Saturday, November 30, 2013

The Earthrise Diary (November 2013)


THE EARTHRISE DIARY (November, 2013)
Don Diespecker
© Text 2013 Don Diespecker; guest writers retain their ©

All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
Leo Tolstoy: Anna Karenina




Monologue


The editor at 132 months
It’s been quite a month: a significant number of severe storms along the coast, particularly, and on two occasions, hail. This will hardly be news for any Diary Reader in Australia because the storms have been almost continuous along most of the east coast for thousands of kilometers. Readers elsewhere will perhaps nod sagely and note that Global Warming and Climate Change are now making themselves felt everywhere on Earth. Lots of words (happily, mostly fiction) are being written at Earthrise; son Carl visited after returning from running the NYC Marathon (within hours, his brother, Nick, sent links from Ottawa that enabled our seeing static views of Carl in the race); the computer Mouse (the Mouse that prefers an Upper Case M) suffered a setback and stopped the machine in its tracks, said difficulty was sorted and a New Mouse installed. I began writing this Diary opening at a time when the river was painfully low, the ‘lawn’ dry and desperate-looking and covered with crisp brown leaves distributed by hot winds. Too much sitting at the computer writing is not good for anyone’s health, especially mine, and I’ve been averaging more than 2,000 words each day of fiction writing (and, yes, drafting a novel that grows by about 15,000 words a week is a joyful experience). Getting up and tottering about or wringing the hands or clutching the brow is also good and healthy; gardening and mowing are excellent aides during needed breaks and walking always helps. There are still decorative displays of flood debris in the gardens closest to the river and instead of wildly attacking this bizarre cleanup and finishing it (writing has priority), I apportion the cleanup jobs as being 10-minutes, 20-minutes or 30-minutes exercises and each one becomes a happy achievement rather than an onerous task. Mowing is a movement meditation. The mow always begins out in the centre of Big Lawn where the Dog’s Garden is and where Their Tree remains festooned with debris above where they sleep the Big Sleep. Mowing begins as a circular cut made wider and wider and becomes simply so much Ordinary Work that the mower becomes a tireless part of the Mow.
I begin this Diary with a description of a typical walk that coincides with the start of the storms here and the arrival of much-needed storm rain and showers.
I remember the time I went boldly out the front door and a snake was playfully hanging in my face and there were no untoward eventualities other than some hectic sidestepping and back flipping and a soaring increase to my blood pressure.  I go slowly down the new front steps, looking and listening. The local birds are singing like mad. Perhaps it’s because of the rain, the new greenness abounding, everything moving at high revs. This is the Earthrise spring in 2013: droughty and as dry as a chip one week, then Crash Bang Rain and Big Hail, the next. Even the eucalypts are splitting and shedding their barks early this year and the jacarandas too have flowered early. But it’s the birds that are significant: they sound happy, dare I say. Why else would they sing so melodiously? They’ve been doing that for days now, ever since the electrical storms and the thundery showers started. There have been such heavy showers that they broke into the ABC RN weather forecasts and even ensured their getting a mention: “a flood watch for the Bellinger River” (this famous river, this meandering jewel, this serpentine stream bending light; our river, my river). I duck my head and wander through beneath the house and as I come down the track to the lawn level I see the air busy with wee flying beasties and although I can’t be sure quite what they are, that’s unimportant. What’s important is that they’re busy, using airspace, doing their flying thing and probably happily so. To wonder whether flying insects are happily flying is perhaps not a frequent practice in the local community (I’m guessing) but I do it frequently because this is perfectly OK for storytellers and I tend to see myself these days as a teller of stories, some of them true and even newsworthy stories and some that are fictions inspired by being precisely where I am in the world. Perhaps that’s also an Old Age thing? I see too that the air is again showing many silken strands catching the light, some of them anchored, a few drifting in the heavy morning air. These silken strands as we all know have fashionably skinny diameters to be measured in microns yet the rising sun makes them appear to be more than they are. I think of the anchored ones as hunting lines: as webs trap flying insects so might single lines perhaps achieve the same result but don’t quote me because this may merely be a fanciful notion. On the other hand why else would a quite small insect make astonishingly strong silken strands that must be like steel wire cables in the Small Insect World? And it’s early enough also to see a slight river mist rising downstream in the cool wet air. When I reach the road and can see almost clearly beyond the trees and their canopies the sky is pale blue. I come quietly to the bridge. The road surface is loose with broken stones (perfectly normal up here) and no matter how lightly and carefully I walk, some vibrations apparently reach the creatures below in the river’s shallows. When I peek over the edge of the bridge a half meter long eel winds sinuously through the bank weeds on its way to cover beneath the shadow of the bridge and a few meters further along a small school of moderately sized fish, mullet I think, dart away as though my almost silent arrival has been as loud as the vibrations of a passing truck. We humans are excessively noisy. I’m reminded of stalking trout early or late in the day: there is an advantage to be had when you come up behind them because they often hang midstream in faster water: they face upstream in fast or in white water, watching for incoming food, either in the stream or in the air and where their environment is dynamic and noisy. Heavy storm showers have made the river rise quickly; and it’s starting quickly again to fall so that the concrete ford alongside and downstream of the Plain’s Crossing Bridge is reappearing, drying, encouraging the eye to move to the water alongside where very small fish (not the mullet that were of catchable size) are also darting in the shallows and they’re as alert as any trout I’ve seen in colder rivers than this one. Because I live partly in the forest the appropriate place from where I can see straight up to the sky without trees obstructing my view is the far-side (east) approach. There is clear blue sky, at least for a while. I stroll on, camera in hand, its carrying cord tight around my fingers. The storm gutters on each side of the road have bee running and partly now are filled or filling with debris from the roadside and it’s this filling up of the otherwise deep roadside ditches that enables vehicles some purchase when they have to move over to allow passage to vehicles moving in the oppose direction. I have to remember to tell you that all these minutiae are details I feel I need to come to terms with because the story I’m writing is also in parts the true story of what I am able to see when I walk along the road. When driving, the road and the roadside world are seen differently, if you see what I mean and one has to be able to appreciate both views. The driver of any vehicle must necessarily see straight ahead most of the time on this road that is barely single-lane in places and a dodgy almost-two-lanes in others; the walker can pause and then see through windowed foliage what the driver may never see: