Why Do We Dream About Flying

Little children, big children, little people, big people 

Adults…

Want to fly

Because flying might be beautiful 

Because flying might be free 

Because it’s hard to do in a silly tight dress 

So you might not wear one and just flutter 

About in feathers and skin 

Why do people dream about flying?

Because looking down from up high

the view is wider 

the view is breathtaking 

the scene is connected 

the puzzle is more whole. 

Why do people dream about flying? 

Because they don’t have real wings 

But sometimes it would be quite handy 

To flee in a hurry 

Or to meet love with something

More tangible than a metaphor. 

Why do we talk about angels and clouds 

And beautiful flying geese  

with the moon on their wings? 

Because the sky is so blue 

And the stars are so bright 

It might be nice to get a closer 

Glimpse at all of that. 

Why do people dream of flying 

All by themselves in such a wide shape 

Though we start life curled and knotted in tight?

Because it is a dance 

Because it is visible 

Because it is honoured 

By most 

And remembered

By most as daring and beautiful 

And oh so free-willed 

And sometimes brave 

And independent.

Why do people dream of flying so? 

Because they can’t fly 

And sometimes can’t 

Isn’t as bad as having every can 

In the whole world 

Until you turn into greed 

And silly kinds of plagiarisms

And inventions to look like 

A star that got lodged in 

An Instagram war with 

A set of wings made for 

Somebody else. 

Why do we dream of flight? 

Why do we talk of capes? 

Why do we write of avian human hybrids? 

Why did Di Vinci fixate on it? 

Because it was just out of reach 

Because it is a free ride 

With your eyes closed 

Because growing up doesn’t mean 

Letting go of a psychedelic joyride 

Into creating something 

With your own imagination 

Because it’s unlikely 

And unlikely feels better than a routine

Even if your head keeps making routines 

And then one day you meet someone 

Who knows how you feel 

And the surprise makes way for 

Flight. 

Why do our minds take flight? 

Because they can. 

The Track Winding Back

This is a story that happens to be true. It’s a story forgotten by myself and then remembered. It is the story of three people and a story that became retold in all of the wrong ways. It is a story not many people would care to believe. It is the story that most people didn’t choose to believe in. It is the story of a stolen story but it’s still ours so I’m going to write what I remember today. It is a story that makes me smile. It is a story that makes me angry. It is a story of love and loss and feeling proud. People use the word proud as though it’s candy. What I mean to say is that it can sound kind of sickly sweet to bandy the word around all over the sales pitch of life or in the quest for self approval. Even so when I remember the Pollywoodside I feel proud, well not about all of it, but yeah some of it makes me proud. 

I met this young man in the church where I was taken every week growing up. I was in my teens when first I shook his hand. His name was Jack. He had a rare condition made famous by that old flick The Elephant man. He didn’t much like the film though. Who really wants to be called the elephant man anyway? I always hated the ritual of shaking hands in church to give the sign of peace. For me it felt forced. I didn’t always know the family beside or behind even though they may have frequented the church from week to week. I was a private person really inside. When I reached out to shake Jack’s hand he didn’t offer anything. Even though I hated the sign of peace I was offended by his refusal at first. Later he would tell me I was treating him like a charity case and that he could see right through me from the start. He was kind of surly at first, quick witted, a little dark, a little shy and even a bit annoying. Later I would tell him that he had beautiful hands and that it was a selfish decision to sit in front of him in church because I wasn’t keen on shaking the hands of hairy old men that might happen to be sitting next to me. The real reason I shook his hand is because I was feeling very sad inside on that particular day and his eyes seemed to match mine. It had nothing to do with charity and only to make a connecting point with someone who might understand. It took a long time before Jack would believe me. The world then wasn’t at all welcoming of people like Jack. It’s better now, though I still see the gaps like a gaping rotten dent in society. I still see there’s all kinds of ways in which we favour the kinds of stereotypes that pushed Jack into a dark room and a lonely little space at first. 

This is the story of Jack and a character we wrote about called rose and a beautiful river. This is the story of music, ah sweet music, oh rock and roll and a synthesized beat with a groove that might make a dent in that feeling of a humdrum ground hog day. This is the story of us. It wasn’t for sale.  It wasn’t to be exploited. This is the story of big boats to dream of and smaller boats like home. This is the story that makes me miss Jack and love him even more. This is a story of the song I used to sing to him, There’s a track winding back to an old fashioned shack…. Even though he never did live in Gundadagai  or Hollywood either. 

It came to pass that I ended up in Jack’s room with my boyfriend. He was a huge Janis Joplin fan which had something to do with a story from years before. This is not that story but I might tell it one day, you never know. Let’s just say, Jack was a fan of Joplin and so was I. The first song he played was “Take Another Little Piece of my Heart” on a cassette tape. I love that song. The raspy full imperfectly rock and roll gravel of Janis is something to behold, that’s what we always said. Jack told me he would lie in his room and play out another life in dreams with Janis. It was the life of Janis and Jack, Jack without the disease. Just Jack. We decided to make a play or movie script about it. We kind of bantered around the storyline and I was for a long time obsessed with the story of the Titanic and wanted to feature that true tale of old somewhere or somehow in my own way. That was because a student teacher who had come to my school in grade six, literally knocked me for a six in a good way with her beautiful youthful zest for theatre. We turned our classroom into the Titanic and were allowed to choose a character for a full reinactment. I chose a maid called Maise even though Miss Grundy said I should choose a lady since I was the one most enthusiastic about the whole project and may as well take advantage of being served sandwiches and tea. I said that she would be a lady called Rose. I would be Maise so as to get to meet those from top deck and bottom. I explained that the part would offer me more versatility. I remember crying for a week when Miss Grundy left after her term placement in our school. She was so much fun and grew in me an even greater love of drama and theatre. I was that kind of kid, emotional, romantic and well….yes a bit dramatic, but still kind of private too. 

