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Writing
from Lou's Place
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Lou’s Place
“King’s Cross saved my life!” Those were the words that started it all. The Cross is so often portrayed as a place of despair, the home of the hopeless and destitute, and yet here were women telling me it was their salvation. Why? Because here they’d found safety, comfort and an opportunity for the beginning of a new life. Specifically, they’d found it at Lou’s Place, a remarkable daytime refuge situated in Victoria Street in King’s Cross. Lou’s was set up 3 years ago to give women in crisis a safe and welcoming place to relax, meet friends, do some laundry, catch a meal, find some clothes and gather their strength for facing the world. It is different from most other refuges in that it calls on both the professional expertise of trained welfare workers and the times and energy of a large number of volunteers who come to cook, clean, chat and provide a number of extra ‘services’ ranging from legal aid to massage to art classes to creative writing. The writing is what this page is wrapped around. The Creative Writing class covers just about any sort of writing. We’ve covered the tentative beginnings of the tale of a troubled life, to poems of both joy and despair, and on to memories of the past. I’ve chosen a little bit of each, starting with that first exclamation of ‘King’s Cross saved my life!’ to snippets of life, praise for Lou’s and a final piece when the writer imagines a modern nativity in the Cross. Delia Rothnie-Jones June 2002 |
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King’s
Cross Saved my life In the first refuge enclosure at Baulkham Hills I look around at the familiar things – the convent, the people, the buildings I have driven past from the main road. Homeless, I am now living in home territory – near my parents’ house. All the landmarks, shops, houses, networks are ingrained in my memory – yet it mean absolutely nothing to me. Its familiarity is smothering. I drove that road every day of my school life. I watched every tree get planted. I know the colour of paint of every house. And now I’d like to pick up the whole fucking street and smash it. The hatred and contempt that seethes from this ‘bible-belt’ of blue liberal homes that surround the refuge is suffocating. “Stay away from the inner city refuges!” we were told. I arrive at one of these refuges in the inner city. I am struck by fright because of where I am. By and large I think this will be bad. I arrive with no belief that I could escape from this hell. I don’t want to feel any different. I remember that within this refuge my impression was that everything perceivably rank about humanity lives by manipulation in order to survive? Close to midnight I have unloaded the car, I have been questioned, surveyed and processed by refuge staff. I line these belongings on the bed and curl up within it. The woman with whom I share the room is someone I can’t see in the darkness. She tells me about her recent release from jail after serving a sentence for assault. I quickly made up my mind to be silent and uncommunicative. And sleep grabs me quicker than it has for weeks. Anon Sydney: The city that saved me I had to go backwards to go forwards. The city has helped me to save myself. It began with the line – communication, telephone – domestic violence line. Then on to the women’s refuge, through women’s refuge with my kids and a few bags on our backs. We left the whorehouse that night and out into the city streets filled with people from so many walks of life and lights. I told the children we were going on a holiday. No, I wouldn’t lie – we were never going back. This was the beginning of our new life. On to the refuge with other women and children. Then the opportunity to make applications for housing in the city. Finally I was getting the break I needed to begin again. A home, a key, security. I like to do what I want, when I want and how I want – be my own mistress. These will be our new 2 rules: no violence and no shoes. Anon Untitled I still remember
that man’s face My balloon I am over
