I was chatting to a friend this morning who was bemoaning the fact that his family were going to a party in the city for New Year's Eve tonight. It wasn't that he didn't like parties, he does, but rather the whole palaver of getting on and off trains, being squeezed by crowds, negotiating drunken fools and sundry idiots, and so forth and so on.

I have been through a similar process and found that, for whatever momentary joy one gets from beautiful fireworks, not to mention the frisson of communal love that comes from a glass of champagne, it is just not worth it. I was texting another friend this morning whose teenage son is grounded and who therefore can't go into the city with his mates for hours of pointless boredom. I remarked that New Years Eve in the West was really just the bastard child of Ground Hog Day and Waiting for Godot, minus the humour and insight - that is, hugely repetitive and entirely anti-climactic.

So, as platitudes roll from the tongues of media heads and a false sense of bonhomie washes across the multitudes, as folks discover yet again that the next day is pretty much like the last and that the chalice they hold is not only empty but largely illusory, I wish everyone a safe and meaningful New Year. May your resolutions be focused on making this a better world for all living things.

Tom had swimming lessons at Lawson Pool a few weeks ago. He has improved significantly under the aegis of Department of Education instructors - mostly elderly though very competent no-nonsense women. The once-a-day coaching over two weeks helps to ground the children in fundamental water and swimming skills, something entirely lacking when I was a kid.

So here is Tom about to commence one of his lessons on a day I thought it wise to turn up, if only to fly the flag.

Driving to Westmead Station yesterday, I gave up resistance and began listening to a ten-part history of tea on The China History Podcast. I had been putting this off for some time since I wasn't sure if this topic was going to be, ahem, my cup of tea.

Wrong again. Laszlo has a way of making the most arcane information interesting - maybe it's his unbridled enthusiasm - and so the first two parts of this ancient story passed the time nicely. Having attended tea ceremonies in Japan and been initiated into many of the practices in that country through friends and other immersions, I realized that I still had considerable ignorance and a deficit that needed to be made up. After all, I drink a few cups of tea a day and can't imagine waking up to anything other than a pot of tea.

I was especially taken by a famous poem by the Tang dynasty poet Lu T'ung, who, upon receiving a particularly auspicious present of tea from the Imperial estates, wrote a song of praise. Here is an extract from The Song of Tea, as it has become known. With each bowl, the poet moves closer to something like heaven on earth, an epiphany of the soul.

The first bowl moistens my lips and throat.
The second bowl banishes my loneliness and melancholy.
The third bowl penetrates my withered entrails,
finding nothing except a literary core of five thousand scrolls.
The fourth bowl raises a light perspiration,
casting life’s inequities out through my pores.
The fifth bowl purifies my flesh and bones.
The sixth bowl makes me one with the immortal, feathered spirits.
The seventh bowl I need not drink,
feeling only a pure wind rushing beneath my wings.

Anyone who loves tea will understand at least some of the heightened sentiments of Lu T'ung, who sat gently sipping in in his mountain hermitage on Mt Sung, in deep reflection, 1200 years ago.



Above. Detail from a hanging scroll from the 13th Century showing Lu T'ung brewing tea.

"Petruchio: Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry.
Katherine: If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
Petruchio: My remedy is then, to pluck it out.
Katherine: Ay, if the fool could find where it lies.
Petruchio: Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail.
Katherine: In his tongue.
Petruchio: Whose tongue?
Katherine: Yours, if you talk of tails: and so farewell.
Petruchio: What, with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.”

My acquaintance with The Taming of the Shrew (popular with Shakespeare Competition Drama students) was renewed yesterday when a wasp stung me on the upper arm. Although the above passage did not come immediately to mind, as I was reeling in mild agony from this unreasonable and unprovoked assault, it did with the passage of time.

A wasp sting is particularly nasty. I have been stung by assorted bees in the past (an insect that has the decency to expire after the offensive), but wasps can sting many times and survive to sting again. Six hours after the attack, my arm was still aching. I realize that bees and wasps have different lives and purposes - the former's being more noble in my estimation.

An upside of this affair was that the wasp's lair was discovered inside my wooden venetian blinds and that the threat has been neutralised. I too am a gentleman Petruchio, and this tale of waspish skulduggery is told.

Another Christmas has passed like so many others. This year part of my family (the NSW part) had lunch at my brother Michael's flat in Collaroy. Tom came with me this year and was indulged by his uncle's. Ancient PS1 video games played in the background while the lunch was prepared, the table was set, and a little part of England descended upon the northern beaches. Leg ham, roasted vegetables, pork and puddings were high on the list and cracker-pulling explosively rounded off the afternoon.

This has been ever so. My mother, being English, has always insisted on a traditional English Christmas dinner, no matter what the weather. And we have always been happy to eat it, regardless of the sauna-like conditions. I remember other families in our street having seafood lunches or cold salads and meats. Somehow this seemed very unChristmas-like, as if antipodean barbarians had somehow crashed a tea party. Maybe it was just common sense.

Below - my brother Peter and son Tom chat with the expanse of the Pacific in the background.

Tom and I and another family did a short walk to a nearby bush cliff-face the other day. At the base of the cliff, which was not high, the boys began crushing the soft sandstone into a pale yellow powder. The repeated gesture of rubbing the rocks into sand sent my thoughts flying to my youth.

Fifth grade. Killarney Heights Public School. The man named Armstrong had not yet set foot on the moon. Our school playground extended beyond the bounds of the asphalt into a small ragged portion of bushland adjacent a neighbouring house. An army of small boys emerged every recess and lunchtime to dig into the clay banks of the bush (this became a game involving small plastic figurines called Crater Critters, see below). When we tired of this, a production line of short-panted proletarians began grinding down sandstone rock into a powder that would be funneled into discarded empty beer bottles. This went on for some time as I recall, at least until teachers cottoned on to the industrial nature of our play. At some time during Fifth grade, the area became out of bounds. End of an era.

I also recall this as a time when I chatted avidly to my erstwhile best friend, Michael Chapman, about pop music. He was hugely enarmoured of the Australian star Russell Morris (he of The Real Thing fame). We would clamber over rocks and wander the long stretches of concrete and grass discussing the smallest details in the life of his pop idol and flicking through Go Set magazine. It was a different time to now. Cassette players and tapes were the current biggest thing. Families had one Hi-Fi system in their house if they were lucky. In most respects, we were beholden to what was played on the radio and that was the Top 40. Or rather, a dozen or so songs played over and over all day.



A young Russell Morris as I knew him in the late sixties.

flowers in martin place

slow the forests grow,
hard grief-bed of unasked giving,
long, stem-lines of shadow.

Today, terrible news from a school in Pakistan where many children and teachers have been murdered by Taliban violence. I am not sure what god these people claim to be representing in their mad dash to a virgin-saturated heaven, but the monstrous, vengeful and blood-seeking deity that they appear to worship cannot be real.

There is no reasoning with this kind of person. They are zealously and exclusively right in their own addled psychopathic way and to stay for a chat would invite certain death. They are not the only ones to represent a dead-end in human development, but they are clearly the most visible at present.

It is sad whenever life is lost pointlessly. Sometimes this happens in the everyday run of life - the mundane trip to the shops in a car comes to mind. Other times it happens as a result of wider conflict, such as civilian fatalities in war. Things happen according to laws of nature and fallible beings, as we are, operate within these realms.

The Lindt Cafe siege and shootings in Sydney fall somewhere between these fields. Malign human agency, as happens in wartime (and finds an equivalency in political extremism) meets the sheer possibility of chance; just being at a cafe for a cup of coffee.

I missed most of the media hyperbole yesterday but the little I did hear was sufficient to show that reason had been abandoned to a hyper-reality and a sadly predictable political cant of the worst kind. If anyone with ill-intent and a desire for saturating publicity was watching, then they will know what to do.

I was pleased though at the desire of many to show solidarity with others who might otherwise have felt threatened by the turn of events. The #I'llRideWithYou phenomenon shows that it possible to rise above prejudice and step out to help with change-making behaviours. In the end, little differences and changes can make a world of difference, if only we could see the long perspectives available to us in the moment.

I was talking to a friend last night. He told me that his children enjoyed playing Minecraft but he was worried about the potential from strangers entering the Minecraft world. So as a good parent might, he gathered a supportive group of parents and set up a private Minecraft world on a designated server. There were 12 player licenses so good school-friends of his children filled these slots as players. For the first month all went well. Industrious Minecraft communities emerged and collaborated with each other. By the second month, however, trouble emerged. Worlds created by individual players found themselves subject to overnight attacks with pixelated TNT bombs. Hours of work was destroyed anonymously in seconds.

