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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A scene of relative calm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buson (1715-83)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Boy, I must get a life someday!

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

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

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

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

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

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_sumo_terms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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