I have read plenty of non-fiction accounts of Chinese history, including quite a number that touch on the period of Mao's rule. Life Under Mao Zedong's Rule, an autobiographical novel by Da-Peng Zhang, gave me a fresh window into a world that, from a Western point of view, was often cruel, nightmarish and entirely inexplicable.

The protogonist Xiaoping, whose only crime was to be born to "bourgeois" parents, and separated from those parents at a young age, must make his way through the labyrinthine world of Maoist China, a world that was subject to the whims, theories, hatreds and vast narcissism of the Chairman.

Worse then the terrible struggle sessions and tales of despair and suicide was the manner in which a decent, cultured people with a deep history could be so turned into such a cowed and suspicious nation, with little or no respect for age, tradition or human life. Over two-thousand years of continuous social and cultural tradition was turned on it's head, not in a forward-looking, reform-minded way, but rather, in an iconoclastic, burn-the-house-down manner. Xiaoping, himself the victim of struggles and discrimination, chronicles the chaos and sheer uncertainty of everyday life.

It is not all doom and gloom though - there are love stories to be told - and there are tales of endurance and victory. In the end, another Xiaoping rides in to the rescue, consigning much of Mao's legacy to the dustbin of history.

Something of Xiaoping's struggle remains with me still, though I feel that the experience of reading a book like this one, something quite Kafkaesque, is more like looking through a glass, darkly.

On Tuesday Ann and I journeyed to Wat Buddharangsee in Annandale, a temple that is in the Thai Theravada tradition. Ann has been a few times before and she really wanted me to come with her. Since I enjoy any kind of temple or church experience, I was happy to join her. It is quite a while though since I last crossed the threshold into a Thai Buddhist Temple, that being the last time I was in Thailand itself, some 20 years ago.

The liturgy, if that is what one might call the service, was in Pali but English translations were kindly provided. Pali is fairly easy to pronounce when set to a simple chant. I enjoyed it very much and found the droning repetitions peaceful. After the service, the congregation shared a delicious lunch in an adjacent room.

I think we will be going regularly, no burden at all, since the metaphysical is often in my thoughts, tussling as it does, with my rational self.

On the one day of the year, there are reasonable grounds for reflection. Australia is a nation that has not, at least until recently, taken itself too seriously. The latter inevitably invites nationalism and all manner of posturing nonsense and can be a kind of slippery slope to war. Politicians love to play upon these sentiments because they are cheap vote-winners. It appeals to the passions and who is truly beyond this kind of sophistry. It takes clear thinking and a factual foundation to rise above the pablum of emotional chatter that often characterizes a debate on national identity, the historical record and interpretations of these. Opinion is so easily elevated as fact and reasonable dissent passes for heresy.

Luckily, Australia has only this one day to indulge in. True enough, many young men and women served their country in war, an unlucky portion not returning. War is a very nasty business and it is absolutely right and proper that we are thankful for those who stood in place of us, no matter what their motives for going. The problem is the same as all narratives where blood and sacrifice are motifs, for the blurred edges of the conflict, what we might call the shameful or morally dubious aspects, are gradually elided in the constant process of remembering again.

Just after the First World War, Hazelbrook commemorated a park adjacent the railway station and the main road, which was named Memory Park. Trees were planted and dedicated and eventually, a memorial cenotaph established. The latter was moved to Gloria Park when the Great Western Hwy was widened. Memory Park has been revamped in a smaller iteration of its previous self, and while it is substantially changed, the original purpose remains. Recently a small tablet with the names of men who served in war from the village of Hazelbrook was installed (see below).

My hope, in the absence of the abolition of war itself, is that Australia will only involve itself in future armed conflict on its own terms, and not at the behest of the great and the powerful, as has been the case in every conflict to date.

Lest We Forget.

Memory Park, looking eastwards.

hungry for soup,
searching the large cool store
chicken gumbo, cream of...

I have lived in Hazelbrook, on and off, since the winter of 1991, when I bought the little cottage which I returned to 4 years ago. Readers of this blog, should there be any, will have observed that I have lived other places too during that time, most notably, Japan.

