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The Swalesian Bugle
Totally Gourdgeous
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Returning on foot

lyrics:

Disc one - The Third Journey

1. Sweet Moderation
2. Stone Cold Sober Part One
3. Car.
4. The Panther
5. Our Aparthied
6. Miss You
7. Welcome to the Garden
8. Cusp
9. Blockade

Disc two - Returning on Foot

1. Stone Cold Sober Part Two
2. Already Begun
3. Aunty Betty
4. Southern Spring
5. Brunswick Street Cappuccino
6. Jacaranda
 
 

Sweet Moderation
 

Sweet moderation sounds so good, I wish I'd known about it. This situation, 
me and you, can't help but groan about it. I'd rather take it easy after all 
this time. I never thought I'd want to turn my back on that old love of 
mine. I'm too worn out to keep on covering the same old ground. Can't scream 
and shout, not anymore, rather not be around. You know I love you, and 
passion's fine. Then again, so's whisky, I think I need a gentler wine. 
Sweet moderation sounds so good, sweet moderation sounds so good. I'm going 
to make a fresh start soon. Oh, won't you come along? If you move things 
could improve, but here you know it's wrong. I hate to see you sinking in 
this muddy swirl. Come back if you don't like it, but take the chance to 
find another world. I've known for years that all that glitters, glitters is 
not gold. This may just be a silly dream but I am not too old. You've run 
this spiral, you know how it ends. You've already been there what's the 
point of going through again? Sweet moderation sounds so- ah! Good! Sweet 
moderation sounds so good. Sweet moderation tips her cap to this ol' heart 
o' mine. It's the excess of all this crap that makes me leave behind. I'm 
going to seek adventure on the open road. It might not sound too moderate, 
but that's the way I'm gonna go. Sweet moderation soothe my soul, I hope 
she'll come along. I don't believe I'll get much rest, but then, I might be 
wrong. Only one thing left to make it all complete. Life might be almost 
perfect, if only you would come with me. Sweet moderation sounds so good, 
sweet moderation soothe my soul. Sweet moderation, this situation, too much 
frustration, soothe my soul. Sweet moderation, this situation, 
over-compensation, soothe my soul.

Vocals, Guitar - Penelope Swales. Piano-accordion - Mark Wallace. Trumpet - 
Benedict Deane-Johns. Double Bass - Reave Maloney. Drums - Carl Pannuzzo.
 

                Stone Cold Sober Part 1

I sometimes wonder 'bout the things that I find in my head. I know they're 
memories. Was that really me? I know it was. So young. so urgent, so 
subjective, so determined. I was stone cold sober, I thought I knew all 
about life. I was stone cold sober, I thought I knew my left from right. I 
was over-reacting to everything I was being told. I was fifteen years old. I 
got myself into some strange situations with strange men, strange friends, 
strange substances. I fell in love with a pretty guy - he played some pretty 
games. And some scar tissue still remains. I was stone cold sober, so 
serious about life. I was stone cold sober, I thought that I was in the 
right. I was over-reacting to all the little games he played. I was sixteen 
years of age. There followed a period of madness, oh yeah. Three years, 
maybe more. Can't really say I was sober all those times I passed out on the 
floor. I was trying to keep my wits about me, even if they weren't that 
sharp. And though stone cold sober's not really the words that I should use, 
I was stone cold sober when I made the decision to abuse. I was 
over-reacting to all of the sordid things I'd seen. I was just about 
nineteen. That's when I met you. Yeah, you wanted to be my best, best 
friend. you wanted to be the one man I could trust. Wanted to be the one on 
whom I could depend not to drag me into negotiations over general purpose 
lust. Funny how things work out. I was stone cold sober when I said that I 
wanted you for life. I was stone cold sober when I said that I would be your 
wife. I was over-reacting to everything that you said and did. In many ways 
I was still a kid. At twenty-one I ran away with you, we never even told our 
friends. When we reappeared, oh dear!  Well they always said that it would 
end in tears. There followed a period of happiness, oh yeah. Three years, 
maybe more - at least I was happy - yeah. My tongue was vitriolic, 
sometimes. My temper, whoo! Was volatile. I knew that I would settle down 
but I thought that it would take awhile. You bore the brunt, you bore the 
brunt. But you said it wasn't hurting you. And I was stone cold sober, yeah, 
I was just trying to get it right. I was stone cold sober those times I kept 
you up all night because I'd over-reacted to some little thing you'd said or 
done. I was still pretty young. You're holding up to me some past behaviour, 
things I've said and done. Well, I can't say I didn't say them. I can't say 
I didn't do them. Your message is contradictory, your desires 
incomprehensible. My reputation's shot and my behaviour's reprehensible. Your 
presence in my life is as painful as it is indispensible. And now I'm wasted 
with crying and trashed with sleepless nights, and you're stone cold sober, 
you're trying to make me see the light. I think you've over-reacted to some 
of the things that I once did. Please remember I've grown up a bit. And I 
could not have done that without your forbearance. And if I'm coming through 
for you just as you're giving up. Well. That's a tough one. Oh---