At the same time, other school friends who were not part of the private Minecraft world began picking on the select group. There were bullying and taunting incidents. By the third month, the parent closed down the server. The experiment was over. He described it as being like a re-run of "Lord of The Flies"

This experience would have made a great research thesis. It also highlights the problem of anonymity, the internet and social media. Everybody has heard of trolls - e-folks who join forums and the like with the sole purpose of offending. Faceless and nameless, they are free to indulge whatever dark fantasy or nasty inclination they like. They thrive on hurting and outraging. It is much harder to do this is the real world, for fear of social ostracism.

I could proffer any number of theories on the psychology of this kind of person, but I won't. Here is a Minecraft pixelate instead.

Summer has broken from the barrier and it is hot and steamy. Stifling days are later punctuated by often fierce electrical storms. Birds sit open-mouthed and splay their wings on the ground to get relief. There is a growing lassitude.

Having finished an online Certificate of Tesol recently, I have just begun the free add-on Certificate of Business English. I seems unlikely that any great joy can be derived from teaching course book BE ( have a look for yourself) but there is a lot to be gained from teaching a more general ESL with business characteristics, so to speak. This was my approach when Yes English landed a BE contract with a Kaibara-based engineering company (Everloy Nozzles) around 2005.

I took the class over about a year later and quickly jettisoned the awful course book that nobody in the class appeared to understand. In practical terms, these students, all engineers, did not need the grindingly dull terminology of business speak, but rather, a way to communicate in English with their Chinese peers. So this is what we did, adding little relevant asides that touched upon the kinds of technical terms that might arise from the work that they did.

I really enjoyed this class and was sad to leave them a year later. Sometimes my mind drifts to rural Kaibara and I wonder if those young engineers are still with the company, whether married or not, or if they still hang out at Panchinko Parlours, where the whirl of noise and smoke is their lot.

A couple of photos won't go astray here. In the first I am approaching the company on the way to a lesson. The second is a group shot of my final class, in the board room, no less.

Following the sad accidental death of cricketer Phillip Hughes in the Sheffield Shield this week, a simple tribute went via twitter - #putoutyourbats. Most Australian families have a cricket bat lying around somewhere and cricket in some form was a part of most boy's childhood. For me too, for some of the happiest memories I have are of cricket down at the park or up against the front garage door. I took a small cricket bat to Japan to show the kids an alternative to baseball.

The putoutyourbats is such a simple and beautiful tribute to Phil Hughes. It captures a mood of sadness at its essence and requires no words. Here's what Macksville Public School did today.

Rest in Peace Phillip Hughes.

Periodically, the poor and disadvantaged are singled out for special treatment. Through no fault of their own, they find themselves in receipt of tough medicine. Sometimes they starve to death, such as peasant farmers have done on numerous occasions in China. Others, through want of food resort to petty theft and are variously executed or transported vast distances to penal settlements, there to linger at the pleasure of a monarch. Many of the poor are located in dangerous or vulnerable circumstances and are often the first to suffer when war or natural disasters strike. So it isn't a lot of fun being poor. You tend to die younger and lead a much meaner existence than those better off.

Having got all this learnt though a copious historical recording, it is a wonder that the modern poor should continue to come in for unsolicited attention from politicians. The little that they do get in welfare payments (should they be unemployed) is made to feel like a lot. In fact, it is too much, according to this line of thinking, for it stifles the will to succeed and kills the will to independently thrive. Every so often a malingering exception is found (such as someone unfairly claiming multiple benefits) and this sets aflame the passionate fire of conservative thriftiness. It is a thriftiness who sibling is a punishing zealot.

I see the poorest of the poor in my work and I have yet to meet a person who didn't want to get out of their circumstances and do better. Often humble, even timid, they are usually just looking for a way to make ends meet - a difficult task indeed when their rents alone total a substantial part of their income. So I have little time for the cigar-smoking, self-congratulatory, full-bellied politicians and their erstwhile pundits in the media. They have no notion of going without, or having to make the choice between feeding their children, paying the power bill or keeping a roof over their head. The poor may always be with us but there seems to be no good reason to punish them over and over again.

I am coming to the conclusion that moaning about 'the youth of today' is universal. It crosses cultures and periods in time. At the moment I am reading China Witness by Xinran, a brilliant book about the fast diminishing and largely silent voices of the generation of Chinese who witnessed the major events of the 20th Century. Their lives are characterised by a lack of. A lack of food, decent shelter, proper sleep, security, choice, education and so forth. They have a surfeit though, of meaning, through a heightened sense of duty, commitment to a cause, the camaraderie of adversity, the idea of something greater than themselves and a huge work ethic. These kinds of stories are very apparent in the interviews that Xinran conducted in China Witness.

But even these kind, humble and resilient people fall for the 'the youth of today' syndrome. It is clear that, while they are often proud of the achievements of their own children, they nevertheless feel misunderstood and undervalued. If they told their stories to their children they would be ridiculed, they often report. Their kids are too busy getting a life and making money. Self, self, self.

More commonly in the West these days, the language is couched in terms of generational differences. Gen X are this and Gen Y, or Millenials are that. There follows a screed of faults that might be described as the 'usual suspects', with laziness, incompetence and selfishness heading up any list. Most reports are anecdotal, meaning that generalizations should not be drawn, though they are anyway. It has been ever so.

not-yet-summer heat
insouciant pen, jet stream
plying unstarred skies

I have an interest in American politics. It goes back to my late teens, when I used to devour Newsweeks and tune in to The Voice of America. Of course, teenagers should probably be doing other things, like hanging out with a wine cask in a dimly-lit room. There were lots of things I should have been doing, but alas, the ancient music of John Dowland and the poetry of John Keats kept me from them. And other things too, like tinkering with old Ford Cortinas or puttying-up geriatric rusted-out Valiants. Clapped-out cars kept me busy for such were the cars that I could afford.

But US politics filled a gap. My despair at the dismissal of the Whitlam Government meant I needed a surrogate and politics in our biggest ally was red meat, for the most part. I followed all the Presidential races from Carter on. I'm still doing that, and you can add the primaries too. These days I have the luxury of podcasts and online newspapers and commentary to fill out the details, for there is much commentary and considerable detail. There is an awful lot of everything, though it's pertinence is not always apparent.

Now, with the mid-terms in the US, the Republican Party has majorities in both houses in Congress. It's hard to know whether the party of Abe Lincoln will decide now to start governing or continue with their inexplicable Get Obama campaign. I can understand a conservative party being pro-enterprise and business-minded, fiscally-prudent and so forth, but I don't get the weird climate-denying, anti-government, Obama-is-a- Kenyan-Muslim bullshit. A little bit of it has caught on here too, as if being a conservative these days entails becoming an irrational nutcase as an adjunct to all the other more grounded signifiers.

It's important too. Look around the globe. We need Washington to function because the alternative is a policy vacuum, or something even less appealing.

I love space exploration. It's expensive and it can be argued that the money should be spent elsewhere, such as on poverty alleviation. There is a case to be made for that, just as there is case to be made for channeling defense spending in a similar direction.

Having said that, journeys into the (relative) unknown are inspiring. They touch in many people a sense that humans can achieve things that go beyond the squabble of Earthside troubles and the interminable cycles of the human condition.

So to launch a spacecraft at a speeding comet and then successfully land a probe (never mind the current difficulties) is remarkable. The scientists and technicians involved in the Rosetta/Philae project should be lauded in a similar way that the astronauts were in the Apollo project in the late 1960's.

It is sad then, when one of the chief scientists involved in this unique mission, should be humiliated at a moment that should have been one of praise and thanks. Dr Taylor's choice of Hawaiian shirts may be eccentric, but the bile and misplaced criticism by many fellow scientists is shameful. These kind of PC explosions are not in the interests of harmony or equality, and only strengthen those who genuinely oppose such ideas. The poor man simply had no idea, so maybe one of his peers could have kindly and privately pointed out his wardrobe malfunction.

Confucius prescience on this matter seems apt.

"When a wise man points at the moon, the imbecile examines the finger."

