At last, this old, misbegotten year is finally at an end. For those who struggled, lost loved ones, or found themselves sadder or more lonely than usual, I wish you especially a Happy New Year!

My final shift of 2021 at 2RPH is done and dusted. Today I presented the full 90 minute version of the Newcastle Herald, a welcome return after the truncated Covid edition. Live to air is a delicate balance of minimising mistakes, fitting as much in, maintaining a friendly, business-like tone whilst paying close attention to the clock. Blunders are all too frequent and only human, after all, though we all strive for a certain level of professionalism. Dead air is a big no-no.

On the long journey home my train carriage was mostly empty. Even so, I was very surprised and annoyed that the half dozen or so commuters aboard were not wearing masks, never mind the mandate. I have no idea what goes on inside these people's heads - oblivious to the risk, careless of themselves and others, they blithely flout a very reasonable public health stipulation. 

Nor is wearing said mask under the chin the least bit effective.

How did we get out of the stone age?

I well remember the thrill of clutching a bag with the logo of a Palings, or a Zounds, an HMV or even a local record shop, knowing that a brand new LP was inside. The journey home by train, bus or car was one of a tense countdown to the moment when the slick new cover hove properly into view, and the vinyl was gently squeezed through the sleeve and lovingly laid upon the turntable. Then the entire album - both sides, without elision, was played and usually played again straight after. The immersion in a new musical work had begun.

I am glad that I came through the joyful limitations of analogue into the digital world of anything, anytime. I am thrilled at the opportunity to play anything, anytime, because I have the inadvertent training that the old system gave me. Listen to the whole, it said. Then listen again, allowing the aggregation of songs to create an impression. At some later time, preferences will emerge and choices can be made. But the whole remains greater than the parts.

From what I gather of the digital zeitgeist, the opposite is probably true. Folks assuredly still listen to whole albums through, but the temptation is there to surf, jump tracks or choose a new artist. There is just so much content, why plod through an album chronologically? The technology of analogue forced us to stay with the project - digital offers a kind of pyrrhic liberation, at best.

Christmas Lights

The same time every year
I climb the ladder

Peer into the gloom 

And in the space

Just enough room

For my blind reach -

An attic tomb!

A bag!

And so, every year

A great untangling begins,

Bandoliers of crystal, chord,

And trim,

Tumble like clumped hair.

We work the long unwinding,

Hunt spare bulbs to repair,

Stretch and space and hang

And stretch again,

Then wait for darkness when,

The batteries might kick in.

Call it sentimental -

A merely annual form,

Frivolous, perfunctory.

And yet, this mild 

Awakening,

Slight beacons for

An only child,

Are pale markers

(Though faintly gleaned)

For another story.

When Nietzsche said that God was dead, he didn't mean that someone had killed him. Rather, he was pointing out that both philosophy and science, which had grown out of the Enlightenment, had made God redundant, since we could now explain the natural world without the need for a divinity. He didn't necessarily think that was a good thing; moreover he suspected that many would be plunged into a meaningless existence without God.

Much of this has played out in the 20th Century, with two world wars, genocides, the threat of nuclear destruction and so forth, all being a bi-product of existential angst. But God and Christianity have not died for many, despite the best efforts of Marxism to eradicate them, and capitalism to co-opt and subvert them for profit. I find it remarkable that so many Christians support an economic system that so openly derides and exploits them, all in the name of a supposed liberty. Better to be oppressed and thrive than this sad demise by a thousand cuts.

With another Christmas shortly upon us, surely it behoves us to think beyond the frippery and well-meant cliches in order to search for meaning within. The Christmas story never ceases to amaze - in its simplicity of message and its humble actuality. You don't have to have faith, but it helps to suspend your cynicism.

Reading the newspapers over the air recently exposes me to a lot of news that I would not normally be attracted to. When it comes to coronavirus stories, for example, in my private reading, I tend to glance over an opening paragraph and any bullet points and move on - I am just so sick of the topic. In the live broadcast at 2RPH I have no such luxury and have to read everything in the article as a service to our listeners. I have no business editorialising.

What have a learnt from the last few days on this dismal subject? Well, the new omicron variant is multiplying very fast - NSW us now back near 2000 per day with projections of a potential 25,000 a day - and yet, the knuckleheads in Canberra and in the state capitals are easing restrictions and soon, face masks will no longer be mandatory. I know, it's all politics, but the stupidity of removing this one, easy-to-comply with measure, demonstrates how feeble the political class has become.

Is there a spine amongst them? Probably yes, but they are not wielding the levers of power.

 

Poetry is not much rated as a writing or reading activity these days. It's significance has been on the wane since a high-water mark in the 19th Century when poets were still considered influential or important. Of course, a lot of more serious literature, the type that requires some effort on the reader' s behalf, has also suffered a fall in grace.

Some of this apparent decline can be sheeted home to the rise of modernism, where texts became increasingly difficult to read, as authors explored new ways of creating a narrative. But there have always been just enough accessible novels and the like to make reading a public-wide activity. There are also plenty of good poets who strive to be be understood too.

But the final nail, at least for the meantime, was the information revolution, which saw bookshops close en masse and real-life books disappear from the hands of commuters, folks in hammocks and readers in general. People still read on their tablets, phones and kindles, but probably much less than before.

Anyway. Poetry. It's not everyone's cup of tea I know, but it has been mine since high school. I found my old senior English notes recently and read through my responses to a variety of authors and texts. I was taken by just how much I had fallen in love with poetry through the works of the Romantics - initially Coleridge and Keats, then Wordsworth, Shelley and Byron. That's the big five, though there are others too. And it's no wonder, for they were passionate young men who sought change, elevated the imagination and celebrated the natural world.

Which makes them still relevant today.

 In "Man's Search for Meaning", Viktor Frankl wrote, 'When a person can't find a deep sense of meaning, they distract themselves with pleasure.' Frankl was a Holocaust survivor who became a psychiatrist, a person worth paying attention to. The book itself is an extraordinary read.

I can't help but find myself agreeing with him - I do think that a failure to find meaning will lead to distraction - but not necessarily with only pleasure in mind. Sure, seeking out pleasure to fill a void is only too commonly found today. In fact, it is almost de rigueur. Every aspect of modern consumer society elevates goals that are fundamentally associated with pleasure - status, wealth, power, acquisitiveness etc - with this sense of distraction. It doesn't need to be gone over again here, it is too apparent everywhere, all the time.

But I think that distraction can take different forms - all intended as an escape strategy of one kind or another. An underlying anxiety, or angst, something without form but nevertheless present, one perhaps borne out of a failure to connect with a deeper purpose, can lead to all manner of distractions. Something to fill the pain or the fear or the boredom.

As for what meaning actually is, well that is for another post. Or many, many posts.

It is easy to lose the initial sense of wonder at just how much information there is on the internet. We grow into such things so quickly that soon enough, a rather ho-hum attitude can take its place.

I would have been leaping with joy when I was in Year 7 if I could have clicked a mouse and been presented with, say, dozens of articles about and images of HMS Dreadnought. I would have been stilled with amazement if my fuzzy black and white pictures of galaxies, nebula and other cosmic objects could be seen in colour, with clarity, replete with oodles of erudite commentary.

Getting information back then meant a trip to the local library, then a fingers-crossed search through card catalogues to see if there might be a book. Finally if a single resource on the subject in question existed, was it on the shelves or running the gambit of other borrowers? Walking out of the library with such a treasure was happiness itself, I can tell you.

Of course, there is a flip side to all this too. The relative scarcity of resources for a young boy back then created its own dynamic circle of  frustration, followed by an energetic creativity. The difficulty of getting things made them all the more precious - the effort to find something, anything, more urgent.

I wonder if the abundance of everything, all right there in your hand, doesn't promote a feeling of ennui. It is, after all, quite possible to be bored by too much, all the time, attained with little or no effort. I don't hanker for the old, but I do fear that the new may be a double-edged sword.