Vocals, Guitar - Penelope Swales. Violin - Paul Jonas. Piano-accordion - 
Dave Evans. Bass - Stephen Wright. Drums - Carl Pannuzzo.

    Car
 

Down the freeway, see the glow light up the night. And weaving through the 
foothills, glimpses of this city's lights. It's a city of demons for me. 
Lurking in the fold of the hills, keeping its advantage. Down the tollway, 
further into the heart of the spreading monster. Twisting, turning, dipping, 
weaving. All the other drivers speeding. The hand of apprehension clutches 
my throat, claws at my coping mind, deprives me of my voice. Glancing off 
the centre streets I recognise, here's where I took that "e" that went so 
bad. Never do that again. That's the Cross down there where playing 
"Knocking on Heaven's Door" to drunkards was my only grip on life. But not 
tonight. The roads here shift and change as if the city was made of sand. 
Before you know it, you've taken a wrong turn, but don't fight it, just 
drift into an eddy where you can scratch your head about where you went 
wrong. There's no margin for error in the stream. Out Old South Head Road 
now to Bondi, there the "forest bods" are waiting. They've worked hard for 
the attention of this city, yeah. Driven by the urgency of their 
acknowledged responsibility out of their sweet, complacent havens in the 
North. And down into the heart of the monster to spread the word, to raise a 
quid, and struggle against the woodchip machine for another year. Another 
year.... Another year I was here, but I was different then. My mind now is 
superimposed on my mind then, everything I see is met with two sets of 
reactions. Almost as if.... the me I might have been has been waiting for me 
here, lurking in damp, piss-reeking alleyways, hiding behind skips and 
wheely-bins. I turn my head, is that my face? Yellow webbing satchel and 
busted guitar case, but it's someone's else's black leather shoulders 
shrugging in the cold. And I know I'm rolling, rolling - ah, speeding, 
speeding - ah, freewheeling - ah! Rolling, rolling - ah, speeding, speeding 
- ah, freewheeling, - ah! And so are the wheels of this world, embodied in 
this city, so are the wheels of this world embedded in this city. So are the 
gears of this world crashing in this city, the gnashing fears of this world 
clashing in this city. My mind now is superimposed on my mind then, down 
into the heart of the monster we go, to spread the message everyone already 
knows. And I know that my car runs as blood in the veins of the monster, my 
car runs as blood in the veins of the monster, my blood runs in my veins in 
my car. My car runs as blood in the veins of the monster, my car HIV, Hep C 
in the veins of the world, my blood runs in my veins in my car. The monster 
is powered by me and myriads like me, the monster's powered by me and 
myriads like me, my blood runs in my veins in my car. The monster is powered 
by me and myriads like me, the monster's powered by me and myriads like me - 
even as we scream - STOP!

Vocals, Guitar - Penelope Swales. Electric Fiddle - Nigel MacLean. Trumpet - 
Benedict Deane-Johns. Backing Vocals - "Nude Rain". Bass - Stephen Wright. 
Drums - Gavin Gray. Nude Rain are Sarah Mandie, Emma Davey, Biddy Connor and 
Razz.
 
 