Russian tanks in Eastern Ukraine. Who'd have thought it? Surely the Minsk protocols for a ceasefire, which failed to stop an (illegal) election in the rebel-held provinces, the appointment of a 'Prime Minister' in said provinces, and the subsequent threat of retaliation by the Government in Kiev, could have nothing to do with it? Aside from my getting the subject and object of my sentence too far apart, weren't Western leaders ready for the inevitable Russian defense of it's rebel forces in the East? Maybe not.

There has been much talk of a renewed "Cold War" between Russia and the West. Obama was technically correct in claiming that the ideological differences are not the same as they were. Ditto the line up of states. Eastern Europe is now firmly in Nato's camp, which may be part of the problem.

It strikes me that Russia's behaviour resembles more closely that of a great power state from the 19th Century, than that of the former Soviet Union. Sending warships on the tails of its leader is classic gunboat diplomacy - just ask the British.

The West has mishandled the post-Soviet world badly, failing to grasp what Russia's strategic interests were, increasing the size of Nato (rather than dismantling it) and allowing itself to be played for a dupe by the canny Putin ever since. War is not a possibility, given Russia's nuclear arsenal. Some sort of new framework needs to be developed, one that necessarily includes Russia, if we are not to lurch from one crisis to the next.

I can't say that I remember much of either Anzac Day or Armistice Day as school events in my childhood. That is, I can't recall a single commemoration service at primary school or high school, though surely these must have been annually observed. Or were they?

In the 1960's, much of the steam had gone out of Anzac Day and I remember talk about it's disappearing or diminishing in the same way as Wattle Day had. But it seems that the passing of all the Gallipoli veterans and a new found nationalism (thanks Gough) has re-energised Anzac Day and established it as our de facto national day.

While the efforts of the Anzacs in their ill-conceived venture in the Dardenelles were genuinely remarkable, other battles seem to have been overlooked. Consider the Battle Of Amiens in August 1918, when Australian and Canadian infantry divisions supported by massed ranks of British tanks broke through the Hindenburg Line, advanced a dozen kilometres, took thousands of prisoners and demoralised the exhausted German army. Ludendorff called it "the black day of the German Army". Rommel, a young soldier in this conflict, though not at Amiens, vowed, "I'll see you at Tobruk" Or words to that effect.

So I guess that we are stuck with commemorating a military defeat. Not such a bad thing really. It's hard to develop a sense of hubris when you lose.

Recruitment Office 1914

The camera interrogates a crowd, lines
of faces that are bright, proud. Wide smiles announcing
the certainty of the times. Unapologetic
hats caught in mid-air, boaters, bowlers and
flat cloth-caps hang, jocular exclamations
before the yet-to-be. We see
men in rows on a threshold of dreams,
fleeing work, wives , a tedium of nows
flung aside for the game, the chance, a
glimpse of some luminous eternity
other than their own.
Lads jostling at the door, portal
for their newly-minted selves, trade
browns and greys for green, what is,
for what’s unseen.
Soon, the earth’s clamour
for bruised skin begins, the dive and mash
of jugular rend awakening.
Most, finding home, at last
in the field’s crowded chalk.
From joy to dust is not so far,
a hundred autumns past.

With the anniversary of The Great War upon us this year, I have been watching a lot of good TV (thanks History Channel) and reading a lot of material that touches upon the conflict. Some of it has only recently come to light. Photos from the period are also fascinating. The colourization of old footage from the trenches(and the resetting of the film speed) have humanized the conflict again. There is a lot of material extant for anyone with an interest beyond the predictably sentimental discourse of political leaders.

A few shots of Recruitment Offices in 1914 caught my eye on the weekend. I guess I remain surprised at the enthusiasm and bravura with which young men embraced the mad rush to war. Jumping into their Georgian shoes is no easy thing, for the times were much different to our own. Some things, of course, will always remain the same. Tomorrow, I will print a poem I wrote over the weekend which reflects on some the photos I have seen recently and for which, in advance, I offer an apology.

First day of November. 9am. Hot westerlies toss small branches and leaves through the already heated air. I have just finished some kick-boarding. The water at Lawson Pool is cool and the sky unblemished by cloud. Families gather at the shallow end to watch children take swimming classes. An aerobics class bobs in rhythm at the deep end to an old Beatles track, which has been looped over and over with no end in sight.

A large chopper hoves into view, its powerful engines sweeping away the gentle haven of Saturday morning pool sounds. It is an Elvis style fire-fighting helicopter. For a moment, people look upward, then back, though the meaning is clear. This is the price of living in the Blue Mountains.

lately, days of heat-
your email comes like spring rain
washing me in tears

Yesterday I traded my Suzuki for an Hyundai Getz. It was kind of a sad day, because I really liked my old car. But the colour (back - think, hot and hard to clean)) and declining mechanical health meant that it was time for a change. The Getz is small and very perky and should do well, under the circumstances. Because my driveway is still unaccessible, the new car (2008 SX) is sitting across the road. Below is a hastily snapped photo.

No, no...back to Earth!

Apparently a lot of people have registered interest in going on the one-way, privately-funded journey to Mars, mooted for somewhere in the 2020's. It is one-way only because the ostensible space pioneers will be going as settlers, with zero to nothings chance of stopping the ride due to queasiness or second thoughts. Mars has a poisonous atmosphere, is very cold and water may be difficult to get at, should there be reserves of it. And quite aside from the logistical problems of hauling everything needed for survival to the red planet and then having to set it all up, there is the question of people.

Apart from the experiences of crews in the orbiting International Space Station, we simply don't know what a long period of space travel might mean for human beings, nor how living in extreme conditions might affect the psychology of what is essentially a group of strangers living together, forever. Call me unadventurous and trapped in my comfort zone if you will, but I could not be payed enough money, not billions, to undertake such a journey. Additionally, I am very fond of the Earth.

A view from the living pod. It has a certain beauty, but might become tedious or oppressive with the passing of years -

After 10,000 kms of niggly little rough-running patches every now and then, my car finally broke down today. Funnily enough, it's kind of a relief. I had taken it to a couple of mechanics who were unable to locate the problem. "Just wait till it breaks down mate and then tow it to us," they invariably said. Hardly reassuring, since breakdowns are inconvenient and expensive.

So just before Blaxland, my little car, full of musical gear for my cafe gig, gave up the ghost. I sat on a verge as B-Doubles hurtled past and wrote text messages. By midday I was back home, car-less and wondering what to do with the rest of the day. Tom wants a play day this afternoon (no car makes it harder) and the weekend just developed another layer of complexity.

Try calling it an adventure. Better than a calamity!

The seventies was the high-water mark for progressive economic policies in the Anglo democracies. By decades end, social democracy had come under increasing attack from conservative theorists and commentators, whose ideas underpinned the rise of Thatcher and Reagan in the UK and the US. Tax cuts, especially for the wealthiest, attacks on workers collectivist bargaining powers (through the weakening of trade unions)a rush to deregulate and get government out of the way, and the denigration of people on welfare benefits were amongst the menu of options available.

Today, we can still see the relentless outworking of this approach. More expensive university education, work for the dole schemes and an obsession with balancing national budgets have marginalized many people from disadvantaged backgrounds, who are generally the losers in austerity budgets. I see lots of these folks in my work with Anglicare. Most are genuine strugglers and the marks of their struggle are there for all to see. They suffer disproportionately from mental illness, chronic disease, poor educational standards, violence, drug abuse and so forth. They rarely complain about their lot in life. But conservative politicians and pundits seem to be believe that they are fair game for both moral correction and policy punishment.

So our democracy grows meaner. Being an optimist I think that things will come full circle, in time. In those days, the straighteners and punishers may still be seen, but will rarely be heard.

It is hard to describe the period during which Gough Whitlam was Prime Minister. Even to a teenager(albeit, one interested in politics) this was obviously a time of turbulent and ongoing change. Unlike the terms of most governments, in which less-than-inspiring characters mouth platitudes and score childish points off their adversaries, this one was unique. Closer to a revolution than a term in office, the Whitlam Government did not take pause for breath, such was the breadth of it's vision for change in this country.

To many of those in blazers and ties (and hats and gloves), the changes emanating from Canberra were but background noise. My home suburb being one of the most conservative voting electorates in Australia, it was a challenge to be left-of-centre. As elections rolled around, the mood in the playground was more hostile, our erstwhile peers parroting their parent's views, plastering stickers to their bags. My friend John Hawkins and I had only the staff as comrades-in-arms, though some executive staff were undoubtedly unreconstructed reactionaries.

