Blog

Please excuse my protracted absence.

It’s not from a lack of writing.  Quite the opposite.  Plenty of words have been accumulating over here.  Behind closed doors there has been a frenzy of note scribbling,  sessions of brainstorming, and even a weekend course, thanks to Writers Victoria in Melbourne, and the marvelous Kathryn Heyman.

I have yellow Post-It notes all over my kitchen walls and storyboards pasted to my wardrobe door.  Which means the latest story is brewing, but it’s only up to the first half of a first draft.  So, no breath holding necessary yet.  This one is still being carefully mixed, and  needs baking to perfection, but I’m hoping it’ll be worth all the effort in the end.

When it comes to the actual craft, I love the beauty that can be conveyed with language, and all of the nuances of the spoken word.  I can get quite tetchy when I hear words being used and abused, and lazy writing just pushes my literary buttons.  One of the regulars these days has to be gotten.  If you check that lovely papery thing (the dictionary) you’ll see it lists gotten as an archaic word – ie: no longer in use.  Actually it says ‘archaic and US’.  But really, even if you’re American, the word is got.  It’s shorter, and easier to write, so why not use it?

I confess to being addicted to international news radio these days, particularly ABC’s 1026 AM, with its rich diversity of voices, and eclectic mix of accents reading the latest bulletins.  However, even the ABC literary standards seem to be slipping.  I’ve been surprised at the ever increasing range of grammatical irregularities, peculiar inflections, the mispronunciation and the mixed metaphors that repeatedly go-to-air unchallenged and uncorrected.

I recently sent my whinings to them via email, having been taken to the brink by a selection of words that seemed to be on-loop with a few of their newsreaders.  I was disappointed to receive one of those robot produced, generic Do-Not-Reply emails thanking me for my feedback, and promising to address my concerns shortly via return email from a human being.

It was followed by a conspicuous email silence, and no change.  I suspect my carefully scribed email was summarily deleted, or at best filed in the vault of Store and Forget.

So, in defense of some of those poor little words that simply deserve better, I’ve listed the most jarring examples.  A few of them came from the sports desk, but others were even from the mouths of the more experienced journalists.

Real – this seems to be frequently used (and over used) when other words like actual/specific/very/valid would be more appropriate.  (The real issue, the real problem, I have real concerns. The list is endless.)

Next-up, or Up-next – why isn’t something just next?   Why add the up?

Début – from the French, débuter, and pronounced ‘day-b-yoo’  – NOT ‘duh-boo’ which I hear from the Sports desk until my ears bleed.

Repeat – this word should receive equal emphasis on each of the syllables, and is never ‘ree-peat’ (which I also heard on ABC television news the other day.  Sacrilege.  It’s almost as bad as saying you are in agreeance – which is not a word – instead of in agreement which is.)

Ultimately it was the mixed metaphors which finally tipped me over the edge.  There have been several sports reports referring to the tension in the final minutes of the football as mouth watering.  Do they intend to eat the players?  I suspect the use of nail biting would be more apt.

Another good one was a science report, and the reference to a current discovery which had wet the whistle of the relevant Scientists.  That phrase actually means, ‘to take a drink, or quench your thirst.’   It would be more accurate to say the discovery had whet their appetite given this indicates a sharpening in one’s interest for something.

My favourite of all was hearing the word mispronunciation mispronounced as mispronounciation.  But I can’t be sure that one was on the ABC.

Being creative with words is not quite the same as taking liberties with language.  Call me persnickety if you like, but when it comes to words, I just want to make sure all their precious little syllables are well-used, but not over-used.  To mix a nice fruity metaphor compote of my own:  I just want to have my bread buttered on both sides, and sleep in it.

Do what you will with that one.

If you’re still breathing at the end of 2018 then I’d like to say, congratulations.

Your survival confirms you must have managed to stay afloat for another year.  Maybe you’ve had more in common with Sisyphus lately – pushing that huge stone uphill, only to have it roll down again before he gets it to the top.  I’ve definitely had days like that.  But it all comes down to the struggle, and not giving-up, however hard it all seems.

What have you been wrestling with recently?  Dwindling finances, relationship dramas, niggling health issues?  Or perhaps it’s the echo of a bereavement?  It’s often something that resurfaces with boomerang inevitability.  The sort of thing that is never fully resolved but which can be tolerated when you have a moment of clarity, or a small breakthrough, or receive the random kindness of a stranger.

‘I’m still standing,’ might be something you’ve muttered under your breath lately; but you should really be shouting it from the rooftops.  You’re alive.  Be proud of the strength of your resolve and your sheer bloody mindedness, of having given the finger to the world, and of digging in your hooves like any stubborn mule would do.  Stand your ground.  Put your hands on your hips and blow a big raspberry at the universe.  There.  Feel better?

You might have already done some spring cleaning, to throw out a few thoughts and behaviours that are no longer useful to you.  Perhaps you’ve finally been able to wrestle those pesky inner demons into an arm lock, and seen them for what they are – the saboteurs of your hopes and ambitions.  Or perhaps you’ve reached the top of that long flight of steps with your lungs burning, and raised your arms in a valient Rocky salute.  Victory feels sweet, especially when your opponent has been yourself.

Whatever you’re trying to achieve, if you’re quitting an addiction, or trying to finish that project you’ve had in a box in the shed for too long,  I wish you all the best.  So dig deep and motor off in the direction of your dreams.  You are the one that has the most influence on the outcome.  Surround yourself with people who will applaud your efforts and champion your cause.  They’ll be the ones who will also be celebrating with you, when you have those small moments of victory along the way.

It sounds trite to say, never give up.  Another platitude.  But honestly, it’s that simple.

To continue steadfastly with something that is difficult, while risking failure or opposition, is surely high up on the scale of character building moments.  That’s perseverance for you.

You can’t always win, or even get close to the finishing line every time, but you can keep trying.  That’s what counts.  So embrace the difficulty, and keep your goal in mind.

