Last Saturday Ann and I made the long journey out to Bondi to attend Sculpture By The Sea. In case you are unaware, this is an outdoor exhibition of sculptures that are set amongst the landscape between South Bondi and Tamarama. They fairly approximately follow the line of the public walkway between those two beaches, though the sculptural objects themselves are set high and low and betwixt the the natural formations. This part of the Sydney coastline is quite dramatic, with rocky ledges and outcrops falling to small inlets and beachlets. Viewers of the works vied with regular morning joggers for the very limited space on the path. I found the whole thing both refreshing and amusing and very Bondi. Later we headed back to Bondi Junction for lunch at Pochana.

Amongst the knitted stupas-

This world of dew
is only a world of dew -
and yet

Issa


A world in just two words, really.

I have finally finished the lengthy tome on Kang Sheng, which proved a challenge at times. The authors, who obviously spent long hours on researching their subject, held the narrative line together moderately well, but the sheer volume of information and seemingly arcane lists of names and relationships made the going tough, now and then. But the picture of Kang was clear enough, a man of vast ambition and no conscience, for whom no treachery or distortion was too great.

It is a wonder how such people can live with themselves, for though we all harbor secrets, some darker than others, and while most of us reserve a part of ourselves for only ourselves, it is the scale of things that matters. There is a difference between telling a white lie, exaggerating a tax claim by a few dollars, possessing some workplace stationary, making the odd disparaging remark or insult, even throwing a punch out of jealousy or fear, there is a difference between these and many similar everyday foibles and the act of stepping over the still-warm corpses of others in pursuit of power.

Then again, maybe these people do not live with themselves after all. Perhaps, like Kang in old age and sickness, they ramble out of fear of being discovered, of being exposed by the sub-conscious.

The times suited Machiavellian ideologues such as Kang. Below, two photos from the chaotic Cultural Revolution, a period that privileged chaos and Mao worship.

Tonight is the 40th anniversary reunion of the Class of 1976 for Killarney Heights High School. I could not attend the 20th and 30th iterations and I suspect this might be the last chance to catch up with folks I haven't seen in decades. I am not a great one for reunions (eschewing, as I do, the need to nostalgia) but I feel I should make the effort, even if it means a long journey to North Sydney. Having met up again with old school buddy Wayne Parrott at my wedding, I do have at least one person I can talk to. But there will be others too and I feel that I should try to open to surprises.

Amongst the trove of memorabelia that has been appearing the the reunion Facebook site have been old school photos. The one below is my old Year 11 (5th Form) English class. I am at bottom left.

I have been reading (in an on and off fashion) a book by John Pack and Robert Byron, The Claws of the Dragon about Kang Sheng.'Kang who?' I hear you ask. Readers of this obscure blog will know that I have a deep interest in Chinese history, and Kang comes in very recently indeed in that chronology, almost in the last 5 minutes, if we think in terms of the millennia involved.

Kang is not well known because he was a behind the scenes operator, a bright, cultured but cynical opportunist who exploited his relationships with his superiors to enhance his own power. Most importantly, he made himself indispensable to Mao as both an ideologue and head of the secret police, a master of creating something out of nothing. He was ruthless in stabbing friends or colleagues in the back to enhance his own position, and that period between the the end of the Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution and beyond was to prove very fruitful for a man of Kang's persuasion and dark talents. Kang saw substance where there was shadow and could fabricate conspiracy from whatever facts lay before him, regardless of their logic.

Two interesting pics of Kang, firstly with Mao in Yannan in the 1940's (where he cut his teeth as a key operator in the Rectification Program) and next with Jiang Qing and Zhou En-Lai during the Cultural Revolution.

Now and then I listen to the BBC podcast, In Our Time, moderated by Melvyn Bragg. I like to lose myself in the long lines of history, philosophy, culture and science that background the topics under discussion, as I walk the streets of Hazelbrook. Today the panel of academics inveighed upon Thucydides, the Greek historian who chronicled the Peloponnesian War. I didn't study Ancient History at school so I have a lot of making up to do!