The conservative coup of November 11 - a political and judicial coup- against a democratically elected government, was swift and brutal. It radicalized many on the left and essentially elevated the Whitlam Government, creating a kind of martyrdom as it did. For us young ones, it was disturbing. It was also a watershed moment.

The period of the Whitlam Government (1972-1975) was the era in which I cut my political teeth, so to speak. By any measure, there has never been a time of governance like it. And there has never been one since then either. The immutable facts of this Governments legislative achievements are documented elsewhere. Suffice it to say that it changed the face of Australia in a way that it unlikely to ever be reversed, never mind the perversity of conservative governments to try. To paraphrase PJK, it took us from a period of "Menzian torpor"into the modern era.

There would never have been such a government without Edward Gough Whitlam, who passed away today, aged 98. Whitlam's intelligence, vigour and vision, not to mention his charisma, was both the headquarters and engine-room of the Labour Administration. Today we can thank this government for medicare, legal reform of marriage and indigenous rights, equality for women, the welfare system, the recognition of the PRC and many other progressive policies. More than that, it created through it's sheer energy and optimism a sense of a new Australia, freed from decades of tepid conservative governance.

One day, some two decades after the fall of the Whitlam Government, I was on playground duty at Penrith High School. A Year 10 student whom I knew quite well rushed up to me, almost breathless. She had just come from a history class on the Whitlam Government and she had news that she couldn't contain a moment longer.

"Gough Whitlam. What a wonderful man! What a great government!" she gushed.

It took me by surprise. Maybe it shouldn't have, because that is how I felt when I was her age too.

Vale E.G. Whitlam

I had a good weekend. I spent my 56th birthday with my mum in Dee Why. These days she is increasingly frail and even though her mind is still nimble, she has a number of debilitating ailments. Still, we sauntered down to the Italian restaurant on the beachfront, ordering some excellent pizza. The sun was out and even though a coolish south-easterly was blowing, shorts and bikinis were uniformly present. A body of surfers sat on the uneven swell, a few swimmers chancing the waves. It was a high tide and the water had the appearance of blended eggplant and spinach. Over lunch, I recalled the times I used to come surfing with my then girlfriend, Michelle, in winter, just across from the restaurant. We would slide into our steamers and look without joy into the cold grey surf. I did it for her really, but it was still exhilarating.

Later I spent a few hours on the sofa listening to my mum reflect on aspects of her life, which I know, at times, has been disappointing for her. Back in the day, women didn't have the same choices they do now, so if you got stuck in a bad marriage, that's more or less where you stayed. It is hard for a woman of 85 to find decent male companionship, or so I'm told. The pickings are few and then, very flawed. So my mum has to endure men who claim to know more than her, or who know it all or who invalidate her experience. Just like 'back in the day.'

On Sunday I whiled the afternoon with my friend Yolly, whom I hadn't seen in a few weeks. Yolly is a smart medical professional from Shanghai. She will likely be stuck in a lower grade aged care job because of her limited English. Personally I think her English is great and her company, delightful.

So, two afternoons of gentle conversation. Nothing quite beats that.

Sometimes I think about my past in parallel with what was happening elsewhere in the world. Because I have been reading widely about the Chinese Cultural Revolution in recent times, this is where my somewhat hyperactive mind has journeyed.

It matters not a whit to anyone else, though it interests me, that while I was spending my time in short-panted boredom in classes 2A and 3A at Rose Bay Public, my cohort in China were being released from their bondage and exhorted to make revolution. Freed from attending classes indefinitely, elementary school age students were at their liberty to goof off, shout slogans, engage in vicious gang warfare, join Red Guard units and even denounce their teachers should the latter to be found in any way counter-revolutionary. It must for many have been one long mad holiday. For others, of course, a disaster.

No denouncing of staff for us though. By the time Lin Biao was crashing into the Mongolian steppes, following the alleged abortive coup against Mao, I was enduring the authoritarian strictures of the kind of regime that would have been a prime target in China. Surely if Comrades Deng and Liu could be denounced and struggled against, then the Black Gang of Meyers, Welch and Pierce, whose crimes were everyday apparent to students at Killarney Heights High, were worthy of at least one dàzìbào. Not for us The Thoughts of Chairman Mao - rather - The 1000 Concerns of A.M Meyers.

At some point though, there was a real time intersection between my Australian childhood and events in China. In 1976, whilst immersed in my final year HSC, I bought a short-wave radio. Nightly, I tuned in to the Voice of America and Radio Peking. 1976 was a biggie in Chinese History - the death of Zhou Enlai,, the second purging of Deng Xiaouping, the death of Mao Tse-Tung, the arrest and imprisonment of the Gang of Four, the post-Mao power struggle. I would spend some time going over my study notes, then take a break listening to the martial female voice on Radio Peking that barked the latest production figures and loudly denounced the Gang. That was a time!

As Exhibit A, consider this elementary school textbook cover from Guangxi province.



compared with, say, this one from NSW.

orphan florets of jasmine
spin in a high shout of wind
my son, elsewhere

Tom and I watched The Three Stooges last night. Not the original shorts from many years ago, but the Farrelly Brothers remake from 2012. As a child I loved The Three Stooges, whose black and white high-jinx, knuckleheadery and slapstick was a frequent guest in our lounge room. My father hated them. I don't really know why, though put-downs of anything were not uncommon for him.

Still, I approached the Hollywood homage with trepidation, having seen the disaster that was Thunderbirds, for example. I needn't have worried. Rather than a remake, it was more like a new episode. Well acted and containing all the key elements of the comedic form that made the Stooges popular, I am still laughing at some of the scenes. Most critics panned the movie as pointless, poorly plotted (as if this was ever a consideration in the originals!) and just plain silly. 'Why would anyone want to laugh at this dated nonsense?' is the subtext of most of these self-important screeds.

And I think that the answer is obvious. Low comedy, for want of a better term, has always been popular with ordinary people. It's lineage can be traced from the Greeks through Shakespeare, the Commedia dell'arte, puppetry like Punch and Judy, the music hall tradition and modern cartoon animation, to name but a few. It's popular with the masses, you might say, but not necessarily so with the political class (who can be easily pilloried) or high art comsumers, whose pretentions make if difficult for them to be anything other than sniffy.

If you find your self wanting to laugh our loud, but thinking that, for reasons of taste or cultivation you shouldn't, then maybe you have a problem.

Lately there has been a lot of chatter in the media about ageing. Serious chatter, that is, about the way Western societies prolong life, even after its intrinsic value has apparently ebbed away. Last night over dinner at a friend's house, the subject arose again. Is there a right time to go?

Such a debate is to be expected, given the emerging facts around ageing and the loss of quality of life that can occur. We have become remarkably adept at improving the length of the average life-span, largely through interventions that stave off death. My grandmother died from stroke at 60, fifty years ago, but medication today may have extended her life significantly. Ditto for many other illnesses that now can be ameliorated through medical science.

Longer life doesn't necessarily equate with better life. Sure, no one wants to die and the thought of total extinguishment is fraught. Nor do many folks, on the the hand, want to eek out their days in pain, confusion or debilitating decline. There may be a point at which returns diminish so rapidly that saying 'no more please' to medicines and procedures is a reasonable option.

The Baby Boomers are ageing and I guess that this is the reason for the debate. The immortals are coming to terms with mortality.

This being the school holidays, Tom and I went to an indoor mini-golf centre today. Ten theme-based rooms and 18 holes later, my son emerged with the better scorecard. I especially liked the last chamber, it's three holes weaving their way through scenes of alien invasion. A life-size Tardis sat confidently amidst the battle, my attempts to open its door without management noticing, in vain. So, no escape from the present was possible today.

This morning I lashed out $12 on ebay and bought Quotations of Chairman Mao, aka, The Little Red Book. Much as I would like to launch an antipodean Cultural Revolution (modern popular culture being predominantly a wasteland of sleaze and mediocrity), I'll settle for using it as a companion in my ongoing study of The Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution.

The latter, of course, was no joking matter, much as I might make light of it. Good people were mercilessly cast aside, brutalised, murdered or forced to take their own lives on the whim of Mao and the collection of squabbling sycophants in the CCRG. No doubt there were some 'revisionist elements' in China in the years following the establishment of the PRC, but the chaotic and nihilistic swamp that the CR became was no means of establishing that as a fact.

If I could only be less serious in private, and more so in public.

