Charles Darwin, part way through his five year voyage on the HMS Beagle, arrived in Sydney only 48 years after the First Fleet. Within a few days of his arrival, he was riding westwards to the new inland city of Bathurst, stopping around midday at an inn called Weatherboard.
It was located not far from my home, on the banks of Jamison Creek, and the area is now Wentworth Falls. Darwin detoured to see the already famous falls, and wrote much in his journal about the remarkable landscape through which he was travelling.
To commemorate the 200th anniversary of his birth, Cambridge University Press published an anniversary edition of Charles Darwin in Australia. It is a fascinating work, containing many facsimile exerpts of entries in his notebooks and journals, as well as drawings by such famous artists as Conrad Martens - a former shipmate of Darwin who had taken up residence in the colony of New South Wales.
Darwin's visit predates the existence of such technology as cameras, so the illustrations in the book are taken from paintings and drawings by artists such as Martens. Other artists are drawn upon to provide images of the scenery Darwin saw, as well as the plants and animals. One who is mentioned in the book is "the famous artist, John Gould" - another acquaintance of Darwin.
Yet, according to SLNSW Curator Margot Riley, Sydney Morning Herald, 2017-12-27, most of the illustrations in Gould's Birds of Australia were done by his wife, Elizabeth. Riley states that "Gould was not an artist" and that Elizabeth Gould's "exquisite work became almost totally eclipsed by the fame of her husband" - John designed the plates for his book, and carefully supervised their production, but the artwork was hers.
Elizabeth did the 84 plates while raising six children, and when she died, John Gould employed a number of artists and illustrators to fill her role in the production of his books. It seems somehow sad that brilliant artists like Elizabeth were so often consigned by cultural mores of their times to walk in the shadows.
Wednesday, 31 January 2018
Sunday, 28 January 2018
Quiet
Can you operate successfully in the noisy, busy world of modern civilization, yet, when the opportunity presents itself, happily do your own thing in solitude? When the music has been cranked up, and the party is raging, are you one of those people who is happier outside at the edge of the venue, talking to one or two other like-minded people? Or perhaps you aren't talking at all, but observing the behaviour of the other party goers - maybe taking notes (mental or on paper) for your next short story or novel.
We occupy a world that has seen a century in which Salesmanship and Showmanship have come to be far more valued than ethics and honesty - appearance valued more than integrity and substance - and success at any cost has become the guiding principle for a large percentage of the business and political operators of today.
Loud, bright, shiny, and colourful are the qualities looked for by too many recruiters and promoters, and, sadly, voters - and those of us who appreciate the gentle noise of a breeze in a forest, the calm crackle of a small campfire, the song of water searching for a way to the ocean, and the calm conversation of thoughtful friends, are often left wondering if there is something deficient in our psychological make up.
Because we prefer to work on our own, or with one or two trusted, like-minded collaborators, we begin to think that we are a rarity, an oddity - that humans are meant to have loud, aggressive, abrasive, in-your-face, look-at-me, aren't-I-wonderful, personalities. A significant part of the human race is like that, but far from all of it. Introverts are everywhere, and though they are frequently drowned out by the bustle and noise of the extroverts, and even looked down on by the extrovers as less capable, they are often the ones who are achieving more, while making far less fuss.
Susan Cain has written an interesting book called Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking - and she makes a convincing case in this TED talk for the worth of the quiet people of this world.
She charts the rise of the "extrovert" and personality obsessed culture of the United States that began in the 19th century and ramped up in the early 20th with the rise of people like Dale Carnegie (How to win friends and influence people) as well as other drivers in the psychological fields - much of it less science than opinion. The many and varied "Self Help and Actualisation Movements" that have flourished and spread around the world have focused on instilling into their followers the personality traits and characteristics of extroverts - and those traits do not sit well with introverts.
Cain points to the research that shows that even we introverts can make the mistake of thinking that the extrovert is somehow more capable or competent in positions of power or command, when, in fact, such personalities can too easily push on, compounding their initial mistakes with further errors, and leading their followers or organisation to disaster.
I can recommend Quiet as an antidote to the constant pressure from the modern media - social and commercial - that says we should follow the extrovert road instead of that lovely, quiet, interesting, introvert path that might take us to far more interesting places. It contains chapters that look at a wide range of research into the psychology, neurology, and brain chemistry of human beings, and will help its readers take a few more steps along the road to understanding ourselves and those around us.
We occupy a world that has seen a century in which Salesmanship and Showmanship have come to be far more valued than ethics and honesty - appearance valued more than integrity and substance - and success at any cost has become the guiding principle for a large percentage of the business and political operators of today.
Loud, bright, shiny, and colourful are the qualities looked for by too many recruiters and promoters, and, sadly, voters - and those of us who appreciate the gentle noise of a breeze in a forest, the calm crackle of a small campfire, the song of water searching for a way to the ocean, and the calm conversation of thoughtful friends, are often left wondering if there is something deficient in our psychological make up.
Because we prefer to work on our own, or with one or two trusted, like-minded collaborators, we begin to think that we are a rarity, an oddity - that humans are meant to have loud, aggressive, abrasive, in-your-face, look-at-me, aren't-I-wonderful, personalities. A significant part of the human race is like that, but far from all of it. Introverts are everywhere, and though they are frequently drowned out by the bustle and noise of the extroverts, and even looked down on by the extrovers as less capable, they are often the ones who are achieving more, while making far less fuss.
Susan Cain has written an interesting book called Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking - and she makes a convincing case in this TED talk for the worth of the quiet people of this world.