    The Panther

I couldn't say to save my face that he dragged me into his lair. More that I 
sat at the door and hugged my knees and said "Can I come in there?" He 
smiled, turned away, arched his back and then he said "Mmm....." He smiled 
as though embarassed, thought awhile and then said " Yeah, hop in." It was 
then that I realised I'd climbed straight into the den of a panther. Like 
Leda and the Swan but more carnivorous. I put my arms around his deep chest, 
I put my face in his fur. I breathed deep his animal scent, arched my back 
beneath his paws. And there rose inside me, deep in my human flesh, deep in 
my female flesh, an answering panther call - Rraah! I watched him play like 
big cats play, with water. I watched him cautious like big cats are with 
fire. I watched him watching me, that sideways, feline glance burning with a 
cool fire. The flicker of interest concealing the furnace of desire. In the 
middle of the night, I rang my mother. I told her all about the Panther. She 
said "My dear, these are the best years of your life. You should just go 
ahead and fuck!" I said "Well, I would have anyway, but it's nice to have 
your sanction." She said "My dear, I completely understand. Sometimes it 
happens that way, sometimes you find a man who'll bring it all out in you. 
Who'll pull it all out of you. Who'll pour it all into you." Oh, all night, 
every night I'm in there rolling with the Panther. In the day I wear my 
scratches and my bruises with pride. In the evening I stalk the city streets 
with the Panther by my side. I ride the Panther's back, I ride the Panther's 
flanks - and he rides mine! In wild lands of bitumen and traffic fume, I 
found me a panther. He said "If Chippendale's a jungle then we may as well 
be wild beasts." He said "I like it when you're really demanding. Go ahead, 
do what you want with me." And I felt inside me, deep in my female flesh, 
the Panther's claw, hooked in my belly, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Pulling it 
all out of me. Pouring it all into me. Pulling that call out of me. Oh, all 
night, every night I'm Riding the Tiger with the Panther. In the day I wear 
my scratches and my lovebites with pride. In the evening I stalk the city 
streets with the Panther by my side. His liquid movement. My liquid 
tendencies. His panther pride. The Panther came with me as far as the Blue 
Mountains, then he switched his tail and turned away and went back the way 
we came. He said "When I've finished constructing this particular cage, I'll 
be free. I might just come sniffing after you so keep your hunter's moon out 
for me." And he caressed me there, at the station in his panther paws. 
Pressed against me, yeah, just a reminder of that panther claw in me. 
Pulling it all out of me. Pulling that call out of me. Oh, all that day, 
like blinding sunlight in my eyes, all I could see was the Panther. All that 
night I fled Sydney like a cat out of hell. Fleeing my recent past into my 
not too distant future. Hurtling towards it, hurtling towards that day. 
Hurt, hurtling towards that moment, hurt, hurt, hurtling toward that 
instant. I'm hurtling still. Rraah! Rraah-la-lul-la-lul-lul-lul-la-lah. Who 
can make sense of female response? Who can map the logic of desire? What 
makes it fly, what makes it cry, what makes it strive, what makes it die? 
What makes it strive, what makes it die? Who can translate for me, what 
happened to me? Who can make sense of it? Hey, hey, what happened to me with 
that Panther man?

Vocals, Guitar - Penelope Swales. Violin - Paul Jonas. Mandolin - Jim 
.......? Bass - Mal Webb. Drums - Ajax.
 
 

   Our Aparthied
Dedicated to Lionel Fogarty and his friends and family
The issue of Australian aparthied - and Australian hypocrisy - was first 
pointed out to me by a British songwriter called Rory McLeod. On the night 
that Aparthied fell in South Africa I watched the news, then I watched the 
movie "Cry Freedom" about Stephen Biko and Donald Woods. Then I watched the 
news again. The scrolling of the names of black deaths in custody at the end 
of the film, together with the supposed causes of death in the prison 
reports ("Fell six floors, fell ten floors, slipped in shower, etc) got me 
thinking about Aboriginal deaths in custody and what response Aboriginal 
people might have been having on that night of such optimism and 
celebration. Especially the friends and families of those who have died in
custody.
Shortly after I wrote this song, I read in a book called "Being Aboriginal" 
by.............. Published by the ABC, that South African Aparthied was 
actually based on an Australian piece of legislation called the Queensland 
Protection act of 1910.
Daniel Yock was a young Murri dancer who died in custody in Brisbane in Nov. 
'93. His name is used with the kind permission of his Uncle Lionel Fogarty. 
The Kurnai and the Wurundjeri are the traditional owners of the lands where 
I have lived most of my life.

