The Earthrise Diary (August 2011)

THE EARTHRISE DIARY (August 2011)

© text Don Diespecker 2011

Don Diespecker

“What sort of insects do you rejoice in, where you come from?” the Gnat inquired.

“I don’t rejoice in insects at all,” Alice explained, “because I’m rather afraid of them—at least the large kinds. But I can tell you the names of some of them.”

(Lewis Carroll. Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There. Ch 3. ‘Looking-Glass Insects’).

Having posted the July Diary on July 27 I realize that I haven’t quite finished with July (not that I’m in a hurry to push time, but I want, always, to post the Diary on the 27^th of each month. Obsessive? Well…maybe a little). There’s been more than a touch of spring in the air, at least there is on sunny days and it’s cold at night and the early morning. I’d written the July Diary in one sitting and was feeling good (like an ace journalist getting the copy to the News Desk, ha-ha) (some Australians might say a ‘gun journo,’ the word gun in this idiom coming from ‘gun shearer’ meaning a fast shearer) and was tottering around the central area in front of the house picking up usable kindling from the flood debris in my baker’s basket when I saw something that stopped me cold and made me think: the central area where the now-cleared tracks and paths converge is still black with sticky mud; it’s always the last part of the garden to show remnant signs of a recent flood. As I walked closer to be sure I could see bright green new grass sticking their heads up from the black ooze: and that seemed very much like spring. A few days prior to this I’d noticed that the remains of the flood debris on the bracken hillock in the same area has not only assumed a settled cheek-to-cheek posture and looked about ready to be transformed into a sort of coarse mulch trying to become ‘permanent’ soil but that the new shoots of bracken had risen up through the matted flotsam debris and were uncurling themselves into delicate new bracken ferns. The next morning with the rising sun behind them these new ferns looked like pure white light shining powerfully upward from deep in the Earth.

July 28 2011. Changes in time and spatial directions (a theme in Through the Looking-glass) can be disconcerting for some of us; certainly they are for me. I haven’t yet grown accustomed to the beautiful ‘new’ view I see from a variety of vantage points: so many places, particularly inside the house are in a manner of speaking like gifted belvederes. (The notion ‘belvedere’ also needs thinking about: the place where a belvedere is situated is really the platform from which we may see the ‘beautiful view’ and not the actual view). There may be a picture of this upriver view in this posting if I’ve pressed the right buttons (DSC 324). My ‘new’ view is of course one that has been there longer than I have been here able to admire it; it is the upstream river view again available following the clear felling of my modest citrus garden. The old citrus trees had grown easily and quickly and without my having noticed that the upstream view was gradually being obscured and that the view soon disappeared entirely. The trees gave of their best, grew old and were brought down. Perhaps this isn’t the way to treat trees, but they’d become proficient only at obscuring and shading and so were destined to go. Now I think of a book I know of, but have never seen, one titled Pardes Dawid,** an 18^th century publication by Rabbi David Diespeck. I doubt there’s an English translation, but I might enjoy reading it if it becomes available and I’d do my best to read such a translation entirely outside—in my garden—if ever I were able to. Like my g-g-g-g-great grandfather (1715-1793) I enjoy being in the garden (David’s book of homilies published in Sulzbach, 1786, “contains 365 solutions of difficult passages in Maimonides”). I feel a little guilty about the demise of the old citrus trees although I’m delighted with the view. David might have been pained had he watched this destructive act of ‘gardening’; on the other hand, he may have been a light-hearted sort of chap—anyone having prepared a sermon adequate for each day of the year would have had a good sense of humour. Anyway: the newly revealed view is one I feel compelled to study it in some wonder, even surprise, as though it were something unbelievable or unnatural. Perhaps Jannelle and I were so busy building the house that we had insufficient time to admire the view (the view is framed by high flooded gums, an old white cedar and a Grevillea robusta, the “silky oak” that grows to 50-m, and partly by big jacarandas that we planted as seedlings).