She charts the rise of the "extrovert" and personality obsessed culture of the United States that began in the 19th century and ramped up in the early 20th with the rise of people like Dale Carnegie (How to win friends and influence people) as well as other drivers in the psychological fields - much of it less science than opinion. The many and varied "Self Help and Actualisation Movements" that have flourished and spread around the world have focused on instilling into their followers the personality traits and characteristics of extroverts - and those traits do not sit well with introverts.
Cain points to the research that shows that even we introverts can make the mistake of thinking that the extrovert is somehow more capable or competent in positions of power or command, when, in fact, such personalities can too easily push on, compounding their initial mistakes with further errors, and leading their followers or organisation to disaster.
I can recommend Quiet as an antidote to the constant pressure from the modern media - social and commercial - that says we should follow the extrovert road instead of that lovely, quiet, interesting, introvert path that might take us to far more interesting places. It contains chapters that look at a wide range of research into the psychology, neurology, and brain chemistry of human beings, and will help its readers take a few more steps along the road to understanding ourselves and those around us.
Friday, 26 January 2018
Homo Narrans, waving the flag, or not.
The text books refer to humans as Homo Sapiens - Man the wise - but there are many who think we are better named as Homo Narrans - Man the storyteller. How crucial to each of us is our story - who we think we are, where we think we came from, and where we think we are going.
If you don't think this is so, consider the orphan - how often people who discover that they are orphans will go to incredible lengths to find their biological parents. The library shelves are thick with books describing the journeys of people in search of their stories, their ancestry, their families; fiction, non-fiction, memoir, or biography, they are among the most borrowed books in the collection.
Perhaps, deep down, we all have an instinct for just how much of our family story - our people's story - has gone missing in transmission. Stories are lost when illness, accident, plague, war, or disaster come unexpectedly upon a people.
If you are the bearer of a name such as Griffiths, Weekes, Weadon, Jones, or Davies, then there will be gaps in the stories of you and your past, as the Cymro went through a time, not so long ago, where they were forbidden the use of their own language even in their own land, Cymru, and thus, the proper telling of their stories. Even now, most of us will call your ancestors The Welsh - a name derived from a Saxon word for foreigner - thus naming them as strangers in their own land, as less worthy than those who conquered.
Are you perhaps a Campbell, a Riley or a Munro? How many stories were extinguished from among the tales of your ancestors as the armies of the Romans and the Danes and the Saxons and the Norman kings marched to and fro across the green hills or Britain and Ireland. How many more stories were wiped from memory in the mud of Flanders, or The Blitz, or on the beaches of Normandy?
How fascinated have we been, over the years, by the books and movies that tell us some part of those stories that have fallen out of our family trees? How many peoples, all around the world, are presently struggling to keep alive their story, their tongue, their tales - often in the face of conquest either military or economic?
There is hardly a place on this planet that has not suffered the bitter storms of conflict and conquest at some time in recent centuries, many are presently in the throes of such horror as we sit here - and in most of those places, there are survivors, trying desperately to keep their story alive. Their stories are no less worthy of being told or being heard because they or their ancestors were outnumbered or outgunned or susceptible to the deseases brought by the invaders.
In Australia, the descendants of those who were here before 1788 have kept alive a wonderful fund of stories to offer to the national story, despite the terrible holes torn in the ranks of their story tellers by bullets, germs, poison, and dispossession. It is terrible to think of how much was lost during those times.
There are many still living among the First Peoples who recall being punished for speaking in their own language, just as the Welsh were, years ago, in Wales, and so many others were, or are, in other places around the world. It is not the only place such things have happened, and, sadly, it is likely to happen again in other times and places.
Here in Australia, on Australia Day, there are still those - even among those who govern - who are trying to pretend that the voices of those that were here before 1788 should not be heard, that their stories should not, or need not be told, or, if they feel they must tell them, that they should speak them softly, so as not to offend. The nation would be a richer and better place if all its stories, of all its people, were given equal places in the greater tale that is Australia.
If you don't think this is so, consider the orphan - how often people who discover that they are orphans will go to incredible lengths to find their biological parents. The library shelves are thick with books describing the journeys of people in search of their stories, their ancestry, their families; fiction, non-fiction, memoir, or biography, they are among the most borrowed books in the collection.
Perhaps, deep down, we all have an instinct for just how much of our family story - our people's story - has gone missing in transmission. Stories are lost when illness, accident, plague, war, or disaster come unexpectedly upon a people.
If you are the bearer of a name such as Griffiths, Weekes, Weadon, Jones, or Davies, then there will be gaps in the stories of you and your past, as the Cymro went through a time, not so long ago, where they were forbidden the use of their own language even in their own land, Cymru, and thus, the proper telling of their stories. Even now, most of us will call your ancestors The Welsh - a name derived from a Saxon word for foreigner - thus naming them as strangers in their own land, as less worthy than those who conquered.
Are you perhaps a Campbell, a Riley or a Munro? How many stories were extinguished from among the tales of your ancestors as the armies of the Romans and the Danes and the Saxons and the Norman kings marched to and fro across the green hills or Britain and Ireland. How many more stories were wiped from memory in the mud of Flanders, or The Blitz, or on the beaches of Normandy?
How fascinated have we been, over the years, by the books and movies that tell us some part of those stories that have fallen out of our family trees? How many peoples, all around the world, are presently struggling to keep alive their story, their tongue, their tales - often in the face of conquest either military or economic?
