Having read Lajamanu, I felt like I was more prepared for this one. The feeling that dominated for me was a sad yet stoic and sort of oddly noble acceptance.
I mean, what can you say. Stuff happens... I imagine especially out there.
Yes. That's about it. Japanangka was a man who had very little in the way of material possessions. His wealth was cultural knowledge and family relationships. Losing a favourite dog was a big thing - but he didn't want to embarass me....
Geeze, so glad I read Jed's on-the-nose comment! Of course he would put it perfectly--
"sad yet stoic and sort of oddly noble acceptance." Yes. That stoic chin of my mother, lifting and hardening. And that waiting for the other shoe. Always. I've moved so far beyond that waiting, that bracing against an impact that isn't coming, but on the backdrop of the stage of my life, I am still always getting ready for the next storm to hit. It will take many more years of meditation to move me beyond this certain-doom-coming-round-the-bend preparation.
And yet....I've always thought that hiring professional mourners for a funeral makes sense. There are no "proper" response to anything. If I know one thing, I know that I can NEVER tell how I will respond to anything. There is no real prediction in life, except that it is always changing and in the end, it will transform beyond everything we know.
Dave, I love this poem. His reaction/non-reaction. It is....oh I don't know, maybe cold in some ways, but also funny, and also plugged into the thing that is so much larger than us.
I grew up on a farm, and this matter-of-fact attitude toward animals, eps. the deaths of animals and pets, is normal to me. And to some degree it extends to the deaths of people because I have a rather "of course" attitude towards death. It is what it is. To be shocked by it, unless of course it is shocking and there is no preparation for it like a car accident on the way home (and even then....perhaps I am always on guard), seems ridiculous. I am rereading Dune right now--You are your Water. We are transitory, we are just passing through, stopping a moment.
I had a dog who lived in the house with me and died in 2017. We hung out for 10 years, she was with me constantly--her death was different because she was constantly absent after she died. For a long time I could still hear/feel her moving beside me.
But the other deaths in my life have seemed a part of the fabric of life. And in fact, they are.
But writing this, I do feel a coldness. I'm not great with emotions, with letting them be when they occur, letting them stay. There is much to consider here.
I'm glad you like Japanangka's Dog. I could say a lot here, but there's a whole book I haven't written. For context, I would suggest reading "Lajamanu Morning" and "Junga Yimi" and maybe my short story "Waves." Also "The Missionary Position." All are from my life in Lajamanu, and all are true (well I worked for the Outstations, not the Council, but that seemed too hard to explain when I wrote "Waves.")
I learned a very great deal from my life with the Warlpiri, and more in my later years working in other Aboriginal communities.
And you know - Japanangka did have an acute sense of humour, in a dry, wry manner. he was very good to me - always - even when I flattened one of his dogs.
He was man living through mad contradictions and conflicts - from his birth as a nomadic hunter and gatherer, his years as a Stockman working mostly just for food as something you and I would call slave labour, then bringing up children in grinding material poverty in a desert village something like a USA "reservation" and then, near the end of his life, as a man who part "owned" a vast stretch of desert that was finally granted back to his people by the Government.
One day a letter arrived on the twice a week mail plane addressed to "Mr P Japanangka" - from American Express.
Japanangka was a linguist (he spoke many languages) but he was not literate (there was no written form of his language until long after he grew up, and he never had the opportunity, or much reason, to learn English script).
So he brought the letter to me, for me to read aloud, and for one of his relatives to translate my English back into Warlpiri.
The letter started:
"Dear Mr Jabanunka. Mention the Gold Card and most people think of success and financial achievement."
It invited him to apply for an Amex Gold Card and assured him that "As a Gold Card member you will be joining a group whose finances and credit rating are amongst the nation's highest. A soup that welcomes - indeed has come to expect - the added measure of courtesy and personal attentionThe Gold Card brings."
I'm not sure how well that translated into Warlpiri - "credit rating" and "finances" having no equivalent terms in any Aboriginal language.
Thankyou, Rebecca. My country has a violent colonial past which bleeds into the present day, but I experienced a kindness, generosity and acceptance I will never forget.
Yes - it does, but no filter was used. The pic was taken as a Kodachrome 64 Slide. Then stored in a cardboard box in various sheds and cupboards for 38 years.
I rephotographed it last week - crudely - from a poor projection, so the definition is not great. However - the sky and dust cloud colour is about right. The red dirt colour is exactly right, and the houses and trees.
It’s a long time ago now, but that storm was seriously scary. It just looked like the end of the world was coming.
At first we thought it was a very rare (in the desert) thunderstorm on the way. Blue grey boiling clouds… Then the dust cloud reared up over the horizon - a solid brown wall.
I climbed up a ladder on to the top of a gravity feed diesel tank - used for refueling local vehicles - because it was the highest point around. Took a few photos - then scrambled down just before it hit.
Having read Lajamanu, I felt like I was more prepared for this one. The feeling that dominated for me was a sad yet stoic and sort of oddly noble acceptance.
I mean, what can you say. Stuff happens... I imagine especially out there.
