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