Ouija Nights

I never met him.

I never heard him.

However, I spoke to him often, and he "wrote" to me over a twenty-five month period (I was in my mid 20s then).

He was honest, helpful and gave good advice. Then he disappeared from my life, though his words are with me still.

Let's see what I can remember.

Two couples, some animosity between the girls.

A very 60s Victorian Terrace in Sydney's Bondi Junction.

Vietnam waxing, Beatles waning.

Black floors, rush matting, wine bottles various and Modiglianis jousting with Hockneys across mural battlefields.

The lights are low-candles in fact. We pass a glass tumbler round, breathing ritualistically into it in turn. I presume we all feel the same as I do – somewhat excited, two wines relaxed, a little self-conscious and on guard against manipulation, intentional or sub-conscious, by others.

The glass tumbler stands inverted on a lightly powdered glass table. An alphabet of Scrabble letters surrounds the glass. We each place a finger on the glass, willing it to move, meanwhile invoking any interested spirit. My arm becomes tired and unsteady, my finger twitches and the glass moves a millimetre. Three faces brighten, then fade in disappointment at my murmured "oops".

Thirty strained minutes pass. Did we or did we not hear a guitar string twang of its own accord? Assured by friends that this really does work, I am afraid of failure – no sensitivity, no spiritual dimension!

A sharp little face appears at the edge of the table, eyes wide, ears pricked – it is the cat. Suddenly, the glass moves, very fast, straight at the cat. It goes over the edge, landing intact on the matting floor covering.

This is embarrassing, for we all sense malevolence. The cat goes out, the glass goes back.

Soon, the glass stirs. There are tentative little shuffling movements, then circles and more purposeful sweeps.

"Who are you?"

The glass slides up to the letter J, bumps the tile, sweeps back to the centre, then advances again, bumping K. This is repeated. It spells out

J-K-J-K-J-K

"Where are you from?"

T-B-T T-B-T

We are very excited, and are trying to help. However, we make little sense of this.

"Tell us again".

T-B-E-T

"Is that Tibet?".

The glass moves to the "Yes" tile which we have included on a cardboard disc.

This is not satisfactory. Already we are prompting answers and are competing to anticipate responses. However, no one of us is dominating, and there is energy in the glass which seems to be moving quite freely. I wonder if one of the others is guiding it, and after some thought, decide to test. "The next letter shall be 'I'” I think, and decide that my energies will tend in that direction. Immediately, two fingers leave the glass, which stops dead.

"Who's doing that?" asks Doug.

"Me" I reply.

They understand, and when anyone "tests", the others know immediately.

We address our contact again.

"What do you want to tell us?".

J-K-J-K---HATE--K-J

"Are you JK?"

YES

"Are you KJ?"

"Are you from Tibet"

YES

"Do you speak English?"

Swirling movement from the glass, but no answer.

We plunge on in this "push-pull" manner for quite some time. We get only "keywords" and have to build a story round them.

The words are B-R-O-T-H-E-R/ W-I-F-E/W-I-D-O-W/H-U-S-B-A-N-D/H-A-T-E/J-K/K-J/K-I-L-L/

Armed with only our contact's "yes/no" response, we probe for the story. We are not sure that this contact speaks English. The keywords are interspersed with "hate" and "kill".

There is a bad feeling about this – also an incredibly tedious feeling. We persevere for some time further, at the end of which we have no gold nuggets, just a few flecks of pyrites.

We surmise that JK and KJ are closely related in a Tibetan "widow belongs to brother-in-law" situation.

We decide to give it up for the evening and step out to the front porch.

We are today's bright young people, living in our trendy terrace. See the pot-plant in the window. See us at midnight, supping seated on our mosaic tiled porch.

Look at the building next door. It is the Eastern Suburbs Leagues Club, spilling out its nightly load of entertainees. One or two look sober. Another one (who isn't) vomits. Bidding each other noisy farewells, they fan out in search of their cars, innocent of seat belts, and most make it home safely.

This unseemly ritual apart, Bondi Junction is actually a pleasant spot situated half-way between Bondi Beach and Paddington Barracks.

THE WRONG PLACE BACK TO TOP

Can you guess what I was at the time?

I'll tell you.

I was in the Army, as a bandsman stationed at Paddington Barracks. This was one of the more comfortable posts during the Vietnam War. The walled environs of the barracks, built by convicts in 1841-1846, contained a squash court and a billiard room, both of which were deserted, but which I began to use a great deal as a kind of personal club. After a day's work, I would take off for one to two hours surfing at Bondi Beach, where I shared a flat with Bernie. After a civilised dinner, I would return to the barracks to practice in our resonant bandroom.

Working on weekends, we often had compensatory days off mid-week-golden days on the sand as the rest of the city worked 9-5.

The descent to Bondi effectively turned one's back on the huge metropolis, and I entered a dreamland. Even as a partner-less, childless 22-year-old, I was deeply moved by the beautiful picture at the Southern end of the beach. A rock circle formed a natural shallow pool, where a group of young mothers would meet, bringing their tiny children. The best things in life were free, I thought.

This simple but timeless picture is with me still.

Used to swimming in the cold southern waters of Victoria, I was comfortable swimming through the Sydney Winter, sans wet-suit. I became a confident body surfer, always alert for the perfect wave and the next challenge. One week, it arrived. After fierce storms in the pacific, a powerful surf tore into the eastern coast, stripping the sand from many beaches.

As I surveyed the huge breakers crashing into the beach, I planned my tactic. In previous large seas, I spent a good deal of time making my way under the breakers until I reached green water where I would ride the swells and catch my breath till I was ready to surf.

I plunged into an ebbing river of froth foam and sand and shot under the first incoming white wall. I worked hard, plunging deep under successive waves, to find myself quite quickly in clear water, riding high, then dropping like an elevator with each mighty swell.

I was shocked to realise that I was "out the back" so soon. I was even more shocked when I looked up and realised that I had passed beyond the headlands of the crescent-shaped bay. I was in open ocean!

My heart lurched, and my first instinct was to sprint for the shore, but I was aware that I would be swimming against the current which had brought me out so fast..

I had my fins on, and got them working in a long, sustained kick, aiming for mid-beach.

As I swam, I noticed a throng of people on the headland between Bondi Junction and Tamarama, the adjacent cove. Above them a helicopter swooped. Feeling grimmer by the minute, I stroked steadily shoreward, anxiously assessing whether I was getting inside the headlands. Still the helicopter rose and fell, rose and fell. The people were still there. Were some of them pointing at me?

Now I was inside the heads, but very tired. The swell lifted me up to roof-top height and passed on, leaving me aghast. Where was the glassy slope I would skim, dolphin-like, to the beach? Nowhere! Only a mountain of water collapsing in a cataclysm of foam-my only route to the beach, and I would have to take it, for the light was just beginning to fade.

Before giving myself any more thinking time, I committed my life to the next wave. Up, up and up again I rose thrusting strongly with my fins. On top of the mountain, my world stood still. An unbelievable drop yawned beneath me. Great angry white ridges barred the ocean between me and the beach.

And I knew I shouldn't have been there.

Reality was upon me again- it was freefall followed by a raging express train of water driving me deep down, tumbling me like a rag in a washing machine. I didn't know which way was up, where my breath had gone or how long I could hold out. The storm subsided and I bobbed to the surface, had time to take two or three gasping breaths when another monster struck. Deep as I dived, it picked me up like a matchstick. Again I surfaced, desperate for air. Wave number three was upon me, and conscious of diminishing strength I plunged for the bottom. The beast rolled me like a Catherine Wheel, and I came up utterly spent, conscious of an odd feeling on one foot, as my fin had been plucked from it, and was nowhere to be seen. I knew it was a non-floating fin and I could not expect to recover it.

Again my mind took a snapshot.

The headland was crowded with people and the helicopter simply hovered. A dog barked on the beach and I could hear the hum of the evening traffic. Sea birds flew over me on their way back to their cliff wall nests. Everyone seemed to know their place but me. They would go to their loved ones, their dinner and their cosy beds while I, who had underestimated the power of the elements, would be flushed away like any piece of flotsam, by the unknowing, uncaring sea.

I cried bitterly, but briefly, as my strength was returning with each breath I took.

I had been swept down to the Southern end of the beach and was lined up with the Mothers' Rock Pool where the waves were pounding. Above this stood the whitewashed swimming pool with the link chain border, normally high above water level, but now being pounded from above, sluicing torrents back into the sea.

