THE EARTHRISE DIARY (February 2012)
Don Diespecker
© text Don Diespecker 2012; individual © is retained by authors whose writings are included in this text.
Today I've felt a real shift in the seasons; autumn is nigh. The first red and orange leaves appear so striking in amongst the sea of green foliage that is this valley. The rain has been fairly regular here through the summer and as far as the eye can see has made the ground a vast patterned blanket of variegated green. Friends who garden are reaping bumper crops and lately we have been the lucky recipients of some of their surplus...peaches, apples, dark skinned plums, swedes, turnips, tomatoes and broad beans. The sky is more readily moody and changeable and I've needed to throw a shawl over my shoulders in the mornings. The birds too, feel the shifting of the seasons. They know. King Parrots are now back on the verandah and demanding their daily dose of 'wild bird seed mix'! They haven't been around for many months and yet I recognize a few familiar faces and they recognize mine, which makes me feel wonderful...
Petra Meer: Journal, February 8 2012.
Errata: My (flood time!) carelessness led to two typos in the January 2012 Diary. In Petra’s An afternoon by the Latrobe River, Victoria, A small fairy perches close by should have read, ‘A small fairy wren perches close by’; and between the scree and freedom should have read ‘between the debris and freedom’. My apologies.
Insert on Tuesday February 21 2012: most of February is slipping by at speed. The most recent ‘flood’ has been about three almost but not quite separate events splashed together. Had I not made notes at times when there were flooding rains or the car was imperiled or Darkwood Road was transforming into a 1-m deep raging torrent or the view of the flooding river from the bathroom window was so hair raising (in floods it appears to be coming hugely downhill, unstoppably at approximately eye level and provokes in the observer palpitations and a sense of doom), this February Diary might never have been written; I kid you not. These past few weeks have not been marked by the most spectacular or the highest of floods—merely the longest-lasting one in my experience—and, I now realize, it is the long-lastingness and the uncertainty of the long-lasting that disturbs the psyche sufficiently to make me think disloyally of deserts and hot sun or possibly idling in a far-away place like Paris. The flooding of roads and bridges makes it impossible for one to live a normal life for days at a time and that’s what is so unsettling when the weather goes crazy. And I hasten to add that despite the usual flood alarms and threats there is no place where I really would rather be because most of my time here is marked by experiences that are good, stimulating and appreciated. As I write there is again rolling thunder in the early afternoon and the likelihood again of yet another storm (the one last evening knocked out the power (between 17:00 hours on Monday and 01:50 am on Tuesday) again, circled this area for hours and dumped more unwanted storm rain to soak everything, further damage Darkwood Road and threaten houses and motor vehicles with damage from Big Hail (fortunately, there was no hail on this occasion). These long-lasting soaking rains have all kinds of consequences and are also effective in troubling the calmest of minds: everyone and every thing is affected: great trees collapse, wild life is killed, properties are damaged; yet it seems that all of us living in this Eden have dodged a series of bullets—once again. In the northwest of NSW tonnes of food, medicine and fodder continue to be flown into flood-affected areas every day and for some downstream towns and properties, the worst flooding is still to come. Airdrops and being marooned for weeks is the expectation for thousands of people less fortunate than we are here in the Darkwood.
Saturday January 28 2012. I wrote and redrafted at a frantic pace yesterday in order to have a draft of the January Diary to post. I also spoke on the phone with Petra who kindly emailed the Latrobe River piece and sent it to me as copy I could include in the Diary and I also added some more information about my heritage [Petra Meer lives close to the Yarra River at Warburton, VIC]. All done fast and I hope not too carelessly. The Diary was duly posted. Leif returned in the late afternoon from Bellingen with his passengers Brian and Victoria and with much shopping which he had done for his colleagues at Dreamtime (DT). All I’d asked for was some eggs. When I checked the route from the house to the front gate this morning I had a look at the big eucalypt limb that fell yesterday just beyond my gate (Leif sawed it while I was coming down to meet him). Lionel Campbell came walking down the road, umbrella in hand, having walked from Bishop’s Creek and waded over the flooded deck of Carver’s Bridge (next to DT). He and I have similar backs and he was able to confirm the good back-fixing reputation of a Bellingen osteopath.
There are light showers today. A BIG tree came crashing down somewhere nearby and was heard at DT because I had a call from Leif later who had heard that some observers had seen what they thought was a misalignment of the bridge here. After peering through the window and a light drizzle I was pretty sure the bridge was OK but I tottered down to the road to check and the Plains Bridge although not yet revealed by the falling flood still appears to have the same position and alignment. I met Di and her son and Monica in the road and the four of us confirmed that the bridge was more or less where it’s supposed to be—then the Dreamtimers kindly added some stones to the partly filled-in trench next to the concrete swale in front of my gate (while the old busted back rustic watched gratefully). Otherwise it’s been a quiet showery day and I’ve been working slowly through it, resting by lying down when I can and being extra careful of The Back.
