New Year's celebrations go back a long way, though they did not originally fall on December 31. The vernal equinox in mid-March once served this purpose, but the Romans made the change to January at some stage. It has bounced around a little, the Medieval Church disliking its pagan origins, preferring to mark the calendar with religiously based events. It seems that in the West, the celebration at December 31 is a rather recent development and its most modern iteration (countdowns, drunkenness, fireworks etc) is very recent. I can recall as a young boy there being a fireworks display on the harbour. I also remember the banging of pots and pans as the midnight hour struck.

But truthfully, I don't really get the whole thing. I am not sure if I fully understand the tedium of sitting on a rug for hours, surrounded by strangers, a tilting bottle of champagne growing more tepid by the minute. There is a buildup of sorts, a movement towards a moment in time, not unlike any other moment, much looking at watches and smartphones, a period of more waiting, then the hurried chant to midnight. Fireworks (yes, big and beautiful), then nothing. A drifting way, without meaning.

Then the resolutions, made so that they can be broken the instant the last syllable has passed from the lips. It's not intentional, just a consequence of the habit. There's nothing wrong, of course, with resolving to do better and be better and I encourage it, through goal setting, every day of the year. For those reading this, make this evening's resolutions doable. Make them specific and measurable and realistic. I hope that you achieve them and thereby break the hoodoo of the unfulfilled resolution.

Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay—
Stay till the good old year,
So long companion of our way,
Shakes hands, and leaves us here.
Oh stay, oh stay,
One little hour, and then away.

William Cullen Bryant

There is a lot of unearned inflated self-regard about and it appears to be getting worse. Pandering to this epidemic of me and me and me again is a cafe in England that is now offering a selfieccino (surely a horrible word in any dialect of English). An image of the customer is uploaded to the cafe where a clever machine prints said image onto the froth of a cappuccino.

It is not for me to offer a moral argument on this ghastly development but it is impossible not to look scornfully at the concept. After all, coffee at a cafe is a social activity. It is conducive to a lively conversation about all manner of things, from the mundane to the mystical, but now I fear that in addition to people staring at their hands for inspiration, they will also peer longingly at themselves, as rendered on the surface of their beverage. Sure, I understand that it can all be had in good fun and that the phenomena may pass like so many other fads. On the other hand, it might just be the beginning.

Caravaggio would have additional subject matter if he was painting today.

Today I cooked my first Thai meal, Larb Na. The dish is one of Ann's favourites and the recipe came out of Cooking With Poo, a book I bought recently. Poo has a cooking school in the slum district of Bangkok.

For more than 5 years the school has been running in Klong Toey for tourists as well as local residents. Poo represents a remarkable model of success and positivity in an often difficult and complex landscape of poverty and hardship and has trained up a team of fellow residents.

So this was a book well worth buying as it is now well worth using. Ann was so proud of me and kept saying "David, you can cook Thai food!" as if I had opened a magic cave filled with gold and silver. Truth is, if you get organized, it's not that hard.

People often make jokes about the title, but this is a great book and well recommended.

Good poetry captures the essence of human experience. Unlike prose, it distills it through an economy of language and a particular attention to word choice and structure, allowing the moment, or the experience, to resonate within the reader. Because our life experiences are often different, two separate readers might have divergent views on the impact of the same poem. Others will bring with them a knowledge of decoding the poem, skills that are taught at school and soon forgotten. I suspect that this is one reason why poets are no longer esteemed as once they were and that the general public is rarely bothered to read verse of any sort.

I confess that poets themselves must take some of the blame, for the shrinking of their profession and its confinement to academic circles has meant that a particularly abstruse form of poem has become common. I remember reading a few poems by an acclaimed young Australian poet and being bamboozled. The obscurity of the language made the poems dry and largely inaccessible to anyone except, presumably, a closed circle of fellow poets. Sure, poems should be challenging sometimes but they need to be readable. They need to communicate.

I have mentioned the Tang Dynasty poet Du Fu before. An official in the Chinese bureaucracy at a time of considerable upheaval in the land, Tu Fu became a chronicler of the times. He reacted with genuine emotion to the threats of war and rebellion that he encountered. The following one, translated by Ken Rexroth, strikes a far more Daoist note. The hermitage may be real, or perhaps serves as a metaphor for the poet's desire to escape the folly of the world.

WRITTEN ON THE WALL AT CHANG’S HERMITAGE

It is spring in the Mountains.
I come along seeking you.
The sound of chopping wood echoes
Between the silent peaks.
The streams are still icy.
There is snow on the trail.
At sunset I reach your grove
In the stony mountain pass.
You want nothing, although at night
You can see the aura of gold
And silver ore all around you.
You have learned to be gentle
As the mountain deer you have tamed.
The way back forgotten, hidden
Away, I become like you
An empty boat, floating, adrift.

When I first became familiar with existential thinking as an undergraduate, it was a revelation to me. Thinking about what life meant and how we made meaning in our lives was already something I thought a lot about. Studying the Romantic poets in senior high school opened me up to a broader conversation about existence and whether there was something beyond the material. I confess that part of me has been fascinated with religious thought since an early age, while another part of me scoffed at all this as I learned about science and the rational world. It is a dichotomy that has never been bridged.

The idea that we are born with no a priori purpose is strangely liberating. When I first dug into the pages of Esslin's Theatre of the Absurd, read the plays of Ionesco, Beckett and Albi, and attended the wonderful lectures of Dr. Jean Wilhelm in World Drama 1, some bright thing hove into view. It has stayed with me since, informing at least some of the work I did as a drama teacher and remaining a touchstone to this day. In terms of the arts, absurdism (which is one possible conclusion of existentialism) has the potential to unsettle a baked-in worldview and challenge long-held beliefs. There is nothing wrong with testing these waters, for stoking doubt surely gives us conditions for further growth if we are open to it.

Truth is, I keep running into stuff that harks back to my earlier epiphany. I haven't lost that first sense of wonder that there were real people thinking great things beyond my middle-class existence, things that went way beyond mundane concerns and the wretched mediocrity of television. What that says about me I don't know except that I feel compelled by a curiosity that I cannot explain.

Tom is almost finished 6th Grade and tomorrow will complete primary school. There have been a number of social events recently and I have often found myself sitting in the main quad waiting for something to start or end. Last night was his farewell and this afternoon is his graduation.

I don't always find someone to talk to on these occasions but yesterday, as I stared at a news site on my phone, a man I didn't know sat down next to me. Our brief encounter went thusly.

Him: You must have something interesting there.
Me: Yes, I'm looking at the returns from Alabama.

(Silence)

Me: Oh, er, the special Senate election results.

(Silence)

Him: That's in the US?
Me: Yes.

(Silence)

This probably reflects poorly on me, though I'm wondering just what sort of geek this gentleman thought he had sat down next to. I hasten to add that I rarely look at my phone in public but was drawn by the rolling coverage and the potential closeness of the contest. Politics is a funny thing, ne?

