HAT

My father’s hat had a plastic bag over it.

He was from the era when men wore fedoras. This one was olive green with a darker ribbon where brim meets dome. Is there a name for that junction? There should be. The place where the veranda joins the roof. The top part warms, protects, hugs the skull. Lots of headwear does that; it’s the brim that makes it a fedora. Shade for the face, shadow for your expression, an edge to tug briefly in greeting, accompanied by a slight nod (but no smile).

A dark green felt hat, a going-to-work hat. With a plastic bag covering the crown to protect it from dirt, drizzle, passing bird droppings. A raincoat for his hat.

As the plastic aged it became discoloured, tinted like nicotine-stained fingers, matching his right hand. The plastic became creased, less flexible. More set in its accustomed pattern, less able to change or move. 

After he died I removed the dead plastic skin. It disintegrated into flakes of dirty snow. The felt was revealed, untouched by three decades (one of wear, two of wardrobe hibernation). The colour was deep, vivid. At the crown, the creases were neat, well-formed. I pictured his face; sagging skin and the asymmetrical gouges of time. A younger face had worn this hat, maybe the age I was now.

I put it on. It bent my ears like a puppy and I felt myself shrinking like Alice nibbling the mushroom. Just a child wearing his Father’s clothes. A slight shudder as I removed it and put it on the mantle, facing outwards, brim curving over the edge. But it had too much presence and kept drawing my eyes back from the endless jumble of clearing and discarding. Too much of my Father’s silent judgement. 

I put it into one of the garbage bags filled with charity shop clothes and then took it out. Shoved in like that it would get crushed. So when the bag was full and tied, it was placed on top like a fallen monarch’s crown, the olive almost matching the green plastic sack. Unfamiliar without it’s plastic protection yet brimful of memories. Off to be bought for a couple of dollars and a new career adorning another head. But this time exposed to the elements, living a less protected life.

Feature image: Detail from John Brack’s “Collins St, 5 p.m.” [National Gallery of Victoria] See the painting here

Advertisements

CHANGE

It was nerve-wracking, going it alone.

After twenty-odd years working in university counselling services, leaving the education sector felt huge. A glance at the personal timeline would reveal almost the entire length connected with education in some form or another. Kindergarten through school, several stints at uni, first Student Services jobs, Counselling, lecturing… Who was I if I wasn’t attached to an institution of learning?

It was time to find out, though I didn’t exactly go cold turkey.

Resigning from the University Counselling Service was a much-needed wrench—it was several years since I’d been happy there as micromanagement undermined the excellent work we used to do with, like, the actual students. But I kept the teaching gig at another uni for several more years until the absence of any sense of appreciation or satisfaction ground a resignation out of me.

And that was the point at which I realised I was now, despite the pretensions inherent in my professional title, a small business. A very small business.

So I sent out letters of introduction to a score of doctors in the vicinity of my modest consulting room and waited for the referrals to flow.

Which they did not.

In fact the only General Practitioner who invited me to visit was so odd I concluded she invited me in just to talk to another living soul. After a slightly bizarre conversation, during which she continuously fingered a medallion at her throat and made eye contact precisely zero times, I muttered an excuse about an imminent appointment and beat a clammy retreat. Walking back to the office, I wondered what sort of referral would come from such a practitioner. None did, so I needn’t have worried.

Someone said having a website was important, so I knocked up a basic one using the application that came with my computer. Bought a domain name and waited for clients to ring the number. A couple did, but not many. Was my home-made website just too basic? To impersonal?

A second version followed, where I made myself a little more visible. After all, as a humanistic therapist, it seemed reasonable to offer something with a touch of personality. I even knocked up a list of presenting issues I thought might help overcome the natural reticence about seeking help that we all have. It was an A—Z of issues. Should that be issues with a capital Ish? Don’t know, I rather loathe the word. But I do know that starting with topics I was personally familiar with got me three quarters of the way through the alphabet.

When it was done I was satisfied enough. A few inquirers mentioned it when they rang and I’ve since seen remarkably similar lists on the (much flashier) websites of other psychotherapists, so perhaps it tapped into something, even though what I was really saying was, “We can talk about anything that’s troubling you.”

Anxiety

Behaviour change, including substance issues and gambling

Communication and relationships; Connection; Creativity

Depression

Effecting Change in your life

Family of origin; Feelings

Grief and loss; death and bereavement

Health: chronic health problems; Ageing

Intimacy, Closeness

Jealousy and trust

Knowing yourself better

Life changes, transitions, crises

Mood swings; lowered mood

Not knowing, confusion, lostness

On-going personal development

Perfectionism; Procrastination; Parenting

Questions of meaning (and loss of meaning)

Relationships; Relaxation

Stress; Sexuality

Transitions and ageing; Trauma and recovery

University: adjustment and success; Study and Motivation

Values and priorities; life choices

Work-Life balance; stress

XYZ. . . anything else that feels important!

The practice did build to a satisfactory size, mainly due to former clients seeking me out and a handful of doctors who seemed to like the way I worked (or were convinced by their patients it was worthwhile). I’ve never updated the website, and it shows. That’s fine, I’m not seeking clients. But if I did review the content, I reckon I could reduce it by about 90% and the ‘issues’ list to only one letter.

Based on almost thirty years of practice, this is what it boils down to.

What do people want?

To feel happier; to be deeply heard.

What do you do?

Try to be with the person opposite me as fully and authentically as I can.

Connection and happiness. Is there anything else?

EYESIGHT TO THE BLIND

I was thrown out of Melbourne’s signature university as a direct consequence of my skill in accumulating ‘F’ grades. That’s not ‘F for Fail’—though it certainly is well below the plimsoll line of the Good Ship Success—but the F at the end of the series A – B – C – D – E – F. It doesn’t go any lower.

