School's Out 1960

They are like warriors
With Globites brandished
And wide smiles in
The wilting heat - a sunken
Corrugated heat that
Makes gum-soft the hard
Chalked-up bitumen,
Opening cracks
For the New Year.
But this is end of term
And the tangled cohort
Of pressed limbs and blind cheek
Is out for the big break.
They mob at the gate,
And scrum in passages,
Scuffing at steps
Whooping at boredom's finale.
Now is the quitting of books
And incinerations joy,
A great fiery loosing of routine.

In January, somewhere
Between the lassitude of beaches
And stuffed bellies,
Ennui will return.
Snapping the gates back in place.

The day after tomorrow we leave for Thailand, so I am thinking about flying. I wonder how much the experience has changed since Marion Strobel wrote this verse in her poem, Bon Voyage, in 1942,

'Or board a plane: the chairs adjustable,

Oxygen tubes, safety belts for the climb.

Fly over the world, see your country unroll

Like a map, save - if you desire to - Time.
Look back on the sunset your flying from:

Breakfast is free and there's plenty of gum.'

Or this from John Magee's High Flight, 

'Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth,

And danced the skies on laughter-silver wings;

Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds, - and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of'

Or perhaps this fragment from Amelia Earhart's From an Airplane, 1921

'Even the watchful, purple hills

That hold the lake,

could not see so well as I

the stain of evening

creeping from its heart;

nor the round, yellow eyes of the hamlet

growing filmy with mists.'

And finally from An Airman's Grace, by Father John MacGillivray

'Lord of the thunderhead and sky

You placed in us the will to fly

You taught our hand speed, skill and grace,

To soar beyond our dwelling place.'

There seem to be quite a few poems written about flying. The experience of being in a small open-cockpit machine in the early days differs markedly from that of the modern traveller in a fat, climate controlled 747. It was a lot more dangerous then too - Earhart and Magee both lost their lives flying and many others have to boot. I don't recall writing any poems about being a passenger in a modern plane so I might give it a whirl if the spirit takes me. I prefer to stay on the ground but, by the Grace of God, I pray we will be speeded safely to and from our destination.

 There is a certain awfulness about the modern world that one can used to, but will probably never get used to. Even if we are accustomed to seeing and reading about pictures and stories about storms and cyclones, murders, wars and rumours of wars, corruption, illness and loss, to name but a few, each new iteration still carries a weight that must be borne.

Since news in the 24/7 cycle moves fast and moves on, one is given little chance to reflect upon each piece in relentless sushi train that passes before our eyes. I think this is an unusual time in human affairs, because for centuries information passed slowly (at the pace of the available transport) and often unreliably. In the Middle Ages, a story like yesterday's tragic fire in Hong Kong might never have reached a European city. It may have taken years to move within the boundaries of the Chinese Imperial State. Now it arrives in real time with live coverage.

I have posed the question before - are things worse than ever before, or do are they just reported more and then sent instantly to everywhere in the world. I think its likely that both are true.

On my most recent journey to the city I decided to visit the David Jones food hall. I have often done this in the past around Christmas time because my mum liked many of the English labels that were on display, such as Fortnum and Mason. I would invariably buy her an English Christmas cake, one with royal icing and marzipan. Sometimes I would buy a bespoke plum pudding too. In later years, she had stopped making the puddings that were such a feature of the Christmas dinner when we were kids.

I wrote in January that I had made a similar visit to the food hall in late December of 2024. My mother had passed away only two weeks earlier and the whole of Christmas for my brothers and I was on hold. I don't know why I went there as I had nothing to buy and no-one to buy it for, though it is a lovely place to wander about in at any time of the year.

As I made my way through the well-stocked Christmas food aisles, browsing the hampers, chocolates, cakes and sundry items, a nagging question was stuck at the back of my mind - 'What are you doing here David?'

As I turned to make my way back up the stairs and out into the pulsing traffic in Market Street, the answer became clear. I was looking for my mother. I was all a part of the grieving process.

Shortly after I wrote the poem, 'Grace', about this very event. Grace is not my mother's name, but the process which I came to discover why I was where I was.

If you'd like to read the poem, go back to January 8, where I first published it.

 Last year was decidedly unpleasant in parts, certainly a bit of an annus horribilis. Not the whole year, of course, bur concentrated portions of awfulness emerged with frightening regularity, enough to earn the moniker. I got to know the insides of hospitals and detox centres quite well, also cemeteries.

This year has certainly been less fraught, with only a few incidents, some predictable, others not. There are still five weeks or so for 2025 to demand a further pound of flesh and I have learnt from experience that anything is possible, including very good things.

One thing that has grown through the sundry adversities is my faith. Even at my most crushed moment, when dark clouds loomed and a way forward seemed remote, God was at my side, a constant companion and a powerful source of peace. As a person who likes to try to have control of the immediate circumstances ( I like to hedge against future trouble) it has been difficult to give up that control. Surrendering life's troubles to God is a sure way to find greater peace and even a surprising joy. 

Happiness is sought through the circumstances of our lives (making it a shaky prospect at best) whilst joy is found in relationship. The latter is unshakeable. I understand that people who do not have faith will find this hard to believe, but too many Christians over the past two thousand years have found it just so for it to be a coincidence or self-deception.

I am not sure how I survived my forty years in the wilderness.

 I have finally got through all the recordings for my pre-recorded programs for 2RPH. Being absent during all of December meant that a large amount of material had to be in the studio system before I left next weekend. A labour of love it is, even if finding the time and place to do all the readings is quite a challenge. I have mentioned before the kinds of noises that intrude on the everyday, even in the Blue Mountains. I have given up trying to eliminate bird sound and they are now just a natural part of the program.

I am never a fan of beginning the travel experience. It gets better as time passes and sometimes I even long for an extension. While our Thailand trip is essentially about family, there is room for a few days here and a few days there. I guess, we shall see.

I have a bit of a soft spot for the Jehovah's Witnesses who occasionally come to the house. Most people, it seems, have no time for anyone who is selling anything, especially at the front door.. Religion especially gets in their craw and can lead to uncalled-for rudeness. Some of the social media postings border on the hysterical.

I am not sure if faith matters are a thing for doorstop conversations, but the fact that these folks take the time to care about the spiritual welfare of their neighbours shows an uncommon kindness. A young couple came by an hour or so ago and we chatted amiably about faith, though we have do have some key differences. But we had much more in common. and that was the focus of our chat.

The argument that religion is a 'private matter' is a foolish copout. Sure, you have every right to construct a god that fits your view of the divine and accommodates all your foibles, though no such god actually exists. And you have every right to be agnostic or an atheist.

The latter are especially brave. They have taken a black and white stand, without pretence. It won't help in the end, but it shows courage, nevertheless.

Yesterday carried a double-weighted meaning in Australia. It being November 11th, our thoughts were drawn to the awful conflict of 1914-1918, the Great War, which ended in an Armistice on that day in 1918. From the consequences of the Armistice, namely the Versailles Treaty (and similar lesser documents), another conflagration was set in motion. 

November 11 is also significant in Australia because it is the anniversary of the controversial sacking of the Whitlam Labor Government in 1975, the most tumultuous event in Australian politics since the Rum Rebellion. The latter pales by comparison when we consider the endless debate, anger, hand-wringing and dispute that has followed in the past 50 years. Being a great fan of the Whitlam Government, my position vis-a-vie the G-G is obvious - it was done slyly and it was done badly and it should not have been done.

I don't know if the next 50 years on this issue will play out with such passion. Life goes on  and people forget. It's much the same with the Armistice, for despite the best efforts of politicians and citizens to keep the flame alive, things cloud over, and cloud over again. Another great war will sweep all before it as never before. That's a good reason to remember now.

Lest We Forget.

The sight of 60 odd black-clad neo-Nazis standing outside the NSW Parliament on Saturday brandishing an anti-Jewish banner is alarming. It is surely a wake-up call to citizens who care for democracy and its institutions to take especial heed. 

The group, which calls itself the National Socialist Network, are doubtless knuckleheads with little or no historic insight into actual Nazism or its dismal past. If they had but an inkling of how awful the Nazi Party was they would ashamed to have any association with it.