All the best for 2019.

The next day, the morning drizzle gives way to low cloud by the time I set off from Ubuntu, for the drive to Tidal River.

It makes the light too flat and diffuse for photographs, but I pull in at Whiskey Bay and climb over orange lichen covered rocks to get the best out of the colours in the sun’s absence.  Ahead of me, Norman Island is a rocky outcrop across the sea.

I’m not sure about the weather today, so I opt for a walk from Tidal River, taking the Tidal Overlook Circuit (3.8km, 1.5hrs) that climbs steadily from the footbridge across the tidal inlet. It has the best views of the campsite, of the place where it nestles between the two Points that bracket Norman Beach.

As the path rises I can look back at the campground in miniature, surrounded by dense bush far below.

The air becomes muggy as the day warms, and when the track starts to loop around to a high point, I can see the Lilly Pilly carpark far below, and the small clearing it inhabits in this solid wilderness. It looks like a tiny dugout, a naked spot amongst the trees. It looks like it could be taken back so easily, grown-over and forgotten.

 

I come across some birds bathing in a rock pool, and watch them in the emerging sunshine before descending to a connecting track that leads me back to Tidal River.

Clouds are shrouding the hill peaks, cars are snaking down the road from Telegraph Saddle, and I can see the wooden slats of the boardwalk following the banks of the river below me.

 

Once I’ve crossed the footbridge again, I take the boardwalk, the Loo-Errn Track (1km) around duck filled wetlands before a final walk on Norman Beach.

It’s difficult to leave The Prom in the late afternoon. The isolation here is very calming. Admittedly, you can add to your provisions at the store, and there’s drinking water available, but there’s no fuel on-site. There’s a need to be very self-sufficient, to be prepared for anything: a change in weather, protection from heat or cold, from sun or rain, enough to eat and drink. It simplifies everything. Brings it all back to existence and survival. You might be able to buy your coffee here at the café, but the reality is, we’re 37km from the nearest town (Yanakie). I could easily imagine this place cut-off from the world, and without supplies I wonder how long we’d survive. This wilderness would easily outlast us, swallow up our walking tracks and delete us.

**

I take a short walk before I leave on my final morning – the 2km Duck Point Loop Track from Foley Rd – which passes through bird filled trees flitting in the canopy above me. From a tree lined tunnel of interlaced branches I emerge to a long walkway of pink flowers growing amongst the fleshy succulents that form the ground cover on the sand.

The path takes me to a beach of dead trees, silver trunks, and blanched driftwood. The clusters of dead stumps stretch around the headland, stark and dramatic in the bright sunlight and I try to imagine their story, how they ended up in this still life. Their beautiful twisted shapes are on my mind as I begin the journey back along the South Gippsland Highway.

My visit to Prom Country has only been an introduction to its wild shores and boisterous weather, and the notion of leaving brings on an unexpected sense of loss that I carry with me like a stone in my chest.  I draw on my memories of the last few days as I drive northwards, towards the big city again.  The roaming wildlife and the cicada hum in the air, the fickle winds and changeable weather, the chance to stand alone on a walking track in the wilderness and hear nothing but the click of insects around me in the hush.

There can be no better sense of peace.  I know I’ll have to return.

Roland Harvey has just made me a cup of Earl Grey tea, and we’re chatting about his latest art projects.

At his studio in Fish Creek I ring the bell (as the sign indicates) and am greeted by the artist himself – tall, bearded, humorous and incredibly engaging. The impromptu tea break and personalised tour of his little weatherboard house is a lovely touch from a man who clearly has a few deadlines to meet, but he seems to welcome the intrusion, and we talk for at least an hour.

His latest undertaking is to document an entire history of the world, from the Big Bang. I peer at the intricate drawings on a wall banner that covers all four walls, unfolding in a full circuit of the room from one side of the doorway all the way around to the other. It must be over 30 feet long. He clearly doesn’t do ‘small.’

Outside, there are a few showers (rain), dry spells (ie: intermittent rain) and sometimes it’s partly fine (another euphemism for rain.)  I’m not complaining.  It all looks beautiful to me.

I’ve been driven by hunger to eat my lunch in the car, windscreen wipers swishing the rain from the windows.  I have a thai chicken pie that I bought in Inverloch, from Paul the Pieman and I mean to enjoy it.  Nothing is going to rain on this (lunch) parade.

It didn’t take long to drive from Inverloch to Fish Creek, a small town and a thriving arts hub. After my pie, and a visit to Alison Lester’s bookshop (another artist), I then only have a short drive (of about 20km) to reach Yanakie, with its petrol station, single general store and one pizza café. This is why I’ve brought a full Eski of food with me. It’s a long way to the shops when you live out here.

My lovely African-themed accommodation is called Ubuntu, and is close to Shallow Inlet.   I like the old Land Rover parked in the garden, like a cobwebbed relic from a past safari. It reminds me of Daktari, a childhood television show about an African Vet, and his cross-eyed Lion, Clarence.

There’s time for a short walk in the late afternoon, from my house on Millar Rd to Shallow Inlet, and it’s there that I spot my first official sign for Wilsons Prom, a reminder that I’m only a few kilometres from the park entrance.   I find it’s too blustery at the Inlet, the gusts making my eyes sting and blur, and it’s too chilling to linger in the scrabbling winds, so instead I retreat and then follow the Boundary Track Walk, an endless somewhat indistinct pathway crossing through grass and low scrub.

There’s a crash as a wallaby takes off somewhere, disturbed by my presence, and I see an echidna in the low ferns. It curls its spiny body and burrows its snout in the dirt, as if believing this somehow makes it less visible to me. Maybe if it can’t see me, it thinks I can’t see it.

I step carefully.  I’m in boots but not full length pants, and there could easily be snakes lurking in the spiny grasses.  Sure enough, as I sweep my eyes to the left and right I spy a coiled mound of snake warming itself in the late sunshine.  We eye each other at a respectful distance, and after some photographs I retreat slowly as it unspools itself and slides away into the disguise of deeper undergrowth.