Tom's formal went really well and was unencumbered by obscure American electoral statistics.

local cemetery

summer-heated stone,
warily an old couple tread,
stoop to read a name

Back in August, I posted about being able to buy Dekavita C in one of the Daiso stores in George Street, Sydney. It was one of those things that conjured vivid memories of living in Japan, especially those steaming summer days when I chose to walk into the centre of Sanda with 100 yen jangling in my pocket. Not long after, Daiso ran out of the magical drink and it has not been seen since. By way of compensation perhaps, bottles of Oranamin C appeared in the refrigerator of the same Daiso store, producing a similar effect in me. I did not drink as much of this concoction at the time, but sometimes it was the only alternative to Dekavita in the vending machine, should that be unavailable.They have a similar taste.

Sure enough, upon visiting the same Daiso a week ago, the Oranamin C was gone, it's price tag removed! It seems that Daiso is subject to the whims of supply, whims that may have nothing to do with market forces, nor my entreaties to puzzled staff. Oh well!

I have been looking at some of the grimmer offerings that thoughtful FB friends have posted. I don't mean the bland pretending-to-be-meaningful memes that are the bread and butter of so many posts, but those with a strong social or political message. Sometimes they can be quite jolting, but it is always better to be shaken up than anesthetized. Uncomfortable to view they may be but the chance to address social ills or injustices is a noble pursuit, even where it is confined merely to words. Actions can follow if enough people feel the same way.

Many of these kinds of posts address the alleged skewed interface between technology and people. Some focus on the way we are seduced by the lure of gadgetry. Everyone reading this post will have noticed that the public space has been invaded by portable technology, and principally the smart phone. I have such a phone and it serves a utilitarian purpose - to communicate, to inform, to entertain. But I recognise that having a smart phone is in itself a threat to my autonomy unless I am aware of its distracting influence, its unshakeable omnipresence.

Theodor Adorno addressed some of these issues when he wrote about the "culture industry" seventy years ago. He noted that capitalism had co-opted culture (as with much else), creating a commodity out of it. Culture was thereafter for profit alone, with art being subsumed within the various modes of production. Perhaps worse was how this new product became the go-to escape for bored and alienated workers, who could seek some relief from stultification through the radio, the cinema, records, and later TV. Today the full panoply of mediated diversion is available and the list grows, with more promised. I don't agree with all of Adorno's positions, but think there is much to be gained from applying such an analysis.

We should never, however, underestimate the human capacity to think through the implications of phenomena. It is arrogant to think otherwise.

In his seminal work, The Society of the Spectacle, Guy Debord argued that capitalism and mass consumption had created a world in which human relations were now mediated by images. Commodification had intruded so radically into all spheres of life that individuals, who were formerly in a natural state of being, passed into another state of having and finally into one of appearing. It is not hard to see how Debord's thesis might be applied today, even though his work is 50 years old. He did not live to see the internet age nor the era of the smartphone, but it seems likely he would not have been surprised. I can imagine him writing an essay on the selfie, much as he also might be interested in the artificial online self. And much else besides.

Debord was a Marxist and critical theorist. He was also a French intellectual so (without trying to sound too essentialist) he tended to hyperbolize - theories were seen through to their most radical conclusions, but his central ideas remain pertinent and influential. I don't have his brainpower for deep analysis but reading his work, though it is sometimes obscure and difficult to grasp, reflects how I have long felt about the modern Western world. In saying this I am not harking back to some ideal time (there may have been some great historical periods to have been alive but they didn't have modern medicine or dentistry) and what's done is done. But it behooves us, perhaps, to meditate upon why so many people seem anxious or unhappy or prone to using drugs or alcohol, when we live in an age of unparalleled plenty. What is ungrounding us?

Christmas crowds, Sydney, I

hunting a seat
to pen three simple lines-
like dancing on the sun

Photos of old Sydney pop up on my FB feed from time to time. The metropolis of Sydney is not all that old, being founded in 1788, so age is less dramatic a condition than it is in say Rome or London. But these pictures are set in time, often before I was born or in a very junior state, so they evoke a sense of what was. All too often they also critique what has become. Comparisons like this can sometimes be misleading, for though a demolished structure may have had a charming exterior, it might have been a little box of horrors within. Poor lighting and ventilation, cramped offices and so forth are potentially hidden by a pretty facade, though my acquaintance with older buildings is often the opposite.

Wandering through the city yesterday, with time on my hands before meeting Ann, I reflected upon the changed streetscape of so much of the CBD. I don't want to launch into a criticism of modernist and post-modernist architecture. But it's clear that even the briefest acquaintance with the photos I mentioned earlier demonstrates that a stroll along George or Pitt Street in the 1950's would have been a visually more pleasant experience than it is now. Buildings were only a few stories in height and had facades that blended with each other and which invited a human presence.

Passing Martin Place yesterday, and despite the continuance of many fine buildings, it was clear that a number of ill-conceived skyscrapers ruined the effect, no matter what direction one might look. The crescent moon hung like a necklace between these ugly structures.

broken bauble
pasted on a concrete sky,
oh slip of moon!

Later on, I took a photo near the spot of another shot taken way back in 1954 of the concourse leading from Central Station adjacent Belmore Park. It is an area that I walk past regularly on my city jaunts. I didn't get the exact location, but near enough to show how 50 years has altered one precinct.

Tom plays basketball on Wednesdays with a bunch of his school friends. They call themselves The Ballers. He is new to the game but is starting to improve, though building confidence is a slow process. So too building skills, which occurs slowly, unless you happen to be one of those kids who seems to be a natural at sport. They are rare enough though and most of us have to work at it. But underlying becoming good at something is having confidence in yourself sufficient to take risks. Just to hold on to a ball and not feel compelled to get rid of it requires some faith in yourself.

The Ballers are a stylish lot and the tendency to all have the same haircut with a long fringe attracts considerable mirth from parents during a game. There is as much flicking of the hair as passing of the ball, so one parent came up with this solution yesterday.

Ange Postecoglou has stepped down as the National Coach of the Socceroos today. Even though Postecoglou had hinted at this possibility in recent weeks, it seemed impossible that a man on the verge of taking a team to the World Cup, the premium event in world football, would not grasp that opportunity with both hands. But something else was stirring inside the man, some other cause or grievance or hurt, and now the job is vacant. He has done a great job.

Who will fill these shoes at such a time? I hope, for heavens sakes that we don't get some foreign hack or blowhard, intent on cashing in. I pray for an Australian coach, or someone familiar with the game and mindset of the players in this country.

Well done Ange Postecoglou and good luck with your next venture.

I don't remember anything of the Sydney I was born into in 1958. It was, undoubtedly, a different town to the one I visit regularly today. Recollections from early childhood rarely begin much before three years of age and I am afraid that the 3 or 4-year-old me would have little of interest to recall. The Russians may or may not have had a device aimed at my hometown, the Beatles may yet to have been formed and trams still plied their trade through Sydney streets, but I remained in short-panted ignorance of anything but my immediate needs.

