Earthrise Diary (909)

© text Don Diespecker 2009

The Earthrise Diary

Don Diespecker

The typical plumed midge, Chironomus plumosus, swarms in the summer air, its short, soft, non-piercing proboscis distinguishing it from gnats; its larvae are colloquially called blood-worms. The black midge which bites the hand is a Ceratopogon. Some, e.g., the pear-midge, are destructive.
The New Standard Encyclopaedia and World Atlas (1936).

In Rhodes the days drop as softly as fruit from trees.
Lawrence Durrell: Reflections on a Marine Venus, a companion to the landscape of Rhodes (1953).

It’s difficult to resist reference books like dictionaries (in a range of languages) and encyclopaedias, particularly oldish encyclopaedias published in the era of my childhood.
I’m sometimes unsettled by midges as they’re commonly called here, but I’m always impressed by their power because combating their persistent adventures on my skin is always very difficult: the more I swat at them the more they’re enabled by whirling air to escape.
I quote Lawrence Durrell because I’ve always admired his uses of language in both prose and verse (and to almost name-drop ever so slightly, because we also have mutual friends and acquaintances).
September 11 2009. The last days of August and the first days of September are colourful here and along the Waterfall Way to Bellingen: the jacarandas bronzing before losing their foliage; Virgilia trees pink-flowered (a South African tree to 10-m and known in SA as keurboom); yellow tabebuia (aka the Golden Trumpet tree from the tropical Americas), a bright yellow.
After returning from Coffs Harbour on this warm day I began my recovery and the return to sanity with an intended stroll in the riverside garden but was halted by a reptilian rustling directly ahead: a medium-sized goanna that glanced disdainfully at me and then walked onto the chicken wire covering some dahlia tubers in the Theatre Garden (very unhurried s-he was, too). I watched the forked-tongued critter demonstrating it’s territorial ownership to the animal kingdom (including me, but no brush turkeys that might have benefitted from the display). I replotted my course, muttering, and got as far as the Belvedere where further rustling in the crackling dry leaves warned me a second time: a second goanna, smaller, and yes, performing his or her circus number on yet more chicken wire (covering more dahlia tubers) before daintily stepping off the wire and dashing up the big white cedar that overlooks that place. Spring at Earthrise often includes coincidences.
On Saturday night (9/12) drowsing between NRL Qualifying Finals and a One-Day cricket International and violent movies (all via my TV set) I heard a ruckus possibly from under the house, so went downstairs with torch and pick handle to investigate. When I switched on the front door deck light I saw two handsome possums leaving the building in their proficient way by walking precisely along the poly-pipeline that runs, suspended, through the old trees on the Ancient Riverbank**from the pump (east side deck) to the water storage tank adjacent to the carport. I’d seen this professional high wire act a couple of times previously and their pipeline walk, although the possums make it look easy, surely requires great skill and perfect balance; the line (nominal 1-in ID) is narrow and smooth. And the pipeline swings, being unstable. I greeted the possums and applauded (as one does). The lead possum leaped from the line to the tree trunk and in three stunning claw-climbing bounds was high in the canopy. These little furs are breath-takingly fast and agile and I like to think that such elevating speed-runs are probably equivalent to the hunting sprints and charges of a cheetah. Seriously. Or a striking snake, possibly. Amazing.