I take home a few burrs in my socks, pulling out the sticky grass seeds that cling to the material before they start to prickle my skin.  I’m told there will be visiting wildlife in the gardens overnight, but in the lamplight of the lounge I see only Kookaburras in the evening shadows, hearing their familiar laughing calls as the sun sets.

**

In the morning I’m awake early, packing a lunch and a flask for tea.  A picnic means that I can stop anywhere, and eat whenever I want to.  Best to have too many provisions than to go hungry.  I wind down my car window at the park entrance to take a map at the gate, and then drive through.  The Parks Victoria map outlines all the tracks and lookouts, plus it shows the distances of the various walks, and suggests how much time to allow.

It’s a single lane road from the entrance, and a picturesque 30km journey to Tidal River – the end point, and the site of all the accommodation, from cabins to camping spots.  One lane means there’s no room for overtaking, but cars regularly peel off to the parking area of their chosen walk, and I frequently find that I have the road to myself when I check my rear vision mirror.

I park, and start my day with the 45 minute Prom Wildlife Walk, only 2.3km across wide open grasslands, and as the track arcs around I can see emus grazing in the distance.   Other wildlife is in miniature, but no less impressive.  The Inchman is a species of venomous bull ant that I’ve often seen in the bush, equipped with a sting on one end and a scary set of mandibles on the other.  (There’s also the Jack jumper, which looks very similar, and as the name suggests, has the ability to jump long distances.  I rarely linger to check out that fact, especially when they’re known for their aggression towards humans.)   They’re quite feisty, and will stop mid-track to stand on their hind legs and challenge your passing boots.  I have to admire their courage when faced with something like myself, that in their world is the size of a skyscraper.

The kangaroos are being studied here, and are probably also somewhat habituated to all the visitors, so when I see one dozing lazily under a bush within a metre of the track I’m unsurprised that he ignores me as I take photographs.

Driving further into the park, I leave my car at Picnic Bay next and walk the short distance to the beach with my lunch. I can’t imagine many other places that would have a better view for a picnic.

Before my afternoon walk I get to experience my first ‘bush dunny’ of the day, with its cramped phone box dimensions (when we had that sort of thing) and its creepy, long-drop, fly filled interior. No running water here, and putting a plastic toilet seat over a boxed hole doesn’t fool anyone. I realise why I prefer to pee behind a bush as soon as I enter, and have to mouth-breathe in the reeking interior. Closing the door only intensifies the acrid smell and concentrates the fetid air.  My eyes sting when I open the lid. (Yes, it has one. ‘Close the lid on departure’, a sign helpfully suggests, as if this goes any way towards containing the odours from the mound of festering sewage beneath.)

Flies are excited at the prospect of a new arrival and begin to make circular laps around me, even before I’ve unzipped anything.  I hesitate.  Will my need overcome my revulsion?

Hovering over a dark hole with your most intimate parts dangling above a possibly snake-filled pit (for all I know) suggests either a level of daring, or perhaps just stupidity. A full bladder does it for me. I’m goal oriented. I hold my nerve. But it’s not for the squeamish.

The Lilly Pilly Circuit walking path (5.8km – 2 hrs) seems to combine a couple of tracks, traversing stringybark forest, and then rainforest filled with Lilly Pilly trees.

Bronze coloured tree sap oozes from blackened, burnt trunks, vibrant emerald ferns provide a tangled ground cover, and elegant grass trees splay their leaves stiffly from a central point, green filaments fanning out with pleasing symmetry, as if someone has just made them and left them there. At intervals there are skeletons of burnt-out tree stumps, evidence of the past bush fires, and of death amongst the emerging life.

At a boardwalk I take a meander through the ferns and fallen tree branches, the air humming with cicadas and the buzz of flying insects. It’s cooler here, and shadow filled, so I pause to take a short video of this lazy tableau – something to revisit when I need a moment of calm.

Emerging to the carpark, there’s still time for the short drive to Tidal River where I can park in the visitor area near the General Store, café and information centre. I welcome the chance to visit a flush toilet in the scattered blocks of campground facilities, and admire the organised grid of tracks and lanes that demarcate each camping area.

Clusters of units and cabins, huts and group lodges are spaced out amongst the trees and divided into sections, with the river forming one boundary, and the beach overlooking Norman Bay the other. From a distance the buildings are almost lost to the encroaching bush that sprawls around it and sweeps upwards to the mountainous backdrop.

I find a beach access point near the footbridge so I can walk around to the vast expanse of Norman Beach. The sun is colouring-in the afternoon skies, the shores are peopled by distant figures.

The tide is a long way out, and on the wet sand, a carpet of bubbling holes underfoot reveals vast colonies of tiny burrowing crabs. Perhaps alerted by the tremors of my footfall, they screw down into the sand, disappearing below the surface before I can even make an imprint with my toes. There must be hundreds of them.

I take photographs of fat white clouds sitting above the backdrop of hills, the sheen of the water on the sand making it into a mirror that reflects the skies, and I wander the shores in thrall to the sweeping panorama.

When I retrace the journey back through the park, I drive with some caution now that the sun is lowering. Wallabies graze at the verges, and at every sweep of the road I keep my eyes to the roadsides in case I see their familiar solitary shape in the dusk light. I pass a succession of them, on several corners, and slow down in case they bolt suddenly, but mostly they just spring back into the bush with a couple of leaps and, despite their size, are swiftly gone.

The bush, it seems, can claim anything to its shadowy fathomless depths.

I’m in cow country.

Lush, green rolling hills unfold around me as far as the horizon. Fields stippled with black and white cows – Holstein Friesians, bred for milking, and sometimes the familiar Jersey breed, with long lashes and caramel coloured hides.

