The Earthrise Diary (Sept 2012)
© text Don Diespecker 2012; other writer colleagues
included in this edition retain their ©.
Don
Diespecker
Come,
fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The
Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The
Bird of Time has but a little way
To
fly—and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam (E
Fitzgerald trans) (1st ed.)
September 2
2012. There has been high scattered and patterned cloud these first two days of
September that make the morning brightness hazy. Although it’s still cold at
night the sun soon warms me as I head down the dusty road toward it. There is
also a blue smoky haze between here and the valley rim; the summer is going to
be dangerous, I think. Also, the river dwindles. There is so much less of the
flowing river and so much more that is non-river: the bedrock islands that now
look like mere exposed bedrock, the decaying flotsam high and drying and all of
the waterscape here dominated by the adjacent stone-covered banks.
I walked along the ankle-jarring newly
‘surfaced’ road to Richardson’s Bridge where I enjoyed the swallow air-show and
the river’s kinetic art and sundry other visual things, momentarily free of the
clouds of dust raised by passing vehicles.
September 4
2012. I could easily write: More of the
same but there’s always something new to see each day. I had crossed the
seedy and seeding Big Lawn just before 08:00, stepped down to the very dusty road, crossed the bridge and
was inclining upward from the concrete approach on the other side of the river
when I realized there were cars approaching from both directions and only I
could see both vehicles. Diplomatically I leaped off the approach as the two
vehicles passed me with microns to spare (I exaggerate a little), both drivers
having waved cheerily in those critical micro moments and we all survived. My
back likes best the walking up of inclines these days but tomorrow, with luck,
my favourite osteopath will have a solution that may enable me to also walk normally down declines and possibly on
the flat as well so that I might look less grotesque in my current unwanted
posture. I intend to be increasingly positive as I write; here I’m being
honest: nobody is likely to see me striding out nonchalantly these days because
I am now more than a little Old. Like it or not (and I am happy and chortling
to like it well enough so that you, dear readers, may also smile): this is my
1,000th month to heaven: I mean that I have been breathing air on
this planet for 1,000 months! If I am still a member of some nearly forgotten
tribe I am surely a tribal Elder.
As I walk I
hear several birds in the roadside trees but can’t see them and I start to
wonder if there’s such a thing as a common language for birds. Might there be a
‘universal’ language that they all can understand? There is no such thing for
humans although we like to think that our all learning English, for example, is
as close as the human race will ever get to a ‘universal’ means of
communication, whereas with birds, I like to imagine that they might have an
innate language, one that comes naturally to all birds before they start to
learn (presumably) their own dialects. I don’t know and would like to (the
walker and principal gardener might be on to something here, but I don’t know,
either; however, if you will kindly read on you‘ll see that the Diary writer is
soon to have a Most Useful and Illuminating Birdsong Experience. Editor).
I crunch my
way along the road and am certain by the time I reach the top of the rise (from
the bridge up to the higher part of the road) that the Council has not
adequately, if at all, supervised this most recent grading or levelling of this
rural road’s surface. As rural road surfaces go this one is crap (sorry): the
crushed stone dumped for spreading has been unwisely chosen, in my opinion,
being apparently uniformly graded and has in no way been adequately compacted.
Let me explain this stuff-up (as I see it). Or skip this bit if you don’t need
to know.
A well-graded
granular soil (e.g., gravel) has a range of particle sizes such that the
material will bind well when partly mixed with a cohesive soil and compacted at
optimum moisture content. A poorly graded granular soil is one that looks loose
and ungainly because the particles are more or less uniformly graded, i.e., no
matter how moist or otherwise this material may be it will not bind into a
strong surface when compacted (especially if the underlying wearing course of
the road, i.e., its ‘usual’ surface, has not been ripped or scarified). Some of
these crushed chunks may be compacted into the sub-grade, but most of this
material will sit on the surface of the road and be scattered to the verges by
traffic (this scattering of stones is also what fells pedestrians). Darkwood
Road is a rural road and the bitumen or macadam road surface that starts at
Thora ends at Richardson’s Bridge and some of us (those furthest up the Valley)
are uncomfortably more rural than many of our other Upper Thora residential
comrades. Paradoxically, and despite those of us further up the Valley being
unarguably closer to heaven than those living down the road in almost-suburban
macadamized stretches, well-compacted surfaces are never lavished upon us. We
are, as it were, living in the Wild West of Darkwood Road where maintenance is,
in my opinion, minimal rather than generous. To put that differently, the lower
stretches of Darkwood Road are those parts that recently have received extra
care: there have been additions of bitumen to widen the road, for example; the
area where I live has no bitumen—although the metalled road has been graded and
compacted, traffic, including very large loaded vehicles as well as rain, soon
damages the surface which rapidly becomes potholed). I have driven on roads,
e.g., in Iran, made of crude oil and sand/silt mixes that were excellent (and
if the Bellinger Shire Council would care to consult me on pavement design,
including airfield runway pavements, I’d be delighted to advise them of
economical alternatives to the expensive and crap Darkwood Road that they so
foolishly continue to grade and inadequately compact—and will happily waive all
consultation fees (Come on Council engineers and planners at Council GHQ, and
get up here and see what a *&^%$#! Mess the road is and then get your
#$%^& act together and make some intelligent changes so that the road crews
don’t have to take the blame for your carelessness and inefficiency)!