The conditions in post-WW1 Germany and those in Australia today are not remotely similar, but we should nevertheless be on our guard. Thousands of Anzacs died fighting Hitler and his appalling dictatorship. Saturday's gathering and others like it are an insult to their sacrifice.

Only the weak follow those whose power is underpinned by being a persecuting and vilifying bully. Apart from their obvious racism and absurd notions of racial purity, Nazism was a complete failure, which brought disaster to Germany and wrecked Europe for a generation.

Occasionally, I slip one of my own poems, under a pseudonym, into my radio program, 'Writer's from the Vault.' I don't do this in any vain way, thinking that I somehow belong amongst great writers. I am not a great writer but I am a reasonably competent amateur poet.

Often there is a minute or two at the end of a program when I need some filler other than a book review and this is where I can insert my own work. Now and then there is a theme emerging and I have the exact poem to match. For example, a recent program featured the poem 'Broadcast' by Philip Larkin. I wrote about a similar subject (listening to a live radio broadcast with a woman as the subject) called 'Pianist' and they sat beautifully together.

I admit I was nervous about it. Larkin is a master and I am not but in the end, they actually work very well side by side. Leastways, I think so.

this is the way the world ends

There will come a time,

When breath is stopped,

A final time at last,

Unescaped from,

Unloosed

From the past, when

No beating heart,

Nor cupping hand,

No squeak of sole

Upon dry sand,

No mother, father,

Sibling, friend,

No gentle foot

Or clutching hand

Or muted voice

Before the door.

No note to send,

Nor errand run,

No dog to walk.

Nor bracing swim,

No warming sun.

And no, no warning,

None at all,

When, in darkness dumb,

In the very pitch,

The thief will come.

First Thess. 5:2

It takes a lot of guts to get up and preach in a public space. Most people are rushing by, their heads variously full of tasks to be done. Or they are engrossed in whatever their hand is telling them, scrolling through news and social media.

I passed two men today in Penrith having a go at it - one a plaintive orator, the other with a clutch of pamphlets ready to hand out. They were doing a reasonable job under difficult circumstances, though I doubt that the message was getting across. People might be curious but they don't want to show it and dare not pause for fear that they will be unable to get away. Not every preacher is an Ancient Mariner, who 'stoppeth one in three', but who is going to risk it.

When I was a very young Christian I was involved in a street theatre group that developed short skits for performance. As a theatre studies student, I naturally was keen on having some input. Informed by readings from Esslin's 'Theatre of the Absurd', the theories of Sartre and Camus and the plays of Ionesco, Albee and Adamov, I set about arguing(most politely) for a micro-theatre that would reveal for an audience the utter meaninglessness of their lives. Into this fertile soil, one could then plausibly argue for  the need for God, creating meaning and purpose where before there had been none.

I can't remember how that went. I still think such an approach has a better chance of breaking through than straight out preaching to the secular crowd. But I'm often wrong. I salute those brave souls.

In the West we live in a society that pays homage to youth. Youth culture is pervasive - it is paid close attention to - and people strive to stay young by whatever means they can. I don't need to list all the cosmetic ways that this feat is attempted (even if the goal is ultimately defeated) nor the manner in which appeals to youthfulness carry endlessly positive promises for all who seek it out.

But that doesn't mean that young people, by virtue of their mastery of all things technological and a 'liberated' outlook possess wisdom or self-knowledge. It doesn't mean that they are mature, a process that usually develops through life's experiences, both good and bad. There have always been exceptions to this rule, of course, but you know what I mean.

It was fairly natural up till now to let competent adults run things and let young people get on with learning the ropes of life. It was a given that teenagers, in particular, went though developmental changes that affected their bodies and minds and consequently their feelings and opinions about themselves and the world. Further, that we should listen to them, acknowledge their feelings and then let them get on with the daily grind, knowing that odd or wayward feelings often reverted to the norm after a few months.

That was my experience as a school teacher when students would approach me (and other trusted teachers) in private to talk about their scary feelings about their bodies and emotions. I would listen, acknowledge what they were saying and tell them to sit with (ie. not push away) whatever was bothering them. 'Allow yourself to feel what you are feeling without any self-judgement,' I would add, and then see whether a few months passing made a difference.

All of these students self-righted themselves over time and went on to become mature adults. Today we are apparently facing a gender identity crisis with teen children and some who are even younger. My fear is that 'experts' are pushing them in a direction that they will deeply regret in the future. There is an abrogation of responsibility in this - allowing immature humans to make life-changing mature decisions.

I realise that whilst biological sex is determined, gender exists more on a spectrum. But the job of adults is to protect the young, not hand over the keys to everything, all at once. When I tell my wife about it, she rolls her eyes in disbelief, as if all foreigners are crazy.

When I last visited Thailand in 2017, the previous King (Rama IX) was lying in state in preparation for his funeral. Ann and I attended the Royal Palace to pay our respects.

On the occasion of our forthcoming trip to Thailand, the Queen Mother Sirikit has only just passed away. It seems like a strange circle of coincidence is now being closed with husband and wife reunited.

I am a little amazed at the fact that I have not been back in such a long time. After all, my mother-in-law lives there and most of Ann's closest relatives too. I have been constrained somewhat by looking after Tom and not having the time to go anywhere for more than a few days. This time it is a month in length, my longest sojourn from home since 2007, when we lived in Japan.

Perhaps we will get a chance to pay our respects to the late Queen. I would seem apt to me.

How hard is it to love your neighbour as yourself? How hard is it to love a neighbour who gives you a lot of grief? When asked in Matthew what was the greatest commandment, Jesus said that loving your neighbour was second only to loving God. In the hierarchy of things, that makes it both important and essential to the life of a Christian.

By neighbour, Jesus meant anyone other than yourself, not just a physical neighbourhood neighbour. And there were no caveats - your neighbour might be delightful or they might be ghastly (and everything in between) but you are still required to love them, as yourself. To love yourself does not imply any kind of narcissism, rather, the self-care and self-interest we afford ourselves, which is central to how we function.

I have a physical neighbour who has been a great source of anxiety and grief. It is very hard to think kindly of her and not remember the many unwarranted intrusions and accusations she has made upon us. Most recently we have all been Sent to Coventry without the slightest provocation. I don't mind the silence or the pointedly turned away head, but my job as a Christian is to love her.

It is hard, I tell you. Only by the grace of God can I achieve it. Only.

While I do attract attention to myself on occasions, sometimes even deliberately, I really don't like being the centre of attention on my birthday. It has nothing to do with growing older - I've felt this way since my teens - but more to do with the fact that I am rather self-conscious. Good observers of human behaviour will doubtless pick this up with little trouble if they spend some time with me. The ordinary Joe and Sharlene will shriek in disbelief.

Yesterday I had a shift for the Newcastle Herald at 2RPH which went very smoothly and was a lot of fun to read and announce. I only mentioned my nativity to one person at the studio and then in a perfectly natural context, but I did take the following shot of the computer monitor, set up for the program (left hand column) with a tell-tale top of the hour as a centrepiece. Just this sole obscure tribute to the day.

This year is an anniversary of sorts for this poor blog. I began Tatami Tales in August of 2005, probably for no other reason than I could. I had kept a couple of conventional diaries in the past, both of which had petered out after a year or two. A blog gave me the opportunity to type text (which I prefer), cut and paste, insert diagrams or images and edit at will.

I think when it all began I was far more political in my commentary. These days, whilst still a political creature, I have a broader scope for writing. Probably this blog is now more literary, more religious and more focussed on my actual life.

Will I continue for another twenty years? Will I still be alive? I think its best that I focus on getting through the next five years. After all, I failed my eye test for my driver's license renewal this afternoon and must now wear glasses. The day was coming, I knew it. But its arrival is always a little sad.

 When Whose Shall Those Things Be

Oh what is earth, that we should build

Our houses here, and seek concealed

Poor treasure, and add field to field,

And heap to heap, and store to store,

Still grasping more and seeking more,

While step by step Death nears the door.

C. Rossetti

I certainly couldn't have put it better myself. I wouldn't even try. You might think it a little grim, but materialism and greed are wrecking the planet. They are also destroying peoples lives on so many levels - friendships, marriages, community and so forth. Terrible crimes are committed in pursuit of money. Nothing is sacred. 