It’s South Gippsland, and I’m heading to The Prom for a few days – Wilsons Promontory National Park, only a couple of hours out of Melbourne. Bushfires swept through the area in 2009, just as I’d been thinking of making the trip to one of the few places in Victoria that I’d never visited. I knew it would take a few years for the denuded landscape to recover, but almost a decade has passed since the fires, and I realise I’m well overdue for this road trip.

The South Gippsland Highway, the A440, meanders down towards the southernmost tip of the Australian mainland where it juts out into the ocean. On the map it’s depicted as a solid green headland, an area that can get lashed on both sides by the swirling tantrum of winds that chop into the open seas of the Bass Strait. It promises over 50,000 hectares of wilderness, it has over 30 self-guided walking tracks, and I’m more than ready for it.

Seeing an opportunity for serenity and isolation, and overcome with the need to escape the city and all of its habits, I’ve thrown everything into the car for the 200km trip – clothes for all temperatures, beach wear, food, plus the all-important walking boots.

You might be able to cover the 200km drive to the National Park in a couple of hours, but it’s far better to drop into the small towns en route, and have a more leisurely drive. I intend to take my time, and to do some exploring en route.

During my short detours off the highway, I first enjoy the village of Loch, with its impressive cluttered antique shop, dropping into a couple of cafes that are open on a quiet tuesday, and then checking out some of the heritage buildings – like the two storey red brick Royal Hotel (1917) which is now, sadly, permanently closed.   Next is Bena with a lovely old weatherboard Presbyterian Church, and a Main Rd completely devoid of traffic. That’s when you know you’re off the radar.

Further along, Korumburra is where I choose to eat my roadside picnic – a place that bans all types of wheel based enjoyment, according to the signage in town. Killjoys. (They missed Heelys by the way – sneakers with a removable wheel built-into the heel. There’s also no mention of go-karts. Must get back to Korumburra sometime with that billy-kart prototype.)

Following a suggestion in my Official Visitor Guide, I opt for the scenic drive from here to Inverloch, taking a right turn onto the C437 (Radovick St) so that I can really immerse myself in pastoral scenes. Endless fields and paddocks rise up and drop away into the distance, black and white cows lumber to the milking barns or graze on the abundant grassy pastures, and some low cloud skulks over the single lane road that ribbons off towards the coast. A storm is brewing overhead, the flash of lightning-strikes clearly visible from the viewing platform of the scenic lookout.

Before long, rain is lashing down on my windscreen. I pull-over to watch it unleash its fury, my car adjacent to a field of curious cows that begin to gravitate towards the fence and engage in a prolonged stand-off. As I take photos of them in the driving rain, umbrella in one hand and camera in the other, they begin to form a neat line at the wire perimeter so they can collectively stare at this intrusion. I sense I’ve interrupted their main occupation of chewing the cud, intensive digestion, and contemplation of the bovine life. It’s the most interesting thing that’s happened to them all day.

Back in the car, I watch erratic winds blowing sweeping curtains of water, solid torrents that seem to come from all directions. The drenching continues as I drive away, leaving the cows to their grass-filled thoughts. Little wonder then that this part of Australia is so green.

I have magpies and wattlebirds in my garden at the house in Inverloch. They flap about, visiting the trees outside the kitchen windows, as they search for a steady supply of insect nibbles. When the sun emerges, I take the opportunity to sit on the rear deck, surrounded by foliage, listening to the micro world at play – the waking rituals, the flapping confrontations of unseen birds protecting their branches of territory, the click and tap of insects. Deprived of such sights and open spaces, my city senses notice every birdcall, every sighing breeze that ruffles through the leaves. The peacefulness is hypnotic.

A walk along the beach from my house on Florida Ave to the town centre is a photogenic landscape of ocean remnants – dried driftwood, old tree roots and all the lost property of the sea. The stacks of roots and twisted driftwood stand at regular intervals on the sand, and from a distance they look like the pyres of signal fires waiting to be lit. But on inspection their twisted limbs, gnarled and blanched by salt water and sunshine, look more like shelters, like the skeleton frames of tepees that have been abandoned. They could just be old mangroves, but they seem to have been intentionally constructed – and whether they’re shelters or artistic expression, they make a captivating statement.

The afternoon drive to the township of Cape Paterson is on a meandering road that hugs the coastline. The Bunurong Coastal Drive is a picturesque 17km journey that provides endless views of sandstone cliffs, coves and beaches. Regular access points along the way entice drivers to park and come closer to the water – ‘The Caves’ is a site of dinosaur digs since 1994. Subject to the tides, excavations can occur for a few hours when the tide retreats and the treasures of the past can be accessed from the exposed rocks. The teeth and bones that have been found here are a reminder of the ancient history that lies in the sediment just beneath our feet.

At the beginning of time, before the land masses were pulled apart, you could actually walk from here straight across to Antarctica. From the rocky shore I stare out across the ocean and try to imagine this view without the sea.

It’s a fitting end to the day to walk a section of the surf beach at the Cape, ruffled and shoved by the wind, watching long lines of distant waves white-capping as they roll onshore. As they crest and unfurl, a brown cattle dog runs deliriously across the sand, covering the distance in seconds, barking and excited by the buzz of jetskis that arc around and follow the shoreline. Its joy is infectious, and I laugh, watching the mad dash, the speed, the exuberance. Undistilled happiness. It’s palpable.

**

Rain has been a theme of the trip so far. The humming drum of its incessant nightly rhythm, the deep green hues of the rolling hillsides as proof of its abundance, the shifting lid of cloud-cover that seems to trail my journey southwards.

Although the second morning starts again with rain, it soon clears, and ultimately it’s the sunset walk that proves most memorable.   I pick up the Screw Creek Estuary Walk from the grounds of the caravan and camping park at Anderson Inlet. There, a large group of school children are making camp, putting up tents and playing ball games as I walk through the resort. For the last couple of nights you could have floated a boat as the lashing rain tap danced across my roof. With more heavy rain predicated tonight, I don’t envy their canvas-covered beds for the night, or the wildlife that might want to seek shelter in their assorted tents in the next deluge. Huntsman spiders in particular. I relocated one from the hallway of the house to the garden on the night I arrived, its span large enough to cover the palm of my hand.