Ouyang Xiu was a scholar, poet, writer, intellectual and statesman during the early part of the Song Dynasty. Coming to my attention as a result of a recent China History Podcast (thanks Laszlo), I decided to look for works of his that might be extant in English. I came across the following poem.

Scraps of cloud in rosy dusk- West Lake is good.
Flowers on the bank, duckweed on sand,
A hundred acres of peaceful ripples,
On the overgrown bank, no man- just the stroke of a boat.

South-west, across the moon, scattered clouds are drifting.
Cool rises at the terrace rail,
Lotus flowers' scent is clear,
Wind from the water's face makes the wine face sober.

In the West we tend to think that progress is somehow a constant, and linear, and that all received wisdom has passed down from the Greeks through the Romans through the Renaissance and so forth. A simple comparison of Song Dynasty China with any equivalent state in Europe at that time proves what nonsense this is.

Wind from the water's face makes the wine face sober is such a great piece of writing, a reminder of the human amidst the natural world. The pastoral scene, perfectly balanced, placid and idyllic, brings the poet to his senses.

Scotland votes for independence this week. In what might have seemed quite unlikely 12 months ago, there is a real possibility of a Yes vote in a few days time. Opinion polls appear to have everything tied up.

There has been a lot of talk about leaving the matter to the Scot-minus the expats-to decide. It's their business if they want to go it alone. That is certainly true. But it isn't the whole story or the only one. Here's why.

The United Kingdom, by any reckoning, has been one of the most successful unions of nations in history. It is rare for one nation to have had such an influence on people and events. The UK, despite its relatively small size, punches well above its weight. It is a presence at all the top forums around the globe and generally speaking, a force for good. I could recount a sizeable list of failings too, but few nations would escape such an examination. Perhaps none.

It strikes me that the truncated United Kingdom would lose some of the respect and influence that it currently wields and that is not a good thing for the planet. With armed psychopaths forming armies and ersatz states in the Middle East, a volatile and recalcitrant Russia and forces generally aligned with intolerance on the march, strong liberal democracies need to step up and take on the challenge.

I love Scotland and enjoyed my time there in 2005. I understand the impulse that 'independence' stirs in the blood. The sense of freedom and the call to a fresh start, unleashed from the apparent shackles of Westminster. I suspect that feeling might last a few years, only to be overtaken, eventually, by the realisation that something greater has been lost. I hope not. Truly.

After a number of false starts, Spring appears to have arrived. At least, the birds think so. Their song is lilting from all corners of my garden and beyond. Just now a Kookaburra has started up, it's insistent vibrato jarring in the mild sunshine.

Just now I submitted a lesson plan for the final phase of my online TESOL course with iTTT. I am not a huge fan of English grammar but there is a purpose in my getting better at it. I would like to re-invent myself as an English Doctor and offer my services in Sydney. I don't know how that will go, given the vagaries of any marketplace, but I am flexible about pretty everything. It is not about money, though I would like to at least break even. I just want to be useful in a way that I am quite good at. Communicating and motivating.

Just finished another instalment in my ongoing China project, this one, a short book on Bo Xilai. Garnaut's The Rise and Fall of the House of Bo charts the fortunes of the Bo dynasty in China. This is a family with venerable origins in the rise of the PRC, Bo Yibo being a Long March veteran and influential player in Chinese politics. His son, the charismatic and talented Bo Xilai, rose swiftly in the post-Mao world of reform, eventually becoming a senior politbureau member in Chongqing. Now Bo Xilai languishes in prison, following a sensational trial earlier this year. But this being the PRC, nothing is set in concrete. His father survived disgrace in the Cultural Revolution to mount a comeback in the 1980's. The younger Bo might yet rise again.

strangely on cue
tight-shirted September struts
an unloosed swagger

the day before spring
plum blossoms detonate with bees;
birds dreaming big sky

Sometimes Tom falls asleep on the lounge. Shortly after, I carry him to his room and put him to bed. He is growing heavier and I'm not sure how long I will be able to bear his weight.

These are some of my favourite times though. Pressed tight against me as I carry him to bed, I realise how strong love is that comes when it is less sought after. It is good to be a father. Very good. I don't think that there is any other experience like it and even though I came to fatherhood late, it has been an unconditional blessing.

Tom is a good boy with the potential to have a strong moral compass and a decent life. It is all about the choices he makes. Parents can only do so much.

I have just finished Peter Hessler's Country Driving. As the few readers of this blog will know, I have been immersed in Hessler's writing over the last few months. Articulate, compassionate and witty, Hessler takes three "journeys" inside China, though strictly speaking, not all of them are on-the-road journeys.

After an extensive navigation of the most remote parts of the Great Walls, Hessler settles down in a small remote village, renting a humble cottage with a fellow journalist. The town is called Sancha and lies in the mountains to the north of Beijing. Fluent in Chinese, he is able to become a genuine part (to the extent that any foreigner can) of village life. Uniquely placed as both an observer and an actor, Hessler describes the effects of the 'new capitalism' on old rural life: the decline of population and amenity and the yearning for ways of cashing in on the new economy. It is a sympathetic portrait of a village that will likely survive, if for no other reason than its proximity to Beijing. Affluence creates roads and tourism; Sancha seems destined to get a small slice of the pie.

Hessler's last foray is to the coast in Zhejiang province. The once rural town of Lishui is about to be hit by the tsunmami of economic development. Mountains are raised to provide land for factories. The latter spring up like mushrooms after hot rain. Hessler follows the beginnings and growth of a brand new bra-clip manufacturer, a niche industry that the anxious owners hope will lead to riches. In tracking the fortunes of various factory employees, he is able to demonstrate the extraordinary adaptability of the (mainly) rural Chinese who flock to these shining edifices in search of new dreams.

This is such a great book. Well done Mr Hessler. More please!

We have had a lot of rain - an absurd amount for August really - and today has been a blur of showers and patchy sunshine. I have a small washing line full of clothes dangling hopefully in the still chilly breeze. Tom is at school and I have finished a brief rehearsal for the cafe tomorrow. Now I am chatting to a friend in China on QQ for the first time in months. She is a teacher in Xian, the ancient capital of China.

I would truly like to ignore the news for a while. I thought that it might just be me who was feeling overwhelmed by the sheer freight of bad headlines, but no. The other day the experienced journalist Monica Attard, whilst in the midst of a panel interview, said that she had despaired of the terrible events in the news. She had even stopped looking, for a while. So, it's not just me.

In any event, I fall back on my earlier theory about the way information is created and disseminated in the modern era. It happens at lightning speed and in an environment in which publication is virtually instantaneous and omnipresent. It is everywhere and all the time.

Compare that with, say, how long it took for the First Fleets safe arrival at Sydney Cove to reach London in 1788.

Tom has been playing football for the Hazelbrook Hawks for two seasons now. After looking a little lost for a while, he has started to improve noticeably over the past six weeks or so. I like him to play team games as being an only child is not the clearest path to learning how to co-operate with his peers. I hope that he wants to play next year too as this will consolidate his skills, both personal and physical. Another parent, Tristan, snapped this excellent action shot of Tom two weeks ago, and I reproduce it below.

Confirmation bias is one of the reasons why two people can see the same event in a radically different way. Simply put, it is the process by which each of us filters our environment in such a way that it tends to confirm our world view. Broadly speaking, if you have, say, a pessimistic view of the world around you (that, for example, it's dangerous), then you will quite naturally hone in on information that confirms this view. You will see the headline about the terrorist threat, and 'filter out' the larger headline about good economic growth.

We all do it and the only way to mitigate against it is to monitor yourself and ask questions, constantly. Of course, that is hard work and it is easier to leap straight back into the breach, where well-worn mental threads bind you to a way of thinking and acting. Confirmation bias happens on both a macro and micro level. It is just as relevant to the person who seeks out information about their unpopularity at the office party, in spite of evidence to the contrary, to the person who scans the headlines or the news aggregators. We select data in and select it out to reflect our own biases and to confirm what we already know about ourselves and the world. Trouble is that what we know is often inaccurate or self-defeating.

Being a cautious optimist myself, I remain hopeful of good news in most situations. But I suffer from confirmation bias like everyone else. I try hard to see the good in the world, but the overwhelming narrative of war, atrocity, barbarity, drugs, pornography and human insufficiency is powerful. Yes, there is a media bias towards bad, sensational or disturbing news, undoubtedly, which I factor in. It is hard, in a 24/7 information-saturated climate, to find a reasonable and rational middle path. And yet, it is possible.

a client

for you, this shaking.
outside, sun works the steely earth,
'darkly' inside, you cry

On the subject of live gigs at the Warehouse, a friend took a few shots last Friday. I guess one day I might look back and think that I did what I set out to do.

