Thursday, July 15, 2010

12. Lightening Strike … in which Beth goes to the New Age and Psychic Expo in Williamstown and has an electric experience.

It’s a busy Sunday morning in Williamstown. Nelson Place – the Cappuccino Strip – is a buzz of colour and costume. The weather looks ominous but that’s not deterred the café owners from setting out tables and chairs. The cyclists, the lycra lizards, are spectacular outside Hobson’s Choice, sipping café lattes. Harley riders prefer ice cream. Big men in leather pants and boots, shiny heads and dwarfish beards lick double cones. A people mover pulls up at a loading zone and out spill the crumpled cast of Paddington Bear – the Williamstown Light Opera pride themselves on their children’s repertoire. Each actor has a fistful of flyers promoting the show. Given the gaiety of the morning, even the dog walkers (normally invisible in sensible shoes and beige) draw attention.

A crowded scene indeed but there is more. A ferry pulls into Gem Pier and twenty clowns catapult down the wharf and across the park. An American doctor discovered some time ago that laughter is, after all, the best medicine, and he’s running clowning workshops for GPs all over the world. Today, this group of Melbourne doctors is releasing their inner clowns into public space.

Ooshmo (Beth’s best friend) lives in Williamstown. She’s a Natural Healer – her current interest: aromatherapy. She’s had stalls at the Expos in Ringwood and Frankston. She rang Beth a few months back and said, ‘Beth, it’ll do you good to get involved in the Expos. They’re fabulous for networking and it’s a terrific opportunity to promote yourself.’

‘I just don’t know if I’m ready to be out there in the same way you are Oosh.’

‘Listen to me Beth. You’re a beautiful and magical, intuitive woman. You have a responsibility to share your wisdom with the world.’

In the face of such an affirmation, Beth had no option but to agree. And so it was arranged, she would drive down from Daylesford on the Saturday before the Expo. She would bring her IKEA trestle and velvet tablecloth and set up her Tarot reading next to Ooshmo’s aromatherapy stall.

On the morning of her departure, a fierce northerly was blowing. Beth’s eyes ran, the corners of her mouth itched and she sneezed herself hoarse. Several times she had to pull over to the side of the road and wait for the paroxysm to subside. It was an enormous relief to pull into Ooshmo’s driveway and stagger into the house. Or was it? The smell of incense and dusty potpourri that greeted her, made her nose fizz as if she’d just snorted Draino. ‘Lie down on the couch Beth. I’ll unpack the car for you, then I’ll do you.’ Ooshmo has a certificate in Shiatsu therapy. Beth lay down as instructed. She breathed through her mouth and pinched the bridge of her nose. Ooshmo pressed a smooth stone into her hand. ‘Hold this to your diaphragm. I find it works for me – very calming.’

She drifted into an allergic doze. Her thoughts floating against the background beat of Ooshmo’s footsteps up and down the hall. Was it the northerly she was reacting to or was it the thought of setting up a stall at the EXPO? Let’s face it, setting up a stall at the New Age and Psychic Expo was like ‘coming out’! There were people out there who still hadn’t caught up with the new direction her life had taken. They didn’t know that she now lived life in accordance with the stars, slept with a native American Dream catcher in the window, consulted her spiritual guide and was paying a Shaman to travel into the non ordinary world to retrieve the parts of her soul that need healing. The journey to this point in her life had been difficult and painful and she’s hurt people on the way. Especially Sean.

Beth thinks of her childhood as being stained by a brown respectable fug. She escaped from her old parents as soon as she could and moved to Melbourne where she cut loose, slept around, smoked dope and met Sean. By this time, he was working for a puppet company that created shows for factory workers. It was a Union based thing – the shows were humorous and satirical, designed to inform workers of their rights. Meg thought he was pretty radical and she fell in love with his slender and expressive hands and they talked long into the nights about social equity. They married and suddenly they had two small mouths to feed and very little money. That’s when Beth discovered that some of the stuff from her respectable background was useful. Ada (her Mum) had insisted she study ‘Home Economics’ in high school. She would have preferred Geography. (‘Geography!’ Ada scoffed. ‘What man wants a wife who talks about Geography!’) With only her high school text to help her, Cookery the Australian Way, Beth started the “Kitchen Workshops”. She turned out to be a natural teacher and an enthusiastic learner. She’d always been interested in personal development and as well as teaching, she became a student and attended all sorts of classes on Assertiveness, Emotional Intelligence and she completed a Life Coaching Certificate. It was during the Life Coaching course, she discovered New Age thinking.

As the years passed, she felt a spiritual emptiness growing inside her. She’d rejected her stodgy Christian upbringing even before she’d left Adelaide. Years of prayer, faith and ritual had been replaced with nothing. She began to feel that she must have chucked the baby out with the bath water. The emptiness grew and grew and she began searching for something to fill it. She read everything she could lay her hands on; she learned about the power of crystals, repressed memory, feng shui, tai chi, channeled guidance and personal numerology. She was on a steep learning curve and when she looked back over her shoulder, she could see Sean at the base line untangling the strings of his puppets. And then one day, she discovered the worst. She worked out his personal numerology and it was plain as the nose on her face. He is less evolved than her. He has a lot of work ahead of him. So she left – giving him room to grow.