With the tide out, and at this high vantage on the track, the reflected sunlight gilds everything on the beach below, and with my camera in the gusting winds I try to capture the way the light passes through the clouds and turns the sands to gold.

It’s a fitting image on which to dwell, given I’ll be leaving Inverloch in the morning.   The splendour of the scene makes me think of poetry, of Wordsworth, and his love of nature:

“… and the sky,

Never before so beautiful, sank down

Into my heart, and held me like a dream” (Book II: The Prelude)

Tomorrow will be destination, Yanakie, and then on to Wilsons Promontory.

Change happens slowly, especially when you’re sitting around waiting for it.

Nevertheless, some things seem to be changing so rapidly that it’s hard to keep up.  When it comes to communication these days, we probably all have our favourite methods.  But whether it’s face-to-face, or online, the need to share information seems to have shifted gear exponentially.  And it just seems to be getting faster.

The people who came before us, our ancestors, were the instigators of this change.  They had a far more limited and restricted audience for their voices, and they wanted progress.  They wanted news.  But news travelled slowly.  R e a l l y  slowly.  A couple of centuries ago the Americans might have though the new Pony Express was a quick way to get a letter delivered.  These days you can leave the horse in the paddock and check into The Cloud for all your information.

Humans have mastered a vast array of communicaton styles over the centuries.  As a Writer, my love of language needs no fanfare.  I might be listening to spoken word at a poetry reading, or losing myself in the latest novel.  (Yes, some of us still do read those strange papery things called books.)  I’ve embraced the move into the e-world, albeit grudgingly at first.  But a word is a word, however it’s transmitted.  The joy for me is in the language, however it’s delivered.

Across our multi-lingual world we’re chattering on an almost constant basis these days, in one form or another.  But I often speculate on lost time as we’re inundated with this endless stream of banter.  Twitter,  sms,  Facebook,  WhatsApp,  e-mails,  ipods,  live streaming,  catch-up TV,  YouTube.  So many things to check.  Life feels busy and out of control sometimes, and maybe, just maybe, all this information sharing is becoming too much?

We’ve come a long way since we used smoke signals across the valley.  I mean, look at the options as they became available.  There’s yodelling, for instance.  No, I’m not kidding.  According to Wikipedia the earliest record of a yodel is in 1545, so if you had the vocal register, and needed to round up your goats in the Central Alps, or communicate with a nearby Alpine village, then voilà.  It was your tool of choice.

Historically, letters were written and delivered by hand, from one household to another.  Plenty of clandestine affairs would have been facilitated by a lady’s maid doing a dash across town with a perfumed notelet.  Or by a stableboy running across the fields clutching a reply, filled with fervent promises and declarations.  Romantic certainly, but I imagine there’d be lots of waiting and pacing.   No wonder people wanted to marry young.

When the postal system emerged in the 1700’s,  household staff everywhere must have breathed a collective sigh of relief.  Less running, and more scrubbing.  (Well, perhaps not that much relief then.)  Mind you, a horse and rider postal delivery system could only go at the speed of a canter or gallop.   Back to the yodelling perhaps?

Given the speed of light, it would stand to reason that visual communication might give the process some welly.  Semaphore was perfect for messaging over long distances, requiring an eyeglass and a good attention span.  Flag waving and light signals became de rigueur in the eighteenth century.  Anyone who wanted to be someone would have had their people standing in high towers, on distant hills, waiting for some bloke to flap their flags at them.

Thanks to Samuel Morse, and lots of overhead wiring, telegraph came into use in the 1830’s and 40’s.  Hence, things could be delivered more quickly, depending on the reach of the overhead wiring network.  Dots and dashes could be transmitted across continents, and messages could be transmitted instantly.  The railways allowed their reach to expand even further, and soon the instruments were installed in post offices.  The network had begun to spread its web.

The appearance of the phone was prophetic, the progenitor of what would become a mass produced pocket-sized necessity.  I wonder what Alexander Graham Bell would make of the i-phone?  Perhaps he’d be an android man?  He was awarded the patent in 1876 despite a couple of earlier phone models being produced by an Italian, and then a Frenchman.  Surely he couldn’t have forseen the enormity of this collective global connectivity as a consequence of his little invention?

Thankfully I’m from a generation who can still enjoy the novelty of a phone that isn’t connected to a wall.  I can also quite happily switch it off for the day.  I am living proof that you can survive several decades without the umbilical cord of a mobile phone to sustain you.  I make it a rule to never text or use my mobile whilst cycling, skating, doing yoga, sitting on public transport or, Heavens to Murgatroyd, whilst driving.  Yes, that last one is illegal here, and will incur a fine of $455 (or more) and the loss of points.

Really, nothing is so urgent that it can’t wait until you finish your walk / ride / stroll with the dog.  And perhaps you should be interacting with your beloved dog, not just taking it for a drag,  given it has been waiting all day for this walk with you, and at the very least would like a bit of eye contact.

These days fax machines seem positively archaic, and the original Apple Mac personal computers look almost jurassic.  But how we loved those chunky, clunky very unportable boxes with their electronic beeps and flickering black screens.  Remember that lurid green text?   You had to be a serious nerd to understand even the basics of all the backslash, backslash, dot, hyphen, www stuff you had to type-in to get online.  And heaven help you if you missed a dash, or used a forward slash.  Stoopid.  Start again.

As many of us dash about in our hamster-wheel worlds, it’s little wonder that some people have initiated ‘slow living’ as their new lifestyle choice, adopting traditional values as well as the slow food movement – the antithesis of the fast food industry.  It also involves reducing the stranglehold of technology, and horror of horrors, switching off the phone for a while.

Long before the internet,  families sat in parlours, listened to the wireless, and spoke to each other with actual words.  Crazy.  Sometimes they had a singalong around the piano in the local pub.   They used books of maps then, and encyclopedias.  They sat quietly on benches waiting for buses, free to wander the colourful corridors of their imagination, needing no entertainment except their own thoughts.

