Once Upon A Time

I started writing what might become my second novel, this way:

It’s not always easy to tell where a story truly begins; any story, all stories perhaps, this story for sure. Even as children, when the beginning seems simple enough to detect with “Once upon a time”, we still ask questions: How old is the Princess? Where was Rumplestiltskin born? Why were there forty thieves and does Ali Baba have any sisters as well as a bother, Kassim?

We'll see.
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A sigh of recognition

The breath of what might be
your life less firmly held
yet falling under nature's spell
settles on a frosted window pane
to crystalize this unsure moment
like epiphany
upon an empty road
at dead of night, amid some stones
strewn on some unknown hillside,
no more than uninviting,
no less than hostile
and not where once we thought
this road might lead
when there was light;
where it might take us
when the world was young,
at least was younger then
than now it seems.

So, sighing, here we sit
awaiting news of how it is
that nothing lasts forever.
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Remember When

Return to me the childhood songs of life
Borne high on music of some flute ascending
Like the poet's lark to lift the heart from strife
And call us home beyond the never-ending,
Never less than empty daze, the patient midwife
Of our weary gaze upon misfortunes pending,
Which all men fear: the mortal nature's knife
We keep as far from sight as fools pretending.
So let their sweet and youthful songs burst out
Like swallows bearing summer on their tails
To fill tired ears of frightened, lonely men
Who've long forgot old ways to make joy shout
Of who they were and all their lives' details
With truth enough for all to laugh again.

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Someone once told me that if you want to write good poetry that breaks the rules you need to be able to use the rules you'll break. So, sonnet practice. It's not quite Milton but it does follow his (Italian) rhyming scheme.
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Grounded

So I worked from home again, thanks to the broken motor in my van. Sharon will drive it tomorrow to the Tyson's people to repair or replace it, except it's not Tyson's anymore. They went broke but someone bought the remnants of the business. Let's hope they can fix it.

I've managed to get through a decent amount of work, so that's satisfying enough. When I've been waiting on recalcitrant colleagues to reply to my e.mails I've caught up with my blogging. Does it show?

I've also been reading a good book, which I borrowed from the library yesterday. It's the published version of six lectures in 1993 by Umberto Eco, entitled Six Walks In The Fictional Woods. God, that man is erudite, witty, thought-provoking, terrifically well-read, illuminating, thoughtful, sharp ... bastard! No, seriously, it's a good read; thoroughly accessible and I'm sure it will help me with my studies either now or in the future (if, in the end, I make my mind up to return to undergraduate endeavour).

Eco's little book (barely 150 pages long) comes from the same series as Italo Calvino's Six Memos For The New Millennium. It's a series known as the Charles Eliot Norton Lectures. I assume this must be the same Norton as the anthologies but I'll check. I had no idea about these lectures / essays until Spike returned from the college library with the Calvino. I'll have too seek oput others because the two I've read so far really do make you think.
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Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrggggggggggghhhhhhhh

The up/down motor of my van's driver's seat seems to have seized up/ frozen / burnt out; whatever it is they do when they're not working. Spike had to haul me back into my wheelchair. I went nowhere far from home today, although the trip I agreed reluctantly to make to the library and the shopping mall turned out to be more pleasant than I thought it would be. I'm glad Spike forced me to cross the threshold again.

I worked remotely from home, which is no great misery. I missed my university class on David Malouf's An Imaginary Life, which is a pain. And I fretted over the bill that might be coming my way ... a new motor costs one thousand bucks.

These days are sent to try us. Shit happens. Take your pick.
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Last detour of the day

We called into the workshop and gallery of lamp-work glass artist Peter Minson on the way home. It's in a small town called Binalong, which is only about 1o kms this side of Galong coincidentally. Spike had taken one of his bead-making courses a few years back.