September 14 2009. I’ve been expecting the spangled drongos to arrive, but they’re later than usual (September 12 in 2008 and 2007). As I left the house this morning to drive to Bellingen I was greeted by the familiar drongo chattering, creaking and groaning; Dicrurus bracteatus, the spangled drongo, is again residence. According to the bird book, this is a migratory species ‘…arriving in October and leaving in March’. Perhaps these families of beautiful iridescent birds are advance guards (they always arrive in September); they often leave early for unknown reasons, sometimes in mid-summer.
Today is a summery day, although the days have been bright and warm for about three weeks, it’s warmer than usual. A few water dragons have reappeared and so have the skinks. The colours are made more splendid when I wear Polaroid glasses. Cedar Grove is marked by the display of five dark pink azaleas and a sixth, lighter azalea (an old 4.5-m wide bush at the gate). The citrus trees are flowering; the heaviest scent is from a flood-battered grapefruit on Big Lawn and an old navel orange tree adjacent to it is putting out a great spread of blossom (most of the blossom is from very thorny rootstock).
Jasmine is flowering too. In the Dog’s Garden, well covered by brush-turkey-defeating chicken wire, red salvia and kalenchoe flower determinedly in the heat and dust. These and several other beds are being hand-watered after sunset. For much of this time I hear the music of early crickets harmonising (it seems) with the small frogs that cleverly live beneath the piles of still-damp flood debris. For company I have a host of inquisitive fireflies flashing about the garden. September is a lively time. A few snakes have appeared and goannas seem bent on dominating all the areas that I’ve long considered ‘my’ private space.
On Wednesday, Sept 23, some 5-million tonnes of fine topsoil (i.e., dust) were blown from west to east across the State in gale force winds. NSWs worst dust storm in 70 years, the dense orange-red dust ‘system’ was some 2,000-km long and moved about 16,000-tonnes of soil each hour across the State. Some of the dust crossed the Tasman and fell to earth in New Zealand. There was a second such storm on the 26th—neighbour Leif and I sat in a relatively ‘safe’ part of the garden while the accompanying wind brought down more deadwood. Apparently the day may have originated in the Queensland floods earlier this year and then was washed down river systems as silt that then dried out before being raised by strong winds—thus, rain-inspired dust storms.
And again this morning (27th), there is more wind, more dust and more smoke in the Bellinger Valley. Recent hazard reduction burns plus unlawfully set fires in the forests have made much of the Valley dangerous. I was up early to cut up and move branches from the road along side this property.
On a more peaceful note I’ve been ‘observing’ (i.e., invading the privacy) of the small cormorant who enjoys drying his or her wings on the bedrock near the Belvedere. Lately the little bird has been hassled by two much larger cormorants (a different species). It seems that Clarrie’s ‘territory’ is being intentionally invaded by visiting toughs as it were. To be fair, I frequently see Clarrie (‘playfully’ or ‘aggressively’?) interfering with a heron enjoying wading the shallows along the opposite bank. When the heron arrives, Clarrie dives in and pops up next to the heron. The heron turns and wades in the opposite direction; Clarrie dives again and pops up adjacent to the bigger bird &c &c. Can this be a bird game and how territorial are water birds in this area? The river is low and continues to fall in the very warm spring weather. Rain or showers are sorely needed (there has been only one period of thundery showers this month).
Fabled Anecdote (2)
© text Don Diespecker 2009