the moon in my balloon Never go back The shower. The water. The unlocked door. The stains. The sneer. The grabbing. The slamming. My hair, my face. Her enjoyment. I am 28. The swimmers. The towel. The walk. The arrival. The blue waters. The yellow sand. The heat. The demands. My head is full of pressure. I am full of revulsion. She makes me do this. It is a public beach. She listens to my ‘no’. She takes me to a private beach. I am fully exposed. My body. I am 13. The sink. The water. Her blue eyes. Her stare. Her demand. The water is white. The steam is scalding. My hair. My face. It is burnt. This hurts. I am 11. The bath. The water. Like boiling milk. Her screams. Her demands I don’t understand. I move to the bath. I get in. I crouch as I am told. I am burning. I cry. She doesn’t understand. I am 4. Anon First Day at School The dress rehearsal was easy. I can remember tiny new storm grey pants and a crisp new shirt as blue as a brand new sky. And me standing under the plum tree, squinting into the sun, eyes shut. “Don’t screw up your face,” my Mum said. This photograph would be the precursor of a decade, more, of school photographs. Only the first few ever made it into family albums. Later editions got lost in kitchen drawers and other safe places. First day at school. The first time I stayed there, instead of leaving my brother there and walking back home with Mum bundling my sister on her hip. I can remember the huge asphalt playground as big as any carpark I’d seen, and the crazy line painted all over it, the boundary for games and ceremonies I still hadn’t heard of – none of which I felt really applies to me. School. Anon Soul of
a Holden When I was about five years old I was sitting in my room looking at the sweet face of another child in a painting that delighted me and gave me hope that I could play – sing in my pigtails and run outside to the yard, and be with my brothers and sing to the daffodils. My house was old and the floor creaked and the walls were so large that sometimes I’d giggle that they would cave in. My mother let me run so free, I jumped on the bean bag and rolled on the floor with glee. The street outside was so far away, and I would dance around in my uniform. I dared not tear it as I knew I’d get in trouble so I’d decide to be in dress-up and be my favourite character. Roslyn A new beginning I’m sure
you girls would all agree we somehow lost our way, We’re all
from different backgrounds, but really we’re the same, I really
can’t believe my luck, by rights I should be dead, There’s lots
of centres that we’ve seen, but this one is the best, An incident in Norway when I was 11 The snow was
melting. I saw a bunch of boys and I was wondering what they are I try to spread my wings If I was a
bird King’s Cross Nativity The caravan was old, stripped of paint, and the car no better. Having to tow this old thing from Alice Springs in the heat and dust was so frustrating to us. Here we were, no money, little food and not many prospects for accommodation in King’s Cross, Sydney. Marlene is my name, Darryn my partner. I say partner as we are not married much to the disgust of our families. You see, I am about to give birth and we have run away to Sydney. King’s Cross, to be precise, as that’s where the action is, we’re told, and also we might get some accommodation with one of Darryn’s mates. Well, here we are after many hours of getting lost and being told wrong directions in the heart of King’s Cross. The energy of this place is astounding, people everywhere, cafes, discos, buskers and loads of neon lights. Darryn finds a phone box and starts to call his mates but they have either moved or were not home. What next, we thought, we can’t sleep in the car as it is chocablock with all our belongings and the caravan the same. As we drive around, tired and frustrated, we realized it was the Sol Invictus festival and even if we had money we would not get any accommodation anyway. I thought of our baby and where it was going to be born. We had to find a place to park and just like a miracle a space appeared, Joseph directed car and caravan into the space. As we got out of the car we looked at where we parked. The sign read clearly and we had heard of this place. It was the Wayside Chapel. Outside the Chapel there was a group of guys and girls who were oblivious to us until they saw I was with child. All of a sudden all attention turned to me as my waters broke. Darryn pleaded with these people to help us make a bed for me and the soon-to-be born baby. Immediately clothes came out of rucksacks, backpacks pillowslips and suitcases. Soon a bed was made in the corner of the Chapel. As Darryn laid me down the people appeared with their pets. There was a dog, a ferret, a cat, birds and one guy had a goldfish in a plastic bag. What joy on everyone’s faces, especially Darryn’s, as he wanted a son. All of a sudden there was yelling and shouting and I heard the words “Jesus Christ”, and I said to Darryn –‘that’s our son’s name!’ The crowd
around us started to break away and I saw why. Three men were walking
towards us bearing gifts. One was a policeman who gave us free parking
for one month outside the Chapel. Another was the manager from McDonald’s
who gave us free food vouchers. The third was a Heinz baby food distributor
who gave us milk formula and enough baby food for a year.
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