Imagine that.

So unplug all of it, and let your mind wander for a while. Go on I dare you.

It’s true that people often behave differently when they’re in a crowd.

On thursday this week I had first hand experience of that behaviour, as Melbourne’s Royal supporters gathered on the streets to wait for Harry and Meghan to fly-in from Sydney.  We didn’t mind that they were running late.  We were collectively glad that it wasn’t raining, or meltingly hot, or fiercely windy, all of which can be experienced during a few hours in the Melbourne springtime.  (We love it though, regardless of its fickle nature sometimes. )

The excitement within the crowd was palpable, people were chatting to the person standing next to them, the mood was light and friendly.  It really was the sort of morning when you feel like having a group hug, when you feel like you’re forging connections, finding commonalities.  Joyful.  That’s what it felt like.

I’ve been to gigs, I’ve been jostled at festivals, felt the press of the crowd surge.  It can be intimidating.  But Thursday morning was the antithesis of those experiences.  There were respectful spaces, smiles between strangers, a sense of co-operation and inclusiveness.

Then the cuckoo appeared.

A woman with a mobile phone to her ear was suddenly in front of me, sliding into the cracks between rows, waving at someone on the far side.  People moved obligingly, thinking she was trying to see her friend beyond the barriers.  Feet were shuffled, everyone made room.  Nods and smiles.  Once she’d had her moment, we knew she’d move on and we could all take our positions again.  But just like the cuckoo, she was moving in, and she intended to make this her new home.

I stared at the back of her head, the woman that was now standing on my bit of floorspace, on the ground where moments before my feet had stood.  All of us had politely moved as she insinuated herself between us, unwittingly allowing her to stake her claim.

Eyebrows were raised, looks were exchanged.  What blatant behaviour.  Surely she’d move in a minute?  When she didn’t, I asked her to move.  She refused.  When someone else asked her, she again refused.

The mood of the crowd changed.  The overwhelming contentment that had infused the gathering was being leeched away.  It was perceptible.  Surely this selfish behaviour couldn’t be allowed to infect the day?  I could feel my heart rate accelerating.  Not today, I thought.  Don’t spoil it.  Don’t burst this bubble of happiness.

The excitement of waiting for the Royal couple had been infectious, and many of us in the throng of people had been chatting to each other.  Strangers had become acquaintances.  I’d been chatting all morning to a fellow Brit next to me in the crowd.  It felt like I’d made a new friend, an unexpected bonus on such a happy day.

Even so, when the cuckoo moved in, I did what any British person would do.  I didn’t make a fuss.  I assumed she would see the error of her ways, and move on.  She didn’t.

There’s a moment, in situations like this, when you feel truly alone.  Just as I’d previously been aware of a sense of cohesiveness, I now felt only separation.  As if this woman had thrown a grenade into the crush.

Then something truly wonderful happened.  A woman behind me stepped forward and expressed her disbelief.  Another said I should insist that this imposter moves.  A girl to my right smiled sympathetically and admitted she was amazed at my apparent calm.  Make her move, she said.  But how could I do that without escalating the situation?

The castigation continued, but what was so impressive was its subtlety.  No-one shouted, or pushed.  There was no sense of violence.  But it was persistent.  It was pervasive.  And it was done without discussion or consensus.

The collective unconscious, the feelings that we all share as a species can make us behave differently when we’re herded together.  We instinctively know when something isn’t right.  We want to restore the balance.  We seek harmony and connection.  At our core, we want to belong.

My new British friend joined the offensive.  Someone else stepped forward and said that she was embarrassed by this woman’s behaviour.  On behalf of her fellow Australians, she apologised.  It seemed as though everyone was lining up in my defence.

Two girls that had been standing next to me, began to gradually lean into the space she was occupying until she was eventually behind the press of their shoulders.  Perhaps sensing her disempowerment, the interloper could do nothing more than melt back into the masses again, and out of sight.

Girl power, I thought!  Without invitation, everyone had rallied to remedy a situation that they thought was unfair.  Herd behaviour, community spirit, the desire for fairplay.    Whatever you want to call it, sometimes in this fast and impatient world it’s easy to forget the inherent goodness within all of us.  We are, after all, all one species, trying our best to hum along together.  When you give people an opportunity to display their inner humanity, it is heart warming to see such a wealth of compassion.

It was a wonderful day in the end, out there on the streets with everyone, rubbing shoulders with strangers, making friends.  We saw Harry and Meghan, we cheered, we took photographs.   I am certain there will always be plenty of people willing to stand in your corner when you need them to, ready to lend a hand in your time of need.  So I’m not going to worry about the cuckoos too much. They’ll always be outnumbered by the rest of the flock.

 

 

Mandela My Life: The Official Exhibition opened on Saturday, 22nd September 2018 at Melbourne Museum, and I didn’t hesitate to buy myself a ticket.  He would’ve been 100 this year.

As it tours internationally, in celebration of the Nelson Mandela Centenary, the exhibition is showcasing a selection of items from his vast Johannesburg collection.  It’s a reminder of the man who changed history, both in his own country and around the globe.

Laughter, joy, tears.  I experienced all of these as I browsed the documents, artefacts and items of personal memorabilia on display. Captivated by the soundbites and scattered film footage, I was most affected by the moments reflecting his inimitable character.

I was moved by the sight of his inked handprints on the page of a book, under which he had written, My Hands, NMandela.  There was a childlike exuberance about it.  The photograph of him cleaning his shoes onboard the presidential jet, the reference to him rising before dawn and making his own bed, even when staying in a hotel.  These things shine a light on the guiding principles and inherent nature of a determined and disciplined man.  His ability to survive the deprivations of prison for 27 years came from this discipline, together with his ability to reframe his situation, to consider the usefulness of the solitude, to view it as a time to reflect, read and think.  You know you are beholding greatness when you see a man who can rise above misery and observe only the lightness of the horizon.