The Press Conference

Firefly, a beetle nearly related to the click beetle and famous for its luminosity, which is mainly emitted by two organs on the thorax, visible as yellow spots when not in use. Parts of the abdomen, however, are also luminous. The light is so intense it is possible to read by its aid, and the sight of a swarm of these glowing insects dancing in the S. American forest at night greatly impressed the earliest travellers.
The Modern World Encyclopaedia (1935)

There were chance occasions when he’d glanced out the window and seen fireflies in the soft September dusk flickering upwards in easeful spirals.
‘Darkwood’ (unpublished MS)

Early September and the Spring Session of the Midgeworld Local Assembly has come to order. Sir Gawain Midge, having cancelled Question Time (on the grounds of there being far too many Members using the sessions for snatched dozes and sometimes for distinctly heavy slumbering), is holding his late winter/early spring press conference on the lawn-edge-riverbank at Midgeworld (aka Earthrise to humans). The little fellow is flanked by 1000 or so of the renowned Humming Dipterenes, two gender-distinct groups of backing midges bouncing alternately in the adjacent air on either side of the minute knight (presently also the de facto Midgeworld Prime Minister following the bloodless coup of the recent summer and who also is assisting as {temporary} Squadron Leader of the 99th Fighter Squadron of the Royal Midgeworld Air Force (the RMAF) when he is not harmonising {there being no Attack Missions presently being flown by the 99th and there being only tedious Plotting Room Exercises for him to avoid, Sir Gawain would just as soon be rhythmically bouncing and singing, for he is also a part-time Midgeworld Music Producer, and the Backing Groups Choirmaster, and a renowned local composer}).
One of Sir Gawain’s passionate pleasures, it should be added, is the choreographing of single mixed-gender and varied Diptera backing groups in such ways that the groups most strongly resemble schools of so-called bait fish, his inspiration having come from the rustic human gardener’s reading-over-the-shoulder (ROTS) watching of TV Nature Programs presented by Sir Richard Attenborough (Sir G insists he has a matey affinity with that much larger human knight, one bordering on brotherhood and in which there are presented marvellous images of sardines whirling in the Indian Ocean off the East Coast of the Republic of South Africa. Sir G has, for some months, been so enamoured of the gyratory whirling of these distant and alien little fishes that whirling qua whirling, has become the leitmotif enabling him to lead the valiant 99th to success {he scrupulously avoids using or even thinking of missions as ‘victories’ against the enormous space-demanding humans, rustic and otherwise}).
Those who similarly are lofty-minded and who studiously follow the career of Sir G know him to be always positive in outlook and of a sunny disposition (although there are very large ROTS squadrons of tertiary Intel Students flying above, behind and to each side of the Old Gardener 24 hours a day, Sir G likes to see some of the readings and writings and of course the TV programs for himself {all of which are collectively known in the Midgeworld Local Sector as The Source, Sir G being a celebrated Speed Reader who has won a great many Midge Educational Awards}).
To the surprise of many midges, those both high and low in Midgeworld Society, Sir G currently practises Base Jumping from a particular jump-off platform on a partly hidden branch in the Highest Flooded Gum and he does this with an intensity of purpose that he, so far, has not discussed with his sister, the Hon Morgana, and only with a select few of his colleagues. On this auspicious occasion, however, and Sir Gawain being an honourable midge and having reached a somewhat startling decision, he has decided to partly use this evening’s Press Conference to announce his breakthrough discovery (a scientific phenomenon of global importance, one revealed to him in a moment of serendipity such that he immediately intuited an epiphany half way through a majestic Base Jump). Sir G has resolved to impart his amazing news in some detail during the Press Conference (or possibly at the end of the Conference) prior to tabling his comprehensive report to the Assembly.