There was a post in one of my FB group feeds today which asked, "How do I know if I'm having a breakdown?" Lest you think that this is way too graphic a question for the usually sunny pages of a bland social media site, then it might help if I add the note that this is a mental health group. Members are encouraged to be open and honest about their thoughts and feelings. Sometimes I reply and sometimes I don't because I want to have something of value to say. Otherwise I shut up.

This got me thinking about the more general question of what causes humans to break. What would cause me to crumble so much that I could no longer perform fairly perfunctory daily chores and activities? I have had some challenges in my past - nervous illness in my twenties, a hyper-stressful job, a trial by jury, relationship breakdowns and one divorce, the deaths of people close to me. I haven't broken yet, though I have been sorely tried and perhaps close once or twice. When that deep pit beckons, and it can hove into view all of a sudden, then a voice deep inside stands its ground and heaves me towards safety. I don't know where that voice, or impulse, comes from, but it will not let me lie down, thankfully.

This is not to say that I am more resilient mentally that other people. I completely understand why the trials of life can lay a person low, such that repeated experiences chisel away at resistance. There may be a tipping point, I don't know, but the endurance of so much can lead to a unintended crumpling, both bewildering and devastating in equal measure. Friends and family rarely understand and are only too happy to proffer advice, almost always useless, if well-intended.

What would cause you to break, do you think?

In considering why mental illness is seemingly far more widespread than in pre-modern times, less might be said for improvements in diagnosis and rather more about the relationship between the individual and society. 

While our understanding of the mind is far greater than at any other time in human history and the capacity to treat is vastly enhanced, merely being better at these things does not explain the increased prevalence of a range of apparent psychological disorders. Why are so any people “sick” or incapacitated and what does this say about modernity. 

My own thoughts follow a long line of talented and erudite theorists such as Sartre, Camus, Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, all of whom commented on an aspect of the modern that could present a crisis for the individual. The decline of religious belief, the rise of science and the ascent of the rational, the alienating effects of work in cities, the dislocation of humankind from the natural world, the rise and triumph of consumer capitalism, and so forth, have exerted pressures that are unique in the evolution of the species.

Essentially, it boils down to the finding of meaning in one’s life, meaning that was supplied in abundance for our ancestors. We might find such meaning primitive or foolish today but the lack of meaning, the confusion and dissatisfaction and moral paralysis that has ensued, are a seeding ground for mental illness and disintegration.

Yokozuna Terunofuji  has won the Kyushi Grand Sumo Tournament with a perfect 15-0 score. This was his first zensho-yusho and ordinarily, is never an easy thing to achieve. Considering the fact that the yokozuna has to face the toughest opponents during the meet, to come out without a single defeat is remarkable. Everybody wants to knock off the top dog is they can.

It must be admitted though that, with the retirement of a number of key rikishi over the past few years, the going is not as tough for the current and only yokozuna as of yore. The top two ranks (yokozuna and ozeki) are thinly populated and the talent in lower ranks is not stepping up consistently, at least, not as yet. This is not to take anything away from a man who has fallen to the bottom and risen again against all expectations. He is a champion.

Congratulations Terunofuji.

The revisiting of an MIT report, "The Limits To Growth", created in 1972, makes for sobering reading. The earlier report, generated when computing power was still in its infancy, predicted a number of possible scenarios, one of which posited 'societal collapse' by 2040. While they had numerous environmental inputs go go off (such as pollution), the 1972 report did not include climate change, currently a major focus. A new study by KPMG ( who do dynamic systems analysis) bears out the findings of the 1970 inquiry. 

MIT were stating what a layperson would see as obvious. If you aim at continual growth and your resources are finite, then there will come a time when the roof falls in. I am simplifying a far more complex argument but what applied in 1970 applies doubly now. Our fixation with economic growth will lead to our undoing, unless major technological innovations and breakthroughs come about in a timely fashion. There is some movement on that front, but nothing that changes the game sufficiently to avert a breakdown.

If we love our children and the children who are to come, we need to address not only climate change but also the underlying assumptions of economic growth. It may mean that people are not so rich, may have a lower standard of living or have changes imposed that make things less convenient. But what is that when compared with the alternative?

Getting back into the swing of things with my volunteer work has been very much a stop and start process. Just when it seems that we might be getting closer to something approaching normal service, one or other aspect of the pandemic creates a new setback. With so many fairly elderly volunteers at the station, management is obviously very careful with how prepping and programming run. They have quite reasonably erred on the side of caution. Sydney is one of the most double-vaxxed cities in the world but complacency (which I see every day) might needlessly cost lives.

But yesterday, for my shift presenting a daily newspaper, I was permitted a reader in my studio, rather than next door. It makes a world of difference to the setup and rollout of each session as it gives me more precise editorial control over what is being read. That's important because we run to strict time schedules; we cannot bleed into other programs or allow segments to be unrepresented. I would be happy with readers choosing articles to read but for the fact that there are some people who want to hear their own voice too often and will only too happily dominate the proceedings. So, the buck stops with me.

I received this pic in the mail this morning, taken by one of the staff. I hope that it doesn't find its way into promotional material. From memory, I was just about to do a time call.

I get fairly engrossed in the Grand Sumo Tourneys that come about every two months in Japan. Many might look at the sport and decide that it is odd that two gigantic men would want to crash into each other, the bout being over, generally speaking, in less than a minute. But this would be to gloss over the very real skill and strength of the rikishi. It pays hugely to study the traditions of sumo and the sport itself (as technique and tactics), a study that will most times lead to an enduring if not altogether rational love affair.

We are now in Week 2 of the November Basho in Kyushu. The absence of the mighty champion Hakuho is still being felt, though some the wrestlers may have become emboldened by his retirement. One less certain defeat, perhaps? Watching NHK's broadcast online the other day, the man himself popped up as a guest in the commentary box. I took a screenshot - I couldn't help myself. Elvis may have stopped singing, but he has yet to leave the building.

 

The zabuton shifts gently under me when I cross my legs. Smoothing down the pleats of my dress, I watch the comings and goings of other spectators. A man adjacent me has returned with a colourful box of yakitori and a ochoko cup of sake. The chicken smells delicious but I have already eaten. I have a small box of omochi should I get peckish. The final juryo match has just finished and we are all eager for the top rikishi to enter the dohyo. All the seats around me are now taken.

I have always sat in the ringside seats, ever since my late husband and I began to attend Grand Sumo Tournaments. That was ten years ago. We were lucky indeed that he knew a prominent oyakata. Every two months a plain envelope with a pair of tickets would appear in the post box. We went to the sumo most days and even though I wasn't a big fan of the sport, it was one of the few things we did together. After he passed way, the tickets continued to find their way in the mail. That is why I am here.

Sometimes friends see me on the television because I am so close to the dohyo. They don't say anything directly like, "Oh, we saw you at the sumo last night", because they don't want to give offence or raise old memories. It's just, "You're a TV star", followed by a nervous laugh. They mean well and want to keep up a conversation, so I mention a favourite wrestler or a particular kimono that I liked. I never wear a kimono to the sumo but other women do. Sometimes I imagine what pattern I would wear if I did.

Today the prominent oyakata is sitting ringside on the right of a gyoji. I often see him there in the role of a shimpan, jumping to his feet should the result of a bout be in question. He does not acknowledge me but I know that he sees me. We have an understanding and I do not want to compromise him, for sumo is a sport that is unforgiving of any transgression. Where he gets the tickets from I do not ask, and never shall.

I am quite tall for a Japanese woman. There was a time when I might have become a model, before I married. Sometimes, when I do happen to catch myself on a TV broadcast, I am startled by how rigidly I sit, how high I seem. I am composed, utterly. I don't know what to think of that. When each bout ends, I applaud politely, my hands gently raised, as if in prayer.

The Fukuoka Grand Sumo Tournament starts today and I am keen with anticipation. While the loss of Hakuho to retirement leaves a vast hole that is unlikely to ever be filled in my lifetime, there are a lot of wrestlers who are showing promise and some who may be able to make their way to the top, hard as that is.

