Earthrise Diary 1208
The Earthrise Diary
Don Diespecker
"I am now 72 years old and have almost completely retired from business. For the first time since my childhood, I feel that I have the leisure to sit back, to reflect and to recall. Even though 72 years is quite a long time, the memories of youth are as fresh and bright as they ever were. Because I had a happy, cheerful childhood it should be easy for me to tell about it and about the world and culture that have disappeared forever.
"The year 1914 and with it, World War I, was the first cataclysm to come down on the civilization into which I was born. The onset of Nazism in Germany swept away what was left. That I was able to save myself and pick up a new life across the sea is a constant source of wonderment and gratitude to me. The events of those days are forever in out blood and bones; they are the constant unseen companions of our feelings and reactions, and they will not go away until they are buried with us."
Joe H Dispeker, ‘The Dispeker's: A Family History,’ unpublished manuscript (1980).
(Summer Solstice December 2008). I begin the December Diary with an excerpt from my cousin’s introduction to his family history. Joe passed away recently, aged 100 years. I sometimes reflect on the notion that when each of us dies we do indeed ‘take with us’ uniquely personal memories, the last images of recent times and of times long past that we’re able to ‘see’ in our minds. If photographs and paintings and perhaps movies or videos survive, others may see something of what we each once saw and heard and even felt.
Sunday Nov 30 ‘08. I’m standing on the river’s side of the belvedere wall. This isn’t exactly the north face of the Eiger but it’s as well that I don’t absentmindedly step back to admire my work and plunge into the weeds and lawn cuttings between the wall and the river and not forgetting the snarling leeches waiting refreshment… My purpose here is to scan at eyelevel the relatively flat tops of stones dressing the inside of the wall (and I’ve been placing barrow-loads of good loam in the area, building it up for a renewed lawn. As I squint and then stare, a medium-sized goanna strolls into the frame from stage right, glances moodily at me clinging to the rock wall and calmly moves across the landscape to exit stage left. Nothing seems to trouble the goannas that share Earthrise.
Dec 9 ’08. Before dawn there was broken cloud and moonlight; by sunrise the clouds began shifting toward the Tasman and when I went for a walk at 07:40: no clouds at all. The air was crystal clear. Such a rhapsodic beginning is the consequence of far too much rain (showers and thundery showers, really). Going for a walk has necessitated taking an umbrella; gardening has had to be done between showers.
Sunday Dec 14 ’08. Sun at last. I walk early and for the first time in days, don’t carry an umbrella. The air is sparkling and clean after days of high humidity and showers (walk outside and stroll about the garden for five minutes and you’re drenched…). Maybe I can resume mowing, transporting soil, levelling, transplanting grass?
I’ve been thoughtfully recovering from strange maladies (hopefully, physiological rather than mental). So this is a fraught time for several reasons and also because the computer has been malfunctioning (you would scarcely believe the dysfunctional computer ‘events’). I remember times when I’d first write every word with a pen of some kind and then risk transcribing the best-looking or most agreeable words onto paper via an Olivetti Lettera 22 (remember them?). Now I’m remembering Pam and I on the Orient Express (!) in the ‘50s en route from Trieste to Ljubljana in what was then Slovenia, the northern part of Jugoslavia (or Yugoslavia, if you prefer) and a uniformed Customs officer sits with us, minutely examining the little typewriter. He even records its production number… He had a streaming cold and sniffed and snuffled. It was a long time ago. Those of us who now use computers surely have this in common: we take a lot of IT technology for granted, so much so that when a computer malfunctions many of us (I for one) have conniptions, turn pale, tremble, and frantically Seek Help? How can we manage without these things? Was there ever a time when we did (yes, there was)? The little Apple iBook at my fingertips is no larger than a book. If the Jugoslav (or Yugoslav) Customs guy 50 years ago had found this little beauty in my rucksack would he have supposed it was a ‘computer’ or possibly a Nazi Enigma machine ex WW 2 or a kind of typewriter used by spies?
When my computer malfunctions it is as if the machine is suddenly overwhelmed by a grossly contagious disease that is instantly infects me. I am now infected and as demented and deranged as the computer. My head spins; cold sweat pours from me. In desperation I telephone my good friend Kerry and although he is wonderfully capable and calm I suspect that the sound of my panic-stricken voice must surely trigger qualms, a clutching of the brow.
Enough. I’m presently sitting in front of a big machine that is generations, or is it light years ahead of the poor little iBook.
The year is ending. I’ll end this edition of the Diaries with one of my stories. And my best wishes for a Merry Christmas, a Peaceful Hanukkah and a Happy New Year to all my readers.
Once upon a time in Mozambique
© Don Diespecker 2008
There he sits: Colonel Gongora Nunes (retd).
He enjoyed sitting happily in his gardens every afternoon, watched lovingly through a window by his Amelie. Not watched all of the time, but some of the time because he so often was her inspiration. One must take it where one finds it. Perhaps it was more than enjoyed, she thought; he adored sitting in the gardens. Must get it right. And she lovingly watched him? Tenderly watched him, possibly? No. Lovingly felt better, was the better word. Accurate must I be. Nunes had become a man of new habits. The dear man was so much more available to her since he’d retired and was at home where she could cheekily call him ‘Nunes’ or ‘Colonel, dear.’ A young fair-haired blue-eyed Australian woman could get away with anything. Mustn’t call him by his given name however; ‘Gongora,’ a burdensome name we both dislike.
And Nunes always delighted sitting in his wonderful garden chair. Anybody could see that. He could use it simply for sitting of course although he used it for much else besides, especially writing. When he had his monocle up he’d be writing carefully, precisely really.
There were those colour-coded notebooks and there were weapons and ammunition in the chair and even food to nibble on in searching moments. When Nunes was in his chair, eyes open or eyes closed, he was working on one thing or another: he never fell asleep in the gardens. She knew, before she verified with the Zeiss monocular, that he was in a romantic mood and working on Gongorism, that ornate euphuistic old style of Spanish poetry that the dear man was named for. The language of his body unfailingly showed his mood. Her spyglass always confirmed the notebook code colour and yes there it was: red. Seen at a distance easily. He even looked deeply into the sky poetically and waved cheering flourishes at the heavens. She quite liked it when he indulged in poetry because he’d be calm and happy when he came in, completed somehow. Intelligence matters, the black book, left him in a mood of contrived cheerfulness. Such sinister matters, so unsettling. Caused him to hunch forward and she imagined him grinding his teeth, the way he sometimes did in bed, as if engaged in a deadly struggle. If he returned to the house smiling she knew he’d been writing in the green notebook. Gardening was the one that he wrote greenly to share with her. Green serenity. And the images of flowers seemed almost to float from the covers when she saw the green notebook. Together they planned bands of colour across the nearby hillsides: each contour created by a single species of coloured flower. There’d be millions of flowers. Soon they’d choose the species and choosing would be like prizes, awarded prizes. Even now she could visualise the coloured hills. Oh how wonderful it would be! Would coloured hillsides be reflected on Delagoa Bay? Would the water be calm enough, at least in places? And from where would it best be viewed? Above, possibly, if that could be imagined, probably only to be seen and fully appreciated by birds! Imagine a coloured hillside reflection shimmering, wavering, primary colours embracing? Was that possible? Surely, if that could be imagined it could be made, constructed, built? Designed first of course. Yes!
