This is a collection of raw material dating back to the 1950s by journalist John Stapleton. It incorporates photographs, old diary notes, published stories of a more personal nature, unpublished manuscripts and the daily blogs which began in 2004 and have formed the source material for a number of books. Photographs by the author. For a full chronological order refer to or merge with the collection of his journalism found here: https://thejournalismofjohnstapleton.blogspot.com.au/
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Sunday, 9 April 2006
Looking Forward Looking Back
Looking forward, looking back, it's a long way down the track, went the song, heard everywhere when Slim Dusty died back in 2003. In all the crystaline beauty of the city, the wealth that coated its inner arms, the endless streams of expensive women in their dark silver Audis, the Lexus with a dent, goodness me, even the P-platers driving expensive cars; the refined beauty of the latest BMWs and Mercedes; a $350,000 car swept past; they waited. There was always a wait. He kept crawling and crawling and couldn't wait to escape. The time held itself so very still. The populations gathered in the crystalline spaces.
These were the blues and the greens of the harbour, the endless stream of morning joggers on the foreshores; dogs everywhere in the afternoon after work; the narrow clefts that were public land fully exploited by the locals with health on their mind. The colours just didn't make sense, just didn't synch. The wealth was always there; in the boats, in the size of the houses, in the beauty of the vehicles. Lush, where things hadn't gone wrong in the same way that he knew them. Here, in the midst of everything.
If one could only look forward. If the depth of talent could be harnessed. If things were going the way they should go. He was sardonic, overly so, and cringed in regret as the hours passed. Frank Sartor, former Lord Mayor of Sydney and minister in the Iemma government, got married today in an old stone church in Darling Point. It was a long way down the track, here for the country boy. The endless stream of astonishingly expensive cars flowed on the roads outside. He was 54, she was 35. They looked very happy together. For such a ruthless power player, it was an intimate wedding; no senior politicians at all, no celebrities. "Very proud, very very happy," he said. There hadn't been a single cloud in the sky for days. The air was cold, clear. The sandstone caught the chill of the late autumn. Done and dusted, he said, as they got back into the car. They did, indeed, look very happy together.
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