I have been absent a while, haven’t I? For that I’m so sorry and please, I ask that you read and accept this blog as a rather poor attempt to both apologise and explain why before I beg your forgiveness and let you know that I’m back and invite you to return as well…
The reason I’ve been gone is twofold: I’ve had several operations this year, related to post-cancer complications, and which mean I now have a pacemaker. It’s been hard to become accustomed to and I’ve had periods of terrible illness and pain. But all that pales by comparison with my second reason for deserting this cyberspace and puts what I’ve been through into perspective – the terrible illness and death of my beloved friend, Sara Warneke who most of you know as the writer Sara Douglass.
Ten and half months ago now, my partner, Stephen, and I shifted temporarily to Hobart, Tasmania, to care for Sara as she tried to deal with the last stages of ovarian cancer. I have written about this elsewhere, mainly in my obituary for Sara on the Voyager website a day after she died. You can read it here: http://voyagerblog.com.au/2011/09/28/sara-douglass-remembered-by-karen-brooks/
(I should add that Lucy Sussex also wrote the most amazing obituary for Sara that’s appeared in many newspapers.) I also write about Sara – her life, influence and works as well as our relationship that spans twenty years – in the Introduction to the beautiful compilation of her short stories, The Hall of Lost Footsteps, which was published posthumously by Tinconderoga Publications.
Together, these, along with a brief piece I wrote about Sara in Australian Author, explain the months and weeks that led up to her death and give a glimpse into our long-term friendship. What none of these do, however, is elucidate the impact her death has had in other ways and on other people – not just me, but Stephen, her other very close and loving friend (and mine too), Dr Frances Thiele (who adored and was in turn, adored by Sara), or the grief felt by her family, other friends, and loyal fans.
While I always knew the day of Sara’s death would come and, as she became sicker, tried to prepare myself (as did Stephen), it wasn’t until almost a week after she died, that the reality of her absence hit me. She really wasn’t going to phone or text me again. When I went to her house, she wasn’t going to open the door and fold me in one those tight hugs I loved receiving. She was gone… for real. For good. When the realisation struck, I felt like the sun hadn’t gone behind a cloud so much as imploded; as if the lights had gone off in not only my house, but, for the time being, my life, and plunged me into a grey world of shadows and murkiness leaving me to stumble and misapprehend. Sara had been my anchor for the last nine months, my life had been tied to hers in the most intimate and loving of ways and now, suddenly, I was cast adrift. I could no longer talk to her, hold her, share my thoughts and fears, and she couldn’t with me either. A part of my world that, despite the encroaching presence of death was remarkably light and love and hope-filled, had been swallowed by darkness and, worse, an enormous silence that I didn’t see, despite everything being there in front of me, coming. It was the strangest and scariest of sensations. There was not the silence associated with quietude or stillness, but an agitation that had no way of being expressed or relieved. As if the frequency we operated on and within could no longer be tuned. There was only static, no clear signal. Weighed by grief, I swam in circles, barely staying afloat, my ears pricked for a sound, a sign, for a signifier that this lostness was temporary. For Stephen it was the same. We lived and worked in a haze, thinking we were coping when in reality, we were sinking into this hungry silence.
And yet…
Every time we spoke of her, recalled something either with each other, or Fran, or someone else including the many and beautiful homage on FaceBook and other cyber-pages, the silence cracked and the load diminished slightly. Memories came in the most unexpected form and ways. The first time Sara’s cat, Luther, walked into my arms and curled into my neck like he’d always belonged, giving me the audible cuddle that we call a purr, an image of Sara with all her cats surrounding her filled my mind and put me strangely at peace.
I laughed out loud, scaring the other cats and, most of all, myself – but not Luther. After that, each time one of the others came to us for attention, licking, purring, kneading our legs and arms in the way cats do, putting you on edge as you wait for the claws to stick, we found our pain eased and smiles bloomed where tears had once fallen.
Then there were the notes – to me, herself, to others – that we found and treasured. Simple things, like remembering to pay the ‘butcher lady,’ put the bins out, remind Karen about Cromwell (one of the Birmans); there were lists of ‘things to do’ which conjured both sadness and delight at her orderliness; or the folder of recipes that Sara used and which we all enjoyed at her table together, using produce she grew in her garden and which we harvested and cooked as a family. These little paper treasures rip a hole in you when you find them, but then they catapult you back to the moment and the unexpected recall has its own terrible beauty. I loved finding these things, how they would throw us off emotional balance, only to repair our hearts after all. Together, they amounted to a record of a person and life that was rich, complex, giving and simple at the same time – one that we were privileged to share.
When the gardens of Nonsuch began to bloom a few weeks ago, our souls felt renewed. Here was the life that, together, Sara and, later when she became too sick, Stephen under her instructions, planted and nurtured. I felt Sara in every new bud, every blossom that burst into life and colour. Bees hummed, butterflies danced and birds sang while the supine cats, grooming themselves in the sunlight, pretended not to watch them. This was her creation, her gift to everyone, continuing, just like her stories will as well.
After weeks of not being able to conjure a word or creative thought and becoming despondent about that, a story, unbidden but so very welcome, took seed in my mind. I was in, of all places, a Whisky Distillery when it happened, taking me by complete surprise. I was in no ordinary distillery mind. I was in Larks in Hobart with my sister and her friend who were visiting. This place, like so many others around Hobart, has also become a special part of our shared life with Sara. You see, not long after we arrived here, Stephen and I introduced Sara to the joys of a locally made Whisky liqueur – Slainte – that is made by Larks.