There is hardly a place on this planet that has not suffered the bitter storms of conflict and conquest at some time in recent centuries, many are presently in the throes of such horror as we sit here - and in most of those places, there are survivors, trying desperately to keep their story alive. Their stories are no less worthy of being told or being heard because they or their ancestors were outnumbered or outgunned or susceptible to the deseases brought by the invaders.
In Australia, the descendants of those who were here before 1788 have kept alive a wonderful fund of stories to offer to the national story, despite the terrible holes torn in the ranks of their story tellers by bullets, germs, poison, and dispossession. It is terrible to think of how much was lost during those times.
There are many still living among the First Peoples who recall being punished for speaking in their own language, just as the Welsh were, years ago, in Wales, and so many others were, or are, in other places around the world. It is not the only place such things have happened, and, sadly, it is likely to happen again in other times and places.
Here in Australia, on Australia Day, there are still those - even among those who govern - who are trying to pretend that the voices of those that were here before 1788 should not be heard, that their stories should not, or need not be told, or, if they feel they must tell them, that they should speak them softly, so as not to offend. The nation would be a richer and better place if all its stories, of all its people, were given equal places in the greater tale that is Australia.
Thursday, 25 January 2018
Sculpture by the Lake
When you are strolling through the parkland on the southern shore of Wentworth Falls Lake, you will pass a number of weather-greyed, curiously shaped sculptures. Some are low to the ground, and others stand tall - some are bulky, some slender or sinuous. All were once bright new pieces of sandstone, and images of them in that state can be found here.
Around twenty years ago, a team of sculptors set to work on those lumps of stone as they stood around the park. Under the eyes of the onlookers who passed through, and the picnickers who stopped for a while, the stones were transformed into representations of the seeds or seedpods of various trees, shrubs, and ferns that grew on the slopes around the lake.
16 artists each fashioned one sculpture according to their interpretation of the seed they had studied, and the results still intrigue visitors today. There is also a book that was published by Blue Mountains City Council, and compiled by Gabriella Hegyes that gives more details on the history of the project, and each of the artists - many of them being locals.
These are three of the sixteen sculptures that catch the eye of visitors to our beautiful lake - some of them are not as easy to find as they once were, for the trees and shrubs have grown over the decades.
They are there, though, and worth searching for - you need to move slowly and observantly, and in the process, you may find so much else of interest.
Juncus usitatus - Common Rush - by Nick Dorrer
Around twenty years ago, a team of sculptors set to work on those lumps of stone as they stood around the park. Under the eyes of the onlookers who passed through, and the picnickers who stopped for a while, the stones were transformed into representations of the seeds or seedpods of various trees, shrubs, and ferns that grew on the slopes around the lake.
Banksia serrata - Old Man Banksia - by Maija Collishaw
16 artists each fashioned one sculpture according to their interpretation of the seed they had studied, and the results still intrigue visitors today. There is also a book that was published by Blue Mountains City Council, and compiled by Gabriella Hegyes that gives more details on the history of the project, and each of the artists - many of them being locals.
Glleichenia dicarpa - Pouched Coral Fern - by Mary Anderson
These are three of the sixteen sculptures that catch the eye of visitors to our beautiful lake - some of them are not as easy to find as they once were, for the trees and shrubs have grown over the decades.
They are there, though, and worth searching for - you need to move slowly and observantly, and in the process, you may find so much else of interest.
Sunday, 21 January 2018
When the Landlords Come Calling
Along with Drop Bears, deadly spiders, poisonous snakes, and sharks that queue up for their turn to eat surfers, one of the most internationally known and feared denizens of the plethora of lethal Aussie wildlife is the magpie. Aussies as well as tourists are brought up on a diet of stories that paint magpies, like snakes, as aggressive beasts that are waiting for any opportunity to attack.
Take my own example, in the picture below, of what can happen if the hapless Aussie homeowner makes the mistake of leaving the screen door open for even a few seconds......
Well, in truth, it is an instance of just how intelligent these birds are. Though they try very hard to seem fearsome when defending their nestlings for a few months each year (and yes, injuries have happened, eyes damaged, blood drawn) for the most part they are, if spoken to the right way, friendly, happy birds who get along well with humans - albeit on their own terms. They had seen me outside, had spoken to me, and I had spoken back. When I came inside to find some food for them, they followed. When I pointed out the door and told them to go outside, they did. Do they speak English? I doubt it - but they seem to read intent from tone of voice, body language, and gesture, just as cats and dogs seem to do.
As for ferocity - I have seen them chased off the veranda rail by a brown cuckoo dove who felt he had more right to be there, and have watched them playing tag with toddler grandchildren. The magpies in the picture are part of a family that we refer to as our landlords. Our house is one of several within their territory.
They regularly fly down to our front door and sing to us until offered a little bit of minced meat - our rent, so to speak. From their vantage point at the kitchen window they can see where the mince is kept - in the refrigerator - and as soon as we go to the frig to get it out, they become excited, and shift their position to the front door. If we are too slow to respond, they will fly to other windows, looking in, and sometimes gently tapping on the glass.
Magpies can remember individual human faces for years, and will learn new songs from humans who still retain the skill of whistling. I have found them, during the warmer parts of the day, sitting in a shady spot, practicing not only their regular, beautiful carolling, but also the songs of other birds from around the neighbourhood.
As well as the magpies, there are doves, rosellas, wattle birds, kookaburras, butcher birds, currawongs, king parrots, honey-eaters, ducks, and a swirl of other little birds, that all come, at some time or another, to sit on our veranda rail, or fossick through our gardens in pursuit of sustenance and shelter.