glimpses past huge clumps of bamboo, my across-the-river neighbor’s picturesque gardens in chiaroscuro light and shade, gardens at their early morning best. The walker also will be more aware or aware in a very different way of loose stones along the road (we are, up here, Beyond the Bitumen and the ‘road’ is crushed aggregate only, well pot-holed, not often graded and compacted, and seldom if ever compacted to optimum density). Here now is a real-life example of a childhood injury fitting into the current drafts of the new story I’m writing. One afternoon in 1940 or 1941 I was riding my pushbike at the side of the bitumen road in Pilgrim’s Rest (the old gold-mining village in the Transvaal). A worker on his way home from the Central Reduction Works passed me going in the opposite direction. Precisely as he passed opposite me one of his car tires caught the edge of a stone on the road and propelled it violently to strike me on the right ankle. The driver was unlikely ever to have known this, but the shock and sudden pain was intense and I’ve remembered it for more than 70 years. At the time I was amazed that there was no break and no permanent damage. That long-ago incident came in handy when I was drafting a short scene in the novel, “Happiness”: one protagonist, during a rehabilitation exercise (having been wounded in the right foot and ankle by shrapnel in Afghanistan), is pushing a bicycle (and using it as a walking frame) along Darkwood Road (i.e., in the road next to Earthrise) when the wheel and tire of a passing car flings a stone that strikes him on the ankle: he stumbles and falls heavily &c &c. I remembered well my own accident as I describe this scene in the draft. The driver in my story who had pulled out to pass the stranger is mother of the principal female protagonist in the story and she provides first aid and in ensuing scenes it becomes clear that this meeting will have been a happy one and the start of subsequent happiness between the ‘victim’ and a family that befriends the soldier; and so forth. 
On another matter entirely: a few more words about birds this November. Each time I walk along the road I see small finches alongside me hopping along the top strand of the barbed wire fence that is the boundary between Darkwood Road and the long Happenstance paddock. Perhaps this is just a coincidence; perhaps not: the little birds seem very aware of me plodding along the dusty road and it’s as if this is a game of sorts for the birds. Noticing this innocent scene also constitutes research if I mention it somewhere in the draft novel. It’s just an observation, something seen in passing that might support some of the prose I write elsewhere in a fiction. Or it might even be serendipity? Wikipedia has something to add here: Serendipity is an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident. Horace Walpole so named a faculty possessed by the heroes of a tale called The Three Princes of Serendip. Naturally I enjoy serendipitous experiences and highly value them when I’m properly aware of them.
While walking I pass the horses and the new foal in the above- mentioned paddock. The foal is getting used to me stopping and gazing, and my seeking a photo. This reminds me that I’ve written a scene set in this paddock and it now needs some repairing (rather than redrafting) because the fictional paddock has accommodated an aircraft taking off and flying out of the valley and I need to arrange to have the fictional horses elsewhere. I need hardly say that flying out of this valley from a paddock may be possible for certain pilots flying particular machines and that such an operation would be dangerous in the extreme: overhead power lines, high trees to 50-m, extremely tight turns, lots of horsepower (sorry) to climb powerfully and fast).  Why not simply exclude the horses from this fictive airfield that’s really a big paddock and so remove all difficulties, do I hear you cry? Because, dear Reader, I want the fiction to approximate the reality, if that’s at all possible. Yes, it’s a novel, a fiction, and that hardly matters; nonetheless, I feel the need to explore umpteen different bits of research to determine whether my fictional aircraft scene has veracity (and that’s all part of the fun of writing).
Having recently included in the Diary the photo of a flowering jacaranda, I’m also aware that the jacaranda is in my neighbour’s paddock, rather than at Earthrise. I might be exploiting my neighbour’s tree, paddock and the horses, so I’d better be more careful lest I’m presented with an Invoice or a Lawsuit (and what if the story is a success, sells like hotcakes and major movie companies fight for the right to make “Happiness” into a Big Motion Picture)? I’ll have to watch my step…
  Seriously, though, I’m not giving away Secrets of the Craft: it seems entirely reasonable for a writer to write what he or she knows, is familiar with to some extent and can also describe more or less competently. On my walks I take photographs, particularly of the river in its different moods and in the present story now being drafted, the river (almost) as character in the narrative plays its part, too. Believe it or not, I generally learn something new every time I walk for exercise, observe and photograph: noticing Potential Literary Stuff is often what I do; it’s part of my life.
A little more on birds: I’ve been pleasantly surprised this month by a shrike thrush that daily sings close to the house. Sometimes these grey quite large songsters potter about on the decks here hunting insects in nooks and crannies: they sing magnificently in a strong complex voice. My bird guide has considerable information, e.g., “The name “shrike-thrush,” a conjunction of the names of two dissimilar families, is not an ideal one for these birds, but until a more suitable alternative becomes popular (perhaps “gudilang” from the Aboriginal) it is preferred here to the alternative “thrush” which suggests even more strongly an untrue relationship. Shrike-thrushes, though plain in plumage, are remarkable for the richness and purity of their songs. Of particular note in tis respect is the tropical Brown-breasted (or Sandstone) Shrike-thrush, whose liquid notes are heightened by echoes among the sandstone gorges.” There is much more, but have a look Online if you’re curious. I think, and can’t be sure, that the species doing a gig here is the Grey Shrike-thrush. Its voice has a: “Wide range of melodious calls based on “pip pip pip pip ho-ee;” harsh “yorick.”  There! That’s what the book advises and it certainly rings a bell for me. (See Peter Slater’s A Field Guide To Australian Birds. Volume Two. Passerines.  Rigby: 1979).
On an oppressively stormy Sunday afternoon, November 10, I glanced up from the keyboard toward the tail end of the rapids and the rocky bank opposite the house: a big fluffy bird had a talon hooked through a silvery fish and was dragging it laboriously over the stones and away from the water. The big ball of fluffy feathers looked like a young sea eagle or osprey; the fish looked surprisingly big and was perhaps an old perch.  I grabbed the camera and craftily eased through the front door, bent over the rail along the deck and tried to get a picture but couldn’t without becoming obvious and interrupting both the bird’s meal and it’s lifestyle. The fish was a good 300-mm or a foot or so long. I couldn’t see either head or tail clearly. The bird held tightly to the fish while glancing about and only started using it’s beak to tear off mouthfuls when it was sure that nothing was about to disturb the kill. I was relieved that nobody appeared for a swim: it was baking hot and the storm was imminent. Nature red in tooth and claw and all that, it seemed. 
Creative Writing
My guest writer this month is Sharon Snir. I’ve included below an excerpt from a longer piece of writing describing Sharon’s home.
Dog Days
Sharon Snir

