you are bless with their admission of weakness they are displaying a level of trust in you that is beyond all measure. During this process you will find them asking weird questions which, on face value, appear to be confusing. What is being done is an assessment of how much value they are too you. They are defending that wound now covered in scar tissue. At that moment they are admitting they are human.