If Terunofuji can remained free of injury then he must surely start as a favourite to take the title again. He is, after all, the only yokozuna left standing. Consistent performances by Takakeisho, Mikakeumi and Takayasu could present a challenge, the latter two running hot and cold in recent tourneys. 

But with Asanoyama on suspension until July 2022, the tournaments over coming months are Terunofuji's to lose. Still, he deserves every accolade - he is the greatest of comeback kids.

Get back to regular work at 2RPH has been a much-looked-forward-to pleasure. It isn't just the busy joy of being in a studio with mikes, buttons and computer screens, nor the positive stress of trying to avoid silly errors (since we go live), nor even the material we have to read. Rather, its about getting into the swing of life, jumping on trains and buses, ordering a coffee, thinking of the job ahead.

It's also about the people - mostly retired professionals - with the kind of interesting minds and capacity for conversation that I tend not to meet elsewhere. I guess that I don't get out much since these kinds of folks also live in the Blue Mountains too. I am a little starved of the kinds of interactions that go beyond the mundane or the polite. Yes, I don't get out much.

I would go in to the station more often if it wasn't such a long journey.

Siegfried Sassoon is one of the better known war poets, serving in the British Army on the Western Front. He was somewhat controversial at the time because his poems were angry, showing the brutality of life in the trenches. In this fact he differed markedly from the sentimental and jingoistic tone of other writers who offered an anodyne - and a dishonest one at that - to the reading public back home. He came close to being court-marshalled for his strident views. Today it is clear that his honesty was simply too much for those who wanted to prosecute a pointless conflict no matter what the cost, though largely at no cost to themselves. These folks are still in our midst and we ignore them at our peril.

The Kiss is fairly typical of Sassoon's penchant for biting satire. It is certainly not the kiss you might be expecting. For a contrast, have a look at Brooke's much loved and collected poem, The Soldier, which romanticizes the idea of "Englishness", ennobles war and which might have penned by a propagandist in the War Office in London.

The Kiss

To these I turn, in these I trust-

Brother Lead and Sister Steal.

To his blind power I make appeal,

I guard her beauty clean from rust.

He spins and burns and loves the air,

And splits a skull to win my praise;

But up the nobly marching days

She glitters naked, cold and fair.

Sweet Sister, grant your soldier this:

That in good fury he may feel

The body where he sets his heal

Quail from your darting downward kiss.

'At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.'

Lest We Forget.

In recent months, in response to what appears to be a more aggressive Chinese stance, there has been much loose and foolish talk about the possibility of war. Dunderhead politicians and no-nothings of all stripes have weighed in with as many ignorant comment as I can remember in a long while. Not since the end of the Cold War has there been serious contemplation of a great power conflict the like of which is mooted.

I bring this up because Armistice Day will soon be upon us and it appears that every lesson of that ghastly bloodbath has been lost on the many. I recently re-watched the excellent Apocalypse: WW1, a five-part series that I can highly recommend. The makers have colourised and slowed the frame-rate of original footage to create something like a true experience of the soldiers, civilians and battles that occurred in that lamentable four year period. 

Those who want to beat the drums had best take earnest stock of that conflict and the one that followed hard upon it. Study the causes and consequences. The next, should it occur ( and I pray that it doesn't) will be a pure descent into hell.

 I have been banging on a bit about therapeutic approaches in psychology and lately reading up again on CBT and ACT. There are plenty of good resources available, though in the case of the latter, there is a bit of jargon that needs to be waded through. But let me give you the tiniest nutshell summary of ACT, though I'm sure that I will annoy practitioners.

We are not our thoughts. We can observe our thoughts through mindfulness exercises (nothing new, Buddhists have been doing this for two and a half millennia), the realisation of which leads us to understand that we don't have to be ruled by our thoughts or our feelings. We can detach from them, diffuse them or put them at arms length. We can make also space for them, practicing non-avoidance by allowing them to remain fellow travellers for the time-being. This means developing an attitude of acceptance.

As we do so, they usually become less worrisome, particularly as we turn our attention to what is important or valuable in our lives. We make a commitment to the pursuit of these values. Sure, the thoughts and feelings will return daily but there are ways in ACT of turning the tables, of making them more benign or insignificant.

Consider the following chain of thinking, for example.

"I can't cope."

"I am having the thought that I can't cope"

"I notice that I am having the thought that I can't cope."

At each remove, the sting is taken out of the original thought, allowing one to become an observer rather than a victim. Try it sometime.

Nearing the end of the middle of Spring, the jasmine is finally fading from the front verandah, having given us a beautiful display over the past few weeks. The aroma of jasmine in the night is overpowering - it hits you like a freshly opened bottle of cologne - and lingers long if the evening is warm.

Thinking of fading flowers in the garden today, this wonderful haiku sprang to mind, by Moritake (1452- 1540).

Those falling blossoms

all return to the branch when

I watch butterflies 

I think that there are fewer butterflies about than when I was young. I'm told its because of pesticides. They will never return to the branch, alas.

Even though I only spent 12 months in a formal counselling practice, I have used the skills acquired many times over in different situations. Any helping profession or job usually requires at least a modicum of empathy and listening capacity - counsellors just have more options and experience.

I write this as a follow up to a recent post about the advantages of one therapeutic approach over another, specifically Cognitive Behaviour Therapy and Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. They are a little like cousins, because they can be used together in a more integrated way (I know that purists will baulk at this claim).

Some people love filling in charts and lists to get at the nub of their thinking problems (cognitive distortions) and find more helpful ways of thinking. That makes a lot of sense of me, for I catastrophize and personalize and do quite a lot of mind reading, amongst my many cognitive sins. It is very helpful to go over all the faulty thinking patterns, locate yourself amongst them, and go to work on an ABC chart or two. This is CBT.

On the other hand, ACT asks us to forget the challenge of changing problematic thinking (and the feelings and acting out that go with it) but rather make space for all those troublesome emotions and thoughts. Let them be. Not pay too much attention. The technical term is - not to "fuse" with them. Stepping back and coming to a realisation that you are NOT your thoughts. The core of the practice is mindfulness - awareness of the present moment, of what is happening now. There are many exercises and practises that are set up to help you achieve this kind of outcome.

There is no reason not to use both or any of the other systems that exist, so long as you are not just shopping around hoping for a quick fix.

After my last couple of posts - which might be construed in some circles as a little dark - I present something to laugh at. If you are of a certain age you will have watched a particular sci-fi drama many times over. I have the complete set of DVDs, even though I probably watched very episode of the three seasons that it ran for at least ten times through. This show had regular repeats until the mid-seventies and perhaps beyond.

If you are fan, too, of Edvard Munch (yes, very dark indeed), you will enjoy the following clever pictorial intertextuality.

Every so often I notice that my thoughts have become far too inward for far too long a time and I reach for those books I studied during my counselling diploma. I usually settle for a combination of CBT and ACT, which, while they employ different methods (broadly speaking, one to rectify, the other to 'let be') are more like cousins. I take wisdom from both and hopefully use it to ease my overburdened mind.

I have always had mild health anxiety (formerly known as hypochondria) which has been compensated for in a host of ways, but occasionally I allow myself to be drawn into thinking too deeply. That way is madness. 

So today I'm back into reading up on cognitive distortions and ways to diffuse unwanted thoughts and feelings, which is a kind of marriage of the two systems I mentioned above. Whatever works, keep using it. 

For anyone wondering, there are plenty of resources for self-study and application on both CBT and ACT, and all the others too. I was trained to work in an integrated way across the spectrum of therapies, which makes sense. There are gems everywhere if you care to look.

spring awakening

the rites of Spring remain,
fast budding trees
and birds, berserk
in clarifying rain,

that makes the roof
sound and sound again-
at night I mean-
the ancient patter
found in sleep-waking,
gathering in a faze,
and then, 
a seeming second later,
a smudge of green
in the upstart dawn-
sheer fecund joy-
my unsteady gaze
poring for feature.
spring, the bringer,
shepherd of what's been
and what will be, 
reminding some, like me, 
a trio of seasons 
done,
that only an unending winter
is to come.