Sept 7 2012.
Friday. This has been a week of cool sunny weather suddenly changing to
blustery hot days with temperatures close to 30˚. Sitting outside in the windy
garden where branches and twigs fly through the air is not a safe option. I’ve
collected some useful and very dead and dry big branches that will usefully
burn in the slow combustion heater although I doubt that I’ll need to light
many more fires in the next few days: spring is now very dry and at times
dangerous.
One of the
best Earthrise views is from the bathroom window. Not only am I familiar with
shaving my face, I seldom need a mirror to do so and that allows me a pleasant
shaving time when I’m able to look across Big Lawn and upstream to the Hello
Bend (as I call it). This morning early and as the sun is lighting the canopies
of the high flooded gums I watch three large and stately brush turkeys taking
bold steps across Big Lawn while I’m shaving. They seem to be demonstrating
their right to do so—as if they too had seen male grizzly bears (that I saw on
TV) loping sideways in order to appear bigger to the female bears. The turkeys
certainly look confident these days: well-fed, shiny feathers, unconcerned
about predators. The lawn is hairy and scruffy and shrieking out to
be mowed. Most of it consists of tropical chickweed; it’s altogether untidy and
the turkeys, you might think, are at some risk of being attacked and caught by
a Very Fast Fox—the turkeys being big and heavy with dangerous claws that might
as easily tangle in the very dangerously scruffy plants comprising my lawn.
Good luck to them. The turkeys have dug many holes in the lawn.
After
breakfast I saunter to the fence line and wait for a lull in the breakfast
traffic: again there is almost a collision at my front gate as two vehicles
going in opposite directions swerve through a billowing dust cloud (this also
is not the best of days in which to do my laundry—dust from the road’s passing
traffic blows into the house).
A day or so
ago and late in the afternoon near sunset I happened to glance through the
glass wall/door upstairs in time to see big swirls in the corner bend—as if made
by a couple of swimmers vigorously swimming or possibly by a couple of 150-kg
porpoises! They were surely platypuses although I have yet to see a platypus
large enough to so dramatically disturb the surface. It was an odd and
surprising sight, very odd, indeed.
Sept 9 2012.
Saturday. Although some jobs and tasks have been crossed off, the TO DO list
has grown apace. Also oddly, one of the Outside tasks I yesterday tackled has
not been listed, perhaps fortuitously and thereby hangs a tale (those readers
who plunge into temporary madness when I write about Things Odd or Mysterious,
please skip this part and re-join below).
It came about
in this manner (sorry). It was a dark and stormy—(sorry, kidding)! The
strangely unlisted and unusual job was tackled yesterday morning and it came
about because my schedule was adjusted when I changed back into my play
clothes/work clothes to clear vegetation (in that Wild West part of the garden
between the house and Big Lawn). I had earlier changed into my best jeans and
driven through the choking dust (in the Wild West part of Darkwood Road) and
down to Thora Hall, there to cast my vote in the local Council elections. It
was a pleasantly warm and sunny morning, I drove home and again changed clothes
and was speculating about the List and because I had earlier in the week
checked the water level in my big concrete storage tank and also remembered
when last it had been filled (during Nick’s March visit) I decided to make a
start on pumping. Because of the rain earlier in the year there is now dense
growth all over the property and remembering the difficulties Nick and I had
experienced with airlocks in the partly overhead poly-pipe line I spontaneously resolved to take the line down from
it’s aerial supporting wire through the trees and re-lay the line along the
ground so that there might be fewer airlocks and a reduced time spent wrestling
with the equipment—but I had first to wrestle now in the immediate present with undergrowth that was approaching
a state of jungle; only then could I get my ladder close to the suspended line
and use trees as suitable ladder props. I grabbed my very effective and BIG
long-handled ‘secateurs’ and went boldly outside, suddenly wary of the spring
snakes (I needn’t have worried) and cleared around the big eucalypts and got
deeper into the now dry Earthrise Creek-bed (as named by me) that roars with
flood water from the slopes in heavy rain (and which also passes slowly through
what once was intended as The Grand Stone Staircase—now so well covered by
vines and roots and trees that even Harrison Ford would need several chaps with
machetes to expose this incomplete Masterpiece). Saplings of the sandpaper leaf
fig tree, the native privet and the European privet went down in waves as I
hacked and slashed; I removed big river stones that more properly belonged in
the Staircase; I tore down climbing vines embedded in the coarse bark of an old
tree and I eventually got the step ladder extended and set up and was able to
start demolishing the wire ties holding the pipeline to the overhead support
wire. From high on this almost stable work platform, half hugging a cheese
tree, one arm through a hacksaw and the other manipulating trusty old pliers, I
successfully detached and took the pipeline down, then disassembled it in a
couple of places to get it out and away from the trees and re-laid the line on
the track that runs from Big Lawn up to the carport. I mention this
hanging-by-the-eyebrows job so that the Comfortable Reader may appreciate the
hardness of life here in paradise. :-)
The voting
chore plus the unplanned Outside Job had changed my schedule; it had also given
my wrecked back a good workout so that my niggling aches and pains were
compelled to change their locations (which was nicely liberating for me for a
few hours). I attended to sundry other things: emails, The List, lunch, some
further words extending my Iran essay and also a nice read in the warm windy
garden as necessary preliminaries to taking an early mark—for this is Finals
Week when large hairy fleet-footed ball players pound each other unmercifully
as they grind their bloody trails toward Grand Finals in Rugby League and the
Australian Football League (not forgetting a Rugby Union International between
Australia and South Africa in Perth, WA, and the chance to see a late-ish TV
presentation of The Good Wife
(American legal drama from CBS) that I can’t resist, being an ardent fan of
Juliana Margulies and Archie Panjabi (news this morning, also, from the
American Tennis Open in New York where Djokovic and Ferrer were taken safely
off the court because there were, of all things possible, tornados (!) in the area).