Money is not inherently bad in itself but the idolisation of it, is. Consumer capitalism creates many false gods, all clamouring for a bent knee at their wretched altars. Have a look around if you don't believe me. Social media, old fashioned newspapers, television, things that pop up unwanted on your phone - of course I could go on and on - the material in its many guises is always on show.

Rossetti's poem was written in the mid-19th century. Whatever would she make of the world today?

 By any measure, the decision to hold a 'martyrs' rally in Bankstown on Tuesday was inappropriate. Choosing the anniversary of the slaughter of October 7 to commemorate another opposing cause showed a total disregard for human feeling.

No matter what side you take in the Gaza conflict, or no side at all, it is clear how wrong such a gathering was. Choose any other day of the year and there is no problem. But choosing that day was wicked indeed.

Wind

Last night I dreamt again,

Awoke to find the house

Shuddering, windows

Alive in their frames,

The whole a stew of

Unanchored sound,

There was barely a periphery

Between wind and tree,

Or where the raven sky

was bound, All was

Unfeatured, just the

Carcass yowling, the

Whined insistent whittling-

Its sinew-assaulting cry,

The plum set to fall,

And a dull delirious 

howling.

After church this morning Ann and I did a bushwalk into Sassafras Gully, beginning in Faulconbridge and concluding, in one iteration, at Springwood. This is the Victory Track and it winds in an unassuming though fairly typical way down to the valley floor, crossing a trickling creek and many creek beds, numerous times. The lack of rain was evident in the slow flows in the gully and underwhelming force of the waterfalls. Clarinda Falls was barely a dribble though still very pretty.

The walk is somewhat chaotic in parts, with a huge number of fallen trees, and signage that was either smashed or absent. Doubtless this will all be rectified in the fullness of time. But it meant that we were often wondering which track intersection led where or how we might eventually get ourselves out on the Springwood side. Fortunately all went well with only one wrong turn.

Now I have relocated my 'How to See the Blue Mountains' by Jim Smith (long out of print) I hope that we can do many more walks, including redoing all the ones I did when I first moved here 30 years ago. Jim's hand-drawn maps are as good as they get, better in my estimation to the fancy ones online.

 Most nights I read a poem or two from my anthology of poems by Christina Rossetti, whom I have written about before in these pages. Rossetti's concerns and their expression don't sit all that well with the modern secular reader but they are beautiful and heartfelt nonetheless. The verse below, A Vain Shadow, while it seems to be a stand-alone work, is actually part of a longer series of pieces, 'The Face of the Deep: A Devotional Commentary on the Apocalypse.' 

A Vain Shadow

The world, - what a world, ah me!

Mouldy, worm-eaten, grey:

Vain as a leaf from a tree,

As a fading day,

As veriest vanity,

As the froth and the spray

Of the hollow-billowed sea,

As what was and shall not be,

As what is and passes away.

The poem references The Book of Revelation, the last book in the New Testament. I won't get into the deeper meanings of the lines here, but rather draw attention to just how wonderfully crafted they are. There is a world of experience and skill in Rossetti's work. Notice the repetition of 'as' as a line opening, lending a sense of inevitability the world that is but 'a vain shadow' Sometimes I read her poems and marvel at how articulate she is in ways that seem effortless, but which are not.

I suspect I would love to have had a conversation with her, or even been counted as a friend.

In the list of unpleasant things ones can experience, but not top of the list by any means, is a difficult neighbour. In my case, this is a person who makes unfair or unreasonable demands, who minds your business in an intrusive manner, can be quite rude and dismissive, and who sends you to Coventry for things they have done themselves.

Doubtless there is a possibility of some mental illness or cognitive impairment (though we all have these to a greater of lesser extent) and this should make one compassionate. As a Christian I know only too well from Scripture that it is easy to love a neighbour who is kind and likeable, but difficult to do the same for someone who is, well, sometimes unpleasant. But I must try. It isn't an option.

'To love your neighbour as you love yourself' is a command.

 Hazelbrook, while it is busier and noisier than once it was, still maintains many of the comforting rhythms of a semi-urban town that make it a desirable place to live. Mowers hum, hammers thump, dogs bark while acres and acres of trees sway and bustle with birds. Trains depart hourly for the city ('pent cloisters dim') and folks must head into the distance if they want more than the local shops can provide. There are joggers, but mostly walkers and the night is very dark and still.

But I confess, it has changed in some key ways over thirty years, with sirens an everyday feature on the highway, a greater volume of traffic and a changing population. There are more 'city-folk' ( I was once one of those) who are seeking a cheaper buy and a different lifestyle. Sydney is a relentless place. Nice to visit but...

So living here you might look outside and in the near vicinity and think you are in a bit of a bucolic paradise. But turn on the radio, TV or any news media site, and the mood is decidedly gloomy. Wars, rumours of wars, awful murders, dreadful behaviours, incomprehensible human conduct - one could go on. The case for turning it all off forever is strong indeed, if the discipline is there, if the temptation is avoided. An old university friend whom I lost contact with over ten years ago once said, in response to my shying away from terrible news,

'David, I watch the news because if I am going to be killed by something I want to know all about it.'

I used to agree but now I am not so sure. I have my faith, which is an extraordinary bolster to negative news. It doesn't mean I don't worry or get anxious - I do - but I also have a powerful refuge.

I have always been fond of Shakespeare's plays and sonnets. It goes back to Year 10 (then Fourth Form), when my English class studied Macbeth. Being brim full of witches, murder and revenge, it is a good play for adolescents to study as an entry point to the Bard. We read King Lear and Hamlet in senior years and then at university, another swag of his works. Later on I taught them myself, a challenge, I can assure you.

The following sign was allegedly posted on an academic's door, presumably one teaching in the humanities. If you know Hamlet, then it is quite witty. But if you don't, then it will pass you by without a titter. I wonder if folks will have a laugh at such references in 50 years time, or will this kind of humour become the preserve of a tiny minority.

Though I swoop, yet I love,

For you below, me above,

I am a guardian of the young,

Do not expect a sparrow,

Or a dove,

Or any lesser bird than I,

I am behind you now,

Or can't you see,

My instincts are

your enemy.

The magpies are in full diving mode now. Both of my regular routes to the local shops have at least one bird on guard duty. And both birds are in a swooping mood.

Of course, one is inclined to be cross with them. I turn, frown, sometimes shake my fist. Other times I engage in a lively contre temps, though these magpies are remarkably quiet. They have no time to warble.

I often wonder that they don't chat to the local birds in my garden to find out what a nice chap I am. I am not sure, however, that they are on speaking terms!

On Thursday night a small group from our choir, a Mini-Moo, if you like, performed a one song at the Good Earth Bookshop in Wentworth Falls. We were taking part in a 'music expo' for adult learners, essentially, a taster for anyone interested in participating in music events and groups of one sort or another, with the possible view to taking up a new activity.

The bookshop, nestled in an arcade in the middle of the main street, is a cosy venue for such an event. An audience of maybe 30 people would fit with little trouble. I think it's great to have such venues and occasions in our midst, building on the skills of the local community and encouraging wider participation.

Still, it's unusual to turn up for a single song, but it was only a sampler. I am having a think about joining a recorder group, particularly as this opens up some sweet medieval tunes. 

Today, the first swoop of the Magpie Season! It wasn't a full-feathered, beak-snapping swoop - rather, a kind of flyby, more of a warning than anything else, a 'keep-out' notice, if you like. I happened to have an umbrella with me, the day being unsettled, and I raised it in protest at the bird's impudence.

Of course, the poor magpie is only doing what nature has instructed it - protect the newly born in the nearby nest - so I shouldn't quibble with such a noble parental instinct. No magpie that I know of has smoked weed, gotten drunk, shot through or otherwise acted against the interests of the hatchling. That dubious honour is reserved for another species.

So well-done, you vicious bird, on doing your duty!

 Last night Ann nudged me awake at about 4.45. She wanted to look at the total eclipse of the moon, which I think was scheduled to begin at 4am. Alas we were a little late for totality. A small sliver of the moon was passing out of the Earths shadow, though the overall effect was still mighty impressive.

