A new color.

Yuendumu Community, NT, AUSTRALIA

Tonight after work I ate a quick meal of leftover stew and a pear. I didn't even sit down. I fed my dog friends one big plastic spoonful at a time from a can of cheap dog spam. Then they followed me and some human friends to the old folks home where we went to pay our respects to Bessie Nakamara Sims. 

Bessie is one of the top artists at Warlukurlangu Art Centre. She's also one of my favourite old ladies there. She has a march to her movements and a good handshake. A handshake amongst Yapa people carries a bit more meaning than just a formal greeting. There's not much of a shake really, it's more of a firm hold and it conveys a level of trust and respect. Bessie was the first to offer her hand to me.

Last week Bessie Sims walked into the art centre with the same eagerness as usual, ready to finish a hefty size 122cm x 91cm canvas she'd been working on. But I over heard her say that she wasn't feeling well and wanted to take it home. By that Sunday I got word that she had gone to the hospital in town and had been diagnosed with Leukaemia in it's fatal stage. Now here I was on Wednesday evening approaching her bed to say goodbye to her. 

Bessie was surrounded by her family, many of them artists and elder leaders of the community. They welcomed us in and cleared a spot next to her. She propped up with squinty eyes and extended her hand to me. This time I held it with both my hands and dropped down to my knees. Her palm was warm and leathery, still firm. I didn't say anything and I didn't need to. I had done this once already before almost 9 years ago. 

As I stepped back she put her thumb up in the air and said “Yua” Yes.

Normally after an occasion like that I would go and get a drink somewhere quiet. But Yuendumu is a dry community. And it's never quiet. So instead I sat outside on a corner of the wrap around porch where nobody goes and I taught myself the blues on the ukulele.

It was 5 chords combined with a slow strum that came from the darkest part of the heart. Once I had them figured out I could do anything I wanted with them. I played and played and played.

And suddenly I wasn't in the same place anymore.

And I realized that I wasn't consciously playing anymore, but the music was projecting out of me.

And I heard the chuckle of a ghost that I could only presume was Robert Johnson.

And it felt like a new kind of salvation.

And I couldn't help but laugh at why I never tried to play the blues earlier. 

Tonight was the night. And every night after this will be different.

I was playing the blues naturally. And not on account of a lost love or a young philly who ran off with my heart and my money. My first blues was for a 70-something year old indigenous lady at the end of her existence. Blues for Bessie Sims.

It's been a long time coming, but I finally learned to play a musical instrument the way I've always imagined. Eyes closed. Soul howling. 

It was the saddest dream I've lived out. Bittersweet 'till the bitter end.

God..... you're a righteous bastard.