The town is less sleepy now, with a four-lane highway running through it and an upgraded railway station. There are more shops and several expresso machines( none in 1991!), a revamped Memory Park and fewer vacant blocks of land. A large, somewhat controversial, bridge spans the new highway. It has become a little more middle class as more refugees from the Sydney real estate market flee further west; also perhaps, a little wealthier. But it is still fundamentally Hazelbrook.

Trains have run through Hazelbrook for well over a century and have been stopping to unload mountains-bound passages since before Federation, the station opening in 1884. The line was not electrified until the 1950's which meant that for a good 70 years, those trains were steam locomotives. It must have been exciting for tourists and locals alike to be ploughing up the mountain, constantly gaining height and passing what were then rather English villages and towns. The sound and smell of it, the plunge and pulse of the locomotion, must have exhilarated the spirit.

Steam engines at speed c. 1930's



Hazelbrook Station c.1915

in my mind's eye
still, I smell the blossoms
that hung about her face

riding this iron line -
her face under cherry blossoms
is all I see

On Tuesday Ann and I journeyed to Bondi via Bondi Junction. The purpose was simple enough, if a little indulgent. Ann wanted to go to a new Thai Noodle Kiosk, Pochana, in the Westfield's Food Court, which establishment made fresh noodles every day. I had my doubts about the need to go beyond Thai Town for good food, but I admit, somewhat sheepishly now, that the bowl of fresh noodles and vegetables I had was spectacular. So was the view of the harbour.

Afterwards, we took a bus to Bondi and walked from the southern end to Bronte. It's an interesting mish-mash of Sydney stuff - rocky sandstone cliffs and ledges, grassy nooks with succulents on eroded platforms, joggers in lycra shorts and bikini tops, tourists shooting endless selfies. In the cause of the latter, whose ubiquity requires no assistance really, here is one of Ann and myself, at the Bondi Beach end of things.

It has taken a lot of courage for Arunee (Ann) to come to Australia, to study, support herself, adjust to Western ways and get ahead. All this while she was missing her family in Thailand and yearning for her homeland. In addition she has had the pluck to meet a man (me) and find the time and patience to develop a strong and enduring relationship. You can add the language barrier if you like - she came with only her high school English memories - so the effect is even greater. Ann doesn't see these things as achievements, just what she had to do, but clearly they are. Meeting a man was not on her schedule when she came here, for she was single-mindedly determined to succeed at her studies and help her family back in Thailand. But that's how things turn out sometimes and we are the happier for this accidental fork in the road.

Here is Ann with her older sister Pinoy and daughter Jay Jay, taken at Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok before her first journey here.

The swimming season at Lawson Pool sadly ended last Sunday. The weather and pool temperature are always just at their best as the last days loom, and so it was this year too. By mid-morning a still-hot autumn sun and that gentle leaf-flipping breeze that April invariably delivers made my 30 minutes or so of kick-boarding, delightful.

Now, slowly, the days are beginning to close in and thoughts turn to other pursuits. But before the light fades and pool water becomes a brackish green, I grab here one last hurrah for the swimmers, thanks to this great panoramic shot by David Tobin on the final day.

at the locked gate
droplets ping like gamelan
on dumb steel bars

her row veering off,
the peasant woman plants
toward her crying child

Kobayashi Issa

Last Tuesday I took Tom to the Royal Easter Show. It was my first time at the new venue, having been many times as a kid when it was held at the old showground near Moore Park. To give me some relief from being the centre of attention we went with my friend Meagan and her son Reilly. Her daughter Erin also joined us.

Homebush is a pretty characterless place, laid out efficiently and spaciously in the way that modern sporting parks are. There are wide boulevards without the surprises that accompanied one as they strolled around the maze-like environs of the old place, where getting lost was easy, though exploration, delightful.

But we had a good day with sample bags, amusement rides and many animal pavilions to boot, and trudged tired back to the station for the long ride home.

Tom and Reilly, waiting for milkshakes, and on the ferris wheel.

on delaying our wedding date....

marrying you in the spring

meant shedding autumn's shadow
for blossoms yet to bud