I watch quite a lot of videos that roughly cover the topic of the cosmos. Some are highly speculative and come closer to futurism. All are grounded in some way in physics as we know it, so they are not science fiction per se. Their creators are often intelligent, well-educated and clearly excited by their subject.

Often as not there are questions raised about how human advancement will go and whether we will overcome the obstacles that becoming a space-faring race will entail. I enjoy that kind of thing but somewhere in the back of my mind is the thought that the argument is moot - we won't be around to trouble the planets, stars and interstellar domains.

That might sound a little pessimistic but the current lie of the land suggests I am on the right track. As a species we seem unable to get past the idea of war as a means of solving conflict. There has been some moral growth but no guarantee that things might not go backwards if conditions changed sufficiently.

Even if we get through the next 500 years or so and manage to establish communities on Mars or the Moon, even if we are mining asteroids and capturing greater and greater quantities of power from the Sun, even if the question of war is finally solved, this is only a temporary stay. The Moon will leave us, but not before the atmosphere is burnt away by an increasingly hotter Sun. It will be an ignominy of departures.

That is a long way in the future I know. Best to focus, I suppose, on one day at a time.

Tomorrow  I celebrate my time on Earth over the course of 63 circuits of our Sun. It is no small feat in human terms, historically at least, but I get some reassurance at the total mileage of 59,220,000,000 kms. The annual distance is 940 million kms, which looks pretty impressive on any old odometer.

This pales when one starts to look deeper and these localised figures become less impressive. The Sun itself (and our Solar System) takes about 225-250 million years to do a circuit of the centre of the Milky Way, so the last time we were roughly in this spot, dinosaurs were only just beginning to emerge as a class of reptiles. Using the same time scales, said dinosaurs were about to be wiped out at about the three-quarter mark.

I could of course, just settle for a plain old year of 365.25 days and forget the cosmic scales. But somehow the latter is strangely reassuring. Whatever happens today, good or bad, will be forgotten many times over when we swing around next time.

 About 18 months ago I was on a train to the city. Two men in the seat in front me, who seemed oblivious of my presence, were having a merry time looking at photos on their phones. All well and good, you might say. But I became aware that the shots they were viewing seemed a little dodgy - young girls in bikinis with heels, or lingerie. Stuff like that. It wasn't illegal, as far as I knew, but it struck me as odd.

When I got home I googled one of the names of the models I had heard them repeat (I won't be revealing that) and found, after a relatively short time, that there were half a dozen legitimate sites set up for the very purpose of photographing very young models in what I deemed an inappropriate way. It struck me that these might act as some kind of gateway to harder, illegal material, whether intentionally of not.

Being the ghastly do-gooder that I am, I reported a string of sites to the esafety commissioner (in Australia) on the presumption that they had the power to investigate and possibly take action. I checked in from time to time to see whether sites had been taken down and often found myself reporting a bunch of new sites that had popped up.

Today I can happily report that all the sites I reported are down(with the exception of an orphan page or two) and that searches for model names have born no fruit. I may have had nothing to do with it, but I feel a little better for having acted as I did. Let kids be kids. Soon enough they will be adults with all the cares that come with growing up.

I have written before about Whisperings Solo Piano Radio, a service I have used for over 15 years. Whenever I feel the need for meditative or reflective music, or just something calming, Whisperings is where I head. It was also a great teaching device. I guess that you are wondering how that might be so.

When I was teaching English in Japan, I encountered what most language educators spoke about as a common problem. Japanese students get a lot of grammar, reading, writing and listening training at school, but precious little conversation. I won't go into the reasons for this, but this is a system that likes testing, and speaking doesn't fit easily into a neat marking scheme.

I had a similar problem but mine was borne out of a reluctance on the part of my students to speak when asked to (or to go beyond a few perfunctory words) or to answer questions in the general run of the lesson. My best attempts at humour and positive reinforcement only went so far, but then I discovered Whisperings, quite by accident. I was searching the internet radio in iTunes on the school's old iMac when its started playing all by itself. I decided to leave it on in the background quietly during the lesson. I figured that if there wasn't such a silence to fill, then maybe students would relax and talk.

And they did! There was a perceptible shift in the quantity and quality of conversation. I don't have any control groups to establish the bona fides of this apparent breakthrough, but I know that what took place was real. I'm guessing that any music that is not a distraction would do the trick - orchestral, free of lyrics, quiet - and I'm just a sure that others have tried the same thing with equal success. In any event, I continued the practice up until my departure in 2007 and today, I walked home in the rain, listening to the same station, and thinking about that time.

Music often evokes memories, or at least, the feelings behind memories. The memory itself may be an actual recollection, or a collage of recollections muddled together. It's perfect accuracy is not important for the emotion is quite authentic enough.

I have learnt to mistrust my memories, in some cases because I have unaccounted for blind spots in my past, and in other cases because my diaries tell me something other than what I seem to remember. If you are going to write an autobiography, keep diaries. Otherwise large parts of your work might be unintendedly fictional.

It is with this in mind that I venture into today's entry. This morning, while listening to an old Pink Floyd album, The Division Bell, I was flooded with an apparent recollection from Thailand from the late 1990's. I was travelling with a colleague from work and we were on a bus on the way from Pai to Chiang Mai. I had my Sony Walkman plugged in and was listening to the aforementioned album, which I had picked up in cassette form at a market in Chiang Mai. We were winding our way along a road that snaked, sometimes precariously, through rain forest. 

Was the memory correct? Well, it seems that it was not far off the mark, because I was able to check with the notes my travel friend had made on the trip (and had somehow left with me), notes which seemed more interested with what I was doing than what she thought of Thailand. It only goes to show that keeping a diary can pay off, even if it's not your own! (It helps too if you have kept an annotated travel guide from the trip. Thank you Lonely Planet).

As for Pai, back then it was sleepy little village in beautiful surrounds. We stayed in a common or garden guesthouse and hired motor bikes to see the countryside. If I look at a map today, Pai has kicked on a lot, for there are now resorts and all manner of cafes and restaurants.

Some people think that's progress and like to say so. But I'm not so sure.

Considering again the poet and writer May Sarton, to whom I made reference yesterday, it is quite remarkable how precocious she was at such a young age. I discovered some poems that she had published in the December 1930 edition of  Poetry A Magazine of Verse and found myself more than mildly astonished at her dexterity. If I had written the following poem at age 18, then I would not be typing this dross now. How to be so articulate and wise and yet so young!

    First Love

This is the first soft snow

That tiptoes up to your door

As you sit by the fire and sew,

That sifts through a crack in the floor

And covers your hair with hoar.

This is the stiffening wound

Burning the heart of a deer

Chased by a moon-white hound.

This is the hunt and the queer

Sick beating of feet that fear.

This is the crisp despair

Lying close to the marrow -

Fallen out of the air

Like frost on a narrow

Bone of a shot sparrow.

This is the love that will seize

Savagely on your mind

And do whatever he please;

This is the despair, and a snow-blind

Hound you will never bind.

I often read posts from Brainpickings, a site that promotes informed writing about people and subjects. Today I was reading an excellent piece on writer and poet May Sarton, who, like many great writers, suffered from depression. The article was focussed on her book, Journal of a Solitude.

Notwithstanding the fact that her affliction seemed to make her a better writer (which echoes in some ways Camus's assertion that "there is no love of life without despair of life") she was quoted as having written, that we live in "an age where more and more human beings are caught up in lives where fewer and fewer inward decisions can be made, where fewer and fewer real choices exist." 

It struck me that this comment, written over forty years ago, has been proven correct over and over again since that time. If anything, the situation is more grim, with so-called connectedness through social media and technology leaving little time for interior dialogue or reflection.

Ann thinks that I think too much. I guess I do, but I cannot do otherwise.

In the Park

Waiting for the jab -
Squat buses wail and squeal
The park light shifts
And sun peels through
The Moreton Bays.
I watch the bins,
Birds with crooked beaks,
The dip and dip and dip,
The way shadows sway.
Lunchers gather briefly
Silently unmasked,
Then, watchful of the air
Step soundlessly away,
For everyone who parts
An image of the grim,
Unbidden by the eye,
Still lingers there.