** (From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia): Pardes refers to (types of) approaches to biblical exegesis in rabbinic Judaism (or—simpler—interpretation of text in Torah study). The term, sometimes also spelled PaRDeS, is an acronym formed from the name initials of the following four approaches:

Peshat (פְּשָׁט) — "plain" ("simple") or the direct meaning[1].

Remez (רֶמֶז) — "hints" or the deep (allegoric: hidden or symbolic) meaning beyond just the literal sense.

Derash (דְּרַשׁ) — from Hebrew darash: "inquire" ("seek") — the comparative (midrashic) meaning, as given through similar occurrences.

Sod (סוֹד) (pronounced with a long O as in 'bone') — "secret" ("mystery") or the mystical meaning as given through inspiration or revelation.

I ought to be able to explain surprise reactions to seeing expected and unexpected views. As mentioned in the July Diary I was startled to be disorientated when I approached Moonee Beach recently: the landscape had been dramatically altered by the removal of many trees and by earthworks associated with the widening of the highway in that area. For some seconds (while driving in a 100 kph stream of traffic) I was in a totally unfamiliar place. Such sudden ‘removal’ of the familiar is a shock—almost like a smack in the face.

Similarly, perhaps, the ‘re-introduction’ of the familiar after a long absence is also a shock. On another occasion when I was visiting Victoria, BC, my birthplace, following years of having lived in Africa, the UK and (since 1960) Australia I was having lunch with my cousin, Louise, when glancing across the street from the first floor restaurant I realized I was looking directly at the entrance steps to the Victoria City Public Library, something I remembered vividly from my childhood in the early 1930s, and I was thunderstruck to see how small were the steps and the entrance because my childhood memory of that was of a high and grand staircase, i.e., everything was big when my mother held my hand in 1933 or 1934 and carefully led me up from the pavement and into the cavernous library where she changed her books (in those far-off times she was reading Compton Mackenzie and novels by Pamela Frankau and also Gibert Frankau, as I recall). I was so taken aback (now there’s a phrase) by the suddenly re-introduced 1991 view that I was speechless for long seconds. What I was looking at seemed artificial and somewhat like an intentionally constructed ‘miniature’ set in or on a Hollywood sound stage/studio. It was difficult appreciating that the library entrance had not changed; but my perception and the perspective had changed dramatically. (Some Hollywood sets are so constructed that a saloon entrance, for example, is scaled down to make the actor in the doorway appear big and the doorway framing him appear relatively small. I know this because it was explained to me on a Hollywood sound stage…and that’s another story). Similarly, I was startled when on a 1980 Canadian visit I saw from the top deck of a tour bus (always a good way to gather ‘first impressions’ in a ‘new’ place) a children’s cement/concrete paddling pond near The Dallas and oceanfront in Victoria, BC. It seemed so tiny. I was astonished because I had paddled there when I was a toddler in 1930 or thereabouts and had not consciously thought I would ever again see that place—that big, long somewhat scary pool of water and many other children and their guiding parents even though the water in the paddling pond was literally only ankle-deep. To suddenly see it ‘reappear’ again as a surprise when I was middle-aged was a profound experience.

Similarly, when I left London in January 1951 as a callow youth not quite 22 and hitched my way to a wintry Paris, I arrived at the Auberge de la Jeunesse (the Youth Hostel) in Malakoff one afternoon and was waiting there for the hostel to open. There, I met Raija Kajos and we chatted in the sunshine. She was a Finn with long blond hair and blue eyes. There was old snow on the sidewalk and it partly covered the tombstones in the adjacent Montrouge Cemetery.

I worked in Paris for a few weeks and was pleased to meet two Australians, Pamela Murray and Diana Evans, who had crossed from London for an Easter week in Paris. Pam had short brown hair and brown eyes and she wore a long blue overcoat, I remember; we were married in a small English church in Kloof, Natal the following year. This is my way of saying that Paris was very important and the Auberge, as we all called it, was a very important place. When I revisited Paris in 1976 I enjoyed long walks—walking being the best way to see the city—and I went down Avenue de la Porte de Chatillon to Malakoff to where the old Auberge should have been, but the hostel had vanished and so had a large part of what used to be the Cimetiere de Montrouge. In their places was the busy ring road of Paris, the Boulevard Périphérique, metres below where I stood. The old shops further along the street were still there—those places where we used to buy food to prepare and cook at the old hostel, and also wine and bread. Everything else had changed.