Ah! There they were, the four servants with clubs, his bodyguards all. Well concealed in dark green bushes near the circle of jacarandas enclosing Nunes. Advance warning he had. How beautiful was the blue of the late flowering jacarandas and the timely red of the poincianas. Or were all the hues darker there near Nunes? Merely her imagination perhaps was it? Don’t think of his black notebook, not on such a fine summer afternoon, definitely not on her birthday. Black was too bad. Whenever Nunes put on his black uniform, particularly his tunic, and he still did wear it sometimes everybody knew he was dangerous, unswervingly methodical and completely efficient. Black uniform. So unsettling for her and not for him. Presumably. At all other times and now that he wore casual shorts at home he was convincingly relaxed, informal and creative. Un-uniformed. De-uniformed? Retired and mostly out of uniform! That was it. Now life was almost a holiday for Nunes. And he’d be thinking happily in Spanish now, for the poetry. Thinking in English was for the black book, for Intelligence and all those dangerous damned secrets. Re-focus quickly the spyglass. No sign of green today. Clearly the poetry continued. Still code red. Good. Two other notebooks there were, not coloured, but he never said. Portuguese, English, French, Spanish, some Dutch, all fluently he spoke. Remarkable man, remarkable! And I so fortunate! And he wrote and read too. Easy linguistic voyages made depending on mood, choice and task. Such a big man, not looking Portuguese at all and his hair clipped short and that dramatic sabre scar from Academy days. Well before the Secret Police. He so loved sabres, even in retirement; ‘training,’ he called it, but never said what for. Discrete. Dangerous. Always. Thinking in English she was while Nunes thought in Spanish at the same time. She was sure. She might say something about that, lightly of course, just as a comment. Banter really. Quirky otherwise.
He’d never be completely retired. Everybody knew that. Besides, he was still in charge, really. Should she have spoken to him about that? Could she have? No, probably not. Colonel Gongora Nunes (retd), he was and still surrogate or was it proxy Director of the Lourenço Marques Intelligence Department, the Secret Police, and still the power too behind the Chief of Police, and also the Governor of Lourenço Marques and also behind the Governor-General of Mozambique, as well. Still so busy always! And, it should be remembered, the good friend he was too of the British Consul-General who secretly ran the British Lourenço Marques Intelligence Network, and of course Britain remained Portugal’s oldest ally. She wasn’t supposed to know about the Secret Anglo Portuguese Agreement and she was quite certain Nunes was not directing De Geheime Dienst, the South African Republic’s Secret Service, although she wouldn’t be surprised if he were, somehow. Secretly. Wouldn’t that be entertaining? Such a story that would be! Shouldn’t make light of such serious matters. Must be serious about those jobs, offices, tasks, services; now service was precisely the word; Nunes served whatever else it was he did! Served his country, served his people. Dedicated! To be of service and dedicated in desperate dangerous times and surrounded by spies of one kind or another with French and German state of the art guns still being landed at Lourenço Marques and railed across the border into the Transvaal. Contraband. Provocation. Such an open secret and everybody including allies turning a blind eye! The secret life was so…what? Entertaining? Enlivening? Possibly. Clandestine? Marvellous word. Looked it up. And another good one, exciting and mysterious was vespertine: late afternoon or early evening. Vespertine flowers opened in the evening. Ah! Must tell Nunes in case he doesn’t know it. He’d like it, be amused. Won’t mind my saying that. Would write a poem he probably would. Goodness. In English, would he? Dare I suggest?
There he sits. If she looked closely she’d see the butt of the big Mauser pistol partly concealed behind the cushion on his left side. Kept in the left side chair arm otherwise. How many enemies accumulated? How many for both of them? Really must consider if I have desperate enemies too, ones who might capture me, ransom me? Hold me to ransom? How did one put that? Could she properly use the semi-automatic Colt he’d given her? So daunting. And beautifully made the gun and so heavy. Somebody said there were fewer dangerous enemies in the town these days, but where were they now? Somewhere beneath the trees possibly, enriching the gardens, producing dark-hued flowers. Vespertine flowers? Oh! There’s a black thought! Could there be a story there? But shouldn’t joke about such matters, probably.
Such a regal chair my Colonel has and presently his Poetry Chair. Big like him, made of wicker and cane with the spacious compartment beneath the seat: his binoculars kept there, possibly for studying the hillsides yet to be coloured; the small folding Kodak, an ox-tail fly whisk, some crockery, a bottle of water, a sharp knife, and three kinds of sun-dried meat in a decorated biscuit tin: biltong made from wildebeest, beef and oddly, ostrich, all beneath the diagonally-placed shotgun with the shortened barrel. Buckshot. Such a chair! Made for him by that old African Nunes rescued from being beaten and robbed in the Fish Market. Years ago it was. Was that a story, possibly?