Apologies for
my anecdotally having gone around the houses (although I enjoyed it) when I
might have been more concise: long story short: spontaneously doing an
unscheduled job was a surprise factor in my hearing a wonderful radio program I
might not otherwise have listened to. I’ll have perhaps driven some readers
away from reading any further (please return!). Here’s the thing: what with all
the excitement and muscle stretching I slept nearly an hour longer than usual,
tottered downstairs, opened the curtains, switched on the power and heard
something startling on the radio (ABC Radio National) concerning the Australian pied butcherbird. One of my
stories and now the first part of an unpublished novella, features this
particular species.
Those of you who have the appropriate
gadgets (apps?) can listen as and when it suits you. Now please read on.
Some time ago I wrote a suite of stories
that when read serially also comprise a 'metafiction,' i.e., fiction about
fiction, and taken together these three pieces are also a tongue-in-cheek
sequel ("Finding Drina") to my The Agreement. --And although The Agreement has been published, this playful sequel
has not. (That's only part of the background). In the first of my three
pieces ("The Park") I include an example of magic realism (a la GG
Marquez)--in which a single Australian Pied
butcherbird, as prodigy, is gifted with an amazing 'quality of
voice'.
My fantasized 'prodigy bird' is based on my
reading of Peter Slater's A Field Guide to Australian Birds Vol
2 Passerines (p 278). Information about the Australian pied butcherbird Cracticus
nigogularis includes this
"VOICE: Beautiful flute-like calls, one
of the most common recalling the opening bars of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony
(Hutchinson 47)."
It's now several
years since I wrote the fiction referred to above. Imagine my amazement this
morning when I heard on the radio some of the real voices
that this bird is capable of. Cracticus nigrogularis sing trios and
quartets and quintets--and much more, i.e., these pied butcherbirds birds sing
artistically and apparently for pleasure. One bird may sing the first part of a
song; another bird sings the second and so on. Dr Hollis Taylor found that
different birds in different locations (not very far apart from each other)
would sing the different parts of particular songs. –If you think about that,
it may seem awesome (as it does to me): humans are not the only beings who are
practicing musicians! Individual birds also imitate non-bird sounds. For online information and
recordings here’s a useful link:
abc.net.au/radionational/programs/offtrack .
Truth is stranger than fiction.
Sept 11 2012. Tuesday. I carefully lift the
firefighter pump and get it downstairs to the wheelbarrow, then start to make
progress: I change the oil, I do the maintenance, clean the sparkplug, drain
some petrol, check the discharge line—now on the ground—and prime the intake
line and the pump roars into life again (at the first pull!). The pump runs
like a sewing machine when I’ve fine-tuned the controls and I pump all morning
and the concrete tank begins quickly to fill—about three and a half hours and
with only one small refill of fuel. Job done. I take the bits and pieces apart
and enthusiastically turn to the power mower.
Big Lawn gets some mowing attention at long
last! I drag the mower down to the lawn and change the oil and add some fuel
and coax her into life again after the winter sleep, setting the blades to cut
at the 2nd notch; it becomes hot and heavy work and clouds of
(Earthrise) dust (!) rise to heaven. I don’t try to do too much in one session;
I’ll have to cut this and the fiddly bits an hour or two at a time. The
season’s mowing has begun!
Sept 12 2012. Wednesday. It’s warm and
breezy today—again—and although I have an appointment at 1 pm in Coffs Harbour
I take my time. I admire that portion of Big Lawn that has received its first
cut of the season, load up some recyclable stuff and go to Bellingen in the old
Honda. Today the white cedars are leafing (though not quite yet at Earthrise)
along the road and the recently new pink leaves of the red cedars are greening.