From memory, with Jack and myself and my boyfriend we decided as a compromise to have three stories running alongside each other, the story of Jack and Janis in the 70s and the story of Jack and Rose on the Titanic and then there was the true story of Jack, myself and my boyfriend somewhere sliced in between all of that.  In my head, or possibly our combined thoughts, it’s hard to recall who wanted what so many years later, It was meant to be an offbeat kind of montage of heavily edited and layered film to challenge that kind of realism you might see in most twee, do-gooder  films about people with “disabilities.” 

My boyfriend at the time was kind of headstrong in a gentle way, if that makes sense, about finding a way to at least realise a play reading of this story we made. It took so much convincing to get Jack out of his room. We wrote some music for the piece about Jack and Rose and a heart that would go on forever and matched to this kind of slightly over sentimental motif a kind of acoustic version of Joplins Heart Again so as to shake up the boat and not put people to sleep with being too cornball about love and all of that. The acoustic version of Take another little piece of my heart was actually, in the end the nicest arrangement I’ve heard and it had nothing to do with my input only to say I did drown into the loveliness of it for a while and pop up for air with the rock parts that still remained around the edges. 

The story of how we got to perform on the Pollywoodside is a little long and hard to tell now but we did and only to a small crowd. I didn’t care about the size of the crowd. I was proud of Jack ebcasue he chickened out at the end but went on at the last minute. When he stretched his arms out at the head of the pollywoodside with us as a three, that kind of flying isn’t easy to come by. I felt free. 

Afterwards we decided to celebrate and went to a little café near the Arts centre called the Trebble Cleff. It often had a pianist playing classical music and was nostalgic for me in more ways than one. When we went to take a table we were refused entry because of Jack. It’s a true story believe it or not. It wasn’t one of my finest moments then because I recall losing my marbles and parading Jack around and asking everyone if they might not mind having Jack in the place. This made Jack embarrassed and angry with me a little If I recall correctly. Later I admitted it wasn’t just about Jack, that is was about me too. I had an eating disorder at the time and being hungry makes people a bit crazed. I recall screaming at some poor elderly man;

“Guess what he’s a freak and Im a freak and you’re a freak for being too old to matter anymore according to the rest of the world, so let’s just get along OK. “

We ended up somewhere or other eating fish and chips, that I didn’t eat anyway holding hands in a park. It wasn’t perfect. It’s a beautiful memory though. It’s still our story. I’m glad that I could remember him finally again, though he’s gone, somehow a track wound me back  to him, in my dreams, eventually. 

Ps 

Oh I forgot to mention, that Jack began writing his own music too, synthesised kinds of beats. He was hugely talented. He died in his twenties. He’s one of my heroes for real but he’d hate that kind of corny talk and I’d just say too bad, I’m saying it anyway. And he’d just say, hold my hands again and you can say anything you please. 

Hannah

I remembered a girl I knew many years ago a few nights ago in my dreams. When I woke up the realisation that I actually knew this girl, now a gorgeous woman struck me, not like lightening but like rain, as beautiful and life giving and sometimes sad as it is or wild as it is or as sweet or angry or delicate or full and curved or crystal clear or pelting down real loud to say “HEY, I’m here, I’m a voice and I’m me.”  

I’m going to tell this story because it’s part of mine and in case this lady might come across it one day. I hope that’s ok. I mean everything I’ve done with good intention. I knew a few girl’s called Hannah. It’s a lovely name. I always thought so. It means grace. You might not think of this Hannah in words like grace but that’s because some people don’t know what grace means. Grace can mean many different kinds of ways of being graceful. It doesn’t just mean you might sit around sipping tea looking like a Princess. It might mean that in the face of other people’s dis- “grace” you stay true, make a mark and stick to your own ideals or goals. Hannah was living with some people near to my house. There was more to the story that I didn’t remember  at the time, that I now do remember, which is a whole other story that I cannot yet tell. I’m hoping one day to do that. I was closer to Hannah than I realised but I started to know Hannah as a friend. We both liked to dance. Hannah is a beautiful dancer. There are many ways to be beautiful. It doesn’t always mean dancing on your toes though it can. She was beautiful in that way of feeling the beat, holding onto the floor with her heart right down to the ground, in a tight way, then a free way, all her own way. But she wanted to learn some steps for a while. Yeah, she had Down Syndrome so finding a class for her was, back then, near impossible. It struck me as rude, downright strange and frankly revolting that anyone needed to be convinced about Hannah. We found one alongside people who didn’t have Down Syndrome. She was a decidedly gorgeous match to music. Music and Hannah were a match made in Hannah. Years later I saw her performing. She was like rain and the feeling after rain, she was like light and the feeling of the night too. She was intriguing. She was not a diva in the annoying sense. She was a fever, that kind of good fever you might get on the dance floor when you’re not too afraid of the floor or the air. She was Hannah all grown up. I was impressed. Discovering I knew her before, only now makes me feel all the more impressed because she’s come along way, but she’s still Hannah, brave and beautiful and bold. 

I went to see her perform in a show and then outside near the water. She was worried about her costume the second time. The second outing was set up by a man I work with performs with her. He had insisted I come along because he wanted it to be about Hannah, he wanted me to see Hannah again. The costume was made of plastic.  She didn’t want to wear the costume and had asked for a different costume. In such contrast to her reality, her humanity, her willingness to bravely go where many had not gone, to forge a path forwards for others like her, I had commented that whatever she did and whatever she wore could never remove the genuine and fine woman she had become. I was proud then to have met Hannah and had the chance to see her shine. Some people are meant to dance. That’s Hannah. She’s the true Dancing Queen that woman. I only wish I’d got an autograph.