Oh? Why had he stood suddenly and what changed? Had his thinking and language changed, perhaps? She’d close her eyes for a moment, monitor his thinking, read his thinking if that were at all possible and then glance again. Aha! He’s thinking in Portuguese, not holding any notebook. Of course! He’s going to the Ocean Beach for a swim. Had forgotten. Almost forgot he’ll order dinner at the Estrela where he’ll go first oh I’m sure he’ll talk to Sergio and Rivka Samedo to arrange our dinner and of course there’ll be fish on the menu. Probably rock salmon or something special brought up from Durban overnight on the steamer. Barracuda perhaps for careful baking and accompanied by that wine from the Loire they always keep hidden for special occasions. Muscadet so dry, yet fruity, crisp and cold, that wine secret shared with us and also the British Consul-General’s Dorman brothers, Louis and Jules. Oh I hope there’ll be no trouble tonight! All those spies dining publicly at the Estrela! How absolutely insane! What can be the collective word for spies, an eye of spies, perhaps? Oh, I like that! And what could anybody do if our Secret Police and the British Secret Service and Kruger’s men should start an affray would it be or an assassination or an old-fashioned brawl oh it’d be too bad and what an insane family of spies they all are like mad babies unless Sergio has music to soothe the savages and surely Nunes will suggest Sergio have that big Zulu, Joshua, Louis Dorman’s best spy, play the marimba and our favourite guitarists Gustavo Moreles and Fernão Braga one each side on the little stage and if we’re fortunate the old Venezuelan man José Valera, will make it a bigger orchestra playing the bandoneon and if we’re truly very fortunate our marvelous fado singer Elvira Tomes will sing for us oh and it’s my birthday and Nunes will conceal a tear at the beauty of the music a gentle tear in the lamplight and I’ll dare to put my hand on his, yes! But first he’ll walk soon to the town and the Estrela the dear man grinning and waving up to the bordello girls waving down at him when he passes the Mountains of Heaven before his swim and possibly after as well and now he turns to me oh waving his towel and how did I forget he said he’d go swimming first and leaving shortly now certainly yes and what a splendid evening I hope awaits us all and not only is it my birthday but we’ll all welcome the New Year and leap from 1899 to 1900 and a new century at midnight! And she’d follow him down shortly. There he was instructing the bodyguards to escort her. Should she take the pistol? Best to. Must complete the notes first. Feel so preoccupied. How to write a novel and what on earth to write about? Oh! Perhaps the secret treaty: Nunes loved secret treaties. Could write a secret treaty story for him. Indeed, yes! Would be such a pleasure. Only where to begin? Begin at the beginning with ‘once upon a time,’ of course! Once upon a time, decidedly!
‘Yes, my love, we’ll follow in an hour, thank you! Take your good clothes to the Estrela to save time! Yes, meet at the Estrela at sunset!’
This Diary is No. 13 (new series). (Previously 1107, 108, 208, 308, 408, 508, 608, 708, 808, 908, 1008, 1108; this is 1208). DDD December 21 2008.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Don Diespecker
‘The Grey-headed Flying Fox is the largest of the Australian bats, and is by far the most abundant in the area. The Little Red Flying Fox is slightly smaller.
‘Note: The Grey-headed flying fox plays a principal role in the pollination of eucalypt flowers and the dispersal of rainforest seeds in the Bellinger Valley. Without them the rainforest would lose some of its diversity and much of its ability to colonise new locations. Thousands take off from their camp on Bellingen Island each night at dusk. They fly up to 50-km from the campsite: the scouts on their reconnaissance missions, and the rest of the squadron heading for known feeding grounds.
‘Flying fox camps existed in several locations in the valley earlier this century. “Flying-fox Scrub,” the original name for Thora, supported a camp near the Thora Bridge until 1926, as did Stoney Creek at Gleniffer, until 1910, and Rosewood Creek at Thora, until 1959. There was also a campsite at Raleigh. Bellingen Island has been used as a campsite since 1974.’
Maree Blewitt. The Bellinger Valley: A Window in Time (1997).
Nov 4 ’08. I was woken at 03:15 today by what sounded like a big snake directly overhead. I was puzzled because in recent days I'd stood outside on the roof (rapidly frying) in order to reach up with a length of wood and block most of the many gaps and spaces between the roofing iron and the ceiling. I couldn't see anything but certainly could hear it (at times it seemed as though an 800-lb gorilla was making himself comfortable overhead). I expected the ceiling to collapse. I doubt it was a goanna (the local lace monitor) but these do grow to a considerable size. Nor could a possum have got into the roof space. . How could such a big creature (apparently) have gained access in such a constricted space? The mystery continues. By the way, the smaller bats that like to use my wall spaces (see earlier notes about bats and the Singing Rake) are not flying foxes.
Nov 9 ’08. The first week of November has raced by. Xmas is on the way. Again. October, my Bad Luck Month has passed (praise the Lord) and I’ve been discharged by the Community Nurses today so feel I can again reclaim chunks of my life, or at the very least reorganise my daily schedule. And in the afternoon I took time out to watch the live footage from the US presidential election and suspect I may not be the only foreigner watching who was moved by the speeches. It was an emotional time, obviously. It would be easy to dismiss the speeches as mere rhetoric; they seemed much more than that to me. I was impressed by the speed of votes counting and the remarkable presentation of statistics and graphics and very surprised by the eloquence of McCain’s concession speech.
I wrote it last month and write it again: the Valley is many beautiful shades of green. The neighbour’s long roadside paddock is an emerald green and the jacarandas are in flower there. One of the biggest jacarandas there is close to the river. It’s almost like a Xmas card with Mt Die Happy looming above it and wispy cloud swirling near the Mount.
Here Big Lawn has been mowed again, this time in great circles and it has its own carpet of jacaranda flowers now (and more blue blossom covers the road here and in other places in the Valley). Another spectacular tree along both Darkwood Road and the Trunk Road (Waterfall Way) between here and Bellingen is the flame tree (Brachychiton acerifolius)). Two of the flame trees planted here (c 1985) are almost as tall as flooded gums (e.grandis) that are twice the age. Flame trees (they drop their leaves before flowering) are ‘probably Australia’s most widely known rainforest tree’ and can be grown from seed or cuttings. The biggest one planted here is flowering but the flowers are so far up they can hardly be seen among the other big trees; the flowers are best seen on the lawn, when they fall.
Nov 11 ’08. Remembering Armistice Day.
The lawn mowing, the lawn flora and the two lawn mowers have given me an idea for a light-hearted story so I’m taking time out to write that, after which I’ll return to my dysfunctional (but charming) characters in the ‘Earthrise’ novel (hoping they’re still waiting patiently for me to reappear).
Nov 13 ’08. My TV set has been switched to digital channels; some of the channels deliver exquisitely clear pictures, but two do not: the picture breaks up or freezes, the sound is delayed, the set emits unearthly shrieks and squeaks and signal strengths are well below 84%. Sigh. Note: ask somebody if heavy clouds and rain somehow crunch the signal’s strength…and why are some pictures perfect although all the signals make a tortured entry into my domain via a much battered television antenna? It’s all very odd.
Big Lawn is returning to it’s beautiful best (passers by have been seen to stop their motors, to leap out and to photograph…before resuming their (usual) fast journeys past Earthrise). I’m flattered. The Dogs Memorial Garden is cleared of jungle; roses bloom therein, dahlias leap from the ground. In addition to the jacaranda-blue parts of the lawn some sections, when mowed, have varieties of different and mysterious fragrances. (What if these mowed fragrances, these combinations of jacaranda blooms, native violets, umpteen different grasses, weeds and pink-flowering clovers are Subtle Vapours that induce magical memories, visions and re-visions? Hmm, perhaps I can use that in my light-hearted story?).