Meanwhile, the literati of Midgeworld are in turmoil, it having been rumoured that Sir G and the 99th have been converted to subduing the humans entirely by peaceful means rather than by frontal assaults and the more bookish midges, used to practising deadly forms of the martial arts to stimulate their creativity, are deeply concerned that Midgeworld is becoming overly effete; these midges (often known in the Local Areas as The High Beings and sometimes as The Intellectual Samurai) hope desperately for some encouraging news because they intend the overthrow Sir G and those closest to him, his fellow officers of the 99th Squadron of the RMAF).
The gallant little knight, famed as the sage and courteous Sir Gawain, generally attempts to speak diplomatically or as diplomatically as his little used French would allow. ‘Mm Speaker, my Lords and Lady Midges of Wide Pool in Midgeworld—and all associated Life, including the bumbling great humans who persistently obstruct Local Weather! Attendez mes enfants! It is again my great pleasure to present to you my brilliant sister, the Hon Morgana Midge, Bobber and Backer Extraordinaire, popularly known, too, as The Darkwood Diva and who is additionally, the Honorary Music Teacher of the Ladies Harmony Backing Choir.’
The Speaker (an old mosquito) quickly interposed. ‘Thank you, Prime Minister, the Hon Morgana will now present the preliminary program announcement for the Midgeworld Annual September Festival in the Local Sector,’ Mm Speaker said in a thin voice, ‘and before anybody gets any ideas about meals or even about snacking during any part of this meeting, I remind you most stringently that this is also a Ceasefire and Moratorium and anyone, anyone eating anyone else will be expelled and banished for life from the Sector. The Member for Morgana has the Floor.’
The wind having been taken, so to say, from his sails by the Speaker, Sir G swallowed his pride and bowed graciously to Morgana. His turn would soon come and there remained ample time for him to make his Discovery Statement.
The Hon Morgana Midge bounced sublimely through the balmy air of late afternoon to settle next to the Speaker now waiting heavily on a new pink red cedar leaf. Turning her splendidly clear dipterous wings to the mellow rays of the approaching sunset Morgana began to go through her notes, which is to say she intuited her program from the cloud of bobbing Intel Info Locals (popularly known by less exalted Locals as The Infointelfocals of whose Sector Mind she was a most valued part). Her brother took the opportunity to begin an elaborate to-and-fro darting above and between the thousands of assembled midges and daringly shrilled warnings not only to all midges but to all and sundry, which is to say, to all the hugely varied other locals—and he was particularly insistent toward the goannas, water dragons and snakes, all of whom were strategically scattered in defensive groups.
Morgana, about to speak, has managed only a demure ‘My Lords— when she is rudely interrupted by a lone housefly on a shaded leaf at the edge of the great gathering. ‘On a point of order, Mm Speaker.’
The Speaker, being a weary old mosquito suffering from arthritis (having once been knocked down by a stray molecule of chemical repellent), is nudged by several members of the Dipterenes and stands up swashingly, having sipped to excess soft-target blood drawn from the old human gardener, for she simply cannot ever say No to a good drop of red. ‘What do you mean, sir and who are you?’
‘Mm Speaker, I am Gustavo Thong, presently of the 5th Local Sector and I want to know, please, why the Hon Morgana has or is possibly still being presented to the assembly by her brother, Sir Gawain, he having called us together to attend a Press Conference. This is becoming a confusing Press Conference. One expects appropriate announcements and hopes for opportunities to ask questions. Your ruling, please.’
‘I’m coming to that,’ shrills Sir G.
‘The Member for Thong and Sir Gawain will remain still and be entirely silent,’ says the Speaker in an excruciatingly thin voice. ‘I shall confer with colleagues and make my ruling at the end of the press conference.’
