The Orange Ghosts

The months pass by and fade away, and the darkness begins to settle. A long cold winter beckons. The orange ghosts drift endlessly on, seemingly unaware of the impending chill. On them, they carry the sullen look of the dusty plains, the red dirt and the stifling heat. As I watch them pass toward another life, I can do nothing but sit and stare.

My eyes are drawn to the faded eyes and the weathered skin, and the brown stains like stab wounds across their chests. I wonder about their stories. What drew them into the light? What created the ghostly stares and the empty looks? What will become of them in the years that they wish on past?

What does one do when you escape from Hell, with your freedom on a roster?

CEAC in Pictures

Humble beginnings - The first meeting.

The first board - Semester 1, 2010.

A welcome drink after a successful barbecue.

Barbecues.
Good times.
The CEAC Band.
The members.
The First Green Party - Semester 1, 2010.
Lab coat pub crawl.
Volunteering.
The Ignite! Ball.
Controversy.
Second coming - O-day 2011.
Birth of the CEAC Green Men.
The Green Party legacy continues.
A quizzical night.
The Recycle Party - Semester 2, 2011.
Deserved winners.
A new era.

Backyard Cricket

It's summer. It's late afternoon, as the sea breeze takes over from the sweltering sun. The barbecue sits warm but inert, leftover chops and sausages attract the last of the flies. A dozen half-full beer bottles litter the outdoor setting and garden, their drinkers no longer interested in drowning the refreshing amber ale. The tennis ball is dug out from the depths of the shed. The one-hand-one bounce and six-and-out rules are laid down. The battle in the backyard has just begun...

For the every-day Australian, backyard cricket is tradition on a balmy December/January evening. Growing up as a kid, the only thing I looked forward to about Christmas or New Years or Australia Day was getting the bat and ball out and having a hit. I was always the first out amongst the prickles and the bees, winding up the Hills-Hoist so it wouldn't obstruct my bowling. I took great pride in bowling out my Uncle Nik one day with a perfect off-cutter, which jagged back of a length and just clipped the top of off, and making a magnificent Christmas Day century at Auntie Sharon's, whacking the ball to all parts. And I always felt the pang of disappointment as David sent the only ball flying over the fence and into the neighbour's yard, never to be seen again. It was out, but it also meant the end of the game.

Now I'm a little older, the backyard game means something a little different to me. I still enjoy getting out there and having a hit (I'm still usually always the instigator), imitating my favourite bowling actions and prodding the ball around the garden. But I no longer argue the case when I get given out with a terrible LBW decision made by the bowler/umpire. I never get upset when the one and only ball disappears onto the roof. For me, the best part about backyard cricket is watching everybody get involved. Out of the house. Into the fresh air. Everyone loves having a bat, rolling the arm over, or diving around in the field. Smiling, co-operating, and having a great time. In a day and age of social networking and online gaming and flat screen TVs, it really is a magical thing.

The Man For Whom TIme Stands Still

Throughout the course of human existence, God has sent to Earth two men. One was God's son, destined to heal the suffering, perform miracles, and then rise from the dead. The other was meant to play cricket.

Although of Jesus Christ's existence I cannot be certain, I know Sachin Tendulkar does. I've watched him on the television since I was a young boy, for longer than I can remember. And I've seen him in the flesh. I gave him a standing ovation in Perth as he walked on and off the ground in 2008, thinking to myself that this would be the last chance I would ever get to see the Little Master bat again. Yet four years later, now at 38 years of age, and on the cusp of 100 international centuries, he's back. And he hasn't changed a bit.

My fore-mentioned statement that he is sent from the Divine is not unfounded. Off the field, he is a beautiful man, one of the nicest, well mannered people you will probably ever come across in professional sport. On it, he stops time...

When word gets across in the ever bustling streets of Mumbai (or Kolkata or Delhi or Bengaluru for that matter) that Sachin Tendulkar is about to walk out to bat, the city stops. It is the only time the city stops. People flock to the ground or to televisions or radios to witness another innings from the their hero. And when (or if) he gets out, the city falls silent. Word is, you can hear a pin drop in normally deafeningly loud Wankhede Stadium. And for a moment, it seems, time stands still.

Sachin is also a master of time with bat in hand. From the time the ball leaves the bowlers hand, to the time it reaches him, he seems to have an absolute age in which to choose and play his strokes. And when he does, he times them to perfection, effortlessly caressing the ball to the boundary, at will. It is a wonderful thing to behold.

Like Christ himself, Sachin has not always had it easy. It is now impossible for him to walk the streets of his own city for fear of being swamped by thousands of cricket-mad fans wanting desperately to get a glimpse of the Little Master. And who could blame them, really? Like Christ, the day Sachin leaves this Earth, the repercussions will be hard felt. For the 1.2 billion Indian people, and cricket lovers alike, Sachin is a religion.

The Girl of All the Boys' Dreams

This has nothing to do with me, not anymore.
But it has everything to do with her.
I have, however, been there before, down that very road.
This story doesn't end happily.

I was there, right in the middle of it all. When we were both hurting, he came. The reaper. He was there for her, when she thought nobody else was. He found a door in her defensive walls, and knocked. And knocked. And finally she let him in. She always lets him in.

Another boy is waiting. This boy is breaking her heart, and secretly, his heart is breaking too. But he better not let her get too distant, or he'll loose her. He would be a fool to loose her. But maybe he already has.

She is, after all the girl of all the boys' dreams.

Georgia's House

Every day on my way to work, the train races past Georgia's old house. I still recall vividly the high brick walls and the tall white picket fence-gate; I still remember the lifeless fountain and every step up to her front door. Every day on my way to work, I remember the feeling of happiness; real happiness.

For Georgia's house represents everything about my youthful days, when life was so easy and simple. Georgia's house is the bright blue sky and those scorching summer days; the slop of sunscreen on bare back, and the swishing of towels and the passing of the soccer ball. Georgia's house is those warm summer evenings, and the pouring of vodka and the chinking of beer bottles, and the sound of Alex's guitar late into the night. Georgia's house is the sun and the sand, the lizard-preserving swimming pool and the Red Rooster runs, drunken twister and not looking back in anger, the meeting of new friends and the gathering of old ones.

Georgia's house is everything I've come to miss.

Cliffhanger

I miss this, so much...