Neighbour-Across-The-River, Doug Spiller, sent this message on November 13:
‘I'm walking across a gravel bench in the shallows of the river. Beyond the bench the deeper, clear, green water meanders through dark grey, bedrock channels and pools. In one of the closest pools a shimmering loose scatter of pearls coalesce smoothly with the cautious, coordinated movement of a very large monitor goanna.
‘I do not really see the clear goanna outline that is one with the green water and dark grey rock. The 'pearl' highlights of its skin seem to float gently on the bottom of the pool. I sense that it is turning to look at me. I am aware of its beauty and its threat.
‘We both retreat.
Doug.’
My guest this month is Dr Brenda Herzberg who lives in Israel. In this piece she describes and discusses aspects of the natural world near her home.
Other Worlds
Brenda Herzberg
The road winds up from the Arava valley to the plateau of the Negev, a climb of over two thousand feet in ten minutes. The first part is a rocky, dusty gorge where, at one sharp bend, a car chassis, twisted and rusting rests on the valley floor telling of a past disaster. Sunrise was about half an hour ago and we see the occasional stalwart cyclist persevering in the uphill haul but there are few cars.
At the next bend, we see the rocky shelf about twenty feet below the road where others have spotted hyraxes. These furry and endearing creatures are about the size of rabbits and live in family groups. They are thought by many scientists to be the vanishing remnants of an ancient subspecies which includes, believe it or not, elephants and manatees. Their temperature regulation is somewhere between the cold-blooded reptiles, and the warm blooded mammals, so they seek the sun and each other for warmth. We have not yet seen them here on this shelf, which is warmed for only a few hours by the morning sun and each time we pass I look hopefully but I am disappointed again today.
This is wild country, the few walking trails with marker signs painted on the rocks, are likely to lead to stiff clambers and scrambles across the scree. It is rocky desert, the scarp face of the plateau falling to the east to the Syro African rift valley. It is a geography and geology lecture set out by mighty forces and worthy of deep respect. Natural survival depends on how one, whether plant, animal or human, conserves water since no more than 25 mm falls each year in the rift valley. Thorny acacias and desert broom push through the stone strewn sand where maybe once or twice a year, there will be a flash flood and for a few hours, a raging torrent will flow from the hills. Nearly always though, the earth is barren and stony, and the sun beats down. There are wolves and hyenas, rarely seen, though occasionally one of the newly born calves in the kibbutz cow barn is taken, and its mother howls her bovine grief. Tracks in the sand tell those who want to know of desert rodents, porcupines and snakes. The skies, too, appear to be empty, but if you are patient, and know where to look, other worlds are yours to discover, as this area of southern Israel is the narrow land channel through which millions of birds migrate in spring and autumn.
The two of us look professional with binoculars slung round our necks, carrying telescopes on our shoulders as we drive to hot spots familiar to birders in the area. The professional gear is misleading and once again it is only sparrows and pigeons that we spot in abundance. However, we are pleased to make the acquaintance of a handsome young red-backed shrike that seems to pose for us on a wire fence while he nonchalantly surveys the ground for beetles, and the stylish white and black pied wagtails with their black shirtfronts, scampering on the ground and of course wagging their long tails have not yet left for their wintering quarters. I saw a black dot on a rock which, on closer inspection was a white crowned black wheatear, a glossy and handsome small black bird at home in these barren wastes.
The rocky desert stretches as far as the eye can see, both on the Negev plateau and in the Arava valley. The Jordanian mountains on the eastern side of the Syro African rift form a dark backdrop, still in slightly menacing shadow at this hour of the morning. Sharp valleys slice through them opening into estuarial like sands at the floor of the rift. Further north from where we are now, hidden in these sandstone craggy cliffs is Jordan's jewel, Petra.
The Nabateans, enterprising traders of two to three millennia ago, built cities along trade routes across the Negev, the remains of which attract tourists. The Bedouin who have known how to survive in this desert for centuries have also contributed to its desolation by their foraging herds of goats. These days, one is more likely to find Bedouin living near the towns, making their living as efficient car mechanics, a camel or two tethered near their workshops.
Along the Arava valley, and here at the eastern edge of the Negev plateau there is Jewish settlement, kibbutzim with field crops in small patchworks, and flourishing date plantations. German Templars settling in the Holy Land in the 19th Century were industrious farmers whose Holstein cattle adapted surprisingly well in their new environment. Their descendants, the cattle and not the Templars, form dairy herds which are tended in large sheltered sheds far distant from lush green pastures, and are handfed gourmet diets of selected cattle feeds to enrich their plentiful milk. The most successful of the kibbutzim in this area is Kibbutz Yotvata, a name synonymous in Israel with milk and milk products, and for the local residents, flavours of ice cream that rival any Italian brand.
As we return, I contemplate the awe-inspiring view that stretches across and along the Arava valley. Mountains extend into the misty distance to the north and south where tiny specks of human settlement are dwarfed by vast rocky spaces and forms. It was, it is and it will be after my few years are over. Sandstorms will still sweep through; the sun will scorch it by day and somewhere in the hills, at night wolves will howl. In spring and autumn, the birds will migrate to and from their far distant nesting grounds, journeying with precision that seems miraculous.
Nov 18 ’08. The weather is wet again and although most of the rain falls as intermittent thundery showers, the river is rising. So far there’s no panic because the river level has been low for weeks. On a wet Sunday I drove early to Coffs Harbour and after doing my grocery shopping I went in search of plants. Eventually I found a display of packaged dahlia tubers and re-discovered an old favourite: Mrs Rees! The picture on the packet seemed a good likeness…except that the blue centre was missing (could this be the real Mrs Rees?). Thanks to Bruce and Tracey who kindly sent me several (Mrs Rees) tubers I have several fair dinkum plants growing in the Dog’s Garden so bought no new ones; instead, I brought home ‘Melissa’ (she looks like becoming an orange ‘decorative’ or should that be a ‘cactus’?). I like both the name and the colour (are there any L Durrell fans reading this who remember Melissa in The Alexandria Quartet?). Melissa is now in the ground and staked, as is a lively looking new plant, Grevillea hookeriana, The grevillea has a good position in front of the belvedere (it has ‘nectar rich, flowers through the year’) The new plant is within a short distance of the birdbath where honeyeaters as well as humans will enjoy it. Years ago, at Otford, on the south side of the Royal National Park, I was able to grow about 40 different grevilleas and although I’ve grown a few specimens here none survived floods and animals with exotic tastes; this new specimen is closer to the house.
