I've experienced better weeks

It has been an unhappy week.

The untimely death, days before his 26th birthday, of cricketer Phillip Hughes following an awful injury whilst playing cricket has shocked and gripped many Australians in a way rarely seen. It might be difficult for overseas readers who have heard this news and who are not in cricket playing countries to understand the extent of the general distress being expressed but Hughes somehow embodied so much of how Australians see themselves and see their heroes. The news of his passing upset me as it did so many others.

Phillip Hughes

The outpouring of grief around the world has been astonishing. This claim is not just hyperbole. On radio just minutes ago I heard that there have been 98,000,000 'views' around the world of photos on Instagram of cricket bats being displayed to mark Hughes passing. That's NINETY-EIGHT MILLION clicks on the internet in ONE day. Amazing.

Perhaps my emotion is amplified by another awful loss virtually simultaneous with that of Hughes. My volunteer co-worker of eight years at the Nursing Home, Da, passed away this morning little more than 12 hours later than Hughes after suffering a massive stroke on Wednesday morning also only a little more than 12 hours following Hughes' injury.

Da had been in good health, was only 67, ate healthily, exercised daily and simply was the last person I would imagine to be near the end of her days.

Both deaths reinforce the point; make the most of every day. Don't take life for granted, don't procrastinate about following your dreams and don't put off to another day telling your loved ones how much they mean to you. You may never get that chance.

'With hope in your heart'*

(* 'You'll never walk alone' from 'Carousel' by Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein 11)

I'm a gay man who loves musicals and watching sport. So what could move me more than one of the great tear-jerker Rodgers and Hammerstein songs sung by a huge crowd at an iconic stadium? I was playing bridge last night and so missed seeing live on television the second major soccer friendly played in Australia in the past five days, this time between Liverpool FC and Melbourne Victory FC.

Before kick off the 95,446 crowd sang the famous Liverpool FC anthem; the song 'You'll Never Walk Alone' which originates from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical 'Carousel'. I've only seen the You Tube clip of  the rendition. I know it has been circulated widely but I just feel the need to post it here too.

Even if you don't like musicals or sport you'd have to have ice running through your veins not to find the moment at least a little bit goose bump inducing. I love it.

City action

On the bus headed for home yesterday we were delayed at Hyde Park North by protestors against that infamous video insulting Islam. Looking through graffiti streaked windows of the bus these parked police vehicles were the first indicators of the action.

Congratulacion Chile

The rescue of 33 men in Chile trapped 622 metres below the surface for 69 days has been a remarkable achievement and the level of planning that led to it truly impressive. Well done!

Damn you, Billy!

He's done it to me again.

Last night, Billy Elliot was screened on television...once more...and I switched on for the last twenty minutes.

Although I have seen the film numerous times, although I know exactly what happens, although I was only watching for the final twenty minutes, I was in tears at the end.

This film does it to me every time. There is something about the story, something about the way it is portrayed, something about the effectiveness of the performances that makes me highly emotional.

Every single time.

It is as though I am seeing the film for the first time...every time. Does any film do this to you?

Every Little Step

Every Little Step is a documentary about the audition process for a Broadway revival of the musical, A Chorus Line, which itself is a show about the audition process for a Broadway musical.

This is a terrific documentary which not only conveys the extraordinary effort that goes into casting a show but also provides fascinating insight into how the original Broadway show was conceived between 1974 and 1976. Some of those involved in the original production feature prominently in the revival.

How the Directors choose between so many talented performers amazes me but I suppose that is their job.

My favourite moment in the documentary is when one of the candidates delivers a monologue about the time when his parents see him perform in drag for the first time. It is not often that a movie scene draws tears from me but this moment did.

There was something else unusual about the audience reaction at the session we attended yesterday. Not a single person rose to leave the cinema until the closing credits had ended. When that happens you know that the movie has made a significant impression on the audience.

Searching for myself...

(Artwork: Raphael Perez)

As my blogroll suggests there are quite a few blogs I follow regularly. I'm impressed how so many bare their souls with beautifully written posts revealing their inner most thoughts and emotions. Breenlantern is one such blogger who writes vividly. Another fascinating blogger with quite a different style is Kezza. These are just two examples.

The more I read these blogs the more I wonder about my own emotion and passion. A cursory examination of my blog will confirm that I reveal far less of myself than do these passionate men. And it has always been that way.

Before my mother developed Alzheimer's Disease she often commented that I may have inherited her looks but that I am my father's son in character. Sometimes the comment was spoken in jest but as often she was admonishing me for an action or behaviour of which she did not approve.

My father belonged to that stoic generation of men who were quiet and did not show emotion. There was no such thing as a metrosexual in their day. It was very difficult to know what he was thinking deep down. I saw him cry just the once and that was the night when the Police brought me home to my parents after entrapping me at a toilet and, I suppose, the realisation of my sexuality hit him. He never cried again in my presence nor did he mention that night.

I didn't really doubt that he continued to love me, although he didn't state it but I was never certain what it was he was thinking.

In 1974 I was posted to London to work there for two years. Although I had travelled overseas twice previously on holidays, this was to be the first time I had lived away from my parents. They saw me off at the Airport. Within a week of my arrival in London I received a letter from my father. It was the only letter he sent me in my life (other than the briefest notations at the bottom of letters my mother sent). It was a beautiful letter. I had no idea that my father harboured such passion and love for me.

But that was it. He never really opened up to me again except for something he said to me less than a week before his death. He was in hospital and I was helping him from his bed to a chair by the window and he whispered to me "You really do love me". It was said as a statement of surprise. He was dead before the week was over.

And so here I am, my father's son - pragmatic as ever - keeping most of my thoughts to myself. This particular post notwithstanding.