‘But, look here!’ shrieks Gustavo Thong.
‘But me no buts, sir; you have my preliminary ruling and that will have to be enough to be going on with.’
‘I say, steady on! You can’t do that. I want a ruling now!’ the housefly cries.
‘I’ve told you to be still. My ruling now is that you risk being taken away to a more exposed place where, despite the prevailing Cease-fire and Moratorium and Press Conference, you will be at considerably more risk of being ingested by one of the water dragons whose patience is not unlimited.’
There is a second housefly interruption from the Floor. ‘I am Maurice Fondue, also of the 5th Local Sector. May I say something, Mm Speaker?’
‘No, but say it, anyway.’
The second fly, enraptured by the mingled scents of so much varied prey present in the Assembly speaks out: ‘I, too have a point of order. I object to Sir Gawain’s assumed use of the ridiculously named 99th Fighter Squadron of the RMAF when we all know that midges cannot, in any circumstances, defeat, in any manner whatsoever, a single human, conscious, semi conscious or asleep!’
‘Oh pish, sir, and bosh!’ yells an enraged Sir Gawain. ‘Mm Speaker: may I talk to that?’
‘Oh, I suppose so, if you must.’
‘Then I shall do so the moment the Hon Morgana is allowed to complete her announcement of the Spring Festival Festivities. Thank you, Mm Speaker.’
‘Yes very well and thank you, Prime Minister. The Members for Fondue and Thong will resume their perches and be silent. I want to hear details of the program. The Hon Morgana Midge.’
But the Member for Thong will not obey the rules and suddenly splutters, ‘Aha! Clearly this Press Conference is an utter sham! Are we or are we not the audience for the Festivities of the Spring Festival?’
‘Member for Thong: you’re on notice. Not another word!’
Abashed and near tears, the Hon Morgana bounces lightly, whirring her wings. ‘Mm Speaker and as I was about to say, the Spring Ceasefire and General Moratorium will be acknowledged and our Spring Celebrations will begin shortly, just before sunset which is now only minutes away. This Press Conference and these Festivities, these Spring Celebrations shall last through the night to end at sunrise; however, the Ceasefire and Moratorium will continue for another full day. My Lords and Ladies and all creatures here assembled, I am happy to announce that after long discussions at a High Level, the Local Area Cicadidae Chapter has arranged, wait for it, for the entire Northern Region of the New South Wales Massed Male Cicada Choirs to perform so as to be heard throughout the entire region—you may imagine the exquisitely sophisticated synchronization required. The big four-wingers have agreed to present Rachmaninoff’s ‘Vocalese,’ but only after we had agreed to them following that with Ravel’s ‘Bolero.’ They drive a hard bargain, I must say; on the other hand any of our colleagues obliged to live underground in darkness for so much of their lives deserve our compassion and cooperation, and they’re awfully good musically.’
‘I say!’ said shrilled Mm Speaker, ‘Surely the humans will have something to say about that; why, they can’t even tolerate our muted hunting songs! They’ll be driven insane and do desperate things and we’ll all be in dire peril!’
‘No, no,’ interposed Sir G, ‘we won’t worry about that and I shall take care of everything!’ The assembled creatures exchanged startled glances. What could one midge do against such odds?
Sir G would say no more; instead, he frowned at his sister who then continued her announcement. ‘And there will be dancing in the intervals during the night when our firefly colleagues will provide lighting at many points around the gardens. And there is to be a demonstration, too, by The Midgeworld Carlos Gardel Grand Tango Dance Group!’
Morgana’s announcement was greeted with cheers and applause but the applause was dramatically cut short by a violently loud C-r-a-c-k! A very old Mountain Oak broke and crashed down nearby to cries of consternation and alarm. The shock wave of rushing air caused by the gigantic tree hitting the lawn sent the entire Assembly hurtling through the air, running, swirling, leaping…
(to be continued)…
Fabled Anecdote (3)