There have been many other similar experiences like these; I suppose they might be collectively thought of as the shock of recognizing the familiar after long periods of time. Perhaps some of those experiences are in peculiar ways associated with or related to déjà vu—the illusion of having previously experienced something being encountered for the first time—but there is nothing illusory in recognizing that which was once very familiar. Seeing again what had been unseen for many years triggers emotional responses: the sudden perception flashes to those areas of the brain where long-term memories are jolted into the present. I’m reminded of meeting Jimmy Glinnister, a school friend, in the Royal Hotel, Pilgrims Rest (South Africa) in 1976: we had last seen each other in 1941 or 1942 but we instantly recognized each other.

The larger red cedars are all close to being in full leaf now; smaller ones have yet to leaf because they’re more in the forest than out in the open. Bigger, older ones shine pinkly along Darkwood Road. The jacarandas are bronzing at this time and soon will drop their leaves before the new blue flowers arrive probably in October. The bronzing looks strangely like the canopies of golden wattle trees when the flowers have passed their best and have a jaded look. On the damper parts of Big Lawn where beautiful miniature forests of mosses grow every winter, the moss is now bronzing (rather like the jacaranda trees). I’ve planted a number of small lomandra plants along the northern boundary; they were found at a much lower level close to the river and all but torn away by recent floods to be left hanging by a single root strand and they should do well in the flood loam (why did the flood not detach these determined little plants?). The crooked and winding wall (as continuation of the big river wall) has had its covering of stinging nettle and grasses and vines removed and looks impressive and even artistic once again. The river wall has been repaired, fortunately at a time when the river was low enough for me to work there, and is once again more than 2-m high. I’ve recovered some of the larger stones from the riverbank (placed there to prevent erosion more than 20 years ago). Much of my ‘outside time’ has been taken up with moving barrow loads of stones from Belvedere Central to the Concourse build, borrowing more stones from the redundant wall where there once was a gated entrance (in the area of the ‘bamboo’ grass and recovering occasional bucket loads of river gravel to add to the build. With Leif’s help {and the tractor} I’ve been able to bring in some good river stones (i.e., ‘good builders’ having ‘good building geometry’) from the Dreamtime banks. I remember recently describing the posture for such barrow pushing as being like that used by an athlete pushing off from the starting blocks. I can now say that the heavier the loaded barrow the more the pusher resembles not so much a track runner, but a skier soaring into space high above the (slalom? race track): the heavier the load the closer the nose comes to the front of the barrow. Everything gets stretched.

I briefly met a quite large and healthy red-bellied snake on Aug 1—he was on the flood loam I’d exposed along the tradescantia-covered top of the riverbank. In this area (and also at the end of the Concourse wall) I’ve placed new plants and a fern given me by Leif. –And I’ve twice met yet another much smaller red-bellied black snake on the path in front of the house (August 18 and 24). This second snake has a flattened look behind the head as if it’s been squashed in place by a heavy stone. When I shoo-ed it away from my boot it slid into the stone wall in front of the house—so maybe it has been in cramped quarters there. The sun came out this afternoon (Aug 24) and this little snake was taking the sun in the middle of the path and was reluctant to move.

While it’s still in my mind I remember that I’ve taken days to see that the leaves of Spathodea have a characteristic so obvious that I prevented myself from seeing it for days: each of the branches terminates in a single leaf that points parallel to the twig from which it grows and there are single leaves on each side of the terminal leaf inclined so as to suggest a very green but very similar–looking maple leaf (comprised of the three end leaves of Spathodea), viz the shape reminds me of the Canadian maple leaf, Canada’s symbol for its relatively new flag (the old one, when I was a schoolboy in Canada, was quite different).