The colours when seen through my Polaroid glasses are wonderful. Here and along
the way and particularly in Bellingen the azaleas are flowering too. In Coffs I
take the car to the dealers, leave my keys and my mobile number and lurch off
to look at books. I see Wallace Stegner’s Crossing
to Safety displayed and recommended (by the Staff there) at The Book
Warehouse and knew too that many who learned of this title by watching First
Tuesday Book Club on ABC TV had ordered copies). I wanted to check through the
Classics titles and editions of frequently published books and so came across a
book, Light Years, by James Salter
(yet another American novelist I had learned of through the First Tuesday book
show).
Pleased with my purchase of Light Years (more below) I visit the
central post office at the Palm Centre and when I search for the Muffin Break
café I find that the place (they have gluten-free muffins!) has disappeared
(this is where I sat with the coffee drinkers earlier in the year and which I
later described in one of the earlier 2012 Diaries). While certain shops and
stores downstairs are being re-furbished this coffee bar has moved upstairs so
I follow the directions and glide upstairs on an escalator. The Muffin Break
Café is temporarily located on one side of the big concourse opposite the Big W
on what seems to be a long horizontal and raised bandstand-like platform—and
there is also a little way off in the middle of the upstairs concourse a second
group of separate chairs and tables; most of the chairs and tables are more
attached to the temporary coffee bar so that there’s a distinct difference
between the two snack areas. This peculiar difference is something for me to
think about. I risk a medium sized espresso and gluten-free apple muffin and
sit facing Big W. Everybody else is on my elevated section is facing the Big W,
too. Being somewhat up in the air above the other eaters and drinkers, i.e.,
the Muffin Break customers and being in that section where we all are looking ahead in an abstracted manner (the
chairs are loosely located around
each table) it seems almost as though
we are on a big almost empty ferry sailing toward the Big W dock—or possibly in
an enormous near-empty passenger aircraft. It is uncanny, this feeling of our all sitting and facing in the one
direction despite there being several movable chairs at each table. Nobody has
dared to sit at the ‘front’ facing the rest of us: we are all seemingly
transfixed while drinking coffee and solemnly watching the shoppers going in
and out of the Big W. Meanwhile, there are a few people in small groups sitting
more remotely in that second area and they are clearly a part of the café
set-up yet both they and the café furniture look so distant from the rest of us
as to be obviously disconnected. I think hard. I sip the delicious black coffee
(no sugar) and thoughtfully spoon the un-muffin-like muffin (it’s more like a
three-layered custard and is delicious). I conclude that where I am sitting
solo as are several others plus one duo, the outpost groups are groups rather
than individuals and they have little interest in the deep surveillance and
observation operation that the rest of us are engaged in: they are having
actual conversations. Would I enjoy
my coffee and delicious muffin-like food if I were in a group? Not necessarily.
H’mm.
There are some heavy cylindrical posts a few
feet from where I ‘m observing this peculiar scene that also includes myself. I
know I have to be careful when I finish my snack and rise and step down to the
floor—how unseemly would it be to fall here—but what are these chrome pillars
there for? They look like posh
hitching posts outside a saloon. I realize that when I stare over the tops of
these strange posts I’m looking directly at the big red sofa where I sat
watching the passing parade when last I was in this place, months previously
(with a little imagination I can just about re-vision myself sitting over there
on that plush red sofa of last summer puzzled at first by the disapproving
glances certain passers by were casting on something or somebody near me that I
wasn’t immediately aware of: the lacy black-stockings on the legs of a young
woman who also was sitting close by on that out-of-place red sofa all of those months in the past). I continue to
puzzle over those apparent looks that appeared to be so censuring. What was that? Fashion is fashion, surely? Do
fashions in stockings have first to meet a moral approval code for some of the
apparently sterner customers who may perhaps be Puritan?
And then I remember that when Muffin Break was situated downstairs
outside a busy supermarket I had (like others) chosen to sit so as to see and observe that market directly in front of me. Now the little café
with its many chairs and tables in two not quite adjacent locations was again located (although temporarily)
outside and in front of the entrance
to a busy department store. We who are the current coffee drinkers and muffin
munchers are afforded excellent views of Big W Shoppers entering and leaving
these emporiums: we are privileged spectators, well positioned, fortified with
food, high and alert on the fumes of coffee, seeing aspects of the lives of
others. Location, location! And how wise are the masters of commerce! At last I
think I might just be getting this: solo drinkers of psychoactive beverages
like to sit singly to observe (we singles are also the more likely secret
agents or spies; normal beings prefer to sit together socially and apart from
the secret singles who so busily See and Watch and Evaluate). I wonder if
either of the Palm Centre or the Muffin Break café personnel people have
organized the seating arrangements where I am sitting. Could the Muffin Break
café be a meeting place for spies? Is somebody like to make the drop? Whatever
else it might be, this muffin and coffee place seems to have craftily been set
up as an espionage training school! Not only am I now in this school for spies: I am present without having been
enrolled!