© text Don Diespecker 2009

The Spring Ding

The hills are alive with the sound of music
With the songs they have sung
For a thousand years.
Oscar Hammerstein: The Sound of Music (1959)

Cicada, an insect of the group Homoptera, with a big head and large membranous wings. It is notorious for the deafening sounds emitted by the males, the sounding organs consisting of a pair of shell-like drums situated at the base of the abdomen and operated by special muscles.
The Modern World Encyclopaedia (1935)

When the giant Mountain Oak broke and crashed to Earth on Big Lawn at Earthrise (more correctly, at Midgeworld) thousands of small creatures like the myriad midges and several hundred larger insects and animals (and acknowledging, of course, Much Smaller Life) were struck by the shock wave: an enormous rush of air flung the smallest insects in whirling clouds across the lawn, over the rose bushes, up above the lawn edge and out over the gleaming river. Two of the ultra-conservative old intellectual ‘Samurai’ midges, Denny (‘The Mandarin’) Diderot (not to be confused with the much larger water dragon, Dinny (short for ‘Dinosaur’) and Sam (‘Doc’) Johnson, recognising the blast of air for what it was—a natural phenomenon—managed to resume their interrupted conversation while enjoying the wild ride and the remarkably changing views.
‘Quite a feeling, this, eh, Doc: flying free, lots of air under the wings, no effort required, what?’
‘Oh! Such whirling views and how the world tilts so and then tumbles, roaring, yet I have to declare, the effects are dizzying in the extreme but, Denny, I fear I may have to lie down soon if I am to recover.’
‘Courage mon brave! All will shortly slow, including us,’ shouted Denny. ‘Hold to the riverway course and if you feel faint I can provide some lift, my left wing beneath your right; see, we’re now slowing!’
‘Yes, thank you, old fellow, I can certainly use some lift; perhaps we could together attempt a wide turn soon and hopefully land close to the Festival Site—which, regrettably will surely now be an accident scene.’
‘Better yet, Doc, stay close and we’ll do an Immelmann from on high, save heaps of energy and with good fortune smiling, touch down close to the reassembling colleagues.’
‘I’m not entirely sure that I’m up to it, Denny, but, of course, you’re right and we would save energy so, yes, should I be up to it I shall definitely be up for it.’
‘Jolly good, Doc; preparing for course change, then; stand by; sensing a damp upwelling billow from the Creek Air; here we go; starting half loop…now!’
The tiny flyers lifted together abreast of the cool damp air at the confluence of river and creek, Denny Diderot strongly supporting his friend’s right wing with his own left wing and they soared magnificently above the golden light of the shining river, the hills and forest and the riverscape seemingly tilting as they climbed boldly to the High Point, then began their combined half roll nearly 50-m above the water from where they were able to see most splendidly the crowns of the big flooded gums at Midgeworld, the rays of the setting sun flashing toward them at the higher altitude and, as they levelled out and the world view settled they steadfastly locked in their guidance systems and flew confidently on a course that was the reverse of the outward blast-path and very soon saw directly ahead, the Big Lawn, part in shadow, part in dappled light, such that the bold little midges began shouting sharply in unison, ‘We’re on the glide-path, and only seven seconds to touch-down! Bravo us! Hooray and formidable and jolly astounding fortitude!’
And so it was; the two flyers landed without mishap—and surprisingly close to where they were perching when the great tree fell; they had successfully called on their very best flying and navigation skills and used them to great effect. The huge audience of insects and other animals was indeed reassembling and the combined sounds of small frogs and crickets could now be distinctly heard as they began their Local Prelude to the performance of the Massed Choirs of millions of cicadas.
‘Thank you, Denny.’
‘I knew we could make it, Doc. –I say you look a little green. Are you OK?’
‘No, I fear I shall be obliged to consult a health care professional, old chap,’ Doc murmured.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
‘Alas, an old-age malady slows both my pace and progress and I must find, with assistance, the best way in which to proceed or I shall never complete my work here.’
‘You mean—
‘My intended Midgeworld Encyclopaedic Dictionary, yes.’
‘Perhaps you already know the best way, Doc, because you’re the best expert we have on you.’
‘Ah, thank you old friend, yes, you refer to the Gestalt Approach workshops here and to many other Group Process, I’m sure, but alas, I now have grave doubts about intensive psychotherapeutic learning groups and similar approaches to enlightenment—‘
‘Great heavens! –But why, Doc, why?’
Sam Johnson nervously saw from the corner of his eye that Sir Gawain was bouncing furiously while in animated discussion with his sister, the Hon Morgana, and that the Speaker was about to interrupt, so he whispered hastily to Denny Diderot, ‘I was on a ROTS special project mission inside the Old Gardener’s house and saw an alarming item in the Diary the human was compiling, a most significant copyrighted piece titled The Japanese Workshop by the Gardener’s human friend and colleague, Sharon Snir, in which that writer had allegedly stated:

‘In all my workshops I provide chocolate treats for the students. I was told, many years ago, that spiritual work can be tiring and that chocolate contains minerals that boosts the system and replenishes the soul. I believe it completely. I had brought a couple of packets of Allen’s Snakes from Australia for myself and put them out on the table too. In the first choco break one woman tried a snake and yummed in delight. Before I knew it, twelve participants also wanted to try a snake. I showed them how the children in Australia stretch them as long as they can without breaking them and suddenly there was an informal competition to see who could stretch it the longest; so much laughter, so much fun.’