It's now over two years since I started playing at the Warehouse Cafe at Anglicare in Mt Druitt. Once a week on a Friday morning. I took it up initially as a challenge, for while I could easily put together a few songs for an intimate music group every so often, having a full repertoire and performing before an audience of strangers was another thing altogether.

Getting over my fear of making, and then showing, my mistakes was a critical part of the journey. In the past I have always winced at missed chords or vocals, feeling that somehow I should be somewhere closer to perfect every time. This is not a standard I recommend to anyone. Better to learn, as I think I have, to relax a little and have a small, inner, undetectable laugh at myself for these musical blemishes.

So now I seem to have become part of the furniture at the cafe. It is taken for granted that I'll be there, in my spot, an ambient part of the background. I am happy with that. For how much longer, I can't say. The gigs have lost the sense of challenge, though I still enjoy myself, for the most part.

As for the repertoire - it has developed over time. I play more songs that I like, though I still have to be mindful that most of the material needs to be familiar. So, cue Elvis and Crowded House.

I am lucky to have this chance. It's unlikely to come again and what is very real at one moment in time, is gone the next. Most often, forever.

The internet is a place of wonder and a place of danger. There is also a lot of stuff in between those two positions, much of it frivolous, ephemeral or insignificant. Like this blog. It need not exist but it does by virtue of google and my will. The internet is encyclopaedic in its breadth but somewhat tabloid in its delivery.

So what do I do as a father of an 8 year old who is curious and demanding of finding out? Like his cohort, Tom loves games of all sorts and cartoons and videos and all of this leaves a wide margin for entering both grey zones and dangerous precincts.

Tom has a little android ipad knockoff that does a reasonable job though it really is just a game mule. I have the unit's google search filters set to a maximum safety level but this does not apparently block everything that it inappropriate for a young mind. A doctor I see sometimes argues a strong libertarian case for everything being okay. So long as it's contextualised and a discussion is had between parents and children, there is no problem. It is educative and builds character, he says.

I'm not so sure. Clinical work on the effects of pornography point to potentially permanent psychological harm (addiction, dysfunction etc) with repercussions for romantic and committed relationships and much else besides. But the genie is out of the bottle.

So I worry about Tom and the things he might see online. It is not mollycoddling or cotton-wooling, but rather, giving him the chance to be a kid and to live, for the time-being, in a world that doesn't seem too risky or dark.

Never mind the headlines.

I have been doing a Tesol online course for about six weeks now and it surprises me just how little English grammar I remember. Some of the names and constructions I recall, though more likely I came across these studying French in junior high school. The fact is is that a lot of technical grammar simply isn't taught any more to native speakers, nor should it be, frankly. But for new learners of English, being able to identify and name language components is useful. It helps to be able to to refer to a participle or a gerund and know that everybody in the room has a handle on the conversation.

Why am I doing such a course? I have in my mind the idea that I might become a kind of travelling English doctor, seeking out new clients and experiences in Sydney. It's hard to know how this might work - I have a few notions in my head - but I would like to give it a try. Teaching is close to my favourite thing and being the social animal that I am, this seems like a good fit.

Since I started using my combustion heater again, Tom has been busy with a little hatchet I bought him. Even on very cold mornings, he is keen to get outside and chop at dead wood. At the moment I can see him playing out the back with a length of bamboo, in imitation, perhaps, of a martial arts exponent. I have a lovely garden and should we sell, I would certainly miss it.

on hearing that a friend had changed her ticket from a doomed flight

who took my place?
summery jet-stream, wintry descent,
dark fields, disallocating

7-1

cold-shouldered waking,
I undream, shedding my disbelief,
dissociations of samba

what to say - sorry?
to wood shed like sharp tears,
entombed in mulch

late beams splay
the cold stump of an old tree
I just felled

Ah, the sound of chain-saws in the morning light! As mentioned in an earlier post, I am having two old trees taken down. One is dead and other is certainly on its way out. It's expensive to do but it is the right time to do it, loath as I am to cut down any trees.

Xiaoyu will be coming here at the end of the year. It was my idea, because really, I could only have gone to China for a couple of weeks. She will be able to stay for a couple of months. This gives us the chance to get to know each other and discover whether we have a future together. The signs are good so far, but I think a living together immersion will be just the right test. Xiaoyu is studying English so I hope that we can communicate a little more freely than we were able to in February. Most interesting for me will be how she deals with the cultural difference. Despite its rush into capitalist modernity, Chinese culture is fundamentally different to Western culture and it will be a challenge for her.

Tom comes back from his mum today, which makes me very happy. It gets kind of lonely around here when he's gone.

I have a friend who is the sweetest, loveliest person I know. She moved house about six months ago and I miss her terribly. Yet despite all the great qualities I see in her - honesty, kindness, intelligence and funniness - to name but a few, her life is almost continually in chaos. Relationships go to pot, her work choices turn sour and she is left wondering what calamity will strike next. It is both sad and perplexing for me. But the truth is that in her, I often see myself. By which I mean, we are very similar in nature.

I have had my fair share of chaos too. When I think about it, many of the calamities visited upon my friend have also been a part of my life too. I see common threads of shared experience. For me though, some of these have been self-inflicted. Others have come out of what appears to be thin air. Everybody has the need to be loved. Everybody craves a security of sorts. Uncertainty is difficult to live with. How we deal with uncertainty and our overarching need for acceptance is a dominating theme in most human scenarios.

It's funny how we can look at the person in the car next to us, or in the shopping centre, or even in our mind's eye, and think with such conviction that they have better, less complicated lives. The truth is, with few exceptions, that hurt and pain and insecurity and the sense that "I am not good enough" is everywhere. The outward appearance of things is one of the great deceits of our time. Of this and any time.

As I have noted before, the world does seem to be in a parlous state. Yes, it has always been in a pretty bad way and communication is now instant and omnipresent. So we get to hear a lot more, much faster. The 24 hour news cycle seizes upon and then spits out any piece of bad news. Perceptions are different. People can consult their smart phone to get a hold of any tidbit they desire.

My mother's generation relied upon the wireless radio and newspapers, not to mention that curious thing called the telegram. My first teaching appointment came by telegram and that was the 1980's. I suspect now I would simply check my inbox. The waiting game is over but something is lost in the process. Patience? the act of waiting itself? I don't know.

In all this blink-of-the-eye fastness we are left with a hydra of stories and story fragments. The underlying narrative of each is essentially lost. Of course, if you have the time and the interest you can pick up those threads and unravel them, though as for that, when I have actually chased a story down, it is more the case that the unravelling reveals a lazy sameness of story fragment. Many news services run with an almost identical news bite.

One way I have of remaining sane is to read history. The reassurance that 'things have always been thus' cannot be underrated. We have been to hell in a hand-basket so many times now. Somebody has lost count, if anyone has been counting.

In the last week, the faux winter has ended and a real one has begun. We have had blasting icy winds and generally cold days, with the odd frost thrown in. My winter garden is strewn with leaves and fallen clusters of twig from the many trees that comprise it. Soon I will have to take down the old acacia at the front and the remains of the dead nicolai at the back. Both were planted when I first bought this property. To be honest, I never expected to be back here to witness their demise. But I am, at least for the meantime.

I find the times when I don't have Tom to be quite difficult. The house is empty and quiet and while I generally like my own company, being alone is something I would rather choose than have chosen for me. Added to that is the fact that I miss my son. We get along quite famously most times and whilst he is sometimes demanding, this is but a tiny complaint. He is improving at football (soccer) and this week attended an AFL clinic at school. He is also enrolled in jazz and tap dancing classes and seems to enjoy this variety, though he complains about the reduced playday opportunities.

I don't have any specific memory of the playday from my youth. We generally went cycling, played cricket or football in the park or hunted through the surrounding bushland without any need for parents to organise anything. It just happened. There really wasn't anything else to do. It was common too to walk to the shops to buy the afternoon papers and grab a bag of lollies. Twenty cents bought a fat fistful of joy that lasted through to dinner.

It was just much easier to do stuff then. But then, there was no internet or personal computers, nor mobile phones or VCRs. Sure we had record players (generally one per household) and cassettes were becoming popular. Not a single game console graced the confused decor of the seventies lounge room. And four TV stations were all we got.