We had a delightful, instructive couple of hours with Peter and his jewelry-making wife Lindsey Johnstone. We talked about glass, the biases of different schools, his family's history of making glass (his grandfather made the first neon sign in Australia), even Scotland (where they'd been visiting friends a month ago). Lindsey made us tea and coffee from her gallery cafe and wouldn't let us pay. I scoffed down one of her home-made Anzac biscuits, which was tasty enough to force me to re-appraise the humble oatmeal cake. So we bought one of Peter's 'signature' tea pots, which evened things out, I guess.
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Good bread, excellent tarts

Advised by Spike's friend Alecks, we headed south-west along the Olympic Highway out of Wagga Wagga, making another long short cut on our journey ... this time heading home. We found, as instructed the Quinty Cake & Bakehouse. The breakfast was wholly ordinary ... even I could have poached eggs that would have been, how can one say it ... less solid. But that's not why people pull over or go twenty-five kilometres out of their way when driving to Sydney. The bread is very good. The tarts are excellent. We left, adequately fed but well-provisioned to drive north. Stop there if you're passing. I recommend the lemon tart, and the quince & almond. Yummmeee!

The play's the thing, said Hamlet

Not always.

We went to the theatre tonight in a cold and quiet Wagga Wagga. Us and eleven other audience members ... and one of them was the lead male's girlfriend! But it was fun. We chatted with the woman who is caretaker / bar tender / usher of the Riverina Theatre. Her enthusiasm was irresistible. Hers is, by the way, the only bar I know of where you can buy a mug of tea and a flute of decent-enough fizzy wine for five bucks. After the show we spoke briefly with the two cast members who seemed as happy that we were there as we were pleased to have made the effort. Wagga Wagga is clearly not a town that rolls up in huge numbers for contemporary work.

The play was staged by Gearstick Theatre Company, which is associated with the local university. They're committed to new writing, which is commendable. The play we saw, Ruby Moon written by Matt Cameron, is on this year's HSC list so that ought to ensure larger audiences when schools go back next week. Although I enjoyed the experience I can't say the text really grabbed me. I can see why you would get school students to study it... all those contemporary social issues: child abduction, mental ill-health, the alienating life of suburbia, male / female relationships, etc. And I can see why actors might like it ... two performers are allowed to present maybe ten characters so that would be enjoyable. The text itself, however, felt a bit clunky. One could see the joins so to speak.

But I'm nit-picking. We had an enjoyable evening.
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National glass collection

After a late start we ended our less than entirely successful search for a breakfast with lunch in the Wagga Wagga art gallery (pumpkin soup, which I found pleasant, surprisingly for me because I really don't like pumpkin, and ... would you believe after yesterday ... a melted cheese open sandwich!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!). We then spent a couple of enjoyable hours in the gallery's studio art glass collection, which has been designated the nation's collection.

It was an interesting visit. The works were more modest than I had anticipated; smallish, careful pieces that may say more about the curator than the state of studio art glass in contemporary Australia.

There was a blown-glass work of three pieces (not unlike the blue piece here but in red) by one of Spike's tutors (Andrew Lavery) in the permanent collection. Given what Spike has told me about his deconstructionist tendencies, the work was rather more Modernist than I would have expected. I quite liked it.

There was a gorgeous cast-glass work, an expressionist head, by George Aslanis (not unlike the face shown here) with whom Spike (and her mum!) have just completed a two-week intensive course in glass-casting. The head was part of a temporary exhibition of work collected over the last thirty years by an enthusiast, Joyce Kerfoot. The collection may now or soon belong to the nation.

There were some likeable pieces in the collection: George's head, a monolith coloured like a Miro print, a very lovely vase by Ben Eddols and Kathy Eliot, an even lovelier cast form by her alone.

Racelette in Galong

Much to my surprise I was introduced today to the Racelette, 8-person party grill. I never knew such a device existed; never knew about Racelette, which is, apparently, a Swiss cheese.

Anyway, we drove to Wagga Wagga today via Penrith (to sign legal documents) and Galong, a tiny settlement of about 150 people, an unsellable pub that's been closed for four years and a school that closed down last year because it lost its final pupil. The village may not have a long-term future. (You can buy a three-bedroom home plus shop in Galong for $130,000, so what might that tell us?)

It is, however, where Lori Grovenor and her husband have lived together for 40 years; he for all his life since the age of one. We arrived later than I'd planned because it truly was a long way for a short cut. Lori greeted us warmly, enthusiastically (it's been five months at least because of my ridiculous exile to the Department's head office). Lori had prepared lunch that required the use of her Racelette grill. There were cheeses, cold meat, pickles, raw vegetables, anchovies and prawns all waiting to be grilled. It was quite an experience but, to be honest, there is a limit to the amount of melted cheese even I can consume.