Oh-wey-oh Stephen Biko, oh-wey-oh Mandela. Oh-wey-oh children of Soweto, 
oh-wey-oh Sharpeville Massacre. Oh-wey-oh death in Johannesburg, corruption 
in Pretoria. Oh-wey-oh, Inkatha-Zulu, ANC. Oh-wey-oh Africa.
When you were sitting in your prison cell, for twenty-seven years, did you 
risk your sanity by dreaming of this day. Breaking rocks on Robben Island. I 
tell you, we never thought we'd see the day when a black man would rule 
South Africa, where black dreams have shaped the world. A long and bloody 
fight and so many have died to bring about such a relatively peaceful 
revolution. When Daniel Yock was sitting in his prison cell, your victory 
was already guaranteed. We who have sat here, next-door in the Southern 
hemisphere, some of us signed petitions hoping you'd be freed. We have 
thought about ourselves as so egalitarian. So superior to whites in your 
country. And yet there's so much that bears comparison - but in your land 
Aparthied's over and in my land it's still here. Well I never said it was 
official government policy. And Mabo rolled hope and despair into one. Lip 
service ifs effective and it's free and the mining machinery rolls on. One 
obvious difference is in your country, black people have always outnumbered 
whites. Yet here the white race worked so much more efficiently, and many 
people live and die never even having met a Koori. Over there in your 
country how do your people feel tonight? Dancing in the streets, exuberance, 
"At last we have our rights!" Over there in your country how do white people 
feel tonight? It's fun to speculate on the trembling of the fascist 
two-percenting right. Over here in this country how do white people feel 
tonight? Oblivious, nodding their approval, rolling over and turning out the 
light. Here in this country how do black people feel tonight? Daniel's 
relatives could be excused for having their fists and their lips clenched 
tight. Aiee, Maralinga. Kurnai, Wurundjeri, Daniel Yock. Truganini, 
Namatjera. So many thousands nameless lost. You still have so far to go in 
your country. And we yet further here in ours. Take care old man, don't 
dance to late. We all know you're more ill than you make out. But they need 
you and we need you and we all know that you're tired, but we want you to be 
the hero, we want you to make it right - 'coz we don't make it right. Not 
here in our lives, not here in this land, not here in our Aparthied.

Vocals, Guitar - Penelope Swales. Backing vocals, 12 string guitar, Kalimba, 
Marimba - Valanga Khosa. Djembe, Clapsticks - Tim Webb. Bass - Mal Webb. 
Drums - Gavin Gray. Didjeridoo - Joe Geia.
 
 

     Miss You

I miss you. Like a child, like a good friend. I feel the empty space beside 
me now, wherever I wend. To and fro, and I'm a-wondering wherever I go, will 
you remember me? Will experience say what you need to know? Oh, people look 
at me strangely when I try to say how strong, how sweet, how detailed, how 
complete we can communicate. And it's hard for people to see, to see how 
such friendship can cut across such boundaries. I miss you. Like a child, 
like a good friend, I feel the empty space beside me now wherever I wend. 
Brown eyes, full of hope and expectation and time. I've succumbed to the 
intoxication of making them shine. Oh, and there's no language, no letter, 
no signal, no telephone. There's no way to say, to convey, to tell you that 
I'm coming home. And our language of eyes and actions, it can't cut across 
the distance, it can't penetrate the silence. I miss you. Like a child, like 
a good friend. I feel the empty space beside me wherever I wend. Near and 
far, and I'm a-wondering wherever you are, do you know I've not deserted 
you, I will take your part. Oh, people look at me so strangely when I try to 
say. How strong, how sweet, how detailed, how complete we can communicate. 
And there's so much that you have taught me. Taught me to remember, shown me 
how to reinstate. I miss you. Like a child, like a good friend. I feel the 
empty space beside me now wherever I wend. Brown eyes, full of eagerness, 
impatience and shine. I've become accustomed to their claim on my time. Oh, 
but there's no language, no letter, no signal no telephone. There's no way 
to say, to convey, to tell you that I will come home. And our language of 
eyes and actions, it can't cut across the distance, it can't penetrate this 
silence. But when I return, I will take you in my eager embrace. I'll feel 
your welcome on the skin of my neck and my face. And I'll tell you that I 
missed you. Like a child, like a good friend. I felt the empty space beside 
me wherever I went. And our language of eyes and actions will eradicate the 
distance, we'll eliminate the silence. Ah----.

Vocals, Guitar - Penelope Swales. Backing vocals - Pascale Rose and Kirsten 
McKenzie. Piano-accordion - Mark Wallace. Bass - Mal Webb. Drums - Carl 
Pannuzzo.
 