The notes for the next two days (below) were also sent to interested persons outside this area:
Sunday January 29 2012. When the rain stopped, more or less, on Sunday a number of drivers came down to the area in front of my house at 1655 Darkwood Rd. The road has been badly damaged (approximately from near the fire station down to Plains Bridge). The over-deep storm water drains/gutters on the south side have been deeply gouged and the roadside is flush with the gutters (there are now no verges). This section is dangerous to all drivers. Storm water has entered the road in large volumes: principally runoff from the high ground, south side; and from the overflowing Deer Park paddocks (north side) opposite my gate. Elsewhere, all of the gutters have overflowed and carried debris across the road surface. The last few metres before the bridge approach is reached were impassable because the remnants of the road had piled up (like dunes). A ute became bogged and was hauled out by a 4WD vehicle. Later some vehicles (principally 4WD) came down to the bridge (mostly from upriver) and crossed; most continued on down the valley (i.e., they did not immediately return). Some vehicles (not 4WD) made the journey from this area to Thora and returned safely)
Monday January 30 2012. A Council ute with flashing light hurried across the bridge here, heading west at breakfast time (07:00 approximately); it was closely followed by the Council grader. The grader quickly provided a level surface (from the mounds of road remnants close to the bridge). Many of the gouged sections of the road were quickly filled in. The grader continued west. The road was then effectively open to traffic (although locals here had no information on the downstream bridges). I walked across the bridge, down to Richardson's Bridge, crossed without difficulty, noted that water (ankle deep) was still flowing over the east side approach and returned home. A number of vehicles during the day used the road in both directions. The sun shone for hours.
(From a mail to a friend: Monday Jan 30 2012. I was glad to receive your message last evening at the end of a crowded day--everybody from far and wide manifested in the 'road' (or what's left of it) outside my place. One crowded ute even managed to get bogged in the gravel dunes blocking the bridge approach (the gravel once was road, further up the hill).
The good news is that the NRMA is allegedly on the way. I've been up to Dreamtime and finally have brought the car down to the gate here. The first thing I found when I got to the gate this morning was that most of the big trench next to the swale has been filled in by my friends at Dreamtime, an action that is much appreciated. Stone by stone things are changed.
I'd better go out to meet the NRMA man from Bellingen: he has an excellent reputation for fixing difficult things. Will he be able to 'fix' the resistant car hood? Can he find a way? I've explained that I'm just a little wary of driving the car with the hood/bonnet locked shut--in case I slide into the ditch or whatever and need to access plugs, battery, oil, magneto and so forth).
Tuesday January 31 2012. Carl Foster duly arrived and was here for nearly 2-hrs. He tried every trick in the book and finally cracked the code and the hood was released under his delicate fingers and he re-adjusted everything. Praise the Lord and Carl Foster: the man's a genius and fixed the problem. The sun was shining and a number of drivers had passed in each direction. I wanted to go to Coffs but couldn't get away until midday. The sky by then was filled with huge clouds and the sunny day disappeared. I did some shopping in Bellingen. The one thing I wanted wasn't available: zinc tablets (the Healing Centre would phone me when they obtained the next lot). A thunderstorm broke. I got wet. It was only summer rain, though. Bellingen was very humid. I drove home in the hot car and had a nice meal made from FRESH FOOD! It tasted so good I even had a glass of Shiraz to wash it down.
The thunderstorm aftermath continued into the evening: light showers. By then I was a bit weary...and retired to bed, without having completed my correspondence for the day. I dozed. The rain persisted and the showers became suspiciously more like what we call 'Flood Rain' up here. At 11 pm I got up and jumped into my wellingtons, grabbed an umbrella and 2 torches, and set off for the gate: the gutters were roaring with storm water again—all the rain having become instant runoff—and the re-made 'road' was deteriorating again and the storm water was raging over the swale. I fired up the old Honda and drove it up to Dreamtime (again) in the rainy dark, parked outside Victoria's house and staggered home. The frogs sounded like prides of lions ferociously feeding. I went to bed again, watched some TV, tried to sleep, but had a terrible sleepless night. At 2 am I heard either a tree or a big branch break nearby and crash down (but I couldn't find it the following morning).
This Wednesday. February 1 2012 morning at 6-6.30 I checked the road down to the bridge: as expected, it was deteriorating again and the bridge is again submerged. I feel less than terrific but I'm OK, just dopy from lack of sleep—the premonition reporter in me stays thoughtfully awake in the midst of breaking news (or something like that).
The day progressed into a sunny summer morning; the road seemed more or less intact, water (much reduced) still flowed down the roadside gutters and seeped or filtered through the 'new' surface (between my gate and the Plains Bridge) made by the grader. I drove from home to Bellingen and returned without mishap, but this drive was made in the afternoon between midday and 2:30 pm. When I left home it was clear that thunderstorms were building and the light was deteriorating. On my return and during thundery rain/showers in Bellingen I was driving into the thunderstorm rain/showers, but without difficulties. The section of Darkwood Rd., described above, was breaking up again when I drove off the bridge and up to my driveway (where a trench previously gouged between the road proper and the concrete swale at my entrance had been filled with dense stones (by myself and neighbours and other locals) and remained covered by the 'new' road made by the grader. I could see that the now full gutters/storm water drains were hazarding across the road surface, breaking the 'new' road surface (that had not been compacted). The river from the bridge to in front of my house and further downstream was turning brown as the 'new' road continued to deteriorate and wash down into the river.
Friday Feb 3 2012. The bridge became visible again this afternoon. I chatted with Marie and Daniel. I realized I was also able to see through the misty air to the forested hillside downstream: the bloodwoods were again flowering.