Total eclipses are quite rare, though Australia gets another go in March of next year. I was asked why there aren't eclipses every month as the moon passes behind the Earth relative to the Sun. Just because I host an astronomy program doesn't mean I can answer such questions, but this one I could.

It is a good question, but one that you can probably guess at. If the Moon's orbital plane was identical to the Earth's orbital plane around the Sun, then we would likely get those monthly total eclipses. But the Moon's plane is tilted by about 5 degrees relative to the Earths, so during a full Moon (another condition), our faithful satellite passes above or below the Earth's shadow, rather than through it. An eclipse only occurs when the Sun, Earth and Moon are perfectly aligned. Which is fairly rare.

I wrote a poem about a previous totality some years ago, called 'Totality'. I reprint it here for your scathing critiques.

Totality

Coatless I gaze

In sullen cold,

A lingering Scorpion

Above my head, a

Wide moon in the fold,

And the every-angled heavens,

Ablaze.

A night to be bold, sure,

Though few could tell,

How solid ground conspired,

To throw terrestrial shade –

The inching darkness,

First a fingernail,

Then a thumbprint

Made,

The ancient glimmering dust,

A reddening pale,

That hangs and floats and howls

To be itself again –

A catcher of dreams

And ark of night.

 

Beyond the trail

Of stars and dust,

The shrouding rust

Declines and fades,

Leaving the porcelain face

Unchanged,

Small mercies, perhaps,

Thinking of how things must go,

Thought a billion years of light

Remains.

When I taught in Japan, questions about the weather were par for the course. It's a natural bridge into more complex topics and the Japanese love talking about it anyway, because the seasons (and their weather patterns) inform their culture at a deep level.

Every March or April, as we headed into yet another Japanese spring, the weather chat would take a slight segue, because the temperatures tended to move around quite a lot. The idiom, 'three days cool, four days warm' would crop up unbidden time and again, it being one of those things that every Japanese would have heard as a kid. And yes, there was often a few days of cool weather followed by a slightly longer period of warm weather, so anecdotally, there was some truth to the saying. But I'm not a weatherman.

Songs titles and lyrics invariably reference the months and seasons as emblems of something else. Of course, most of these songs follow Northern Hemisphere seasons, so 'November Rain' has a different connotation down on the bottom of the world, these being the beginning of winter and summer respectively. But it doesn't always follow that the wet and cold is a time of misery, nor that the summer is unbridled joy.

I have written quite a few poems about autumn (spring in the north) and, try as I might, find it hard to escape from the 'season of decrease' narrative. It seems to work well with the way I think. I don't do joy very well.

Pianist 

(for Annie)

I imagine I'm not there,

But sitting by a radio,

Waiting as the audience -

All murmur and shuffle,

Impatient for the next-

Endlessly demurs.

While you, unobserved,

Mount an adjacent stair,

Settle finally on the stool,

And blithely begin

A different story,

And every eye, and every ear,

Is taken in by

This moment redefined,

That stops the prattle,

And unstops the mind -

You, unassuming 

In punkish attire,

Play into the keys, 

Innocent, unaware, 

Of the bright fire 

Blooming.

You often hear people say, 'I couldn't live without my.....'. You can insert whatever piece of handy technology you like into the gap, but it principally revolves around smart phones, the internet and the digital life.

I am here to disagree. If I cast my mind back to 1977, my first year at university, what did I lack then that I have(or could have) today. There was no internet, so no World Wide Web, no Google, no social media, nor any web based service of any kind. You can make a very long list, but it includes emailing, video chats, music and entertainment providers etc.

The Sony Walkman (cassette) has yet to appear, so most of us are anchored to household stereo units or car based systems. Phone calls are made from land lines at home or public telephones when out and about. Because there are no streamed news or information services, we are stuck with news bulletins on TV (4 stations in NSW), radio broadcasts or actual newspapers.

It is a different life, but not so different to my generation that it doesn't sound awfully familiar. Would I mind walking up to buy a paper every day? How about going to the local library to borrow a book or research a topic? Would it be a problem for me to hunt down a working payphone to call home? How hard is it to play and album on a record player and flip it over half way? 

I could go on. There would be an adjustment, of course. There would be some inconvenience, yes. But the upside would be kids not glued to their phones, news that was far more localised, shopping that meant going somewhere where people are employed, walking into a well-stocked newsagent, time spent mulling over all manner of things. Lots more thinking.

I don't have a hankering for it, but I would have no problem getting used to it again. We all might have to one day soon.

 This morning Father John returned to what I think is one of his favourite themes - Catholic social justice. Emerging first with Pope Leo XIII's Rerum Novarum in 1891, social justice encompasses applying Church teachings to socio-political and economic issues, with the view to upholding human dignity and addressing problems around poverty and vulnerability.

To listen to the media, one would think that the Catholic Church and other Christian Churches were in terminal decline, were narrowly focussed on issues like abortion and were at best peripheral to any discussion on a fairer society. You would have to be blind to not notice the manner in which Christians have taken up much of the slack in welfare. To be honest, they may well do a better job than Government agencies (I certainly thought this when I worked at Anglicare) because there is much more face to face contact and an earnest engagement. Workers also have an urgent faith reason for helping those in need. 

I think I first heard about Rerum Novarum in my undergrad days, when history lecturers                      consigned it to the reactionary bin. It certainly was intended as a riposte to Marxism, but within              the encyclical is a blueprint for helping those disadvantaged by the Industrial Revolution,                      especially those exploited by greedy bosses or those who lost their jobs during industrial                          modernisation. It supports trade unionism amongst other things.

We are now entering a new phase - the Information Revolution, and it promises to be similar two-        edged sword. New jobs will emerge and old jobs will disappear. There will be winners and losers.

And as ever, greed is and will be a major factor. 

 

 I was looking for some Spring poems to celebrate the arrival of that happy season in a few days. I found many, as you might expect, but they were all about the coming of Spring in the Northern hemishere, in April.

'When that Aprille with his shoures soote,

The droghte of March hath pereced to the roote,'

wrote Chaucer in the 1300's.

'When proud-pied April dressed in all his trim,' opined The Bard some centuries later.

'Calmly we walk through this April's day,' was the opening line of a Delmore Schwartz poem.

There are many more I could cite. Problem is, April is the autumn in Australia, my favourite season. I did, however, find one by Australian writer C.J Dennis,

' Spring surely must be near. High over head

The kind blue heavens bend to timbers tall,'

No mention of the month, but the location is definitely south of the equator. He goes on to talk about gold and silver wattles and the bushman's axe, so Australia is a safe bet. 

I have written quite a few poems about autumn, but precious few about Spring. If I had to say why, I think I would say that the 'season of mellow fruitfulness' suits my temperament better and that Spring is, after all, a little haughty. But I will write one soon, when September comes.

 I find myself still unable to answer the question, 'Are things around the world worse today than a generation ago?' There is a perception, which I largely share, that the world seems more chaotic, more warlike and significantly more doomed than at any time in the past. But this might not be true.

When Krakatoa exploded in 1883, the telegraph ensured news went around the world in a few hours. Of course, from there it might have taken another 24 hours to get into print, the principle source of information for most people. Today, it would be covered instantly and everywhere with a plethora of experts and pundits giving real-time commentary, for better or worse.

By contrast, news of Lincoln's assassination took two weeks to reach Europe by ship. This was only 20 years before Krakatoa. If we keep going further back, then news necessarily travelled over distances at the speed of a horse (prior to the invention of rail) or sailing ship or on foot. News from many places possibly never made it anywhere at all. Nor was it bound to be accurate or even true.

Jump forward to the present day. We can access real-time news at any time and anywhere. It is sent almost concurrently with the event itself, often as it is actually occurring. The smart phone is the telegraph, train, plane, ship, telephone and satellite all rolled into one. To have one in your hand is unprecedented in human history. Dozens of different news sources send instant updates, together with notifications, to hundreds of millions of people daily. Information is relentless and omnipresent.

So I am left with the opening question. Are things worse then ever or is our perception of them the issue.

What do you think?

Moo Choir will be singing again at this weekends Blackheath Choir Festival. Our surprise inclusion happened because a Sydney choir had to withdraw from this Friday night's session on the main stage. Late notice, yes, but a truncated version of our choir will be ready for action come tomorrow night.