 

    Welcome to the Garden

Oh, small and bright. Your bare feet twinkle on these clay roads day and 
night. Oh, strong and light. Your bright eyes sparkle when you get a word in 
edgewise. My love, welcome to the Garden. Welcome to the forests and the 
plains. Welcome to the steamy wetlands and the sweet mountains. Welcome to 
the Garden. Oh, young and wise. there's more than meets the eye behind those 
eyes. Quiet, yeah, and sometimes shy. But not so shy that you didn't know 
what I had in mind. One small gesture tells a story. Invisible to the 
untrained eye. You caught my imagination, and I let it fly. The thought of 
you, in my seashell garden. In the sand, I shaped your flesh. With no-one 
else around me to see whose image I'd sculpted. In the land I felt your 
pulse. Even in distant cities, lying awake with my thoughts. So open, yet so 
isolated - that I've been the first one to explore. The first to have 
investigated the pathways of your plains, the scent in your rainforest, the 
surf crashing on your shore.
I put my hands on your skin. The sweet meniscus, still waters running deep 
within. Flesh and blood and skin and bone. I feel you feel me can feel it 
rockin' your soul. Shaking, but now you find the rhythm. Moving much easier 
now. Bolder, now you are beginning to explore me now. And I'll explore you 
now. Welcome to the Garden. Oh----. Like olive oil on salt water I spread 
oil between your shoulder-blades, over your thighs and your belly, and all 
over your face. Welcome to the Garden.
For ten years my mind's hennaed feet have stumbled this path. For five 
years, that first five years, was just groping in the dark. In the last few 
I start to find some answers. But my love, we're always learning. And you 
see, I learn as much from you as you do from me. Strange as it may seem - 
but welcome to the Garden. Strange as it may seem - but keep your hunter's 
moon out for me.

Vocals, Guitar - Penelope Swales. Violin - Paul Jonas. Bass - Stephen 
Wright. Drums, Piano - Carl Pannuzzo.
 
 

     Cusp

Something about the day makes me just want to sleep all day.  Something 
about the wind makes me want to let my mind blow away, blow away. Something 
about the sun, makes me just want to doze all day. Something about the 
temperature makes me want to dream on, dream on. My dreams get stranger as 
my sleep gets lighter. I can hear the sound of distant activity, but the 
cocoon of heat and light around me, defeats all movement, seduces all 
motivation, dilutes all clarity. The wind moves the leaves in the trees, a 
passing pensioner's just a mirage. And I'm so far away, so far away, from 
wherever or whatever it was that I began. Something about the dry makes me 
just want to cry all night. But if this desert's inside me, how can I water 
it with salt tears from the outside? It has its own delicate ecology. And 
salt enough to ruin a richer plain. I need the relief of rain. I need the 
relief of rain to rinse it all away. My heart goes out to greet the wind. I 
never realised how much I had been missing the movement of the air, the 
presence of unseen forces. Calmness is sometimes harder to navigate than any 
storm, and I have been becalmed. And now the breeze caresses me, suspended 
here in my new-found, blue-bound isolation.

Vocals, Guitar - Penelope Swales. Violin - Paul Jonas. Bass - Stephen 
Wright. Percussion - Ajax. Drums - Carl Pannuzzo.
 
 

     Blockade
This song, although written from the forest, is mainly a portrait of city 
activist life. In inner Sydney, people sometimes get together and rent old 
warehouses to offset the high rent in the area. For awhile, 252 Abercrombie 
St, Chippendale, set up by a group of city-based forest activists, served as 
a space and resource centre for environment activists from around the 
state. This song is dedicated to  the members of the Wingham Forest Action 
group who in August '94 took the National Parks and Wildlife Service to 
court to appeal the decision by its Director-general to issue a licence to 
NSW State Forests to take and kill endangered wildlife. This licence would 
have covered 33 different endangered species in the remnant old-growth 
forest in the Wingham Management area. Although they didn't win outright, 
the court agreed to place more stringent conditions on the licence in order 
to minimise the impact on endangered species. They were also ordered to pay 
roughly $35,000 in court costs. Anyone wishing to make a donation to WFA can 
write to WFA, Post Office Elands, 2429.
 