Denny Diderot paled. ‘Good grief! In intensive learning groups humans now eat snakes and their children stretch them? I’m astonished, Doc!’
‘Yes, well, there it is; of course, there is the possibility that the snakes may be artificial in some way, perhaps a confection, sweetmeats you know like the chocolate confections made from cocoa seeds—oh, we’ll talk later old boy. Sir G is once again attempting to complete an announcement.’
Denny whispered quickly, ‘What does ‘yummed’ mean, do you imagine?’ and Sam whispered back: It’s a human feeding expression, one of deliciousness, or, as we would say of sucking on citrus blossom nectar, bloody bonzer grub.’ A shaken Diderot peered uneasily into the quickening dusk and fortunately became happily distracted by the antics of the local fireflies playfully bringing the Assembly to order. The two friends strained to hear Sir Gawain over the increasing choral preludes until the cicadas came in on cue, quite softly at first and then began to rise from pianissimo to moderato to allegro—and continued to rise alarmingly. The immense volume of sound reached resonance and was so powerful as to cause small waves to dance on the river’s surface and to make everything at the Assembly site vibrate so unpleasantly that it was difficult for any of the small creatures to see what was in front of them except as indeterminate blurs.
Then Denny Diderot said, ‘Relax now, old friend; close your eyes and I’ll keep watch. A tout a l’heure.’
A grateful Sam Johnson closed his eyes and lay back against a twig. The cicadas played so skilfully that their music sounded to Doc Johnson uncannily like the various sections of an enormous symphony orchestra (although for Doc there was also a distinctly significant dominance by the second violins and violas, the cellos and the bass players). Despite the great Musical Forces In Play Throughout The Landscape, Doc drifted into a healing sleep.
*
It was during the First Interval, the cicada choirs having paused for a few minutes, that Sir Gawain seized the opportunity to cut through the red tape, as it were, and to plunge into his Discovery Announcement. With Morgana at his side he bounced to the top of the season’s first red rose, stood confidently on the edge of the highest petal and began. ‘My friends, I am not a militant military flyer at all. The 99th Squadron, RMAF is militarily named because we wish to be adventurous, well motivated, entirely positive and absolutely determined to move Midgeworld forward. Although there are certain intellectuals among us, those ultra conservative bookish types, the Royal Upstarts of the Local Sectors, who would have us all take arms against the humans I am happy to announce that their desperate measures will never be needed, never.
‘My colleagues and I have been free falling and sky diving and base jumping from the Highest Flooded Gum and learned that the more of us who act together the more air, both hot and cold, we are able to move. These relatively small drafts of air may often be experienced, too, by our backing groups when they bounce as dense dancing and singing groups: because we are so many! The ROTS groups and the Intel groups and the Memory groups will confirm these observations. Therefore, when we approach humans, it is imperative that we do so en masse and in such ways that the human person will wave frantically in order to prevent us from annoying them. That is how we control them! Peacefully! Given a hundred humans and a million midges, do you see, we can make the humans move so much air that these drafts waft up into our river cloud formations where they CHANGE THE WEATHER! Is that astonishing, or what?’
Sir Gawain was quite out of breath and slid down the inside of the rose petal where he rested gratefully against a wonderfully scented stamen. Morgana slid down next to him and said, ‘My dear brother, that was jolly well said, but I have to tell you, my dear, that when our colleagues began to tango at the start of the Interval, they had eyes and of course ears only for each other: they seem not to have heard you because they were enraptured by other sounds, other voices. And the spectators were so weary from the cicada music that they immediately began falling asleep. You’ll have to do it all again, my dear, but not now, later!’
*
The two water dragons, Darius and Dinny (and, again, not to be confused with the miniscule midge Denny Diderot) were resting in the area close to Doc Johnson and Denny Diderot, uncomfortable because the cicada choirs were beating not only in perfect time, but altogether too loudly and the dragons had been struggling to follow the Speaker’s interventions and rulings, as well as Sir G and the Hon Morgana’s ‘announcements’ and the daring interruptions of the Members for Thong and Fondue and also, remembering the falling tree—and they had inadvertently dozed off when Sir G made his Discovery Announcement. The very strong scent of jasmine now drifted toward the river and became mixed with the powerful aromas of the citrus blossom flowering in the old trees on Big Lawn. Almost all the dragons present at the Festival were eager to relax and to close their eyes—with the exception of two particular dragons that remained wide awake.
