Mahler Nine

Royal Perth Hospital and The Perth Concert are only two blocks away from each other. Mahler's ninth symphony lasts an hour and a half and is often performed as the only item in the evening's performance. Thanks to these two facts I was able to escape ward 2K at RPH to hear my favourite symphony played by the West Australian Symphony Orchestra.

Pondering one's own death is something everyone does. I found it comforting that the universe had given me this opportunity to hear this particular symphony that is shrouded in death so close to a time in which I had longed for my own entry to the afterlife. I was wanting death so desperately, while Mahler was haunted by it. Beethoven, Bruckner, Dvorak, Schubert, Spohr and Vaughn Williams never lived to write a tenth symphony and therefore Mahler believed ninth symphonies were cursed marking the end of one's life on earth. There were other signs of his imminent death such as diagnosis of a heart condition and three tragic events occurring in 1908, which he interpreted as the three hammer blows of fate. He was so convinced by this suspicion that he tried to outwit it by titling his penultimate 'symphony' Das Lied von der Erde therefore delaying his post ninth symphony end.

This final complete symphony (yes he did punch out a sketch for his tenth symphony) is the pinnacle of romanticism, the peak of emotional assertion. Consider what else was happening in 1911; Strauss was writing in a neo-classical style, Stravinsky premiered Petrushka in Paris and the painters around Europe were experimenting with expressionism and futurism. The fact that this level of romanticism thrived and developed in such an avant garde artistic and social context amazes and thrills me. It is testimony to his skill as a composer. The symphony not only meditates on his fate, but contemplates the beauty and joy of life. The symphony transforms the listener to village fairs and walks in the fields and mountains. Mahler believed a symphony must be like the world, that it must embrace all. His wife Alma said of this symphony,

"He has accepted the world and come face to face with the inevitability of death and in that sense is no longer writing about himself. He has embraced everyone."

At the end of the first  movement I found myself in a state in which I longed to sleep and go to heaven, but alas as is God's wish, the second movement started and I was flung to a village in Austria. People are wearing ridiculous clothes, eating and drinking. Merriment abounds as the brass band plays. I awoke from my reverie to find myself in The Perth Concert Hall, crickey, how does Mahler do it? Indeed, he had embraced me and reminded me of my will to live.


This symphony is said to showcase orchestras favourably and it did indeed showcase the WASO. The lower brass and many individual players like the principal bassoonist, the bass clarinetist, the oboist, harp, piccolo, contabassoonist, concertmaster and cor anglais player to name my personal favourites played exceptionally, with real talent, skill and style. I felt that the whole orchestra was working hard to deliver what the conductor was asking of them. Fisch, the conductor, with his impecable stick techniquie elicited stunning ensemble and unity. As a result of this there was some very fine playing, whole groups of musicians perfectly in time with each other as they passed melodies around, from one side of the orchestra to the other. Paul Wright, in the role of concert master, of course is heaven sent; one of my favourite musicians, his solos were sublime.

Mahler makes rather extreme demands on the musicians, demands that hadn't been made before his time. The resulting sounds which are like a massage for your ears. One tune is divided up and played by more than one instrument, not at the same time but one after the other. They pass melodies around the orchestra like a ball in a game of football. Perhaps Mahler had been inspired by the work of Schoenberg and his creation of Klangfarbenmelodie or 'sound colour melody'. Another technique that Mahler used which the orchestra performed brilliantly is the way lovely sounds or timbres are created by mixing together different instruments at different volumes. An example is how a cymbal crash coincides with the high note of a trombone's tune, helping the melody aspirate its climax. Or the sound of 32 violinists playing pppp (musicians language for extremely quietly). One of the most exciting things about hearing Mahler live is that you hear a most gorgeous sound that you have never heard an orchestra make before and you can look around the orchestra to see who is playing to find a musical cocktail of clarinet and harp with a dash of violin or the cellos playing in the high register with the violins playing lower than them in their lowest register. Gorgeous.

I would have loved to have seen more basses in the bass section, seven is too few. There seemed to be a lack of confidence and therefore presence in the string sections, especially in the lower strings. The balance of the whole orchestra was good during solos but in the tuttis (all playing together) I felt there needed to be more in the lower strings in all volumes. The end of the concert was very special, as all the music slowly died away and ended the musicians held themselves completely still and not one person made a movement or sound in the whole hall, it created the most amazingly blissful silence.

From the psychiatric ward.

There are two types of patients in here; those who are terrified of going home and those who are 

terrified of not getting out. I classify myself in the former category. I feel safe and I am getting the help for which I have long yearned. I have so many  like minded friends, there are even men who I can relate to without being afraid.

