From Little Things Big Things Grow

There are so many beautiful songs out there whose lyrics we've never stopped and listened to or read. This is a song not only with beautiful lyrics but with a beautiful, true story we should be aware of.

From Little Things Big Things Grow
by Paul Kelly and Kev Carmody

Gather round people I'll tell you a story
An eight year long story of power and pride
'Bout British Lord Vestey and Vincent Lingiarri
They were opposite men on opposite sides

Vestey was fat with money and muscle
Beef was his business, broad was his door
Vincent was lean and spoke very little
He had no bank balance, hard dirt was his floor

CHORUS
From little things big things grow
From little things big things grow
From little things big things grow
From little things big things grow

Gurindji were working for nothing but rations
Where once they had gathered the wealth of the land
Daily the oppression got tighter and tighter
Gurindji decided the must make a stand

They picked up their swags and started off walking
At Wattle Creek they sat themselves down
Now it don't sound like much but it sure got
Tongues talking
Back at the homestead and then in the town

CHORUS

Vestey man said "I'll double your wages
Seven quid a week you'll have in your hand"
Vincent said "uhuh, we're not talking about wages
We're sitting right here till we get our land"
Vestey man roared Vestey man thundered
"You don't stand the chance of a cinder in snow."
Vince said "if we fall others are rising."

CHORUS

Then Vincent Lingiarri boarded an airplane
Landed in Sydney, big city of lights
And daily he went round softly speaking his story
To all kinds of people, from all walks of life

And Vincent sat down with big politicians
"This affair," they told him, "it's a matter of state
Let us sort it out,.... Why, your people are hungry!"
Vincent said, "no thanks, we know how to wait."

CHORUS

Then Vincent Lingiarri returned in an airplane
Back to his country once more to sit down
And he told his people, "let the stars keep on turning
We have friends in the south, in the cities and towns."

Eight years went by, eight long years of waiting
Till one day a tall stranger appeared in the land
And he came with lawyers and he came with great ceremony
And through Vincent's fingers poured that handful of sand

From little things big things grow
From little things big things grow
That was the story of Vincent Lingiarri
But this is the story of something much more
How power and privilege cannot move a people
Who know where they stand and stand in their law

CHORUS

Now that was the story of Vincent Lingiarri
But this is a story of something much more
How power and privilege, can not move a people

When they know where they stand....
When they stand in their Lore....

From little things big things grow
From little things big things grow
From little things big things grow
From little things big things grow

The True Value of Tears

Mrs Dewbridge was flustered. A prospective customer had turned up at her small production unannounced, and from the look of him, his business might finally give her the chance to overtake that trumped-up Mrs Mulberry. She eyed the tall stranger appraisingly and ventured a self-depreciative comment.

“We’re only a small scale production here, sir, but I believe you’ll find our produce of the finest quality.”

“Yes, well, we shall see. You should know that I am surveying other producers as well as I have been having…” he hesitated, wrinkling his nose in distaste, “supply issues.”

Mrs Dewbridge struggled to contain her glee. She knew it! Mrs Mulberry was finally having the supply issues she herself, Mrs Dewbridge, had forecast.

“Ah…” she nodded her head for a moment with an expression I’m sure she fancied gave her a knowledgeable and sympathetic air but in reality made her look more like she had swallowed her bottom teeth. “Yes, I understand some once-reputable outlets are experiencing shortages for which they failed to prepare although they cannot say these shortages were not foreseen. We, however, have refined the harvesting method somewhat so as to guarantee not only long term production, but also consistently higher output per unit with abundantly superior quality.”

“Oh really?” The stranger sat forward slightly in his seat and, encouraged, Mrs Dewbridge became somewhat loquacious.

“Indeed. As I’m sure you know, ever since Gainsborough made the remarkable discovery of the power of tears, there has been much debate as to the best way to harvest this self-replenishing resource. The error our competitors made is a small one, but fundamental to the reason for the superiority of our produce.”

Mrs Dewbridge paused until the customer bid her to continue and launched into her favourite subject.

“You see, the most common method for harvesting tears is pinned on causing trauma to the donor units. Some use verbal stimuli, others physical pain, deprivation and a variety of provocations to induce the flow. Without exception, they find that the tears come in waves, ebbing and flowing, but inevitably dissipating into a tearless despair. At this point they face a choice: 1) they combine the stimuli to attain a new intensity which normally requires spending longer time with the subject and having more staff in attendance, 2) allow the patient time to rest and recover for a period; or 3) find new stock to mine. All of these options cost the company money.

“Despite the development of more efficient tear harvesting equipment, no matter the technological advances in storage, they cannot escape this trend because it is based on a single, fundamental fallacy; and that fallacy is this: that a human being sheds the most tears for itself.

“And so you see our approach is unique. We do not touch our harvesters. We do not deny them food or shelter. We supply all they could ever need so they maintain optimal health and strength. Instead, we turn our attention to a single subject, a subject which we then use to service dozens of producers as stimulus. And thus, rather than spend hours with many patients with multiple staff required to force the stimuli to ever increasing levels, we instead have them exert their speciality on one and have that one visit the rest. We do not harvest the tears from the stimulus-subject, and indeed we find the tears do not last long. However the harvested beings produce greater flow, and often quicker.