They are not pets - we don't own them. If anything, they own us - a part of us, at least, that would be less without their company. They seem to grow used to our presence, and to be able to identify our normal patterns of behaviour. The magpies, for example, long ago learned to follow me into the garden if I am carrying a fork or hoe. They will stand only inches away from my boots, waiting to pounce on any worm or grub that my digging turns up.
The king parrots are another remarkable bird, and I suspect they have a memory and intelligence every bit as good as that of the magpies. They, too, address their communications directly to whichever of us is present - looking us in the eye and using particular whistles and calls.
It is a source of great pleasure and joy to have the company of these creatures. They come and go according to their own schedules and priorities, but they seem to know us as having our own place withing their territories. We seem to have been classified as fellow inhabitants of the natural space they dwell in, instead of being regarded as predators.
Take my own example, in the picture below, of what can happen if the hapless Aussie homeowner makes the mistake of leaving the screen door open for even a few seconds......
Well, in truth, it is an instance of just how intelligent these birds are. Though they try very hard to seem fearsome when defending their nestlings for a few months each year (and yes, injuries have happened, eyes damaged, blood drawn) for the most part they are, if spoken to the right way, friendly, happy birds who get along well with humans - albeit on their own terms. They had seen me outside, had spoken to me, and I had spoken back. When I came inside to find some food for them, they followed. When I pointed out the door and told them to go outside, they did. Do they speak English? I doubt it - but they seem to read intent from tone of voice, body language, and gesture, just as cats and dogs seem to do.
As for ferocity - I have seen them chased off the veranda rail by a brown cuckoo dove who felt he had more right to be there, and have watched them playing tag with toddler grandchildren. The magpies in the picture are part of a family that we refer to as our landlords. Our house is one of several within their territory.
They regularly fly down to our front door and sing to us until offered a little bit of minced meat - our rent, so to speak. From their vantage point at the kitchen window they can see where the mince is kept - in the refrigerator - and as soon as we go to the frig to get it out, they become excited, and shift their position to the front door. If we are too slow to respond, they will fly to other windows, looking in, and sometimes gently tapping on the glass.
Magpies can remember individual human faces for years, and will learn new songs from humans who still retain the skill of whistling. I have found them, during the warmer parts of the day, sitting in a shady spot, practicing not only their regular, beautiful carolling, but also the songs of other birds from around the neighbourhood.
As well as the magpies, there are doves, rosellas, wattle birds, kookaburras, butcher birds, currawongs, king parrots, honey-eaters, ducks, and a swirl of other little birds, that all come, at some time or another, to sit on our veranda rail, or fossick through our gardens in pursuit of sustenance and shelter.
They are not pets - we don't own them. If anything, they own us - a part of us, at least, that would be less without their company. They seem to grow used to our presence, and to be able to identify our normal patterns of behaviour. The magpies, for example, long ago learned to follow me into the garden if I am carrying a fork or hoe. They will stand only inches away from my boots, waiting to pounce on any worm or grub that my digging turns up.
The king parrots are another remarkable bird, and I suspect they have a memory and intelligence every bit as good as that of the magpies. They, too, address their communications directly to whichever of us is present - looking us in the eye and using particular whistles and calls.
It is a source of great pleasure and joy to have the company of these creatures. They come and go according to their own schedules and priorities, but they seem to know us as having our own place withing their territories. We seem to have been classified as fellow inhabitants of the natural space they dwell in, instead of being regarded as predators.
Friday, 19 January 2018
What's all the Crying About?
Mid Summer - The gardens are flourishing, though the pumpkin vines are running riot in every direction, threatening to overwhelm the more genteel vegetables.
Some are even threatening to rise up and strangle the apple trees. I like pumpkins in the winter, and I like apples in the autumn - some hard choices and selective pruning will soon be in order. But that's not what I came here to talk about today. It's not the sights in and around my garden that have me wondering, but the sounds.
From dawn till dusk, there are two juvenile channel-billed cuckoos out there - sometimes in the trees beyond the creek, sometimes in a tree outside my bedroom window - begging, whinging, and generally harassing the poor unfortunate currawong who found herself saddled with them this year. At times it can sound so like the cry of a human baby that I have to go looking through the garden to be sure it is only the bird.
Normally this currawong raises one chick of her own and keeps it close and hidden in the trees along the creek, but something went wrong this year. The koels had been circling the tree that the magpies had nested in, and, after much conflict and many alarms, the magpies seem to have abandoned the idea of child-raising this year. Perhaps she was busy watching the fuss on the other side of the railway line and didn't notice the cuckoo intruder on her side.
But the noise, what a cacaphony! It brings me to something I have wondered about before, but never had so many instances of it to compare as I have now. There is a tone to the pleadings of the juvenile cuckoos, as well as that of juvenile currawongs, magpies, puppies, kittens, lambs, and humans, that is so similar, though it issues from such dissimilar creatures. Few of us can resist responding to the desperate, disturbing cries of a baby, and not just human babies, but so many other babies of the animal world, who use a similar sound to express their distress, and to call for help. There are many instance recorded in various ways of cross species mothering, as canines care for baby felines, cats for puppies, and so on.
Our mother currawong, for example, brings food to the begging cuckoo, but hesitates each time, until the cries from the young bird become absolutely frantic. With her own chicks, the food is offered instantly - she knows there is something wrong about this one, but has raised this creature from a little ball of downy fluff, and cannot resist the impassioned and desperate pleading. Our Magpie landlords are not impressed, and if she brings them near the house, they are quick to sound the alarm, and swoop in to drive them away.