Head still ringing from the journey, the fresh air seeped into my senses. I 
had to stop, take a breath, and another gulping breath. Look up, look up 
into the bright-lit dark. I had to stretch my senses, listen beyond my 
ringing ears to really realise I'd left the city behind. It's still there in 
my mind. Concrete towers, concrete in my mind. Images of the city, feet 
pounding, muscles jarring. On the way to the station, on the unforgiving 
ashphalt. Images of the city, Small-walled gardens struggle in the shadow of 
the buildings that scrape the sky. Images of the city, walking the dog down 
Everliegh St, seeing the Koorie children play in the rubble and the 
burnt-out buildings. Images of the city, Koorie people coming 'round the 
corner. Mum and Dad and the kids and the dog and the gang that torched my 
car. Some smile, some are surly at me, sitting in the warehouse door, 
drinking a cuppa tea. Convoluted concrete, encase the shape of the living 
land. Convoluted concrete, erase the face of the living land. The stony 
face and the passionate heart, lying in his double bed. We turn the light 
off, regard each other in the reflected street-lamp glow instead. In the 
morning, traffic noise and light and feet and phone. He has closed off and 
withdrawn. The Panther stalks the length of his cage and back again, staring 
through the wire. We were animals, the bed our only wilderness. The 
wilderness of sleep, the wilderness of sex. Eee........ You and your friends 
talk about it, turn it over, put it down and pick it up again. And the 
people from Elands battle in the courtroom, and gather in the cafe to turn 
it over again. In the dying city we make plans to save the living land. Pit 
our smallness against the might of greed. In the dying city we make plans to 
save the living land. Pit our smallness against the might of grief. Can we 
hope to be more than just cafe revolutionists? We run the gig, we count the 
cash. In the morning we feel better so we troop down to the caf'. To discuss 
our plans, how to wisely spend thirteen hundred dollars to pit against 
Daishowa. Thirteen hundred dollars to pit against Daishowa. With thirteen 
hundred dollars to pit against Daishowa, we make plans to save the living 
land. With thirteen hundred dollars to pit against Daishowa, we make plans 
to save the living land. Eee........ And on the ground, in the moonlit 
night, with the blockade now in sight. I look around, in the firelight, the 
faces are so bright. I always notice that, with these committed few, their 
eyes are so bright. Their eyes are so bright. They're not like city eyes.

Daishowa is a 100% Japanese-owned woodchipping
company that exported 893,521 tonnes of woodchips from Australia to Japan in 
1994. Daishowa exports 80% of NSW woodchips. Source: Native Forest Network, 
Tasmania.

Vocals, Mandolin, Octave Mandolin - Penelope Swales. Congas - Erin Sulman. 
Didjeridoo - ......... Bass - Mal Webb. Drums, Shakers - Gavin Gray.

Disc 2 - Returning on Foot
 
 

   Stone Cold Sober Part Two
 

Through dislocated, rain-wet streets in a taxi. Airline food still flat and 
plastic in my belly. I am a zombie. I dare not comprehend my surroundings. 
Home to "Home" - and Home is devastated. Nothing is where I left it - 
nothing is there at all. I pick through the rubble for mourning clothes, the 
life is gone from this place. I dare not comprehend my surroundings. Grey 
and numb dawns the day of the funeral. Negotiations have yet to be staged. 
You come around, you say the things you think I want to hear, mixed in with 
what it is you find so hard to say. I am confused, and the sharpness of my 
pain picks out details in the loungeroom  Through bleak outer-urban streets 
in a taxi. I change my shoes in the cab, I arrive flustered. My mask of 
mourning hangs crooked. I am too poised, too automatic. "Poor thing! She 
obviously hasn't taken in her surroundings." Family fond, family detested, 
family never met before, offer disposable commiserations with the bouquets 
by the door. Family well-known, family wary, circle each other carefully. 
Avoiding confrontation, not today. Not today, of all days! What do I mourn 
for, what do I grieve for? My father? Remote, aged and indifferent? An 
inexplicable relation, an inextricable relationship. Do I mourn more for the 
dream of you and us? An inexplicable relationship, an inextricable 
relationship. I fly out of Melbourne, flee back to Sydney. To sort out my 
emotions at a safe distance. But this week is congealed, is atrophied. A 
painful, twisted scar. Through the window of the plane, the sharpness of my 
pain picks out details in the landscape. And the realisation hits! A week, a 
month, a year later, the realisation hits - and I stand frozen. With my hand 
on the key in the door of someone else's house. Stone cold sober, I take a 
step into the future.
 