It’s like nothing I have ever tasted before – pure golden sweetness followed by a warm caramel heat that coats your throat before it delivers a small kick below the heart. It is magic. The first time Stephen and I tried it, we knew Sara would love it, and bought her some. We were right. Sara called the woman who made it a goddess and swore it was ambrosia. Stephen would ensure there was always some for Sara and Larks, in a spirit of generosity, not only discounted what we bought, but gave Sara a bottle for free with every order as well. That a simple drink could bring so much pleasure amidst so much pain….
It seems fitting somehow that the first time I returned to this place after Sara died, a place that though Sara had never graced its cosy rooms nonetheless brought her so much comfort and joy, I found a story – the basis for my next novel. It was there, waiting for me, and I accepted the gift of its presence gratefully.
Doing the research and starting the writing process has brought me a healing I never expected. It’s not quick and nor would I want it to be, but it is a sweet and tender ache that brings with it unexpected bouts of sadness followed by moments of sheer joy – joy in the power of words and imagined characters to transport you beyond your own life and propel you into times and places otherwise denied. This is something Sara knew as well and used after her initial diagnosis and towards the end. It might be escapism, but it’s also a blessing. I like to believe, perhaps indulgently, that Sara made sure that tale came to me on that day the way it did. Anyhow, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Every word I write now, I raise an imaginary glass to my darling friend: Slainte Sara.
So, there you have it. That’s why I’ve been absent from my website and blog – I retreated for a time, firstly to begin my own process of recovery and then to care for a friend who needed me, needed Stephen too. That I needed her just as much was always apparent to me, but her death has made that awareness acute and hard to overcome. She didn’t choose to leave me, us, this life, her life, and that’s why I’ve struggled so hard with her absence: the unjustness of it. What I didn’t expect was that, just as she was in life, she’s there beside me in death and, in my writing, whether it be this blog or the stories I have yet to tell, she will be with me every syllable of the way.
There you are, my friends. I am back. I hope you forgive me. After all, we have a journey to take and I have many tales to tell…
Thank you.
This is a sublime and highly erotic tale of a beautiful woman named Phedre who, as a child, is indentured to a guild dedicated to sensuality and the arts of love and where she is taught how to pleasure others with her body. Born with a scarlet mote in her eye (a ‘dart’) the mark of the goddess Kushiel, Phedre is no ordinary courtesan but one who can receive and inflict both pleasure and pain. Highly sought after, it is in the bedchambers and among the other nobles of her land (and foreign dignitaries who desire to experience the arts of one who possesses Kushiel’s Dart), that Phedre’s worth as a lover, spy and keeper and secrets is realized.
Property Porn
Nov 29, 2011
This is the unedited version of my column which appears in the Courier Mail, Wednesday, 30 November 2011.
There’s a new obsession threatening to takeover our airwaves: Property Porn – and we can’t get enough.
Featuring good-looking, articulate and friendly hosts, images of either perfect buildings or those on the brink of collapse, the tortured, expressions of prospective buyers, anxious vendors and ignorant renovators who don’t know a budget from a budgie, as well as the many faces of agents, these shows rely on our complicated and highly emotional relationships to the concept of “home” to work.
Revealing the houses in stages, a structural strip tease, the cameras’ focus: the bigger the state of disrepair or impossible beauty of the place, the better.
We’re given glimpses of paint that doesn’t quite match, chipped tiles, leaking taps, a roof on the verge of collapse, rotting timbers, mould-stained walls, unhinged doors, and to top it all off, wild bushes for gardens.
Alternately, we’re invited to gaze upon homes of such sparkling perfection they’re beyond our wildest dreams. We’re invited to project ourselves in and out of those four walls and let our imaginations run wild.
Post-lapsarian in imagery, they promise a satisfaction of Edenic proportions.
I tell you, these shows are addictive. And there’s a good reason for that.
In Australia particularly, we’ve been fed the notion that home is where the heart and everything else lives. Owning a quarter of an acre is to what everyone should aspire – only that’s becoming increasingly difficult as the average housing block shrinks. Regardless, this is simply a metaphor for being able to call a piece of Australia, some bricks, mortar, weatherboard, glass, steel, concrete and solar panels your own.
It’s an idea that buys into our sense of self and national identity as well. Buying a home (or equivalent) is not only a financial investment, it’s an emotional and even patriotic one that has a great deal of psychological baggage attached.
Real estate agents become more like matchmakers than brokers. Not only do they introduce people to the “right” place with which they’ll form a significant relationship, they also function (in some cases) like cosmetic surgeons, suggesting extreme makeovers to guarantee the house find someone with whom to share a future.
Property porn relies on all this be effective, to suck us in and take us on a “journey” with the person, couple, or family who are buying. It reduces the complex decision-making and stress to a superficial narrative with a “they-all-lived-happily-ever-after” ending.
In watching others’ risk purchasing, selling or renovating, and surrendering to their passions for a piece of real estate action, like pornography, we experience the highs and lows vicariously but without the attendant risks.
This has never been more evident than throughout the current property downturn. These shows are rating very well as, from the safety of our homes (rented or otherwise) we can watch others take the risky plunge.
That’s because, while property is hot in TV land, in real life, it’s a different story, one where the finale is not so certain.
According to Australian Property Monitors senior economist, Dr Andrew Wilson, the latest data showed Brisbane was becoming established as the cheapest capital city.
While median house prices have dropped (especially in Paddington where prices fell 31.9 per cent), sales are up by 13 per cent in Brisbane and 11 per cent on the Gold Coast. Last quarter, Gladstone saw a growth of 50 per cent.
We keep hearing “it’s a buyer’s market” and, apparently, some people are “buying” this. But more are not. When you have agents talking up what’s clearly going down and vendors refusing to meet the market, while purchasers keep their wallets shut, nothing moves…not unless, like Goldilocks, we meet in the middle.
Until that occurs, we have property porn. At least there, our lust for real estate can be temporarily and safely sated.
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