Earlier, as I walked through the village, having bought milk and bread for the grandchildren I knew would be visiting a bit later in the day, I found myself instinctively turning around everytime some child yelled "grandma" or "grandpa" - it happened several times, as Wentworth Falls and its cafes attracts many families during the school holidays. Most of us seem to be affected by it, as I saw other heads turning, too.
There have been papers and articles aplenty over the years looking at the topic, for example, this one here As the wonderful Professor Sumner-Miller used to so often say, all those year ago "Why is it so?" There was an excellent story teller - eccentric, and at times erratic, but we knew that he would take us to interesting conclusions, so we were happy to sit through those moments in return for the drama in the middle, and the interesting conclusions.
Having trouble telling your own story? So was I, this morning - the temperature outside, and in, is soaring beyond any reasonable level for the Mountains, and I am weary from too much furniture moving and driving (an adult child on the move) but, as usual, once the words begin to flow, I remember the joy that comes at the finish of each creative effort. The effort of working is never as bad as the pain of anticipating the work - though I have to admit that if the weather were cooler, I would have found it much harder to abandon the garden for the keyboard.
Some are even threatening to rise up and strangle the apple trees. I like pumpkins in the winter, and I like apples in the autumn - some hard choices and selective pruning will soon be in order. But that's not what I came here to talk about today. It's not the sights in and around my garden that have me wondering, but the sounds.
From dawn till dusk, there are two juvenile channel-billed cuckoos out there - sometimes in the trees beyond the creek, sometimes in a tree outside my bedroom window - begging, whinging, and generally harassing the poor unfortunate currawong who found herself saddled with them this year. At times it can sound so like the cry of a human baby that I have to go looking through the garden to be sure it is only the bird.
Normally this currawong raises one chick of her own and keeps it close and hidden in the trees along the creek, but something went wrong this year. The koels had been circling the tree that the magpies had nested in, and, after much conflict and many alarms, the magpies seem to have abandoned the idea of child-raising this year. Perhaps she was busy watching the fuss on the other side of the railway line and didn't notice the cuckoo intruder on her side.
But the noise, what a cacaphony! It brings me to something I have wondered about before, but never had so many instances of it to compare as I have now. There is a tone to the pleadings of the juvenile cuckoos, as well as that of juvenile currawongs, magpies, puppies, kittens, lambs, and humans, that is so similar, though it issues from such dissimilar creatures. Few of us can resist responding to the desperate, disturbing cries of a baby, and not just human babies, but so many other babies of the animal world, who use a similar sound to express their distress, and to call for help. There are many instance recorded in various ways of cross species mothering, as canines care for baby felines, cats for puppies, and so on.
Our mother currawong, for example, brings food to the begging cuckoo, but hesitates each time, until the cries from the young bird become absolutely frantic. With her own chicks, the food is offered instantly - she knows there is something wrong about this one, but has raised this creature from a little ball of downy fluff, and cannot resist the impassioned and desperate pleading. Our Magpie landlords are not impressed, and if she brings them near the house, they are quick to sound the alarm, and swoop in to drive them away.
Earlier, as I walked through the village, having bought milk and bread for the grandchildren I knew would be visiting a bit later in the day, I found myself instinctively turning around everytime some child yelled "grandma" or "grandpa" - it happened several times, as Wentworth Falls and its cafes attracts many families during the school holidays. Most of us seem to be affected by it, as I saw other heads turning, too.
There have been papers and articles aplenty over the years looking at the topic, for example, this one here As the wonderful Professor Sumner-Miller used to so often say, all those year ago "Why is it so?" There was an excellent story teller - eccentric, and at times erratic, but we knew that he would take us to interesting conclusions, so we were happy to sit through those moments in return for the drama in the middle, and the interesting conclusions.
Having trouble telling your own story? So was I, this morning - the temperature outside, and in, is soaring beyond any reasonable level for the Mountains, and I am weary from too much furniture moving and driving (an adult child on the move) but, as usual, once the words begin to flow, I remember the joy that comes at the finish of each creative effort. The effort of working is never as bad as the pain of anticipating the work - though I have to admit that if the weather were cooler, I would have found it much harder to abandon the garden for the keyboard.
Monday, 15 January 2018
The Age Old Conflict - Everything Old is News Again
Story and denial, fact and counter-fact, news and fake news - the call and response of society and politics in this world of hi-tech, high-speed communications is loud, complex, and confusing.
While the truth rests on the editor's desk, scrutinized by the fact-checkers and the lawyers, the rumours, spin, and propaganda are already spreading like a blizzard of termite queens seeking new homes as the summer afternoon storms approach.
Only some will find a fertile place to lodge, but those that do will feed and breed in the darkness, spreading out to consume and corrupt the structure that took them in. Soon, unprotected, adjacent premises are being eaten away from within, and the rot spreads.
Every story we read, whether it be labelled Fiction or Non Fiction, contains varying quantities of objective reality and subjective truths, blended by the author to achieve a certain aim, and interpreted by each reader according to their own experience-based filters. Many an author (or poet, or movie maker) has been utterly astounded by the meanings that readers have taken from his or her work - many readers are astounded when the author declares that "that is not what I meant by those words"
But, we live by stories - they make a foundation that underpins our lives, and offer us ways to understand the swirling world around us. Stories offer us hope in the grim times, and hold up the warning hand of bitter experience as a caution against our naive optimisms.
Like the great cables of twisted rope that hold the ocean liner fast to the dock, the vast story of humanity contains within it so many twists of lesser stories, wound about each other in complex spirals that add strength to the whole.