If I could be thrown into that pool I reasoned, I would have to be prepared for a couple of broken ribs, and probably limbs as well. A small price to pay for life! I would do it! Lining up for the swimming pool, I caught the next beach express. I had miscalculated, and my watery chariot veered right, propelling me headlong towards the rocks. Expecting to have my brains dashed out on the rocks, I was shot through a gap between boulders in a giant jet of water. Into the sanctuary of the Mothers' Pool where I floated round and round in swift shallow water till I grounded. I rolled over, and removed my surviving fin.

Then I stood up, and fell over. So I stood up again, but I fell over again. After a couple of minutes I propped to a standing position. I became aware that two boys were watching me, with very large eyes.

"Was that you out there mister?"

"Ah, yes, I suppose so", trying to sound casual.

"Are you alright mister?"

I ached from head to toe and had survived an ordeal, but didn't think that it should show.

"Yes, of course" trying to sound casual.

I didn't realise that only a waist string and a scrap of the front of my swimming costume remained; nor that I was covered all over in a criss-cross pattern of cuts and abrasions relieved here and there by stripes various, and that most of these injuries were bleeding gently. As I made my way back to my car, I found my other fin, high on the beach.

I did no practice that evening, so heard the news for once. A helicopter had tried to rescue a surfboard rider at Tamarama, but had been unsuccessful.

The surfer was never seen again.

SHE SPEAKS OUR LANGUAGE BACK TO TOP

We decide to try again. JK seemed to be an unpleasant character, but something had happened and we are hopeful. Again, we find time, put the cat out, and go the the ritual. Again we concentrate, and a little sooner this time, get results.

No J-K, but M-O-L-L

"Are you Moll Flanders?"(how we think in cliches)

The communication seems fluent but it still takes time.

Moll is from Liverpool and is twelve or thirteen. She fell from a rooftop where she had gone to retrieve a ball. We ask about her appearance and family and then someone asks for a message.

As the glass touches a letter, we take it in turns to commit the sequence to paper. Sometimes we have to stop to work out sense and meaning. For example, T-H-I-S-W-E-E-L is almost certainly THIS WEEK, depending on context. It is easy for the glass to bump a letter adjacent to that presumably intended. And without word gaps one has to decide whether R-A-B-B-I-T-E-A-R-S is "rabbit ears" or "rabbi tears"

"Do you have a message for us Moll?"

K-I-L-L-A-L-L-F-L-E-A-S

"Kill all fleas? Why Moll? Were you a dog perhaps? Did you have fleas?"

A-D-A-M-A-D-E-M

This has us puzzled for ages, until we make

ADAM ADEM interpreted as "Adam 'ad 'em" or "Adam had them".

Quite a sophisticated word joke, somewhat Olde Worlde, and possibly a chestnut for an older generation, but a novel thought for us.

I wonder if any of the others has heard this expression before, but soon discover that the consensus is that I am the most likely source, sub-conscious or otherwise. I take it as a compliment, but am mystified.

Moll seems childish and irritating, and for some reason we seem to expect better from beyond the grave.

Nevertheless, we have had a conversation.

THE WRONG FRIENDS BACK TO TOP

What was a nice boy like me doing in the Army? you ask.

Thanks for asking.

I'll tell you.

Having completed year twelve before my seventeenth birthday, I joined the work-force in jobs ill-suited to my temperament. The Bureau of Meteorology seemed a good starting place, so I joined the Commonwealth Public Service. Attending my medical examination, I was mindful of an earlier experience where I had had to wait a considerable time before being able to produce a urine sample.

So I drank copious amounts of water beforehand.

The waiting room was crowded and progress was slow. By the time I was called, my need was urgent. I was ushered into a cubicle innocent of plumbing, and was handed a jug which I was to return to the doctor's room on the far side of the waiting room.

The relief was immense but turned to consternation as the level rose and rose, finally stopping perilously close to the rim. The short journey across the waiting room was one of life's longest walks, gliding with pointed toes to avoid the humiliation of spillage.

Within a year, I had to undergo another "medical", for another employer. Unable to face the further maths required for a career as a meteorologist, and obsessed by my musical interests, I felt a spell as a draughtsman for the Titles Office might provide me with needed discipline.

For this medical, I felt prepared, and took a small draught of water and a ten- minute walk to the appointment.

A modest sized vessel with an elasticised plastic cover was provided, and I produced the sample in a normal ablutions block. The doctor however, took an inordinate time with the sample. Eventually he reappeared.

"Er, Mr. Williams-did you pass this sample yourself?"

"All my own work"

"Yes, I mean, you didn't get it from the tap?"

"It's warm isn't it?"

"Yes, but tap water can be, too"

"Haven't you analysed it?"

"Yes, and it appears to be tap water".

I explained my procedure, and he deduced that swift passage through my body had done little more than take the chill off the iced water from the office cooler.

"We do have do be careful" he said. "Had a chap last week, filled it up with warm tap water and spat in it. Had us puzzled for ages.

What I really wanted to do was to play music. This is not unusual, but at the age of seventeen, with not a music lesson to my name nor any previous evidence of musicality, this seemed unlikely and unwise. I put down a payment on a saxophone with my first pay, in the belief that it was a clarinet. I knew that success would not arrive overnight, and allowed myself a year in which to become the world's pre-eminent saxophonist. My first abortive attempts to play were so disappointing that I immediately revised the schedule to two years.

I decided to join the Navy for training as a bandsman, but was rejected on the grounds that the psychologist's report recommended service as a pilot or midshipman training in the U.K. but not as a bandsman, for these were tradesmen in whose company I would be most unhappy. I assured them that I had survived the company of many people whom I didn't like, that I would be happy if only they could teach me the rudiments of music, that I would be distracted by a steep learning curve……but all to no avail. I refused the offer of other training.

Several years later I won the only lottery I have ever won in my life-the Conscription lottery.

I reported as demanded and advised the medical officer that I had previously been rejected for Military service on psychological grounds. He assured me that it was no longer a problem. I was now faced with a dilemma. I had earlier joined the CMF (an Army Reserve) in the Commando Unit, then in the Band. Commando I wanted for cheap parachute jumping but having endured the rigorous training, discovered that I would have to wait six months to take up a specialty, which could just as easily be rock climbing or diving, neither of which appealed. I wanted to float, not to climb or dive.

Training was brutal, but discipline was primitive compared to the discipline of my religious boarding school. And my companions were not very "nice". In fact, there seemed to be a strong criminal element, most of whom were interested in the mechanics of the next weapon to be mastered. Few of them seemed to have heard of families, and my only companion was an open-hearted Italian boy called Guido.

As the instructor droned on, in his khaki outfit under the khaki gum tree in front of a khaki jeep, my mind ran with the sound of jazz, classics anything. Heart-shaped faces, caramel skin, silky hair floated in and out of my vision as the voice droned on…as the hard eyes narrowed in my direction…as the delivery sped up in order to arrive at-"recapitulation and question time". Time to concentrate! Memorise the sequence! memorise the sequence! memorise the sequence!

Recapitulation over, the sinewy arm thrusts in my direction. Up I leap, walk to the front, with my sequence routine running over and over. Always logical, always predictable, it is the Army way. The weapon practically falls apart, the ever-present acrid smell of preserving grease mingling with the preservative in our packs and the thin aroma of the midday meal wafting through the eucalyptus. Yesterday I mistook the stew for moderately heart soup.

Click, clack, reef, rack and the damn thing is ready and waiting for some peanut to seize and caress. Present according to formula, and you're done. But you'll pay for it somewhere, as the day is long.

Quite a few didn't endure. Some went home and some were hospitalised. The first few into the showers got a warmish shower, so there was a stampede in the dark. When a couple fell, they were trampled.

An assessing officer told me afterwards "You've actually done very well. But would you like to know what your commanding officers thought of you?"

What can you say to that?

He went on "They feel that you have great survival potential. But they feel that your friends might not be so lucky".

Again, this was small beer compared to my Boarding Schoolmaster's character assassinations.

I was not fazed, and replied "I have no friends here (sorry Guido)."

I suppose today, they would look at me sorrowfully, and say, "You are just not a team player".

But in fact, I'm just a bit particular about my team. BACK TO TOP

A BLAST FROM THE PAST BACK TO TOP

Even though we are not at all comfortable with each other's company, the sessions continue, although the material seems to be of the childish variety that seems to be so prevalent.

We move to the relative comfort of a large wooden table, and dispense with candles and warm-up rituals. Contact is quick and very positive. The glass moves with progressive ease, and we are soon "conversing" with a slightly odd, curious personality.

The glass is moving fast enough for one of us to leave off and act as secretary, generally separating the flow of letters into words as we go.