Sat Feb 4 2012. BSC sent a front-end loader to clear the road. The Plains Bridge was clear and I walked down to Richardson’s Bridge. Although there was still too much water running over the far side approach, that didn’t deter 4WD drivers. Some drivers were eager to get out, especially 4WDs and they crossed without difficulty.
Sun Feb 5 2012. Kept I again walked to Richardson’s early: the bridge deck was clearing (although half of the deck had the river still running over it) and the water was ankle deep on the far approach. At home I worked in garden clearing white cedar branches. In the afternoon I worked on “1937” then went to Dreamtime and brought the car down. There was good moonlight this evening.
Mon Feb 6 2012. It was a clear and sunny day. I was up early after another sleepless night and drove to Coffs (the worst part was getting out of the gate and over the swale in Darkwood Road). At Fitzroy Motors I ordered a new spark plug cable then went to Park Beach Plaza where I did my shopping as usual and returned home.
Tuesday Feb 7 2012. I traveled by road to B’n again where I had my monthly chelation therapy; it was a relatively dry day and an almost clear morning. There were difficulties with loose old veins again but I finished early and returned home tired, failed to complete the necessary items on my list, other than petrol for the car and a quick visit to the PO (before chelation). There was a message from Simon Willman of Reconstruct builders. We agreed tomorrow would be a good day for his visit/inspection (re the insurance claims) and that the morning would be best.
Wednesday Feb 8 2012. I phoned the builder’s number at 09:20 to ask if Simon was on his way; the secretary would find out and get back to me, but that didn’t happen. Simon phoned me at 12:40 from Port Macquarie where there were difficulties for some of their building sites (trees down following a storm). He was to begin his return journey and phone from Bellingen but that call didn’t arrive until almost 6 pm by which time the river was again rising and there were increasing showers. Long story short: Simon arrived safely in a big Pajero 4WD after negotiating flooding roads and Richardson’s Bridge. He made his inspection, was considerate, and then left. After he left I walked down to the bridge at the end of a shower that was prolonged and heavy. The bridge would flood again in the night, for sure. I met Victoria at the bridge returning home. Then I took the opportunity to take the Honda over the swale, into the road and up to Victoria’s garden again. I was tired from lack of sleep but was much more relaxed when I’d moved the car to high ground.
Thursday Feb 9 2012. The bridge here was flooded again in the night. I continued writing “1937”. At lunchtime I photographed the road damage and sent pictures to the BSC. These were the captions: “Both pictures taken from same position approximately at 1:40 pm on Thursday Feb 9. In 363 there is a red matchbox on top of the large sub-base stone with smooth face (2nd from camera), i.e. these heavy stones/rocks were not washed down the road but are parts of the road sub-base.” “In 364 storm water from the concrete gutter on the south side of the road (closest to Earthrise) has cut a trench across the road. The previously washed out section of the road adjoining the bridge had been filled with dense stones by neighbours and did not wash out. Water still covers most of the bridge deck on this western side: the far end (east side) of the bridge deck is dry. The bridge was flooded during the night following long-lasting heavy showers yesterday afternoon/early evening (Wednesday, Feb 8), i.e., both pictures were taken while the flood was falling.”
After lunch my neighbour Leif visited and there was much to discuss.
Friday Feb 10 2012. I saw Leif leaving together with his trailer and bikes (his journey was successful and he phoned later in the afternoon from Coffs). This morning was fine and sunny, and the river level fell to about 18-in. below deck level. Traffic moved again in both directions. It was a beautiful morning (which deteriorated by the time I was ready to leave. There was water, i.e., the river on this end of Richardson’s and on both approaches. I walked up to get the car and Victoria was driving down at noon. By the time I’d loaded the recyclables and was heading out the clouds were increasing. I was held up at Guesses Bridge where the BSC was (grader) spreading new aggregate and the roller was compacting it on the incline at the bridge. I was delayed at Boggy Creek where the road was being re-bitumenized—what a day to be doing that. I went straight to the tip and disposed of my bag of stuff, then to the shops and PO; the sky by this time was ominous. I got home safely in light rain.
Saturday Feb 11 2012. I walked down to Richardson’s Bridge. There was some water to contend with and several vehicles came to cross. It became crowded and passengers were exchanged and one or two crossed and then returned (very odd, I thought). Later it was very quiet indeed and I began to wonder where everybody was—perhaps I had become the last Darkwood resident and everyone else had left? I had the car here but when I heard a severe weather warning on the 6 pm News I got up and hurried to Victoria’s and brought the car down to shelter here from possible large hail—no storm eventuated. I chatted with Victoria.
Sunday Feb 12 2012. After a beautiful moonlight night, some early morning clouds and later a nice morning, the clouds fluffy, enough blue sky for me to feel positive, I walked to Richardson’s: the approaches and the bridge were all clear (a couple of inches of water on the far concrete approach). I met Doug and Mandy at the bridge here on the way back. I’ve been picking up a few of the many new stones on the upstream (side of the Plains Crossing Bridge) beach. Nick called from Ottawa. There was no power from 08:40. It was a warm and humid rather quiet morning. There were two cars at lunchtime; picnics perhaps (so the Darkwood has not been entirely deserted). I walked up to Victoria’s with some of the surviving dahlias where I also met her brother. Later I settled and finished reading Roth’s novel An American Pastoral. At last! It’s a fine piece of writing and also was too detailed and overlong for me. Leif visited about 5 pm. And I chatted with Billy Browning who phoned about the riverbank (weeding) project and when the power came on he sent me the form by email.
