A few months ago, Spring seemed to have arrived early, but when the calendar rolled on into October, Winter reclaimed our Mountains. The rains we had wished for so fervently began to seem endless - the parched grass and gardens suddenly flourished in a tide of verdancy and blossom, and lower parts of our yard began to squelch underfoot - the frogs loved it, though, as did our Magpie landlords, when the earthworms were forced up to the surface to swim for high ground.
Now, as the final month of Spring approaches, and the soft green leaves burst from the twigs of Plane and Oak and Alder, Summer has charged onto the scene, and the many scaly and feathered denizens of our little vale are getting their sunbaking done early, before the sun begins to bite too hard.
Earlier, as I walked to the village shops, I found one of our resident Magpies "spread-eagled" on a patch of dry mulch at the foot of the hedge. For one horrified moment I looked at a pile of ruffled, outstretched, black and white feathers that looked like it had been put to its rest with a cricket bat, but as soon as I spoke, his head rose. He looked over one fluffed up shoulder as if to say "do you mind?" and settled back to his repose in the sunshine. He was in the shade when I returned, quietly practicing a tune for future display.
I was reminded of a thought that comes to me around this time every year. What a wonder it is to be able to walk down a tree-shaded avenue when the sun is casting so much heat in my direction; if it weren't for those delicate green membranes that stretch out from twig and branch to capture that sunlight, life would be far less pleasant.
The sunlight that would make the pavement too hot to walk upon, or sear the grass and herbs that lurk in the coolness beneath the spreading tree-branches, is caught and broken up by that fragile leaf.
Some is thrown back into the air to give us the lush greens that delight our eyes, and some is locked up in chemical bonds that join simple molecules of water and carbon dioxide into basic sugars, a result of the photosynthetic micro-factories that make up so much of each leaf.
How much of that heat does a leaf gather from the sunlight and conceal in the valence bonds of the sugar it creates?
Put a match to a dried leaf, or to a pile of leaves, come Autumn, and warm your hands by the flame for a while - quite a bit, isn't it? The leaves feed the twigs and branches, and build a world so different from the one that would exist without them. Truly wonderful stuff, all that heat captured and stored safely for future use as food for caterpillars, or sheep, or cattle - or as mulch to nourish and nurture other plants.
Tuesday, 30 October 2018
Monday, 29 October 2018
If a picture paints a thousand words....
If a picture paints a thousand words, how few words can I use to describe succinctly the beauty in an image such as this?
White sunlight shattered and scattered into its rainbow parts, reflecting from blood red Waratah blossoms, framed by translucent copper sprouting along a plum twig, amid shadow-dappled, chlorophyll-glossed leaves breathing verdant life and beauty into the garden.
See how that flower calls to the eye, even from a distance, surrounded and almost hidden by a tangled quilt of branches, twigs, leaves, needles, and shadows. It wants to be seen, no matter how thoroughly the other plants may try to conceal it. Such beauty cries out for a story, and I have encountered several stories explaining the vivid colour of the Waratah.
In one, the flower - once white - is stained red with the blood of a Wonga Pigeon that is wounded by a hawk while seeking its mate. In another, the red is given to the flower by the blood of a Black Snake that is wounded defending a human child of its totem - while a third story has the flower coloured red by a fiery cataclysm of falling stars.
How old are such stories? For how long have our ancestors being weaving words to pass on to their descendants the stories of the beauty of the world we all live in? What is it that drives us to record and describe the world we see - to pass our observations on to those far away in space and time?
What exactly were they trying to tell us with those stories?
Now cameras are now ubiquitous, and many people use pictures with minimal captions or no words at all, allowing the picture to tell the story or ask the question. Are cameras displacing descriptive writing? Often, yes - or so it seems. But what does a picture tell us if there is no story accompanying it, or embedded in it, meshing into a wider culture that the viewer knows and understands?
Before cameras there were other images - before written or printed words, there were images - paintings on cave walls, carvings, images on wood or clay or stone or bark - representations to assist in the remembering and telling of stories. Such methods are still in use, and just as DVDs failed to eliminate vinyl records from the world, and ebooks have had to live along side the paper-leaved books they were supposed to be replacing, modern technology will not eliminate our need to create images with our hands and our tongues.
For, in the end, what do we have with which to show others that we were here, thinking and feeling and loving, but the images we offer in the words we speak or sign, or the images we scratch or draw or paint? And will they understand what we offered them?