PK arrived as an 8-weeks old puppy and became our sixth child. For the first few years he found more ways to escape than we thought possible. No sooner had we built a new fence and closed another exit than he would find another way to roam the streets and visit his canine pals. He was our ever-loving loyal companion for fifteen years.  Deeply loved. He was my footrest for the three years I wrote my first book, The 12 Levels of Being and he allowed us to walk over and around him as if he were a breathing rug, especially in the last year or so.
 On his last night, I brought my pillow down and lay on the wooden kitchen floor beside him. His back legs could no longer raise his body. I placed a towel under his rear end because I knew he was humiliated when he could not control himself. It is painful to see a dog in shame. Arm over his old shoulder I whispered that it was time and he would be all right.
We all gathered around him in the morning and called our eldest daughter, Sheli in Israel to be part of the end. The vet, a very kind and compassionate man arrived at 8 am. Each of us thanked PK for giving us such unconditional love. We all placed out hands on him as he turned his head as if to say good-bye to each of us. Orly sat guard over his body wrapped in a pink sheet. We carried him up together, covered him and said a few words. Our three boys and Oren dug a deep hole in the back of the yard. We placed a piece of wood near him and mourned for a few years. I missed him with all my heart.
Five years later Oren and I finally agreed we would buy another dog and tiny sweet Chino arrived. He was my baby and I love him beyond words. Never in my wildest imagination could I have believed I would do with him what I am about to do.  After Daddy died we inherited Beau and after a little time of getting used to each other Chino and Beau became dear and wonderful friends.  They sleep next to each other, eat from the same bowl, walk together and with the exception of the times I allow them upstairs, where Chino lies on our bed and Beau on my meditation rug, they are together all the time.
The time has come to move on. I feel ready to leave this wonderful home but there is pain too. For Oren his need to return to Israel is obvious to those of us who know and love him. It is time to reconnect to his spirit that has patiently waited for his return to the land of his birth. We are going back for a few months to see and touch and taste and feel the healing energy of Israel. And with that decision comes the pain. Not in leaving the house or even Australia, though leaving our granddaughter for a few months will be hard, but having to find a new home for my Chino and his adopted brother Beau, my father’s beloved dog who, rescued at the eleventh hour by my sister, Donna, we inherited when Dad died.  And now: to actually hand him over to another family and say goodbye. He is an amazingly intelligent dog: wise and very chatty. We have talked telepathically since he was a baby and I have told him. He knows. He is not particularly happy about it but he understands. That does not make it any easier for me.  All I want to do is hold him, smell him and tell him I love him.  He came into my life when I was not laughing very much. Oren had retired and life was not flowing easily. I needed a dog and Chino was my fluffy angel. I called him my substitute grandchild.
In a few weeks I will leave this home and close the door for the last time. Will I turn around and shed a tear?  I’m sure I will. I’m sure I will look back and say ‘thank you, thank you, thank you’ for being our sanctuary for the past twenty-three years.
As for the future: I have no idea how it will unfold, but one thing I am sure of, it will be an adventure, a great and wonderful adventure. And I’m ready.
Sharon Snir is an author, psychotherapist and consultant living in Sydney, NSW, Australia