Or like a tapestry stretching the length of human existence, only partly visible to us in the light of the present, and always under construction at the edge that leads into the shadows of the future, the stories add strength, colour, and sometimes even pattern, to the whole.
Flawed stories, stories in which truth is twisted or absent, stories darkened by malice or anger or envy, stories twisted by the teller for personal gain - all these stories can mar the patterns of the great tapestry, or weaken the cable. Stories of fear and despair make the world a smaller, darker place. If such stories are being told by people in positions of great power, the damage wrought can be much greater, too.
Tell your story, add some light and colour to the larger story - read or listen to the light-filled stories of others, and join your thread with theirs to brighten the picture of the future. The human story grows and brightens when such stories are added to the weave.
Your story contains the stories - at least in part - of those who you knew or lived with or worked with or watched or read about, just as the present is built on and from the past, yet also shaped by the stories we tell ourselves about our futures.
It is too easy for the dominant stories of the day to overshadow the many stories being told by fainter voices - yet those stories, less widely known but far greater in number, have made their own unique contributions to the greater picture, and deserve our remembrance.
Consider books such as Radical Sydney and its associated blog, that try to keep alive stories of Sydney, recent and ancient, that often contradict the "official" line, and might have otherwise faded from view. Those who seek to impose their paradigm on a culture or society often try to bury the stories that present opposing viewpoints, but dissenting stories can be very hard to stamp out.
Consider the fiction of Robert G Barrett - though many of his later works contained fantastical elements, they also contained traces of those same stories of the other Sydney, while his early books and short stories painted scenes and portraits that would be instantly recognisable to anyone who worked or lived around the eastern suburbs of Sydney in the seventies. Only the names were changed, and some of by not very much.
As a parting thought, I've heard it said that the Silly Season in Australia begins on Melbourne Cup Day, and ends on Australia Day. It seemed an odd thing to say, for a moment, but then the memories began to flood back - of holidays and parties and birthdays and bushfires and sunburn and storms - and it suddenly seemed apt, because no matter what the weather or the world situation was trying to throw at us at the time, there was always, somewhere, a bunch of Aussies throwing a party or putting on a barbecue.
Yet the beginning and the end of the Season are marked by days about which so many different and often conflicting stories are told. For every story of victory at the races there is at least one opposing story of fortunes lost, or horses or jockeys killed or maimed - and as for Australia Day, if you don't know about the conflicting stories gathering around that day then, what can I say. You must have been partying extra hard not to have noticed that particular barney.
While the truth rests on the editor's desk, scrutinized by the fact-checkers and the lawyers, the rumours, spin, and propaganda are already spreading like a blizzard of termite queens seeking new homes as the summer afternoon storms approach.
Only some will find a fertile place to lodge, but those that do will feed and breed in the darkness, spreading out to consume and corrupt the structure that took them in. Soon, unprotected, adjacent premises are being eaten away from within, and the rot spreads.
Every story we read, whether it be labelled Fiction or Non Fiction, contains varying quantities of objective reality and subjective truths, blended by the author to achieve a certain aim, and interpreted by each reader according to their own experience-based filters. Many an author (or poet, or movie maker) has been utterly astounded by the meanings that readers have taken from his or her work - many readers are astounded when the author declares that "that is not what I meant by those words"
But, we live by stories - they make a foundation that underpins our lives, and offer us ways to understand the swirling world around us. Stories offer us hope in the grim times, and hold up the warning hand of bitter experience as a caution against our naive optimisms.
Like the great cables of twisted rope that hold the ocean liner fast to the dock, the vast story of humanity contains within it so many twists of lesser stories, wound about each other in complex spirals that add strength to the whole.
Or like a tapestry stretching the length of human existence, only partly visible to us in the light of the present, and always under construction at the edge that leads into the shadows of the future, the stories add strength, colour, and sometimes even pattern, to the whole.
Flawed stories, stories in which truth is twisted or absent, stories darkened by malice or anger or envy, stories twisted by the teller for personal gain - all these stories can mar the patterns of the great tapestry, or weaken the cable. Stories of fear and despair make the world a smaller, darker place. If such stories are being told by people in positions of great power, the damage wrought can be much greater, too.
Tell your story, add some light and colour to the larger story - read or listen to the light-filled stories of others, and join your thread with theirs to brighten the picture of the future. The human story grows and brightens when such stories are added to the weave.
Your story contains the stories - at least in part - of those who you knew or lived with or worked with or watched or read about, just as the present is built on and from the past, yet also shaped by the stories we tell ourselves about our futures.
It is too easy for the dominant stories of the day to overshadow the many stories being told by fainter voices - yet those stories, less widely known but far greater in number, have made their own unique contributions to the greater picture, and deserve our remembrance.
Consider books such as Radical Sydney and its associated blog, that try to keep alive stories of Sydney, recent and ancient, that often contradict the "official" line, and might have otherwise faded from view. Those who seek to impose their paradigm on a culture or society often try to bury the stories that present opposing viewpoints, but dissenting stories can be very hard to stamp out.
Consider the fiction of Robert G Barrett - though many of his later works contained fantastical elements, they also contained traces of those same stories of the other Sydney, while his early books and short stories painted scenes and portraits that would be instantly recognisable to anyone who worked or lived around the eastern suburbs of Sydney in the seventies. Only the names were changed, and some of by not very much.
