saying goodbye

So I'll say goodbye to you
my love
I'll say goodbye to you,
You've been my love
these 14 years
and Ill say good bye
to you.

Last night my marriage ended. As a result of my stupidity, my darling love of 14 years, my beautiful Nadia, is leaving me. My foolishness, shortsightedness and lack of self-awareness have brought this to bear. I have lost close friends, my choir, my life. I am in disgrace.

And worse yet, my little boy Tom has a split existence between this lovely home I sit in now, and the shabby little box around the corner.

Why have I thrown such a beautiful life away for idle foolishness, for idiotic pranking? What's wrong with me?

I don't know, but my heart is aching and there is nothing I can do about it.

Christmas Eve

Reindeer food: check!
Presents wrapped and stowed: check!
Santa's biscuit and milk: check!
Santa's key on outside latch: check!
Tom sleeping: check!

Good night.

The weather is certainly interfering with our holiday plans. It seems unlikely now that we will go camping at Kangaroo Valley, unless a serious turnaround occurs. Despite the most unusual appearance of the sun this afternoon, we will be in for a summer of coolness and rain. That's the prediction. Nadia and Elaine don't seem keen either, the one being sick and the other injured.

I don't blame anyone for not wanting to sleep in a giant nylon sleeve on soggy turf. Nor having their aquatic activities, of which there are a plenitude at KV, curtailed by poor weather. So we are focussed on Christmas, now only two days away, and the other kinds of things we might do during the end of year break.

Almost all of our Christmas shopping, save vegetables, is done, though very few pressies are wrapped. Not a chore I look forward to.

But I'll try.

light reading

Putting Tom to bed tonight, it became apparent early on that this was another night for big questions. He was curious where negative numbers came from and how they might be used. Then he wanted to know where the universe came from. Not being one to ignore a hit out of left field, I told him that the prevailing view from scientists (massively simplified) was that a singularity occurred about 15 billion years ago in which a tiny, tiny speck expanded very quickly and has been growing ever since. Where did the speck come from, he asked?

For me, that's where theology becomes important. Did God make the speck, he asked? First causes. Straight to the nub of the matter. Well, maybe, I said. It's as reasonable an idea as any others I have heard, and a good deal less complicated.

Those interstices between the scientific and the religious always interest me. They seem to be interesting a five year old boy too.

more rain

instead of whiskers
thin forests of velutinous moss layer
my morning face

Carols

Crowd Around in full cry at Hazelbrook PS Carols last Saturday night.

cupcakes

Tomorrow Tom has his end-of-year school party, and we are allocated the making of cupcakes. A classful of cupcakes. It might have been carrot sticks or party pies or packets of crisps, all of which require a simple purchase from any grocer. But it wasn't to be. Cupcakes is our lot and they will not be from a packet mix. Nadia is sure of that.

Now that's fine really as we like cooking at #9 and little cakes in pretty paper cups are no challenge. But today my wife noticed a little caveat on the blue school request sheet - no nuts and, um, no eggs. Well, nuts I can live with, as every third child seems allergic to them these days. But eggs. How is one to make a cake, or twenty cakes as in our case, without the addition of this central ingredient? (A rhetorical question, dear reader. I know that it's possible.)

So platefuls of jam and white choc chip cakes will be swanned into Hazelbrook PS in the morning, with egg.

I got an exemption.

Since the demise of the Ariaz and the ascent of the ipod, I have been re-engaged with podcasts. Is there anything better than walking in the Mountains whilst listening to a witty discussion of American politics(such as Slate's Political Gabfest) or an eridite exegesis on culture or history, such as BBC 4's In Our Time? Well, yes, of course there is. It's all about personal taste. It's just what I've been doing lately and enjoying immensely.

Last night's Carols went well, being in every sense a community event. The sound system wasn't very good, it was almost impossible to hear announcements, children and adults moved and chatted throughout, and um, my solo was cut short, but, these points actually prove my argument. A lot of work went into the event, but that sense of matters percolating in and out of competent reality persisted. There is a kind of joy in things not being quite right, of things being a little loose at the ends.

Why? I don't know. There is no sense of the phony or pretentious. Nothing is airbrushed or overly scripted. It's really a community thing unmediated by special interests with something to plug.

Something like that.

deck the quad

Tonight we have our annual Christmas Carols, moved from its regular venue at Gloria Park to the local public school. The erratic weather is the principal culprit.
And for the first time Crowd Around will be singing at this event. It's fair to say that carols are not our stock-in-trade (though, back in the mists, we once did some lovely arrangements of Silent Night and Away in a Manger), so we will be singing gospel numbers. At least God gets a respectful mention.
I have a brief and unsought-after solo in the distinctly non-gospel Irish Heartbeat (Van Morrison), a song which has precious little to do with religion, though rather a lot to do with family. I think that makes it a reasonably kosher proposition, especially given the secular audience attending.
As I write, the sun is out and it's just possible that the grass might have dried at Gloria Park. But too late, we are stuck with the asphalt and passing highway traffic, which is just fine. After all, it's the spirit of the thing that counts.

oh, summer is limping
yes, like an old man encrutched
in misty silence

Well, time does move on, doesn't it? Nothing much to show for the last three months on this blog and somewhat at a loss to explain it. Letting things slide is never an excuse, but the fact is that I just haven't felt like writing, perhaps because there have been other things to do.

As mentioned I indulged quite a lot of time in listening to podcasts on my little Philips MP3 player. Walking and listening to broadcasts on politics, society and philosophy (to name but a few) is very agreeable, giving me both an education and some exercise. It saves on quite a lot of reading time too, but, as you might have experienced, where there is a gap, there is a queue.

So now the Christmas tree is up and summer has spluttered into December, with record low temperatures. Our gas heaters are on today, remarkably, and people are done up in winter gear. Right on cue, the Lawson Pool pump has gone rogue and the water temperature was, well, chilly, when I slid in this morning. Reminding myself that the Bondi Icebergs like a winter swim with extra ice in the water, I ploughed on with intrepid though ungainly dexterity.

Two weeks ago, my trusty (and already alluded to) MP3 player gave up the ghost and my kindly wife bought me an early Christmas pressie, an ipod touch. Disinclined as I am to Apple Inc. I have been pleasantly surprised by its capability and just hope that it will be reliable. But the less said of gadgets, the better.

I note with interest the implosion of Herman Cain, whose steadfast denials of moral wrongdoing came apart at the seams as more and more women came forward. It's not possible to deny everything, surely, but Herman gave it his best shot.

And in Australia, the Gillard Gov't appears to have ended the year on a positive note. It's hard to know if its luck will continue into next year. Oh if only those Liberals can get a pasting somehow in 2012!

the odd other side

Dontcha just love political conservatives! Sometimes they open their mouths and say quite sensible things. Now and then their policies make sense. The centrist conservatives are even quite likeable. But there are some who just can't help themselves, put the boot into the less well off, exhibit that 'born to rule' arrogance. The further right they get, the more that strange little tick becomes evident. They become anti-science. They get all out of balance on economics. The ghost of Ayn Rand haunts their dreams.