Afterword

I was completing this month’s Diary when a tree branch broke from an old tree next to the house. The crack came from high above, from one of the old eucalypts next to the front steps. The break was loud and clear and was immediately followed by a loud swishing noise: either the top or a big branch was arriving from on high, crown first. Had it fallen butt end first the heavier part might have come through the roof close to where I was working, but it had not and when I went out to have a look I knew the house and I had escaped disaster by a mere couple of meters. I separated the remains with a machete and had to cut the main portion of the branch in three places before I could drag the remnants from the area. Very heavy green branches 150-mm or so in diameter and falling from about 40-m will punch through galvanized steel sheeting as if through paper. Luck or chance here plays its part and has done for almost 30 years. Maybe I’ll be fortunate and lucky a while longer. Being able to write at all is a blessing and one’s writing capabilities benefit from good health and the writer being more or less in one piece. I always reflect solemnly and gratefully on near misses because I’m attempting to publish such writings as I can whilst the going’s good.
Another fast month begins to dwindle and summer rushes in. The weather now is atypical or dramatically new: it once was very different here in spring. I’m assuming that there will never again in our lifetimes be ‘steady, predictable and quite ordinary weather in each season.’ As much as I admire our meteorologists and their fine abilities to accurately forecast the weather, I’m hoping for even more accuracy in the future, viz, one or two minutes warnings on my computer screen that lightning strikes are imminent in the area where I live. I write this tongue in cheek, of course, but wouldn’t it be great if such a facility were available to computer drivers? This month the power has several times failed and then come on again within a couple of seconds; but a couple of times the power has remained off for the more expected extended period, once when I was drafting the story mentioned above. Scary weather is no accident and Global Warming and Climate Change are well and truly upon us. And wouldn’t it be salutary if our politicians could determinedly address these phenomena positively, rather than behaving like mad babies? Fortunately this Mac is able to save what’s being worked on (though I sometimes lose ten or 20 words I hadn’t managed to save before lightning zapped the electricity supply or infrastructure). Losing a long multi-chapter file would be a very bad experience and not at all good for one’s health. Remember how that kind of thing happened only a few years ago and happened to a variety of computers?
We can but hope.
The cicadas have been tuning up and practising their repertoires. The eucalypt barks have been splitting and clattering to ground almost all month: the shedding now seems complete and the trunks shine pristinely in the Wet. The local birds sing as beautifully as ever (whilst putting up with severe thunderstorms, lightning strikes and heavy showers). Darkwood Road and its verges continue slowly to be improved and drivers and riders daily dodge potholes and loose stones and pray for their windscreens. And everything changes; it always has and always will.   
With best wishes and Season’s Greetings to all Diary Readers wherever you may be across our stormy planet, from Don.

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