Madiba – a title of respect derived from his Xhosa clan name –  Tata, Father.  All of these names seem more suitable than Nelson, given to him, I learn, by his teacher when he started school.  Hearing him describe his childhood, listening to his voice narrating so many aspects of his own story is a constant joy as I wander through time and history, his tone both thoughtful and compelling, his words well chosen.  He is spectacularly present here.  It’s difficult to believe he is gone.

There’s a sense of intimacy, easily conjured, by a man whose image has featured so frequently across the decades.  Throughout my childhood our television showed the regular protests across the world, there were songs written, placards were held aloft in student marches.   I remember all the cries to Free Nelson Mandela!

One of the great moments in history was his release in 1990.  I remember watching the television footage, seeing him walk through the amassed crowds that had been proliferating, waiting to welcome this first moment of freedom.  It was exhilarating.  It seemed inconceivable.  He had finally achieved the impossible.  The world had been changed, and he was back in it.

I can’t think of a better or more dignified example of persistence in the face of adversity than Mandela.  Knowing that he lived a further 23 years after his release brings an added sense of justice.  Becoming the South African President in 1994, serving for six years, meeting world leaders and travelling across the world?  Well he had 27 years to construct that reality.  He must have cultivated great patience.

At the tail end of the exhibition, facing two chairs and a table which used to occupy Mandela’s office, there’s a final touchscreen.  This is not to be missed.  On it you’ll see a few film snippets, the last being his retirement speech.  It’s the one in which he thanks The Press then goes on to display his characteristic humility, wit and humour.  I smiled through its entirety.  It was the essence of Madiba.

Also unmissable are the 16 paintings by John Meyer, Going Home unquestionably being my favourite.  It depicts Mandela as an old man, returning to his beloved Qunu.  Evocative and soulful, I found myself falling into the landscape, shadowing this elderly figure, wanting to follow him, even as his back is turned.

Having climbed a great hill, he said, after his liberation, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb.   Nevertheless, he admits to have taken a moment here to rest, to steal a view of the glorious vista that surrounds me, to look back on the distance I have come.   When he was released from prison he knew he had come a long way.  Yet, despite his newly acquired freedom he knew, my long walk is not yet ended.  There would be no resting on laurels, or time for self-congratulation about successes.  It would be a couple of decades before he would finally conclude his walk.  I wonder if he imagined it would take him so far?

It seems fitting that his longevity allowed him to benefit from the changes he had instigated so many decades earlier; and while we’ve noticed his absence in the last few years, we also have inumerable memories.

Looking at that imagined homecoming in Meyer’s painting, as Mandela walks a meandering path towards the distant hills, it is clear that he did enough.  His achievements outlive him and continue to inspire.  His long walk may have ended, but it is up to us to follow in his footsteps, and to continue his legacy.

Going Home by John Meyer

(Also, see:  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Free_Nelson_Mandela)

Photographs on Facebook page

I haven’t been here for a while.  Not in any sense.  Let me explain.

What I mostly mean is that I haven’t been writing.  Here.  Or anywhere actually.  It has been an interesting few months; productive in different ways, but to be honest I would rather be telling you I had committed several thousand words to umpteen pages by now.  I would not have chosen the last few weeks if I had been flicking through the glossy catalogue of Life.  I probably would’ve chosen the trip to Sri Lanka and a visit to a tea plantation.

However, it has been a time of reflection, sorting and shedding.  We all need those times, to be frank.  But no, I didn’t plan mine, coming, as it did, like bad weather at a picnic.  Similarly unwelcome, if we persist with this analogy, and turning everything into a sodden mess.  It manifested as an existential crisis, suddenly crashing into my life and immobilising me.  Despite the horrors of it, the tears, the sheer paralysis it invoked, I can say from the standpoint of hindsight that it has been incredibly useful.  Would I go there again?  Let’s just say, it was an experience.

Sometimes it takes a crisis of confidence to put some punctuation into your life.  In my case, a full stop.  My grinding halt left me with no other alternative.  I had to look in the mirror and then do some major spring cleaning.

It’s challenging to look inwardly, to turn the spotlight on yourself, and really ask, How did I get here?  The things we hide away in the cupboards of our mind, gathering dust, can be ignored if we continue to deny their existence.  But they weigh heavily on us, even as we fail to see that we are dragging them around; and those teetering piles will eventually topple.  To open those cupboards then, to pull out those things and examine them requires a certain grit.  I had to ask myself, Do I have it?

It’s not something we talk about, having that sort of meltdown, finding ourselves struggling with even basic daily decisions.  I have a friend who coined the phrase, paralysed into inaction.  We used to laugh about it at work whenever we faced a mountain of paperwork.  Where to begin?   But that’s really where I found myself a few months ago, having banged my head on several walls, until I had stunned myself into stillness.

Shocked and overwhelmed, it was difficult to even pick up the phone, to formulate the words that brought with them an inherent sense of shame.  The need to ask for help.  It might not be something we talk about, but it should be.  We’re quick to reference our back pain or shin splints, but we start to mumble and downplay things when the issue isn’t of a physical nature.  And it’s the not-talking-about-it that makes it feel like a secret.  And it’s the secret that becomes something you shove deeply into a cupboard.  And at some point the cupboards are going to get full.

So I haven’t been here for a while.  I haven’t felt very present in my life.  In fact, I haven’t felt anything like myself.  People don’t often tell you how frightening and out of control that can feel when you’re in it, deep inside the torpedinous fog that clouds your judgement.  Downplaying it doesn’t work, nor can you dismiss it by making lists of all the positives in your life.  It’s not about trying to balance the scales, because you can’t weigh darkness.