Yesterday I took JJ to the city to get her first moderna jab. The vast distance travelled became a necessity because my wife wanted her done as soon as possible and most of the local appointments had long wait times. 

It was my first trip to the CBD in months, not since the last shift at 2RPH, and it was eerily quiet. Few shops were open and fewer people in evidence - one might shoot a gun in the once busy thoroughfares without any risk of injury.

An emptied-out city offers different perspectives though. Unpeopled streets and arcades drive ones attention elsewhere - the shape of a window, the jut of a stair, the chairs and tables in unmoving mute conversation.

The closure of food courts and lunch spots also reduced my choices for hirugohan. Once I had finally found something, there was the challenge of locating a legal place to sit. After much stumbling about I did find somewhere in the open, and with my mask gingerly pushed to one side, took this picture. Ordinarily, this stretch of George Street on a Friday would be thronging.

I have been a sometime contributor to Quora for a few years now. Quora is a site in which questions are posted (on any topic) and members are invited to answer those that they deem worthy of a response. There are a lot of thoughtful people writing questions and just as many responding, but lately there has been a marked increase in nationalism and partisan commentary. Questions are appearing that inappropriately 'lead the witness' together with answers that are blatantly inflammatory, deliberately misleading or just plain ad hominem attacks. So my visits are fewer and fewer.

Before the internet this kind of thing occurred in pubs or over the back fence and was not taken all that seriously, just 'so-and-so' sounding off. But computers and connectivity and the capacity to say anything anywhere without consequences is a scourge. It drives away the thoughtful and the interesting and drags everything into a mediocre, sometimes poisonous squabble.

I can't see any way it can be fixed except for pulling the plug.

I can now confirm that Hakuho, the 69th and most successful yokozuna of all time, has finally retired. It comes as no great surprise, since speculation of a retirement has been mooted for a few years now.

I saw the young Hakuho way back in 2006 at the spring basho in Osaka. Little did any of us know then that he would make yokozuna the following year. Consider the following stats.

Firstly, he has won 45 Emperor's Cup titles, beating the next best Taiho (33) way back in 2015. He has set records for the most career wins (1187), most makuuchi (top division) wins (1093), most wins as a yokozuna (899), most tournaments at the rank of yokozuna (84), most wins in a calendar year (86) and most titles with a 15-0 record (16).

This spectacular and unlikely to be beaten record may not mean much to those who don't know sumo, but if I said that he was Michael Jordan, Babe Ruth (Don Bradman for Aussies), Pele and Michael Phelps all rolled into one, you might get some idea of his prowess.

He will be sorely missed - though he had his critics - but the like of him will not come again. I think, however, he will make a good oyakata.

'What, another one!'

Courtesy Asahi Shimbun

The autumn Grand Sumo Tourney has just finished. The new Yokozuna, Terunofuji, about whom I have written before, won The Emperor's Cup, 13-2, this being his fifth time. He was consistent and dominant, save for two defeats to determined rikishi.

The only other Yokozuna, Hakuho, was side-lined by a Covid case at his heya (the place he lives and trains). There are rumours which are yet to be confirmed that he will retire in order to become a stable master, or oyataka. If so, it will be the end of a truly remarkable era - the most successful wrestler in sumo history.

And while on the topic of sumo, a slight digression into the wings, if I may. For a number of the basho over the past year I have noticed a lady sitting close to the front row. Sometimes she is there, in pretty much the same place, every day. I don't know why she came to my attention - perhaps its her beautifully upright posture or elegant demeanour. But she is a regular feature, always in camera view, and clearly a big sumo fan.

Far enough away not be be clobbered. Just to the right of the referee (gyoji).

Incidentally, if you are new to sumo, the photo above shows the moment just before the bout begins. For a bout to begin, both wrestlers show their consent to do so by placing both hands on the clay. The wrestler on the right (above) has his hands down, but the bout will not start until the one of the left does so too. From that moment we have the clash (tachiai), a collision of two powerful rikishi. A false start (consent is not clearly shown by both men) is decided by the gyoji. This is called a matta and the bout must be restarted.

What an unholy mess the submarine replacement program has become. In a matter of days, we have managed to alienate the French, cause concern in Jakarta and KL, confirm the worst suspicions in Beijing, and for what? The difference between diesel electric boats and nuclear powered boats is mainly one of distance and capacity (also speed) but I don't think that we are getting markedly better defence by buying 8 from the Americans rather than 12 from the French. After all, the nuclear version really is all about long-distance missions, not the defence of  Australia proper. What I mean to say is, they are serving a more strategic goal and that goal is the containment of China.

It strikes me, yet again, that the Anglo powers are showing the kind of arrogance that gave them a bad rap in the 19th and 20th Centuries. Britain of all nations should realise how sensitive the issue of European power is in East Asia, having subjected the then Qing Dynasty to all manner of humiliations, including a war to sell opium to the Chinese. I have no idea why the UK, having lost its imperial possessions, has any business in Asia. Isn't there enough to do in the Atlantic?

As for Australia, I have been hoping in vain for decades that we would develop into an independent nation with a foreign policy to match. How long are we to be the lapdog of whatever power we see as a potential saviour. Is is asking too much to genuinely engage with our region to create enduring defence and economic ties?

In as much as Trump was a second-rate political leader, for different reasons, we have our own set of arrogant, untalented, know-nothings who should be not be in positions of power and influence. I am not "just saying", by the way. It's what I think and it's a damn shame. This nation deserves better.

Yesterday Ann and JJ officially became Australian citizens. Due to Covid restrictions, the ceremony (twice postponed) was held via zoom at home. It was a pity because the proposed venue at Springwood, a large modern theatre space with plenty of atmosphere, was the original site for the proceedings. As I said to Ann, it would have had more gravitas and pomp had it been held there, something missing from a computer screen. Still, the Blue Mountains City Council did a wonderful job of hosting the event and making people feel welcome.

This just about ends most of my dealings with Australian Governments concerning residency and citizenship. It has been one of those long roads which I sometimes drove blind, not being sure if I was doing the right thing, whether I had the proper form, the right answers or even the best and most correct information. Since it is in my nature to second guess most situations in life, I found the route perplexing at times, especially when what was asked for was unclear or seemingly contradictory. Choosing not to use an immigration agent saved money, but if I added up the number of hours I put in and did an hourly rate estimate, I would have been paying myself pennies. It was an experience though, not be forgotten.

The new Aussies. I'm very proud of both of them.

Chatter

slow this going,
like water through sand,
deathly flowing,
finding
the browning bloom,
and always, just over,
another crowded room
of thought
that's stuck and thick
with cause.
why always so-
that unthinking's
a fantastic trick?
and me? curator
of such a space,
a mind without pause!
i'd like to know,
for a moment's death,
how to still the shebang,
if only,
(the dim boat approaching)
to catch my breath.

I made no special note of the anniversary of the downing of the Twin Towers in New York because it was well and truly covered elsewhere, for better or worse. I do, of course, recall where I was and what I was doing at the time and even though I am a critic of American foreign policy, this act was wicked in the extreme.

I had just finished teaching an evening class in Sanda and had sat down to watch the news. Sure enough, CNN already had their cameras trained on one burning tower (though they did not know why as yet) when a plane hove into view and hit the other. Just like that. It was an awful event, hatched in the minds of religious lunatics, and the repercussions are with us to this day. US foreign policy continues to be a seemingly incompetent mess and the whole region of the Middle East is much the worse off for it.

September 11 is also the day that my friend Robert Mumford went missing in 2007. It was no coincidence timing wise - Robert was a fan of the US military and the shemozzle that was the Iraq conflict would have weighed heavily upon him. He had other issues too and perhaps his life had hit an impossibly downward spiral. I wish I had been there for him, something I regret to this day.

Robert would have been overjoyed, had he lived, because The Beach Boys catalogue of music keeps expanding. Most of this is arcana for fans - out-takes, backing vocals, conversations in the studio, alternate endings, live recordings etc, and he would have revelled in it. Truly, I can hear his voice full of a teenage enthusiasm even now, for no detail, no matter how obscure, was beyond his purvey, when it came to The Beach Boys.