Monday Feb 13 2012. Early I carefully closed the hood/bonnet of the Honda so as not to lock it irreversibly into an impossible to open position and set off for Coffs Harbour and the Honda servicing workshop: I was intent on having the spark plug lead replaced. I passed through a heavy shower for a couple of k’s near the highway. The sky was beautiful with big fluffy clouds again (some of them with dark bases). For days (or weeks?) the sky has been an amorphous blob of grey and black from horizon to horizon; now the clouds are separate and this separateness makes for a stunning cloudscape; at last there are some distinctive boundaries. The maintenance folks had mistakenly thought I also wanted a 180,000-km service but I said, No, I hadn’t (yet) asked for that because there are still some 1,000-km or so to complete. Despite all care when the work was completed the bonnet was closed in such a way that it locked and couldn’t be opened when I reached home at noon after shopping… I was dismayed, but mollified when I telephoned at 2 pm: I would return the next day, have the bonnet problem rectified and also have the BIG service. I drove the car up to my neighbour’s garden again to avoid (if that were possible) the Bush Rat Attack (bush rates will nest atop warm engines if they can, but they won’t risk that if the bonnet is open)…
Tuesday Feb 14 2012. I was up early again at about 04:00.and then tottered up the road listening to the birdsongs and watching the sky lighten. Again, there were magnificent great clouds and blue sky. I hoped for a successful visit to Coffs and resisted exploring the worst-case scenario (opening forcibly the bonnet, the bonnet would be damaged; there would be no essential spare parts to repair the opening mechanism; a temporary measure would have to be rigged with wire or something woeful-looking; the bonnet would have to be opened in order that the car be serviced)… Alas, I had to wait my turn to fit in with those who had already made servicing bookings. Off I went to the Coffs CBD with my emergency mobile switched on. Below (in Creative Writings) there is a fuller account of this day spent in Coffs Harbour.
Wednesday Feb 15 2012. Being glad to be home yesterday afternoon I had a quick meal and moved to my bed where I settled gratefully.
Friday Feb 17 2012. Greatly daring I decided to attempt to mow the Big Lawn and so I very carefully moved the mower down to the belvedere and managed to get going without dislocating my back. The grass wasn’t quite dry, but the sun shone and there was a small breeze and that helped. When I mowed I adopted a near horizontal stance so that I wouldn’t have to bend my legs much and this enabled me to mow successfully for two hours. Viva!
Saturday Feb 18 2012. Again, the sun shone and the clouds were magnificent. I mowed the rest of Big Lawn (another 2 hours). Viva! Viva!
Sunday Feb 19 2012. There was more wonderful sun and the river was lower. I watched a medium-sized goanna park in a sunny spot in front of the house and consume something that looked very limp and long dead. I cleared more of the rubbish and moved it to the riverside garden and also recovered some stones and moved them to the uncompleted wall and uncoupled poly pipelines and moved those up to the east deck. I was attacked by an aggressive log during this cleanup and have an impressive head wound. Leif came down earlier and we worked together on the edit of his review.
Monday Feb 20 2012. I left early for my regular trip to Coffs and did the shopping: the sky was again partly filled with enormous clouds before the sun came out. It was uncomfortably hot. There would certainly be a storm. My tour of inspection was less than exciting: work everywhere and the stench of death still lingered in several areas of the gardens.
Tuesday Feb 21 2012. It was one of those nights: the power had failed in the late afternoon as the thunder boomed and the thundery showers started. I listened to the radio (battery/dynamo) and lit a candle then slept sitting up. I’d wanted to see Q and A on ABC1but the power remained off and it was only when the bedside light and the radio connected to the power came on (around 02:00) that I realized that I’d missed all of the programming. The showers had stopped. I had breakfast and filled in forms and went to Bellingen; the road was OK and I had a rare trip to town without becoming involved in crowded traffic flows and sent a bank cheque off to the builders who will repair the damage here.
Thursday Feb 23 2012. I mowed some of the Riverside Lawn, cut some of the downed trees and logs left by the flood with the axe and the machete, and returned some debris back to the river.
Friday Feb 24 2012. There is much sun and shadow today. I realized before sunrise this morning that this is indeed the end of summer. Everything in the gardens is green. I want to remember some of the summer that wasn’t quite summer—at least from this month.
Remembered Summery Moments:
≠When I was mowing for the first time in many weeks I stopped to watch a collection of yellowing leaves from the old white cedar that’s always breaking and shedding limbs over Big Lawn; it was a summery autumnal event. I always think, farewell my lovelies when I see these leaves being released,
≠On days when it was raining and I was moving the canoe and tools up to the house I saw two snakes on different afternoons, one small red-bellied black and one slightly bigger brown. I shrank from the brown snake—I’ve seen so few anywhere. The snake hesitated near my feet (which I’d thoughtfully clad in wellingtons), but moved on calmly through puddles…to my relief.
≠The young bleeding heart tree right outside the window where the radio is has only now attracted a solo brown fruit pigeon and he or she has the developing small fruits all to its self. Where have all these pigeons gone?
