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I’ve written about it here before, Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx, strongly hinted at it at the very least, because it’s a book that’s had a profound impact on me. And, yes, it was once a book, a stand-alone publication, a long short story or a short novella, no one can ever say – definitions, in the end, don’t mean much. First published by Fourth Estate in 1997, on my birthday (a good gift from the literary gods), Proulx’s story of two Wyoming cowboys who find love and intimacy where they least expect it was an immediate hit. The book took a whip to American masculinity: the Marlboro man: resilient, laconic, adamantly heterosexual – the apparent real deal. In Brokeback Mountain, Proulx unearthed a different and potentially perplexing reality. Ang Le had a crack at turning it into a movie (2005), but it’s an average movie at best. Proulx’s work is brilliance on the page.
At first it was the story that got me: love, landscape, isolation, melancholia, tragedy, loss – all the things that turn my crank. These days, however, I return for the prose. Try this on for size:
The first snow came early, on August 13th, piling up a foot, but was followed by a quick melt. The next week Joe Aguirre sent word to bring them down, another, bigger storm was moving in from the Pacific, and they packed in the game and moved off the mountain with the sheep, stones rolling at their heels, purple cloud crowding in from the west and the metal smell of coming snow pressing on. The mountain boiled with demonic energy, glazed with flickering broken-cloud light; the wind combed the grass and drew from the damaged krummholz and slit rock a bestial drone. As they descended the slope Ennis felt he was in a slow-motion, but headlong, irreversible fall.
That ‘purple cloud crowding in from the west and the metal smell of coming snow pressing on’. That ‘metal smell’. That ‘demonic energy, glazed with flickering broken-cloud light’. That ‘broken-cloud’, broken up just like that. And that ‘bestial drone’. That ‘damaged krummholz’, which to me is both foreign and strangely known. Ennis’s ‘headlong, irreversible fall’, exactly like one of those ‘stones rolling at their heels’. Proulx’s mountains are alive: they’re breathing, humming, rumbling, threatening; we’re there but oh how small we feel – we could be swallowed up at any moment. Despite the rugged beauty, despite the fact that we’re only on page 16 of a 56-page story, we know that the peace is uneasy at best. There’s threat in those clouds; that storm will bring us more than snow, much more. We might not survive. But we do survive, and our lives have changed.
It happened only a week ago. There I was, working away at my desk, when, coming from somewhere at a distance on my right, the east, there was a sudden airy whoosh, two of them, in parallel, blasting past my window, above, high above, then the briefest of silences, a nano-second, before this in the west: one explosion, two explosions.
Down below my office, on the sun-drenched terrace outside the café, young men and women stopped concentrating lazily on their lattes and cappuccinos and looked into the sky. An authoritative shout went up and the young men and women, helpfully already in uniform and camouflage, got to running, sprinting.
They knew, and so did I, because the sirens made it clear: we were – our country was – under attack, we were being invaded.
Except we weren’t; my imagination was simply getting carried away with itself. Two jet planes, some kind of fighting machine, did indeed zoom through the sky above my room, but – thank the deity that is yours, or just your lucky stars – there were no explosions; it was nothing more than one of those fly-pasts, celebrating something or other that I didn’t know.
But those young military men and women: they were real enough, they are real enough, because I’m currently spending three months at the Australian Defence Force Academy. No, it’s not the most bizarre holiday you’ve ever heard, nor am I lurking behind bushes like some kind of spy. It’s just that, courtesy of the University of New South Wales, my spring is committed to a place I never thought I’d even visit let alone allow myself to become immersed, enthralled, besotted even.
Some – many, most – may consider it odd for a writer to spend spring in a place that, in essence, is teaching people how to invade and maim and kill and destroy, all for the greater good, a kind of lofty, lofty cause, one that isn’t always entirely obvious (or true)…
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Keep reading over at The Canberra Times, which commissioned this piece and published it on 11 November 2013.
A few days ago, feeling a little glum, no reason, it was just one of those glums that settles like a dry, overcast day, except this was a beautiful late spring day, a hint of the summer that’s just around the corner, so go figure, I headed off on my weekly drive south to Canberra. I love the drive because I take the back road rather than the freeway, so it’s a narrow meander through cattle and canola paddocks, sometimes bush, wind turbines on the ranges, passing through three villages, one of which has no shop, just a tearoom-slash-museum that’s never open. I love the drive because there’s no email, no social media, the mobile can ring but it rarely does. It’s just me and my music, the Old Lady of The House on the back seat like Miss Daisy.
But back to the start, the glummy start.
At the edge of town, nearing the freeway overpass, I saw ahead a big mother of a motorbike parked on the side of the road. It was black, terribly shiny black, and it looked like the devil’s wheels. Standing beside the big mother of a motorbike was the rider, also black – black helmet, black riding leathers, black gloves, black boots. Clearly this wasn’t a policeman, but still he put out his hand to stop me. Oh Christ, surely I wasn’t about to be robbed. I slowed down, but part of me, the bigger part, wanted to speed off and get the hell away.
The motorbike man, looking to all the world like Mad Max, walked into the middle of the road but got down to a crouch. I looked to see what on earth was going on. There, on the solid yellow line, was an echidna, yes, one of those delightfully spiky little guys, the ones that like to waddle as they walk through the bush looking for ants and termites. Thankfully they’re not uncommon, but they are shy, and they certainly don’t like to get this close to town.
I put on my hazard lights and watched.
Mad Max tried to pick up the echidna – he had the black leather gloves, you see – but the echidna wasn’t too happy about that: the little guy struggled as if its end was nigh. So Mad Max put the animal back down onto the bitumen and proceeded to marshal it off the road. Slowly, carefully, gently, he got the echidna onto the grassy verge until it disappeared to safety. Mad Max turned to me and gave me the thumbs up – literally – and I waved at him and he waved at me. I put the car into first, turned up the music, wound down the window, and headed off on my way south, the narrow meander through cattle and canola paddocks, sometimes bush, wind turbines on the ranges, passing through three villages, one of which has no shop, just a tearoom-slash-museum that’s never open.
And I knew that I was now 100% glum-free.