" I AM MUCH AMUSED BY THE PICTURE OF A SMALL BIRD ON PAUL'S SHIRT" -I am wearing a Tee Shirt with a Penguin Logo.

"THIS PICTURE MUST BE THE WORK OF THE DEVIL"-We have, opened on the table, a calendar with a photographed Autumn scene.

"MAXWELL OF NORWICH" in answer to the obvious question, "Who are you?"

Eventually, after a couple of sessions, we deduce. And are told, that Maxwell of Norwich lived and died in the fourteenth century.

His tentative first "utterances" seems to indicate a state of confusion. Asked where he had been before we called him up, he answers, "In a shoe box in Paul L's cupboard". Paul L does indeed have shoe boxes in his cupboard. I ask Maxwell whether he had been a spider or a mouse. He replies that he does not know, nor why he had answered in that way.

He returns to each session with fresh experience, and becomes much clearer in his assessment of his situation.

He tells us that he died at the age of 22 when his horse slipped on a wet hillside as he was mounting it.

He was a teacher of Mathematics and English, and made two trips to Turkey, for both Trade and Diplomatic reasons. They bought carpets and also taught English at the Turkish Court.

He now reveals that when we first "called him up" he was frightened.

"I EXPECTED TO BE LOOKING INTO THE FACES OF THE EVIL ONES OF MY DAY"

"Who are they?"

"WITCHES AND HERETICS"

"What about the "work of the devil" as you called that photograph.

"NOT KNOWING WHAT IT WAS, AND NEVER HAVING SEEN A PICTURE OF THIS QUALITY, I ASSUMED IT MUST BE THE WORK OF THE DEVIL, AS NO HUMAN HAND COULD HAVE DONE IT"

Max has no idea where he has been in the centuries after his death. However, he refuses to use the word "die" and insists on correcting us in this usage. He consistently says "When I left my body".

He appears to be behaving pretty much like any 22 year-old, and tells us that he has another contact, a young boy who is driving at Bathurst. In fact, he seems car-mad, to the point where we feel a little jealous of the hoon who is sharing our contact. A couple of phrases which Max uses strike us with force, partly because of their quaint language, and also their individual pint of view.

"…THIS INSANE AGE OF METAL PROGRESS"

"I AM HORRIFIED BY THE CLOCKWORK PRECISION WITH WHICH YOU LIVE YOUR LIVES"

Max is becoming quickly acclimatised, and concepts such as air travel and photography are becoming rapidly assimilated. There are occasional witticisms and word jokes, some of which don't seem very original.

We are amazed that he corrects us so often, and that our anticipations of his story are so often incorrect.

"I AM CO.."

"Concerned?"

"NO"

"Convinced?"

"NO"

"WHO'S TELLING THIS ST.."

"Who's telling this story, me or you?"

"YES. I AM CONSOLED BY....etc"

Relations between the girls however, are deteriorating fast, and Jean has been having unpleasant dreams, of teeth turning green, rotting and falling out. She has her doubts.

Time to find my own place. I take a place in inner suburban Surry Hills. Ensconced in my new home, I am closer again to another time. I must be very close to the spot where the author Ruth Park lived (The Harp In The South, A Fence Around the Cuckoo, Playing Beattie Bow and many more wonderful books).

THOU SHALT NOT… BACK TO TOP

My own religious background and upbringing did not dispose me kindly to Spiritualistic activity of any kind. In our 50s classes of 80, 90 and even 100 children, not much was left to chance. Religious devotion was highly encouraged, and remnants of a medieval belief system persisted. During Lent, and on certain Feast days, visits to the Church, and other devotions could win much remission from the pain of Purgatory, a cleansing unit prior to finally entering Paradise. This system appealed to young minds, and we would compete to chalk up the highest credit. What appalled us was the time scale involved, for the period of remission won appeared so great, that it implied a vast amount of time in Purgatory itself.

Our teachers were very clear. "Only God knows the future. Any one who tells you different is lying, and one must beware the influence of the Devil".

This subject was both thorny and horned and a whiff of sulphur seemed to accompany the subject for many years.

The subject of spiritualism and associated activities such as ouija boards did not come up very often in our religious instruction, but whenever it was mentioned, it was in disparaging terms. "Only God knows the future" and anyone who claimed otherwise was in error. Astrology was treated as a harmless pastime unless one took it too seriously…it was also seen as possibly the tip of a horned iceberg. Anything which appeared to be of a miraculous or supernatural nature in this context was suspicious, and very likely the work of the devil.

A STRANGE FRIEND BACK TO TOP

We don't see our former friends, and we run the sessions with just the two of us, and an occasional friend acting as note-taker and secretary.

We have been doing this for a long time now, and Max has become a friend. He doesn't give us much advice.

"THIS BUSINESS OF ADVICE AMUSES ME. I DON'T KNOW THE FUTURE. I SIMPLY TRY TO ADVISE YOU, AS MY FRIENDS, IN THE BEST WAY POSSIBLE. I BELIEVE THAT WITHOUT MY BODY, MY MENTAL PROCESSES AND JUDGEMENT ARE CONSIDERABLY SHARPER."

Max is still insistent on this point, as he is on the subject of "leaving his body" rather than dying. He is finding modern life exciting in many ways, and has found a new friend in Sydney. We are a little jealous to be told that he talks to someone who doesn't need to use the glass to communicate. This person lights a circle of candles while preparing his evening meal, usually nuts and vegetables. Gradually he begins to hear voices, and simply talks to Max or other contacts. Max tells us that he is a tailor, who is small and quaint, dresses in bright checked clothes, works in DJs in the city and has become reclusive and lonely because of his sexual orientation.

We want to know the secrets of the Universe, and Max seems to want to help us, but is not a great deal wiser than we. He will call at he sees it however, and we are grateful for honesty, and an opinion.

Firstly, he now thinks that the great amount of time which elapsed since he "left his body" may be due to the fact that his death was untimely and not part of a "natural plan".

On the other hand, he tells us that two of his friends lived to a relatively old age. One is Diana Blakesley, whom he intended to marry. He has enjoyed meeting up again with her, and he tells us that she has had several reincarnations.

The other is his friend, Griffith Hall, who accompanied him on one of the trade trips to Turkey. The name strikes me as odd, as his names are the surnames of two West Indian cricketers of the 60s.

Griffith, Max tells us, was over six feet tall, an imposing height in those days, and was called "Pot" as an ironic nickname. Furthermore, after Max "left his body" it was Griffith who married Diana.

On one occasion, he allows Diana to converse with us.

Immediately, the glass is slower and more controlled. The conversation is proper and not very stimulating or lively, and we realise how individual Max has become to us.

Max often seems to indicate a "glass-centric" viewpoint. On one occasion, after I had removed a pile of books to give us more room, he said "O YOU HAVE TAKEN AWAY MY OVERHANGING CLIFF".

On another, he started off the session in aimless sweeps, and we feared that we might have lost him. "What's going on Max?."

"IM DANCING".

Then we realised that the radio in the background was playing a Strauss Waltz suite.

Sometimes, when we go out for a coffee or such, we rest our fingers on a glass ashtray, and are sure it will move. We are rarely disappointed.

MY ATTORNEY BERNIE BACK TO TOP

I was nearing the end of my time in the Army, and my friends were aware of my unusual hobby. When they realised that my belief was genuine, a couple of them asked to be present, without participating. After some time, they were happy to act as secretary, speeding up matters somewhat. Bernie H I had known for some time. In fact, I met him at the Army's Music School where he was a star Apprentice, playing trumpet and French Horn. Bernie was confident to the point of bumptiousness and rarely doubted his abilities. This quality was not always appreciated, and when he travelled to Sydney to take up his posting, he was advised not to get off the train until it had crossed Sydney Harbour Bridge.

At Central Station the crowds disembarked, and Bernie twiddled his thumbs till the cleaner entered the carriage and said "Y'need t'get orf here mate".

"Oh no! I don’t get off till we're over the Bridge"

"Orright! But y'll be waitin a long time"

Here the penny dropped, and a mildly subdued Bernie made his way to the barracks.

One day Bernie had a call from the Conservatorium of Music. Could he help out on French Horn? The Horn player of the Woodwind Quintet was sick. We waited on Bernie's return. Was our standard high enough? Would he cut the mustard?

Bernie returned.

He plonked himself down and thoughtfully rolled a cigarette, and after a dramatic silence said "Well, you guys have got your work cut out ".

Bernie bought a new French Horn, but was soon highly unpopular because, for some reason it gave off a stench like bad cheese. Mortified, Bernie explained that he didn't like the bright edgy sound of the instrument, and had poured a quart of milk through the tubing, where unknowable life forms were obviously prospering.