The weeping coral tree began flowering several days ago and overhangs the birdbath (I understand that ‘many Bellingen gardens, in the old days, had weeping coral trees). This used to be an almost fully-grown tree until it was wrecked and buried by the flood in 2001; it was chain-sawed level with the ground because it was well rooted on the edge of the lawn/riverbank. To my amazement, it simply decided to re-grow and is again a proper tree. And I was working on the Lookout Lawn, before the rain, cutting flood loam (dumped on a nearby circular garden by the 2001 Big Flood) and using it to level some of depressions in the most-used parts of the lawn. And I’ve also been rebuilding the supporting walls in this area. There’s some ‘new’ colour growing in front of the wall: recovering impatiens (or balsam) that had all but disappeared when the feral deer tried to muscle in on this paradise (the story is that the deer, or some of them, are being Removed…after some of the feral ones in the area were shot… Before this alleged shooting the dense ‘thickets’ of lantana covering the slopes close to the house looked grotesque, having been traversed and trampled by deer paths).
Freed, at last, from rampaging deer and pit-stop wallabies that ate the flowering plants and took the short way down the front of the wall (now being rebuilt) I’m hoping to re-establish a garden of sorts. No flood has eventuated here.
Nov 23 ’08. Most of the month has passed. The great brush box trees have split and shed their barks and some of the flooded gums began splitting a fortnight ago. The Christmas orchids have well developed flower heads and seem eager to flower in November. There is the ominous sound of cicada choirs tentatively practising after sunset. The fireflies continue their relaxed cruising near the house in the dusk (I sometimes think of them as Very Small Spaceships). The weeping coral tree, now in full bloom, looks magnificent. I’ve collected some bleeding heart cuttings from forest trees along the road and have planted them in containers (safely, I hope) as an experiment and left them to strike inside the Dog’s Garden.
A minute ago a bird slammed into the sliding glass door between the lounge and the east deck: a sacred kingfisher lay on its back, stunned (that projecting long beak) so I turned him over and then picked him up (which he didn’t much care for) and like a groggy boxer determined to avoid the full count, shakily stood in the palm of my hand and then took off, whirring away into the forest in a straight line and flying well.
Despite the soggy lawn clippings mulch weighing her down, dahlia ‘Melissa’ has pushed her way upward with a show of strong leaves.
This day began with more strong winds and branches crashing down; yesterday was much worse: a real Agincourt Day with the tall trees whipping and bending in gale-strength gusts (sections of Darkwood Road are littered with broken branches and I have two big white cedar limbs down on Big Lawn). Both machete and axe were needed to dispose of the branches. By the time I tottered back into the house the wind again began gusting. The TV pictures are perfect, following two clearing windstorms, it seems. What can I say?
Nov 24 ’08. It’s another beautifully clear sunny morning, the air clean and sparkling. The windstorms have dried everything and even kept the leeches at bay for a day or so; similarly, the midges and mosquitoes that like humid air have stayed at home. The river level has fallen and the familiar snags, and bedrock markers have reappeared. Mandy and Doug have brought me some irises so I was inspired to Keep Working after a partial cleanup (branches and twigs still litter the gardens). I’ve tidied up the circular stonewalled garden behind the ‘viewing chairs’ where I shared time and space with a small black snake and removed all the wild grass so that there is only the big bushy begonia (still flowering profusely after about 23 years in this spot). Now that garden has some irises and the other circular garden behind it (where I’ve been cutting flood loam from around the base of an old white cedar) also has some new irises). I’ve noticed that a strolling brush turkey flies in every morning before sunrise for a relaxed clawing and grazing and there’s a high probability he’ll dig up the irises; so far so good. The windstorms have ruined the show of jacaranda flowers in many places, as well as the poor old coral tree overlooking my birdbath.
Nov 25 ’08. Although it’s wet I take my umbrella and walk in the rain. Returning in a dry-ish spell I see a metre or so of snake ahead in the middle of the road and approach cautiously. The snake is in no hurry; my footsteps cause it to stop unwisely in the road where it may be killed if it fails to complete the crossing. What to do? When I walk the young python picks up my vibrations and stays put. Should I stand in the middle of the road and stop the next vehicle? I think not: too dangerous on this long fast bend. I walk on quickly behind the snake. The further I walk the more relaxed the snake. He melds into the roadside grass.
I’ve been enjoying an unusual book by Marc Weingarten, Who’s afraid of Tom Wolfe? How New Journalism rewrote the world (London: Aurum, 2005). For those of us who write non-fiction as well as fiction and flirt with journalism (or even become absorbed by it) reportage means writing objectively. The New Journalism encourages us to write more subjectively.
‘The first rule of what came to be known as New Journalism was that the old rules didn’t apply. The leaders of the movement had all been reared in the traditional methods of fact-gathering, but they all realized that journalism could do more than merely provide an objective correlative of events, and, more important, that they could do more. Convinced that American journalism’s potential hadn’t yet been explored to its fullest, they began to think like novelists’ (p 7).
‘As soon as Wolfe codified this new reporting tendency with the name ‘New Journalism’ in his 1973 anthology, critics emerged to strike it down, confusing Wolfe’s theorizing with self-promotion. There’s no fixed definition for New Journalism, granted, and its critics have often pointed to its maddeningly indeterminate meaning as a major shortcoming. How can you have a movement when nobody knows what that movement represents? Is New Journalism the participatory ‘gonzo’ journalism of Hunter S Thompson? Jimmy Breslin’s impressionistic rogue’s tales? Tom Wolfe’s jittery gyroscope prose? The answer is that it’s journalism that reads like fiction and rings with the truth of reported fact. It is, to borrow the title of a 1997 anthology of literary journalism, the art of fact’ (p 7).
(Wolfe’s 1973 ‘New Journalism’ anthology featured Gay Talese, Hunter S. Thompson, Joan Didion, Norman Mailer and others. Weingarten also discusses the writings of Jonathan Swift and Charles Dickens. Some of Dickens’s writings ‘existed in a shadow region between speculative fiction and reportage, which gave him the license to write about the inner lives of his characters with great specificity’ (p 11). There’s nothing new under the sun).
Nov 27 ’08. Happy Thanksgiving Day to all!
Nov 29 ’08. Yesterday there were thunderstorms so I switched off the electronics and worked in the garden for a couple of hours, moving loads of flood loam by wheelbarrow from the old walled gardens in front of the house across to the belvedere, most of which I’ve decided, will now be grassed. I also cut down the spiky palm tree that was flattened by the 2001 flood. Sigh. I was joined for a while by a beautiful small snake with light brown to bronze colouring. The Xmas orchids are flowering. There have been no opportunities to mow, the air being humid and everything wet. Then the rain came and I had to run for shelter (I can still run a bit). There were loud electrical storms through the night so I followed the Mumbai attacks on TV.