I remember taking the overdose and I remember why, but I don't remember why I thought it was a good idea. It's the same as the reason why I wanted to be drunk, it's escape, running from the truth, from reality which can be the most frightening thing to face.

I am so grateful for all the help and positive attention I have received here. I have had daily appointments with the psychiatrist, two group therapy sessions daily, occupational therapy, a social worker to help me organise my finances, a dietician, wonderful new friends, three meals a day the list goes on.

The other patients provide me with such positive energy and I've met people with the same illness as me. The intention is to pursue the relationships on the outside. Will we soothe one another due to the understanding we have of each other's illness or will we encourage the craziness and negative thought processes. 

Interestingly, I came across a very interesting article in the Weekly review section of the Guardian Weekly. The article was written about Barbara Taylor who is an academic known for her outstanding work on history and feminism. She also wrote a book called 'The Last Asylum: A Memoir of Madness in our Times'. Barbara wrote of her friend whom she met during her stay in Friern Hospital, 'Magda suffered terribly from black depression yet nearly always she would pull herself together to be with me. Usually I did the same for her. The obligations of friendship trumped madness - and this in itself could be a form of healing'.

Mowing the lawn with Hitler

The first time I met someone famous I also didn't know who they were.

Whilst waiting for a friend to finish a shift at a posh Perth hotel, I started up a conversation with someone carrying a musical instrument case. I was telling him all about the upcoming tour of the Americas with the Australian Youth Orchestra that I was involved in. People kept interrupting us to ask him for his autograph. "Are you famous?" I asked naively. "Oh I play with a band called Simply Red." "Never heard of it." "So where in the Americas is the orchestra performing?" he continued.

Whilst working in Verona, I ran into a Suzanne a wonderful friend whom I had met not too long before at the Innsbrucker Festspiele. This oboist invited me to visit her at her home near Innsbruck. As I was spending my last weeks before returning to Australia in Munich I jumped at the opportunity to visit Suzanne.

'Ich gehe Jägern!' Announced a Tirolian clad husband with shot gun folded over the crook of his arm. Going hunting? I asked myself. What's with the dress ups? I asked myself. Was he for real, or was this some kind of put on for the tourist? It was as corney as Crocodile Dundee. But he was perfectly serious and the beef bourgingon I'd been served up, was infact bambi bourgingon. He had gone deer hunting.

Suzanne's husband was apparently very famous and received much fan mail from Australia. I felt a little stupid as I had no idea who he was, he however seemed to like that I didn't know him. His humility reminded me of the Simply Red musician. He was currently playing the role of Hitler and had been studying his mannerisms and body language for many months. So not only had he a little moustache and a 1930s bowl cut he had the mannerisms of Hitler. Suzanne said she would often get a terrible fright when he entered her peripheral vision. I however had a terrific laugh when Hitler and I, beers in hand boarded the tractor and mowed the vast expanses of their farm lawn.

Fast way to heaven.

Just like in Islam, Baha'is observe a period of fasting. Nineteen days abstinence from food and water from sunrise to sunset. Travellers, nursing and expecting mothers, the ill and those employed in heavy labour are exempt.

Yesterday was the first day of my first fast (previously I had been too ill). On reflection of my day, I felt so overwhelmed by the spiritual power and the divine blessings I received throughout the day that I cried and cried. I actually felt a little frightened. I saw such clear evidence of god's love for me. It was frightening because this intangible and abstract concept is thoroughly pondered but the only evidence we have is faith. I imagine it is the type of fear one would feel on seeing a ghost. My tears were also tears of joy and tears of relief. I have never in my life felt that someone loved me. My parents were wonderful, but they were atheists and living with such hardship, they were olympians at detachment when it came to their kids. I felt really loved, cared for and safe yesterday.

At about 11am I started to feel hungry, so I figured I'd go and fill myself up with prayer, and it worked a treat. I didn't feel hungry anymore. I did suffer a dreadful thirst however. With this thirst came detachment, humility, compassion, gratitude, I was so happy, and that first drink of water at 6.51pm, how beautiful.

It has been suggested that discipline it a fasting requirement. I guess I had been very lucky here. I was unable to fast in my first two years of being a Baha'i as I was recovering from alcoholism and suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after having worked in the Immigration Detention Centre on Christmas Island. I felt that I was missing out by not being able to fast. I was desperate for the grace that was appointed in the book that Baha’u'llah had mentioned. So I was relieved from the need for discipline.

Day two of the fast and I really feel very fatigued. I must stop, sit, lie and pray. I am so grateful for this. As I am currently in a mania phase of Bipolar, I am so happy to stop, just stop. This in itself is freedom and gives me fantastic perspective. Thank you.