Today I found in another post the following photo of Central Station, dated 1958. It is one of those curiosities that stops one, a scene at once familiar (the vast arch of the station) and unfamiliar (the long-gone shops spilling onto the concourse), for I walk through this space at least once a week. I wonder if the all-night service really ran all night, and what refreshments it served? How much stamina, do you think, did the trousers need to have to deal with an Australian summer and winter? What of the man in the dust coat (recalling Ronny Barker, surely) and the gentlemen reading at the far end of the newsagency? What magazine, exactly? And the ubiquitous milk bar, now a rarity.

Philip Larkin completed his magnificent The Whitsun Weddings in October 1958, a poem based upon another railway journey in another country. The first verse reads-

That Whitsun, I was late getting away:
Not till about
One-twenty on the sunlit Saturday
Did my three-quarters-empty train pull out,
All windows down, all cushions hot, all sense
Of being in a hurry gone. We ran
Behind the backs of houses, crossed a street
Of blinding windscreens, smelt the fish-dock; thence
The river’s level drifting breadth began,
Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet.

Larkin gradually becomes aware that traditional Whitsun Weddings were underway at every small stop and station along the line and reflects on this "frail travelling coincidence." I suspect that many such paths crossed at Sydney's Central Station. Though the pace is faster, indicative of the impatience of our time, it is still happening now.

Last Thursday Ann graduated from her college, Bridge Business College. The Diploma of Business Accounting is a far lesser qualification than her Bachelor degree from Thailand, but it is nevertheless remarkable in that she studied in a foreign language, English. I can't begin to imagine the trouble I would have reading a simple street map in Thai, so I take my hat off to her and all her cohort for their achievement.

Ann is typically humble about her graduation and didn't want anything posted anywhere. I disobeyed and sent a photo to FB. I am proud of her and would like the world to know.

The votes are in and counted. The results are out. Better than 61% of Australians voted for Marriage Equality, with a majority in every state and territory. Now all that matters is for the National Parliament in Canberra to craft and pass the relevant legislation. The hour is now. The need, pressing.

I am convinced that the Yes vote would have been higher had it not been for a dismal and mendacious campaign by elements of the No side. As alluded to before, a logical argument, perhaps appealing to tradition or religious belief did not materialize. A very poor attempt at scaring and confusing people did, sufficient to dissuade some in the community, no doubt.

I suspect the sun will rise in the morning. The sky will not fall. People can get on with loving each other and the rest of us can mind our own business.

I was with Ann in Auburn the other day. From the window of the office we were waiting in, rows of trees in full bloom were swaying in an adjacent park. There were children playing happily in their shade, a scene so common as to be instantly forgotten. Looking at my watch, it occurred to me that the Melbourne Cup was underway, though all was blissfully silent around us. I wrote this entry in my notes.


jacarandas lilt,
and kids frisk blithely beneath,
somewhere, hooves quicken

I like smart people and smart ideas. Conversely, well, you know what I am going to say! I like art though I am only a rank amateur in terms of my knowledge or understanding of it. I like wandering through galleries and sometimes, though much less these days, curated exhibitions of art. While it is very convenient to have all that good stuff in one place at one time, sometimes it feels like I am just consuming a product. And then there is all that faux studied-attention and more latterly, selfies.

Today I found this clever this cartoon representation of the history of art in the avant-garde era, an era which I suppose began in the latter part of the 19th Century. It's funny and true enough to be helpful, should you ever wander into one of those huge galleries like the Tate or the Louvre and become befuddled by the post-realist phase of Western Art.

As for the beginning of things, the Universe began forming a long time before the Earth came into being. This order will be reversed for the end of things, when the Earth goes out in a fiery blaze long, long before the Universe becomes a sea of dark atoms. If you are religious then you might quibble with this view, for all things might have been made at the same time, or in short order thereafter. An apocalyptic view of the end might see all things being extinguished at once, something physically impossible, though theology apparently can enable it. Even a change in the vacuum state of the Universe can only happen at the speed of light, so some phenomena get upended later in the day, so to speak.

Which brings me to the world. The watching world. Rarely a week goes by without some media head telling us that the whole world is watching some event. I have often wondered at this, especially when I was a child. It seemed to me that at least half the world or more did not have a TV set or a radio, nor much loose change for a newspaper. I thought it unlikely that they could watch even if they wanted to, yet still I was told that the whole world was watching. It was puzzling indeed.

I suppose that someone should have told me that this was merely idiomatic. It also may have reflected the Western worldview, one in which a group of countries in what was then the First World dominated the narrative. Today there are more voices from outside this formerly ascendant group. No doubt somewhere in Beijing, a news editor is writing up a headline about how the whole world is holding its breath, and some child is scratching her head, wondering why it is so.

There is hardly a moment's peace in the omnipresent and strangely overstimulated world of media. Short of turning every device off and ignoring the newspapers (now far fewer than of yore), it is impossible to get away from its constant jabbering. It fills every space and then forgets the contents of the space it has filled, as if the last event has somehow disappeared or never existed in the first place. This odd amnesiac tendency sweeps away whole lives and narratives as if by magic, though we know the real reason is more a hyperactive hunger to fill the next gap in the cycle.

I think the ultimate effect of all this noise, for noise it is, is to create anxiety. I am not saying that the intention is to make populations anxious, but that the management of news ends up with people feeling dislocated, worried and uncertain about the world around them. There is very little balance between so-called bad news (war, accidents, murder etc) and good news, those stories that tell of positive human endeavour. I am told that the latter does not sell, but I am skeptical. We have been trained to expect the worst by our news services.



On a quite different note, a friend asked me what the haiku in my previous post was about. I was surprised that anyone read this blog, let alone a friend. She guessed that it had something to do with the funeral of King Rama IX (correct!) but did not understand the last line. When I wrote the poem, I was struggling for a way of more symbolically portraying the passing of the King's funeral carriage. I decided to use one of the Thai Royal Houses's own symbols, the discus (Chakri). The Chakri, being circular, is wheel-like. This reminded me of the Wheel of Dharma, a Buddhist concept you can investigate for yourself. So the Wheel fits nicely(in my head, anyway) the relationship between the Royal House and the Buddhist faith that it upholds.

thin spires of gold
quiet seas of black prostration,
slow turns the Wheel

Quiet Night Thoughts

I wake, and moonbeams play around my bed
Glittering like hoar-frost to my wandering eyes;
Up towards the glorious moon I raised my head,
Then lay me down — and thoughts of home arise.

The Tang period poet Li Bai was famous in his time as a poet and a practitioner of the Dao. He was also, like many of his literary colleagues, a big fan of wine. A poem I was reading (and thought to publish here) last night, has Li dancing with his shadow and the moon in a wine-infused frolic. The one above, Quiet Night Thoughts, is a poem probably known to all Chinese.

