Dear reader, a penetrating piece from our correspondent of the remote north. He sends us these poignant fragments of those who also serve. It reminds us in passing just how greatly we might all live. But not with band and conga line of politicians talking of noble sacrifice.

And, for those who wondered, order is restored in the printing department with the investiture of a new employee . ‘Farfisa’ will be taking over the duties of Mr Cold-tart, under the new “Serf-Indentured Slave category”. Since the demise of the 457 visa, this contract for ” Life- service” is fully endorsed by the Fair Work Commission.

We wish him all the best in his new postion. A full description of his promotion will be listed on Linked in.

–  Rompo este huevo y nace la mujer y nace el hombre.  Y juntos vivirán y morirán.  Pero nacerán nuevamente.  Nacerán y volverán a morir y otra vez nacerán.  Y nunca dejarán de nacer, porque la muerte es mentira

In most if not all translation, some of the original “feeling” dies. I’ll do my best at minimizing such death.
“The woman and the man dreamed that God was dreaming them.
The woman and the man dreamt that a great brilliant egg appeared in God’s dream. Inside the egg, they sang and danced and made an all mighty racket, because they were so wanting to be born. And God, dreaming, created them and intoned: ‘I break this egg and the woman is born and the man is born. And together they’ll live and die. But they will be born again. They will be born and they will die again and again they will be born. And they will never stop being born, because death is a lie”.
 
From Gabriel García Márquez’ ‘Carta de despedida’ (Letter of Farewell):

“… muerte no llega con la vejéz, sino con el olvido…”  (“…death doesn’t arrive with old age, but with forgetting…”)
Galeano and Márquez could play those words like ringing a bell.
Adios Muchachos (Carlos Gardel):

The death of an infant (still born or soon thereafter or a cot death) is an intensely sad and private affair. The mother who carried the infant in her womb is more or less the only person who has known the child. When you attend the funeral of such a child you realize it isn’t just the tiny coffin which is being buried, with it go all the dreams and hopes. And as you wander through the cemetery you see a long row of tiny graves. Just names and dates of lives cut short- a loss of future. What might have been?And countless grief-stricken mothers who will never forget.

Sly and The Family Stone ‘Que Sera Sera’ (Whatever Will Be Will Be):

This afternoon after a service at Yuendumu Baptist Church, an old lady, a great-grandmother was buried 90 Km north of Yuendumu. A  paleochannel stretching hundreds of kilometres is clearly defined on airborne radiometric survey maps due to the slightly higher radioactivity caused by Potassium-40 weathered out of granite. The place where the old lady was buried is called ‘Flood-out’ by kardiya, and is a remnant of the old river system. The Warlpiri name of the place is Pirpipakarnu.
It is one of the few “privileges” (more like a concession) accorded Northern Territory Aborigines- the right to choose a bush burial- the right to be buried in your own land, the land that owns you.

No such right seems to apply to women choosing where to give birth. No effort nor expense is spared, when it comes to ensuring mothers-to-be arrive in Alice Springs Hospital on time.
Early this evening I heard the Royal Flying Doctor plane (RFDS) plane arrive.
Yuendumu Clinic is on the opposite side of the ironically named Park Street to my office. The park has been erased by “service” buildings.
On the way home I passed a group of people sitting on the ground outside the clinic. “Who is being flown out?” I asked. “No, Jungarrayi, someone just had a baby” I was told with great glee.
As I started typing this Dispatch, a mere 100 metres further north, a healthy baby was being born. A little girl who started life by beating the RFDS.

In a couple of days time a brilliant young lady’s funeral will take place on what was to be her birthday. This young lady was much loved and admired. Sadly her mind was much stronger than her body. She left this earth ahead of her brilliant grief-stricken mother. She had so much more to do.

Soon a brilliant middle aged man’s funeral will take place. This man was much loved and admired. He left this earth ahead of his brilliant grief-stricken father. He had so much more to do.

Elton John – Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding (1973):

When I did High School English, we were taught ‘précis’. We were tasked to reduce several pages of prose into several concise paragraphs, without losing nuances nor meaning. It was an effective way of practising clear thinking and to sharpen one’s bull-shit detector. I wonder if précis is still being taught. I fear not.

John Clarke was a master of précis. He could reduce a barrage of politically motivated propaganda into a few carefully crafted words.
NT Intervention [1] – Clarke and Dawe – ABC 7:30 Report:

No bull-shit detector could compare to John Clarke’s.
Sinead O’Connor Nothing Compares To You:

John Clarke could play those words like ringing a bell.

Into each life a little rain must fall- Chuck Berry –the blues…

Chuck Berry could play a guitar like ringing a bell.

People like John Clarke and Chuck Berry make life ever so much more worth living. When they die a little of humanity dies with them.
It makes you ponder your own mortality. And that of all your friends around you.

My mother used to say: “Doe wel en zie niet om”. She thought it was out of the Bible. Do good and don’t look back. I think we all should. We should while we can.

Tot ziens,