‘I say, Darius, old boy, I think the Speaker rather has it in for us, don’t you?’
‘Oh, don’t worry, Dinny, she does need to warn everybody about the Ceasefire.’
‘Oh, I suppose so; fortunately I ate earlier,’ Dinny murmured.
‘I say, Din there’s something odd going on here. Can you hear it?’
‘Hear what, old boy?’
‘I can hear a sotto voce conversation and it’s coming from that rosebush, it seems. It’s only just audible. No, no, I don’t mean Sir Gawain and the Hon Morgana up there; their voices are barely detectable. Let’s sidle over a little closer. Ah yes. Can you hear it now; two quite distinctly different midge voices, I think?’
‘Indeed yes; let’s listen.’
The two dragons moved into the shade of a Camp David Hybrid Tea Rose where they adjusted and then focused their acute hearing. They moved their heads close to a tiny hole beneath the rose bush and were able to hear a sub rosa discussion between two midges:
‘Ilsa we can talk now; the Dipterenes backing groups will cover anything we say.’
‘Rick, what is it?’
‘MSIS, you know, the Secret Intelligence Service, has discovered what Sir Gawain and his pals have been up to.’
‘But how?’
‘MSIS have an agent in the big grandis tree where Sir G practises base jumps. Sir G had his mates with him, those from the 99th. He was heard to say that he accidentally discovered the power of humans to change the weather—‘
‘But how and what does it mean for us, Rick?’
‘Ah, when you speak like that Ilsa I remember our Secret Place, the Creek and that cold and wet day when we first met there. You were blue; the mozzies were grey. We’ll always have the Creek. Here’s the thing, Ilsa. Although we’re tiny, our movements create wind drafts. If a million midges jump at the same time they make a measureable downdraft, a pressure wind that swirls in this corner of the river and one much larger than a single swipe made by the Old Gardener against one of us. Thus, Sir G realised that with little effort, humans could be made by us midges to make the weather change. Here in Rum Corner updrafts and downdrafts cause damp air to rise, swirl and to make clouds. Think of it, Ilsa: when we annoy humans and they swipe at us, we can control the weather because we can control humans!’
‘Rick, that’s so wonderful! Who else knows this?’
‘Maybe the dragons.’
‘That’s a worry.’
‘Nah, all our worries don’t amount to a hill of discarded wings. Dragons are only interested in catching flies.’
‘Rick, what do you mean?’
‘I mean that with this knowledge, Ilsa, we can rule Midgeworld.’
The attentive dragons turned to each other and sighed and then Dinny said sotto voce, ‘Darius, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship with these two midges.’
*
At the beginning of the month I spotted the reappearance of the native violet in the dusty flood loam (on the west side of the broken white cedar and it’s garden). I’d raked there several times. It goes without saying, almost, that the groundcover, tradescantia, as green as ever and despite the raking, has been happily spreading itself in all the usual places and does its best to colonize vacant spaces in the loam over the entire area. I know what to do about that, but the ambitious groundcover can wait; it has a lower priority.
**(The house is founded on an old riverbank that for vague reasons of my own I think of as ‘ancient.’ It may be nothing of the kind; however, aerial views and geological information (&c and so forth) will be helpful in determining when the Bellinger ran consistently against this bank. The first (1984) campsite and our subsequent caravan sites were supported by this relatively high riverbank. Here, the bank now supports the carport and the concrete water storage tank and is covered by big trees. The same bank runs in a sweeping curve ‘upstream’ and is crossed by Darkwood Road near my gate, and then extends along the Deer Park paddocks next door (where it may be seen supporting large trees).
At any time outside (not only in spring, but much more so in spring), provided one is fully conscious, it’s possible to see, hear and smell change: a brown butterfly rises north from the lower end of the track and is followed by a blue one (the Ulysses?) and I can now hear unseen whistlers and at least three other bird species. The shower of dead leaves falls without the benefit of breeze on a warm day and there’s a background shush-rattle from the nearby rapids. There’s lots of life here. How much more noise might bacteria make, I wonder?
Finally, I’ve cleared part of the riverbank that was covered by flood debris, raked and levelled it (more or less) and added some kikuyu grass seed and Japanese millet seed. We’ll see. Some rain would help.

This is the 909 September 2009 Diary. DDD September 27 2009.