I found the program at the Festival's webpage and amended it to include Moo in the appropriate slot to publish on our FB page. Should you like what you see it will be difficult to get tickets at the door - it's is usually sold out. But please try here instead.

https://blackheathchoirfestival.org/2025-program-tickets/

In his book Forgive and Forget (1984), theologian and author Lewis B. Smedes, wrote, 'To forgive is to set the prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you." At first this might seem like one of those aphorisms that pop up from time to time on social media posts to create feel-good or 'aha' moments.

But really, it is far deeper than that. Forgiveness is a difficult thing to do, both emotionally and psychologically. Even when you have decided intellectually to forgive someone for a hurt inflicted, it remains difficult at the level of the emotions, because we have abiding memories of whatever events or actions hurt us in the first place. It is easy to say 'I forgive' and mean it, then to find yourself, some short time later, stewing over a random memory.

Smedes rightly links this to the notion of being a captive, or prisoner, to the our initial unforgiveness and the  subsequent struggle with letting go for good. Once you see yourself as a prisoner of your own thoughts and feelings, the task of forgiving and forgetting becomes a doubly urgent matter. No only is it right to forgive but is it is good for us too, unfettering us from a world of unhealthy emotions and pointless, repetitive cognitions.

The quotation in the opening paragraph, or a slight variant of it, is often attributed to Corrie Ten Boom. I could find no actual written connection in her books with the statement, though I am sure she would agree wholeheartedly with it. After all, she had to forgive a former prison guard at the camp where she was interned in WW2, one who was particularly cruel to her sister.

Hard to do, but as the Lord noted, most necessary.

 Ann and I plan to go to Thailand at the end of the year, ostensibly to catch up with relatives. Ann's mum lives in Phetchabun in the northern-centre of the country, about four hours due north of Bangkok. The details of the trip are still in the works and may well remain so until we arrive.

I say that this is a plan (though we do have the plane tickets) because so much in the past 18 months has proved to be unpredictable. Sickness, death, drug-related issues, more sickness, court hearings and the like have been the lot of our family since March of 2024, so understandably, any potential trip is approached with a  humble and somewhat contrite attitude. Some things are certain, though human affairs are fraught with change and uncertainty.

But I digress. Ann's mum, Mrs Kunakhum, is in her mid-80's and lives most of time alone, though occasionally with relatives.. Our visit, I hope, can ensure she catches up with all her medical appointments and gets to have a few day trips into the nearby countryside. We'll take her to as many cafes and restaurants as she wants and show her the best time possible.

Maybe Ann and I will get a few days in Bangkok with a side trip to Hua Hin to the south-west. It is hard to say and I am relaxed about whatever eventuates, though I'd rather it was not unpleasant. Let it be a time, if necessary, 'unrecommended by event'.

 I completed Episode 55 of 'Writers from the Vault' yesterday with very little drama. Sometimes things go wrong in the recording process, with software settings mystifyingly changing by themselves, birds, cars and power tools intruding, or just my own incompetence creating problems for me.

But yesterday went smoothly, though it far is from a perfect program. There are little reading errors here and there (I only fix major ones) and hindsight often suggests a better order of material for the program or different materials altogether. But as I say to hindsight, 'you're not doing the work, are you?' and moreover, looking in the rear view mirror is pretty easy. So there!

I do have favourites that crop up from time to time - poets like Philip Larkin, Christina Rossetti and Thomas Hardy, for example, and I also find myself gravitating towards my undergrad days when drifting out at sea. On the whole, I think I have given a decent coverage to 'the vault', for want of a better expression, trying wherever I can to balance men and women writers. It is less easy with minorities who had no voice in the past and I certainly don't want to patronise by including texts that are just not up to scratch. Yes, there are standards and some writing is not as good as other writing, often by a long shot. I shouldn't have to say that, it is so obvious, but there is a contemporary body of opinion that argues....

At the end of Episode 55, I had enough space left over to include a short poem, such as a sonnet. The night before I had read a devotional work by Rossetti and was taken by the ease with which she wrote in this form. I wasn't sure whether to include it in the program, it being very religious. Then I thought, 'why not?'- people read Donne and Hopkins and others too. So here it is, reprinted for you. I think she is a wonderful poet.

It is not death, O Christ, to die for thee

It is not death, O Christ, to die for thee:

Nor is that silence of a silent land

Which speaks Thy praise so all may understand:

Darkness of death makes Thy dear lovers see

Thyself Who Wast and Art and Art to be;

Thyself, more lovely than the lovely band

Of saints who worship Thee on either hand,

Loving and loved thro' all eternity,

Death is not death, and therefore do I hope:

Nor silence silence; and I therefore sing

A very humble hopeful quiet psalm,

A handful of sun-courting heliotrope,

Of myrrh a bundle, and a little balm.

 It's exactly two months since I bought a new car. On the 6th June ( a memorable date) we journeyed to Penrith Mazda, handed over our trusty Hyundai i30 and drove away with a new CX 3.

The latter is not a new new car by any means. The actual car I left with was brand new, but the model has been around since 2016, with one minor facelift and a number of technology tweaks in between times.

Buying a car that is essentially a product of nine or ten years ago is no bother to me at all. In fact, the criticisms levelled at the CX 3 by car journalists as weaknesses were, in my estimation, points in its favour.

Engine and gearbox a little old fashioned - read reliable and durable. No touchscreen whilst driving - read safety oriented. In the latter case, Mazda has a proprietary navigation wheel just beside the driver's left hand, which I have no problem using to navigate through the audio/navigation system. It's a little idiosyncratic, but so too am I.

Sure, it has less leg room for giants in the back, and the boot is quite small relatively speaking, but being built on the Mazda 2 chassis means there are a few limitations, if you have long-legged folk, or oodles of goods to cart about. We don't. If you do, the Mazda CX 5 might be a better fit for you.

Other odd criticisms include an alleged underwhelming engine performance (only true if you're lined up with Formula 1 cars at the lights), a jumpiness on the highway cycle (nonsense!) and a general old fashioned look about the interior, which is purely a matter of taste. I find that most modern interiors, with 50 inch displays and all manner of frivolous getup, to be too busy, way too distracting and likely to age very quickly.

The CX 3 has been very popular in Australia for a decade now. Comments I read at motoring sites by owners tend to reflect what I already think. A good car, reliable, fun to drive, worth owning. I am only two months in, but so far, so good.

 Almost 50 years ago I travelled by myself to Europe for a term break holiday. Replete with backpack and an anorak, I sent a few months taking a fairly well-worn route to the south, then back to the middle and western fringes of the continent. It was a great challenge because backpacking and training about Europe was still a relatively new phenomenon and to be honest, I wasn't exactly the back-packing type. But lugging something around on your back seemed preferable (and far more hip) than carrying old fashioned suitcases. Or so I thought.

I wasn't that keen on dormitories either, but my first few stops were inevitable youth hostels. If I could get into a pension for about the same price, I did. But I digress. One one occasion I was in a male dormitory in either Dijon or Lyon and the conversation turned to religion. As the lights went out, someone made a fairly disparaging remark, so I piped up (very politely) to put a good word in for God. Out of the darkness droned a voice, 'The God box is over there', by which I understood, that the conversation was over. I went to sleep.

People who are not of faith (if I can put it that way) invariably have an opinion about God (supposing they are not atheists) which usually sounds a little like this. If there is a God (quite a qualifier!), then he is not interested in human affairs, does not really care what people get up to, has no real power to intervene anyway and usually doesn't answer prayer (though occasionally might). Alternately, he is kind of a cosmic ATM, not unlike Father Christmas, who doesn't really care about wrongdoing(sin), especially my wrongdoing. He is a benign old duffer. In this reading, most folks really are practical atheists, since they live their lives without any reference to God, though they doubtless have opinions. These opinions are framed, in the main, to get them off the hook.

If you're a Christian then you will know straight away that this view of God is a fantasy, bearing no resemblance to the God of the Bible. Mostly it is wishful thinking, because nobody wants to face judgement (this we must all do) and back-of-the-mind doubts about an eternity spent somewhere unpleasant are, well, discomforting to say the least. You can add to that the fact that a Christian life, while joyful at times, is also difficult. It is an effort to stay the course and the world has many seductions and temptations.