I began to sort through cupboards in each room of my house, to clear shelves, to tidy.  It was something to keep me busy and distracted initially.  But it was also symbolic of what I wanted to do for myself, to examine things I hadn’t dealt with, to let go of the past, to make space in my life.  Trips to the charity shops followed, a sense of purpose, a sign of progress.  In tandem with the overhaul of my psyche I could see how the emptying of cupboards was mirroring my personal journey.  For the first time in years I had gaps on shelves, fewer possessions, less weight to haul.

I also had chance to think, and during that time I gave myself permission to slow down and look behind me.  As I continued to examine the vast puzzle of my past I could see its influence on the present, and I could start to unburden myself.  I walked a great deal during those weeks, for kilometres, hours, creating distance, moving on.  All of it was helpful.

Having weathered the storm I’m still cleaning up its aftermath, and while I know these things can be a slow process,  there is less clutter in every sense, and I have started to make room for whatever lies ahead.

I put on my pink cardigan this morning.  It’s the one I wear when I’m writing during the winter months.  A favourite and well-worn comforter, it’s a reminder of past successes, of all those cold days spent at my keyboard.  Now Spring has arrived I probably won’t need it for much longer, but it’s something I will always keep in the back of the wardrobe.  There are some things that you will never let go.

My writing has always been punctuated by cups of tea, often as a means to move away from my desk, have a stretch, clear a snagged thought.  I look forward to the day I’ll be telling you I’m sipping my Super Pekoe in the shade of a tea plantation in Sri Lanka.  That glossy catalogue of Life has plenty of pages that I still want to visit.

Seasonal Affective Disorder, or the financial year blues?  You might think of it as the winter woes, but I refer to it as Tax Fright.

Call it what you will.  Many people find this time of year quite difficult.  Not just because the weather is colder, or because it gets dark earlier, or even because the days are a bit shorter.  (Although if you do have SAD – Seasonal Affective Disorder – then all these things could certainly lower your mood.)

No, this time of year is when you pull out all those receipts you’ve been dutifully saving, and prepare yourself for the Sisyphean toil – the ‘endless, heart breaking’ job – of the tax return.  For me, it’s the hurdle that I don’t look forward to leaping over, particularly as I prepare to justify all the time I’ve spent on an activity that earns negligible income, but which makes life feel worthwhile.

Whether it’s writing or painting, it’s a source of conflict for anyone pursuing any sort of creative or artistic pursuit;  the lack of remuneration versus the satisfaction it brings.  Like most people who choose this lifestyle, I therefore have a ‘day job’ (or actually, a weekend job) that allows me to pursue my real ambitions.

Trying to explain that to my Accountant is another matter.  When he looks at me in disbelief and measures the couple of hundred dollars of (writing) income against all the outgoings in this financial year, I know he’ll need a ladder to get down from that very high horse as he sits there telling me what I already know.

Writers earn very little from book sales, even the more famous names out there.  The only difference is that their sales are in the tens of thousands, while the new kids on the block will be lucky to clear a couple of hundred.  I earn just over a dollar for each book I sell.  I spent 2016 writing almost full-time, with only a paid weekend job to sustain me.  To print my book costs about $19 – more than the usual cost because it contains so many colour images.  Irrespective of the sale price listed at the various online sites, I still only receive just over a dollar a book.  The sites receive any additional profit.  My books are printed ‘on-demand’ which means they only get printed when someone places an order.  Everyone, it seems, gets more money out of this venture than myself.

So it may look good to have a book listed in Amazon, but don’t be fooled.  It doesn’t mean you’re suddenly earning a bucket of money.

Give it away, my Accountant said glibly during our consultation, missing the point entirely about why a person feels the need to do anything creative in the first place.  It’s soul food.  I think, I feel, I write.  It’s the way I make sense of my world.

And that’s not the only part of my world that he deconstructed.   Apparently I’m not contributing nearly enough to the various funds that will sustain me in future years, nor will I ever aspire to a more grand style of accommodation on such a low income.   Consigned to an austere lifestyle with most hedonistic pursuits simply out of reach to the lowly writer, I can almost see the fingerless gloves and my shadowy figure crouched over the candleflames, trying to warm her hands.   Or have I read too much Dickens?

Why then, dear Reader, do I pursue such a thankless task?  Why continue to put myself in this precarious position?  Well, imagine for a moment that you’re told to relinquish the very thing that brings you the greatest pleasure or sense of achievement.   Go on, sit with that thought for a moment.  What would it be?  Let yourself feel it.

Imagine the sort of anguish that would bring on a daily basis, how it would pervade your life.  Then you might be in the vicinity of how I feel about being told to give up my writing ambitions.

Anyway, the numbers have been tallied now, the tax return has been estimated.  Never good news.  But at least it’s done; and I have no intention of hanging up my pen yet.

So that brings me back to the weather, and a reminder that these wintery dark mornings are on their way out.  We’re officially over the hump, we’ve passed the shortest day, and Spring is only weeks away.  If that doesn’t cheer you, then perhaps you do need some light therapy and a dose of melatonin.

Personally I prefer to put my trust in nature at this time of year, specifically in its thoughtful provision of snow and all the joyful associations that brings for me.   Magical, fluttery, delicate white flakes falling from the skies; falling in hallowed silence like heaven’s confetti.  A nice way to balance out all the mid-year angst.  Surely that alone was designed to cheer us up in these colder months?   Well, only if you can be bothered to get up at 5am, drive for a few hours, and spend the day in very unattractive thermals, and the sort of knitted hats that remodel your hair into the antithesis of the fluffy Donald Trump meringue by the end of the day.  I love the snow – not so much the 5am wake-up call.  But I resent the way my hat makes my hair look welded to my scalp by the end of the day.  Very unattractive.

Like Benjamin Franklin said, you can count on death and taxes.  He had bad hair too, and he had obviously never had the pleasure of a puffy jacket.

Anyway, if you can motivate yourself to leave your bed early and slither about in one of nature’s most glorious creations (with or without skis) then you might just kick start yourself out of that torpid winter gloom.  Go on, cold be damned.  Get out there and make some Snow Angels.  It’s the most fun you can ever hope to have in zero degrees.