I'll stay clear of Oz politics in exampling the above. Let's take the GOP in the US. Maybe this was a great broadly based party once, but at the present, it seems overwhelmed by small sectional interests. Specifically, the Tea Party. The Presidential hopefuls must all genuflect to these conservative activists in a way that entirely skews the party. Everyone of them is looking over their shoulder, trying, if not actually to court, then to avoid giving offence. This means being a bit whacko on climate change, very forthcoming on matters of faith, hugely opposed to 'big' government' and taxation of any kind, hard on the have-nots. And the lists goes on. There are some very esoteric issues that seem entirely detached from middle America.

Frontrunner Mitt Romney seems the safest pair of hands in the field, being a moderate, if inconsistent, Republican. Current flavour, Herman Cain, he of the self-made pizza empire, has a kind of non-political common touch and is, in the parlance, a 'straight shooter'. This means that there is less spin and more so-called honest commentary, and Mr Cain can provide this in spades. For example, in response to a question about the Occupy Wall Street movement, Mr Cain said "Don't blame the banks. If you don’t have a job and you’re not rich, blame yourself!” Clearly the candid Cain hadn't factored in the fact that Wall Street had actively encouraged the kinds of dodgy financial products that had eventually led to a credit crisis of massive proportions. These same banks has then put out their grubby hands for tax-payers money. People are angry about that. Wonder why?

early years 4

Later primary school was probably the epiphany of my educational experience, if measured on the happiness scale. We had moved to Killarney Heights in 1968, a fairly well-to-do suburb for young families. Good schools, bushland, organised sport, safety. That probably made it a good place to raise a family, supposing that family had sufficient internal cohesion, or stability. Ours was crumbling.

But the school environment was encouraging. In fourth grade, my teacher, Reginald Oldland, regailed us frequently with stories of his time in the RAF. It didn't take a lot to sidetrack him into a long digression on Spitfires and near misses, and being a Welshman, he had the gift of storytelling. He was firm but kind, an excellent educator who understood that life stories mattered as much as maths or english.

Upper primary was also a time of making new friends, in that innocent, open way that preteens have of doing it. I had lost contact with my Rose Bay Public friends, sadly, but others came along. At school recess and lunchtime, groups of boys would descend on the fringe of scrubby bush adjacent one of the buildings. I don't exactly remember the impulse, but the site became an intense place of digging and quarrying. Old bottles were filled with freshly powdered sandstone, dozens of small caves excavated in sandy banks became shelters for Crater-Critters, stories were told, broken and retold. The place seemed to have a slightly magical quality to it as I recall it through adult eyes. Even so, one day it became out of bounds, for reasons best known to parents and principals, so we all moved to the playground or the nearby oval. The end of a very small era.

By sixth grade I had the extra job, with best friend Wayne, of operating the PA system. Housed in a cupboard in the admin block, the PA had a record player and radio receiver. These were hooked up to the quad speakers and those quaint tannoys that used to grace each and every classroom. If there was a broadcast (this word still has an authority that belittles terms like podcast) we had to set the system up to run in the appropriate classroom. Most importantly, it was our job to set up the mikes and put on the morning 'marching music' following the assembly. The single LP selected for this job was one of Scottish tunes, replete with bagpipes and drums. The best tune with the most appropriate marching beat was preselected for us. I have a confession to make. One more than one occasion when my friend Wayne had the helm, so to speak (and I was out on the assembly), I had flipped the album over so that a different track was selected. A slow air.

That mischievous streak has got me into trouble more than once, I can assure you.

wet school hols

This is a long weekend and so, as if holidays and weather are determined by forces outside human understanding, it is cold and raining. It is also the middle of the school holidays, so the confluence of these mysterious events is doubly evident. But we have no real holiday plans, so staying indoors is just fine. This morning I had a swim at Lawson Pool (9 Deg. out, 26 Deg. in). The water was steaming in the chill air. Swimmers moved quickly between change room and pool; through my misted goggles they appeared as pale spectres dashing for cover.

Lately, as I briefly alluded to in the previous post, I have been listening to podcasts on my non-ipod mp3 player. A lot. Most of these recordings are news oriented, generally, political, specifically, American. I have found a number of sites, such as NPR, PBS, Slate and the New York Times that intelligently cover the current race within the Republican Party to find a nominee for the general election at the end of next year. It's interesting because firstly, it isn't Australian politics (which means I don't have an emotional connection) and secondly, the race is genuinely fascinating. I won't bore you with the details of my fascination, except to say that the US is a remarkable democracy comprising many larger than life characters. Running for President might be the toughest thing a person could ever do in a lifetime.

I have also been reading more since Nadia very kindly gave me a Kindle for Father's Day. While it tends to tie me to Amazon, there is such a vast trove of free and pay texts there that I don't really mind. I love the text interface (what's wrong with page? -ed.) which looks like the real thing. No back-lighting either, which gives my eyes a break. The temptation to load the reader with hundreds of free texts is always there, but I have been trying to practice discernment, the enemy of mass consumerism. Anyway, I do like the Kindle.

Finally there have been a lot of social events on our calendar - birthdays, gigs, visits by overseas friends - which have kept us busy. As I write, Nadia is recording harmonies for the band she is in. She is become more accomplished with every rehearsal.

long time

Yes, I haven't blogged in three weeks and it's now October 1st. No excuses, just clients, volunteering, reading, swimming, home-stay, music and The Cat Returns. Oh, and many, many podcasts.

Explanation, in due course.

kindling hope

I had a great Father's Day last Sunday, with our small, though extended family sitting down to lunch. Nadia's cousin Bianca was up from Sydney and Elaine joined us too. Lots of good food - I made a cheese fondue and there was also home-made apple crumble and a pesto - which lasted well into the evening. Tom gave me a little tool set contained within in a pouch, courtesy of his school's Father's Day fundraiser. It was a sweet choice and I will try to live up to its use by being more practical. Nadia really surprised me by giving me a Kindle. That's an ebook reader, to the uninitiated.

I have been downloading free ebooks from Amazon, most of which are in the 'public domain'. Some are (now) obscure titles, others quite famous classics. So nestling somewhere side by side in my slim sleeve of plastic are commentaries on Sophocles, fiction by Jules Verne and Mark Twain, The Bible, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and so forth. Are they happy together in their cold e-library? I have no idea, but there is, with a Kindle, the opportunity to plumb the recesses of a vast horde of reading material, a lot of which is no longer available in print.