How many of us have been far from home and reminded by some phenomena, a flower, a word, a smell, or, in this case, the play of moonbeams, of our home? Li is likely in the south of China and the moonlight, resembling in his waking state, a hoar-frost, resonates with him, producing the kinds of memories, of feelings, that arise in all of us.

With the cremation of the old Thai King, Rama IX, scheduled for tomorrow in Bangkok, Ann and I went to the Wat Buddharangsee in Stanmore to pay our respects. This temple is not to be confused, though I am sure it is, with the Wat Buddharansee in Annandale, a short distance away. Both are established in beautiful old properties, with a newish building at the rear of each house accommodating the actual prayer and liturgical space, where services are held. In Thailand, this is called the wihan, though I am not sure it applies in these cases.

I use the word service advisedly because it is quite unlike a Christian liturgy, while at the same time having some similar elements of structure and purpose. There is an order to the liturgy, with prayers and chanting (in Pali), a talk by one of the residing monks, and blessings. It has a beginning, middle, and an end and there is a place for offerings (to the monks) and money for the temple and other projects.

Yesterday we didn't attend the service though we have often done so at the larger Wat Buddharangsee in Annandale. Instead we did some devotional things, such as lighting incense, rubbing gold leaf on sacred objects and offering a paper bouquet before a portrait of the late King. Later we took a couple of obligatory photos and headed into the city for lunch. I really enjoy these places (much as I also like churches) and come away feeling a greater sense of purpose. Whenever we leave the placid temple gates, the maelstrom awaits, but we are usually the stronger for it.

A little over thirty years ago I was on my first round of share accommodation at Balgowlah Hts and later, Gordon. Oh lahdeedaa I hear you say! This was merely a pause before the journey further and further into Sydney's Western Suburbs. But I digress. At these former abodes, one of my flatties had a copy of The Thom Bell Sessions, an EP by Elton John, produced by noted Philadelphia soul meister, Thom Bell. The EP was a trifling three songs in length but far more worrying yet was the fact that I had never heard of it. I cannot to this day explain this gap in my EJ discography, for at that time I was a huge aficionado of the man, with every original LP in my collection.

This is pure arcana for the general reader and I raise it only to make a similar confession. Looking through the Spotify EJ album collection today, and coming upon The Complete Thom Bell Sessions, I was astonished to see the EP had grown to six songs. Also included was an original and significantly different version of Are You Ready For Love. The latter features the voices of Bobby Smith and John Edwards from The Spinners and is a much better song for their inclusion.

Many of Mr. Dwight's fans winced at this EP and its notorious follow-up, Victim of Love. Disco seemed like a bit of sell-out for a piano player with a pop-rock sensibility, but there is always a case to be made for getting something out of your system. For me, the albums spanning A Single Man through 21 at 33 marked a fundamental change in the style and creativity of Elton's music, though not necessarily for the better. There was still good music to come, though not much that made the hairs on my neck stand on end.

I should have mentioned in my last post that, in addition to my sleepover duties, I constructed a basketball system for Tom. I would never recommend that anyone undertake this task on their own, for it is a two-person job. But I tried and got quite a long way before realizing that I could not hold a heavy pole in place and tighten nuts at the same time. Tom and a friend helped out and we got very close to the finish line before calling time-out due to a frozen bolt. I had no tool that could fit the cowling where the nut was stubbornly housed.

This morning my friend Rick dropped by with a tube spanner and whacko, the thing is up. I still have to set the base on flatter ground and make a few adjustments but the boys were shooting baskets the moment the net was hung. It is nice to feel even a little bit handy.

Sleepovers are a big thing with kids these days. When I was younger they were uncommon, but now they seem strangely de rigueur. I really don't like them in such a small house as this, where a sneeze in the living area can occasion sleeplessness in the bedroom. With all the gadgets and games and cable TV, there is no escaping the noise. To be honest, I like it quiet and settled in the evenings. But in the interests of being a good parent, I tolerate them every fortnight or so.

As a compromise, I bought Tom a small tent and this is where I confine the sleeping side, at least in the warmer months. The sleepover runs something like this. I erect the tent and furnish all the bedding and interior items. I cook dinner and supply all the snacks. I give up the living room to electronic games for the evening. The following morning I make breakfast, air all the bedding and take down the tent. In between times I pick up the half-built lego, also the innumerable sundry items that are dropped and forgotten, whilst fielding complaints about unsatisfactory service or unexpressed needs that I have failed to attend to. You can understand, perhaps, why I don't like sleepovers.

A scene of relative calm.

like urging
a bee from a spray of jasmine,
spring rain

this looming dark
the moon's skate through starry skies-
another birthday

My last post on this subject. This old and fairly poor quality photo of the same shops dates from the late 1960's when the corner shop was a milk bar! Even on family trips through the Mountains during that period, I can't recall it ever being this kind of business. My memory of this shop was its use as a tea room and sometime "old wares" emporium known as Patricia Patience, as in the previous post.

The Australian milk bar was thriving back then, though it is very rare to find one now, except perhaps in country towns. For those unfamiliar with the concept, a milk bar sold milkshakes, lollies, snacks, chocolate, newspapers and sometimes fast food like hamburgers or hot chips. Patrons could sit on booth-like seating. They were a very social aspect of suburban life which sadly have been replaced by unappealing and anonymous fast food joints.

Things pop up as if by magic sometimes. A couple of posts ago I mentioned the shops that were demolished in Hazelbrook to make way for the widening of the highway. Today on FB a picture was posted of these very shops, which for me was a kind of serendipitous moment. This being my birthday, I feel I can indulge myself by reposting it here. When you knock something down, there can be a loss of place and a diminution of meaning. Perhaps this happened here. But then again, it is happening everywhere, all the time.

The allegations of serial sexual harassment and assault against Hollywood mogul Harvey Weinstein are not all that surprising. The acting profession, particularly in the rarified and competitive atmosphere of Hollywood movies, has lent itself to such abuses for decades. When I was with the Rocks Players in my late teens, the rumours about who the director of the play(I was in) were constant and likely correct. I was scandalized at the time.

The casting couch, a polite though somewhat dark euphemism, has been a perk for the producers and directors and the management of movies and theatre for as long as can be remembered, and then some. I have been reading, on and off, a book about the scandals and shenanigans of Hollywood bigwigs (principally at MGM) during the time known as the Golden Years of Hollywood. It is far too prurient a book to read for more than short periods and I won't honour it by naming it, but it reveals in seedy detail just how ordinary the casting couch was at that time. Hundreds of budding young actresses, all hoping for a break, all keen to make it in the movies, spent time auditioning in a manner they had not bargained for. Weinstein fits perfectly into that historical period, though he is a distinct oddity now.