James Salter’s novel, Light Years, first published in 1975, has an introduction by
Richard Ford, whose novel, Canada, is
also on my book list. Ford had written: “Frontally,
Light Years is the story of Viri and Nedra Berland, a golden couple living a
gilded, countrified life of late-lasting, candle-lit dinner parties,
interesting friends, beautiful children—all with a river view.” Also, Ford
had begun his intro with: “It is an
article of faith among readers of fiction that James Salter writes American
sentences better than anybody writing today. Buying this book was
irresistible. These are the first sentences of Salter’s Light Years:
We dash the black river, its flats smooth as stone. Not a ship, not a
dinghy, not one cry of white. The water lies broken, cracked from the wind.
This great estuary is wide, endless. The river is brackish, blue with the cold.
It passes beneath us blurring.” &c &c.
I want to begin reading the book because
such writing is easily and pleasantly comprehended and during the reading the
words enable my imagination to show me the related images (I mean my images of Salter’s words). Reading
such writing quickly becomes something like a viewing that makes reading a
magical process.
–But I also need to take care of myself. I
go to bed early, make myself comfortable. It’s been a long day. I’ve survived
the white knuckle driving. I’m home safe. I’ll watch the news…and…and. I fall
asleep before I realize how tired I am.
Sept 13 2012.
Thursday. This is my last day of being 999 months old. The day starts with red
in the pre-sunrise clouds and then dawns bright and quite clear and there is a
warm wind, i.e., there is a repetition of the warm to hot wind and there is an
abundance of branches and twigs to be picked up whilst mowing. Mowing comes
later this day. First, I try my best to purchase the phone I want online. Silly
me. Despite the best advice from my friends I discover that the phone I’m
trying so hard to purchase apparently doesn’t want me to complete the purchase
and I start communicating with the sellers who decide that my browser has
attracted cookies. Removing the spanner-in-the-works cookies is something I
want to happen, but I don’t want to be diverted into risking the world’s
networks and by allowing me to begin a clearance op (I think of certain
veterans I used to work with in the UK who had been in Bomb Disposal during
WW11: clearance may be lethally dangerous). The sellers kindly send me info
that enables me to proceed to ways of fixing the cache problems that my poor
iMac has succumbed to. I turn pale and tremble: I could get stuck in some
helpful but horrible website and not emerge for years. Emails are exchanged; no
the sellers don’t send phone equipment to PO Box numbers, but (long story
short) they will take phone orders as well as online purchasing. I might need
much more space than I have available here to explain this in detail and you, dear
reader, might even find that entertaining, but I may overcome some of these
difficulties by ‘using’ the address of a friend (a courier is supposed to
deliver to my door, but we all know (up here in the Darkwood) that this will
not happen: parcels are sent from Bellingen PO to the Thora General Store which
also is a sort of sub post office; couriers up here in the wilds of Darkwood
have seldom been encountered.
I mow for an
hour in the middle of the day; the grass and groundcovers are splendidly dry—just
how the mower likes them (except for the lawn’s dust). It’s 28˚. Later in the
afternoon there are thunderstorms along the ranges and some showers. At sunset
the river’s surface is dimpled with light rain. Nice. The showers wash the dust
off thousands of leaves. Everything is glistening. Tomorrow it will be only
19˚.
Sept 14 2012.
Yesterday kept right on going for me: sleep avoided me and I lay watching
starlight and listening to old (repeat) radio programs through the night.
Whatever I’d eaten during the day seemed blameless. Here I am, well and truly
at the appointed time: month 1,000: welcome! And how will the next 1,000 be?
Sept 15 2012.
A sunny day again and very nice, too—except that this end of Darkwood Road is
the unglamorous end there being no bitumen or macadam up here. The dust raised
by passing traffic is horrendous and I’ve stopped walking the road for exercise
and pleasure; besides, there are too many urgent jobs to be tackled here. I
have a third (this week) mowing session and am pleased with myself despite the
extra clouds of dust I’m raising with the mower. There is still some smoke haze
in the Valley, too. On the skyline’s eastern rim I can see the outlines of
eucalypts high above me. All that can be seen of the highest branches are small
dabs of dull colour, the foliage, against the sky, the highest parts of the
canopies, and those thin top branches are invisible. In the gardens and seen
from inside the house: caterpillar and spider strands in widths of microns are
clearly seen metres away because those minute surfaces reflect sunlight so
well.
Sept 16 2012.