 
 
 

Vocals, Octave mandolin - Penelope Swales
 
 

    Already Begun

My heart hangs like a ripe fruit. Hangs before your eyes, a perfect peach. 
If you would pluck me now, and press me to your lips, all my sweetness, all 
my juices, and the fine fur of my skin, sun-warm, would burst into your 
mouth. My heart hangs like an over-ripe fruit in the baking sun. Hangs 
before your eyes, a perfect, dripping fig. If you don't pluck me now, I may 
well start fermenting. An alcoholic repungence, a bitter wine. In the baking 
sun, attacked by these, the grubs of doubt. I believe this process has 
already begun, I believe....... If my heart should hang too long. Hang 
before your eyes, in the baking sun while you make no move, well I could 
fall on the ground and rot, disgusting underneath your feet. But I would 
probably hang on. Dried by the sun and wind, smaller and smaller and harder 
and more withered - this sun-dried fruit in the baking sun. Anyone who 
dared to bite me (hard enough), bring me the moisture from their lips, might 
find me still good, if somewhat tough, I believe this process has already 
begun, I believe this process has already begun......My heart hangs a 
withered fruit. Hangs before your eyes in the naked branches, in the 
setting sun. Silhouette against the sky, in the raw ozone of autumn. Hangs 
dormant, hangs prepared to sleep through this pending winter. The kernel 
lodged inside may still make its way to the loving endometrium of earth. I 
believe this process has already begun.

Vocals, 12 string guitar - Penelope Swales. Oboe - Jenny Lowe. Slide Guitar 
- Skip Sail. Bowed and plucked Double Bass - Howard Cairns. Drums, 
Percussion - Gavin Gray.

    Aunty Betty
 

Ooh, insulation. A small room away from the ground, away from the sky. Ooh, 
insulation. Blankets over the windows, keep out the night, keep out the 
light. We don't live together, we live seperately and winter's coming. We 
don't live together, we live separately and hard times are coming. People 
create their own individual rooms, their own surrogate wombs. People say to 
each other "Won't you come up to my room?" People sit together - incense and 
candlelight.
People talk together, sharing smoke, sharing wine. Oh, living in this city. 
Oh, it's like living in a labyrinth. The dripping corridors are the 
wet-brick walls and low-slung, oppressive sky. We're just creatures, small 
cave-rats, living in a labyrinth. Amid the putrid phosphorescence, shop 
windows, traffic lights, stalactites. Ooh, isolation. Houses on the 
outskirts of town. Ooh, endless frustration. McWilliams port, sorrows to 
drown. People live together, yet seperately, with their own kind. With 
people that live together, share their smokes, share their wine. Oh, living 
in a redneck town. Oh, it's like living in apartheid. The conciousness of 
your colour and your birth is reflected in everyone's eyes, black or white. 
And Aunty Betty said "I said to my nephews 'Come home, come live with me by 
the creek. Come home, come home to the Land.' but they're too drunk with 
anger to listen to me "Aunty Betty said "I've done my share of destroying 
myself." Yeah, Aunty Betty said " I know you care, 'coz I can always tell." 
Aunty Betty and I looked at each other over campfire, over breakfast. Over 
two hundred years of war and hate, and Aunty Betty said, she said "I love 
you, sis." Ooh, sisalation. Back in the city we seek natural ways to live 
unnaturally. Ooh, implementation. Sit 'round our bar radiator drinking 
herbal tea. We could live together, close to the ground, close to the sky. 
Be friends with the weather. Accept the wet, embrace the dry. Oh, we try to 
do it anyway. Sitting 'round a candle as if it were a campfire. Here in this 
hell our race has made. Plaster caves, concrete canyons, bitumen forest 
floor. We try to do it anyway, sitting 'round a candle as if it were a 
campfire. But you know, Aunty Betty said we could go visit her anytime, 
anytime, anytime. She said "We could live together, not seperately, but side 
by side. Be friends with each other - I don't care if you're black or 
white!" She said we could live together, close to the ground, close to the 
sky. Be friends with each other. Accept the rough, embrace the happy times. 
Aunty Betty said, Aunty Betty said, Aunty Betty said. And you know, if Aunty 
Betty said it, then it must be true.

Vocals, guitar - Penelope Swales. Violin - Paul Jonas. Didjeridoo - 
.........   Backing band - Amunda. Amunda are: Nick Guggisberg - Drums. Stan 
Satour - Bass. Paul Archee - Guitar.
 