Up early, the gardens soaked and proto clouds rising from ‘my’ forest behind the house. At 06: 40 there’s a good chance I can miss most of the leeches that seem to sleep in for another hour. Low wispy cloud covers the Valley and obscures the Dorrigo heights. I see cloud vapour rising from the river and from the far side of the bridge I can see proto clouds drifting upward from the summit high above the house. I recall pictures of cloud or vapour blowing off the summit of Everest. Maybe I’ll call my forested summit Mount Earthrise? The river’s course is marked by wisps of cloud rising over the Happenstance trees. Frogs along the road in flooded ditches rattle and pop. Lifting up mine eyes at Richardson’s Bridge I see much white blossom on one particular species of the wild trees scattered among the eucalypts. The hillside forest reminds me of hanging gardens.
Roses bloom in the Dog’s Garden and some of the dahlias are budding.
Happy St Andrews Day tomorrow to all of us with Scottish ancestry!
This Diary is No. 12 in the New Series (previously 1107, 108, 208, 308, 408, 508, 608, 708, 808, 908, 1008; this is 1108). DDD November 29 2008.
‘The Grey-headed Flying Fox is the largest of the Australian bats, and is by far the most abundant in the area. The Little Red Flying Fox is slightly smaller.
‘Note: The Grey-headed flying fox plays a principal role in the pollination of eucalypt flowers and the dispersal of rainforest seeds in the Bellinger Valley. Without them the rainforest would lose some of its diversity and much of its ability to colonise new locations. Thousands take off from their camp on Bellingen Island each night at dusk. They fly up to 50-km from the campsite: the scouts on their reconnaissance missions, and the rest of the squadron heading for known feeding grounds.
‘Flying fox camps existed in several locations in the valley earlier this century. “Flying-fox Scrub,” the original name for Thora, supported a camp near the Thora Bridge until 1926, as did Stoney Creek at Gleniffer, until 1910, and Rosewood Creek at Thora, until 1959. There was also a campsite at Raleigh. Bellingen Island has been used as a campsite since 1974.’
Maree Blewitt. The Bellinger Valley: A Window in Time (1997).
Nov 4 ’08. I was woken at 03:15 today by what sounded like a big snake directly overhead. I was puzzled because in recent days I'd stood outside on the roof (rapidly frying) in order to reach up with a length of wood and block most of the many gaps and spaces between the roofing iron and the ceiling. I couldn't see anything but certainly could hear it (at times it seemed as though an 800-lb gorilla was making himself comfortable overhead). I expected the ceiling to collapse. I doubt it was a goanna (the local lace monitor) but these do grow to a considerable size. Nor could a possum have got into the roof space. . How could such a big creature (apparently) have gained access in such a constricted space? The mystery continues. By the way, the smaller bats that like to use my wall spaces (see earlier notes about bats and the Singing Rake) are not flying foxes.
Nov 9 ’08. The first week of November has raced by. Xmas is on the way. Again. October, my Bad Luck Month has passed (praise the Lord) and I’ve been discharged by the Community Nurses today so feel I can again reclaim chunks of my life, or at the very least reorganise my daily schedule. And in the afternoon I took time out to watch the live footage from the US presidential election and suspect I may not be the only foreigner watching who was moved by the speeches. It was an emotional time, obviously. It would be easy to dismiss the speeches as mere rhetoric; they seemed much more than that to me. I was impressed by the speed of votes counting and the remarkable presentation of statistics and graphics and very surprised by the eloquence of McCain’s concession speech.
I wrote it last month and write it again: the Valley is many beautiful shades of green. The neighbour’s long roadside paddock is an emerald green and the jacarandas are in flower there. One of the biggest jacarandas there is close to the river. It’s almost like a Xmas card with Mt Die Happy looming above it and wispy cloud swirling near the Mount.
Here Big Lawn has been mowed again, this time in great circles and it has its own carpet of jacaranda flowers now (and more blue blossom covers the road here and in other places in the Valley). Another spectacular tree along both Darkwood Road and the Trunk Road (Waterfall Way) between here and Bellingen is the flame tree (Brachychiton acerifolius)). Two of the flame trees planted here (c 1985) are almost as tall as flooded gums (e.grandis) that are twice the age. Flame trees (they drop their leaves before flowering) are ‘probably Australia’s most widely known rainforest tree’ and can be grown from seed or cuttings. The biggest one planted here is flowering but the flowers are so far up they can hardly be seen among the other big trees; the flowers are best seen on the lawn, when they fall.
Nov 11 ’08. Remembering Armistice Day.
The lawn mowing, the lawn flora and the two lawn mowers have given me an idea for a light-hearted story so I’m taking time out to write that, after which I’ll return to my dysfunctional (but charming) characters in the ‘Earthrise’ novel (hoping they’re still waiting patiently for me to reappear).
Nov 13 ’08. My TV set has been switched to digital channels; some of the channels deliver exquisitely clear pictures, but two do not: the picture breaks up or freezes, the sound is delayed, the set emits unearthly shrieks and squeaks and signal strengths are well below 84%. Sigh. Note: ask somebody if heavy clouds and rain somehow crunch the signal’s strength…and why are some pictures perfect although all the signals make a tortured entry into my domain via a much battered television antenna? It’s all very odd.
Big Lawn is returning to it’s beautiful best (passers by have been seen to stop their motors, to leap out and to photograph…before resuming their (usual) fast journeys past Earthrise). I’m flattered. The Dogs Memorial Garden is cleared of jungle; roses bloom therein, dahlias leap from the ground. In addition to the jacaranda-blue parts of the lawn some sections, when mowed, have varieties of different and mysterious fragrances. (What if these mowed fragrances, these combinations of jacaranda blooms, native violets, umpteen different grasses, weeds and pink-flowering clovers are Subtle Vapours that induce magical memories, visions and re-visions? Hmm, perhaps I can use that in my light-hearted story?).
Neighbour-Across-The-River, Doug Spiller, sent this message on November 13:
‘I'm walking across a gravel bench in the shallows of the river. Beyond the bench the deeper, clear, green water meanders through dark grey, bedrock channels and pools. In one of the closest pools a shimmering loose scatter of pearls coalesce smoothly with the cautious, coordinated movement of a very large monitor goanna.
‘I do not really see the clear goanna outline that is one with the green water and dark grey rock. The 'pearl' highlights of its skin seem to float gently on the bottom of the pool. I sense that it is turning to look at me. I am aware of its beauty and its threat.
‘We both retreat.
Doug.’
My guest this month is Dr Brenda Herzberg who lives in Israel. In this piece she describes and discusses aspects of the natural world near her home.
Other Worlds
Brenda Herzberg
The road winds up from the Arava valley to the plateau of the Negev, a climb of over two thousand feet in ten minutes. The first part is a rocky, dusty gorge where, at one sharp bend, a car chassis, twisted and rusting rests on the valley floor telling of a past disaster. Sunrise was about half an hour ago and we see the occasional stalwart cyclist persevering in the uphill haul but there are few cars.