Sunday. It’s both sunny and cloudy this morning and the temperature is only 19˚
at midday, but I make the time to drop everything and go and sit outside to
read more of Light Years; it’s an
excellent read and a wonderful example of literary fiction and fine writing. I
settle by sitting next to the old red salvia bush on the belvedere, but there’s
a cool breeze and not enough sun. Before I move I watch a quite small
honeyeater hovering in front of the flowers and behaving as much like any
humming bird (there aren’t any in this country as far as I know) as seems
possible: it hovers, it beats its wings in a fast blur and inserts its long
sabre-shaped bill deep into each of the target blooms—hugely burning energy in
order to refuel (and provide further energy) from the nectar within—yet another
version of in-flight fuelling. The
red salvia is nearly 2-m high and is regularly knocked down and buried by
floods. The branches and stems are brittle and break easily and the flowers
face openly outward: the honeyeater, however tiny, has to hover to feed.
Sept 17 2012.
I dress up today; there is a anxious moment when I opt for the tailored
Fletcher Jones trousers: will they fit (they had not fitted when last I tried
in July; now by some slim miracle, they do). I cannot find one of my remaining
three ties until I visualise the flight bag I took with me to Brisbane in July:
the bag is empty except for my Newcastle University tie, neatly rolled, almost
concealed in a dark corner. I dress confidently: I know the dashing blazer with
brass buttons is going to fit. And away I go to town. I feel confident, yet
uncertain of being myself because of the unfamiliar clothes I’m wearing. Having
kept everyone waiting for more than 50 years I drive to Bellingen virtually
unrecognisable in my best clothes and present early and a little anxiously at
the Council chambers. Simone, the Mayor’s secretary, comes to collect me and we
are followed at once by the Mayor. We proceed to a small quiet room. A staff
member wheels in a trolley with tea and coffee (and I see a big plate of
dangerous-looking cream-smothered scones; alarm bells ring in my mind: the
scones are unlikely to be gluten-free and I’ll need to explain the likelihood
of an impending disaster to my hosts). I do so; then we chat. We discuss the
condition of Darkwood Road and several more matters. I’m here to become an
Australian Citizen. The Mayor reads from a pledging statement and I repeat the
words after suitable pauses and so hear myself ‘pledge my loyalty to Australia
and its people.’ Suddenly in the quickness of the Australian spring I am now a
proper Australian. For the first few years after arriving as a ‘ten pound pom’
in 1960 I had thought I had automatically become Australian; however, it seems
that I’ve merely been a ‘permanent resident’ for all of those crowded years.
There is some surprise when I add that I’ve been on the electoral roll for most
of my life. Lightly we chat further over coffee. I confess to being a Canadian
by birth, a South African citizen also ((‘by descent,’ as the SA Government has
previously described me) and, also, a ‘registered citizen of the UK and
Colonies.’ When I leave I take with me several items (including a grand-looking
certificate and a potted plant (the kangaroo’s paw plant is now waiting in one
of the riverside gardens surrounded by (somewhat foreign?) flowering irises.
How will these plants get on together, given the difficulties of thriving in my
most shaded garden area?
Sept 18 2012.
I welcome my friend and mentor, Kerry, who arrives on a bright spring morning.
We chat briefly over coffee before K begins to study the behaviours of my
computer while I sit nervously on the sideline. We discuss important matters as
the bright day becomes cloudier and eventually noisy with rolling thunder. The
thundery rain begins falling after K has left. Some of the ample dust that
drifts through here when there is traffic on the road has been washed from the
foliage and everything looks cleaner now; however, the showers persist into the
evening.
Sept 19 2012.
Wednesday has been a long spring day, most of which I spent indoors (e.g.,
first at the Healing Centre and then in front of the computer attempting to
sort out problems attending the online purchase of a phone). The older I get
the more cogitating and thinking energy gets burned and I get weary—until I
think of certain small honeyeaters that resemble humming birds and consider how
they might feel at the ending of each day. Following a light meal I head early
for bed. As I relax with books, papers and TV and the shadows lengthen into
darkness I hear an unwelcome sound coming from the spaces between the top of my
interior wall and the outside weatherboards: possibly micro bats, even a deranged
possum trying to force an entry, or maybe a rogue mouse, or…a snake. Sigh. I
switch on lights, select a suitable timber weapon, grab my brilliant little
torch and investigate by shining the light outside: there are three bright pink
‘night tigers’ (snakes) writhing over one another along the timbers supporting
the fibreglass roof over the deck adjoining my bedroom—about 3-m from my flinty
gaze. It is spring and the serpents are outside trying to get in; I wonder why
they want to be inside where I will do my best to terminate them—as I always
do? They look identical to the last snakes I encountered in the house and
‘night tiger’ is a description used loosely here in the Darkwood. –And venomous
serpents aren’t tolerated inside this house, spring or no spring. I go to sleep
with one eye open, so to say.
Sept 20 2012.