Most of those fails were not surprises. One exam I spent the first fifteen minutes (the ‘lock-down’ phase when no-one is allowed out) writing Lou Reed song lyrics in the exam booklet. If the subject had been 20th Century Literature I might have got a few marks but in fact it was a Maths paper and the examiners were evidently not fans. For a later exam I apologetically signed my name at the bottom of a blank page. It was a Monty Python reference, but once again the audience was unmoved.

The real crunch came at the half-way point of the final exam: Ocular Anatomy. Part one of this test was a series of microscopes set up around the benches of the lab. Each instrument had a slide containing a cross-section of some part of the eye. The sixteen students in my Optometry cohort sat around the benches writing about what they saw down the microscope and moving themselves and their exam booklet to the next slide when a bell rang.

Ding! Move to the next microscope. Scribble scribble… Ding!

Next slide… More frantic scribbling. All very Pavlovian.

Now I referred to sixteen students a moment ago and indeed, that was our number. But only fifteen were scribbling. One was moving from station to station with a blank exam script and a slightly worried frown, wondering what all the pink squiggly things were. Even then it did not really dawn on me that I was in trouble. It was more a nagging sensation that all was not well. Breathtaking blindness.

The light-globe moment—and it was a 150 Watt flashlight—occurred during the break, as the Professor explained to us how the second part of the examination would proceed. The oral part of the exam. The exam where you walk, on your own, into a room with three Professors and they ask you questions about Ocular Anatomy. Out loud.

They are going to ask me questions. I will not have any answers… No answers AT ALL.

Crackling sounds of scales falling from eyes.

Houston, we have a problem.

“Exc…” I cleared my throat. It was dry and scratchy. “Excuse me Professor, but I won’t be participating.”

I glanced around the group. Didn’t really make eye contact with anyone, though I noticed that several mouths were slightly ajar. My smile was an unconvincing grimace. “Good luck,” meaning goodbye.

I walked out of the building and into late Spring sunshine. Stared at a well-tended garden bed, slightly dizzy and faintly nauseous. Saw flowers but felt pit-of-stomach blues. Then I walked out of the University of Melbourne and down Swanston Street.

Feature image: “One” by Alex Grey

STILL A WAY TO GO

It’s been a lean time at Lonely Keyboards this year.  Same over at Vinyl Connection, though I’ve managed to create the illusion of activity by raiding the ‘work in progress’ folder and cobbling together a few thin ideas. But not much, and not much satisfaction.

Today I spent quite a while toying with the idea of writing a Vinyl Connection post on a female artist, it being International Women’s Day and all. But why do that today? Isn’t it a bit patronising to roll out this post as something special? There’s disquiet in featuring a musician based on gender, and discomfort in ignoring something this important: the right to—no, the requirement for—equity, fairness and respect.

The avalanche of disclosure of the opposites of those rights—inequity, unfairness, disrespect—makes it uncomfortable to speak… and even more uncomfortable to stay silent. What’s a bloke aspiring to decency to do? Oh, poor me, privileged middle-aged white guy living in comfort and safety. Boo hoo. Awkward feelings. But my (female) partner sent me a text, devoid of irony (I think!) wishing me Happy International Women’s Day. Sent it to our son, too. I like that; there’s something joining about her inclusion. Something blokes could maybe learn from.

So I listened to some Suzanne Ciani, pioneer of electronic music, and ran some ideas in my head. But didn’t type.

Sat down with a lunchtime sandwich and recalled I had watched only a quarter of the highly regarded documentary on backing singers, Twenty Feet From Stardom (trailer here). Resumed from place last stopped and instantly became engrossed; challenged, moved, outraged, more. Why haven’t I heard of Lisa Fischer? Why doesn’t everyone know Lisa Fischer?

You could say the same for every other woman featured in the film. All gave (and continue giving) their all to the artists they support. Wish I was that generous.

Afterwards, pottered around Vinyl Connection. Changed the banner, noticed I’m one click away from 1200 followers. A lie based on rolling followers from another social media platform into the count, but I’m vain enough to swell a little. Hey, look at my following. Fans! I’m front of stage, hanging cool at the mic. Ah, fan-tasy, you minx. (Yes, I know. That was purposeful irony).

I noticed a new follower had come through. Someone called Rich. Financial boast or name?

Even though I don’t automatically follow those who subscribe to my blogs, I usually check them out. Both interest and courtesy. Mostly it’s a quick assay of content and (if I’m being honest here) writing style. But in the aftermath of the massive surge at Lonely Keyboards after being featured on ‘Discover’ I also sometimes remove and block followers. That’s rare, but has been relatively straightforward. For example, here is a gambling/betting site in Arabic. No thanks. Here is one preaching religion using the time-dishonoured weapons of shame and fear. No thanks.

Mostly I just let it go. Each to their own, I reckon. And following my blog doesn’t award you anything much, as far as I can see.

So I checked out Rich’s blog. It’s a blog by a man, aimed at men. About lots of things that men are interested in, apparently. Looking good, getting rich, keeping your woman in her place. I felt queasy after just reading the post titles. The only one I could bring myself to open was ‘How to deal with a fussy girlfriend’. I won’t pollute your day with any further description of this shallow, misogynist, regressive, hateful shit. As I type, I can feel my eyes burning with tears and my gut clenching with rage.

Part of the anger, the despair, is about how this sequence unfolded today. But that’s every day for many—maybe most—women in the world. Equity, fairness, respect. Still a way to go, then.

Perhaps I’ll post on Suzanne Ciani soon. Her music is interesting and overlooked (surprise!). But not now. Right now I’m off to delete Vinyl Connection’s latest follower. Happy International Women’s Day, Rich, you poor, poor excuse for a man.