Likely, I think, he won't be the last to be caught. There surely must be others who have abused their power in this glittering profession. Each gleaming bauble, held aloft, reveals it's dark underbelly.

burdened with dark thoughts
I climbed the hill to find
wild roses blooming

Buson (1715-83)

Whenever I read haiku by a Japanese master, I wonder why I bother to write them myself. What a gem the preceding poem by Buson is. We enter into the "dark thoughts" of the poet, perhaps wondering what or how these musings came about. We climb the hill and like the climber, are surprised and perhaps delighted by the array of blooming roses which greets us. They are a tonic for our doubts and a palliative for our cares.

Periodically old photos of Hazelbrook pop up on FB sites devoted to such things. I like to look at them not only because they represent the past, but also because of the connections to the present. People often moan about how ruinous change can be and sometimes change is genuinely detrimental to the economic and social well being of a person or a community. I tend to be more optimistic about change, seeing it everywhere, understanding its seminal role in history and its great potential for transformation. I am not talking about unbridled or unthought-through change, though these can be beneficial too, but change that occurs as a natural consequence of living in societies that will always be evolving. We live in a universe that is predicated upon constant change.

But I digress. Hazelbrook in 1983 was a town that I knew about, had driven through many times, and had admired for its old-time worldliness, especially at the intersection of Winbourne Rd and the Highway. The buildings that were at that site were demolished to make way for the four-lane highway expansion. The photo today is of the shopping centre 25 years ago, its principal interest being the cars (an Austin 1800 on the far left) and the advertisement for Millers Hi-Lo beer, which I used to drink at just around that time.

We are in the midst of a somewhat acrimonious debate and postal plebiscite on marriage equality. I will leave to one side the abject failure of the National Parliament to legislate on this matter (which they empowered and tasked to do) but rather focus on what arguments might be found against giving gay and lesbian couples the right to marry.

Do I hear crickets in the night? It's true that there are not many arguments outside of sheer prejudice that really carry any weight. The No campaign has focused on non-sequiturs, citing religious freedom and Safe Schools Education as cogent, though completely unexplained, arguments. I hear tell of the effect but fail to see the causal link, nor has any link been presented. This is very feeble indeed.

Religious conservatives have a better argument, at least from their point of view. There is a case to be made by such a person who might argue that their faith has a long tradition of heterosexual marriage and that their opposition is grounded upon this point. I can understand that and while we live in a secular society, they have every right to make it. It is a particular, albeit sacred view of marriage, based on tradition, that really only carries weight with people of faith. But at least it is coherent.

Frankly, I am surprised that conservatives don't actually take up the cudgel for marriage equality. Marriage, by common assent, is a very conservative institution that is often portrayed as fundamental to a healthy society. You can argue the toss about the legitimacy of that view but nevertheless, I would have thought that including more and more people in such an institution is the hallmark of a conservative argument. But what would I know?

Everything is resolved soon, though if the Yes vote fails at the last, it will be years before marriage equality becomes a reality. So I hope for a smooth passage.

There is too much to know. You can dig just a little in one bed, only to find a vast field stretching before you. Choose any disciple you like and the amount that you can know is overwhelming. A whole life might be spent in one small corner, a space that expands with every enquiry, every investigation. Fortunately, you can choose where to start and how to proceed. Unfortunately, if you have a thirst for understanding, one place is never enough.

My friend John Hawkins said to me twenty-five years ago that the time was short and there was much to learn. He had a sense of urgency about him, his living room piled with thick texts. Recently he gained his Doctorate, a measure of his progress, though he is unlikely to rest from his lifelong project.

I dip in a lot of places, not quite knowing where it will end, or whether it will even start.

The posting of my pedometer comparisons in the last post may have spurred a wicked response from the Fates. For the following day, I fell ill and have been so since. Bringing to mind, at its worst, my experience with pneumonia 13 years ago, I have largely been confined to bed with a high fever. Even though the fever has now come down to a more moderate level, my body feels like wrung-out and much-abused sponge. Everything appears other-earthly.

My son Tom flies with his mum to New Zealand today for a two-week holiday. Originally she had planned to go to Japan, then Vietnam, but settled upon the pretty place across the ditch out of convenience, I suspect. I hope that he has a good time there. Travel can have such benefits upon the mind and I hope he comes back safely, of course, but also a little more mature for his experience.

Ann has been using a pedometer app on her phone at work for a while now and she encouraged me to do the same. Every day I walk once or twice whilst listening to podcasts, so it seemed like a harmless enough thing to do. But I was a little sceptical about how accurate these kinds of measures are and not wanting to be deceived, put my newly downloaded app to the test. Yes, this is an exceedingly nerdy and quite boring thing to do, but my mind is usually restless until some kind of measurement of some thing is done.

So I dragged out my old pedometer, the one that Anglicare had encouraged us to buy and use. I replaced the battery and clipped it to my side this morning. In my pocket was my iPod, with both the app and the device set to zero. Off I went on one of my regular walks, the one that takes me past the local Steiner School and a short way into the National Park. When I got home I compared the two readings and here is the result.



I have to say, I was a little impressed. The 11 steps difference was well within the margin of error. In addition, the older style pedometer tended to click over every time it was moved, being somewhat trigger-happy. So, sitting down to tie my laces and then getting up again would register two steps. Just clipping it on and off my belt was another two steps, making the results almost dead even.

Boy, I must get a life someday!

Many people struggle with anxiety and a fair percentage of the population carry it with them every day. Anxiety can become a problem when it is chronic or when it comes on in such a way that it can lead to panic. I simplify the matter here but the gist is true. It is particularly devastating for the seriously afflicted because it appears, to others, as an invisible illness for which the remedy is simple. How often have people been told to pull up their socks and get on with it or any number of similar formulations? This is, of course, exactly what those with anxiety disorders would dearly love to do, but the bewilderment and fear that can take hold of a person preclude any such course of action. Anxiety of this magnitude freezes a person in time and space. They are stuck, wondering where their old self has gone and counting the days since their descent into the maelstrom.

I had an anxiety disorder in the 1980's and it took me a few years to work out what was happening. Doctors appeared to have no idea what was wrong with me and the only psychiatrist I saw wanted to offer psychoanalysis (wholly ineffectual) and valium. Finally I ran into a GP who, after interviewing me about my condition, gave me a copy of Self-Help For Your Nerves by the late Dr Claire Weekes. I read this book over many times and it spoke directly to me. I understood what was wrong and how I could fix it. I have read elsewhere and often that this precious tome saved lives as I know it saved mine. There was a time when I thought I would not make thirty, so I have Dr Weekes to thank for every day and every year since. Just the mention of her name brings a sense of deep gratitude to my heart.

This is not to say that I am cured of anxiety. It still plays a part in my life and causes me significant trouble at times. I pull out Self-Help every so often and reread the important chapters. But I am never so afflicted as I was some thirty years ago and I know where help lies, should I need it. If you are an anxiety sufferer, and your anxiety is disrupting your life, then please read this book.