 

    Southern Spring

I walk through this southern spring. I glide through the streets of my 
hometown. Seems strange to know my way around. Not always checking maps and 
fares and bus timetables. I walk through this southern spring. So, this is 
what life is like without you. Not life while I was travelling, but here in 
your hometown where every cobblestone talks about you. Every footpath, every 
street. Every cafe, my No Name brand groceries, tell me of you. Every tree 
down by the river, every stick I throw for my dog. I have returned to face 
the music. To face my darkness, to face my love for you. I stand at the bar 
of judgement, public opinion. Every whisper, every shout. Every 
eavesdropping, exaggerating gossip hereabouts. All the evidence of 
misinterpretation, of my exasperation, your pain and my frustration. I live 
in cheap Nth Carlton rented rooms. My life is somehow smaller than it was. I 
go about my business, head down, in my hometown. Smaller, grubbier, less 
glorious. Every fig tree in bud, every peach in bloom reminds me of the 
flowering going on right now outside our room. Every blossom, every tree 
clashes with the winter that's howling on inside me. What scares me about my 
pain is not the daily sadness but the way it's changing me. People see me in 
the streets, they call my name. Their curiosity's an insult to my grief. 
Lovers come and lovers go. They bring to me their energy, their eagerness. I 
have no fire to barter, no joy to reciprocate, no passion to offer. I walk 
in the knowledge of what I have lost, but also in the knowledge of what it 
is that I have gained. I may grieve for what was, But I wouldn't exchange 
those years for anything. After loving you, life will never be the same.
 
 
 

   Brunswick St Cappuccino

Like sugar, sinking in the foam of your Brunswick St cappuccino, Like 
serious afternoon drinking, my senses are both focused and confused. My 
world folds around me, my universe gives way, and everything's enclosing and 
enfolding. Only one rigidity remains in my reality of slipping, sliding, 
holding. Jane Austen would describe him as a man with a weak and sensual 
mouth. "New Woman" (magazine) would pass right by him as some hippy with his 
mind gone way down south. But every time he penetrates, he puts me in an 
altered state, like drugs, drugs, drugs, drugs, drugs. I'm trying to be 
responsible, but responses run by their own rules and I know I'm not always 
to be trusted. Procrastination runs rife, no priority is worth the sacrifice 
of ten minutes of our time. Hell, Warner Brothers could be on the other 
line! You knew, when you touched me, what we were doing was not quite 
"politically correct". You knew, when you touched me that no great 
resistance would be met. 'Coz every time you penetrate it puts me in an 
altered state, it's lust, lust, lust, lust, lust. I just want to consummate, 
to copulate to stimulate, no consequence appears too great - at the time! 
Insemination runs rife. But other dangers are now part of modern life. This 
intimate membrane must remain Or what risk, what risk, what risk, what 
price? Like rhythm and blues, there's times when you don't want to have to 
choose. Temptation has many guises. Many aspects, many levels, many sizes. 
So if when you penetrate it puts her in an altered state remember trust, 
trust, trust, trust, trust. I'm saying - be responsible! Responses run by 
their own rules and I know we're not always to be trusted. Oh yes, 'coz my 
world folds around me, my universe gives way, it's just like drugs, drugs, 
drugs, drugs, drugs. But even when we harmonise, we know where the 
obligation lies and pleasure is not so easily thrust aside, no. 
D-da-da-ee-hyo etc. Like sugar, sinking in the foam of your Brunswick St 
Cappuccino, like serious afternoon drinking, my senses are both focused and 
confused. My senses are both focused and confused. -My sense says we're both 
focused.

Vocals, Guitar - Penelope Swales. Violin - Deb Vanderwerp. Bass - Stephen 
Wright. Drums - Carl Pannuzzo.
 
 
 

     Jacaranda

The jacarandas will now be blooming in the streets of my old hometown. but 
bitterness has left me, I find I've more forgiveness. There's been another 
kind of flowering going down. Come here my lovely, rest your head against my 
shoulder. Ah, my dear, tell me all about your life. Tell it to me, you are a 
foreign country, with different flavours, different spices. Your skin is 
soft, with shades of Eastern Europe. Your eyes are pale, but I don't believe 
they're cold. When I'm with you, I'm like an open flower, just waiting for 
the moment to enfold you. Come to the window, see my love, it's early 
summer. Oh, my dear, wind your arms around my waist. Kind winds have melted 
the winter here inside me. This warm breeze, it's like kisses on my face. 
Your limbs are golden, and I am ripe with longing, You're heart's been 
wounded, but I don't believe it's cold. When I kissed you, your face was 
like a flower, just waiting for the moment to unfold. Come here, my lovely, 
rest your chin against my shoulder. Your limbs are golden, wind your arms 
around my waist. Tell it to me, I am a traveller in a wonderous new country, 
with different flavours, different textures, different tastes. Different 
costume, different custom, different pace. Oh, Jacaranda. Oh, Jacaranda. Oh, 
Jacaranda, Jacaranda.

Vocals, Guitar, Lead Guitar - Penelope Swales. Bass - Reave Maloney. Drums - 
Al Barden