Whatever: it was a pleasure to see Lori, her overt-affectionate and insistent former guide dog Crosby and to meet her husband. They are good people.
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Pride And Prejudice

I worked all day on the second essay for my university preparation course. I chose the question about Jane Austen's best-loved work.

"Good judgement is at the heart of this romantic comedy. Superior judgements, ethical judgements, hasty judgements, unbending judgements and really bad judgements are all examined. Why is good judgement so significant in the world of Pride And Prejudice? Is it merely a source of good comedy?"

Two and a half thousand words later (including quotes) I reached this conclusion:

"The proper deployment or misapplication of judgement in Pride And Prejudice, then, are not merely devices used to great effect in a romantic comedy of social manners. The crucial role good judgement plays in determining the success in the world of the novel is critical to understanding its intentions.

Elizabeth alerts the reader to those intentions when she observes, while dancing with Mr Darcy at the Netherfield ball:

It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion to be secure of judging properly at first.

Jane Austen suggests that only by virtue of experience, reflection and self-knowledge can any of her characters come to understand, as her principals do, that Elizabeth's overt-confident criticism of propud Mr Darcy is prejudiced by a lack of self-knowledge, which ultimately only good judgement can bring."

I am a novice.
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Harry Potter 6

I quite enjoyed this latest installment of J K Rowling's adventure through adolescence. I've not read the books, deciding long ago that there are too many other unread books that I want to reach first, although I'm pretty sure that if I'd been a ten year old when the series started I would have devoured them. That means I'm not an anorak when it comes to the HP movies. I'm not looking for truth to the original text or lamenting what's missing on done differently (the unhappy event, for example, as it's wittily referred to by Simon Mayo and Mark Kermode on their unparalleled BBC Radio Five weekly review of movies).

I enjoyed the humour of the first hour. The opening sequence is exhilarating and there is real menace in the attack on the Weasley home. If the unhappy event takes the movie to a downbeat, unsatisfactory conclusion, which it does, it seems a little churlish to remark that the true import of that tragic moment is less than wholly successfully realised. If I could suggest how it could have been realised more effectively I'd be at the heart of the production team rather than tapping away at my blog, which virtually no one reads.

Anyway, HP 6 is worth watching. I was / am particularly impressed by the way in which the four leading teenage actors have matured and developed over the years. Whoever chose the four, all those years ago, chose well. Five young actors, now I think of it. I do like Luna.

It is better to sleep safe than sorry

My girlfriend Spike
sleeps soundly in our bed tonight
oblivious to the news of a tsunami
warning ...

A TSUNAMI WARNING!

Don't panic!
.............Don't Panic!!
..........................DON'T PANIC!!!

It seems there is
no need to panic

because there is
no tsunami.

An earthquake struck
the southwest coast
of neighbouring
.....................New Zealand
(so there is indeed
no need to panic)

But you never know
your luck
or lack of it,
which would be bad
in either case,
because it seems there is
(or was)
the theoretical possibility
of an actual tsunami,

waves as tall as buildings
rising from the Tasman Sea
forced up and driven wild
by the immense power
of tectonic plates shifting
deep beneath the surface
of a world that is not finished
shaping and re-shaping
the contours of existence.

But I stress this point again
there is no need to panic

(SO DO NOT PANIC!)

because there is no tsunami
roaring across the Tasman Sea
to strike the southeast coast
of this, the great Downunder.

All of which must mean
my tired girlfriend, Spike
(who has, I will concede,
an unusual name for a young woman)
may sleep on safely,
oblivious, as she is,
to this the news:

.....although there has not been
.....a tsunami,
.....it is nevertheless true
.....that tonight,
.....at 7:22,
.....while my girlfriend Spike lay sleeping,
.....there could have been
.....not just the warning.