On another topic less grand, today is my 58th birthday. Google opened today with scenes of cake and a nice greeting, computer-generated I know, but pleasant all the same. Birthday's really are for children, for they are the ones for whom the phenomenon of each passing year is still fresh, and therefore more exciting. Presents are nice to receive, though I prefer giving them. Truly I would rather such events could slide by unnoticed and I suppose for some people, they do. So really, I should count my blessings.

Changing tack again, here is a photo of Ann and I from a wedding a week before ours, one in which I had Best Man and MC duties. The photographer kindly ushered us outside for the shot, his gift for our impending nuptials.

Ann woke me up early the other morning. She had just checked the news on her phone. "My King is dead" she said, before lying down again. I spent the next hour or two nestling in to her and though she said nothing, I knew that she was terribly sad.

King Bhumibol Adulyadej reigned as a constitutional monarch for 70 years, a record for our time. By all accounts he was a decent King, committed to the Thai people, a man of many talents. On the occasions in the 1990's when I traveled to Thailand, portraits of the King and Queen were omnipresent as was the sense of reverence that ordinary Thai's felt. In a country with fractious politics, the King was a stabilizing influence and a constant source of reassurance. I hope that the next King proves to be as good as this fine man was.

I found this great shot of two monarchs side by side, a picture taken in Bangkok in 1972. Queen Sirikit is in the rear, with Prince Philip on her left.

dawn's strange frost
mica sheets on startled spring grass,
and somewhere, a king dead

The latest revelations about Donald Trump come as no surprise, though one might have expected them to emerge earlier, such as during the Republican Primaries. Trump's imprudent (surely sexist, vile, borderline-criminal -ed.) remarks in a hot-mike moment some 11 years ago reveal nothing new about the character of the man. He has been touting his flawed credentials for decades now and thus far he has blustered his way through a Presidential campaign.

It's amazing really that there are still 40% of voting Americans who are prepared to stay with him to this point and beyond, a fact that speaks volumes to the kind of anger, disillusionment, and perhaps plain wrong-headedness of some folks. The story of Trump has the sense of Greek Tragedy about it, with the central character striving for illusory greatness despite a massive character flaw. As the protagonist rants before the audience, the Chorus chants darkly about the approach of news that will strike him down. Or maybe it would make a better musical, with big numbers and a chorus of dancing girls. I can see Trump emerging down a marble staircase in a spangly jacket singing Grab That Pussy.


Today's 538 Podcast was just hilarious, Trump being the inevitable topic du jour. The aforementioned foursome are some of the brightest and wittiest folks I have encountered in the world of podcasting, a much-needed tonic to the sorry exploits of one of their countrymen.

through this curtain crack
I see cloud chasing horn of moon
again, and again

Last night was very windy, so much so, that when I awoke to an other-worldly crashing sound at 1.30, the house was in pitch-blackness. There was a power outage and the street lights were out and the small table lamp we often leave on in the front room was extinguished.

Stumbling through the dense inkiness of a light-less house, I glanced out a window. Trees were bending in impossible poses, then whipping back the other way. Nameless objects bounced and shot across grass and street, helpless in the sheer pummeling of the gale.

Back in bed, with Ann's steady breathing to settle me, Ted Hughes Wind popped into my head, whole verses intact over twenty years. Such is the power of suggestion and the connections we make between our lived past and the very moment we are in.

Wind

This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet

Till day rose; then under an orange sky
The hills had new places, and wind wielded
Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,
Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.

At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as
The coal-house door. Once I looked up -
Through the brunt wind that dented the balls of my eyes
The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,

The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,
At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;
The wind flung a magpie away and a black-
Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house

Rang like some fine green goblet in the note
That any second would shatter it. Now deep
In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip
Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,

Or each other. We watch the fire blazing,
And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on,
Seeing the window tremble to come in,
Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.