During the next month, Bernie went through a tree-full of lemons, sluicing the juice through the horn and gradually stripping the lactic patina back.

Bernie saw the joke fortunately, and told me of about his friend in Canberra. He was another apprentice musician, who played trumpet and cornet.

Parade ground duty in Canberra was not a comfortable proposition, trying to keep fingers warm and operable in very cold conditions. There are also some instruments which are difficult to play with gloves on, no matter how well modified.

This apprentice decided to warm his cornet up in the oven, and left it there for a few minutes as he dressed. This was a pointless exercise of course, as the instrument, being metal, would cool down in a very short time.

Nevertheless, by the time he picked it up, it was more pleasant to the touch than usual. Out on to the parade ground he marched with the band, put the instrument to his lips, and pressed the middle valve down. However, when he "pressed the middle valve down" the music did not "go round and round". The instrument dramatically fell to pieces, clattering to the asphalt in a small shower of silver and gold pistons, rods and springs. The solder joining the parts had melted before resetting lightly.

It brought to mind my own experiences riding my bicycle to Church to serve Mass as an altar-boy many years earlier. I filled up the handlebars with hot water, plugging the ends with cork. Gloves were a better idea, and they don't rust the handlebars out.

Bernie was with me on that Canberra parade ground when I refused to play because of the cold. Unable to control my blue fingers I couldn't control what was coming out of the instrument. Some way of compromising had to be found, but no-one was prepared to discus it. So during the rehearsals I didn't even pretend to play.

The commanding officer was predictably incensed, and turned me over for discipline to our own commanding officer, who wished only to extract from me a promise that I would play properly on the morrow, when the Cadet's passout parade would be televised.

I said I would do my best, but it would depend.

On what? He asked.

The weather, I replied. My physical responses were beyond my control, and I only wished to do my job properly.

Stalemate!

Would I give a guarantee No, I wouldn't.

I returned to Sydney in disgrace, and was set to clean rifles within the guard house precinct at Paddington.

"All right lad" snarled the sergeant, "You've been f****** us around. Now we're gunna f*** you around"

"Yes, Sergeant".

There was a pile of rifles to be cleaned. I set to, and thought I would gain my freedom in reasonable time. In due course, the sergeant returned, and began his inspection of my work. He was unusually quiet, but after inspecting a few weapons regained his composure and embarked on a long list of faults, most of them invisible to a microbe.

After that, I worked at a moderate pace, and appeared quite chastened, so that justice was seen to have been done.

Bernie was most amused.

Initially sceptical, he attended many Max sessions acting as secretary and remaining non-committal.

Max would describe the aura round each and every person, becoming fairly predictable after some time. A cream aura seemed to signify balance and contentment and in some cases where it was brighter, spirituality. Jagged red and white lines were anger and a certain green was money-hunger. In some ways this was like a mild parlour-game, but quite often his description would be right on the money where someone was feeling a strong emotion concealed from the rest of us.

I know there are many people with this gift, and I would like to be one of them.

But I'm not.

DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME BACK TO TOP

We are surprised one evening when Max tells us "THIS IS A DANGEROUS THING TO DO"

"Why? What can happen?"

"YOU WERE LUCKY TO GET ME"

"Why? What could happen"

Max explains his cosmology. He tells us that when we leave our bodies, we pass on to another stage of existence. But some "Earth-bound" persons cannot tear themselves away from their earthly life. He sees the Earth as surrounded by an envelope of these souls. Their existence is what we call "hell". They are obsessed by the desire to re-enter a human body.

"But how can they do that"

"THEY CAN INFLUENCE YOUR DREAMS, AND CAN GAIN CONTROL OVER SUSCEPTIBLE PEOPLE. YOU DO NOT HAVE TO ACCEPT AN UNWANTED CONTACT".

Max believes that we do reincarnate, but has no clear idea of a path. He tells us that his friend Phillip, whom he knew in his former life as a priest, is with him, waiting to be re-incarnated as a bear. This is not exciting to us, and is somewhat distasteful, possibly doubtful, but we have to accept the information which is offered.

As with Diana Blakesley, we talk to Phillip for some time, and again there is a marked personality difference with the Phillip character being pleasant but ponderous.

We wonder about the interchangeability of human and animal souls. Again, we get Max's viewpoint. He feels that Ginge, the cat, for instance, is as close to human love as an animal can get. He feels that domestication is the path for individuation of an animals soul, whereby it passes from sharing the group soul (for instance, a wolf would not have an individual soul, but would share a "pack soul") to having a separate soul.

For my part, Max claims that I was a Finnish blacksmith in a former life, looking much as I do now, but, not surprisingly, being heavier-set.

A GENEROUS OFFER BACK TO TOP

Not long into regular Army service, we underwent the usual tests. From the results, a group was selected for possible officer training. Naturally, this offer was considered an honour.

However, officer training seemed to have no part in my career, as I needed to rapidly acquire practical music-making skills of a high order. I listened attentively with the others until, as an afterthought, the instructing officer asked whether there might be anyone who was actually not interested in this. I raised my hand, but was not asked for further comment.

Taken from the room, I was handed over to the drill Sergeant, who, of the whole bunch, specialised in the most ugly and personal language.

"You're gunna scrub shithouses", he snarled.

Well, I knew they certainly needed scrubbing, and I thought it was generally a good idea. I just preferred that it was someone else's job. I remembered that, at boarding school, we all took turns at all the tasks, we did them as well as we could, and we offered it up as a prayer. Inferior work was an insult therefore to God.

Mentally, I geared myself to putting in some solid, if unpleasant, work.

"Yes, sergeant".

He looked at me keenly, and his face softened.

"Look son! Y' c'd be a major at twenty seven, y' c'd retire on a pension by fifty, and y' need never see action".

At last, the light dawned on me. I was rejecting what this man could never have hoped to achieve.

" Ah, sergeant. Thank you. I didn't quite realise….but I only want to play music, and the Band is the only way for me to go. Being an officer won't get me there."

"OK son. Y'really know what y'r givin' up?"

"Yes, sergeant"

"OK. Is there anywhere you want to go for the next coupla hours".

"Well sergeant, I thought I might pop into the Chapel and read a book"

"Dismissed!"

(Saluting) "Sir!"

FOREIGN FACES BACK TO TOP

Wandering the grounds of Werribee Park Mansion, I spy a distinctive character. Slightly stooped and boffin-like, he seems kind but detached from his wife and two attractive daughters, who are obviously very fond of him. It can only be my old school companion, V. whom I last saw in year 10 thirty-four years ago. It is, and we renew acquaintance. He is still deeply involved in the Ukrainian Community and this gives me a fine idea.

Since I am scheduled to entertain Chernobyl children at Lorne in the near future, I decide that it would be a nice gesture to learn some introductions in Ukrainian. V is happy to help. I outline my introductions and he translates into Ukrainian, which I then render in phonetics, repeating until I eventually arrive at an acceptable pronunciation.

The daughters are highly amused. "Oh, Papa, you speak such funny old Ukrainian". I presume that, like many who come here, V's speech sounds relatively formal and even poetic.

In the event, plane trouble means that the children miss the concert. However, I explain to the audience and try out my new skills anyway.

A man approaches me after the concert and says "You know, it was really strange! When you started to speak that other language, you suddenly looked very foreign.

We are in Sydney for a family holiday, and down at Darling Harbour is an ice-show. For a fee, one may disport amongst refrigerated ice and snow shaped into castles and slides. It is all very novel for us. We take a rented parka each, I put mine on, then notice the others staring at me. They all have the same thought. "Do you know how Russian you look?"

I am in Germany, enjoying the experience enormously. Travelling light, I am wearing a kangaroo skin hat and a grey greatcoat. Wherever I go I hear people saying "Eine Russischer" (a Russian).

Many French and German teenagers have a softer look than I have been used to. In fact, some of the boys seem to stay fresh-faced and beardless for a long time. Their faces look familiar. I then realise that they are the faces of angels in the paintings which we have been looking at all our lives, in Galleries and in stained-glass windows.

THE CLUBS BACK TO TOP

I had started to play in a four piece combo at a Soccer Club and a Country Club, as well as some pub gigs. The band was not really good, being made of four incredibly disparate personalities. However, it was popular, as we patched together covers of crowd favourites. At one venue, where we were actually unpopular for ousting the previous band who had a local following, we were shocked in the car park to see the singer toting a gun for his own protection.