The Autumn Grand Sumo Basho has finally begun, the venue Tokyo. For the first time in a long while, there will be only one Yokozuna in action, the others being absent through injury. Luckily the one still standing is my favourite, Harumafuji, though I read that even he is carrying an injury. He may have his hands full if Ozeki Takayasu gets a good start and practises his impressive brand of sumo. A Mongolian vs a Japanese matchup is the kind of thing the sports needs and it is pleasing to see how full the kokugikan are. Both rikishi are 1-0 after the first day.

If you are befuddled by my use of Japanese terminology, here is an excellent demystifier.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_sumo_terms

Meanwhile, two of the potential contenders for the title in a previous encounter, the Yokozuna victorious. Hakkeyoi!

A year ago to this day, Ann and I were married. We had a simple ceremony in the backyard of a friend, then a decent lunch at the local Thai restaurant. For once, I wore a suit with my shirt tucked in. Ann looked beautiful in a traditional Thai wedding dress.

A year later and we are happily married. This is not to say that we don't disagree or that at times there are some very odd cultural misunderstandings. I do my best to unravel these and keep the peace, but it is difficult. I feel like an explorer in a world of objects and symbols that I cannot recognise. A day or two later, it all blows over and we are back to normal again.

Some things don't change, strangely enough. Accepting what is part of one's lot is a journey in which the smooth sailing of our hopes is constantly dashed by the reality of our days.

But I am nevertheless, a lucky man, to have found such a woman as Ann.

My last post might have seemed a little pessimistic. That may be the result of listening to too many cosmology podcasts in which end-of-the-universe scenarios are postulated. It's true enough though, for unless you believe in an active Divine being, or salvation from an advanced race of super-smart aliens, there is only doom and gloom in the far distant future. You can check it out for yourself in any decent book on the Universe. Whether this matter is a cause for alarm now is largely moot for we have our own real human-generated challenges that need urgent attention.

We are in Spring, and all the plums in the garden have bloomed. Some of the more advanced trees, those that get a greater share of sunshine, are now in leaf. It has been very windy and the time is a bad one for hay fever. People are sneezing at all quarters as pollen and dust are generated by the unceasing gusts. It is also very dry and bush fire warnings are already apparent in the media. The Blue Mountains may be due for another visitation, though let's hope it is not as bad as the last time. If you live in a National Park, this is the price. We all know it.

Tom starts high school next year and we are undecided about which school. He wants to follow his friends to Winmalee HS but that door is shut. I am happy with the local choice in Springwood, though the boy is now talking about St Columbas. It's a good school too. I suppose we shall see.

In the event that a future civilisation decides to excavate the earth, perhaps millions of year from now, they will find a unique layer where humans once were. They might find the signs of hardy industrial processes, such as plastics. They will doubtless find other manufactured remains, or the ghosts of those manufactures. They will also find radioactive products from the man-made nuclear era. It will be a very different stratum to those that preceded it, one in which the Earth was changed over a brief period and by quite artificial means, all at the hands of humans.

Not to be a pessimist but I think it's doubtful that the descendants of humans will be amongst those future explorers and scientists, our time having run its course, the evidence all too apparent in the stratum.

Today is the last day of winter in strict calendar terms, for tomorrow will be hailed as the first day of Spring. I speak from the Southern Hemisphere, of course, where my fruit trees have long been tricked into flowering before their allotted time. The date is of no consequence to them and still less to my hayfever, which has played havoc this week.

The nights and mornings continue to be cold and this is always difficult for poor Ann, who is dressing at the break of dawn and disappearing for college or work shortly after. I know that for a Thai person our colder weather must be a constant scourge, though the same conditions for a Northern European must seem positively balmy. Such is the planet.

I have been immersed, as I am inclined to from time to time, in cosmological matters. There is nothing like a dose of astronomy or related studies to give one a sense of perspective. Human affairs seem insignificant, in fact, entirely inconsequential, when measured in galactic terms. Human struggle may seem noble but is lost like an anthill in a vast and unceasing desert when compared to just a fraction of what there is, or what we know, about the universe. It is a tonic to hubris and arrogance. It is also a spur to ambition.

Our importance might be marginally swelled though if The Fermi Paradox is true. The Fermi what? I hear you ask. At the most basic level, the paradox posits this. The universe is so vast and filled with billions of stars, a decent percentage of which could support planets on which life might thrive. So, given the odds, which are generous, shouldn't we see signs of aliens by now. Even in our own galaxy, where tens of thousands of potential habitats exist, why don't we see signs of activity? Where are they?

Now that is a poor attempt at a description of a more complex idea and I encourage you to read up on it. The point I am making is that it is not beyond the realm of possibility that humans are a rare event in cosmic history and perhaps worthy of some congratulation. Or maybe not.

The flight of former Thai PM Yingluck Shinawatra should not come as a huge surprise to anyone. She has been subject to vilification, massive financial penalties and the threat of imprisonment since the overthrow of her Government three years ago. The climate in Bangkok does not favour those disposed towards provincial largesse, since the Bangkok elites now appear to be back in control. Miss Shinawatra's brother, former PM Thaksin, is also in exile with little chance of return.

There is talk that even as they berated Shinawatra, the regime was facilitating her flight. Yingluck behind bars would have been a red rag to the, em, Red Shirts, who may well have taken their ire to the streets again. Many would have seen a conviction as a political judgement, not unreasonable given the current climate. Perhaps the Shinawatra era is over, though as for that, I am not so sure.

Speaking of blossoms, Ann and I attended a cherry blossom event in Auburn on Tuesday. If the words Auburn and cherry blossoms sound a tad incongruous, you would be forgiven for saying so. I think that until fairly recently, the Japanese garden in Auburn has been a bit of a secret, though as for that, the cat is now out of the bag. Even on this weekday, crowds were flocking to see these delicately poised and sublimely short-lived flowers. The garden is laid out along the lines of a traditional Japanese garden, with the usual raked stone gardens, carefully-sited rocks, pools, pathways and trees. In the centre is a small lake, home to noisy geese, fringed by pruned and well-tended trees. Amongst all this wove the sightseeing and photo-seeking public. No flower remained unphotographed, so selfie untaken.

Exhibit A.

a plum tree approaches spring

blossoms by the window
mute in the ginger sunrise,
eloquent with light

The key insight of Gautama Buddha some 2,500 years ago was that the cause of suffering was our attachment to worldly phenomena. All humans suffer because the desire for good things in our lives, whether it be food, consumer items, a relationship, a nice house or car, good health, peace and so forth, will always be thwarted by the transience of these very things. Suffering arises from this contradiction - what we want must change, nothing is permanent. Even the universe, which is in constant change, will one day be nothing more than a sea of remote unlit particles. Most of all really, we are attached to ourselves, to the permanence of our beings, the desire to go on beyond death. It might well be the central problem of the human condition.

