pieces of dreams

 

I could have called it “places of dreams,’ too. Either/Or. After three heaven sent nights and days in Perth catching up with friends (for friendship, too, is sacrament), I took to the road again. Stopped, after escaping the city traffic, at Quinns, a suburb on the outer north skirts of the city, for eucharist, and to encounter a woman who thought Trump was “sorting it out” as no other US president ever had (hmmm… not sure o the referent of “it,” but yeah, he’s like no other, indeed) and how evil Hillary and that K-Woman are, and how the Book of Revelation is incomprehensible.

It occurred to me modestly that a quick read of my book might suggest who Trump is allied with. Not my parish, not my gig. I remained schtum.

So … off to pay respects to an old mentor, Alan Lewis, my “Australian sending priest.” He became Dean of Geraldton after he left my Australian sending parish. He was, sadly, only Dean for a few years before ill-health led him home to Melbourne to die far too young – far younger than I am now. The place was locked by the time I got there but an eagle-eyed “assistant minister” saw me casing the joint.

I assured him I loved Jesus, he assured me he was a Bible Believing Calvinist Servant Of God And Gospel, I smiled sweetly and the mice and I received a personalised guided tour. I whispered my thanks for Fr Alan’s faith-filled priesthood, didn’t discuss churchmanship, and drove on as night fell. No candles to light for Alan, of course. Calvin wouldn’t approve.

Funnily enough it had raided torrentially as I passed the Pinnacles, my previous west coast zenith, with visibility down to about 50 metres. Heaven wept, perhaps  for a diocese that once, while for many years evangelical in flavour, seemed now to advertise shibboleths of bibliolatry and doctrinology far above compassion and love. Still the mice and I received compassion, manaakitanga. Would we if we wore rainbow sashes, or I admitted to having female wife (okay, but is she submissive?) and bishop (whaaaat?).

On. On to Kalbarri, which took my breath away with its lonely beauty. The execrable poem I once wrote about Eucla should have been written about Kalbarri. (Did I tell you about that poem?). As the sun came up I was strolling, jaw agape, from rocky outcrop to rocky cliff face, agog. Don’t tell anyone about Kalbarri. I think I found heaven on earth. I could spend a month there. If I knew how to. Every little roadlette brought visual treasures immeasurable.

The next day saw me at Monkey Mia. There a fine Dutch door-keeper bent the rules and allowed me I to take photos. A message perhaps? A cathedral that open doors, albeit selectively, to a stranger? A gatekeeper who opened doors, albeit briefly, to a point-and-shoot blogger and shutter bug? The message escapes me. But I was deeply grateful.

I first heard of Monkey Mia, and its dolphins, also in the ’80s. Media picked up a story about an act of  cruelty when an unpleasant tourist teased, tortured a dolphin with a cigarette. Words escaped me then and now, though the public rage was more eloquent than I could ever be. But these beautiful creatures (though they have been called “rapists of the sea”) are well protected now. I didn’t see any but that wasn’t my point. They were there. So was I.

From Monkey Mia back to the next peninsula, and Exmouth. Exmouth came to my attention as Anne and I flew over it, hours before lockdown, en route to New Zealand from South Africa. That was a trip! Last passengers on a jampacked airbus. Bit of a contrast to this gig, solo in a Triton?

Exmouth from ten kilometres high on a night flight was pretty. In many ways it too matched that bucket dream fascination. Architecturally eccentric, blending remote with visionary … tick!

Back to the Highway One witch is governing but not dictating this wee meander. I slept beside the road somewhere, a few hours, deep (no one was with me to contradict that claim) and refreshing. I recommend the frond seats of Tritons – been sleeping in them for 15 years now.

The fourth bucket list stopover.  Onslow. Yes some wags have noted the connection with Mrs Bucket, and that too. Bombed by a single Japanese plane in 1943, the extremities of the Japanese offensive. 1,386 kilometres north of Perth, and while not as beautiful as its cousin-towns down the coast its isolation tweaked my soul once more. I heard of it when a cyclone bore down on it a decade or two back, and the word remote and isolated were repeated often – cream cake to a bull. It cops a lot of cyclones – and serves a good coffee.

 So … is it the harshness, the vastness, the remoteness, the aloneness? As I write this I’m watching a 100-carriage ore train crawl past me at a Port Hedland photostop. A salt mine beyond. I’m up past Karratha now – nice sunset there but I felt the town – or parts of it – tried too hard to be Broome. I pulled in here pre-dawn this morning. Weird and wonderful and bright, even scary in the dark.

Shortly I head for Marble Bar, but that story, and even the Karratha and Hedland stories must wait.