Part of our duties was accompanying the Talent Quest and also playing for the visiting artist, often a very polished entertainer prolonging an illustrious but fading career. Comedians were a mixed lot. I was interested to see that the best would have you smiling before they even opened their mouth. They were relaxed, and enjoyed their job. Others, who had their demons no doubt, could never stop, and would be seen late into the night, entertaining a small bunch of late drinkers informally round the bar as the cleaners tried to do their job.

At the Soccer Club, the singer/guitarist crashed out after trying to exhort a morose and sullen crowd into a festive mood. With incredible insensitivity, he persisted in demanding responses from a small crowd crying into their beer…. their team was in imminent danger of relegation to a lower division, and the afternoon's loss was the last nail in that particular coffin. I was not the leader, but it was I who found a great replacement who pepped the band up enormously. Next, the drummer, a throwback to the mid 50s, effectively displayed his contempt for music other than pub rock in his accompaniment to a prominent visiting artist's jazz waltz solo. He too, was replaced by a very fine drummer who doubled on saxophone. The keyboard player, Barry G, who looked and behaved very much like Clark Kent (apart from the costume changes) left shortly after to devote himself to a franchise selling organs and keyboards.

Although a fine player, he wanted to perform in other fields, and for him too, we found a worthy replacement, and we now had a swinging outfit, of which one could be very proud. It swung, it was colourful, no-one liked it and we lost that job.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR A STORY? BACK TO TOP

We are so comfortable with Max that we have got into the habit of asking him for jokes. We are used to his witticisms, and now we have asked him to extend his repertoire, which he obligingly does. We become critical of his jokes, for they seem occasionally trite and commonplace. We are surprised when he seems offended 'WELL, YOU ASKED ME TO TELL YOU A JOKE AND I HAVE MERELY TRIED TO OBLIGE". Then, after a short silence-"WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR THE SORT OF STORY WE TOLD IN MY TIME?"

"Yes, we would"

And here we listen to a long and strange story, told in a very deliberate and artistic style. Any time I try to anticipate a word, I am told "WHO'S TELLING THIS STORY, ME OR YOU?". Even this obvious expression he spells out in full, allowing absolutely no interruption.

ONCE UPON A TIME, LONG BEFORE THE TIME IN WHICH WE LIVE, THERE WERE TWO CIVILISATION UPON THE EARTH. ONE WAS BASED ON THE LAND, AND THE OTHER IN THE SEA. THE PEOPLE OF THE SEA DID NOT MIX WITH THE PEOPLE OF THE LAND, FOR THIS WAS THE WAY THEY WANTED IT. THE GROUPS WERE NOT TO INTERMINGLE OR INTERMARRY, AND THE PENALTY FOR SO DOING WAS DEATH, THE GUILTY PARTY TO BE EXECUTED BY THE CIVILISATION OF WHICH HE WAS NOT A MEMBER.

MY STORY CONCERNS A YOUNG MARINER, WHO SAILED ON HIS SHIP PAST A TINY ISLAND IN THE OCEAN. HEARING THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SINGING, HE SLIPPED OVERBOARD AND SWAM TO SHORE. THERE HE MET THE OWNER OF THE BEAUTIFUL VOICE, AND SHE WAS EVEN MORE LOVELY TO BEHOLD. HE WAS BEOND HELP, FOR HE WAS IMMEDIATELY ENAMOURED OF HER, AND SHE OF HIM.

EVERY DAY, WHEN HIS SHIP PASSED THE ISLAND, HE WOULD SWIM ASHORE TO MEET HER, AND THEY WOULD EMBRACE ON THE SAND AND MAKE BEAUTIFUL MUSIC TOGETHER.

HOWEVER, AFTER THIS HAD BEEN GOING ON FOR SOME TIME, HE NOTICED THAT HIS APPEARANCE WAS UNDERGOING CERTAIN CHANGES. THE COLOUR OF HIS SKIN HAD CHANGED SUBTLY, TAKING ON A FAINTLY COPPERY GREEN TINGE. THE TEXTURE OF HIS SKIN TOO, WAS EVER SO SLIGHTLY SCALY, AND THE HAIR BELOW HIS NAVEL GREW LONG AND LANK LIKE SEAWEED. THIS HE CUT OFF WITH SCISSORS WHEN NO-ONE WAS AROUND, AND HE HID THE CLIPPINGS UNDER HIS SACKING BED.

NOW THE BED WAS A MATTRESS ENCLOSED IN A RECTANGLE OF WOOD NAILED TO THE DECK, AND WHEN TWO OF HIS FRIENDS WERE HORSING AROUND, WRESTLING, THEY DISLODGED HIS MATTRESS, EXPOSING THE CLIPPINGS FOR ALL TO SEE.

ALTHOUGH NO-ONE REPORTED HIM, IT WAS IMMEDIATELY CLEAR TO ALL WHAT HIS AFTERNOON ABSENCES MEANT, AND THE WORD SOON GOT OUT, REACHING THE EAR OF THE KING OF THE SEA.

HE SENT MESSENGERS UP FROM THE DEPTHS, AND THEY SEIZED HIM BY HIS HAIRY GROWTH, DRAGGING HIM DOWN INTO THE WATERS TO DROWN.

AND THE KING OF THE SEA, FOR HIS PART, NOTICED THAT HIS OWN DAUGHTER'S SCALES HAD BECOME RATHER WORN AND SHINY IN CERTAIN PARTS, AND HE KNEW THAT SHE WAS THE OTHER GUILTY PARTY. TRUE TO HIS TREATY, THE KING HANDED HER OVER TO THE PEOPLE OF THE LAND FOR EXECUTION.

SHE WAS GUILLOTINED, AND CHOPPED IN LITTLE PIECES AND FED TO THE DOCKYARD CATS…………….(long pause)

AND TO THIS VERY DAY, DO YOU KNOW, THE FISH NEVER GO NEAR THE SHORE AT LOW TIDE…………………

BECAUSE THEY KNOW WHAT THAT GREEN STUFF ON THE ROCKS IS."

I SEE A TALL MAN BACK TO TOP

Not far away from the Soccer club lives Mrs. Mason, a middle-aged red-haired Scottish lady who is a seer or fortune teller. She is heavily booked, and we are squeezed in for a reading. Her house is a time-warp as it is full of rich and musty artefacts and objects, apart from a very fashionable and expensive car in the drive. Crystal ball, cards and handwriting are all brought into play.

The reading is brave and fluent…I will have two children-with musical or creative gifts superior to mine-I will marry a blond woman (Regina is not blond) who will bring out my full potential-I will live in a house of wood and windows with light everywhere. She sees a picture, of people dancing in a large, high-ceilinged space and the air is filled with lovely harmony. She laughs, as the people look so funny, like monkeys on a string she says. How strange, I think. She could be describing the soccer club, where one of the songs we play is Puppet On A String, in which the dancers imitate puppet movements.

At the end of the reading she says "There is an older couple who have been here all this time. The man is tall, and says to tell everyone that he loved them but could never bring himself to say so. The woman is stout and says that they are happy that you are doing what you want to do". I feel sure it is my mother's parents, who lived with us some time before they died.

I return to Mrs. Mason a year or so later. She doesn't seem to recognise me, and when I tell her I'd been there before, she says "I must have spun you a good yarn". Again, I suspend disbelief and take in her words. I feel she has a gift, but am not sure of her predictive ability. Nevertheless, her character assessment is impressive.

LOOK INTO MY EYES ` BACK TO TOP

Barry G, the keyboardist, stayed in touch. He was older, and quite conservative, but had an interest in hypnotism. In fact, as well as playing keyboard for a Blacktown Club, he ran a hypnotic act as a floorshow.

Barry felt that I would be a good candidate for "past-life" hypnotherapy, and we went to his place for a session. His hypnotic suggestions didn't seem to resonate with me, although I was positive and willing. Regina, however, proved an excellent subject and was quickly "regressed" to earlier stages of her life, where her voice and demeanour changed incredibly. Taken back to a pre-birth stage, she emitted little bleating sounds.

AND MINE BACK TO TOP

After some time, however, she announces that she can see Max. He is in a field, which looks to be in Australia, and is accompanied by a friend and a small bear. His clothes look to be roughly sewn, but are, in their crude fashion, tailored. His shoes are soft, pointed leather. He sends greetings to the dog which is with us. We ask if the dog is aware of Max. Regina passes on Max's words, to the effect that animals are always aware of spirit bodies passing but are blasé about them through habituation. We ask Max if he will enter our room and place himself in a particular corner. The dog, which has been banished to the kitchen for previously being a nuisance, is now admitted, and rushes, barking, to the appointed corner.