As a parting thought, I've heard it said that the Silly Season in Australia begins on Melbourne Cup Day, and ends on Australia Day. It seemed an odd thing to say, for a moment, but then the memories began to flood back - of holidays and parties and birthdays and bushfires and sunburn and storms - and it suddenly seemed apt, because no matter what the weather or the world situation was trying to throw at us at the time, there was always, somewhere, a bunch of Aussies throwing a party or putting on a barbecue.
Yet the beginning and the end of the Season are marked by days about which so many different and often conflicting stories are told. For every story of victory at the races there is at least one opposing story of fortunes lost, or horses or jockeys killed or maimed - and as for Australia Day, if you don't know about the conflicting stories gathering around that day then, what can I say. You must have been partying extra hard not to have noticed that particular barney.
Friday, 12 January 2018
A Blast From the Past
Unless you cross the Blue Mountains by way of Bell's Line of Road, your journey does not take you through Lithgow, but rather through the burgeoning suburban sprawl of Bowenfels, to the south and west of Lithgow proper. The Great Western Highway, multi-laned as it passes Lithgow, swoops and dives in and out of gullies and river valleys, and sweeps around the shoulders of hills on its approach and its departure.
In the winter, bare oak branches and smokey fireplaces give a sense of age and permanency to the place, yet nothing is where it once was. The Western Highway once came nowhere near Lithgow as it angled south west of Hartley before straightening to run due west across the hills as far as Campbell's River, and then cutting north into Bathurst, along the west bank of the Macquarie River.
Lithgow began to gain in significance as coal, and then iron ore, were discovered, mined, and smelted, in the late 1800's. In 1901, the first steel poured in Australia came from the Eskbank works at Lithgow. Around 1906, construction commenced on what was, for seven years, Australia's only blast furnace, the remains of which still stand.
It took until 1929 for the Great Western Highway to be realigned to pass close to Lithgow, and then out to Wallerawang and Portland, before climbing over Mount Lambie. By then, the long-sighted were already contemplating the likelyhood of another Great War, and Lithgow became even more important, having had, since 1912, the Lithgow Small Arms Factory at its centre.
Thirty years after the Small Arms Factory opened, Australia was not only at war with the expected enemy - Germany - but facing assault from a Japanese military that had some of the most effective air power on the planet at the time. The Factory - source of so much of the weaponry and ammunition that kept Australian troops in the fight - was no longer safely tucked away in the hinterland, protected by a mountain range, an army, and distance, from any seaborn assault.
By 1942 it was obvious that if a Japanese carrier force were to reach the waters off Sydney, the Small Arms Factory at Lithgow would be an obvious and easily attainable target. If you know where to look, there are three sets of concrete bunkers and gun emplacements that were built in the hills around Lithgow, with the purpose of fending off such an assault.
Two are now derelict and over grown, lurking high on the ridges to the east - above the Zig Zag Railway near Clarence - and south - near the road to Hassan's Walls. The other - more or less to the west - has been restored, and has three 3.7 inch guns in place. It is thought that the guns now in the bunkers were made in Canada or Britain, as Australia manufactured only static versions of this weapon, and these ones are the mobile version.
It was hoped that the batteries would interfere with any high level bombing attack that might be launched against the town, should one penetrate that far inland without being broken up RAAF fighters (should any have been available near Sydney at the time).
The battery at Bowenfels can be reached by leaving the GWH at Kirkley Street and driving a short distance. It is worth a short walk to stand among the concrete and masonry bunkers and gun emplacements in which the soldiers waited each day for an attack that, thankfully, never arrived. Since its restoration, it must be one of the best presented of the World War II sites in Australia.
My grandfather travelled down from Leura to work, late in the war, in the Small Arms Factory, alongside so many other Australians - the damage that a squadron of Japanese bombers could have done to the factory and surrounding homes does not bear thinking about.
Now, small factories, homes, schools, a hospital, and retirement housing, is spreading across the hillsides around the site, which was once ensconced in cow paddocks well outside the town it was defending. It's hard to imagine war ever coming this close to Australian homes again.
In the winter, bare oak branches and smokey fireplaces give a sense of age and permanency to the place, yet nothing is where it once was. The Western Highway once came nowhere near Lithgow as it angled south west of Hartley before straightening to run due west across the hills as far as Campbell's River, and then cutting north into Bathurst, along the west bank of the Macquarie River.
Lithgow began to gain in significance as coal, and then iron ore, were discovered, mined, and smelted, in the late 1800's. In 1901, the first steel poured in Australia came from the Eskbank works at Lithgow. Around 1906, construction commenced on what was, for seven years, Australia's only blast furnace, the remains of which still stand.
It took until 1929 for the Great Western Highway to be realigned to pass close to Lithgow, and then out to Wallerawang and Portland, before climbing over Mount Lambie. By then, the long-sighted were already contemplating the likelyhood of another Great War, and Lithgow became even more important, having had, since 1912, the Lithgow Small Arms Factory at its centre.
Thirty years after the Small Arms Factory opened, Australia was not only at war with the expected enemy - Germany - but facing assault from a Japanese military that had some of the most effective air power on the planet at the time. The Factory - source of so much of the weaponry and ammunition that kept Australian troops in the fight - was no longer safely tucked away in the hinterland, protected by a mountain range, an army, and distance, from any seaborn assault.
By 1942 it was obvious that if a Japanese carrier force were to reach the waters off Sydney, the Small Arms Factory at Lithgow would be an obvious and easily attainable target. If you know where to look, there are three sets of concrete bunkers and gun emplacements that were built in the hills around Lithgow, with the purpose of fending off such an assault.