Still, I applaud anyone who is thinking higher thoughts, contemplating the metaphysical. It is, at least, a start. Oh, and the 'God box', whatever that might be, is right under your nose.

Yesterday's earthquake off Eastern Russia and the subsequent tsunami alerts brought back memories of similar, if far more devastating events this century.

I can well remember watching in growing horror in my living room in Sanda as waves washed away whole communities in Indonesia and Thailand in December 2004. I had pneumonia at the time so this only compounded my thought about a dreadful tragedy. Seven years later I watched again (this time back in Australia) as in real-time, waves washed away towns and communities in Japan, threatening even the Fukushima nuclear plant. It was horrifying.

Yes, we live on an active world that will give us grief from time to time. But modern technology means that every detail is broadcast, often live, making it, in my estimation, more incomprehensible. There is no time buffer, as of yore. 

It seems that the most recent earthquake and tsunami have not proved to be a dangerous as first thought, which is a blessing indeed. But more will come and with them, great difficulties for many people. It behooves us to be both prepared and generous in out response.

Yesterday would have been my Mother's 96th birthday, but alas, she passed away just before Christmas last year. It is fair to say that the last seven months have been difficult, missing her as we all do. For me, there is a very obvious gap twice every day when I would ordinarily have talked with her on the phone. Sometimes it was more than twice. As she grew frailer, she needed increasing reassurance and often, just a distraction from what she rightly perceived was the 'looming sunset.'

She lies with her mother and father and aunty at the Eastern Suburbs Memorial Garden at Matraville. It's quite a pretty place, with rose gardens and wide lawns and a view across Botany Bay. I'll visit again soon, place some flowers, say a prayer.

 

Hurt no living thing:
Ladybird, nor butterfly,
Nor moth with dusty wing,
Nor cricket chirping cheerily,
Nor grasshopper so light of leap,
Nor dancing gnat, nor beetle fat,
Nor harmless worms that creep.

Christina Rossetti wrote far more complex poems than this short one. She is one of my favourite poets and immensely talented to boot. Now and then she turns from sonnets or devotional poems or whatever she has set her mind on to write simple pieces that resonate because of their apparent simplicity. The one above is surely timeless and worthy of our heeding, especially at a time when brutality is on the rise.

 I have been wondering why things seem more chaotic in recent times than of yore. Naturally I question my perception of this apparent phenomena (is it just me?). But truly though, I do things the world is more chaotic than thirty years ago.

Some of this is easily explainable. From 1945 until 1991, the political world was essentially divided by the competing ideologies of East and West, Communism and Capitalism, if you like. So much was locked into these systems that the opportunity for chaos by wayward actors was constrained. Nobody wanted a hot war so most matters were contestations by proxy, all over the globe.

The end of that system has meant that we have reverted in many ways to the 'great power' arrangements of the 19th century. In this system, China, the USA, Russia and other emerging states (such as India) or confederations such as the EU compete for markets and military supremacy, if they so desire. You can see where things might easily go wrong.

Enter the strange post-truth age we seem to live in and the ascent of an indolent, lawless man to the US Presidency and the recipe for more chaos is complete. You might also add climate change in too, another element of unpredictability.

I don't know where it might end - perhaps a reversion to politics in the old way - or a descent into a maelstrom that cannot be described, nor ever desired. I think its a grim picture, though not without hope.

I have recently completed two seasons of my literary radio program, 'Writers from the Vault'. When I conceived of the show two and half years ago, it never entered my head that I would get anywhere near fifty or more episodes. And yet, here I am.

To curate and present a program that essentially dips, over and over, into that old, unfairly discredited canon is a bit of an ask and does take somewhat of a hide. Not long ago, an English head teacher told me in all seriousness that the age of literature was dead. 'Once more into the breech..' I thought to myself. And so the show was born.

It seems to me that there is room today for writing from the past - good writing, of course. Dismissing novels or plays because they don't satisfy a modern mindset, whatever that happens to be, is disenfranchising generations who have not had the opportunity to hear, to read, yes, to study works that have given pleasure because they are good.

A recent program I completed had pieces by Strindberg, Hughes, Plath, Steinbeck and Mansfield. That is relatively modern for me, but it gives you an idea. If I enjoy reading it aloud, then perhaps someone will enjoy listening, and a process of passing on quality that represents the best of human endeavour, continues. 

 July has not been especially cold but nevertheless, we have all got sick. Despite being vaccinated, Ann and I both contracted the flu (though the duration and severity was short). I don't think I've had the flu in 40 years so it was rather a nasty experience and way worse, relatively speaking, than my two of three times at the hands of Covid 19.

It does seem a world away now, that whole descent into a thick grey Covid fog that happened five years ago. At the time the measures taken in Australian and NZ did not seem overly outrageous, but with hindsight, I think there was too much panic and not enough clear thinking. The hit to people's social and working lives continues to be with us and apparently there are still kids too shy or fearful to go to school.

I certainly don't blame public officials - they did their best and doubtless saved lives - but next time (and there will be a next time), perhaps a more nuanced strategy would be best. Protect the vulnerable populations and let the healthy get on with making a living.

Anti-Semitism is a strange and ancient thing. The Old Testament has examples of attempts to wipe out the Jewish people and more recent history is littered with pogroms and discrimination, leading ultimately to the Holocaust. Volumes could be written about it.

I don't think that the recent upsurge in antisemitic activity is solely related to events in the Middle East. It has been there all along, skimming under the surface. I spent the first ten years of my life amongst a majority Jewish population in the Eastern Suburbs. All my friends (yes, literally!) were Jews. I attended birthday parties, hung out with and otherwise fraternised with Jewish kids.

When I moved to the Northern Beaches with my family, apart from my school grades improving markedly (you can work that one out!), I encountered a strange, subtle antisemitic vibe. It found expression in things I had never heard before (such a 'jew jump') or references to certain kinds of negative or selfish behaviour as being 'Jewish', or odd anatomical references to 'big noses.' Later on I met adults who wanted to talk about the Rothschild family, famous bankers from the 19th Century, but in this case, code for antisemitism, since the Rothschilds were Jewish.

I could go on but the sad truth is that antisemitism is deeply embedded in Western Culture and if you scratch the surface, it is there to be found. Israel is not a perfect state nor is its PM a likeable man (one can firmly disagree with a government whilst loving the country itself) but the Jews are the people of the First Covenant, and therefore precious indeed. I hope the Gaza war ends very soon. That should take the sting out of recent events in Australia. But it will not change hearts that are inclined towards anti- Jewish attitudes and rhetoric.

We are in the midst of a few cold, rainy days. The wind is up again and gusting in short, intense bursts that shake this old, jerry-built cottage, sometimes alarmingly. But the ancient ship still sails on.

Here are a few winter haiku by the Japanese master, Matsuo Basho.

Awake at night-

The sound of the water jar

Cracking in the cold

First winter rain-

Even the monkey

Seems to want a raincoat

Tethered horse;

Snow

In both stirrups

Untitled Wind #2

Today the wind is high again,

And all the night, it

Carped at window and flue,

And set a bleating refrain

At doors and eves,

Dashing like pent water

Suddenly unbound,

To do what it must undo -

Unhinge us with its

Vehement muscular sound,

To steal fond familiarity,

And let abound a 

A single yawping thought

In any unreposed mind -

The full force

Of an ancient emnity

To finally come in,

And what was brought,

That, to immutably unbind.

 I am a little surprised at the US action against Iranian nuclear assets this morning. I had thought that the President would be most reluctant to get involved in foreign adventures, something he has often alluded to. But there you are, The ball is now in the Iranians court and we will see what they choose to do. If the game was baseball, I would have said they will opt for a bunt. Performative and making a statement without bringing hell upon themselves. But who knows?

At such times it is therapeutic to retreat into poetry (prayer as well, of course!) so I found this lovely piece by the Tang poet Li Bai (701- 762). He is one of the three of four greats of that extraordinary period in Chinese literature, a period when you needed to be able to write and recite poetry to get a civil service post. Li Bai was famously one for the bottle. If you don't believe me, have a read of his masterful, 'Drinking Alone by Moonlight' which is collected in many anthologies.