After some time, I take over the session, to try my hypnotic powers. I conjure up a story about finding a small elephant in the house which we are minding, and the joke seems to be mildly amusing for most. However, without sustaining the instructions and reinforcing the trance, I allow Regina to pass into a natural sleep, from which she wakes rather disturbed. Barry tries to repair the damage, but Regina carries these strong implanted suggestions with her for quite some time. I feel lousy.

MILITARY MUSIC BACK TO TOP

Work in the Eastern Command Army Band was generally of a ceremonial nature, mixed with a certain amount of concert-giving. Every Thursday we presented a show at the Paddington Barracks, then proceeded to Martin Place, in the City Centre. It was always a joy to hear the bass drum player strike every resonant object he could reach. Parking signs, street directions and trucks were all turned to musical advantage and provided much innocent entertainment for the rest of the Band. The Bass Trombone player also enjoyed entertaining by extending his slide, and running it through the groove of the ancient tram track which survived the demise of the old Sydney trams…until one day, the slide wedged tightly in the track, the band moving smoothly around and past him. Red-jacketed and red-faced, he made his way through the lunch crowds to resume his appointed station.

The Band was a motley crew indeed. On the very first ceremonial occasion in which I played, the assignment was to perform for a parade at the women's parade ground at George's Heights.

This was a spectacular cliff-top location on the Eastern shore of Sydney Harbour.

It was a wild Winter day, and far below us the ferries tossed and heaved on huge swells. In sharp contrast to the elements, all was order and formality on the cliff-top square. Lady soldiers swung past in time, encouraged in stentorian tones by their formidable Sergeants.

In due course, one of the senior Officers, more petite and ladylike, marched to the head of the Band, where protocol requires her to accept a salute from the Bandmaster, who is then to ask her if she would care to inspect the Band.

At this point, to may amazement, a volley of farting erupted from various points within the Band. In my embarrassment, I was grateful that the howling wind would prove both an auditory and olfactory blessing, and possibly their efforts were wasted that morning.

In any event, the Lady Officer returned the salute crisply, and with a smile said "Not this morning thank you Bandmaster".

A welcome respite from our usual duty was a trip to Port Macquarie for a sesquicentenary celebration. Then as now, the coastline was balmy and beautiful, with many miles of white sand fringing the turquoise waters.

We could never travel far before hearing yet again the chestnut about the twin towns of Tuncurry and Forster ("Did you hear about the chap with the reluctant girl-friend. Yes, he took her to Tuncurry and Forster").

DIRECTIONLESS ENERGY BACK TO TOP

In the relaxing atmosphere of Port Macquarie, the group splits into small parties in the evenings. One group, aware of my "Maxwell sessions", sets up a board in my absence. When I return, there is considerable excitement, and I watch with interest as the glass moves, and the movement seems genuine. However, the results are childish and spasmodic. I realise that I am probably the only one who is sober and decide to will the glass to a letter. Standing in the doorway, some ten or twelve feet from the glass, I am able to influence it into choosing my letter. I compose a short, innocuous message, and am surprised to see it spelt out.

This gratifies the sitters, but is actually very hard work for me.

I can not make a great deal of sense out of this incident. Some think that it indicates my subconscious influence all along, but the sheer effort and concentration required leave me in little doubt that this was not so.

One of the Army friends is Irish, and I wonder if he has the usual Celtic respect for the spirit world.

"Do you believe in the Little Folk, Liam?" I asked.

"No-but I've seen 'em".

AN ORCHESTRA BACK TO TOP

I was now out of the Army, and encouraged by Bernie, have made enquiries about joining the National Training Orchestra, being paid a modest scholarship salary whilst learning Orchestral repertoire, preparatory to seeking work in Australia's network of Symphony Orchestras. With a bare eighteen months of bassoon experience behind me, and not an inkling of audition method, I presented for a trial. "I hear you need a bassoonist" I said. An impromptu audition followed, followed by two more at two-week intervals. The advantage of a poor first showing was the impression of rapid improvement created by subsequent tests. I was in and I moved to leafy Lindfield.

On my first day I was invited to perform for the visiting Director of Music, well aware that many ears would be pressed to the hall doors. I was aware also that my standard was barely sufficient to scrape in and that I would need to improve rapidly. My bassoon also, was of a most inferior make, in poor repair. Nevertheless, I was determined to grasp the nettle, and not look back.

Playing with a piano accompanist was a new experience for me, and I imagine that in some ways my style was a new experience for the accompanist also. In front of a polite panel I was allowed to struggle painfully to the end of what I suspected was a character-building exercise designed to spell out clearly the path for development.

A brief "Thank you", and a "I suppose you know what you have to work on" and I was off.

As I approached the exit door, the substantial bottom joint of the bassoon fell off. It hit the floor with a bang, but I gathered it neatly on a low bounce….the only thing that had gone right all day! The panel looked puzzled as I murmured my departing "Thank you".

I still kept up the Max sessions, at my new place or Regina's or other friends'. My new friends were as intrigued as my Army colleagues who still visited.

Naturally we discussed the issues involved, which touched on religion, life after death, reincarnation, karma, the nature of the soul, and more. However, we were not in any way obsessed, and this did not occupy a great part of our lives.

DOUBLE ACT BACK TO TOP

Although we are not playing together any more I sometimes speak to Barry G. He tells me that he has had a peculiar experience in his hypnotist act at Blacktown. He uses musical cues for his act, and having got a raft of subjects responding well, he sends them back into trance with the tune "Sleepy Time Gal". This works like a charm, and never gives any trouble.

One night however, he tells me, he was woken by a call from the club manager after he had finished his act, and retired for the night. The band following his had played "Sleepy Time Gal" and sent a number of the audience back into trance. Barry made a brief but effective trip to normalise their situation. I am amused.

I remember too, that hypnotic acts were frowned upon by our teachers, who viewed even recreational hypnotism as voluntary surrender of the will by an individual. I feel that in this viewpoint, the nature of hypnotism may be misunderstood, and am not, nor ever have been, concerned. I reflect that the main crime of recreational hypnotism is that of vulgar taste. Otherwise, it is most interesting and entertaining.

DREAM DIARY BACK TO TOP

I was becoming interested in he pattern of my dreams, which were vivid and colourful. I remembered, aged 16, at school, being called a liar for describing a dream which was vividly coloured. I discovered for the first time that many do not dream in colour, or are not aware of colour in their dreams. In my dreams, colour was generally a dominant factor.

I wondered whether there was a cyclical factor in my dreams, or even a prophetic one. I decided to keep a dream diary to find out.

Each morning, I noted the episodes which I remembered. At first, there was generally a major theme, and a couple of minor ones, but as the days passed, my recall became better and better. Even with a scrawled shorthand, the task was becoming longer and longer. My memory was getting better by the day, and new variations and sub-plots would swarm into my view as I wrote. It was taking me too long, and there seemed no end to some episodes, but only new adventures.

Finally, I realised that I felt wrung out and flat by the time I had made my entries. In fact, the act of recall was quite deleterious to my health.

I felt that most of the dream material was ephemeral rubbish, and if the dreams had any therapeutic value, it was while I was asleep, and that they were never designed for recall.

So I threw away the diary, and felt much the better for it.

GIVE ME THE CHILD… BACK TO TOP

Some people are born earnest-or should that be "gullible"?

My brother and I are walking home from school. We go into our church, in which the new section is almost finished. It is a large sandstone construction, filled with a creamy light. Brian ascends the pulpit, spreads his arms and declaims "My dear Brethren….". I am almost sick with worry and fear. Also, concern for his soul.

Some weeks later, I am sitting in the completed Church, which is crowded for a mission, a week of spiritual revival, in which a visiting preaching order delivers powerful and persuasive sermons.

Eager for self-improvement, I am attentive, but before long I am more spell-bound than dutiful. The powerful voice rises and falls in waves of oratory which hold time in their keeping. The church swims in front of me, changing colour in dizzy sweeps. I am a member of the Church Militant and am open to the will of God, however that may choose to manifest itself.

But we do not approve of hypnotism.

MARGARET BACK TO TOP

In the Training Orchestra one met a variety of people from all over Australia.

One day there was considerable excitement at the arrival of a new violinist from Melbourne, said to be quite beautiful. We had already heard her audition tape, which was also stunning. The reality was everything we had heard, and more. Margaret looked like the cover of Vogue, every day. She was given the task of leading the Orchestra in Stravinsky's Pulcinella, bristling with demanding violin solos, as well as solos for all the sections. She was to lead in a University concert which was scheduled, and I was keen to make a good impression on Margaret. I wanted the bassoon contribution to be yet another jewel in the orchestral crown.