White sunlight shattered and scattered into its rainbow parts, reflecting from blood red Waratah blossoms, framed by translucent copper sprouting along a plum twig, amid shadow-dappled, chlorophyll-glossed leaves breathing verdant life and beauty into the garden.
See how that flower calls to the eye, even from a distance, surrounded and almost hidden by a tangled quilt of branches, twigs, leaves, needles, and shadows. It wants to be seen, no matter how thoroughly the other plants may try to conceal it. Such beauty cries out for a story, and I have encountered several stories explaining the vivid colour of the Waratah.
In one, the flower - once white - is stained red with the blood of a Wonga Pigeon that is wounded by a hawk while seeking its mate. In another, the red is given to the flower by the blood of a Black Snake that is wounded defending a human child of its totem - while a third story has the flower coloured red by a fiery cataclysm of falling stars.
How old are such stories? For how long have our ancestors being weaving words to pass on to their descendants the stories of the beauty of the world we all live in? What is it that drives us to record and describe the world we see - to pass our observations on to those far away in space and time?
What exactly were they trying to tell us with those stories?
Now cameras are now ubiquitous, and many people use pictures with minimal captions or no words at all, allowing the picture to tell the story or ask the question. Are cameras displacing descriptive writing? Often, yes - or so it seems. But what does a picture tell us if there is no story accompanying it, or embedded in it, meshing into a wider culture that the viewer knows and understands?
Before cameras there were other images - before written or printed words, there were images - paintings on cave walls, carvings, images on wood or clay or stone or bark - representations to assist in the remembering and telling of stories. Such methods are still in use, and just as DVDs failed to eliminate vinyl records from the world, and ebooks have had to live along side the paper-leaved books they were supposed to be replacing, modern technology will not eliminate our need to create images with our hands and our tongues.
For, in the end, what do we have with which to show others that we were here, thinking and feeling and loving, but the images we offer in the words we speak or sign, or the images we scratch or draw or paint? And will they understand what we offered them?
Thursday, 25 October 2018
Rainy Day Reading
Wet weather, as well as helping the garden, provides a wonderful excuse for settling somewhere dry and comfortable, and reading. This month I indulged in a couple of works about great writers who are no longer with us, and one by another very successful author who is still at it.
As my current "major work" in progress is a crime/thriller, the appearance of "The Lost Detective: Becoming Dashiell Hammett" at the returns desk was just too tempting, and I just had to borrow it.
Whether you are intending to write crime stories or not, this is a worthwhile read - his well known contemporary, Raymond Chandler, described Hammett as "the ace performer".
Nathan Ward takes us deeply into the life of this great writer, and the swirling, chaotic life of the United States during the first four decades of the twentieth century - he shows us a man with deep flaws, incredible determination and persistance in the face of dreadful setbacks, and amazing story-telling abilities.
He also takes us into the murky world of US politics at a time when organized labour movements were engaged in frequent, often violent, conflict with employers. Hammett's brief experiences as an operative with the Pinkerton Agency are a real eye-opener, and left him deeply disillusioned with many aspects of society, authority, and politics. It gave me, as an Australian, a deeper understanding of the reasons behind the way many crime-writers have portrayed authority figures in the US.
Another slim volume - "No Time to Spare" by Ursula K Le Guin - is a collection of excerpts from her blog, and was published shortly before her death. Not much I can say about it other than it is really worth a read.
She was a great writer, her blogging - taken up late in life, with a certain degree of reluctance - is fascinating, and whether you are an aspiring writer, or simply a lover of her work, this is worth a look. It even gave this Non-Cat Person some new and interesting insights into the life and thought processes of cats. To my children and step-children - this is not a request for a kitten, ok?
For those who are aspiring writers, including those who may turn their nose up at his work, can I also recommend Stephen King's memoir - On Writing? I enjoyed some of his earlier works, have not read many of his later ones, but this book - another slim volume - is excellent, for many reasons. The first part is mostly memoir, and even if you feel you do not need or wish to know the story of his life, persist - it meshes deeply with the "how to write" part. If you skip the first half, you will end up wanting to double back, so take the time up front.
One part of King's book gave me great satisfaction; I have often told people that a novella he wrote early on, using the pseudonym "Richard Bachman" and called "The Long Walk"was his best piece - I was tickled to find him declaring that he too regarded it as his finest work.
As my current "major work" in progress is a crime/thriller, the appearance of "The Lost Detective: Becoming Dashiell Hammett" at the returns desk was just too tempting, and I just had to borrow it.
Whether you are intending to write crime stories or not, this is a worthwhile read - his well known contemporary, Raymond Chandler, described Hammett as "the ace performer".