Thursday and I am home with no appointments and only my writings, the computer,
and online merchants to worry about. I exchange emails and worry further. In my
next life I shall more speedily become a Master of Computing, but that still
seems a dream without much substance as I struggle to recall certain computing
procedures. The situation improves when I risk my mentor’s displeasure and
follow important advice. Penitent, I change into my Outside Clothes before
slinking and lurching outside to do some mowing. I drag the mower over to one
of the fiddly bits of lawn that still needs mowing near the N-E corner of the
gardens where there is an accumulation of fallen twigs and heavier deadwood branches;
I also bring my strongest rake, clean the area and am confronted by a mass of
groundcovers, twigs and branches that will have to be disappeared before I can
return the untidy area into a semblance of lawn: this being the area where once
the citrus trees grew (I feel less guilty about removing the citrus trees
because I’ve recently learned that anybody suffering reflux has to learn to
avoid citrus—I don’t understand why, but that has been my experience). I
thoughtfully move most of the larger twigs and branches from the long raked
pile of debris to my upper riverbank (wild) area and happily reduce the
remainder with my lawnmower. Success! Later I take the same rake upstairs with
me because there are certain ominous sounds from within my bedroom walls: snakes
(possibly) or micro bats (most likely). Snakes make slow slithering noises;
bats when they come and go make sudden scratching sounds—such as a rodent might
make. I see no snakes; snakes will not be present if the bats are present
(because the bats will have been eaten). One way or the other, I know this will
be another noisy night.
Sept 21 2012.
A fast month, September—there’s so much going on here, so much movement that
change takes place as I watch and I’m groggy from lack of sleep.
At the start of
the month the weeping coral tee looked like leafing and hours later it had; the
old cheese trees near the lawn’s edge shed many of the russet leaves that blew
down to cover the winter grasses and now is completely green; in recent days
the Virgilia trees further down the valley are like clouds of white in the sun.
Roadside grasses that have been slashed (by the Council) have quickly produced
spiky new leaves and flower heads, some dock plants close to the traffic are
2-m tall and thriving. Here in the gardens brown butterflies appear suddenly
and bounce through warm air that must seem summery to them and small crowds of
flying insects explore me sitting reading. I watch in admiration as two small
butterflies (or possibly moths?) bob together at speed while staying in one
small space: they fly speedily and make innumerable changes of direction; it
looks crazily random, but surely is not. How are they able to do that while
lacking our big brains? Some of these spring days are so filled with movement
that they surprise. One morning walking past the bamboo and in an opportune
moment I see the new foal running fast across the paddock as the horses come
into view—the colt’s awkward long legs driving beauty in motion.
The National
Parks: America’s Best Idea is a fine series on Television late at night. I am
touched to see depicted old b/w photos in this TV program because I know
exactly the period depicted: the early Thirties—and I know that to be true
because I was there once, too.
Sept 22 2012.
Saturday. Earlier I raked and mowed the overgrown area near the compost where I
had carelessly collected a pile of useful hardwood bits when clearing after a
flood (the grass and weeds had since covered everything). Greatly daring I also
revisited the log pile left by floods covering parts of the river lawn and had
some success diminishing the tangle. That endeavour included reaching up and
breaking both long logs (by pulling rapidly and repeatedly) anchored beneath
short heavy logs and then dragging the broken segments to the edge of the lawn
and returning them to the river. I knew that these two problem limbs were
casuarina once I’d uncovered them (the axe had bounced off the wood post flood)
and that the wood would eventually dry out and finally rot. It was now quite dry
and brittle. I bob the far loose ends, starting with one hand then changing to
two and soon hear the satisfying CRACK! of the dry brittle wood breaking. I
could then drag the broken timber away, ease it to the edge and slide it down
to the water. Anybody can do this: it’s not rocket science. The longer the log
the more a great fulcrum it becomes and I could have lifted and moved some of
the heaviest materials jammed together had my logs not broken (with a lever
long enough, one might move the world as someone wise once wrote).
Now I’m once
again in the sun-drenched garden with a good book (Salter’s Light Years) while feeling enclosed or
even ‘contained’ by birds singing particular songs. There is one bird voice,
though, that sounds troubled, the song a non-stop high-pitched jabbering that
is surely a distress signal. There is probably a goanna or a snake hunting in
the area. Looking about me between reading and not reading I see that the
jacarandas here are bronzing. The leaves on the Japanese maple have a look of
permanence about them although they’ve been out for only a few days; perhaps
that’s due to the dust from the road only 4-m away. And all of the vaguely
green blobs on the grey-white branches of the white cedars are now filigrees of
pale yellow against the blue sky. There’s a sapling grevillea robusta (silky oak) close to me: its new leaves look so
perfect against the sky they seem almost artificial. Four irises next to me are
blooming; the little kangaroo paw plant sits there too and the white begonias
have put up a protective wall of foliage. Tired from my exertions (not to
mention the fatigue that comes from too much old age thinking connected with
emails and the purchase of a phone to be delivered by courier to my friend’s
house, distant from here) I crept upstairs to relax (again) with book, papers
and the TV programs—there is a program about Tolstoy! I switch on and watch
avidly after calling my neighbour who has recently read Anna Karenina. Brilliant! Then I doze. A couple of loud bangs
overhead get me up, and peering outside and overhead: it’s that damn snake
again! I glare up; the snake glares down and starts to slip back into the
wall/roof space. I’m not fast enough to grab a long weapon; I miss the
opportunity to hurl the snake into the distance (with my long pole). If I were
able to fling the snake away I could then with a clear conscience use my
stepladder to block this priest’s hole. Hole blocking with the snake trapped
inside would be Not Cricket. I remember a couple of times when a snake or two
retired into such a space for the winter’s sleep and died there because they
put on weight and couldn’t get out again. The scented air of decaying snake is
horrible and lasts for weeks. Later I watch another of the rugby league finals.