I am conscious of the need for discernment. I don't want to consume these great works or even collect them. I am aware of the consumerist bug that has bitten all of us and I don't want to fall into that trap here. The Kindle can hold some 3,500 titles. That isn't a challenge or a target. It's nice to know the space is there, but in every megabite is a salutary warning.

Choir Festival

Last night my choir, Crowd Around, sang at the Blackheath Choir Festival. We've done the festival before but never on a Saturday night, which is the biggie, so to speak. August company included, Bellacapella, Icing On the Cake, Gay and Lesbian Choir and Men Wot Sing. We are like small town yokels amongst this group of giants, who all 'audition' prospective members. So there was pressure, if you know what I mean.

And I felt it. It was, I think the most difficult performance I have ever has to do. My throat was like a desert from our first walk-on and right before my solo in And So It Goes, I truly thought that my vocal folds would seize up. They didn't and I think the solo came off okay - through sheer force of will, if nothing else. But tough, yes, and later on I was exhausted.

It's funny really. I've done plenty of solos in front on many kinds of audiences. And yet, crank up the pressure, situate the performance in a more formal environment, add in unknowables (the choir after us was singing And So It Goes too) and the body can become a nervous shambles.

Rising above the shambles is the key. How to find that key is mysterious and beyond my reckoning, for no matter how prepared one is, the moment can sneak up like a shadow in lamplight.

Book Parade

Back in the dark ages when I was in infants and primary school, there was no such thing as book parades. There weren't mufti days either. School was much less inclusive than it is these days. There was probably less pressure in terms of curriculum, but there was also less fun.

This dismal introduction is a way into the subject of Tom's schools book parade. Today a lot of parents attended Hazelbrook Public School to bear witness to a massive literary dress-up. It was fun. It was time-wasting. It was chatty and a little chaotic.
Tom went as Wally from Where's Wally? fame. He looked the part, on a miniature level.

Do you know here Wally is? See if you can find him in the photo.

I have been busy in the last month so much less time has been given over to things like writing in this blog. My counselling practice has shifted into gear and I have been doing extra reading and preparation on that front. At the same time I have taken up some volunteering work at an emergency centre in Mt Druitt. Both are challenges and I find myself feeling happier and more productive.

Recently I bought a Philips Ariaz MP3 player, a significantly cheaper alternative to the ubiquitous ipod. It's not half bad, has decent sound and a pretty good supporting software program called Songbird. I am using it mostly to listen to podcasts, a format I have hitherto ignored entirely. In a few days I have discovered loads of quality programs, particularly those with political and social commentary. Public broadcasters are an especially rich vein for balanced, decent programming. There are podcasts at places like Fox News but who would even bother. How many times do I need to hear right wing apologists shouting slogans?

It's possible that I know more about the (Republican) Iowa straw poll in Ames than most Americans do, courtesy of NPR and PBS. I must be a strange sort of person to like American politics, or any kind of politics really. But ideas are interesting and national policy debates can can ignite the cerebral fuse. Sometimes.

towards oblivion
blue sky unbleaches to black,
streetlight symphony

book group

I was invited to join a book group a few months ago. It's a lovely bunch of local people who enjoy a chat about things literary and a cuppa. This time we are due to discuss Pat Barker's Regeneration, a fictional reconstruction of life in a mental institution for soldiers during the Great War. The novel is based upon a real life hospital in Edinburgh that was home, for a period of time, to war poets Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen.

Very interesting so far, with the institutional lunacy paralleling the wider madness abroad, namely, the war itself. Barker draws you into the cloistered sanitorium, with its damaged young men, its harried staff, its absurd logic.

A war to end all wars it was not. Sadly.

Nadia's dad Lindsay is up for a couple of days. An artist and musician, he spends much of his time in Cebu in the Philippines. We get to see him every few months, a mixed blessing, as much of his stay is taken up with basic IT tutorials, the same ones every time. He also has many unfulfilled 'grand plans' and we get to hear about those too. He is sitting across from me now, snapping away with his camera at screen shots on his computer. I won't even try to explain that.

Meanwhile, his daughter is at her keyboard, working out harmonies for a gig she has coming up with her band. She is a backing vocalist. It's a little bit like being in an asylum, the inmates intensely focused on their own separate preoccupations.

Me too, I suppose.

Normally I'm sensitive to criticizing others. I think that Jesus had this well covered when he told people not to consider the speck(of dirt) in their brother's eye when they had a bloody great log in their own. Bloody is my insertion, incidentally. And I have a few logs of various sizes inserted from time to time.

But when the speck is in the eye of one Rupert Murdoch (aka The Dirty Digger), then all bets are off. In my estimation, Murdoch has been one of the most baleful influences upon the mass media in the last 40 years. His reputation for dumbing down or sleazing up newspapers is well established. His notoriety as a 'kingmaker' in politics is almost legendary. His influence in public policy has been pervasive and corrosive. And of course, we now know that some of his employees have acted corruptly in circumstances that are morally repugnant. And perhaps criminally so too. Where the various inquiries will lead is anyone's guess but the demise of the appalling News of the World may presage greater calamity for the Murdoch empire.

I hope News Limited (aptly named as the news is often a construct of it's masters) is investigated thoroughly. It is perhaps, a one-off chance to clean up the monopolistic and sychophantic media culture that presents a danger to democratic governance.
On a personal level, there are a number of us who remember Murdoch's interference in the 1975 Australian Federal Election. Now may be time of reckoning. Now is high noon.

early years 3

On our recent annual trips to North Bondi (as ostensible house and pet sitters), I have begun reclaiming some of my past. My family lived in the Eastern Suburbs until 1968, so my first nine years were spent there. Rose Bay Public was my entry into the world of formal learning, not necessarily a happy one, as schools in those days were not overly friendly places to attend. Compared with my son's cuddly induction into kindergarten at Hazelbrook Public, which involved all manner of getting-to-know-you reassurances and activities, my recollections are overlaid with a thick frost.

Take my 2nd grade teacher, Miss Lullam. Doubtless a competent educator, Miss Lullam appeared very elderly indeed in my juvenile estimation. I do remember her having a very wrinkled neck and hands, so the chances are that she was well over retirement age. Miss Lullam ruled with an iron fist - any infraction being liable to an (edge-on) ruler across the hand or knuckles. She sang with a high soprano voice that had a thick vibrato, creating the impression that a faded opera star had come into our midst. And while she taught us many things, the only thing I can remember her saying was, "I'll cane you child, I'll cane you and I'll cane you well." In those days, it was fine to whack students any time you liked.

as I sit here

winter window,
a cup of frigid sunshine,
a cloistered valley

in the men's loo-
leaves congregate like dry birds
before a steely altar

windy day

the wind is detonating cloud
for winter's bucket is brimming.
now, birds bend madly

early years 2

When my father died last year, I realized that I knew very little about him, his early life, so to speak. So for Tom's sake, I plan to write up a number of vignettes, memories etc. of my younger self. Accuracy is not guaranteed, for recollections necessarily emerge through the prism of former recollections, and so on. Who is to say where the truth lies, or even what the truth is.