Rest in Peace, my friend.

Tom (and I) having been studying Land Art as a part of his Visual Arts at-home course work. One of the most recent projects involved doing a Land Art installation in the garden - something simple that would come from the raw materials of yard.

We have an abundance of pink camelia flowers at the moment, many of which have dropped to the ground in strong winds. Some were still pink whilst others were brown, having dried out rather quickly. Tom's assemblage used the flowers and an old sewerage pipe to create a piece of land art, the meaning of which is in the eye of the beholder. A few days later I added the signature to the terracotta pipe. Cheeky!

Yesterday was our 5th wedding anniversary. Being a time of restricted movement and choice, we decided to wait until today before ordering takeaway pho from Pho Moi in Katoomba. That was Ann's choice and I was only too happy to go along with it. It's not the same as sitting down to a meal somewhere but we are still lucky - many people are too sick to do the same.

Today I finally received my celtic cross in the mail. All the way from Ireland, it is fashioned out of turf and carved with ancient Christian motifs. It is of the style of a Muidedach High Cross, common in Ireland in the 9th and 10th centuries. It is not a decoration but something to ground me during prayer times. Lately I have been rereading The Cloud of Unknowing and hard as it is, would like to put into practise some of its ideas.

Two magpies in different locations swooped on me this morning. I was on one of my usual rides and was wondering when one or the other of our black feathered friends would decide to look up a calendar and resolve that the time was ripe for a spot of aerial assault.

It's funny. All the local magpies know me and would never attack, even in the nesting season. Such attacks can be quite unnerving if you are unprepared, coming from behind, as they do, so most years I either make a careful note of the location or try to find an alternate route. You can also confront the bird but this means dismounting. I am quite happy to have a frank contretemps though usually I am left gazing up at a tree or a telephone line. We never get to meet face to face.

But this is only for a short period anyway and the magpie is only defending what it perceives to be a threat to its young. Any parent can understand that.

A magnificent first day of Spring is upon us. The mercury is in the mid-twenties, jasmine is beginning to flower, birds are swooping and dodging each other, yet I am contemplating the idea of free will. It came up again in my reading over breakfast and I followed articles and links doggedly. It is a difficult subject and fraught with abstruse equations of the mind.

Now, it seems obvious to us that we possess free will - "the capacity to choose between different possible courses of action, unimpeded." I like that Wikipedia definition quite a lot and the final word is a key to the question. Everyday we appear to make unimpeded choices about hundreds of different things - we might even say to ourselves , 'I can do this or this or this and I choose to do this' and thus seem to be making a very deliberate decision when faced with a range of options. But it is not as simple as that.

There are lots of factors that go into making us who are we are today. Our parents, our teachers, our upbringing, our enculturation, friendships, television and media, how we develop our minds. Then there is our genetic makeup and that whole area of subconscious drives that Freud first described. And the brain - how does that work? I could go on.

So free will is far more complicated, one might say, constrained, than is 'obvious' or 'natural' to us in the present. There are those on the deterministic end of the spectrum who claim that we do not have free will at all - that it is an illusion. I don't hold to that view, for I think that we are much more than a mere sum of the parts, no matter how well they might have been described or explained.

Think about that, next time to decide to have a short black over your regular latte.

The other night we had a real taste of a cold, windy, wet winter’s night. The rain pelted against the windows. The glass shook under the strain of huge gusts. Possums appeared to stay in their trees, roofs or boxes, fearful of being carried away like old umbrellas. Above all, we were all aware of the highway and the train line, whose sounds were hugely magnified by the fierce southerly. At one point in the middle of the night, a coal train appeared to be coming through our garden, such was the cacophony. Really, it sounded only meters away!

So today when I was spending a little time with an old uni literary primer, which is a brick of a thing to hold, I came across a poem about a coal train, far better then the one I wrote a few days ago. It wasn’t until I had read the poem through that I noticed the title and smiled. I had been diddled.

“In Memoriam John Coltrane”

 Listen to the coal

rolling, rolling through the cold

steady rain, wheel on 

  wheel, listen to the

turning of the wheels this night

black as coal dust, steel

  on steel, listen to

these cars carry coal, 

listen to the coal train roll.

Michael Stillman

Yes, a tribute to one of the great modern jazz saxophonists. The whole poem is a splendid metaphor for the magic that Coltrane brought to performance. Have a listen to him if you don’t believe me. The poem has a highly musical quality, one amplified by being read aloud.

And yet, I like to think that this is also a poem about a coal train riding through a cold wet night. I guess that it can be both. Maybe.

The passing of veteran Stones drummer Charlie Watts at 80 surely disproves the adage that rock and roll is exclusively a young persons game. There are now a number of artists who are well past middle-age and are still doing live shows and making new music. Groups who disbanded decades ago have reformed and are trotting out their back-catalogue, with the occasional new album thrown in.

But even if we accept that the elderly can still flounce and pout with the best of them ( incongruous as it often looks), there can be little doubt that most pop or rock musicians create their best music when they are younger. It is no mystery as to why. New musicians are hungrier for success, more willing to take risks, tend to be more creative and have boundless energy. If you want something badly enough and you have the talent, then you are in with a chance if luck shines upon you.

I can’t think of single example of the reverse - that is - an artist who creates better music later in life. Some have longevity and do buck the trend - Bowie had a few very good albums in the 1980’s. The Rolling Stones too, though little of their work reached the  heights of their late 60’s and early 70’s output. Compare Start Me Up, which was very successful in 1981, with songs like Angie, Gimme Shelter or Ruby Tuesday. The former is a good song, the latter are simply great.

As usual, I am always happy to be proven wrong, though this one is a tough ask.

The weight of blame for the flouting of the current Covid restrictions seems to be falling on the broad shoulders of young men. Eager interviewees are keen to present them as being totally devoid of personal responsibility and unwilling to submit to impositions on their freedom.

Young men are an easy target of course and they do feature to a higher degree in the stats concerning car accidents, crime, drug use and other forms of mischief. They are also at a time in their lives when they have been released from the strictures of childhood, free from the harassment of teacher's (and their elders in general) and thrust into a world of responsibility, one which they have not been prepared for.

And yet if a war were to occur, they would bear the brunt of recruitment for the armed forces in those areas that are most dangerous. They would die in disproportionate numbers to other cohorts but they would be celebrated every Anzac Day for their sacrifice. You can see the problem. They lack the sufficient maturity for proper risk assessment and yet they will be thrown into the heat of the fray.

It can only be a matter of time before someone on the TV opines that what young men need "is a good war." And then the repetition of the "old lie", dulce et decorum est pro patria mori will play again to packed houses.

 "For with much wisdom comes much sorrow;
      the more knowledge, the more grief."    Eccles. 1.18

It is almost axiomatic that increased knowledge through learning leads to doubt. Certainty is the hand-maiden of those who study little, know little, think less but seem supremely confident in their views. The present time is perfectly suited to the latter, who, having spent 10 minutes on the internet, are experts in whichever field they choose. There is no arguing with ignorance - it is its own self-contained bubble.

I like reading Ecclesiastes because it is full of reasonable doubt about the world. Sometimes the author goes a little overboard - he does a good line in 'woe is me'- but for the most part, he is centred on the difficulties of being in the real world. Wisdom does surely lead to sorrow, for to become wise means to come to a fuller understanding of the human condition and our place in the scheme of things.

This is a time of limbo for many people, a stuck place between their old lives and the current stasis. For people in my state of NSW, we face lockdown into the foreseeable future. I am not complaining about it, but this might be a good time to become acquainted with writers like the one in Ecclesiastes, if for no other reason, than to get perspective.

Coal Train

The coal train stalls,
It stops,
And pockmarked trucks,
Stretched beyond sight,
Blackened all,
Bang and squeal and bang,
A vast complaint of coal,
Eastbound to feed
Insistent appetites,
Furnaces that gobble whole-
Reeling out steel,
Jolting impulses and
Fabricated need.
East, towards the moon,
That limping, leaves us.
Now the engine roars,
And gaining speed,
Begins a trembling conga
Down the line,
The hidden seam,
Hacked from the earth,
Dull in the sunlight,

Mortuary silent,
Is bound for the sky.