At the next bend, we see the rocky shelf about twenty feet below the road where others have spotted hyraxes. These furry and endearing creatures are about the size of rabbits and live in family groups. They are thought by many scientists to be the vanishing remnants of an ancient subspecies which includes, believe it or not, elephants and manatees. Their temperature regulation is somewhere between the cold-blooded reptiles, and the warm blooded mammals, so they seek the sun and each other for warmth. We have not yet seen them here on this shelf, which is warmed for only a few hours by the morning sun and each time we pass I look hopefully but I am disappointed again today.
This is wild country, the few walking trails with marker signs painted on the rocks, are likely to lead to stiff clambers and scrambles across the scree. It is rocky desert, the scarp face of the plateau falling to the east to the Syro African rift valley. It is a geography and geology lecture set out by mighty forces and worthy of deep respect. Natural survival depends on how one, whether plant, animal or human, conserves water since no more than 25 mm falls each year in the rift valley. Thorny acacias and desert broom push through the stone strewn sand where maybe once or twice a year, there will be a flash flood and for a few hours, a raging torrent will flow from the hills. Nearly always though, the earth is barren and stony, and the sun beats down. There are wolves and hyenas, rarely seen, though occasionally one of the newly born calves in the kibbutz cow barn is taken, and its mother howls her bovine grief. Tracks in the sand tell those who want to know of desert rodents, porcupines and snakes. The skies, too, appear to be empty, but if you are patient, and know where to look, other worlds are yours to discover, as this area of southern Israel is the narrow land channel through which millions of birds migrate in spring and autumn.
The two of us look professional with binoculars slung round our necks, carrying telescopes on our shoulders as we drive to hot spots familiar to birders in the area. The professional gear is misleading and once again it is only sparrows and pigeons that we spot in abundance. However, we are pleased to make the acquaintance of a handsome young red-backed shrike that seems to pose for us on a wire fence while he nonchalantly surveys the ground for beetles, and the stylish white and black pied wagtails with their black shirtfronts, scampering on the ground and of course wagging their long tails have not yet left for their wintering quarters. I saw a black dot on a rock which, on closer inspection was a white crowned black wheatear, a glossy and handsome small black bird at home in these barren wastes.
The rocky desert stretches as far as the eye can see, both on the Negev plateau and in the Arava valley. The Jordanian mountains on the eastern side of the Syro African rift form a dark backdrop, still in slightly menacing shadow at this hour of the morning. Sharp valleys slice through them opening into estuarial like sands at the floor of the rift. Further north from where we are now, hidden in these sandstone craggy cliffs is Jordan's jewel, Petra.
The Nabateans, enterprising traders of two to three millennia ago, built cities along trade routes across the Negev, the remains of which attract tourists. The Bedouin who have known how to survive in this desert for centuries have also contributed to its desolation by their foraging herds of goats. These days, one is more likely to find Bedouin living near the towns, making their living as efficient car mechanics, a camel or two tethered near their workshops.
Along the Arava valley, and here at the eastern edge of the Negev plateau there is Jewish settlement, kibbutzim with field crops in small patchworks, and flourishing date plantations. German Templars settling in the Holy Land in the 19th Century were industrious farmers whose Holstein cattle adapted surprisingly well in their new environment. Their descendants, the cattle and not the Templars, form dairy herds which are tended in large sheltered sheds far distant from lush green pastures, and are handfed gourmet diets of selected cattle feeds to enrich their plentiful milk. The most successful of the kibbutzim in this area is Kibbutz Yotvata, a name synonymous in Israel with milk and milk products, and for the local residents, flavours of ice cream that rival any Italian brand.
As we return, I contemplate the awe-inspiring view that stretches across and along the Arava valley. Mountains extend into the misty distance to the north and south where tiny specks of human settlement are dwarfed by vast rocky spaces and forms. It was, it is and it will be after my few years are over. Sandstorms will still sweep through; the sun will scorch it by day and somewhere in the hills, at night wolves will howl. In spring and autumn, the birds will migrate to and from their far distant nesting grounds, journeying with precision that seems miraculous.
Nov 18 ’08. The weather is wet again and although most of the rain falls as intermittent thundery showers, the river is rising. So far there’s no panic because the river level has been low for weeks. On a wet Sunday I drove early to Coffs Harbour and after doing my grocery shopping I went in search of plants. Eventually I found a display of packaged dahlia tubers and re-discovered an old favourite: Mrs Rees! The picture on the packet seemed a good likeness…except that the blue centre was missing (could this be the real Mrs Rees?). Thanks to Bruce and Tracey who kindly sent me several (Mrs Rees) tubers I have several fair dinkum plants growing in the Dog’s Garden so bought no new ones; instead, I brought home ‘Melissa’ (she looks like becoming an orange ‘decorative’ or should that be a ‘cactus’?). I like both the name and the colour (are there any L Durrell fans reading this who remember Melissa in The Alexandria Quartet?). Melissa is now in the ground and staked, as is a lively looking new plant, Grevillea hookeriana, The grevillea has a good position in front of the belvedere (it has ‘nectar rich, flowers through the year’) The new plant is within a short distance of the birdbath where honeyeaters as well as humans will enjoy it. Years ago, at Otford, on the south side of the Royal National Park, I was able to grow about 40 different grevilleas and although I’ve grown a few specimens here none survived floods and animals with exotic tastes; this new specimen is closer to the house.
The weeping coral tree began flowering several days ago and overhangs the birdbath (I understand that ‘many Bellingen gardens, in the old days, had weeping coral trees). This used to be an almost fully-grown tree until it was wrecked and buried by the flood in 2001; it was chain-sawed level with the ground because it was well rooted on the edge of the lawn/riverbank. To my amazement, it simply decided to re-grow and is again a proper tree. And I was working on the Lookout Lawn, before the rain, cutting flood loam (dumped on a nearby circular garden by the 2001 Big Flood) and using it to level some of depressions in the most-used parts of the lawn. And I’ve also been rebuilding the supporting walls in this area. There’s some ‘new’ colour growing in front of the wall: recovering impatiens (or balsam) that had all but disappeared when the feral deer tried to muscle in on this paradise (the story is that the deer, or some of them, are being Removed…after some of the feral ones in the area were shot… Before this alleged shooting the dense ‘thickets’ of lantana covering the slopes close to the house looked grotesque, having been traversed and trampled by deer paths).
Freed, at last, from rampaging deer and pit-stop wallabies that ate the flowering plants and took the short way down the front of the wall (now being rebuilt) I’m hoping to re-establish a garden of sorts. No flood has eventuated here.