Two are now derelict and over grown, lurking high on the ridges to the east - above the Zig Zag Railway near Clarence - and south - near the road to Hassan's Walls. The other - more or less to the west - has been restored, and has three 3.7 inch guns in place. It is thought that the guns now in the bunkers were made in Canada or Britain, as Australia manufactured only static versions of this weapon, and these ones are the mobile version.
It was hoped that the batteries would interfere with any high level bombing attack that might be launched against the town, should one penetrate that far inland without being broken up RAAF fighters (should any have been available near Sydney at the time).
The battery at Bowenfels can be reached by leaving the GWH at Kirkley Street and driving a short distance. It is worth a short walk to stand among the concrete and masonry bunkers and gun emplacements in which the soldiers waited each day for an attack that, thankfully, never arrived. Since its restoration, it must be one of the best presented of the World War II sites in Australia.
My grandfather travelled down from Leura to work, late in the war, in the Small Arms Factory, alongside so many other Australians - the damage that a squadron of Japanese bombers could have done to the factory and surrounding homes does not bear thinking about.
Now, small factories, homes, schools, a hospital, and retirement housing, is spreading across the hillsides around the site, which was once ensconced in cow paddocks well outside the town it was defending. It's hard to imagine war ever coming this close to Australian homes again.
Monday, 1 January 2018
Room for Mountains Writers
I recently had the pleasure of attending the official opening of the WestWords Western Sydney Writer's Rooms, also known as Katoomba: The Den 24/7
The well-appointed writer's space is situated in the basement of Gallery One88, and was officially launched on Saturday 16th December, before a large gathering of local writers and artists.
Welcome to country was beautifully spoken and sung by Uncle Lex Dadd, after which, local author Libby Gleeson – one of the original founders of the institution - gave an introduction to the history and purpose of Westwords and the writer's rooms and writing programs established under its auspices.
Well known local authors, Tohby Riddle and Jennifer Rowe – known for her works as Emily Rodda, amongst other things – also addressed the crowd.
Though officially a 'basement', the writer's room is a large space, well decorated with local artworks and furnished with a number of large, comfortable writing desks. Information about access, fees, membership, and services (including free wi-fi), can be found at the Westwords website.
The space is set up in co-operation with the owners of Gallery One88, and can be accessed 24/7 by writers who have signed up with Westwords for a weekly, monthly, or six monthly membership.
The Blue Mountains is an area awash with creativity, being home to many writers and artists of varying degrees of fame or notoriety. For those of you who might be seeking the fellowship of other aspiring writers in The Mountains, it can also be found at such places as The Blue Mountains Writers who meet at Springwood on the first Sunday of each month, or a less formal group of writers who meet at Katoomba Library from 1pm to 3pm on the second Sunday of each month (if interested, turn up with a pen and some paper, and say hello - we don't bite) Examples of some of the work from this group can be found on the Library page Writers in The Mist as well as on other pages of this blog, or these blogs - Offerings from the Wellspring and Musings from The Mountains.
Varuna House is another dedicated writers space that is worth keeping in contact with, as they host a number of interesting events every year, as well as offering scholarships and programs to assist aspiring writers, while the NSW Writers Centre offers lots of useful resources, as does the Australian Society of Authors.
We all carry a folder full of stories around inside us - let some of your stories out to play. Better still, take them out in the company of other writers, like the ones you will find in the writer's groups, or at the writers rooms. Writing only seems like it should be a solitary art until you have had the pleasure of working with other like-minded people, and discovering that you are not alone - we are all makers of stories, and the right writing company may help you find stories you did not know you had.
The well-appointed writer's space is situated in the basement of Gallery One88, and was officially launched on Saturday 16th December, before a large gathering of local writers and artists.
Welcome to country was beautifully spoken and sung by Uncle Lex Dadd, after which, local author Libby Gleeson – one of the original founders of the institution - gave an introduction to the history and purpose of Westwords and the writer's rooms and writing programs established under its auspices.
Well known local authors, Tohby Riddle and Jennifer Rowe – known for her works as Emily Rodda, amongst other things – also addressed the crowd.
Though officially a 'basement', the writer's room is a large space, well decorated with local artworks and furnished with a number of large, comfortable writing desks. Information about access, fees, membership, and services (including free wi-fi), can be found at the Westwords website.
The space is set up in co-operation with the owners of Gallery One88, and can be accessed 24/7 by writers who have signed up with Westwords for a weekly, monthly, or six monthly membership.
The Blue Mountains is an area awash with creativity, being home to many writers and artists of varying degrees of fame or notoriety. For those of you who might be seeking the fellowship of other aspiring writers in The Mountains, it can also be found at such places as The Blue Mountains Writers who meet at Springwood on the first Sunday of each month, or a less formal group of writers who meet at Katoomba Library from 1pm to 3pm on the second Sunday of each month (if interested, turn up with a pen and some paper, and say hello - we don't bite) Examples of some of the work from this group can be found on the Library page Writers in The Mist as well as on other pages of this blog, or these blogs - Offerings from the Wellspring and Musings from The Mountains.
Varuna House is another dedicated writers space that is worth keeping in contact with, as they host a number of interesting events every year, as well as offering scholarships and programs to assist aspiring writers, while the NSW Writers Centre offers lots of useful resources, as does the Australian Society of Authors.
We all carry a folder full of stories around inside us - let some of your stories out to play. Better still, take them out in the company of other writers, like the ones you will find in the writer's groups, or at the writers rooms. Writing only seems like it should be a solitary art until you have had the pleasure of working with other like-minded people, and discovering that you are not alone - we are all makers of stories, and the right writing company may help you find stories you did not know you had.
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