Since Alan Myers loomed large in my teenage years, it is with him I will start. On his capacity for kindness I have already commented. It was his capacity for inspiring terror that remains the central abiding memory, for Mr Myers, the founding Principal of Killarney Heights High School, was tough, conservative and uncompromising. Not for him the changing social norms of the 1970's, the longer hair, the more casual dress. Nor the more relaxed ettiquette. Students wore blazers and ties and the ladies had hats and gloves to boot. In summer as well.

Mr Myers conducted regular hair inspections for the boys and authorized inspections of the girls underwear (blue, not black!) by means, as I recall, of a skateboard covered in mirrors. The latter was conducted by a female teacher, though I'm guessing that 600 boys would have volunteered for the mission if they had been asked.

The Principal's office had one-way glass so that he could inspect his charges as they arrived in the morning. He was known to intercept buses on their way home in order to do a uniform check. Most alarmingly, Mr Myers would review the entire school as we marched in formation, en masse, around the adjacent oval. General-like, he would be positioned high on a hill so as to review the troops to better vantage. It must have been a remarkable sight to passers-by!

His appearance on morning assembly would almost always presage some withering critique of student behaviour, often prefaced with the introductory, "I am concerned about..." It was quite clear that staff feared him as well. Our PE teacher, the redoubtable muscle-bound former Mr Canada, Vince Basille, once remarked, "I fear no man - except Alan Myers!" And my Year 9 history teacher, in sheer frustration at the levels of repression in the school, once incited us to mass insurrection. Wisely, we opted for bemused compliance. Though we didn't know it at the time, regime change was only just around the corner.

early years 1

I am the only one of five boys who made it to Year 12 and completed the Higher School Certificate. I'm not sure why this was the case, since all my brothers could have done so. It was not uncommon for students to leave at the end of Year 9 and Year 10 in those days - perhaps most did - so that is a factor. There were more apprenticeships about then and qualifications for getting into many other jobs, such as banking, did not always require an HSC. Unlike today's increasingly absurd demands for qualification and experience in just about every field or position, young people in the seventies had real options if going on in education didn't suit or appeal to them.

For my brothers, that was far from the whole story, because, despite our nice middle class surrounds, we were one of the (few) families in our neighbourhood who were openly dysfunctional. An alcoholic, depressive and frequently suicidal father brought out different responses in all of us, though broadly they fell into three categories - flight, rebellion or repression. It's hard to say how things might have been different if not for our father's collapse, but they certainly would have been. Boys especially need to look up to a father who, at the very least, is in control of himself, if not his circumstances. It's more common now - men not being in control nor taking responsibility, so it's little wonder we see problems with many young people.

And there were no counselling options in those days, or none that we knew of. It was a case of getting on with it, stiff upper lip, as the Poms call it. That doesn't mean that there wasn't kindness. We had lots of help from neighbours - boxes of clothes, food parcels and the like. Sometimes kindness came from the most unlikely quarters. I remember one occasion when I was in Year 10 when I was summoned to the inner sanctum of the most high leader, Alan Myers. Mr Myers was our (deeply feared) Principal - a man of the old school. Small, tough and terrifying. I don't recall what the matter was about (I'm guessing that it concerned my father's first suicide attempt), but Mr Myers handed his office over to me so I could take that phone call in private. That was kindness.

Not mine, but so witty, and apt.

"You want to have a mind open enough to accept radical new ideas, but not so open that your brains fall out."

Michael Shermer.

another planet x

There was a time when I thought that the assertion that the moon-landings were a hoax was the epiphany of stupidity, but maybe that dubious assertion has been bested. Only tonight, I found out that a large planet, or dwarf star, would shortly enter the regions of the inner solar system and wreak havoc upon the earth. It appears to go by the name Nibiru and it's rendevous with us is set for late next year, just in time, apparently, for the end of the most recent Mayan calendar cycle.

How have I managed to miss this object so far? There's little doubt that the intruder would be brighter than Jupiter (so easily visible in the night sky) and news and images would daily be beamed to an increasingly worried populace. Even if, as Nibirista argue, Nasa and national governments are enmeshed in a cover-up (naturally!), amateur astronomers, who are skilled and well-equipped, would have sounded the alert. Long ago, in fact. Nibiru failed an original arrival prediction in 2003 and it's only fair, don't you think, that another is scheduled for 2012. What's nine years in a 3,600 year orbit, anyway? Just like the most recent prophecy of that poor man in the US, who has moved the end of the world to October.

The oddest thing of all is the sheer quantity of misinformation, the lack of evidence, the opinion dressed up as fact and generally illogical thinking that goes into making up these zany, though clearly strongly held, views. And then there's the paranoia. Dare to question any tenet of the vision and you are part of the conspiracy to hide the truth from the people. Or you lack the spiritual depth to discern these subtle cosmic trends.

I'm good at empathy usually, but it's really hard to get my head around people who think like this. The sheer delusion is breathtaking.

bearing gifts

Things are very tough in Greece at the moment. Anti-government protests, violence and a general dismay at the condition of the country do not augur well. European leaders appear divided on what to do or even how to do it.

This is not just an ordinary financial crisis, for should the Greek State default on it's loan repayments, the repercussions will be felt across Europe and much further afield. Coming so soon on the heels of the GFC, it is not hard to see the grounds for popular discontent.

The medicine from the IMF is almost always the same. Swingeing cuts to government spending, privatisations, wage cuts and various painful prescriptions for restructuring. Apparently it works sometimes (Latvia is held up as a recent example of a patient reviving) but Greece is a very different place historically and culturally.

Many commentators hold the Greeks themselves to blame for the situation, arguing that the country has lived beyond its means for a long time now. There have frequently been mutterings of Hellenic laziness and corruption, of taxes rarely collected. Some of this may be true, though generalisations will always be matters for dispute. The Greeks who came to Australia after WW2 worked very hard indeed.

The Greek crisis may well be the unintended trojan horse in the international financial system. I hope that all the players involved are working hard for a viable solution, for the stakes are high.

Should you wish to read a lucid explanation of the problem in Greece, I recommend this blog by Edmund Conway of the (UK) Daily Telegraph.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/greece/8580899/The-Greek-bail-out-whats-going-on.html

n-scale

I have been collecting n-scale Japanese model train odds and ends for a year or two now, principally through two excellent suppliers on ebay. I hit upon an idea to make a diorama of a typically rural(Japanese) scene with a few buildings (a temple, farm and train station). I knew what it would probably look like, though how to make it seemed a tougher ask.