≠I was standing at the window looking out at the flood the other afternoon and watching the rain falling on the leaves of that same bleeding heart tree. The larger leaves were all wet and had beads of water forming and then falling, but the newly emerging small young leaves that had opened were dispelling the raindrops. How could they be waterproof, I wondered?
≠On that Friday afternoon when I met Daniel and Marie at the bridge and the bridge was re-emerging from the flood I noticed for the first time that the bloodwoods were flowering in the heavy air and there was some mist rising from the forest on the hillside—just the best way and at the right time to see bloodwoods in flower.
≠Two afternoons ago when I was crawling around the fallen dahlias that had collapsed and tying labeled tags on the identifiable plants I found some near-perfect examples of each of the blooms almost at ground level. The dark red of Mrs Rees, in particular stood out: they couldn’t be seen from above though, they were hidden and were available for viewing only to old guys crawling.
≠I’ve always enjoyed February light because it’s softer and there hasn’t been enough of it this year; and it’s always beautiful especially in the afternoon near the river: and golden.
≠The smell of death has been fading. I’ve several times seen the largest (and perhaps now the only) dragon sunning himself on Big Lawn well away from the riverbank. I imagine he’s as fed up with the high river level as the rest of us. Might this imply a dramatic evolutionary shift, I wonder? Might more and bigger floods inspire the little water dragons to leave the riverbank and become much bigger dinosaurs again?
Creative Writings
I include here a maiden review written by my neighbour Leif Bambridge. He explores some of the themes and some of the motivating characteristics of certain protagonists in recently read novels. Because several very different books are discussed this review may perhaps also be considered as a feuilleton, a notion that also appeals to Leif partly because feuilleton derives from feuille, a leaf… (Leif is also a gardener).
The Ungood People
Leif Bambridge
Allow me to introduce myself: “I’m not a man of wealth or taste”. I live next door at Dreamtime and have been a neighbour since Don arrived to establish Earthrise in 1984. I have a very tentative grasp of even the most basic social niceties (despite Don’s aggravating assurances that he considers me to be “a thoroughly decent sort of chap”). He doesn’t realize that some occasional chainsaw work and mechanical work (car and pump emergencies) is only the result of my inability to free myself from my primeval genetic programming. This tells me that total exclusion from the group means certain death.
Don has invited me to write a book review. I acknowledge the need for misanthropic hermits like myself to have some access to the opinions of people whose taste I respect before purchasing a book or having to wait for an interlibrary loan to eventuate. But because appreciation is such a subjective thing I reckon that if a reviewer were to list his 10 favourite authors and rate the book on a scale of 1 to 10 in a number of categories (e.g., language, style, strength of the story, insight into the human condition, understanding of emotional provocation, readability), then some trees could be saved.
There are, however, exceptions such as the review given Blood Meridian by the ABC Book Club that was so intriguing that I knew I had to read the book. Don, bless his heart, had read Blood Meridian and presented me with a copy and also invited me to review it (suddenly I was subtly cast in the role of critic or reviewer!).
Cormac McCarthy, the author of Blood Meridian (1985), is one of America’s finest writers and Blood Meridian is widely considered a masterpiece. The book’s genre is Western. Don’s projection is so intense that he has difficulty understanding that anyone who can read and write does not necessarily harbour a secret desire to be published. To be fair, I believe he may think that to write may help to release demons, mine in particular.
I was not disappointed by Blood Meridian, it was everything the blurbs promised and more: hell on Earth, a 3D technicolour production, Hieronymus Bosch-like depictions covering thousands of square miles of mud, blood, deserts and mountains; and murder most foul—all of those described in language so exquisite that almost every page seemed a poem in its own right. Important themes in the story frequently turn on the Judge, surely one of the most appalling and enigmatic characters in fiction. The Judge is erudite, an artist, chemist, charismatic leader, joker, nudist and philosopher, yet his behaviour is akin to that of Hitler, Stalin and Pol Pot: he obliterates any possibility of the existence of morality. It may be a case of “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m a man of wealth and taste. Don’t you know my name?” (Mick Jagger).
The era in which this amazing story is told is that of the Mexican War, 1846-1848 (after which the US acquired New Mexico, Texas and California). Set in the Texmex country in the post-war 1850s the narrative probably and unfortunately has some historical basis, but the horror is so relentless that the story projects a sense of total unreality. I am reminded now of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (1902) And I can hear someone saying, “The horror the horror”! Maybe it was Kurtz.
In an attempt to inspire me, no doubt, Don gave me a copy of a book review of Blood Meridian to read, but when I found that that critic had gazumped my idea of drawing comparisons between The Judge (an albino) and Moby Dick it just depressed me.
Thus I have been reading in other directions and have recently devoured the wonderful Stieg Larsson Millennium trilogy (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo; The Girl who played with Fire; The Girl who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest) and Ford Maddox Ford’s The Good Soldier, which I’ve also been invited to review.
My emotional response to The Good Soldier (1915) was intense.
The book is magnificent. Its language, its insights into human nature, philosophy and psychology are what I crave in a book. The complexity of its planning and structure confound me in the same sort of way that the workings of my computer does. Don’t get me wrong: it’s an easy read. Only four, all too human characters, are involved in all too human activities. However, in the view of the character Dowell: Society must go on, I suppose and society can only exist if the normal, if the virtuous, and the slightly deceitful flourish, and if the passionate, the headstrong, and the too truthful are condemned to suicide and madness (p 236).