Merry Christmas Island

It started by seeing my students all over the island, even at the casino where I lived. They were laughing and joking, having a great time. When I questioned their escaped status, they told me they missed me and had come to visit.

After speaking to my colleagues, I understood that 500 detainees had escaped during the night some of whom were sitting on the tarmac of the airport staging a protest.

The Christmas Island facility was built to house 400 men. It was currently housing 3000+. The company contracted to run the detention centre had erected tents and filled every nook and cranny with bunk beds to accommodate the excess. Some rooms contained 60 -100 beds packed in so tight that   there was only about 20 cms between each bunk. New arrivals stayed in big tents for three months, this area was glamourously named, "Marquee". Stays ranged between 3 weeks and 36 (and counting)  months, reasons for their length of stay were arbitrary.

When I was informed that I'd be working in the single male compound of 3000, I actually became a little nervous. The only induction or training provided me was how  to use a Hoffman knife to cut someone down who was trying to hang themselves with makeshift ropes ….cut furthest from the knot so as to keep the evidence in tact. I asked if there was anything I needed to know about working at a detention centre, I continued to explain that as a teacher I had only ever worked in schools or universities, this was a first for me. They told me to be aware that these men haven't had sex for a long time so watch out. I later found out it was also not a good idea to let them through the locked gates, I thought I had been polite holding the doors open for them.

Surprisingly the men were of very high spirits and an absolute joy to teach. They treated me with complete and utter respect and were extremely chaste. They were fantastic ambassadors for the male race. Often they would queue after class to look me in the eye and say thank you teacher, I have learnt so much, thank you. Some would come to class early, sweep, clear away the rubbish, position the desks to how I liked them and wait at the door to announce that my classroom was ready. These were the most fantastic students I'd ever taught.

It was only a few days after the students had visited me. I was teaching a really fun grammar lesson with carpet and velcro inwhich  everyone was laughing and producing some great language. A colleague came running into my room and said, "quick Kate, they are burning down the detention centre, we have to evacuate, NOW!"

Acting on impulse I said, "ok can everyone follow me, we have to go". My colleague turned to me to say, "no the students stay". I was devastated. My beautiful students. How can I leave them behind?

All the detention centre staff were ushered out as the police in full riot gear ran in. Only hours later I heard a Hercules flying above and landing, more police were being flown in. The detention centre was now under their control. I had heard the way those police officers had spoken as we socialised, they revelled in their positions of power. I was therefore very concerned about my students' welfare; I knew that those now in charge, saw it as a change to teach the 'illegal immigrants' (seeking asylum is completely legal)  a lesson.

As I sit here writing now and recalling, the trauma returns…… to be continued if I can, as this was only the beginning.

Because we have everything we need.

One of the most beautiful and inspiring lessons I ever learnt was from an I-Kiribati woman. Years later I am still astounded by her naive genius, or was just pure genius?

We live in a paradigm that is ruled by the constant bombardment of advertising and marketing. If they are not selling us something they are gaining information so someone else can sell us something. The caller says, 'I'm only doing market research, I'm not selling you anything.' I know I've been that caller. Completely against my principals and in desperation for rent money, I worked in a call centre in Amsterdam doing market research in the UK. It was vial. 

Fifty years ago advertisements were kind and charming, "Omo adds whiteness to brightness", "Rowntrees fruit gums, you can taste the fruit" or "Oxo makes cooking so easy". No insults or harm there. Today our weaknesses are preyed upon. It's a two part attack, phase one creates insecurity in the potential consumer, either existing ones are fully developed or new ones are created, the finishing stage then offers a solution to our inadequacy. Other techniques such as a sense of panic are added to the formula and we find ourselves, despite our intellectual ability and vegetarianism, furnished with steak knives and other unnecessities. "But wait! That's not all, call now and you get an extra steam cleaner absolutely free!"


A part of my role in the AusAid English Language Program in The Republic of Kiribati was testing the speaking and listening abilities of the inservice teachers. I had designed a script of questions from which I was able to test their communicative competence and grammatic accuracy in both skills.

"What do you prefer about living on the outer islands?" I asked for the umpteenth time. "Coming to the capital island Tarawa is stressful because we see things for sale and you start to believe that you need those things and of course then you need money to buy them. On the outer islands we don't have money. We don't need to buy anything because we have everything we need. The ocean provides us with fish, the sky water and the breadfruit trees, coconut trees and pandanus tress provide us with more food and materials to make mattresses and houses."

I was really confused. I just didn't understand what she was getting at. It slowly dawned on me. I had spent a weekend on an outer island called Marakei and briefly experienced life without currency. I saw the happiness abounding in the people. It was this innocence and joy that stole my heart. Still to this day I continue to be astounded by the serenity and happiness I felt for those days when I had everything I needed.