So now I am thinking about a plywood base, simple paper mache mountains with pine trees, painted roads and grass matting. All this is helped by the fact that the little model structures I have bought are pre-painted and only require clipping together. I have Kato Unitrack for the JR 113 series train(see link below), with a buffer to show that it ain't going nowhere. And little n-scale people, some in kimonos.

Might end up being a mess, or a masterpiece, though likely somewhere in between. The talk of it is starting to drive Nadia mad so I had better get on with it. Just waiting for a few little bits and pieces to arrive....

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/113_series

open slather

Perhaps it's the anonymity of the net, or maybe it's some other phenomenon that I just haven't figured yet. But there is a lot of name-calling, ignorant, fact-free nastiness going on.

I have been reading quite a few of the comments sections lately, those generated by articles, op-ed pieces and the like, such as are common to many news sites. Most deal with political or social issues. The ones that I'm interested in, I mean. And while there are a lot of thought-through, reasonably expressed comments, there are also many are are plain rude. Labelling, ad hominem arguments, opinion masquerading as fact, heresay, faulty logic and irrelevance are just a few of the 'crimes' committed by people who have every right to express a view, but probably shouldn't. If they are challenged they often get plain vicious. It is my observation that a majority of the remarks in this category come from right-wing contributors. There is absolutely no reason why a conservative agenda cannot be argued in an objective, rational manner.

It's a kind of cowardice really, for what chance would you rate them saying these kinds of things to your face? Hiding behind obscure handles they can pick off anyone they happen to disagree with, never mind the sheer nonsense of their arguments.

If you haven't done the mental miles, then maybe you should pause before hitting the post tab. Or get an education and then say something constructive. Please.

While searching somewhat aimlessly for pictures of other pedestrian bridges in NSW (I do have a reason, however obscure) I came across a sequence of photos of Hazelbrook on a photo share site. Aside from the inevitable (though impressive)shots of various beauty spots such as Terrace and Horseshoe Falls, there were a few of Hazelbrook in the 1960's and 1970's. As the new road changes many aspects of Hazelbrook forever, it's worth considering what was - how it was, where it was. And perhaps even why it was, too. The link is at the bottom of this entry.

Oh, and it's raining again.

Dark rain sluices
the rigid veins of our house,
covert percolation


http://www.flickriver.com/photos/tags/hazelbrook/interesting/

talking in bed
as wind unhinges the dark outside.
feet, like birds, huddling

more bridge news

Another crane is towering in the background of our kitchen window view. Was the bridge coming down so soon? Had there been enough complaints to raze the structure before it was even finished? A small group of citizens had protested against the appearance of the bridge last Friday. A petition was underway at the local shops. There was much tut-tutting and head shaking and worse. Who in their right mind would impose this upon a quaint mountains village?

I guess that it must come as a surprise when I tell people that I really do like the new bridge. Their mouths tend to get caught somewhere in the middle of an exclamation and an insult. Not at me, of course, but the offending eyesore. I ask them what they don't like specifically and the answers are fairly consistent. It looks penitential (I guess that must be the safety caging), it's the wrong colour, it's a horrid box and totally out of character with the location. That location, I counter gingerly, is a four-lane highway and a railway line. Isn't it's industrial design rather in keeping with what it spans and sits adjacent to?

Sadly, stone-arch bridges with resident trolls are a little hard to come by these days and they are rather labour intensive to build. Concrete spans are not much to look at. This one will have to do for the next few decades or so.

And the crane? Lifting sections of balustrade into position on the uncompleted foot-ramp. Here to stay, I think.

music arvo goes off

Years ago we started up having regular performance soirees, largely featuring (though not restricted to) members of our choir. Much like a blackboard event or open-mike night, anyone could get up and do anything, in a supportive environment. They petered out when Nadia and I began regular work trips to Japan and so, thinking the time right again, I organised a music afternoon.

I am pleased to say that it went off well. It wasn't a big turnout (around a dozen) but there was a surprisingly high standard and a variety of material. Nadia was the standout for me, for, biased as I am, I thought that her songs and general musicianship were exceptional. She says that she isn't ready for public performance yet, but I disagree. She says that her voice isn't distinctive, but I think that it is. She looks very much at home at the keyboard and she can only get better. As for my efforts, I finally completed a 'dark lullaby' for Tom, and performed it. Tom was too tied up with Hanna to hear its public debut, which is no matter. He was happily engaged and left us adults to our own devices.

We are already talking about the next one. That's pleasing, because there is nothing better than sharing a few songs, and glasses of wine, with friends.

As mentioned in a previous blog, the new Hazelbrook pedestrian bridge across the Great Western Highway is proving to be somewhat controversial. It's growing on me daily though. It reminds me of the older style, steel-girder framed bridges that were popular before concrete became fashionable, though with a much lighter feel. Critics have referred to it, unfairly in my estimation, as penitential, or as an eyesore. It's all a matter of taste really. I like its rather industrial look too, sited as it is adjacent a railway line and across a major road. It makes a statement and might, if the surrounding areas are well-designed and developed, begin a new story for Hazelbrook.

I would rather that people joined in with the unfolding narrative, rather than indulge in negativity. There is way too much of that already, often for it's own sake. The re-jigged artists impression above is courtesy of the RTA's project documents section. Forza Hazelbrook!

unexpected guests

fallen maple leaves
flipping on our polished floor,
untreed ecstatics

Hazelbrook got a new bridge last night. After more than 120 years of township, a (pedestrian)bridge finally spans the Great Western Highway, linking the station directly with the northern part of the town. Before going to bed for what turned out to be a restless night, we watched the raising of a huge crane, which held an enormous yellow two fingered V to a pitch sky. Later the single steel span of bridge made its way along the closed highway for installation in the prepared location. This morning, there it was, and quite a surprise too. The design will probably polarize opinion, for it has the look of a giant meccano set about it. It certainly makes a statement.

Listening to the marvellous Fantasia on a theme by Thomas Tallis by Vaughan Williams. I can't put this sublime piece into any desciptive context - nothing comprising words, anyway. It has no counterpart in the language. I am swept away by it - emotionally, intellectually. Kotoba ga nai.

Raining outside and quite wild too. Tom is sleeping after our umpteenth star wars encounter and a lengthy digression into the story of the fourth pig (after The Three Little Pigs). We have run out of story books and my poor imagination has been pressed into unwilling service.

thin-lipped morn
the garbage truck's fitful squeal
enters my dream

three gems

In what seems like a splurge of cinematic experience, but really is only a correction, Nadia and I have watched three very different movies in the last week. None of them leap off the page of the movie mainstream, and thankfully so.

Woody Allen's Whatever Works, explores very little new territory in the Allensphere, with the themes of love, mortality, the meaning of life and so forth being given yet another outing. Navel-gazing aside (some have argued that this is the sum total of Allen's concerns), the script has enough zing and the characters enough quirkiness to make the movie entertaining. Larry David competently plays the 'Woody' character, adding an element of malice to the obligatory neurotic Allen persona.