I'm sure the generation before mine could weigh in with an even more austere selection. We all make our fun. I hope that Tom's cohort can get the balance right.

Football is not always a fair game. The team that deserves to win (or draw) sometimes doesn't, if they can't put the ball in the net. It is a brutal numbers game. You might have 20 shots on goal and lose; your opponent might have 3 and win.

Against Chile, after a terrible first 15 minutes, Australia recovered and deserved to share the points. But they lost 3-1. Against the Dutch, Australia were the better team for much of the game, but lost 3-2. That's football!

But the Socceroos have really stepped up to a challenge that many thought was beyond them. Even without the "Golden Generation", the future looks bright and the Asian Cup is realistically within our grasp.

There was a time when qualifying for the World Cup in Football was a pipe-dream for Australia. Following the remarkable success of getting to Munich in 1974 (a campaign that I followed closely as a kid) the Socceroos struggled against the odds against often superior opposition and fell short of the mark. For decades.

Now we have qualified three times on the trot and find ourselves in the last 32 in Brazil. Our group is very difficult(Spain, The Netherlands and Chile) and we are expected to falter at the group stage. The team is young, inexperienced and lacking the talented big guns of past campaigns. We don't appear to have produced another golden crop.

The World Cup could surprise. The team might step up and that new generation may take shape in the same inspiring way as the team of Viduka, Kewell, Schwartzer and the like.

I'll be getting up early to follow the boys. What greater stage to be on than that which saw the likes of Zico, Ronaldo and Pele develop as youngsters into household names. It is the place to be. Goodluck to the Socceroos.

The last few weeks have had their distinct ups and downs. I have been in and out of doctor's surgeries and had random tests. There is nothing organically wrong with me as far as anyone can tell. My suspicion is that my anxiety has increased and produced a number of unpleasant emotional states and physiological phenomena. It is wondrous to behold the many ways that the mind can create time bombs and roadblocks for the body.

Xiaoyu and I continue to exchange daily emails. Hers are necessarily short (her English is rudimentary and she is writing from internet cafes) and mine tend to be simple renderings of the day's events. This is where we are at the moment, heading towards something purposeful, slowly. That's fine by me though I wish we could chat on QQ. She seems reluctant to buy a laptop but I think that maybe she is just very short of time.

I have a completely open mind about marrying Xiaoyu. I have no problems meeting women I like and this raises all sorts of issues for me. But I continue to hope that steady progress towards Xiaoyu and I knowing each other better remains my best course of action.

There is a beautiful, almost surreal light being thrown on the pine trees across the road from my house. The sun is about to drop below the ridge and its getting colder.

Our planet is magnificent.

I referenced a book in my last post - Oracle Bones - and found an unfolding coincidence a few days later.

Recently I also mentioned the chat site, QQ, together with my reservations concerning it. It seemed to me that QQ was really just a thinly-veiled dating site, such was my general experience. But one or two of my QQ friends seemed genuinely interested in practising their English and talking about their lives.

May first wrote to me on a school trip to Canada. She was alone in a hotel room and probably a little lonely, so we struck up a (typed) conversation. She was worried about going out alone in Montreal and losing her way back to the hotel.

Later when she was back in China, we kept up our conversations. I was ploughing through Oracle Bones at the same time, never once making the connection between her home city, Shenzhen, and the chapters from the book I was reading, about the same town.

So here's the thing. In Oracle Bones, Hessler talks about the life of one of his former students who has moved to the booming proto-capitalist experiment that is Shenzhen, a city that came out of nothing and is a magnet for young Chinese escaping their villages. For migrating Chinese, this was tantamount to heading into the Wild West, a place that was inventing itself on the fly, inverting the usual ethics and mores of Chinese society and substituting a dog-eat-dog laisser-faire.

In the night dormitories of the Dickensian-like factories that these young women worked in 12 hours a day, new ways of living this extreme, untried life emerged. Many whiled away the little spare time they had listening to a radio program, At Night You're Not Lonely, in which a kind of Chinese agony-aunt, Hu Xiaomei, took calls from lonely, troubled or love-struck women.

When the Shenzhen moment struck me -it occurred to me in an instant- that May might have had the same experience as the women I was reading about. I asked her a few questions and was astonished to find that in fact she had. May had moved to Shenzhen in the 1990's. She knew the radio program and much else besides. It was like the pages of a book coming to life before my eyes. I think that this has formed an unusual connection between us, for she was just as astonished that I had asked her about, what were essentially, esoteric matters.

You never know where your path may lead.

Apart from perusing self-help books on psychology, most of my reading over the last few months has focussed on China. Not only reading but also listening, to cultural and historical podcasts and the like.

Aside from the many straight history texts I have ploughed through, I have found Peter Hessler's Oracle Bones and River Town helpful in getting an outsider's inside perspective. Hessler is fluent in Mandarin and has been able to get pretty close to ordinary Chinese people, firstly through teaching English as a member of the Peace Corps, and secondly, through his work as a Beijing-based journalist with The New Yorker. Hessler is a talented writer and sensitive observer, rather fortuitously placed at a unique moment in China's development. I don't always agree with his opinions, whether explicit or implied, but he has done a remarkable job in giving a clear sense of the change that makes China a phenominen today.

The China History Podcast is an entirely different animal, but equally as interesting. Developed, researched and hosted by Lazlo Montgomery (a China hand and enthusiastic amateur historian), the series runs past one hundred episodes. Included in this vast trove is an overview of all of Chinese dynastic history (yes, all five thousand years of it!) and specific episodes on socio/political movements, historical characters and much else besides. What can I say, but bravo.

Even so, my knowledge of China seems to shrink with very foray I make. It is the old story; the more you know, the less you seem to know. It is not an absolute thing. Just one of perspective.

There was a time in the 1960's when it was feared that Anzac Day was in decline. It wasn't something I experienced at the time but read about later, when doing an assignment on The One Day of The Year. Far from fading though, Anzac Day has become increasingly popular. It seems to me that the memorial is not only better attended but has assumed a more prominent role in our national discourse; the meanings we ascribe to identity and the manner in which we do so.

It is more than just making a silk purse out of a sow's ear, for Gallipoli was undoubtedly a terrible military defeat. There is little good can be said about the First World War, period - its absurd beginnings and appalling conduct. The Dardenelles is a great exemplar of botched planning and execution. But perhaps most military campaigns carry aspects of this. After all, even modern campaigns with all the latest tech can still find themselves situated in 'the fog of war'.

For Australia, the meanings of Gallipoli - the first mass commitment of soldiers in a military conflict - emerge from a desire for a greater independence from our colonial origins. Remembering that Australia as a nation was only a decade and a half old, it is easy to understand how blood lost in war would assume such primal significance. And there follows the story-telling, memorialising and mythologising.

It is a good day and worth having and keeping. And it is well for those who do keep it, for those who travel to historic sites and are wrapped in the balm of its solemnity, to understand it. The contents of the stories are as important as the candles we light, the feelings we have. The truth is always more complex and significantly more disturbing than the cenotaphs and the speeches. These things are bound together and we separate them at our peril.

Lest We Forget.

As a trained counsellor, I have the capacity to self-assess myself. But much as most doctors would seek a diagnosis from another doctor, rather than themselves, so it is with me.

I can have a good guess at my own psychological disposition and in fact I have. But I can't properly work with myself - that requires another professional. Nevertheless, I have dragged out my books again and worked through more CBT exercises. To be honest, this is something I will have to do all my life, since anxiety is my lot and only constant revision enables me to manage it.

Last week my GP recommended that I take a small low-dose anxiety pill (Allegron) something which, until now, I have steadfastly resisted. In the same period I have been revising the theory and practice surrounding Core Beliefs, the bedrock beliefs we hold about ourselves and the world. It is the negative ones that I have been most concerned about. They inform our daily lives in a thousand different, insidious ways.

Changing them, finding more positive and realistic ways of being in the world, is my hope.

Two major transport-related disasters in a month have created a media frenzy. Every detail is endlessly mulled over, experts of all stripes are wheeled before cameras to offer 'sound' opinion and swirling currents of 'what ifs' thrash about in the sorry waters of 24/7 reporting.

Beyond what might have otherwise been a clearly constructed narrative of events and information (which this kind of reportage is not), it is hard to see who benefits from the news scramble that characterises disasters like these. By which I mean of course, the mysterious disappearance of Flight MH 370 and the dreadful recent capsizing of the the Korean ferry.