Nov 23 ’08. Most of the month has passed. The great brush box trees have split and shed their barks and some of the flooded gums began splitting a fortnight ago. The Christmas orchids have well developed flower heads and seem eager to flower in November. There is the ominous sound of cicada choirs tentatively practising after sunset. The fireflies continue their relaxed cruising near the house in the dusk (I sometimes think of them as Very Small Spaceships). The weeping coral tree, now in full bloom, looks magnificent. I’ve collected some bleeding heart cuttings from forest trees along the road and have planted them in containers (safely, I hope) as an experiment and left them to strike inside the Dog’s Garden.
A minute ago a bird slammed into the sliding glass door between the lounge and the east deck: a sacred kingfisher lay on its back, stunned (that projecting long beak) so I turned him over and then picked him up (which he didn’t much care for) and like a groggy boxer determined to avoid the full count, shakily stood in the palm of my hand and then took off, whirring away into the forest in a straight line and flying well.
Despite the soggy lawn clippings mulch weighing her down, dahlia ‘Melissa’ has pushed her way upward with a show of strong leaves.
This day began with more strong winds and branches crashing down; yesterday was much worse: a real Agincourt Day with the tall trees whipping and bending in gale-strength gusts (sections of Darkwood Road are littered with broken branches and I have two big white cedar limbs down on Big Lawn). Both machete and axe were needed to dispose of the branches. By the time I tottered back into the house the wind again began gusting. The TV pictures are perfect, following two clearing windstorms, it seems. What can I say?
Nov 24 ’08. It’s another beautifully clear sunny morning, the air clean and sparkling. The windstorms have dried everything and even kept the leeches at bay for a day or so; similarly, the midges and mosquitoes that like humid air have stayed at home. The river level has fallen and the familiar snags, and bedrock markers have reappeared. Mandy and Doug have brought me some irises so I was inspired to Keep Working after a partial cleanup (branches and twigs still litter the gardens). I’ve tidied up the circular stonewalled garden behind the ‘viewing chairs’ where I shared time and space with a small black snake and removed all the wild grass so that there is only the big bushy begonia (still flowering profusely after about 23 years in this spot). Now that garden has some irises and the other circular garden behind it (where I’ve been cutting flood loam from around the base of an old white cedar) also has some new irises). I’ve noticed that a strolling brush turkey flies in every morning before sunrise for a relaxed clawing and grazing and there’s a high probability he’ll dig up the irises; so far so good. The windstorms have ruined the show of jacaranda flowers in many places, as well as the poor old coral tree overlooking my birdbath.
Nov 25 ’08. Although it’s wet I take my umbrella and walk in the rain. Returning in a dry-ish spell I see a metre or so of snake ahead in the middle of the road and approach cautiously. The snake is in no hurry; my footsteps cause it to stop unwisely in the road where it may be killed if it fails to complete the crossing. What to do? When I walk the young python picks up my vibrations and stays put. Should I stand in the middle of the road and stop the next vehicle? I think not: too dangerous on this long fast bend. I walk on quickly behind the snake. The further I walk the more relaxed the snake. He melds into the roadside grass.
I’ve been enjoying an unusual book by Marc Weingarten, Who’s afraid of Tom Wolfe? How New Journalism rewrote the world (London: Aurum, 2005). For those of us who write non-fiction as well as fiction and flirt with journalism (or even become absorbed by it) reportage means writing objectively. The New Journalism encourages us to write more subjectively.
‘The first rule of what came to be known as New Journalism was that the old rules didn’t apply. The leaders of the movement had all been reared in the traditional methods of fact-gathering, but they all realized that journalism could do more than merely provide an objective correlative of events, and, more important, that they could do more. Convinced that American journalism’s potential hadn’t yet been explored to its fullest, they began to think like novelists’ (p 7).
‘As soon as Wolfe codified this new reporting tendency with the name ‘New Journalism’ in his 1973 anthology, critics emerged to strike it down, confusing Wolfe’s theorizing with self-promotion. There’s no fixed definition for New Journalism, granted, and its critics have often pointed to its maddeningly indeterminate meaning as a major shortcoming. How can you have a movement when nobody knows what that movement represents? Is New Journalism the participatory ‘gonzo’ journalism of Hunter S Thompson? Jimmy Breslin’s impressionistic rogue’s tales? Tom Wolfe’s jittery gyroscope prose? The answer is that it’s journalism that reads like fiction and rings with the truth of reported fact. It is, to borrow the title of a 1997 anthology of literary journalism, the art of fact’ (p 7).
(Wolfe’s 1973 ‘New Journalism’ anthology featured Gay Talese, Hunter S. Thompson, Joan Didion, Norman Mailer and others. Weingarten also discusses the writings of Jonathan Swift and Charles Dickens. Some of Dickens’s writings ‘existed in a shadow region between speculative fiction and reportage, which gave him the license to write about the inner lives of his characters with great specificity’ (p 11). There’s nothing new under the sun).
Nov 27 ’08. Happy Thanksgiving Day to all!
Nov 29 ’08. Yesterday there were thunderstorms so I switched off the electronics and worked in the garden for a couple of hours, moving loads of flood loam by wheelbarrow from the old walled gardens in front of the house across to the belvedere, most of which I’ve decided, will now be grassed. I also cut down the spiky palm tree that was flattened by the 2001 flood. Sigh. I was joined for a while by a beautiful small snake with light brown to bronze colouring. The Xmas orchids are flowering. There have been no opportunities to mow, the air being humid and everything wet. Then the rain came and I had to run for shelter (I can still run a bit). There were loud electrical storms through the night so I followed the Mumbai attacks on TV.
Up early, the gardens soaked and proto clouds rising from ‘my’ forest behind the house. At 06: 40 there’s a good chance I can miss most of the leeches that seem to sleep in for another hour. Low wispy cloud covers the Valley and obscures the Dorrigo heights. I see cloud vapour rising from the river and from the far side of the bridge I can see proto clouds drifting upward from the summit high above the house. I recall pictures of cloud or vapour blowing off the summit of Everest. Maybe I’ll call my forested summit Mount Earthrise? The river’s course is marked by wisps of cloud rising over the Happenstance trees. Frogs along the road in flooded ditches rattle and pop. Lifting up mine eyes at Richardson’s Bridge I see much white blossom on one particular species of the wild trees scattered among the eucalypts. The hillside forest reminds me of hanging gardens.
Roses bloom in the Dog’s Garden and some of the dahlias are budding.
Happy St Andrews Day tomorrow to all of us with Scottish ancestry!
This Diary is No. 12 in the New Series (previously 1107, 108, 208, 308, 408, 508, 608, 708, 808, 908, 1008; this is 1108). DDD November 29 2008.
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