Parting at a Wine Shop in Nanjing

A wind, bringing willow-cotton, sweetens the shop,

And a girl from Wu, pouring wine, urges me to share it

With my comrades of the city who are her to see me off;

And as each one drains his cup, I say to them in parting,

      Oh, go and ask this river running to the East

      If it can travel faster then a friend's love!

   

Her row veering off,

the peasant woman plants

towards her crying child.

                                        Koyabashi Issa

There's nothing to add to this little masterpiece, is there?

 Christian eschatology (the study of the 'last times') argues that Jesus will return, this time in triumph and glory, to vindicate those who are saved and judge those who are not. It has been a lively source of speculation by theologians for 2,000 years, with many predictions of it's imminence, all wrong.

I think its takes a bold believer to posit that Jesus will return at such and such a date, though I am sympathetic. Consider the peasant in Europe in the midst of the Black Plague, with almost 40% of the population wiped out. That must have seemed like the end of the world to many.

I returned to the faith of my youth with my mind fully functioning - eyes wide open - if you like. There is an intellectual component to Christianity and an entirely faith-based one. Eschatology has always interested me and I too, have studied the prevailing circumstances of the world for potential signs. But it is God the Father who will decide the time and place, even if we are urged to watch and be ready.

Nevertheless, there are certain conditions in the modern age that put us within the boundaries of the predictive cricket ground of end times. Many of these are the result of human-generated factors that could lead to an apocalypse, unlike at any time in the past. The invention, use of and continued deployment of nuclear weapons is a unique event in human history, sufficient to wipe out all (or most) life on Earth. The degrading of the environment  and global warming also present existential threats that may lead to disasters and suffering on a massive scale. The rampant and often insufficiently unregulated development and deployment of technology that may get out of hand, or be exploited by bad actors, is another deep cause for concern. AI, nano bots and so forth all have both wonderful and potentially cataclysmic applications. 

We appear also to have entered a new age of reckless national aggressions, any of which could spill over into larger conflicts. Taiwan, the Ukraine and Israel are three current flash-points.

But God will decide ultimately, so it is unwise to go too far down this path. It is ceratinly wise, however, to keep your eyes open and your wits about you.

The situation in the Middle East is often fraught, but it is especially so just now. There is, without a doubt, a reasonable chance that things will go in a different direction to the one Israel and the US hope for. War planning does not always account for the many variables that could lead to either failure, or something much worse. It may claim to, but the outcome of previous blunders are there for all to see.

Iran and Russia have a strategic understanding. Neither country has many friends or allies to call upon, so one should not underestimate the potential for a wider conflict. Russia does not want to lose Iran to the West and the Iranian leadership does not want to lose power. The Trump Administration should tread warily when considering how far it should involve itself in the conflict.

This morning, Trump said he would make a decision, one way or the other, at a second's notice. I cannot recall any previous US Presidents of the past 100 years acting within such a short time frame, so it seems a trifle impetuous. Or maybe it all just Trumpish words, so much hot air!

Sure, the government of Iran is pretty awful, and whatever stern version of Islam it is following has little popularity at home. But there may be worse actors waiting in the wings. It is hard not to see the period from 1914 to the present in apocalyptic terms. But best not to.

 Even as political parties of the left have taken up the cudgel for what has been called 'identity politics', they have dropped the ball around economic equality and the gap between rich and poor.

There is nothing wrong with arguing for an end to discrimination on the grounds of race, gender, religion, sexual orientation and so forth. It can go too far at times and some activists, by their intransigence and dogmatism, make a meal of their arguments, much for the worse. But the principle of equality is fair. I don't have to agree with the life choices of another but I do not wish them to be discriminated against. 'Judge not lest ye be judged' said Jesus. That is a fundamental benchmark.

But in taking up so many diverse and complicated and sometimes controversial causes, left parties have lost touch with what used to be a key plank in their platforms -  a more just and equal society for the whole society. There has been a failure to rein in the worst excesses of this late capitalist era, allowing the gap between rich and poor to wide alarmingly.

Token increases in the minimum wage do not make up for the ongoing casualisation of work, the decline of decently paid jobs that will keep a family afloat. Moreover, the tendency of governments to pander to the pockets of the wealthiest generation - baby boomers - means that younger people will likely be unable to buy a house. It is a scandal. 

Sure, baby boomers worked hard to get where they are, but under present conditions (the salary to housing ratio is now x ten!), they would have been working forever to get into a property. Meaning never, with little chance of building the wealth they have today.

I think social democratic parties are beginning to catch on (beyond the buzz words) but it may be too late and too politically difficult to act decisively.

Before my family moved to the northern beaches area in 1968, I had attended primary school in Rose Bay. At that time, and likely still today, the population of the school was overwhelmingly Jewish. All my friends were Jews and naturally I developed a healthy respect for their heritage. That possibly explains my pro-Israel bias (though I am critical of of that government's policies) and my abiding interest in all things Jewish. I was even engaged to one sometime ago and sported a yarmulka at family occasions, that especially being the case during festivals.

When I was in Grade 3 we had scripture classes and the few children of Christian faith (in those days everyone was something, even if only nominally) gathered today for a lesson. I recall our teacher being a very large woman who appeared to have legs like tree trunks (though this may have been a youthful mistake). But she was a very good teacher and many of the stories from the Bible remain with me as a result of her lucid and interesting retelling. I seem to recall that she was a dab hand with chalk diagrams because they were often in the background on the board.

We had a test at the end of Year 3 and surprise, I came top. My prize was a small book of the Gospel of Mark called 'The Right Time', it being the then new Good News edition. You know, I still have it, my name in neat underlined print on the inside cover. 

I owe that good lady something, for she planted the seeds of what later became real faith. And I am grateful for that little volume. If you're wondering, the 'right time' is now.

Today is the day of Pentecost, the day back in the first century when the Holy Spirit descended upon the first (Christian) believers in Jerusalem. It is also the birthday of the Church as such. Truly, it must have been bedlam, with disciples rushing into the streets and preaching in myriad different languages, astonishing passers-by.

The Holy Spirit that day was said to be  'a violent wind' (Acts 2:2) and today, we have a lot of wind blowing outside. It's very cold and gusty. It is hard not to reflect and compare the windy day we have and the day then that was Pentecost. It is constant reminder of God's abiding presence and overarching sovereignty.

Yesterday I wrote a poem about wind because it was indeed windy. The birds were in hiding. I have rarely seen such an absence and you will know that we have a large bird population in the Mountains. Today they seem to have adjusted to the weather and are getting about, albeit sometimes clumsily.

I never miss a windy day without quoting my favourite poem on the subject. 

'The house have been far out at sea all night,

The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,

Wind stampeding the fields under the window,

Floundering black astride and blinding wet..'

The man could write, could he not?

Wind

Today the birds are ghosts,

They do not come,

The scraps I toss, 

Are alien fare,

The Bush itself is dumb -

No sound from any tree,

Not one, nor dash from eaves,

Or scattered squawk,

No fervid rustle in trembling leaves,

For the wind today would plumb

The abodes of the Anemoi,

Its long lashing arms seek,

They plead and clamour and strum,

There is no room to speak,

No leave for breath.

And still, to breath

And see the sway

In the afternoon's frantic skirl,

Of a golden dancing gum.

It's been a busy few days. Yesterday was the anniversary of D-Day, the Allied landings in Normandy in 1944. Even though the Nazi's were already being beaten everywhere (though mostly by the Russians), it was an important last nail in the coffin. It opened up a proper second front to add misery to the Hitler's insane machinations and downfall.

Yesterday also I sadly said farewell to my trust Hyundai i30, perhaps the best car I've ever owned and driven. This car served many purposes over the past six and a half years, not least it's role in being a part of Ann's PR application to Australian immigration. I hope that the next owner has the same pleasure that I had and that they treaty her with respect.

The i30's replacement is a Mazda CX 3, a car that has been around for 10 years but is still selling strongly in the Australian market. We bought the base model and last year's stock to save money, so the bottom line (despite an underwhelming trade-in price) was manageable. I have driven Mazda's in one iteration or another for a long time and look forward to the new relationship. More on that later.

