Geometry of Lament – by Alicia Sometimes
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Excavations of Viking sites have uncovered razors, combs and ear cleaners constructed from animal bones and antlers. The Vikings buried the dead with their personal belongings and marked the graves with stones. These hallowed sites hid a trove of clues about how they once lived.
Which is why it was so perplexing to see around thirty Barbie doll legs protruding from the ground in front of me like a giant toy memorial.
This was not a graveyard, but an overgrown suburban forest on the least popular side of a small mountain. A cumbersome hill, nesting at the foot of the Dandenongs. Next to the scattered plastic Barbie limbs were six hand-carved wooden chairs in a makeshift semicircle amongst large rocks at the edge of the creek. The rocks resembled ornate picnic tables. The image: a High Victorian Gothic postcard.
I had walked into the forest to scream in the morning air. I hadn’t been able to sleep. I had been online for too long, curled up in the comfort of invisible chat rooms. My couch had started to slump, rejecting the curve of my back. I had craved the outside, and I finally reached a quiet spot, well away from the road and isolated from early tourists or locals walking their dogs. I opened my mouth to yell into the daylight, but only managed an intense sigh as I caught sight of the chairs. They were off-grey and splintering, out of place. They looked like the arc of a meeting circle, suddenly interrupted; as though posed for a formidable gathering.
The hills had seen many strange things. I had witnessed a small group of women dancing, drinking wine, singing Scottish love songs with copies of Outlander resting by their feet; an assembly of daytrippers howling into the freezing night air with their bus driver shouting at them to hurry up; teenagers singing songs ironically just to crack each other up; and a young man swaying to Erik Satie’s Gnossienne No 1 while crying into his chocolate cake. But this hit me differently. I assumed these once-loved chairs were there for a reason. Was it similar to those Viking burials? Was it about craft beer catch ups? Reunions? Secret talks? What role did the dolls play?
“Was it similar to those Viking burials? Was it about craft beer catch ups? Reunions? Secret talks? What role did the dolls play?”
I edged in closer. The light from the sunrise and the twinkling dew made this scene look like it had been filtered on Instagram. There were other toys. Some were spherical, some triangular and others were stretched or elongated. I saw arms and heads, and more legs. Torsos were less recognisable. I had to bend down and hold them in my hands, just to be sure. There were markings carved into two logs right next to the chairs. Here Lies Betty. Tom Was Loved. I didn’t have to dig too far to see the dirty acrylic hair of a bigger doll, or a tiny astronaut boot all scuffed up. I felt like I was intruding.
A sense of unease replaced my despair. I had wanted to yell out there, alone, because I had experienced loss. By going into nature, I could vent and allow myself to be angry. I had wanted to hurl profanities and maybe find answers.
Sometimes, the percentages of rejection are just too much and swipe you sideways. You know you’re going get some rebuffs. You’ve banked on amassing a few, balancing the negatives on one hand so the other can hold up acceptances like a fan of paper-thin origami. Then suddenly, that last rejection comes in and you collapse. It topples you over, weighs you down with the force of a hundred hardback books. You need to be alone, question everything and then perhaps calm down and rebuild.
Or you could just shout at some trees.
“You need to be alone, question everything and then perhaps calm down and rebuild. Or you could just shout at some trees.”
My neighbour, Mrs Brenner—who always looked like someone had whispered a difficult maths equation in her ear—said to me once that the meaning we attach to events changes the way we think about them. I know she must have heard that quote somewhere but I didn’t have any phone coverage to search for it.
Instead of yelling, I took another heavy breath and let some of the sadness go. I decided to leave the chairs, toys and remnants of plastic, and head home. I took one last photo of the arrangement, making sure to display the complete scope: the loneliness of the chairs, the scribbles in chalk, the hybrid toy cemetery. I turned away and began to walk with more bounce. I was aiming to cross the shallow creek as a shortcut to the car. After a few minutes, I heard a distinct hissing and gushing—as if a wild river had opened up above me.
They landed while I was heading up from the gully. At first, I wasn’t sure what I was staring at. I could barely see through the lofty eucalypts covering the sun. There was an opening, a large patch of grass, free from any trees or ferny undergrowth, only a hundred metres or so from where I had left the chairs. The deeply cut stream was slippery, the mud holding my foot for a beat too long, the way a toddler grabs on by pulling at the cuff of your pants. This left me a little wet but I kept looking up. I didn’t fall.
The blast valves were roaring as the wicker baskets swung in the slight breeze, until they rested safely on the grass. The envelope of each hot air balloon spread out comfortably. They didn’t entangle. The balloons were bright orange with a yellow stripe. Two landed within a minute of each other, and I applauded the skill it took to miss the bush that blanketed this side of the hill. All three occupants from the first balloon climbed out. Then five from the other. I was still standing in the water, unobserved.
The ballooners picked up their backpacks, wine bottles and hefty bags that I could only guess were carrying breakfast things. I followed them up from the creek and watched as they went into the woods and over to the chairs. When they stopped, I hid behind a large gum not too far back. I saw them spreading out blankets. Some sat in the chairs, others took out glasses. The air was fresh. They wore ponchos and coats, but one began to light a fire as others gathered twigs. They laid out cheese and bread on one of the large rocks. One of the women sat on a vast log that curled up at one end, an echo of a longship. In the last bag to be unpacked, I could just make out a jumble of plastic. It was definitely a haul of toys.
“In the last bag to be unpacked, I could just make out a jumble of plastic. It was definitely a haul of toys.”
‘Here’s to those we’ve lost,’ said one man, wiping tears from his face.
‘To Sally,’ said another.
They all agreed. ‘To Sally,’ they said in unison as they raised their glasses. They held each doll with such tenderness. Was the area theirs alone? Or was it a shared space of grief, where each group could have their own moment with the chairs?
As they began to bury some of the toys, one of the older women stopped and looked straight at me. She smiled that half smile you make when you want to convey hello, what’s left to say and goodbye, all at the same time. A smile that never rises above a straight line. She picked up a brown bear and held it close. Someone else was laughing, telling a story about Sally leaving her washing out for way too long, but the older woman just held the bear tighter and closed her eyes.
I couldn’t encroach on them anymore. The shape and depth of their pain was theirs to mould. Turning away once again, I picked up pace as I hurried to the car. I heard their voices across the gully. Then I stepped on something.
Below me, a Barbie doll leg with a pink-tip shoe.
I picked it up and wished it well. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was honouring, but knew I couldn’t just leave it uncovered. I looked up to the sky and noticed the clouds, now grey and exhausted. They seemed to be waiting for me to do something. Anything.
I buried the leg under a pile of gum leaves and set off for the road. ▼
Image: Patrick Hendry
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