The shrike thrush that appeared when the citrus trees were taken down has continued visiting: he frequently bounces around the tree-less area when I appear with barrow or rake chirping one of his tunes. There are again three healthy-looking brush turkeys in the garden early in the morning and late in the afternoon. They spend the day on the slopes, it seems, and then dig up or scratch their ways through the chickweed that still covers patches of Big Lawn. The Lawn has had lots of rain these past few days and there are clumps of new grass leaping up in some areas including where the citrus trees were.

TEDROB, or The Earthrise Diary Review of Books.

Picture me pacing moodily to and fro in the garden, wringing my hands, muttering, hoping for a bumper load of book reviews arriving by email, by snail mail or, even by fast runner. There were promising signs, initially, but with my deadline approaching and no reviews having arrived I hastily channeled the Midge Liaison Centre (Local Sector 1655) and by dint of listening very closely indeed I was enabled to piece together a stand-by piece (‘The Strangest of Times’) from the Centre’s records. However, I’m happy to report that the very first review by a Diary reader has now been received from Petra Meer and it leads this first TEDROB section.

Tropical Fishes

Petra Meer

A book I keep reaching for of late (and one not intended to be read from cover to cover) I've found to be very warming and nourishing for me during this seemingly endless winter in Victoria. The book is Gerald R Allen’s (2009) Field Guide to Marine Fishes of Tropical Australia and South-East Asia. Welshpool, WA: Western Australian Museum (4^th ed).

In the evenings while sitting next to the electric heater, it is almost possible for me to transport myself to those bright sundrenched days and warm balmy nights of the Queensland coast, just by opening the pages of this book! Although it is structured as a field guide, with images and short captions describing species, their preferred habitats and other identifying details, it is so much more than the often dry reference books you might expect to find in this genre. It also has very little content concerned with the best rig or line to use to pot any given fish variety, nor does it show those gory images of "How to Fillet" &c (all quite difficult terrain if, like me, you happen to be a committed vegetarian!). The book, is designed for those who just purely love fish for themselves: their markings, their infinite numbers of differing shapes and sizes, their habits and particular ways of being in the world of water.

This diversity is beautifully represented by nearly 2000 hand painted watercolour images, with each left hand page being dedicated to groupings (or families) of tropical fish. The language of the book is such that it makes the information accessible to fish lovers from all manner of backgrounds. In addition to the captions dedicated to each individual species there are more extended passages designed for in-depth information on the differing families. These passages bring to my awareness the most amazing findings about how fish live. For example:

"Triggerfishes (family Balistidae) are characterized by a rugby ball shape, leathery skin and a small mouth with powerful crushing jaws. Their common name is derived from the peculiar mechanism by which the first dorsal spine can be locked into an erect position by the second dorsal spine—if pressure is exerted on the trigger-like second spine the first spine can be unlocked and depressed. This device is used to good advantage at night when the fish wedges into a coral crevice and 'locks' itself in" (p 238); or,

"Fish Service Stations - The cleaner wrasses...are small colourful reef inhabitants which render an important service to other fishes. They remove parasites from the body, mouth cavity and gill chamber of numerous species spanning a considerable size range. Cleaning 'stations' occur at regular intervals along coral reefs. Research shows that they are an integral component for maintaining good health within the local fish community. Each station is occupied by one or more wrasses. The demand for their services is readily apparent to even casual observers. Several fishes often queue while patiently waiting their turn to be inspected for parasites" (p 192).

A book such as this carries a great deal of weight when we reflect on the complexity and biodiversity that exists in these tropical ocean habitats, as well as, how much there is for us to protect and care for.

I recommend this book for all of those northbound armchair travelers, who are naturalists at heart and are trying to survive a very wet winter in the south.

The Strangest of Times

(Transcription of very faint signals apparently contributed by the Midge Liaison Centre at Local Sector 1655 and the Dipterene Back-up Records and Archives Chorus)¹.