Australian east coast on tsunami alert after NZ earthquake (story in the Sydney Morning Herald)

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Reading Jane Austen

I have an essay due next Monday on questions of judgement in Pride And Prejudice so I re-read an engrossing article by Tony Tanner in Jane Austen, edited by Harold Bloom. Among other helpful observations, Tony Tanner writes:

For Jane Austen's book is, most importantly, about prejudging and rejudging. It is a drama of recognition - re-cognition, that act by which the mind can look again at a thing and if necessary make revisions and amendments until it sees the thing as it really is. As such it is thematically related to the dramas of recognition which constitute the great traditions of Western tragedy - Oedipus Rex, King Lear, Phedre - albeit the drama has now shifted to the comic mode, as is fitting in a book which is not about the finality of the individual death but the ongoingness of social life.

That link is strong and obvious once you see it but one does need a perceptive analyst like Tony Tanner to show you the way to a clearer reading of a text that's been part of your reading life for more than thirty years.
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My brother's Trullo

My brother Joe and his wife Stephanie own this property in southern Italy. They leave Scotland tomorrow to spend three weeks there. Jon Simpson (who used to own a similar property within 30 minutes drive of Joe's) leaves for Italy with Rosie on Thursday. They'll celebrate Norma's 60th in the north then fly south to visit Jon's old properrty. I've put the Trullo lovers in touch with one another. They may meet up.

Joe sent me this photo today, cc'ed as I am into their e.mail exchange. Enjoy the blue sky, the olives, the wine. We'll maybe make it there next year.

Sunday in the park with Spike

Spike, patiently waiting (i.e. losing the will to live) among the Bicentennial Park mangroves while the world's slowest photographer struggles to push a button.















Your Feet

When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet.
Your feet of arched bone,
your hard little feet.
I know that they support you,
and that your sweet weight
rises upon them.
Your waist and your breasts,
the doubled purple
of your nipples,
the sockets of your eyes
that have just flown away,
your wide fruit mouth,
your red tresses,
my little tower.
But I love your feet
only because they walked
upon the earth and upon
the wind and upon the waters,
until they found me.

Pablo Neruda

Follow that man!

A quiet Saturday

We rose late then ate a lovely breakfast lazily on a morning that had hinted at sunshine but gave us, in the end, gray skies, rain from time to time and the perfect excuse to go nowhere. Spike needed the rest so the sofa, a couple of books, tea, chocolate and wine did the trick. I've no idea where my Saturday disappeared to: reading The Guardian, Vanity Fair, The Sydney Morning Herald (a very short read) on line; listening to the excellent Mark Kermode / Simon Mayo movie review slot from BBC Radio Five; trying to write but not succeeding (forgetting Halimah's sound advice to ditch the ego and just write). Such days come along every now and then. I have no complaints. The world outside can wait. There will be another day along tomorrow.

It's odd how bits of your life weave themselves back and forwards through time. Pentangle's Basket Of Light (owned by Spike) played on the CD player at some point of the day. I sang along with Jacqui McShee to the tune that became the theme music to the BBC television series Take Three Girls. Light Flight, as the tune is called, was a hit single in the UK in 1970. That must mean I've been singining along to it, of and on for 40 years. My older brother, who bought albums ahead of the wave, loved Pentangle. Whatever he bought I heard and it's his musical interests that helped shape my tastes. For that much, at least, I am in his debt.

And Danny Thompson on double bass was, of course, John Martyn's great collaborator.

Ice Age 3 in the absence of Maruska

IA3 hadn't been on my list of must-see movies but Spike suggested we catch it, perhaps as an antidote to the heartlessness and impersonal offerings of the Holy man presiding over Maruska Hanak's funeral earlier today. It was stunningly clear that the poor old priest had no idea who Maruska was. Equally, he'd clearly taken virtually no time to learn anything about Maruska. So he spoke quite a bit about the suffering of Jesus Christ (who was mentioned enough times to make you wonder if he was in the box rather than dear Maruska). We heard about the Celestial Mansions, of which in our Father's House there are many apparently (like we didn't know that in second year Sunday School). And St Paul got a good mention.

I could hardly wait to escape. Maruska Hanak loved life. She never once thought or acted like a person who suffered. Maruska was thoughtful, modest, mischevious, funny and at times wickedly so. She liked being with people, laughing, 'a wee whisky' or some red wine (preferably free at functions). Maruska ate wasabi raw, darted out of any room she was in to light up her 'do-dah' (which she knew she ought not to smoke). Maruska gave ... her time, her commitment to causes she believed in, including the rights of people with disability, her love and friendship.