The solution in simple terms is to practice non-attachment, gradually freeing ourselves from each attachment. At the extreme edge of this is monasticism, in which the monk has let go of the world - his family, friends, possessions - completely, the loss of which mitigates against suffering. You can't miss what you don't have or anything you have freely given up.

Strangely enough, this ancient faith is a doctrine for our times, for this period in which unchecked consumerism is creating so many stumbling blocks to happiness. The buy is a momentary illusion, a blip of joy before a precipice of suffering. The talk is always of owning, buying, having, a doctrine set up to fail in the light of human psychology.

I have started a new term of English classes at Thai Welfare in the CBD and enjoying it muchly. The class is small (4 students) and the materials that I use at this level are not exactly riveting, yet still it's a worthwhile project. A small class clustered around a couple of pushed-together desks is intimate and there is nowhere for either the teacher or the student to hide, so in some ways, it is easier to teach a class of thirty set out in a proper classroom.

After the Liverpool Street class has finished I sometimes like to wander the busy streets of Sydney, an activity that means tussling with hungry well-dressed lunchtime crowds, who pour ceaselessly from office buildings. Like all modern cities, Sydney bustles and shines and creaks, so it's a wonder the pavements can handle the sheer foot traffic. This is also a time when trams are being reintroduced to parts of central Sydney, so major roads resemble quarries and available space is further squeezed.

One delight from my Japanese past happened a few weeks back when I popped into the George Street Daiso. There in the fridge I saw bottles of Dekavita, a drink I had not seen nor tasted in a dozen years. Back when I was living in Sanda, I would often stop at a vending machine to buy a bottle, the cold, sweet, slightly medicinal taste a contrast to the summertime heat.

And now, here it is, close at hand, for the meantime.

awake now by sharp rapping
I lie sleepless in the cold dark,
wafer moon my lamp.

The sun is growing warmer now, though the nights and mornings are cold. By cold, I mean Australian cold, which to a person from Northern Europe might seem positively balmy. Still, most mornings find a white glaze of frost upon the grass. The rooms in this house are chilly and the insulation value of the cladding is virtually zero, so it is not uncommon to find inside and outside temperatures virtually the same in the early dawn.

Thinking of cold means thinking of its opposite. The three weeks spent in Thailand were very hot indeed, with little respite outside the evenings and mornings. Cloudy skies kept the mercury lower too, though only by a couple of degrees. It is little wonder (though not necessarily good policy) that Thai's are busy air-conditioning everything. I was grateful for it but also wondered, often aloud, whether getting used to the heat and humidity, aided by electric fans, wasn't a better long-term solution. A lot has changed in my 20-year absence.

One evening Ann's family and I went to a lovely al fresco restaurant on the banks of the Chayo Praya. The air from the river was cooling and the place was buzzing with diners. This photo is a memento of that time.

perched in the hand
they preen and flash and sing,
too late for the sky

I do not aim my last post in the manner of a misanthrope, but rather in exasperation at the age of excess we find ourselves in. I can think of no real good that a disproportionate life may be lead into, though I am sure that the reader can find exceptions. In that case, I will provide the rule. And so...

In what kind of world does a majority group of elected politicians, in this case, the US Congress, seriously propose taking health care away from over 20 million people in order to give tax cuts to the top 1%? Well, it must be this one. The United States might not be the best example, but is it not supposed to be a shining one? The same country feels that it's fine for its citizens to be armed, even heavily armed. Freedom and liberty are touted as the justifications (surely a strange distortion of these noble ideals) whilst the profits gained by the manufacturers and the political power wielded by the NRA remain murkily in the background.

I think that there was probably a time in recent history when there was a sufficiency of things. Houses were modest but adequate, meals were nutritious and homemade, families had a single TV and hi-fi, kids shared bedrooms, the locals schools were just fine, aspirations were set lower, within reasonable bounds. This age in Australia was probably in the 1960's and 1970's. Mrs Thatcher and Mr Reagan came along with a host of policies to liberalise economies. Life became more competitive and aspirations grew vastly. Inequality began to increase and is now the serious issue that it is.

I have been blessed to have been sheltered from the worst ravages of this storm, this strange mania. Public sector pay may not match the private sector, but the tradeoff is greater security. Young people these days face a far more fragmented job market and may be forced to take several part time jobs, without any real security nor any obvious material benefit to compensate.

It is not so far from the world we are in now to the kind of laissez-faire realm of Victorian England. In Dicken's Martin Chuzzlewit (one of my current books) the gap between rich and poor is stark. The poor really are poor, there is little or no welfare and the political class talk high-mindedly about free enterprise and hard work. Those who do work the hardest and longest do so for a pittance. Let's not fall so far that we need another Dickens to remind us of the costs.

Fun times for children at the factory.

This is a short filibuster (surely some oxymoron? - ed.) against avarice and its near cousin, affluence. The warnings against avarice go back to ancient times and cross many different cultures and religions. Too much of a good thing and the desire to have more it, which seems almost axiomatic, is likely to be visited by disaster. There is a pretty strong case that this is so. How much deception, how many murders, what quantity of theft, bribery, false witness, how many wars, are the result of avarice?

Affluence may strike you as but a pale shadow of avarice, but the former is the fertile ground for the latter to grow in. Today we have too much of everything except those qualities that add genuine value to life. I don't need to be swatting at you from a pulpit to extol the likely benefit that healthy doses of patience, forebearance, generosity, kindness and the like can have. Nor is there anything wrong with being humble,though the excesses of hubris and narcissism that inform the modern sensibility make that seem positively Dickensian. I am tired of the flagrant exhibitionism, unwarranted celebrity and self-infatuated dullardry of the times. The genuinely talented, noteworthy and hard-working get swallowed up in a sea of mediocrity, a sea that has no event horizon.

Does this all sound a little like jealousy? Maybe.

One unmissable aspect of being in Thailand has been the collective grief for the former monarch, King Bhumibol Adulyadej. Public and private buildings have been festooned with black and white bunting, small sanctuaries devoted to the man have been set up in shopping centres, train stations, photographs are everywhere.

Ann wanted to pay her respects to the late King whilst we were there, and we had planned to join the throng at the Grand Palace waiting for admission to the pre-funeral chamber. I bought a black shirt for the occasion and, late one afternoon, we made our way to the adjoining park, through security checkpoints and into the queue. By great good luck, the line was only a couple of hundred people (only weeks before it had stretched for hundreds of metres) and it was a mere 20 minutes before we were ushered into the small room that contained the closed sarcophagus of Rama IX. A prostration later and we were leaving. It was very efficiently and respectfully handled. I am glad that I went.

King Bhumibol Adulyadej was clearly a much-loved King. There is one photo of him that captures the kind of tenderness that he felt for his people and they for him. It is reproduced below.



In preparation for the solemn event.