The author claims it is a true story written in 12 months after he had worked on it in his head for 10 years because he had promised to keep it secret until all the real-life protagonists were dead. The story is told through a ‘narrator,’ (who is also one of Ford’s four protagonists) and provides a brilliantly innovative touch revealing the chronologically disjointed sequence of events in the order in which he became aware of them. Initially I found him (the narrator/protagonist) a sympathetic character but as the book progressed his innocence, naîveté, gullibility and pathetic self-deluded hero-worship so concerned me that I was forced into some serious introspection. The narrator’s almost obsessive class- consciousness floats like an ambience around the concept of ‘good people.’ You meet a man or a woman and from tiny and intimate sounds, from the slightest of movements, you know at once whether you are concerned with good people or with those who won’t do (p 34).
I know a good book deserves more than one reading, but this one demands it. Yesterday having just read Zoe Heller’s wonderfully insightful introduction in the Vintage Classic edition I feel compelled to change my position on book reviews.
I was surprised to read that Ford Maddox Ford had published Joseph Conrad and also collaborated with Conrad in the writing of novels. More about these unexpected aspects of Ford can be read in Julian Barnes’ definitive review in The Guardian (which is also in part a biography of Ford). As this online summary explains: “Ford Maddox Ford’s personal life was deeply complicated, made worse by his own indecision and economy with the truth. No wonder unreliability, shifting identities and the turmoil of love and sex are the hallmarks of his greatest novel” (The Guardian).
Ford may not have been a perfectly honest person, but as a writer he was brilliantly insightful and perceptive of the frailties in human nature and the stultifying social restrictions of his time. LB.
Leif Bambridge reads too much and despairs of ever being able to read even a small portion of everything worth reading.
(Ford Maddox Ford’s The Good Soldier (TGS) was first published in 1915. References in this review to TGS are from the (London) Vintage (Random House) edition, 2010).
A Day Out
Don Diespecker
I began the day apprehensively at 04:00 hours on Feb 14 because that was when I was wide-awake and well enough motivated to get up and get going after a hot shower and breakfast. It was still dark. I took my time. I had to drive the car (the wounded Honda of the locked bonnet) safely to the Honda agents and their Maintenance workshop in Coffs Harbour. I hoped the bonnet would stay put and not playfully break loose and smash back into the windscreen during the journey (there was little danger of that, but the long days of flooding, sundry related dramas and an impressive lack of sleep had made it so much easier for me to be paranoid). Because the bonnet was ‘locked’ securely closed (an open invitation to those pesky local bush rats to play the squatter’s game and to nest beneath the hood atop the warm engine) I had moved the car back up the hill to Victoria’s garden. I left Earthrise in the soft light before sunrise and tottered up the road. It was dry and the river level was nicely down and the early birds were singing cheerfully so I hoped the day would remain fine and that no rain would fall.
All went well. I reached Coffs without incident. I handed over the keys and the Workshop guys took the ailing Honda into the workshop just before 08:00. I was obliged to accept the reality of necessarily waiting my turn for the Honda to receive her TLC treatments because there were those other car owners who had had their vehicles booked in for days. I switched on my emergency phone and gave the car carers my mobile number and wandered apprehensively away toward the CBD. At least I’d made it to Coffs: so far, so good. In the Workshop the crew would be faced with what was for me a horrible problem: the decrypting of the ‘jammed’ or otherwise inoperable releasing mechanism(s) of the bonnet. I imagined the Honda being placed over an inspection pit, of skilful team members surgeon-like inserting upwardly long implements from beneath the car and thereby releasing the mechanism that had to be released for the hood or bonnet to open. Would new parts have to be ordered (hopefully, not from distant Tokyo)? Would there be something of a temporary nature affixed to enable me to open and close the bonnet? How could the bonnet be freed in time for the maintenance crew (there would have to be a number of them, all bustling) to effect all the minutiae of servicing the veteran 1987 vehicle before the Shop closed for the day (I, of little faith, had an overnight bag in the car boot and was prepared to stay in Coffs for as long as was needed)? Perry several times said that it was ‘no problem’ and hope sprang: I began believing that I had brought the old Honda to the only place in the Southern Hemisphere where the difficulties could be resolved.
Whenever I have to be in Coffs for a length of time I always go first to the CBD. I started at one of the coffee shops in the Palms Centre (a large shopping complex in the CBD with a variety of stores and the central PO and containing one of the few outlets offering gluten-free muffins (and not forgetting the strong fair dinkum fresh coffee). I always head there when the car receives her life sustaining treatments. I have to confess, dear readers, that this old rustic is now a guy who is much less comfortable than when a young person in built environments where there are throngs of people. At home I’m very comfortable with the river, the forest, and wild creatures; at home, despite obvious dangers, all is green and beautiful. The Palms Centre is not unattractive, but it is entirely built and generally is also heaving with droves of humans. Old rustics have to adapt. I fancied a life-sustaining banana and blueberry gluten-free muffin and a cup of real coffee because the day would be long and I would necessarily have to avoid falling asleep and falling down. I waited my turn and paid for the items and sat at a small table where I immediately became part of The Breakfast Crowd. It was just after 08:00. The coffee was excellent and I drank the whole cup (a teacup-sized cup of, I think, espresso without any sugar). The effect of this Big Hit on my antique CNS was impressively electrifying. There were ample seats and tables at the café so I sat tight and enjoyed the ride. Many who were obvious workers in the Centre or from close by came for the coffee and some take-away food, so the café was not unduly crowded. I realized what a lot there was to see and I was reminded of breakfasting in Europe surrounded by busy groups of people—phenomena so rare in the Darkwood as to be almost non-existent.