How long might it have taken that unthiking man of the cloth to ascertain any of the details about that Mauska, our friend who we will miss? Not long. She deserved better and we may yet find a way to raise a glass to her.

So I picked up Spike at the university then drove to Glebe Point Road with her and Sharon and Liana (who had accompanied me on the drive to the Northern Suburbs Crematorium ... a resting place of the kind I most definitely do not crave - let me rot in the ground with a Jacaranda above me). Liana left us to catch a bus at Broadway. Sharon, Spike and I dined at the Fair Trade Cafe on tofu, nachos and nasi goreng respectively. My rice was better this time than our previous visit when Spike's serving was thoroughly ordinary.

Anyway Spike suggested we catch the animated animals so we did but not in 3D. I doubt that immersive images through some plastic goggles would have added much to an otherwise so-so kids' movie. Simon Pegg's character Buck was entertaining but I could take or leave the rest, to be honest, and not because I'd had the day I'd had. Even the squirrel chasing the nut is a joke that has reached the end of its useful life. Will there be an Ice Age 4? Unquestionably. Will I bother with it? Doubt it.
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Hamlet didn't listen either

Neither a borrower nor a lender be,
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

I should have listened to Polonius (Hamlet, Act 1, scene 3). I gave up two hours of my life to the St George Bank today as I try to arrange the re-financing of the loan on the apartment. First, I tell my sad tale to the branch manager; then to the lending adviser; then to the clerk who processes the application. How many people need to know my sorry tale of financial and relationship failure?

It seems there will be more drawn in. Now that the application has been assessed it has to be authorised by another St George employee at some centralised loans office (although as I sat with Ramsee, the third branch official I'd spoken to this morning I received an SMS to tell me my loan had been "pre-approved subject to meeting conditions"). That's about as meaningful as the Dada movement in art.

Maybe I should take out a full page advert in the Sydney Morning Herald ... financial incompetent seeks even more fucking debt!!!

Boots

Amelia's boots moved quite a bit closer today. My bank account may need to start worrying.

We met with the Parliamentary Secretary for disability policy this morning to talk about further developing a strategy for delivering a national regulatory framework for universal housing design. Essentially, Bill said let's work on the ways to bring it about: you do the preparatory work and organisation; we'll use the pulling-power of Government to make sure the right people are in the room (and what a high-profile room he suggested it might be!). So my joke bet with Amelia may yet turn out to be less than funny. The deal is simple. Amelia does work that results in a national regulatory framework and I Nbuy her the Chanel boots from The Devil Wears Prada. The truth is ... I always knew this moment would come. Others are now starting to belive it might too.

Good day. Back at a real job; changeing the world step by Chanel-heeled step.

Aida

The Return Of The Jedi?

Coruscant not, it is.
Try not. Do or do not, there is no try.
Always in motion is the future.
Beware of the dark side. Anger...fear...aggression. The dark side of the Force are they. Easily they flow, quick to join you in a fight.

First day back at my desk at Central Square. The last four months seem like a half-remembered dream already (but more irrelevant than any dream) . I may be going mad ... quoting a foam puppet! Tell the truth: I made up the first one ... but it wasn't easy to tell was it?

Coruscant (by the way) is the Capital City of the Old Republic in SW (in case any one cares).

It's slightly hard to believe that The Architectural Review of 15th June 2009 truly does have an article on the top ten buildings of Star Wars.
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57 Varieties

Some Sundays are quieter than others. You get up more or less on time, ready to face the day but for the persistent sweating (a not uncommon Sunday phenomenon linked, I think, to a quadriplegic Monday). The intention ... perhaps it's a hope ... is to wait for the tap to turn itself off then head for the library to pick up a graphic novel for Spike before or after a trip to Woollies to buy the goods you forgot to purchase yesterday in Coles ... milk, breakfast cereal, fabric softener, maybe some Veg for Monday evening (as much as possible making organic purchases). But the sweating persists so the short trip becomes less appealing. There is a limit to the attractiveness of an overweight, ageing, sweating and hairy man wandering purposefully ... if rather domesticated ... through a shopping mall on the Sabbath.