I think I mentioned in an earlier post how much I enjoyed reading through The Bangkok Post during our trip to Thailand. Produced in broadsheet form, the pages bend and fold in their own peculiar way, something that it not shared with the tabloid. It was during these reading sessions that I became more acquainted with Thai politics and current affairs. Politics in the Kingdom is an opaque matter, for even Ann is unable to articulate a clear position and Thai's seem reluctant to talk about it.

The Government which arose from the military coup of some three years ago is headed by the former General (now PM) Prayut Chan-o-cha. The regime goes by the name, National Council For Peace and Order, which makes no pretence of being faintly democratic. There is little doubt that the Government has worked earnestly towards solving some of Thailand's problems, but it seems unlikely to me that military men are the best equipped to do so.

A few weeks ago the Prime Minister issued four questions for general discussion in Thailand and they have been widely discussed, though also widely ridiculed. It should come as no surprise that if a question is asked with an answer already in mind, then the exercise is largely moot.

You can judge for yourself.

1. Do you think the next election will bring a government with good governance?

2. What should be done if it fails to do so?

3. Elections are an important element of democracy. Is it right to (give importance to) elections alone without consideration for the country’s future such as national strategy and reform?

4. Do you think political groups with inappropriate behaviour deserve a chance to run in elections? If they are elected, who should solve the problem and how?

I am coming into one of those periods of my life politely called a crossroad. This is the place where one has choices to make which will redound for a decade or more. Not making a choice is a choice in itself and so, the crossroad must be negotiated in one way or another. Put simply, this house is too little for two adults and two children, where the latter are male and female and teenage and not related by birth. Should Ann come through the complicated PR process unscathed, then we are hopeful of bringing her daughter JJ here to live.

So there are some decisions to make over the short term. Do we get a bigger house a little further down the mountain, together with a new mortgage. In that case, I will have to find some paid work to do to ameliorate the repayments, not easy when you are the wrong end of your fifties. Or, perhaps, I could build a small dwelling (read, a room) that would accommodate one of the kids, probably Tom. Or maybe put a little caravan in place for the same purpose, subject to NSW regulation, of course.

I know that Ann would like a clean move, for lots of reasons, so that option is the first cab off the rank. I am loath to get a new mortgage but I may have little choice in the matter, ultimately. Ann likes to say that you can never know what is around the corner, which I know to be true, even if I don't like it. Sitting with uncertainty is difficult, but it must be done.

It is hard to miss temples in Thailand, and perhaps even harder to miss Buddha images, statues, iconography, paintings etc. It is a Buddhist country, after all, and even though some farang like to point out inconsistencies in word and deed (absurd, if you think about it), religious practice informs most days in ways that the outsider might miss.

I have Ann to thank for immersing me more deeply in some of the daily rituals, such as giving food to monks in the morning, making sacred offerings at temples and shrines, visiting different and sometimes obscure parts of temples and so forth. As a foreigner alone in Thailand, I would not have participated for fear of making an error, but when your wife is Thai....

One morning we drove into town (in Petchabun) to buy the daily papers. We pulled over at the newsagent and before I could grab the Bangkok Post from the stand, Ann had me on my knees with a floral offering in hand for a passing monk. The pavement had been set up with rugs for the occasion. It's one of those times you are momentarily thrown by a sudden diversion from routine, though I am guessing Ann had planned it out and just not told me. It pays to be a mind reader, though I am not one.

Back in Australia now, I feel terribly cold pretty much all the time. Somehow I must have acclimatised to the constant heat and humidity of Thailand, or perhaps this is just an overly cold winter. In any event, I don't like it and now I have a head cold.

There is a lot we have to do over the coming months. Ann had a medical for her visa application last Tuesday in Parramatta. Wheels are turning, albeit slowly, concerning all matters to do with immigration, with more documentation required now and in the future. The process is like being near a giant whirlpool, with all manner of flotsam being sucked down and no apparent means of escape.

Just before leaving for Thailand, I was waiting for Ann to finish college in a nearby Wynyard foodcourt. It was peak hour and the whole area was teeming humanity. I wrote this.

rush-hour crowd-
like an ant I push and push
set in winter honey

This is our last night in Thailand for the time being. Today was a tale of many modes of getting places. We caught trains, old and new, a songthaew, a canal boat, a taxi and a tuk tuk, as well as a couple of buses. We walked to the top of a golden mountain in the late morning heat.

Tonight we strolled from our hotel room to a local shopping centre, buying some fish cakes and a prawn noodle salad from street vendors. Bags are pretty much packed and off at 5.30 in the morning.

Our return to Australia inches closer. Tuesday morning we fly out of Bangkok. Ann is growing increasingly sadder as the time nears because this is her natural home and her family live here. But I will support her through the grief that I know she is already manifesting.

A few days ago before we left Phetchabun, Ann's mother tied a white woollen length of string around each of our wrists to symbolise our union. It was very sweet and she wept throughout. It was terribly difficult for Ann to say goodbye to her daughter JJ, knowing that she is unlikely to return anytime soon.

This morning we did a little souvenir shopping at the Chatuchak Markets. Thai arts and crafts offer a pretty creative range of inexpensive options.

Phetchabun is a middling-sized city in the plains north of Bangkok. It is bounded by a mountain range whose ghost-clouded slopes can be seen from anywhere in town. Phetchabun puts me in mind of any similar sized Japanese town, except that it's hotter, dustier and less well maintained. Thai towns are also more disorderly, with road rules created on the spot by every motorist and revised several times a day by every motor cyclist. But it's a nice town and has a real sense of place, with day and night markets, a number of Wat and soi that meander into rice and banana fields.

This is Ann's hometown and I could not have made this trip without the help of my loving wife, who has handled money, language, accommodation and much else besides with aplomb. My friends know only too well that I am quirky at times (stark raving-ed.) and she has been my most faithful companion. I love you darling.

Most days I buy the Bangkok Post. It's a great pleasure to open a broadsheet on the table and read from page to page.Unencumbered by flashing banners and screen-mediated text, one can sit with the texture and content of the pages. It is intelligent and it is tactile. But I digress from the central purpose of this post. I buy the Bangkok Post and Ann usually buys Thai Rath, a Thai national newspaper.

Every day she asks me the same question, "Is it today's newspaper darling?" It's an odd question, don't you think, for who would not buy the newspaper of the day and who would stock yesterday's news?

Today I got an explanation. Upon pointing out to Ann that the Post was dated today's date, this being Wednesday 14th June, she astonished me by saying that her paper was dated June 15, that being tomorrow. Thai news is very fast and constantly updated, she informed me by way of explanation.

Now I may just be a dumb foreigner but it strikes me that the Thai press are trying to subvert the laws of physics, as I understand them. I thought it prudent, however, not to press Ann on the issue. It's just one of those quirky things.

It makes no difference to me whether tomorrow's news can be had today. I am happy enough with the black print spilling across the table, the omnipresent fan lifting the sheets like gentle sails, the creases forming where I have read, where I imperfectly turn the pages.