I was sitting facing Coles Supermarket. People of all ages went in and out to do their shopping. Some seniors moved slowly with big wheeled shopping trolleys and some carefully pushed ahead with walking frames. I imagined how it would be for me to have to walk that carefully and delicately while also transporting shopping items. Some male shoppers of my age group, I noticed, walked faster because they carried rucksacks on their backs. It was perhaps easier for seniors to use the supermarket facilities several times a week and to carry away with their limited means a relatively small number of purchases each time they visited rather than attempting one big load (a week’s worth of shopping, say). I doubted that many of the elderly I could see would have motor vehicles in the attached parking station; some, in the ways that they dressed, for example, seemed to indicate that they perhaps could not have afforded their own transport. Shopping was generally so much easier for me, I thought, because I was able to push a loaded trolley out of the supermarket once a week to my car in a big car park (at Park Beach Plaza) and to then drive home.
Near me sat those I thought must be regulars: I guess they came frequently to the café to enjoy a modest breakfast: a cup or a pot of tea, perhaps toast or a muffin (my coffee and a muffin cost me $7:40; was that affordable to most people every day, or only on some days?). My small table was next to a pillar and I discovered several magazines racked inches away together with a copy of the Sydney Morning Herald. I remembered cafés in Europe, particularly the breakfast room of the popular big hotel next to the Cathedral in Vienna where the newspapers were bound to sturdy pieces of varnished wood the broadsheets always as smooth as though just ironed for easy reading.
Although I had surely noticed on previous visits I was surprised to see how many in the passing parade were amazingly overweight; dare I say obese, very obese. Those who were so noticeably overweight appeared to me to be generally young (most probably in their twenties and thirties and forties) and mostly female. I don’t mean any of this as a criticism: I was simply surprised to see so many who were so hugely overweight that buying clothes to fit, I imagined, would surely be a substantial problem. And I further realized that I seldom see obese people in the Darkwood or in Bellingen.
As I finished my powerful beverage I wondered how the world’s coffee drinkers have so far not caused coffee to be the rarest substance on Earth: so many of us like the stuff and there are many who like it well enough to use it several times a day (I used to start my day with a full coffee pot but now indulge what was once an old habit only on Saturday mornings because busy blood vessels do not benefit from caffeine). Knowing that the day was young and that I was obliged to last undamaged throughout its course I reluctantly left the café and began a tour of the Palms Centre. I had already seen many of the coffee people at cafés within the CBD and also inside the Palms Centre so I made a temporary detour to the Book Warehouse further down the street and away from the big shopping centre.
When I returned to the Palms Centre I moved upstairs in search of a quiet location where I might be fortunate enough to be allowed to sit and read. Between the escalators and the Big W I found such an open place, one clean and well-lighted: there was bench seating and some more comfortable easy chairs and because the area was so much like areas or concourses in airports the feelings that go with crowding were much reduced (further, this concourse-like area may also be imagined as a proto hotel lobby). Shoppers strolled in from the adjoining parking station, others waited patiently for the big department store to open: the pace of the shoppers here was slower, the space less bustling; sunlight streamed in and the canopies of nearby trees were visible through the windows. I was not the only person sitting and looking vacantly at the people traffic. I could perhaps sit and read or I could relax a little and pretend to be waiting for something: the department store would open, the women who worked photographing babies and children would increasingly work the slowly enlarging crowd of Mums with Babies. In other words I could again simply sit idly and watch the watchers, some of whom were of course also watching me watching them (if we were to sit or stand watching in such ways in the Darkwood all of us would surely arouse suspicion). I read a little, my reading speed enhanced now by the head electric and the continuing wash of caffeine through my revved up CNS. I was attempting to find stories that were at least as interesting as the cover blurbs had suggested in the fat paperback anthology, The Australian Long Story; alas, I started badly (the story I chose was well written but not interesting; the characters were not memorable; the epiphanies seemed absent or findable only as epiphanic moments; the themes were dull; but it was I who was at fault: I couldn’t get excited about the story because it was hellish dull and boring (sorry, iconic author). Feeling like a wretched and wrung-out literary critic I abandoned the morning read and toured the department store that now sells many of the popular books—and at reduced prices—that once were available only in bookshops and then I wandered back to the Workshop.