Ozu's An Autumn Afternoon is the last in the series of extended vignettes of Tokyo, this one set in 1962. With a similar texture and cinematic feel to Tokyo Story (see April 8, 2011) the movie explores the changes occuring in post-war Japan, the decline of family obligation and subsequent isolation of an aging generation. Sad, beautiful, occasionally funny, this is a film that draws the viewer in. The invitation is subtle and allows us to become a part of ebb and flow life of the character's lives. Hollywood, take note.

The Visitor is a palliative for those afflicted with the (irrational) fear that they will be swamped by illegal aliens. Beautifully cast, well-scripted, The Visitor operates within that sphere of ambiguity that makes it possible for us to see that 'the other' is as vulnerable as we are. The ending leaves open a number of possibilities, and admirably refuses to resolve the plot in the usual manner.

lake woodford

This morning I took a walk out to Lake Woodford. I hadn't been by the lake for a few years and was pleasantly surprised at how full it was. In recent past-times there had been tell-tale watermark rings along the shore, showing how seriously the drought had bitten. The Lake is not directly a part of our current water supply but is held in reserve. It was well worth the long walk, about two hours, because the lake and surrounding mountains were so lovely. Cold windy gusts blowing ripples to the sun's luminous display on the water.

The other point worth making is the fact that now it is possible to legally do the whole circuit from Winbourne Rd to Clearview Pde(or vice-versa) without incurring a $10,000 fine for trespass. Of course, nobody obeyed those warnings anyway, but now, at least, there is no need to leap into the bushes if one hears a Sydney Water truck approaching.

Score one for the responsible citizenry of the Mid Mountains. Two for uncommon common sense.

I heard a fragment of a new Parrot 5 song yesterday - actually, a terribly new song, given the timing.

So let's meet again in Abbottabad
Under a shady tree
And you can play a navy seal
And I'll be Osama B.

-which I believe is only the chorus. When I get details of the whole song, I'll post here for Parrot 5 fans.

no through traffic

Today our street closed for a few hours because of a gas leak. So after Tom came home from school, we went out on the road and played frisbee for an hour or so. It was one of those slightly surreal occasions when you know you shouldn't be doing something but in fact you are. Reflexive force of habit kept me somewhat on edge, looking out for cars, even though I knew that there were adequate road blocks in place. And of course, this brought back for Nadia and me the many times we played out on our respective suburban roads as children, and how completely normal that was. I can remember kicking a ball with a friend for hours on end with very few cars in evidence. Drivers also seemed to be more careful on residential roads as these were clearly places that kids played.

Darkness is setting in more quickly each day now, and winter seems to be really only just around the corner. Or maybe, at the end of the long trails of golden leaves that are pretty much everywhere at the moment. Or even in the heaps that congregate in chaotic entanglements of orange and red, at any obliging ditch.

And still, and yet, huge events elsewhere reverberate on the same wind that draws these leaves to the ground. And there are really only questions to ask, ultimately.

Sometimes I read the comments that these days invariably follow news articles or op-ed pieces, though increasingly less and less. The internet may have democratized the common man, so to speak, allowing a thousand flowers to bloom. But there is a price. For every well-formed, substantiated, issue-centred response to an article, there are half a dozen, inarticulate, insulting, ad hominem rants that add nothing to reasonable debate. They are often aggressive, illogical and poorly evidenced.

Once upon a time these kind of opinions were confined to the pub, the back of a taxi or the odd family get together where inebbriated rellies would opine on the youth of today or the scourge that is single mothers. Or worse. Now, anyone who has an internet connection can be an instant publisher of opinions, regardless of their worth, rigour or balance. Rarely is there any attempt at genuine accountability, as users can hide behind meaningless psuedo-names. I wonder if any of these people would publish their opinions if they had to write their real name and home town? Very doubtful, I think.

And then there is the CAPS LOCK crowd. Now don't get me started on them.....

war memorial hazelbrook

drowned leaves lie
in limpid procession against
the dawn's unravelling

anzac badge

wrongly I thought
the fan of bayonets
a rising sun,
lest we forget

the music that dare speak its name

I know next to nothing about music that is generically referred to as 'classical'. But I do know what I like and have often wondered, in the times when I've been playing ABC Classic FM, what certain kinds of music that seemed quite similar, might be called. My own term was 'music of the sunny uplands', because this is often what images it called to mind. It's not the kind of name that's useful though when trying to describe it to friends. I knew that it dated from late in the 19th century through about midway in the 20th. I knew that Debussy and Vaughn Williams were two composers who seemed to write in this style. There were others too whose names I could never quite catch.

I had that 'doh' experience last night when thinking about it again and then I drew the obvious conclusion, one that, if I had really had my thinking cap on, I could have guessed at years ago. Impressionism. I know quite a lot about the painterly form of impressionism - it had just never occurred to me that the same movement was happening in music.

So while the shoe doesn't exactly fit (some composers denied that they were impressionists), I do have a way of thinking about the music of people like Debussy, Williams, Ravel, Delius, Satie and many others. Though why I didn't make that connection before astonishes me.

Tom and Nadia are away visiting rellies in Melbourne, so I am alone for a few days. It feels distinctly odd because I really haven't been on my own for a long time. I keep expecting requests, sorry, demands, to play, for juice or toast, complaints about this or that, or just insolent noises, at every turn.

This morning I had tea with my AIPC friend Leonie. We first met at an assessment during our counselling course and I hope that we can work as counsellors together. I think that Leonie has a common touch, is very empathic and is a great communicator, all good qualities in a therapist. And of course we can become better friends.

Footage tonight on the news of the PM and first man meeting the Emperor in Tokyo. With decent political leadership in short supply in Japan(since the retirement of the lionheart, Koizumi), the Emperor and broader royal family have become increasingly important as a steadying influence within Japanese society. One can argue the case that hereditary monarchies have no place in modern society but, if nothing else, the institutions elevation above the often heated fray of political debate is a distinct advantage.

Possums are snarling at each other outside and this afternoon, I heard cicadas singing. Well, there are always possums scrapping or bouncing on our back deck, but cicadas in April? That's a little odd.

my thoughts fly to
the lambent uplands
of the spirit
my hands
uncluttered in
expiation

back from campin'

Back tired but happy from time spent camping in Kangaroo Valley, our favourite spot. It gave me a chance to test the new Black Wolf Tanami(4EV)and I think it came through with dignity intact. I was still discovering new zippers and other curiously unexplained features days after we arrived at the camping ground. We had rain the first day and strong winds last night so a road test of sorts was had.

It was refreshing to camp in cooler conditions and this fact alone changed the dynamic of our camping party. Fewer people were in the park; we didn't need to think about swimming at the beach or at water holes, and we could legitimately light a fire every night. It was the most relaxing camp trip I've ever done. Even Tom seemed relatively calmed by the sheer natural spectacle that we daily woke to, the honking goose notwithstanding.