Dinner, therefore, became a tin of Heinz curried vegetable soup followed by organic sourdough bread and cheese (Amadeus French Brie ... wickedly creamy on the verge of turning, so who cares if it's as nature intended or shot full of chemicals, preservartives and additives because it tastes lovely?) Do I show my age by referring to the Heinz advertising slogan of 57 varieties? Is the Pope a Roman Catholic?

Watched Last Chance Harvey via the web. Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thomson are very sweet, thoroughly believable in this mildly entertaining, soft-centred fairy story about love flourishing later in life. It's neither Brief Encounter nor What's Up Doc but it owes a little something to both (not to mention Love Actually, Notting Hill and The Graduate ... Benjamin could have aged to become Harvey). By any measure, however, it's a more watchable movie than anything by Michael Bay!!!!

I miss Spike as I sup my tinned soup (not bad, you know) but I'm glad she's enjoying a weekend in the country with her parents and the dogs.
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Transformers 2

This is brain-dead, heartless money-making of the shallowest kind. There are moving pictures on the screen but it's not a movie. It's a crime against movie-making. I should have known better than to buy a ticket.

End of story

A call from the DG's office brought an anti-climactic end to my relocation. I drove into town to pick up a letter he wanted me to receive "urgently". It contained written confirmation that after more than three months and an investigation costing tens of thousands of dollars the DG has formed the opinion there was no misconduct. I've had my office key and building swipe returned to me. I go back to my desk on Monday.

What was the point of it all, I wonder?

Spike and I attended the launch of the Glebe Art Show in the evening. It was a smug, self-satisfied but badly organised affair. (God save us all from the acquisitive middle-classes.) Most of the art was decent enough; technically competent but it did lack something in the way of heart and originality. A few pieces were better than decent but they were the exception.

I had to enter by a rear door because the level access to the library was locked. And - hard to believe - perhaps as many as 30 or so of the 240 works were upstairs in a building with no lift. The Lord Mayor of Sydney, Clover Moore, opened the event so she gets my testy letter. Verity Firth, Minister for Education and local MP, came over to chat. Good person. I like her.

A former colleague from my PDCN days, Craig Andrews, was there too. He had a couple of Fauvist pieces on show. It's great that he's painting. I hope they sell.

And today's word is ...

... timely

I received a letter from my employer yesterday. It was dated 25 June 2009. The opening paragraph read as follows ...

I am pleased to advise that approval has been given for your temporary appointment to the position of Principal Policy Officer ... for a period from 30.03.2009 up to 03.07.2009...

What comment could one possibly add that might do justice to the ridiculousness of a process this badly managed?
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Necessary noise ... part 15

Clipper Cafe

By mid-afternoon (after a morning crushing glass for Spike and a visit to my GP for me ... I have a new dressing on my calf, received a flu injection and have been referred to a sperm consultant of all the specialisms one might conceive of ... pun intended, which is very sad of me) we were both mildly peckish. So, following a detour to Dulwich Hill to purchase pointy bits, discs and oil for an industrial sewing machine, we set off in search of a late lunch. How late a lunch is four o'clock? It's a very late lunch.

That's how we made it (at last) to the Clipper Cafe on Glebe Point Road, near Broadway. It's new. Spike had read a decent review in a foodie's blog. My jury was out on the place based on nothing more substantial than my ability to be a stubborn, cantankerous old goat. I was wrong. Spike was right.

It's a pleasant, friendly little place; quiet by the time we arrived but I guess it's popular and busy most mornings and at weekends. The Chai I was served with jumped straight to the top of my mental list. It's pungent, richly aromatic with a spicy taste of cardamon and cloves and cinamon. Yummeee. Spike's coffe looked good. The later hot chocolate was, however, pretty average. I had an open sandwich with very smoky smoked salmon, rich pesto and a pepper / wasabi mango relish that set my lips and tongue dancing. Spike's mezze plate contained succulent eggplant and a mouth-watering cheese. All things considered, the word fabby comes to mind in a thoroughly inadequate, 1960's fashion.

Nice people, good food, excellent Chai; what more could you ask for?

That's a rhetorical question by the way. Clipper Cafe. Go eat!
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