I used to frequent a lot of coffee shops once. Back when I was a kid they were far less common than today, the milk bar being a preferred site for a social non-alcoholic drink. I recall my mum taking us to cafe-style shops in the 1960's, and she pointed out to me recently that we often dropped into one or the other when in Chatswood or in Sydney.

For me the whole thing really took off at university, when coffee shops blossomed pretty much everywhere, though the ones on campus were fairly basic. Esme's Room in the Morven Brown Building had plastic tables and chairs, fluorescent lights, a coffee machine, Esme, and a tray of ghastly cakes. The latter included a truly awful oversized pineapple donut.

Later when I went to church, a group of us often went off to a cafe afterwards, though we had to drive a little to find one that was open. I recall fondly The Great Little Coffee Shop at Willoughby - filtered coffee, smoky Arcoroc cups and plates,  French cakes and a kind of cool ambience. One of our group brought his guitar and sang though the evening. 

Then it was on into the Eighties and a full immersion in cafe society, well before it even existed. I fear that I may have had hipster pretensions even then, though the term would not percolate through for another thirty years. No matter where I was living, there was always a cafe of some sort to indulge my whim of a cappuccino and a slice of carrot cake while I thumbed through a copy of The Guardian Weekly. 

These days I only occasionally step into one, though they are many and varied and often very good. I make my cuppa at home. The truth about this change is fairly prosaic - I was spending too much money. But in gaining something, I lost something else.

Maybe I will take it up again, post-covid. Who knows?

There is confusingly little light at the end of the tunnel for the good denizens of NSW. An extended lockdown is being mooted in some circles until November, which still seems like a world away, this being the last month of Winter and that being the last of Spring. That is a whole season. I don't mind the masks, the jabs or the digital check-ins, though it would be nice to go back to my work at 2RPH and hang out in those city haunts that I so love. Still, it's small price to pay in the scheme of things.

I can understand that this might drive some people a little bonkers - those with busy working and social lives - but I cannot fathom what drives others to become completely irrational. There is one fellow, recently arrested, who drove from Sydney to a popular town on the north coast and has set off a lockdown. He said he didn't believe in the virus even though he was infected by it. What could that possibly mean - that he can't see it and therefore I doesn't exist? Would he care to apply the same muddled thinking to toothache, or leukaemia, or the many other thing hidden ailments? How about oxygen?

"In a dark time, the eye begins to see" wrote Theodore Roethke, in a poem that dealt with his own demons. If only, I hope, that we all might.

I bought a cheap pair of headphones recently that were, strangely enough, highly recommended. I tried them out today in the garden, setting up a test of classical, pop, jazz and rock as benchmarks. Indeed, they did outperform their price by a huge measure. Will they outlast their plastic construction - who knows?

It was while reliving Bowie's Station to Station, a much underrated album IMHO, that one of those flashbacks came that I followed through to a surprisingly satisfying endpoint. Suddenly, there I was, back at the Roundhouse Bar at UNSW, surrounded by my drama buddies, while someone behind the bar had the album on rotation. The niggling memory slid in at the track, Wild is the Wind, a majestic love ballad that Bowie sings with tender beauty. It echoed around that busy lunchtime bar like a thick cloud that threatened to envelop all with a kind of fantastic love.

Music can do those kinds of things to you. 

This morning I found yet another diary. It had slipped down the back of the bookcase and was just barely visible. Dated 1979, it contained short daily entries on my life, with occasional comments where space permitted.

One thing that astonished me was just how busy I was. This being my final year of my BA at UNSW, there were plenty of uni and class related jottings, but beyond that, were a plethora of entries about theatre, classes, meeting with friends for the cinema or lunch, parties, work commitments, adventures. In the first four months of the year, there wasn't a day when I was not doing something.

I really can't get my head around that. Sure, university was a great time for socializing and obviously I did, but this much? I guess my life has shrunk - so many of those friends rarely or never seen again as real life took charge, roads diverging irrevocably.

It makes me sad.

I was reading in the US version of The Conversation, an excellent online publication, that there are moves afoot amongst some academics and at some universities to 'cancel' Geoffrey Chaucer. By this I mean, the removal of Chaucer's fiction, most notably, The Canterbury Tales, from the modern curriculum.

His crimes apparently include sexism, racism, antisemitism, to name but a few. These offences take place within a fictional work and come from the mouths of fictional characters - those who are wending their way to Canterbury on pilgrimage. That in itself should be a sufficient rebuttal to such a ludicrous charge, but I suspect not. Those who come after Chaucer are probably intent on tearing down any author who is white, male and a part of the literary cannon. They strive for a decolonized curriculum, whatever that is. I suspect, though, that it is another misguided utopian project.

I have said before that overlaying modern ideas and moral standards on a different historical era is foolish. It is foolish and stupid and arrogant. Chaucer wrote in the 14th Century when attitudes and beliefs were entirely different to the present age. Human nature may not change much but what they believed then bears little relationship to what is believed now. This point should also be a sufficient rebuttal but it probably isn't.

When I studied Chaucer in Year 12 and later at university, there was no confusion about this. We could read and enjoy The Canterbury Tales, while at the same time knowing that many of the attitudes and social mores in the work would be completely unacceptable today. There was no problem because there isn't a problem. 

I am saddened that the current crop of undergraduates have to put up with this arse-hattery. What a joy just to read a book because it is a wonderful work of literature!

 I went to put pen to blog late this morning when a person from Porlock came a-calling and engaged me at the front door for a few minutes. Sad to say that upon sitting down again before my keyboard, I had forgotten what I was going to write about, entirely. I still can't remember anything some hours later.

Suffice it to say that I feel much as Coleridge might have when a similar visitor assailed him some two centuries ago. On that occasion, the fully-formed Kubla Khan was shattered, leaving us with the still-magnificent fragment we have today. Some have accused Coleridge of inventing the Porlockian to cover for writer's block, which I suppose is possible.

But the mysterious visitor narrative is far more interesting and leaves us with a sense of what might have been, had only that door not been rapped upon all those years ago.

The last month of winter has opened with a mild, sunny day. My morning ride saw me reducing the layers of clothing by a half and I could have gone further. Other cyclists were donning t-shirts! Cold weather will soon return and perhaps that is for the best, since the lockdown continues until Spring.

I think the current period, so lamented as a time of adversity in the human realm, might be seen differently in another part of the animal kingdom. I refer to dogs, for surely this time, like no other time, cannot be other than a golden age for our canine friends.

Everywhere I go, there are dogs on leads, dogs cocking legs, dogs with tails triumphant, dogs with snouts in the air. What must they think, after months or years on the slim rations dolled out by their masters, to be lorded as kings. Everyday the company of their friends from morning to night, everyday the long walk, everyday the much-sought-after attention!

A golden era, indeed.

Today Ann and I had our second AZ shot, so we are now fully vaccinated. Twelve weeks between injections is a long time and I can understand people opting for the much shorter turn around time of the Pfizer shot.

But I am just grateful for the hard work of nurses and doctors and researchers. Their efforts collectively will help everyone find a pathway out of the pandemic.

I really hope that the people who desperately need vaccinations in South-East Asia and elsewhere can soon get the help they need. To all those who sprout absurd conspiracy theories, or who spruik false or misleading information about being vaccinated, I hope you don't have to learn the hard way.

Like many others now, stay-at-home orders have meant a lot more TV viewing. So the arrival of the Tokyo Olympics has been a boon. Even if you are not a sports lover, there are so many stories of hardship and triumph that it is difficult not to see the Olympics as a symbol of hope. We put to one side the unevenness of the playing field and the allure of wealth that might spoil the Games for some, in order to become immersed in a kind of shared human experience running the gamut of emotions.