Driving back up the GWH into the mid-mountains, we were surprised by the very obvious and apparently sudden seasonal changes, as if autumn had finally got its act together. The quality of the sunlight and cool winds suggested, however, that winter was waiting impatiently, somewhere in the near distance.


five short days away -
a melee of red and yellow
assaults our return

tokyo story

Nadia borrowed Yasujiro's Ozu's Tokyo Story recently. Set in early post-war Japan, the movie is a meditation upon the changed priorities of the generation that emerged from the Pacific war, and the resulting conflicts with tradition and family obligation. Central to this is a story of one family, separated by distance and the imperatives of events.

The entire movie is shot at floor or knee level and actors often directly speak to camera. Conventions are broken to heighten the empathic engagement or personalize the movie - in fact, the overall effect is one of being an intimate on the set, observing, almost intruding into the lives of the characters.

A wonderful tale of a Japan that once was, looking at a Japan that is unlikely to come again.

confused leaves turning,
as if a thief had ransacked
autumn's barn

of books and daylight endings

Started on a 'new' self-help book, Feel the fear and do it anyway by Susan Jeffers. Actually, it's 20 years old and rather a best seller. Like most books in this genre (and this isn't necessarily a criticism) the advice seems obvious at first glance. Sometimes it can border on trite, the kind of writing that compels one to say, almost aloud, "Well, of course. I know that already!"

But that isn't the whole of it or even especially important. The best books in this field emerge from an intersection of expertise and experience and also an ability to construct a believable narrative. If the advice within them seems obvious then it may well be because of the psychological and experiential truths that the author is revealing. At the very least, the Jeffers book is likely to be helpful.

On another note, it's much darker in the evening now since daylight saving ended on the weekend. As if bidden by the changing of the clocks, gloomy weather has set in with grey skies, rain and much cooler temperatures. Tom has a cold and there are tissues throughout the house. He is not well trained at using them and so we are acquiring paper mountains.

april showers are
dancing on our roof,
dark beaded joy
above.

family matters

We have had Nadia's dad Lindsay up quite a lot lately. He seems to have taken a shine to our house and especially the fact, I suppose, that it's clean, modern and comfortable. There's also a kitchen dispensing veggie meals to his spot at the kitchen table, from which place he rarely removes himself.

My wife's father is an artist and musician and something of an old hippie. He has a fixation with new gadgets and counts amongst his current haul an imac,an mp3 player, two MD players, an AM/FM/SW radio, a voice recorder, a couple of cameras and assorted other devices. He had just acquired some portable solar panels and a tiny DC current fridge. He has lost or given away at least six mobile phones, a couple of video cameras, an ipod, these being the things that I actually know about. Retired gadgets would fill a large hall closet.

With this technophilia comes a distinct downside, for Lindsay is often unable to use his gadgets, or make them work together. Some devices are incompatible, or lack a small though crucial connection cable. Other have software issues or do things that he doesn't want them to do. Conversely, he believes that if he thinks that a device functions in a particular way, then it should do so, regardless of whether in fact it does. Now he is thinking about tablets and complicated mobile phones and I foresee a world of trouble for him and a huge waste of money.

Having Lindsay over also creates problems for my wife and mother-in-law, who don't really want him around. At all. I'm afraid that runs up against my desire to be hospitable and gets me into difficulty. As for that, I don't think it's my job to relay the displeasure of others (who should speak up for themselves) or curb what for me is a natural instinct.

Peace to all beings, as Lindsay might say.

seriously though

let's see, a
barking new ipad,
shiny,
and so thin that
I might dip it in
my tea.
if only the
Get A Life app,
would open.

yet more rumours of wars

It's true that we seem to have been having more than our fair share of calamitous events in recents months. There have been a number of awful earthquakes and one disastrous tsunami. There have been troubles around the globe, from wars in various modes (Libya, Afghanistan, The Congo etc) to major economic collapses (the GFC), global warming and so forth. I'm sure you can add to this modest list.

And so it's tempting to ponder whether matters are genuinely getting worse (more terrible events, closer together) or whether we are just perceiving them to be so. There will always be merchants of the apocolypse in our midst and they are at work now, reading this or that occurrence into some prophetic text. You know, it's not hard to shape any text into what you want, if the desire is there. If you are pre-motivated by things that you are actually seeking, then you may well find them.

I think that you'll find that we are having a pretty much average amount of everything awful (wars, natural disasters, recessions). I think that if you pick out any one year in the last two centuries, you will find average amounts of stuff or predictable fluctuations occurring. That doesn't discount the human cost - the loss of life and suffering is something for all of us to mourn over, but that we probably shouldn't get into a lather when disasters occur.

What is different is the way events are communicated and how they are reported. And that's a whole other blog for some other time.

the unimaginable

We live by the familiar. Things may change around us - our house may fall or burn, a road might be widened, shops might be torn down or rebuilt anew. But the general lay of things remains constant, and this constancy gives us the opportunity to build lives in which risk is possible.

Whenever I revisit my old family home in Vaucluse I notice the changes. An ugly apartment block where there used to be farms and bamboo. Huge shrubs masking our old house so that not a brick can be seen from the road. A cinema that is now a Coles. But the lay of things is familiar still - the bend in the road near our house, the magnificent view out through Rosy Gully, the old cemetery up the hill with its headless angels. Macquarie lighthouse.

So when I look at photos of towns in the tsunami zone in Japan, towns which have almost been erased from the landscape, then I wonder how people might return and pick up the pieces. Or how they can get on with life when everything that is familiar is gone. When everything is unfamiliar all of the time, and this is where and how you must live, then how do you proceed? How do you process the little daily transactions that encompass existence?

I don't know, but the poor people of towns like Ofunato and Natori are about to find out. We can spare a thought for their plight every time we take for granted what is constant in our own lives. And step into their shoes, if only for a moment.

turbid ebb-tide
amongst the shoes and splinters,
a solitary hina doll.

in sleepy Yuriage
it's two forty-six pm,
The End of the World.

tohoku 11.3.11.

The earthquake off Tohoku and the subsequent tsunami have been devastating. It's impossible to put into words the effect of the live TV images of destruction, which seemed almost to be scenes from a disaster movie. To see farms and villages swept away by walls of black, debris-choked water was heart-breaking enough. The shock was amplified when the cameras of the choppers zoomed in to reveal that the flotsam was not a collection of small uprooted objects, but whole cars, buses and ships, swept along like a child's toy at the beach. Burning refineries, engorged and lethal rivers bursting with bobbing cars and helpless fishing boats, crushed houses. Somewhere in all this chaos are people. Somewhere. The thought of their condition, the realization that crossed their minds at the enormity of what was suddenly happening to them, is incomprehensible.