Lunchtime was nigh and my car’s turn had not quite come up (it looked lonely and neglected and like a long-suffering patient silent but courageous outside the ER); and further stoical waiting was required of me. I retraced my steps and again threaded my way through the growing crowd at the Palms Centre. There would be no further coffee for me: a milder and less alarming cup of tea would be more appropriate. There were now many more people in the vicinity of the café than I’d seen earlier. Only two tables away from me an elderly woman sat reading a paperback while drinking her cup of tea; nothing else demanded her attention. Then I became aware of a young guy dressed in what looked like riding leathers (but he was without a helmet); he stood between where I was sitting and the supermarket cheerfully eating a kebab and like me, was people-watching. Which one of us looked more out of place, I wondered? He’d have looked perfectly normal in Darkwood Road, where I live, but his appearance was almost alien in the Palms Centre. Then I became aware of a well-dressed person (collar and tie and shirtsleeves) who I imagined probably worked nearby. He appeared quickly with a steaming cup and saucer in hand and went directly to one of the big lounge chairs situated close to a low coffee table. His drink looked like a latté that was liberally sprinkled with chocolate (I hope he may forgive me my idle curiosity if he reads this). There was surely sugar at the bottom of his enticing cup: he briskly jiggled rather than stirred his spoon deeply where presumably the Good Stuff was concealed and then sipped from the spoon (my apologies again, sir, but I was fascinated). The spoon jiggle was so measured and brisk and his apparent need (sorry) so compelling that this definitive action seemed perhaps part of a ritual. In this unusual way the customer eventually changed from spooning to drinking before finally picking up the spoon again to remove all of the chocolate from the depleted cup and to ingest it in the specific way in which he had begun. The ritual (sorry) completed he stood immediately with the cup, saucer and spoon, returned it to the top of the counter and disappeared briskly into the crowd. Had I rudely spied on a double addiction, one for both caffeine and chocolate? Had he too experienced electrification of the psyche as I had? Thoughtfully I took my cup and saucer to the counter and headed for the park-like trees I had earlier seen from upstairs. The trees were growing in a small park close to the Centre where I had experienced so many people. Thankfully I was able to walk on green grass and then sat on a bench (the trees were smooth-barked and grey with twisted branches implying character and it was safe for me to sit close by—most of my big trees at home tend to drop big death-dealing branches at any time of the day or year).
Readers will be pleased to know that my reading pleasure was so much improved by being outside in a green environment that I felt more kindly disposed toward the iconic author of the story I had started reading inside at breakfast time, but although I finished reading this story I unfortunately was unwilling to change those negative views arrived at earlier: it was still a hellish dull read despite having been written by a famous writer, sorry (the long story is a form I also love to write).
Buoyed by having completed the published long story I jauntily set off again to see more of the CBD but my wandering was less rewarding than I’d have liked and I soon returned to the more open but even busier space on the second floor of the Centre to rest in an inviting lounge chair. Nearby another senior citizen sat reading his book: he was engrossed. I wondered if perhaps this was a favourite haunt of his, one chosen for its reading comfort. And then he left looking pleased and satisfied. Was he perhaps a man who had no suitable reading space at home? (Or, was he, like me, idling in town while his old Honda was being serviced?). The more I thought about this the more it made sense: we were in a big relatively open space, one that also contained invitingly comfortable lounge chairs. Although it was also noisy and filled with movement the light was good for book reading. If there are no laws prohibiting it, reading one’s book in a shopping complex seems a harmless and rational pastime. Maybe there should be more of it?
A passing Workshop employee stopped to tell me the good news: my vehicle was being worked on as he spoke; progress had appeared appropriate; my early return to see for myself was a welcome suggestion. Following this encouraging news I prepared to leave but paused when my still over-active CNS detected some unexpectedly strange behaviour: some elderly folk, as they came close to where I was sitting were looking distinctly displeased as they approached and then passed me. My electrically- and caffeine-enhanced visual acuity and speed-of-light perception that now enabled instant triangulation and targeting had turned parts of my CNS into a fast-tracking computer, possibly. I looked about covertly: the observed powerful looking or should I say staring was not being directed at me: all the examining made by certain passing shoppers was distinctly disapproving ranging from, I would say, askance to withering. I dared to move my head and redirect my gaze: nearby a young woman sat waiting for her friends: she wore what may have been black lace (?) stockings but I couldn’t be certain of this without dislocating my neck or going cross-eyed. The nature of these stockings must have been sufficient, I supposed, to inspire at the very least some degree of disapproval by certain shoppers: the impartial observer would probably need to look twice in order to determine the nature or material (or both) of the unusual or unexpected hosiery and others in the traffic flow, less impartial, having made their initial observations were going to be unenthusiastic or even hostile at perceiving what they (for whatever reason) did not like the look of…(sorry). I thought at the time that although I might never discover the true nature of that apparel I felt perfectly OK about those stockings (?): indeed, they enabled a chic attractiveness for their cheerful and unaffected wearer (who soon left together with her arriving friends). Reading one’s book in that public place seemed universally OK; wearing black lace stockings (if that’s what they were) was decidedly not OK for some (conservative?) older shoppers.
I tore myself away from this unusual learning situation and hurried to the Workshop: the efficiency of my old Honda had been restored: the locked bonnet/hood was now liberated and working in the way intended; and the machine had been serviced. I paid the bill and left: everybody was happy.
Much of my day out had been experienced within a built environment crowded with people, many of them shoppers and now my psyche could again settle into its normal operating speed. The sky was filled with magnificent great clouds and there were blue spaces between them and no rain fell.
I set course for home, the engine purring my heart singing. DD.
The link to Russell Atkinson’s blogsite and to some of his writings is: www.theoldestako.wordpress.com
Epilogue: I’ve been asked why my canoe has been hauled up to the west side deck and tethered to a post next to my front door and couldn’t resist saying that the canoe was Plan B—my means of escape if the flooding should again reach the top step of the house (as it last did in 2001). I hope it won’t come to that. Best wishes to all from Don at Earthrise on the sunny afternoon of February 27 2012.