The waning moon was still up when very early on a fresh spring morning Herodotus Midge, approaching from the southwest, wiggled his antennae to receive the guiding radiations of the Local Flight Control Centre. He quickly located the stream of signals and dropped 10-m to enter the flight path that would lead him safely down to home ground. He delighted in flying before the sun got up. Within seconds the lower level White Begonias Flyway would be within visual range enabling him to see the riverside territories of Local Sector 1655, that Sector known also as Earthrise to humans in the area. The little fellow had been visiting family in nearby waterscape Sectors and was looking forward to being among his tribal friends once again. With the exception of some energetic young micro bats practising attack manoeuvres (they sometimes would snap up the tiny midges to show off), Herodotus generally had the early morning bio-sky-space to himself.

While he was losing altitude H Midge avoided looking at the faint glow in the east that would become the rising sun and he mused on historical change as he descended toward the Local Flyways west of the home territories. Soon the Plains Crossing Bridge came into view then Big Lawn at Earthrise and the riverside belvedere overlooking The Pool in the river. To be home again! He would do his research, chair the two committees on Sun Printing and Mentoring Young Readers about to begin their ROTS² programs. He reflected on land clearing and the building of the riverside house at Earthrise generations ago by the now old human and his girlfriend and the developing social history of many other human Locals who sped along the Darkwood Road in their motors… His own life cycle was too short and brief for him to have witnessed the major changes, but his historian colleagues had passed on the knowledge by repeatedly chanting what they knew. He admired their tenacity and sense of duty: what they really deserved, he considered, was a Grand Library. If only a way could be found to hasten the process of printing! And perhaps he could assist in that endeavour?

Herodotus was no more than two metres from ground level when he suddenly experienced a Midge Moment: there was a new and unexpected View of the River at this altitude, one unfamiliar to the tiny flier. He was immediately disconcerted and horribly disorientated! Where was he? What had happened to interfere with or damage his perfect navigation skills? He was momentarily reassured by the sight of the cliff face above and to the south of the old man’s house but when he turned to again look toward the north and northeast, the unfamiliar upstream view overwhelmed his awareness and he immediately called for help. ‘Control this is Forensic Historian Herodotus Midge inbound over Big Lawn and the White Begonias Flyway. I have disorientation difficulties and request assistance.’

‘Herodotus Two: this is Control. Hover, repeat hover over the old white cedar tree at Belvedere Central. Emergency support will reach you in zero nine seconds. Confirm.’

‘Control: this is Herodotus. Roger Control. Confirm Emergency fliers now ascending below port and starboard wingtips.’

Cassandra Midge and Penelope Midge flew carefully into position beneath Herodotus. ‘Hi Herodotus,’ shouted Cassandra. ‘We can support you if necessary—just adjust your port wing trim.’

‘And your angle of attack needs reducing a smidgeon,’ cried Penelope. ‘That’s it! Continue descending at this rate and land at the birdbath, please.’

‘Roger that,’ Herodotus shouted into the breeze.

The three fliers touched down together on the starboard side of the flat surround that supported the birdbath and all landed safely.

‘Fold wings now,’ said Cassandra. ‘Jolly good. No, don’t move. The paramedics are going to lift you by leaf to the Recovery Centre.’

‘But I’m perfectly OK,’ Herodotus protested.

‘Don’t give us a hard time, now,’ murmured Penelope, ‘or we’ll have to administer Happy Juice and you’ll bliss-out for hours.’

A team of Paramedics arrived directly. They lowered a dry Bleeding Heart tree leaf suspended from spider silk threads and hovered while Cassandra and Penelope supported the old flier. Then they airlifted their favourite historian to Recovery further encouraging him to relax into the fold of a living Red Cedar leaf. The paramedics watched over the patient as they reeled in their dry-leaf lifting gear then waited with the Emergency fliers until Dr Fritz Midge formally received his patient.

‘Thank you everybody,’ said Dr Fritz. ‘I’ll take Herodotus into care now; I see you have him nice and comfortable in the Red cedar leaf. That’s it. Thank you, everybody.’

Herodotus turned from the Paramedics and the Emergency fliers who now reassembled before taking off together in a clatter of wings. After gaining altitude they completed big Immelmann turns then waggled their wingtips in salute as they flew past. ‘Fritz, I’m perfectly OK now,’ said Herodotus who sounded both weary and grateful.