Japan, as you know, was my second home and some of my happiest memories were made there. Some of the kindest, sweetest people I will ever meet live there. This is a place that lives in my heart and to which my thoughts routinely return. So it is with deep sadness that I write these words.

I pray for those who mourn, who are afraid, who simply don't know what's next. For those who are injured, confused, trapped, desolate.

God bless Japan.

counselling update

Having completed my Diploma of Counselling in January, I have been working on setting up a small counselling practice in the Mid Mountains. I managed by great good fortune to secure a room in a therapy centre in Lawson and have been busily joining professional associations, developing web sites and making preparations for advertising, securing insurance cover and so forth. There is a lot to do and a lot more to do before my tentative opening in April.

Today I finished my web page for Mid-Mountains Counselling, the name of my practice. It's a very simple affair and I am quietly pleased that I wasn't technically stumped much, though there were moments. A lot of counsellors have difficulty finding clients in private practice and so might I, though I truly hope that I can make a difference in the lives of some people. If I get the chance.

Tom seems to be enjoying school more now, after a week or so of not wanting to go. The turnabout appears to have been being made Assembly King. Quite an honour, I am lead to believe. So long as he is happy, I am too.

of wars and rumours of war

Australasia the continent has been assailed by fire, flood, cyclone and earthquake in recent months. Poor Christchurch has suffered it second major quake in 6 months, this the more deadly because of the time of day. The city is battered but not in ruins and is much the worse for wear. Many people are dead. So my heart goes out to New Zealand tonight and my prayers are with the trapped, the injured, the mourning, the rescuers and those who live in fear of what news or events may yet bring.

Nothing prepares us for disaster. Our modern lives are not built upon the certainty of calamity, but rather, its evasion. So when it comes, it's as if an unseen mountain has been suddenly dumped upon us, never mind that it was always on the grey periphery.

God bless Christchurch tonight.

changes

My son Tom starts school tomorrow. I guess that this is one of those transitional phases that parents and their children go through, and even though Tom has been attending pre-school since was three, this is a far more complete break.

When I first went to school at Rose Bay Public back in the sixties, schooling was quite a different proposition. I have only a fairly fleeting memory of that first year, though I remember the old, high-ceilinged rooms. Later on came the square exercise books with wide spaced blue lines, the stubby pencils, inkwells and scratchy red-stemmed nib-pens. Issued books and equipment came with the imposing seal of the Department of Education, which seemed to me like some exotic and ancient authority at the time. School wasn't a fun place and was never intended as such. Perhaps we were the last of the 'seen and not heard' cohort to go through the system.

The set-up at Hazelbrook is quite different. Much friendlier classrooms, individual learning programs and hi-tech white boards are just a few of the innovations. Gone is the ubiquitous stern preceptor, uniform rows of desks and ruler across the knuckles for looking up from one's book. Learning was once imposed - now it seems to be a little more wholistically based. All good, as far as I'm concerned.

So, while I am looking forward to getting more time to pursue self-directed projects this year, and to seeing my little boy in his over-sized uniform in the morning, it is still a little sad. And inevitably, I include one summer holiday snap, taken on the ferry to Rose Bay in early January this year. For Tom, a time before the deluge.

on body art

I'm afraid I just don't get tattoos. And I don't understand why so many people seem to want them on so many parts of their bodies. I'm not talking about the little heart or celtic antiquary discreetly placed. Nor even the ubiquitous t-bar that graces the lower back of so many young women.

I do mean, however, the labrinthyne spawl across the forearm. The names of children etched in gothic font upon the thigh or ankle. The huge floral arrangement upon the neck or fantastical creature flung onto the back. Or single letters across the fingers in menacing procession, spelling, often as not, an expletive. And how about ridiculous slogans or sayings like 'such is life' about the upper chest? Well, how about them?

Really, when you start seriously and permanently doodling on you body, it seems to me that you are essentially just giving the big finger to your skin. It's like saying "You may be the biggest organ on or in my body but I hate you anyway and I'm going to scribble ugly, amateurish grafitti all over you. So there."

The very least these folk could do is hire an exterior designer, someone to organise the bits into a visually congruent whole. Ten different directors never did make a coherent movie, after all.

Of course, I don't understand any of this and it's none of my business anyway. But I'd like an explanation just the same.

floods 2

this summer has lolloped
in huge wellies across the landscape,
leaving only hope dry.

floods

awnings of water
interrogate the north, the south
wet summer lamina
of disquietude.

for flood and fire and famine

Lately Australians have been revisiting some of the reasons that this country can be harsh and quixotic. Two years ago we had the catastrophic fires in Victoria. This week we have had the floods in Queensland. The continent has a habit of reducing human activity and the complacency of human occupation to a more realistic level. We set ourselves apart from the natural world and yet we are enmeshed with it, like it or not.

All school children once learned (maybe still do) the second verse of Dorothea Mackellar's My Country. The title for this entry comes from that poem, as does the more famous, 'of droughts and flooding rains.' Floods get a couple of mentions, actually, so it's probably right that we pay attention to them. I live in a bush-fire prone area and we will get a big one, some day in the near future. Every summer, they hove into our consciousnesses and we finally get to let down our guard come early autumn.

The loss of life and general destruction and dislocation is saddening, wherever it happens. Several hundred people appear to have died in terrible floods and mudslides in Brazil this week also. What can we say but how sorry we are. The world continues to defy our demand that it act in accordance with our wishes. As I say to Tom, there is just no telling how things will turn out in life, plan them how we will. But we have to keep on planning anyway. There is no choice, if you think about it.

Meanwhile, let us mourn with those who mourn.

bondi

premonition...

at the seaside
shore-borne waves tackle and track,
menacingly, north.

resolutions anonymous

Traditionally, today is the time to make a list of resolutions for the coming year. Most of us aspire to be better people in some way, and resolutions seem to fit that bill. The only problem is - they are almost impossible to keep. Why?

Well, it's not rocket science, but having studied behaviourism, it's possible to see resolutions as merely wishful thinking, without the planning and execution required to become sustainable projects. For example, say I resolve to lose weight this year. A noble and very commonly articulated objective. So, hypothetical me goes for a week or so with a planned diet and a regular exercise program. The momentum is sustained by my initial enthusiasm and the relative novelty of the goal. Rather soonish though, I get back into old habits and the resolution is ultimately broken.

Now, if I had set up a reasonable, specific and achievable goal (I will lose 10 kilos in 8 weeks), created a pathway to achieving the goal ( a diary of scheduled meals and calories, support persons, rewards and punishments, weekly targets etc), I would have been well on the way to achieving my resolution.

So really, resolutions are just a lot of hot air expended in the service of delayed disappointment. Keep making them by all means. I won't be making any that I can't follow through on. Hopefully.

Happy New Year.