When Beth is around like-minded friends, she feels she’s done the right thing. When she’s around people who don’t understand her, she feels dizzy, defensive and a little mad.

After Ooshmo’s shiatsu and a good night’s sleep, she feels a little better. When she wakes, the northerly has blown itself out and now the air is hot and humid. Black clouds darken the sky to the extent that they have to turn on the lights in the kitchen. ‘I can feel the electricity in the air,’ says Ooshmo. ‘Should add something to the atmosphere at the Expo.’

Beth agrees and tries to breathe deep into the knot of anxiety that’s forming in her stomach.

They plan to be at the Williamstown Town Hall around 9.00am. ‘That gives us two hours to set up,’ says Ooshmo, ‘which is more than enough but I’d like to get there early and avoid the bun fight. Parking is dreadful in Williamstown on the weekends.’

After breakfast Ooshmo puts on the new Witney Houston CD and the two women whiz about getting themselves dressed and organized for the day. Ooshmo feels her legs are heavy and chooses a long cotton skirt. It’s dyed in delicate colours – pink , lavender and lemon. She thinks of the shades as representing the scents that are evoked by the perfume of essential oils. On her top, she wears a loose cotton tunic with sleeves that flare out over her hands. She gathers this into her waist with a fine gold belt. Not one for a heavy jewelry, she chooses a delicate sapphire necklace and a pair of matching earrings to complete the picture. Her thick wavy hair swirls around her face like a cloud; a tall strong woman, one who could be trusted not to panic in a crisis.

Beth, on the other, hand, is rummaging in her suitcase, picking things up, forgetting where she put them, a cat chasing her own tail. ‘Can’t I just wear my overalls and Blundstones?’ she calls through the wall to Ooshmo. ‘That’s what I wear normally.’

‘No you can’t! You’re not in the country now. You have to meet people half way. If you want people to stop at your stall, you have to look like what people think psychic people look like. It’s basic marketing stuff. You know that.’

Beth does in fact have an outfit. Her reluctance to wear it is linked to her feelings of vulnerability but at last she emerges from the bedroom - done. Ooshmo says, ‘Let’s look at you.’ And she tips her head forward and peers over the top of her glasses. ‘You look fine. I don’t know why you have a problem with it.’

She’s all in green, deep green which compliments her hennaed shoulder-length hair and pale skin. Not tall, she’s chosen to dress all in one colour. She’s wearing harem pants and on the top a long blouse that covers her bottom. Around her neck, she wears her star sign, a double string of amber beads, a silver dolphin and a small ball, that if you look closely, is planet earth. A pair of Navejo beaded earrings swing from her ears and when she walks her ankle chains tinkle. Ooshmo is aware of her friend’s vulnerability. She wants to say, ‘The kajal is a bit heavy around the eyes,’ but she doesn’t.

‘You look just fine.’

They arrive at the Town Hall as planned. The drive to the main entrance and off-load the trestles and other heavy stuff. Ooshmo says, ‘You stay with the gear and I’ll go find a park.’ She drives off, leaving Beth stranded on the steps.

A young man taps her on the shoulder. ‘I’ll give you a hand if you like?’ He doesn’t wait for a response. He picks up one end of the trestle top and nods to Beth to pick up the other. ‘Looks like we might be in for a storm,’ he says walking backwards through the dark vestibule. He’s long and thin. His dreadlocks come almost to his waist. His feet are bare and dirty, the soles crusty and cracked. Beth thinks: ‘He’s into drums.’

‘I make and sell my own drums,’ he says.

By the time Ooshmo returns, Beth has both trestles up, tablecloths spread and most of the oils unpacked. ‘Thanks Beth. You’re a great help but its beautiful outside. Why don’t you take yourself for a walk? The sky’s full of the most amazing energy.’

‘You can borrow my bike and go for a spin, if you like,’ says a deep voice. Beth turns around and looks into a pair of piercing grey eyes. ‘My name is Morgain. I live in Williamstown. It’s well worth a look about. Go before the storm breaks and the crowd arrives.’

‘Do it,’ Ooshmo urges. ‘I can finish here. Go.’

Beth follows Morgain down the length of the Hall to a room at the back. Morgain is even taller than Ooshmo. She wears a body hugging full-length dress with long sleeves – crushed velvet, deep magenta. Her feet are invisible and she seems to glide along the floor. Her hair, thick and blond, stops half way down her back. Her lipstick is a rich plum and she has a jewel in the middle of her forehead between her eyebrows. As they slip out the back, Beth notices an eye-catching stall. There’s a large three-paneled screen. Each panel is covered in the same crushed magenta as the dress. In the centre panel, a piece of lustrous white satin, embroidered with gold thread is pinned, and it reads:

MORGAIN

*

CLAIRVOYANT

*

Tarot

Personal Numerolgy

Channelled Guidence

Beth glances back up the Hall to her own stall. She can see the scratched brown legs of her IKEA trestle poking out from under the cloth.