This morning I watched a replay of the women's 55kg weightlifting, about 90 minutes worth of pushing flesh up against steel. All the women were extraordinary, but the winner of the gold medal, Hidilyn Diaz, of the Philippines, demonstrated the kinds of moments that can bring vicarious joy and tears to all of us. Her country had never won a gold medal and her struggle through four Olympics, without government support or the largesse of private wealth, was nothing short of spectacular.

Her final lift, a world record, was such a moment of triumph that she wept, prayed and rejoiced without ceasing. I think that the people of the Philippines have a new and deserving hero. You know, I could watch that final lift and the celebration a thousand times.

127kgs.

Photos courtesy of Reuters.

I was reminded yesterday of the fact that is 20 years this week since Nadia and I went to Sanda City in Japan to teach English at a small eikaiwa. It was not our first trip to Japan, that being three years earlier at a commemorative concert with our Blue Mountains based choir. But one did indeed lead to the other.

I had already racked up two decades as a secondary school teacher so was not unduly concerned about the teaching side of things, though we were both curious about the set-up. I have written before about how the teachers immediately before us had put a lot of effort into creating a workable environment for the school, which had formerly been held in private homes and community rooms. Some of the those conditions continued, but the school now had a house and a classroom, and from there was able to thrive. We tried our best to improve upon what we inherited and I think we succeeded if enrolments are anything to go by.

In that first week our boss lent us a camera so we could send some photos home. Here are a couple of the house in Sanda and the view from an upper bedroom. To say I miss this place is too much of an understatement for me to comment further upon.

I don't always watch the opening ceremony of the Olympics, but this being an unusual year and Japan being a unique country, I sat down last night to watch anyway. 

I am told that it was a pared-back version of what would have taken place if not for the coronavirus and I am thankful for that. It was simple and beautiful. Just what I expected. I was especially impressed with the Olympic rings which had been fashioned from the wood of trees planted after 1964 Tokyo Games, a lovely cyclical gesture so typical of the culture. I also loved the lotus-framed Olympic cauldron and the extraordinary world made up of drones, that hovered like an apparition about the stadium.

I often used to say to drama students, when they were puzzling over how to make a scene better, that less is more. It is a cliché now to say such a thing, but it remains true in many instances. Fill a simple spotlight on a bare floor with genuine commitment and belief, let the character within come to life, and you will create profound meanings.

Well done Japan.

While Hakuho won the most recent Grand Sumo Tournament in Nagoya by the impressive margin of 15-0, it is his nearest competitor, Terunofuji, who deserves the most praise. As related before, the latter has come back through the ranks, having suffered injury and illness, from a seemingly impossible position. He was beaten by Hakuho on the final day, and thus finishes the bashou at 14-1. No mean feat that.

And he wins the greater prize too. He will be elevated to zokozuna in the next tournament, the highest honour for any professional sumo wrestler. I take nothing away from Hakuho, who is an amazing champion  and wonderfully skilled. His return from surgery and other injuries has also been impressive.

Both are Mongolians, so Ulan Bator has a lot to cheer about.

The 73rd Yokozuna. Omedeto.

I have written before that things are never as bad as they seem, once a longer perspective is viewed. I read often that the world is going to hell in a handbasket, but comparisons with the recent past suggest that not a lot has gotten worse while many things have actually improved.

My life at high school was dominated by talk of an oil shock, environmental degradation, overpopulation, wars and rumours of wars, inflation, famine and the omnipresent threat of nuclear war. I know this because I have a list in my homework book in Year 9 that tells me so. More than likely, this was something I jotted down in history one day when I forgot my book.

The same notebook today might contain the following: global warming and environmental degradation, coronavirus, wars and rumours of wars, the still omnipresent threat of nuclear war, em (that's enough lists-ed.). Stubbornly, I would like to add, the attack on truth or the rise of the irrational, since what was held quite reasonably as expert opinion in the 1970's is now disputed by anyone with a mobile phone and five minutes to spend on google.

However, in the intervening years, medicine has improved, crop yields are higher, millions have been lifted from poverty, a hand-help device can give you access to vast amounts of information and so forth. So there are improvements to set against the deficits. As for billionaires jetting into space on expensive toys - I know not which side of the ledger this sits.

It could all be hell in a handbasket after all, but I am hoping that humans do muddle through and do not become the victims of a Great Filter. You know, the one whereby all technological civilisations eventually destroy themselves.

 The Cloud Unknowing

Strange species of cloud this,

That casts no shadow,
That moves unseen,
Just rising numbers
On a screen.
The odd hit and miss - 
For every secret blow, 
Another is unkissed.
Oh, a cloud that neither,
Rains nor shades,
But heaves with silent breath,
The better to insinuate -
Recumbent lottery of death
For any passing through.
The perfect egalitarian,
(If it could choose)
For anyone will do.

Compliance is one of those sometimes mysterious things that it is wise to become acquainted with prior to diving into a project or making a purchase. It is often as not somewhere in the small print or in a place that requires an active search.

For example, before I bought my e-bike I was all set on getting an e-scooter, on the recommendation of my physio. I diligently researched all the models within my budget and came up with the most suitable machine. All ready to buy, I found an obscure note at the bottom of a seller's online page which said that riding e-scooters on public roads or footpaths in my state (NSW) was not legal. Upon checking further, I found that this was true. Segui to e-bicycle.

Since buying the Himo, which at the time seemed perfectly legal in all respects, I have come across a debate over e-bike compliance. A bike shop owner told me that bikes with throttles were not compliant. Of course, he had skin in the game. An reputable online seller insisted that bikes with locked or disabled throttles were compliant. They operated in essentially the same way as the pedelec variety. This was the prevailing opinion at other sites too. My throttle, which is electronically locked, only operates when I am pedalling. No pedal, no power. However, the same model in China can be used as a moped if required. There is a world of difference.

Fortunately, I have compliance stickers that indicate my bike's bona fides, at least within European standards. But it is a bit of a minefield and well worth looking into before taking a plunge, which I recommend that you do.

 As a postscript to my last entry, I would like to add that the movie "Goal" is on You Tube. I sat and watched the first 45 minutes of it yesterday and if you are a football fan and just want to see the games, or highlights of the games, then you will be disappointed.

"Goal" is very much a creature of its time, combining an edgy sixties tone with endless cameras shots and angles (way too many close-ups) topped off with an enigmatic and minimalist commentary. I haven't re-watched the second half (boom, boom) but I can guess it's more of the same, an arthouse approach that seeks to recreate the ambience of the 66 World Cup, rather at the expense of the action on the field. Still, it is worth a look and is in hindsight, quite amusing.

On the lockdown front there is little to report, but the potential for restrictions is now beginning to stretch into the medium term, as it were. Not much to be done but take the medicine and have a good lie down. In the press, there are recriminations about the rich and famous getting away with things that us poor plebs cannot. It is probably so, and has often been thus, though to quote Bowie,

"Fame - puts you there where things are hollow."

So perhaps, we should just pity them.

As England prepares to take on Italy in the final of Euro 2020, my mind wandered back to the 1966 World Cup, the last time the team appeared in a final. I don't remember much of that World Cup, being only 8 at the time and living in a country that thought soccer was for "sissies or wogs." Much has changed in Australia since then, beginning with the historic qualification for the 1974 World Cup.

But I digress. On the eve of the 1970 World Cup in Brazil, the film "Goal", a documentary about the 1966 World Cup, was doing the rounds again of suburban cinemas in Sydney. As I recall it, my Forest U/11 soccer team attended a Saturday screening of the movie at an old cinema in Crow's Nest. It was exciting to be out with the team and the movie was great. All of us were rooting for England, of course, no offence meant to the West Germans. And such a clear recollection too!

Italy will be a tough ask for England. Like Germany, they are an excellent tournament team and not averse to diving in the box, or falling over, as they did against the Socceroos in 2006. Yes, I'm looking at you Fabio Grosso! I think they call it gamesmanship, though I have other ways of expressing it, none of them kind.

I found this copy of the "Goal" movie poster online and reproduce it below. Love the comic strip artwork, reminiscent of "Scorcher and Score."