Finally, Ange Postecoglou has been sacked by Spurs, after a tumultuous second season. Tottenham performed relatively poorly in the Premier League this year and despite winning silver in Europe, the proverbial writing on the change room walls was likely inked in months ago. Personally I think Ange will do much better elsewhere and the London club may end up ruing the day that they didn't hand him a third season. Of course, time will tell.

Last night Oldham Athletic were promoted to League 2 of the EFL, after a 3 year stint in the National League. The latter is a notoriously difficult competition to get out of, being both competitive (despite being the fifth tier) and well supported. Oldham's exciting, last-gasp win over Southend United (3-2) at Wembley in front of a record crowd of 52,000 opens what I hope is a new era for the club.

Part of me is very surprised, for the Latics did not play well in the last few months and finished in fifth place. Top placed Barnet were directly promoted, whilst the second spot was subject to playoffs between the next 6 highest teams. Poor old York, who finished a clear second and 23 points ahead of Oldham, were eliminated in the playoffs. Such is the cruelty of the promotion system.

I really hope that Oldham can kick on in League 2. There's no point in being just a place-taker, is there?

 A national daily yesterday had an article about the inroads pornography is making into the lives of increasingly young boys. Astonishingly, kids as young as 4 or 5 are accessing (often inadvertently) internet based porn and presenting with all manner of inappropriate behaviours at school and elsewhere.

Thirty years ago I warned anyone who wished to listen that if porn moved online (from the once restricted bricks and mortar premises), then there would be serious consequences for both young men and women. I remember some people giving me odd looks, as if I was a weirdo. But I had read enough clinical evidence even at that time about the effects of porn addiction in the lives of users to know better. And there is much more evidence today and it is all pointing the same way.

If a society does not protect its young from physical or psychological damage when it has the means to do so, then that is surely a mark of decline in my estimation. And that is where we are. In decline.

I come around again and again to many texts - poems, plays, prose extracts, religious tracts and writings and so forth. Each time the revisiting creates a new layer of understanding in some way, even if I have forgotten what once I thought. I have read 'A Pilgrim's Progress' a dozen times, each time seeing something new, perhaps at the expense of forgetting something old.

So it is with Julian of Norwich, an anchoress and theologian from the Middle Ages, whose work, 'Revelations of Divine Love', is a classic. I have a small book of daily readings extracted from the text, curated by folks at the Julian Shrine in Norwich. 'Revelations', as the name suggests, is based upon Julian's 'visions' that she had at age 30, and later reflected upon and wrote down, or dictated to another.

In one of the final chapters of 'Revelations' she wrote ( here modernized),

'In our making we had beginning, but the love in which he made us was in him from without beginning, in which love we have our beginning.'

I have always struggled to understand what she meant because there seems at first glance to be a paradox contained within the thought. But unravelling it is not so hard if we consider God's eternal nature. Our individual existence in the real world begins with creation. God's love, the very essence of his being, existed before creation. It is therefore the source of our being in it.

That is still a little mind blowing, I know. It is hard to deal with eternal time and in this case, it might help to think about the 'eternal present.'

 In my teens I was in the thrall of the Romantic poets, especially Keats and Coleridge. I began writing poems 'in the style of', which, in hindsight, were woeful. I do remember a line that opened one such example, 'Sweet seems to me that tree' and upon this I rest my case. Fortunately nothing remains, the loose sheets of paper long degraded in a local tip.

But imagine if I had digital access and reproduction back when these pieces were first composed. They would be swirling about in the ether, so to speak, for as long as humanity had not destroyed itself. The latter appears to be closer than one might think, by the way, the parlous state of the planet and the human condition being a millstone about the neck of the ever hapless homo sapiens species.

But I digress. The fact is that everything produced today is extant and is probably reproduced over and over. I have to contend with this fact whenever I write in this blog and sometimes I forget the severity of not paying attention to the flashing red lights. I guess that there are still many poems that I would like to disappear but now it is too late.

I will just have to graciously accept the laughter that ensues.

The past 12 to 14 months have been very difficult for my family, with multiple health problems, the passing of my mother and sundry continuing sagas. I think it has been the most difficult time of my life and one which I would loath revisit. But is that not what life is - mountains and valleys and long wide plains?

Truthfully, I think it unlikely that I would have survived the onset and duration of one trouble after another without my faith. Being able to pray and surrender seemingly intractable problems to God has been a blessing beyond description. Sure, I would probably still be here and breathing in all likelihood if I was not a Christian, but in far worse shape, I suspect.

Those who argue that faith is a crutch, which I have just conveniently described for them, are missing the point. My Christian faith does not provide a means to avoid suffering and trials. The chances are that they will increase as one's faith increases. People don't become converts in order to avoid pain. But trials can build greater faith if we focus on the promises of God, found throughout scripture, especially that He will abide with us and that His plans will come to fruition, no matter how much we cannot see past our noses.

I guess my poems should reflect a greater joy than they do. I have always been a little melancholic and this comes out in my writing. If I could write like Manley Hopkins, in a more modern way, I would.

'I caught this morning morning's minion/ kingdom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn drawn Falcon'

Radio transmissions, including the type we know as radio broadcasts, travel much further than an antenna to your receiver. Depending on the strength of the transmission, they can also travel beyond the Earth's atmosphere and into space at the speed of light. They will keep moving at the same speed for thousands or even millions of years, though their strength diminishes with distance travelled. The Inverse Square law says that the intensity of radio waves decreases with the square of the distance from the source.

We have been sending radio waves hither and thither for over 130 years, meaning that some may have reached a distance of 130 light years from the Earth. Of course, they would be much weakened and perhaps impossible to distinguish, should someone have a powerful enough receiver, from the background noise of the universe.

Still, it's fun to think of all those broadcasts, including ones I have been doing for the past six years, spreading out into space and heading off with their human-made content. The first episode of 'What's in Space' is two-thirds to Proxima Centauri. 'Writer's from the Vault' has breached the heliosphere and is whizzing into interstellar space. Who cares if no one is listening, its still a wonderfully romantic notion, split infinitives notwithstanding. 

The recent Federal election saw the seeing off of two party leaders, Peter Dutton and Adam Bandt. Both initially came as a surprise to me given their high profiles, but became less surprising with the passing of time.

For Liberal Party leader Dutton, the ascent of Trump proved a powerful drag on his chances of becoming the next PM. A man of little charisma and with a penchant for the negative, he became the wrong man at the wrong time.

Bandt's demise caught everyone on the hop. The Greens had been growing in popularity in recent elections. Not so this election in which a swing against the party has seen 3 of their 4 House of Rep seats fall.

There is a wider narrative here which will be fleshed out in coming months. Two decades ago the Greens were the party of environmental protection. Now and then I cast a vote for them in the Senate. Somewhere in the last ten years, they have morphed into a more fully-fledged left wing party, beholden to many issues that ordinary Australians have little interest in. Moreover, a tone of the most egregious self-righteous moralising, together with unconstructive behaviour in the parliament, has seen their star begin to wane.

It's too early yet to say whether the rot has set in. They may bounce back in three years. Hopefully the focus will return to their strong suit, the environment.

 

January 17^th 1836

‘In the middle of the day we baited our horses at a little Inn, called the Weather-board. The country here is elevated 2800 feet above the sea. About a mile & a half from this place there is a view exceedingly well worth visiting; following down a little valley & its tiny rill of water, an immense gulf is suddenly & without any preparation seen through the trees which border the pathway at the depth of perhaps 1500 ft. Walking a few yards farther, one stands on the brink of a vast precipice, & below is the grand bay or gulf, for I know not what other name to give it, thickly covered with forest.’

The quotation above is a part of Charles Darwin's diary entry on January 17th 1836. The place where he 'baited' his horse, the little inn called the Weather-board, is where Wentworth Falls is located today. And the walk he did, or a close approximation of it, is now called Charles Darwin's Walk.

It is really an easy stroll by the usual standard of Blue Mountains tracks - very little up and down - and is currently being reconstructed with new bridges and stairs. Today, Ann and I went as far as construction allowed us to and we will save the rest for another day. The portion that we did (perhaps half) was well worth it, somewhat more than the 'little valley and...tiny rill of water' though nothing compared to what we would have encountered at the cliff face ahead.