‘There it is, leaning against the wall by the urn,’ Morgain points across the room to a rusty bike. Beth notices the long finger-nails painted plum to match the lipstick. ‘Enjoy yourself. There’s always plenty to see on Nelson Place – our Cappuccino Strip.’

Beth wheels the bike out the back door, around the building, across the carpark and into the street. She has a vague idea that if she rides straight ahead, she’ll strike the beach. Her instinct is correct – a roundabout here and a dog- leg there and she can see water. It’s a relief to be out of the Hall. She rides to the edge of the grass, then wheels the bike to the land’s end where there’s a small drop down to rock pools. She chooses to sit up high and look out across Port Phillip Bay. It’s a grey picture. The air is heavy with the brewing storm, the water is smooth, the surface tension unbroken.

She looks down at her harem pants and her toes poking out from under the ballooning hems. She feels, she doesn’t recognize herself any more – even her feet look like they belong to someone else. Earlier, when she’d looked at herself in the mirror, the image she saw didn’t match what she carried around inside her head. Ooshmo had an explanation. ‘Through you spiritual journey, you have metamorphosed Beth. From a creature that lived grounded on the material plain, where vision is limited to small horizons, you’ve evolved into a spirit-being with a panoptic view. It’s no wonder you feel vulnerable at times.’ Beth couldn’t help wishing it’d happened years ago. Forty something seems a bit old to be developing panoptic vision.

A loud rumble of thunder and crack of lightning interrupts her thoughts and reminds her that she should make her way back to the Hall. She decides to return via Nelson Place. She rides back along The Esplanade then turns left down Cole Street. She’s pretty sure this leads to the main drag.

She’s at the top of the Cole Street Bridge when a bolt of lightening strikes the power lines beside her. She feels the force, like a whack. Her body stiffens; she’s lifted off the seat and lands back with an uncomfortable thump onto the pommel. Her grip tightens on the handlebars, vice-like. She can see with her eyes but her mind is blinded, whited out by the flash. She’s now on the other side of the rise and freewheeling down to Nelson Place. Her speed is increasing, exponentially, as she heads for the roundabout. Her hair, streaming out behind her, she leans into the corner with grace. Eventually on flat terrain, the bike slows and pale and rigid, she pedals along the Cappuccino Strip as rain begins to fall in big wet drops.

The cafes are in full swing. No one seems bothered by the storm. The cast of Paddington Bear and the clown doctors have converged under the gay umbrellas over coffees and cakes.

In a stupor, Beth pedals on.

It’s lucky for her that what happens next, happens when she’s going slowly otherwise it could have been messy. The bike jams. She can’t shift the pedals forward or back. This startles her and her mind clears a little. She tries to dismount to see what the problem is but she can’t get off; she can’t detach herself from the bike. The hem of her harem pants is tangled in the chain and the large cog. She stands in the middle of the road, raindrops breaking on her and slowly soaking her. Eye make-up runs down her cheeks in black lines.

It’s Paddington Bear who notices her plight. His name is really Sharon and she works in the bakery in Ferguson Street. Sharon is known for her practical nature and generosity and often gets to play main roles. She wades out into the rain and calls to Beth, ‘Do you need a hand there?’ Beth looks up with helpless, empty eyes. Sharon bends down and tugs at the cloth. Concerned about getting her furry rented costume wet, she sings out to her colleague in a three-piece pin stripe suit and a fake moustache, standing on the footpath under a big black umbrella. ‘Nigel, if you’re just going to stand over there and do nothing, could you come over here and do nothing!’

Nigel strolls out onto the road and stands over Sharon and Beth giving them some shelter. Sharon huffs with the exertion of leaning over her large stomach. ‘Oh you’re really in a pickle. You’re not going anywhere fast, that’s for sure.’

Then one of the clowns steps into the rain to see if he can be of any assistance, ‘Are you Okay there?’

‘Her pants are stuck in the chain.’ Sharon wheezes, hands on hips.

‘She’ll have to take them off,’ he says.

‘She can’t take her pants off in the street in front of all these people!’

‘She’ll have to. There’s no other way.’

‘She can’t!’

While Sharon argues with the doctor, Nigel patiently holds the umbrella. Beth begins to shiver. The colour is gradually returning to her cheeks. Her mind is slowly beginning to function. It’s clearing, its almost back to normal but then it grows clearer and more clearer. She looks around her with clarity of vision and mind like she’s never experienced and a sense of joy blossoms inside her. It grows and grows and she throws back her head and laughs. Her joy is infectious. The cast of Paddington Bear, roar and slap their sides. The doctors howl and whoop.

She … has survived lightening.

She … is alive.

And laughter … is the best medicine!

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