“The quickest we’ve ever achieved maximal flow is a mere fifteen seconds from introduction of the stimulus-subject into the producer’s cell. Some of our more sensitive donors can produce consistently high volumes of tears for days before the stimulus has to be reintroduced.

“And so sir, you’ll see that our humble production is far more time and cost efficient with far less detrimental effect on the livestock and, as I’m sure you’ll agree if you’d care to sample. Produces tears far richer, far stronger to the taste with more body and depth than any tears you have ever drunk. And all because here at our establishment we understand that tears shed for oneself are a finite resource, but tears shed for others flow endlessly with the proper stimuli.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Reader, if at this point you are wondering at me and my motivations in this, if you yourself weep at the idea of the torture of a few individuals solely to harvest tears, or, worse still, if you scorn the sentimentality of tears of the sensitive, grant me a moment to explain myself. You see I do believe that there is a value in tears. If that value could be harnessed, I do not doubt it would lead to harvesting. Whether that value has a power or not, whether it is merely a seasoning to life like the salt of which it tastes, I leave that to you to decide. I believe in allowing tears for those for whom no tears are shed. I believe that our tears speak in a language we only vaguely understand the meaning of. And I believe that tears can affect outcomes, induce mercy, encourage forgiveness, express compassion.

So you see, dear Reader, I believe in the value of tears. And in a world gone wrong, that value could be harvested, its power could be used against us and could ultimately be an excuse to inflict more suffering, more hardship and oppression.

But do not despair, dear Reader. For I have not finished the tale.

Cursed blessed sleep

I met a sad man, a frayed man, a weary man. He had shadows under his eyes and slumped on the bar like a man gone in drink, though he had touched nothing but water the whole evening. It was late and I felt myself nodding as I waited for a friend before we left.

“Going home to sleep?” he asked in a voice surprisingly clear.

I did not reply as I reasoned it to be the safest thing to do.

“I would be. I’m jealous.”

“Why don’t you then?”

He leaned closer, the blues of his eyes bluer against the bloodshot tinges of the whites.

“I’m a cursed man,” he whispered. I smelt no alcohol on his breath.

“How so?” I asked, bemused.

“I cannot go to sleep until I have achieved something significant.”

“What? Ever?”

“No, just each day.”

“Is it anything in particular?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. At first I got by with cleaning my house, or cooking dinner, or doing the dishes. Then I had to call my mother, or pay a bill, or write a letter. Now, I don’t know. I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept for two days. What should I do?”

At that moment his hand seemed to leap from its supporting position beneath his chin and he collapsed on the bar, snoring.

My friend emerged from the toilets.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah, sure.” I glanced at the cursed man, with something between bemusement, pity and confusion, and left, more awake than a few minutes prior.



I met a happy man, a contented man, a fulfilled man. His eyes were bright blue and lines marked only smiles in a youthful face. He sat at the bar, cheerily looking around the crowded pub, far too cheerful for such an hour. It was late and I felt myself nodding as I waited for a friend before we left.

“Going home to sleep?” he asked in a voice surprisingly clear.

I did not reply as I reasoned it to be the safest thing to do.

“You should. I highly recommend it.”

“Have we met?”

He leaned closer, the blues of his eyes bluer against the bright white of the whites.

“I’m a blessed man,” he whispered. I smelt no alcohol on his breath.

“How so?” I asked, bemused.

“I cannot go to sleep until I achieved something significant.”

“Last time somebody told me that they immediately fell asleep.”

“Exactly.”

I didn’t understand and was too tired to try to follow.

“Just telling you was significant, last time. And so I started to tell others, and do things, and achieve things. And it is so nice to sleep knowing that you have done something that day, something good, something worthwhile. I may only sleep a couple of hours, but I could go for days. Of course I rarely do, unless opportunity keeps from me.”

I did not know how to respond. I was vaguely jealous. I wished I’d done something significant that day.

My friend emerged from the toilets.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah, sure.” I glanced at the man with something between jealousy, hope and confusion, and left, more awake than a few minutes prior.

A Good Feeling

I had a dream the other night. I was at a market and I came across a stall filled with bottles of all shapes, colours and sizes. I started rifling through them. A big square blue bottle was labelled “financial independence,” a small round yellow one was labelled “prosperity” and a curved red one had a tag with “fertility” announced in bold writing. I kept looking. A black and white bottle was for “decisiveness” while a rosy pink bottle was for “daydreams.” I kept looking, getting increasingly frustrated. Some bottles piqued my interest, but I couldn’t decide which one to get and I didn’t want to get the wrong one. There had to be something better.

Eventually I found a small, dusty bluey-green bottle. Its stopper seemed to be almost sitting loose in the neck, and only a yellowed corner remained of the label. I caught the eye of the stall-keeper.