‘What’s it like to be OK?’ Fritz enquired. ‘Tell me. Please. I want to know.’

Herodotus sighed. ‘I feel enveloped in cool greenery: enfolded, if you like. It’s a pleasant experience.’

‘You certainly look comfortable. Shove over and I’ll join you. Ah, yes: enfoldment is indeed comforting.’

‘I didn’t say comforting; I said it was a pleasant experience.’

‘So what else is going on with you, ‘Dotus?’ Aren’t you getting a little old for these night flights?’

‘Ah, Fritz, you should come up with me before sunrise: it’s a beautiful time and perfect for meditating.’

‘It’s also a dangerous time and there are too many predators. What, if you don’t mind me saying, what do you meditate on at such times?’

‘Fritz, we’ve known each other a long time. Confidentially, I’m meditating on change and progress.’

‘Everything said on the leaf stays on the leaf, old friend,’ murmured the psychotherapist. ‘And what are you learning about change and progress during these dangerous early morning flights?’

‘That the humans are still difficult to understand.’

‘In what way?’

Hercules sighed again. ‘They’re all increasingly difficult in every possible way. My rels and their friends in nearby sectors are all reading modern human novels that are strangely compelling but frightening.’

‘And you too have also been reading such things?’

‘Yes. There’s a so-called fiction novel titled Blood Meridian, for instance—‘

‘McCarthy’s masterpiece! I’ve just finished reading it!’

‘What? You mean the Old Gardener has been reading it?’

‘Indeed he has and a great deal of the reading undertaken not ten metres from where we are now. I even landed on an open page to see and feel the quality of the print and the paper.’

‘Were you not horrified by what you read—all the unending violence?’ Herodotus wanted to know. ‘I have been.’

‘I was at first, but it’s only fiction, you know.’

Herodotus sighed again.

‘What’s with all this sighing, already?’ observed Fritz, with a touch of irritation in his voice. ‘What is this sighing all about? Sigh some more. Sigh fully.’

Herodotus huffed and puffed and then sat up straight before blowing enormously across the green foliage of Recovery and Dr Fritz’s quarters. He gasped for breath. ‘I’m using the same air that we all use, the same air molecules that the humans use and I know for certain that we’re all living in the same reality—with some minor differences, of course. The air that the Old Greek Herodotus breathed and that Queen Elizabeth breathed is the same stuff that we all breathe. That McCarthy chap wrote a fiction that, we can be sure, was close to the truth!’

‘How can you be sure of that, Herodotus?’

‘We all live in the same world. You see how casually and carelessly humans live: they crush insects wherever they walk: at least we can fly out of their way; they destroy trees and murder each other for no reason and even for pleasure. The killings described by McCarthy looked horrible in cold print, but there was nothing in that book that seemed either exaggerated or untrue! The more violence there was the more majestic became the language of the narrative. ’

‘Even the Americans scalping the indigenous warriors?’

‘Even that, Fritz: and human warriors now are souveniring body parts from their apparent enemies in battle. Those frightening mercenaries in that frightening novel were fictitious characters who, in the 1840s, killed for money. In the actual Mexican War 1846-1848 the United States acquired New Mexico, Texas and California. Much real blood was shed.’

‘Now it’s my turn to sigh, ‘Dotus. It’s just as well that we’re insects, a kind of fly, as the humans describe us.’

‘Unfortunately, Fritz, that’s not quite true: of all the humans now dead more than half of those who have ever lived were killed directly or indirectly by winged insects.’

‘Oh, good grief, I was forgetting. –If I may change the subject from the beauty of human language to the beauty of this place, what was it that caused you to become ill a few minutes ago? You could have crashed.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Herodotus Midge thoughtfully. ‘As I dropped lower to land I could see that an entire garden area of citrus trees had completely vanished. Suddenly I saw the upstream view that had always been there, but which for all of our lives that view had always been obscured by those worn-out citrus trees. Of course, I knew the view was there and we could all see it from above the trees or at ground level, for that matter, whenever we wished to, but to see the upstream view without the trees was incredibly startling. I was disorientated and shocked.’