From time to time I frown at overhead noises and flash my powerful little torch
ceiling-wards. The gaps I filled long ago are not breached. It would take a
much bigger snake to muscle his way through and down to a soft landing on my
bed or on me. I eventually sleep in peace.
Sept 23 2012.
Sunday. It’s a bright warm day. I get some laundry done and go for a walk after
breakfast when the traffic is meagre. I meet my neighbour: there is a second
new foal in the big paddock. Despite thundery showers, the river seems as low as
ever. Later I stroll down to the sunny garden and continue reading while a
couple opposite continue lying in the hot sun for most of the day. As I read a
small goanna emerges from one of the overgrown gardens and wanders away. I’m
suddenly between two shrike thrushes singing something at each other—or perhaps
they’re merely conversing. It’s all very impromptu. I had come to the belvedere
on this warm morning (temperature to the mid 20s) with a cup of tea, Salter’s Light Years and my folder of papers and had
moved about in the light and shade to be comfortable having moved the garden
chairs several times. The couple across the river were surely roasting (I
wanted only sufficient light and warmth for myself not to be roasted). I found
the best spot close to where the chairs are usually located, next to one of the
bleeding heart trees. A shrike thrush bounced along and sat next to me on the
lowest branch. I could almost have reached out and touched him. Instead I swung
around—the thrush has such a bold voice—and said clearly, “Hello!” instead. The
bird was completely disinterested in me and continued it’s earnest voicing. The
distant other thrush was unseen in the old trees across the lawn—between the
lawn and the old track that runs along the ancient riverbank; the second bird
was somewhere near the water storage tank. Both birds communicated loudly; I
was like the filling in their sandwich but it was also as if I did not exist as
far as they were concerned. How strange it was! And what on earth were they saying
to each other?
On Sept 24
2012. I have a middle of the day appointment to be seen by the optometrist. My
eyes are OK but the macula in one eye is changing: for the present, I’m
OK. On Wednesday Sep 26 I visit
Kerry with my computer: the new phone has been delivered to his address and
there are technical procedures to be completed before I can return to Coffs and
the Telstra store to have the new phone properly registered. It’s a warm day
and my troublesome back ensures my walking in crowds will be awkward. There are
delays: everybody has a mobile phone that needs attention. Eventually I get
home and thankfully join the birds in the garden. By the early evening (being a
slow learner) I realise that I’m now experiencing another transient ischemic
attack (small stroke) and begin to grasp why the TV and the TV text seems
faulty: the faults are taking place in my circuitry and not in that of the TV.
(Interested readers who may want to understand more details will find that good
explanations and descriptions can be googled (e.g., the phenomenon, “classical
migraine” is ‘visual’ and not generally painful (yet is also unpleasant). Sept
27: I come to terms with the unpleasant situation I am experiencing courtesy of
my crowded brain: short term memory deficits, confusion about dates and times
and much more: in other words, I am experiencing a small stroke and having
experienced such unpleasant phenomena in the past (pre-chelation therapy) I
realise that I’m again experiencing the consequences of a small stroke, a transient
ischemic attack. For those who wonder what this means, the TIA or small stroke
compels the owner of the brain to struggle with remaining in one reality while
simultaneously speculating wildly about the likelihood of now being able to
access realities that are somewhat different from the consensus reality that
most of us seem to experience. Put another way: one of the phenomena to be
experienced is the suspicion that one’s central nervous system (CNS) has so
quickly changed from the owner’s ‘normal’ operating procedures to those that
seem strangely awry or even alien that automatically returning ones CNS to
normal may no longer be possible. It is possible for the CNS to return to
near normal operating procedures; however, the owner of the CNS has also to
realise (the faster the better) that normal or near normal operational
procedures of his/her brain will be restored as soon as possible… And so on.
(Readers who have not experienced stroke or minor stroke will appreciate that
the TIA is also a very great learning and that it is initially to be respected
with common sense).
I’ll end the
September Diary here (Sept 28) on a warm sunny afternoon in spring. For further
September news please see the October Diary.
Best wishes to
all from Don. Sept 28 2012
See Russell
Atkinson’s blog at http://theoldestako.wordpress.com/
No comments:
Post a Comment