Soon after the concert started, I got a fright to hear one of my notes not quite true.

Yet another note seemed strangled, and before long I had major problems. I undid the rubber band securing a faulty key, I blew water from the finger holes, and did generally everything possible to trace the source of the problem, my face becoming progressively more flushed with embarrassment. Was it relief or chagrin which dominated when I found the real cause of the problem? For this formal occasion, our dress was not the usual casual wear of the rehearsal room. It was the first time I had played the bassoon wearing a tie, and it was the tie which had inserted itself under one of the keys, causing all the problems. Margaret of course played beautifully, and was so concerned to get her own part right that she probably didn't hear anything, let alone my problems. Or maybe she was as kind as she was beautiful.

Margaret was the sort of person you would like to talk to, but it soon became clear that many many people would like to talk to Margaret. Some of these were lady friends, who liked to talk to her so much that it became very difficult to talk to her without running the gauntlet of this group. Minor kingdoms have been run in this way. She was highly educated, and balanced an open mind with a healthy scepticism.

At this time I was engaged in keeping a dream diary, for the purpose of trying to ascertain whether or not there was any predictive value in my dreams.

After several weeks of this I was exhausted, as the act of writing down the dreams became progressively more and more tedious. Each dream recalled would usher in a new one, and I found that I had improving recall as time went by.

Although the time-scale was short, I found no cycle or predictive value at all. The dreams appeared largely so much rubbish, and recalling them did not seem good for my health. After recalling them, and notating them, I felt flat and wrung out, and so decided to stop. In the meantime I had talked about these dreams to friends, and Margaret had found them, and my ideas about them, interesting. Often we have an individual style in our dreams which seems exotic to others.

A NEAR-DEATHER BACK TO TOP

Rehearsing all day, practising at night, playing a lot of squash and kayaking often on the Lane Cove River, I sleep well at night. One night I have a peculiar experience. In the small hours I wake up, and something hits my chest with a thud, and I feel it resting there. My flesh creeps, for it is there and doesn't move. I am lying on my back and I reach up with my left hand to feel what it might be. My blood runs cold-it is a hand! And still it doesn't move. I feel further back, along an arm which turns out to be attached to my right shoulder. I have jammed my arm against the wall in my sleep, and upon moving, the released arm has collapsed, completely numb, onto my chest. The relief is immense, and as my heartbeat moderates to mere sledge-hammer strength, I reflect how ironic it would be had I died of fright at that point. Because whoever found me would have said, "Yes, he was just as you see him now-lying on his back with arms crossed beatifically across his chest. He must have just died in his sleep. He would not have been aware of anything. We should all go like that".

DISCO NIGHTS BACK TO TOP

While I was heavily preoccupied with my new life, Regina's life too, had changed and she had new friends who sensed that she might have mediumistic powers. I did not like these friends, and they didn't like me. Before long, we found the sessions hard to organise and they eventually stopped.

I hadn't realised what a large part the Max sessions had played I my life Fortunately, I had much work to do in preparing advanced music, and was distracted by these demands. I had a call from Chris N, a songwriter musician with whom I had played on a cruise liner.

We hadn't discussed my ouija nights while working on the ship, but it transpired that Chris had been strongly affected by a past-life reading.

He was told that he was the pampered son of a Roman Senator, living a life of ease and indulgence, and one in which he was able to exercise power of life or death over prisoners and gladiators.

However, when he could no longer put off military duty, he found himself unexpectedly in a front line skirmish. He became aware of an older, vastly experienced soldier on the other side, moving along as in a production line, thrusting and turning his Roman short sword. The man next to him having been despatched, Chris faced up, but was dismissed with ease, and before collapsing from a mortal wound saw his next companion perish the same way. His last memory was the face of his executioner, a picture of brutal efficiency and utter detachment.

The soldier appeared to be Roman also, so this may have been one of the internicine power struggles for leadership of the Empire.

Chris had written a rock-musical; could I play in it?

Weekends were now largely spent at Chris's place rehearsing a well-planned and well-written score and book. Each week new singer/dancers were auditioned till there was a cast of twelve and a band of five.

I was having to divide my time up carefully, as I was now working often with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra and the Opera Orchestra in both Ballet and Opera, as well as "bonding gigs" with the new band, which worked in Sydney bars and discos including Whisky Au Go Go.

We began the night with sure-fire dance music in a Motown mood, getting patrons active, sweaty and thirsty. Expensive drinks were sold at the break, and as the rate of consumption dropped, we would get the message to get them moving again. Girls were admitted free, ensuring eager attendance from American soldiers on R & R from Vietnam.

At eleven o'clock our cast turned up for a one-hour floor show, for which we were the accompanying orchestra. From twelve to three was down-time, in which we played much rubbish and experimented with long rambling improvised sessions, which would turn into a tight, highly condensed item suitable for pre-midnight presentation on subsequent nights.

A COLLAROY CLASSIC BACK TO TOP

We were in a magnificent rambling three story house, replete with verandahs, on a hillside not far from the beach at Collaroy, on Sydney's northern shoreline. The house was due for demolition prior to site redevelopment, but not for quite some time. The singer/dancers and some of their friends had taken up residence and there was a powerful interest in the occult and all things astrological. There was much earnest discussion about the age of Aquarius, star signs and lentil-based diets. These were attractive young people whose outlook and beliefs are about as exciting as a cold shower. Whilst intelligent, they also seemed incredibly naïve. I eschewed some of the self-improvement groups for a flute practice session in one of the magnificent tiled bathrooms. Occasionally I heard muffled laughter from the next room, although it was otherwise very quiet.

Afterwards, I learned that a meditation group had been working well to a backdrop of my French Baroque flute work, the ethereal music being punctuated by the occasional profanity from me, at a dropped note or a missed turn…hence the amusement. For my part, I was amused that in this community I was perceived as a Classical Guy, whereas in the Orchestra I was viewed by some with suspicion, and possibly, distaste. My own bassoon teacher was one who had his doubts. As the principal bassoonist of the Orchestra, John C was a dedicated and persuasive player, producing consistently top-class work of great dignity and style. He was also comfortable with an old-school look and style, and found my last minute entry to lessons somewhat disrespectful.

Not highly tuned in to appearance, I would arrive to most of my lessons fresh from the surf, on my motor bike, with the instrument lashed to the back seat. My long hair and bristling beard were liberally sanded and salted and my outfits were seen as either minimal or garish. My tactic of defrosting my teacher with irreverent humour was not noticeably appreciated.

No!-the world of the Orchestra certainly saw me as "something other".

In the meantime, back at Collaroy, the relentless characterisation according to star-sign was becoming tedious, and seemed to me to be shallow and simplistic.

I had another dream, which left me very shaken.

THE SILK ROAD DREAM BACK TO TOP

In the dream, I am looking at a picture. Perhaps I am in an art gallery. The picture is large and vivid. It is a view of a warrior starting to ascend a scaling ladder set against a walled city. Above him is a window, with stonework sections, each too small to admit a human.

Suddenly, it is a picture no longer. I am standing at the foot of the ladder, and like the person mounting it, I am an Asiatic. He is my enemy and is trying to gain entry to my city. The ladder is not the normal sort of ladder, but a stout pole with lumps of tar and rag for footholds. I thrust a large-headed spear through his ribs, blade transverse in order to pass smoothly. I withdraw it quickly to avoid entanglement, and whirl round to face his companion who has arrived. We are similar in size appearance and arms, and we swing our spears in an arc at each other. I pray that my spear is the one which will prevail, and sure enough his snaps cleanly, and I leap forward in the same movement to spear him. He does not fall, but stands looking at me. We both know that this is pure training and reflex. I thrust the spear through his eye, not in anger but as a necessary despatch.

Many people have now arrived and are starting to swarm. They are not soldiers, but a rag-tag mob, who are angry with us. I keep them at bay with my spear, but they close in from behind, seizing the spear, and swinging me off my feet. They swarm again, seizing me violently wherever they can lay hands. My arms, legs, joints are on fire, and as the pain escalates, my last thought is that I am being torn apart by a mob.

I wake, and am utterly unable to move for quite some time. Every joint in my body aches and I am overcome with horror.

I reflect on my dream, and the feeling is that I have had a vision of what may have happened to me, or a quasi me, in a previous time at my present age. Was the city on the Silk Route? Were the inhabitants of the city a wealthy group, but of the same ethnicity as the semi-nomadic desert people attacking them?