Yes. That's about it. Japanangka was a man who had very little in the way of material possessions. His wealth was cultural knowledge and family relationships. Losing a favourite dog was a big thing - but he didn't want to embarass me....
Geeze, so glad I read Jed's on-the-nose comment! Of course he would put it perfectly--
"sad yet stoic and sort of oddly noble acceptance." Yes. That stoic chin of my mother, lifting and hardening. And that waiting for the other shoe. Always. I've moved so far beyond that waiting, that bracing against an impact that isn't coming, but on the backdrop of the stage of my life, I am still always getting ready for the next storm to hit. It will take many more years of meditation to move me beyond this certain-doom-coming-round-the-bend preparation.
And yet....I've always thought that hiring professional mourners for a funeral makes sense. There are no "proper" response to anything. If I know one thing, I know that I can NEVER tell how I will respond to anything. There is no real prediction in life, except that it is always changing and in the end, it will transform beyond everything we know.
Well, yes. Of course, certain doom IS coming around corner, if you look at a long enough time frame....
Dave, I love this poem. His reaction/non-reaction. It is....oh I don't know, maybe cold in some ways, but also funny, and also plugged into the thing that is so much larger than us.
I grew up on a farm, and this matter-of-fact attitude toward animals, eps. the deaths of animals and pets, is normal to me. And to some degree it extends to the deaths of people because I have a rather "of course" attitude towards death. It is what it is. To be shocked by it, unless of course it is shocking and there is no preparation for it like a car accident on the way home (and even then....perhaps I am always on guard), seems ridiculous. I am rereading Dune right now--You are your Water. We are transitory, we are just passing through, stopping a moment.
I had a dog who lived in the house with me and died in 2017. We hung out for 10 years, she was with me constantly--her death was different because she was constantly absent after she died. For a long time I could still hear/feel her moving beside me.
But the other deaths in my life have seemed a part of the fabric of life. And in fact, they are.
But writing this, I do feel a coldness. I'm not great with emotions, with letting them be when they occur, letting them stay. There is much to consider here.
Hey Rebecca
I'm glad you like Japanangka's Dog. I could say a lot here, but there's a whole book I haven't written. For context, I would suggest reading "Lajamanu Morning" and "Junga Yimi" and maybe my short story "Waves." Also "The Missionary Position." All are from my life in Lajamanu, and all are true (well I worked for the Outstations, not the Council, but that seemed too hard to explain when I wrote "Waves.")
I learned a very great deal from my life with the Warlpiri, and more in my later years working in other Aboriginal communities.
And you know - Japanangka did have an acute sense of humour, in a dry, wry manner. he was very good to me - always - even when I flattened one of his dogs.
He was man living through mad contradictions and conflicts - from his birth as a nomadic hunter and gatherer, his years as a Stockman working mostly just for food as something you and I would call slave labour, then bringing up children in grinding material poverty in a desert village something like a USA "reservation" and then, near the end of his life, as a man who part "owned" a vast stretch of desert that was finally granted back to his people by the Government.
One day a letter arrived on the twice a week mail plane addressed to "Mr P Japanangka" - from American Express.
Japanangka was a linguist (he spoke many languages) but he was not literate (there was no written form of his language until long after he grew up, and he never had the opportunity, or much reason, to learn English script).
So he brought the letter to me, for me to read aloud, and for one of his relatives to translate my English back into Warlpiri.
The letter started:
"Dear Mr Jabanunka. Mention the Gold Card and most people think of success and financial achievement."
It invited him to apply for an Amex Gold Card and assured him that "As a Gold Card member you will be joining a group whose finances and credit rating are amongst the nation's highest. A soup that welcomes - indeed has come to expect - the added measure of courtesy and personal attentionThe Gold Card brings."
I'm not sure how well that translated into Warlpiri - "credit rating" and "finances" having no equivalent terms in any Aboriginal language.
Gosh what a vivid and heartbreaking poem in so many ways. It's incredible. Thank you for sharing it.
Thankyou, Rebecca. My country has a violent colonial past which bleeds into the present day, but I experienced a kindness, generosity and acceptance I will never forget.
Also, the photo of the storm looks like a digital filter artificially created for effect... What a peculiar place that must have been.
Hi Jed
Yes - it does, but no filter was used. The pic was taken as a Kodachrome 64 Slide. Then stored in a cardboard box in various sheds and cupboards for 38 years.
I rephotographed it last week - crudely - from a poor projection, so the definition is not great. However - the sky and dust cloud colour is about right. The red dirt colour is exactly right, and the houses and trees.
It’s a long time ago now, but that storm was seriously scary. It just looked like the end of the world was coming.
At first we thought it was a very rare (in the desert) thunderstorm on the way. Blue grey boiling clouds… Then the dust cloud reared up over the horizon - a solid brown wall.
I climbed up a ladder on to the top of a gravity feed diesel tank - used for refueling local vehicles - because it was the highest point around. Took a few photos - then scrambled down just before it hit.
Once again, there is this magic in where you must be, an unrealness. A dust storm looks like a rainbow.