Bicycle Thieves

I successfully stole a bike once so, I thought I’d give it another shot. I never would’ve guessed however that stealing a bicycle from a thief would be more difficult than stealing from a policeman.

Yes, from a policeman. My mother also didn’t believe me until she received a phone call from the Police six months after I had told her the truth. Just a courtesy call,

“Good Morning, this is Sergeant Plodd calling from Northbridge Police, may I speak to Katherine please?”

“I’m sorry she’s living in Sydney now, may I be of assistance?”

“I’m just calling to check if Katherine has had no further trouble with her bicycle that was stolen.” He continued.

“Ah no, no trouble at all thank you officer.” Replied my astonished mother.

I’ll explain how I pulled it off so easily, excessive amounts of luck were on my side that day.

I finished work at the State Library at 5.30pm as I did every Saturday during my undergraduate years. I was off to the Brass Monkey Hotel to drink and play scrabble on the upstairs Chesterfields with my friends. Forecasting my drunkenness, I left my bicycle locked up outside the library. The following day I walked to work at the library finding my bike had been stolen. Why would anyone in their right mind steal this crappy bike? To an impoverished student however, it was an immensely valuable asset, especially as I was madly saving $5000 to participate in the Australian Youth Orchestra’s tour of the Americas. 

Infuriated I called the police to report the heinous crime. The policeman at the end of the phone diligently took the details; blue bike with gears and a green lock, reminding me for a third time that stolen bikes never find their rightful owners.

Fifteen minutes before the end of my shift the phone at my desk rang for the first time in my library career. 

"Hello?" I answered enquiringly. "Hello Miss Walpole, I’d like you to come down to the station as a bicycle fitting your bicycle’s description has just been handed in."

I don’t ever recall praying in my life, but if I had, it had just paid off. I made myself known on arrival keen to identify my bicycle. I heard a bike being wheeled from out the back, it went tick tick tick as the precisely tuned mechanics heralded its arrival. My heart sank, precision was the last word to describe my bike. How will I cope without my bike? As I looked at the brand new blue 10 speed racer with a green lock, the policeman said, 

“Is this your bike?” I nearly fell backwards as I heard my mouth say, “Yep”. 

“Sign here please”, I signed and the theft was almost complete. The bike was way too big for me, I dread to think what the policeman thought as I fell from attempted mounts. It was far from an ideal get away vehicle.

Riding on the success of my previous theft, I confidently faced my next opportunity at 3am on the Herrengracht in Amsterdam. Patrick and I were visiting for the weekend. 

I had avoided the metro controllers for six months in Paris travelling ticketless. I felt the impending exhaustion of my luck and an alternate form of transport was necessary. I lived on the Place des Vosges in the Marais quarter of Paris.

A Marais is a marsh, evidently it was flat as far as I would want to travel (to the Louvre, the BHV, Monoprix and home) and a bicycle was the obvious choice.

I hadn’t thought of it until a junkie/bike thief saw the three of us Patrick, Robert and myself, stumbling home on one bicycle under the influence of Amsterdam delights. The junkie asked if we wanted to buy another bicycle. As I was driving back to Paris the next day, I thought it a very wise investment. The junkie paraded the bike in question asking for 25 Guilders. Dam, I’d just spent my last 25 guilder note on a herbal souvenir. To stall, I said I liked the bike, but would prefer a model in green. I knew full well how desperate he was to sell and that it was not as he mentioned; a bike he bought for his girlfriend who dumped him before he had a chance to give it to her. He asked me to wait a minute, while he searched for a green one. He foolishly left the brown bike in my care to fetch the green one. This was my big chance.

“Patrick get on!” I was off, Patrick was not on rather in fits of laughter, but I was still off. The seventeenth century engineer who dammed the Amstel and designed the canals did not have my get away plan in mind. I grew up in strict grid style urban planning and the circular pattern of the canals had me beat and lost. I had no idea where Patrick, Robert or the bike thief were. It’s a little hard to flee if you aren’t aware that you are indeed going around in circles. I was desperate to find Patrick and Robert and not to find the bike thief. As luck wasn’t on my side this thieving occasion, I found the thief first. 

“Oh hello, I was wondering where you got to.” I said attempting innocence. He was cross, I was scared and lost. With Dutch courage I said, 

“well come on, from one thief to another you must give me brownie points for trying.” Fortunately this amused him and I confessed I had spend my last 25 guilder note on a bag of herbs. Cutting his losses he agreed to barter the bike for the herbs. To satisfy his need to punish me, he explained that I was a very naughty girl and therefore I wasn’t allowed to have the green bike. I was soon after riding the Rue du Rivoli on my beautiful brown bike.