‘Yes, I see and it all makes sense, of course. I’ve been reading, too, by the way,’ Fritz Midge said modestly. ‘I perched on the Old Gardener’s shoulder and together we read: The hare with amber eyes—‘

‘Oh! An excellent book, yes! I recently read that one, too and almost in the same manner! Fancy the humans being interested enough to read about the beauty of small things! Both de Waal and McCarthy write splendidly, even lyrically: one of them about violence, the other about beauty.’

‘We’ve known each other now for long seasons, ‘Dotus. Just between you and me, what is it, really, that encourages you to travel at night, to make these Red Eye flights?’

‘The truth?’

‘The truth, of course.’

‘It’s anxiety, really. I might miss something historic if I’m asleep.’

‘And excitement is the other side of anxiety,’ said Fritz, nodding thoughtfully. ‘I almost missed the obvious.’

‘And that is?’

‘That we live in one world but in such a way that we midges choose to contend with humans as well as with the animal world: we are therefore unable to not be excited.’

‘Fritz, we’re living on the Front Line and if there are boundaries or frontiers that’s where we’re enfolded or embedded.’

‘And that would seem to make us frontiersmen or should I say frontiersmidges and for those of us that sting, why, we’re almost filibusters, freebooters, guerrillas. Speaking as a winged insect, we’re somewhat like McCarthy’s mercenaries or ruthless tough guy characters in a Western novel!’

‘Rather more than somewhat, I’d say. You and I, Fritz: we ought to write a book that everybody could learn from: one about the Filibuster Midges of Local Sector 1655!’

Their laughter tinkled across Big Lawn, but was imperceptible to the nearest humans driving by on Darkwood Road because the sounds of midges laughing is best heard by humans lying on the grass listening intently through their stethoscopes.

Footnotes:

1. Local female midges known as The Dipterenes with phenomenal memories that sing or chant all records, memorials and histories on request (pending the perfection of Sun Printing); they also provide back-up chorus, cappella and choral singing at midge festivals.

2. ROTS, or Reading Over The Shoulder is the most proficient way for midges learning to read languages {particularly English} by closely attending humans while humans are reading books or other documents).

August 27 2011. –And here it’s very nearly the end of yet another month: Christmas begins looming. I wanted to take some pictures this morning of the repaired river wall (DSC 325) and the upstream view (DSC 324) but there’s now a cold rain falling—and I’ll try again shortly. Yesterday was near perfect: sunny and bright and balmy at 21˚C. Yesterday the laundry was laundered and I was able to get my fire fighter’s pump down to the riverbank and pump river water to my storage tank for 2 ½ hours. Once the pump was pumping I was able to rake tropical chickweed (now flowering) and tradescantia to reveal the reemerging grasses. Maybe the bare loam (where once there was an orchard of citrus fruit…) will grass over this coming spring. Yesterday I again surprised the black snake sunning itself on the path in front of the house: I’ve named him Fred and he moved reluctantly when I gently nudged him with the toe of my work boot. Soon he’ll be big and unwilling to be nudged and will certainly bite if I don’t show him respect. The birds are singing in the rain. I wonder why? The grey shrike thrush is now almost a regular when I wander around the garden. I think I’ll call him Domingo in honour of my favourite tenor. After all the work yesterday I made a cup of tea and tottered down to my chair on the belvedere where there remained a an inviting patch of sunlight. I sat to see—the river, the rapids, the forest and because I was in the right place at the right time and using my eyes I saw a fishing eagle downstream, high on a big tree on the forested hillside. It took off and began spiraling up. It flew silently overhead after a while and looked down at me looking up at it. Nice. And I also remember a very tiny spider that sat on the page of a book I was reading one sunny day this month: it was a golden creature, not previously seen here by me: perhaps it’s a new species?

–And the feuilleton! Where are you, book reviewers and feuilleton writers?

Best from Don.