What is gained? I don't know. Time is lost in front of the TV or the computer screen. A kind of generalised nervousness sets in as perceived certainties are upended. These days, planes don't just disappear, do they? And large ferries on well-charted and popular routes don't routinely sink in thirty metres of water.

It is hard to watch. Even harder, the terrible despair of relatives and friends who don't know what has happened to their loved-ones, or at least, don't know for sure. For it is the uncertainty that is most crippling. We can live, however painfully, with the knowledge of things finally being worked out. I don't know what kind of life is possible when we just don't know.

I guess that I am lucky, Very, very lucky. I have a roof over my head, an income, good health, a son and at least one lady who wants to marry me. There is a lot to celebrate.

But lately I have felt both restless and sad. The former I attribute to not having enough work to do. I thrive on being productively busy doing work that is meaningful. So there is simply not enough of that at the moment.

The sadness is more complicated. I have wondered about it. And I realise, having looked within myself repeatedly, that I am not really past the end of my marriage yet. I still have deep regrets about my family being split up. I think that is the root of the sadness I feel. Still grieving, might be another way of putting it.

It's healthy to acknowledge this, I tell myself. And of course it is. I don't want to dwell. I'd rather not stop here for too long. But I know that running away from feelings only enlarges the potential damage that can be done.

It is like travelling from a well-known, much-loved town, one to which you can never return. Somewhere on the outskirts, possibly just past a sleepy satellite village, with the road about to curve into unexplored countryside, you turn back for one last look. You don't have to turn and you don't have to look. But you do. That's where I am. Just taking a glance back on the way I have come.

That's where I think I am, anyway.

moonless darkening
sleep-dissolving possum spat,
heat of my thoughts

sharp note of leaf fall,
strange, this late summer's demise
seems much exaggerated

This morning I went kick-boarding in the rain at Lawson Pool. When I arrived the steam was gently rising from the water (an encouraging sign) but the pool was empty of swimmers. While I was blithely lapping the chlorinated depths, a little verse I had written in Grade 1 popped into my head.

The ships sail on the merry sea
They travel anywhere
They anchor in the little bay
When men go home for tea.

The poem had made it into a (now long lost) school magazine at Rose Bay Public in 1965. I think that maybe there were lots of little verses and stories in the publication, so it was no great shakes to be included. When I was working on the poem in class, I can still vividly remember going up to the teacher's desk so she could check my work. My recollection was that she has recommended the last line over my somewhat dramatic, "And then they sail away." Probably a good idea, I think.

I have always had a love of words and I hope that Tom does too. Language may or may not be a cage, but even with bars, the interior is expansive.

The times have been fraught with care for many people lately. The disappearance of the Malaysian Airways flight, mysterious and drawn out, has been unsettling. One can only imagine the anxiety of loved-ones trying to deal with this radical uncertainty.

Then there is the equally mystifying behaviour of Russia in invading the Crimea and, at the time of writing, maintaining a sizeable force on the Ukrainian border. One can argue that Russia has been neglected and mishandled by the West. There is a good case to be put. On the other hand, bribery and brute force seem simplistic and out of date in the modern era, particularly if one looks at the relative success of the EU in dealing with formerly intractable state rivalries.

Today I read a report by a respected investment expert who thinks that a far deeper financial crisis than the GFC is about to descend upon us. He has a very good track report as a pundit, but I hope that on this occasion he is wrong. Economic crisis at a time of political instability is a very bad recipe for much worse. I don't think that I need to spell it out.

I am not easily amazed, but tonight I was. I was humbled and astonished. Danette, whose life was hanging by a thread following a terrible car accident over a year ago, was at a friend's party tonight. I had heard nothing since news had her in a coma with terrible injuries. She was either not expected to live or to face a life of near total incapacitation.

And there she was. I didn't recognise her at first. Later I spent an hour talking to her. I am awed by her courage, by an indomitable will to live. I have prayed every night for her and somehow I found it hard to believe that she was there, chatting and laughing, leaving me floored with a kind of dumb joy. Well, there is no way of describing it. I am overwhelmed.

Welcome back amongst us, Danette. May this time ahead be a blessing for you and your family.

The world has always been a potentially dangerous place. All ages have had their chaos, famine, war, natural disaster and general calamity, punctuating what was likely a very mundane existence. Such is our age, writ larger by a massive and seemingly unstoppable flow of information in all directions. Modern doom sayers are no different from their gloomy ancestors. They just have a lot more data to sift through.

But there is no doubt that things are messy. The dividend from the end of the Cold War has been spent or squandered. We have not established an effective means of dealing with the political questions arising from globalisation, climate change, religious and ethnic nationalism and so forth. Perhaps this is the period in which new coalitions will form, or new institutions will arise.

On an entirely different note, Xiaoyu has written to say that she has started her English study. To my astonishment, she has a class every day. I guess that she is really serious about it. I had no idea that it was going to be seven days a week. She is really a sweetheart.

Strange events occur. A little while ago, as I opened this blog to review an entry, I noticed that all the photos posted from January 1st this year had disappeared and been replaced by what looked like a grey no entry sign. I cannot account for this bizarre occurrence, but it cost me an hour of time replacing the photos!

Xiaoyu and I continue to write to each other daily. Soon she will begin an English course to improve her language skills and hopefully in a year or so, communication between us will be much improved. We get along really well now but there is a deeper level of knowing that we will eventually need to explore.

A picture from a busy intersection near the centre of Nanning's main shopping precinct.

First official day of autumn and the rain continues to fall. Today it is heavier and the ground outside is sodden. In a month it will probably be parched from a lack of moisture. That seems to be the way of things at the moment.

Xiaoyu writes that it is cold and foggy in Nanning, where Spring has yet to take hold. While I was there the temperature was unseasonably warm and most days I only needed a t-shirt. It became colder by the end of my stay, though still in the region of 10C. Hardly arctic conditions.

A couple of weeks ago I joined QQ at the behest of Xiaoyu. QQ is a Chinese social media site that combines some of the elements of Skype, Facebook, MSN and so forth. I am now Xiaoyu's friend, which was the whole point of the exercise. But my presence as a Westerner has not gone unnoticed and I have regular friendship requests from mostly female Chinese women. I have accepted most of them, though now I am somewhat perplexed.

Why me? I am becoming a little suspicious that QQ may also be a place for romantic excursions, if you get what I mean. Yesterday a new friend from Shezhang asked me these three openers.

Are you married? Do you have a girlfriend? What is your job?

Not so subtle, hey? Maybe I need to be more cautious.

I love temples. In Japan I spared no opportunity to pop into one if I was in a big city like Kobe or Osaka. Since Buddhism made it's way to Japan from China I supposed that I might find many examples of them in Nanning. Not so, unless they were carefully hidden from me. Nevertheless, my prompting to Xiaoyu that I was so inclined led us, one day, on a trip to the Qingxiu Scenic Spot in the outer suburbs of Nanning.

The grounds of the Guanyin Temple were enormous, so large, in fact, that walking around was not really an option. A fleet of micro-buses ferried weary pilgrims around the enormous circumference of the temple precinct. The central compound of the temple was similar in style to many I had seen in Japan, the practices of worship, prayer and so forth, equally so.

On the way out we became waylaid by a micro-bus and subsequently stranded at an enormous carpark, leaving us no option but to trudge to a crowded bus stop. This didn't bother me, though it seemed to weigh upon Xiaoyu. She said that she didn't like crowds, which I thought was hilarious, given that she lives in China and all.

A couple of shots from the day, one by perhaps the worst photographer in China. The other, by me.

The Ethnological Museum in Nanning is innovative and interesting. As I have previous stated, China has a lot of ethnic minorities and the biggest, the Zhuang, is heavily represented at this institution. From the first photo that I have posted below, you can see that the drum motif is dramatically embodied in the architecture. Drums are omnipresent and clearly served a central cultural, political and economic purpose in Zhuang life. At the rear of the museum is a reconstructed village and should you be so inclined, you can gong a large drum. I was content to watch the kids do it.

I must disclose though that the most exciting room was in a smallish nook which explored cultural artifacts of the past century. In amongst the ancient transistor radios and bicycles was a small display of Cultural Revolution paraphenalia, including some Big Character posters (dàzìbào). This was a very unhappy time for many Chinese though my stumbling upon them was both unexpected and exciting.