“What’s this one?” I asked, curious.

“That’s a good feeling.”

My heart lurched in my chest. This was the one I wanted. I hesitated – surely it was more responsible to get “financial independence” or there had been a gold bottle of “luck” which I had thought too expensive but which may be of more use.

“How much is it?” I asked, almost decided to buy it.

The stall-keeper named a price half again as expensive as the gold bottle. I did not try to hide my surprise.

“What?! How can a good feeling be so expensive? Surely it’s a common commodity – I could get a good feeling off a blue sky, or a piece of chocolate, a favourite song or calling a friend. I’ll give you a quarter of the price you ask.”

The stall-keeper rebuffed my offered money.

“People get good feelings from those things you named, but the sugar high comes with a fall, a favourite song can be worn out from over-playing and your friend may not answer the phone. A blue sky could be the despair of a drought stricken farmer. You see, those other things are unreliable. To make this good feeling we had to distil the essence of all these things, in a secret recipe.”

“Okay, I’ll give you half.”

The stall-keeper shook his head with a smile.

“You still don’t understand. This is more than just feeling happy. This is getting out of the right side of the bed sort of good feeling. With this, you get every other potion I offer: A good feeling about a choice will make you decisive; with a good feeling you create your own luck; you are courageous, confident, popular. Never underestimate the power of a good feeling, my friend.”

Wordlessly, I handed over the requested amount, unable to haggle further. With the little bottle in hand, I moved away from the stall, eager to get out of sight of the keeper that I may taste my purchase. I had removed the stopper and was raising the bottle to my lips when I woke up. I lay in bed, sighed and wondered which side of the bed to get out of.

A Franciscan Prayer

This is a beautiful, honest, raw prayer, that's worth sharing:

May God bless you with discomfort at easy answers, half truths and superficial relationships so that you may live deep within your heart.

May God bless you with anger at injustice, oppression and exploitation of people so that you may work for justice, freedom and peace.

May God bless you with tears to shed for those who suffer pain, rejection, hunger and war so that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and to turn their pain into joy.

And may God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you can make a difference in the world so that you can do what others claim cannot be done to bring justice and kindness to all our children and the poor.

Ships in the night

There's friends you lose track of
And you don't remember their name
Then there's friends you lose grasp of
And that is just a shame.

Insomnia

I'm still awake and my thoughts don't satisfy me and each passing hour leaves me less time to sleep
If I could just sleep my dreams would inspire me but the clock it keeps ticking and I will not count sheep

Lingering

I linger online
And the longer I linger
The less I live

Chlorophyl or chloroform?

Chlorophyl? Chloroform?
Easy to confuse;
One will turn you green
The other makes you snooze!

After All by Henry Lawson

I heard this Henry Lawson poem sung by Idea of North and it was so beautiful I thought I'd share it with whoever on earth may read this blog. If you get a chance look up their version.

The brooding ghosts of Australian night have gone from the bush and town;
My spirit revives in the morning breeze,
though it died when the sun went down;
The river is high and the stream is strong,
and the grass is green and tall,
And I fain would think that this world of ours is a good world after all.

The light of passion in dreamy eyes, and a page of truth well read,
The glorious thrill in a heart grown cold of the spirit I thought was dead,
A song that goes to a comrade's heart, and a tear of pride let fall --
And my soul is strong! and the world to me is a grand world after all!

Let our enemies go by their old dull tracks,
and theirs be the fault or shame
(The man is bitter against the world who has only himself to blame);
Let the darkest side of the past be dark, and only the good recall;
For I must believe that the world, my dear, is a kind world after all.

It well may be that I saw too plain, and it may be I was blind;
But I'll keep my face to the dawning light,
though the devil may stand behind!
Though the devil may stand behind my back, I'll not see his shadow fall,
But read the signs in the morning stars of a good world after all.

Rest, for your eyes are weary, girl -- you have driven the worst away --
The ghost of the man that I might have been is gone from my heart to-day;
We'll live for life and the best it brings till our twilight shadows fall;
My heart grows brave, and the world, my girl, is a good world after all.

Sunday night facebook

And so we arrive at Sunday night
And find ourselves in a pensive mood
Reflecting back on the weekend
On what we did and didn't do
And looking forward to the week ahead
To what there is to come
Getting ready for what must be faced
And for what remains to be done

And though we are in our homes
Taking a moment before we sleep
We gather together on facebook
At the eve of a working week
And why is that, I wonder?
With status and chats and likes
We reach out for one last contact
Before we say goodnight.

Ode to a good book

A good book is a splendid thing
It grants insight to things unseen
It makes us hope when we would not
When living the daily lives we've got

It's as a drug of the bestest kind
Yet one which will improve our mind
No evening would I count well spent
As one in which a book I've read

Speechless

Here I sit.
With words locked behind frozen lips.
I know what there is to say.
But could I? Should I? Would I?
I am inert.
Waiting for external force
To force my hand.
Waiting for a script, a prompt, a cue.
And in the meantime, there's nothing for me to do.