MANCHILD BACK TO TOP

Chris' show dealt with many of the life value issues of the time, and although Chris was to feel embarrassed at its naivety, had much to commend it. Chris certainly had a knack for catchy song-writing, and the performance was polished and professional, for quite some time. The show was to open at the Sydney Showgrounds, in a specially designed inflatable tent, like a giant igloo, weighted down by a water-filled perimeter.

There were many creative and innovative aspects to this show. Intervals were rather long, as so many people passing through the air-lock lobby had deflated the tent somewhat. We waited till the tent had re-inflated, then ushered them back in, by which time the tent had sagged perilously again. This would take some fine tuning.

However, a wild Sydney storm put paid to this problem, destroying the tent and sending us out on the road, to Canberra, Brisbane, Perth and Adelaide.

All is well, and the group partied hard. There was not a lot of money at first, and our diet was thoughtful and well balanced, eked out by party fare from well-wishers' hospitality, and even fish from the Brisbane River. The cast was on a high, with critical acclaim and enthusiastic audience response. Nevertheless, this was draining, and by the time we reached Adelaide, cracks were showing.

So much had been done on adrenalin and "good vibes" and on minimal professional training that the cast felt confronted by the situation in Adelaide.

Suddenly, we were faced with a sub-standard theatre, difficult living conditions and staleness. Furthermore, there seemed to be a group within the audience akin to the notorious Italian opera "claques". Adelaide was not a good experience, and it was hoped that Melbourne would redeem this.

However, Melbourne proved to be worse. Every theatre was booked by an agent protecting an upcoming show and not wanting any opposition. I had been made a juicy offer to play in the stage band for "Jesus Christ Superstar" and although I felt tempted, I knew that it was possibly a sabotage to seriously undermine the viability of Chris' project in the short term.

GURU FRED BACK TO TOP

On tour in Perth, we are enjoying the sun and the hospitality. We are partying frequently between shows, and getting in quite a bit of water-skiing. But the self-improvement group is on the move again, and there is a lot of pressure to work with the group, not as individuals. With reasonable grace, I attend a meeting where we are introduce to Fred.

Word has gone round that Fred is a guru. H knows many of the secrets of life as revealed by a visiting alien life form. He has books from these creatures.

Fred is impressive (but then, I think, most con-men are). He is eighty. He looks fantastic. He is small and neat, his gold skin well set off against a plentiful mane of silver hair, and he has clear brown eyes. He is modest and kind, and a soft but persuasive speaker. Every word appears genuine and sincere.

He is a Vegan, and explains just what we are doing to our bodies in the course of "normal" Western diet. He considers flesh eating barbaric, and is deeply moved and even angry as he discusses it. He holds us spellbound for an hour and a half.

Overnight, over half of those attending are violently sick, and over the next couple of days attend further sessions.

For some, the smoking of dope is an issue. Some agree that it would be alright if it had been organically grown.

Pressed for answers on his extra-terrestrial visitors, Fred does not claim to have met them at all. But, he tells us, his wife has.

This is very disappointing for many.

The location of the alien wisdom also turns out to be a vague issue.

Meanwhile, more and more are renouncing the flesh, are purging and dieting and revising their world view.

The musicians are a more sceptical bunch, and we discuss it with some ardour. It all seems highly principled, but we are not entirely sure, and we enjoy our diet too much to think of changing just yet. But out of respect for our colleagues, we feel we must take the matter seriously.

In this frame of mind, we go to a farm outside Perth where the band has been invited. As we leave the car, we are aware of a mouth-watering aroma which quickens our stride. Turning into a large courtyard, we are confronted by the barbaric sight of a pig being spit-roasted.

Our minds are made up, and we enjoy a wonderful evening replete with roast pork.

A FREE IQ AND PERSONALITY TEST BACK TO TOP

It was a time of ideas and isms in the early 70s, and the occult and spiritualistic were fashionable. I felt relatively sceptical about all these movements, except for the experiences which I myself had had. These were the only ones I really trusted. And I was aware that I could not expect others to simply accept my stories. Scientology was still in the news, and I followed with some interest, because of my earlier experience…….

In my first year out of school, I had worked in Spring St. in an old red brick convent, acting as information clerk for the Bureau of Meteorology. In accepting a position with the Weather Bureau, I had stipulated that I would accept it on the proviso that I work with the Meteorologists. This was agreed, but on presenting for duty, I found that I was to work in Accounts. Naturally I objected, and was then asked to compromise with a one-month secondment to that section before being placed more satisfactorily.

At the end of the month I reported to the Head of Accounts, announcing "It's a month today". I saw with horror that this was a mystery to him. When he realised the nature of my concern, he took action, and after a short time, I was made information clerk, with my own little office and phone in the aforesaid convent building. This was a handsome gesture by the Bureau.

I wrote much poetry and did much dreaming in this place.

One lunch time, I saw, nearby, a sign declaring that free IQ and personality tests were available. The small office was neat and business-like, and the name of the company suggested detachment and scientific method, and possibly a semi-governmental connection.

This intrigued me, and I entered, was politely received, and arranged to do a questionnaire. This was a long and exhaustive form, with many subjects covered from slightly differing viewpoints, which would give a more complete profile than many other assessments.

After some time, I was contacted with an appointment time, where I would complete the profile with an E-meter reading. In this, I sat opposite my "mentor" who asked simple questions which were supposed to reflect my emotional responses, measured by the E-meter, a machine to which I was connected by two wires attached to metal cans which I held in my hands. My involuntary responses were automatically charted by the machine. I understand that the principle is the same as the Lie Detector.

In due course, I was invited to attend for a consultation on these results. Arriving at the office, I was again courteously greeted, and after some preliminaries, was confronted by my chart. Great zigzag mountains of blue streaked across the page in dramatic fashion. It appeared that the peaks were my wonderful potential, whereas the troughs were my abysmal performance. I could achieve much. I was so brilliant that the world was my oyster, as long as I had the self-knowledge to help me realise these gifts. This did not seem likely I was told, without considerable help, because I was actually in a bad way (here, the alarm bells rang, for I did not feel this to be true).

The man sitting opposite me was fortyish, neat and conventional-looking, in his grey suit and tie and his horseshoe of dark, thinning hair. He gave off little energy, and for someone who appeared to be about to offer me a plan for life, seemed to be a poor substitute for the dedicated and driven men who had striven to guide my character and spiritual development throughout my school years.

The soft voice went on. Yes, I was in a bad way, and the sooner I sought help, the better. What would happen to me, I asked, if I didn't seek help. Sorrowfully, he informed me that it was pretty certain that I would have a nervous breakdown.

This, I thought, was evil. But by now, I recognised in this man a zealot. In my old teachers, I had learned not to get entangled in the long, circular, Jesuitical arguments which they were bound to win. I didn't want to offend, but had to cut this short.

This was not good, I agreed. How soon could I get help, and could I please have some introductory literature to get me started?

By the way, had I noticed that this needle over here is stuck almost permanently on F which stands for female? Apparently I had a big problem with the opposite sex. I knew exactly what my problem was. I was seventeen! But I just said that yes, that was probably right. But I was now getting past annoyed, and getting to the point of flippant carelessness.

"Do you masturbate?" he asked.

"None of your business" I thought. And "As if I would tell you" came hard upon the first thought.

"I always chew my food well" was my actual response.

He looked incredibly uncomfortable and mumbled "I mean, do you play with yourself?"

"I'm an only child".

He went very pink and I wondered where his needle was stuck.

Nevertheless, the interview terminated in a cordial fashion and I went home with an armful of literature and course details. This was fascinating reading in its own way, as it was clear that the course was graded from a kind of catechism of beliefs, ground rules and definitions into progressive layers of successively more expensive courses. Acceptance of each layer was a commitment to the next.

As I was in the process of repudiating a belief system far more complex and worthy, this seemed somewhat pathetic.

The financial aspect also worried me, as it had always seemed to me that a system which proselytised in the name of an advanced spirituality ought be free- a gift from God in fact. Our own teachers, who had taken vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, were living proof. No matter that many of them had great difficulty in observing these vows, they were completely dedicated teachers and material reward had no part in their scheme.

I endured the most persistent correspondence I have ever endured, asking many times for it to cease.

Finally, the long hand-written letter arrived, with the key phrase, "Paul, when you came to us, it was because you had problems……."

And my final letter to them said…..

"No mate, it was because I wanted a

FREE IQ AND PERSONALITY TEST"

OUIJA NIGHTS-an account of spiritualistic experiences and the like

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MAD MUSIC FROM THE BLOGOSPHERE
EB & TG ADELAIDE
DOMINIC MARGARET
PAUL