Nathan Ward takes us deeply into the life of this great writer, and the swirling, chaotic life of the United States during the first four decades of the twentieth century - he shows us a man with deep flaws, incredible determination and persistance in the face of dreadful setbacks, and amazing story-telling abilities.
He also takes us into the murky world of US politics at a time when organized labour movements were engaged in frequent, often violent, conflict with employers. Hammett's brief experiences as an operative with the Pinkerton Agency are a real eye-opener, and left him deeply disillusioned with many aspects of society, authority, and politics. It gave me, as an Australian, a deeper understanding of the reasons behind the way many crime-writers have portrayed authority figures in the US.
Another slim volume - "No Time to Spare" by Ursula K Le Guin - is a collection of excerpts from her blog, and was published shortly before her death. Not much I can say about it other than it is really worth a read.
She was a great writer, her blogging - taken up late in life, with a certain degree of reluctance - is fascinating, and whether you are an aspiring writer, or simply a lover of her work, this is worth a look. It even gave this Non-Cat Person some new and interesting insights into the life and thought processes of cats. To my children and step-children - this is not a request for a kitten, ok?
For those who are aspiring writers, including those who may turn their nose up at his work, can I also recommend Stephen King's memoir - On Writing? I enjoyed some of his earlier works, have not read many of his later ones, but this book - another slim volume - is excellent, for many reasons. The first part is mostly memoir, and even if you feel you do not need or wish to know the story of his life, persist - it meshes deeply with the "how to write" part. If you skip the first half, you will end up wanting to double back, so take the time up front.
One part of King's book gave me great satisfaction; I have often told people that a novella he wrote early on, using the pseudonym "Richard Bachman" and called "The Long Walk"was his best piece - I was tickled to find him declaring that he too regarded it as his finest work.
Friday, 19 October 2018
Looking Up
Two weeks ago I was enjoying the verdancy produced by the late September rains, while worrying it would not be enough to break the drought. 196 mm of rain later (almost 8 inches) and two almost continuous weeks of low cloud, rain, and dampness creeping into everything, and the lake is overflowing, the creek is carrying tons of water over the Falls towards Lake Burragorang, and life is flourishing. The true owners of our Spring garden are now over-running all corners of it.....
The constant downpours sent many of the marauding molluscs up the tree trunks, but the flood they were fleeing did not eventuate, and now they are coming back down to munch on the tastier parts of the vegetation.....
The rain of this month alone has deposited almost 600,000 litres of water - 600 tons - on our property, and more is seeping in from the places uphill. The frogs are calling in great numbers, the birds are excited, and I am jumping at sudden skittering noises among the leaves, as I walk around the place.
After encountering that Copperhead a few weeks ago, my snake-alertness levels have risen. Also rising fast are the numbers of tiny Skinks that are seeking warmth and food in every corner of the garden. So far, the rustling and skittering has all been from those tiny, scaly slivers of lizard, dashing for cover as I crash about. Their parents and grandparents seem to know me well enough not to bother spoiling their sunbaking when I pass, but the tiny ones seem to fear everything that moves - and rightly so, as many of our birds would see them as a perfect snack for the squalling nestlings constantly calling for food, and the smaller snakes, too, would not pass up such opportunities.
When I walk to the village in the mornings, I often pass some time chatting with our local baker - if that is the right term, as he does a lot more than just bread and pastries. He has been cooking german style food in the same place for decades, and is known well beyond this neighbourhood. The other morning, as he was opening the big, canvas umbrellas that shelter the outdoor tables between his front door and the street, he told me that one of the things he loves about Australia is that, no matter what the season, he always has flowers in his garden.
He's right - we live in a wonderfully fortunate place. His home town was somewhere well into the hills and forests of Bavaria, and he has often told tales of the great depths of snow that would pile up around and upon the buildings. At times, it was possible to open a window on the upper floor of his mother's house and step straight out onto level snow. That depth of cold is unthinkable to someone like me, who grew up on the Cumberland Plain, and was astounded if there was frost on the lawn.
Here in the Blue Mountains, which most Sydney-siders regard as the cold place up the other end of the M4 Motorway, we see seasonal waves of brilliant blossom roll through our gardens, providing highlights above and amid a constant flourishing of so many different plants, native and exotic. In fact, the poorest time for blossoms is late Summer, when even the "cold" mountains can wilt under 35 to 45 degree (Celsius) heatwaves, and week-long blasts of hot wind from the interior of the continent.
Still, late Summer is a great time for the Roses, and, in my back garden, there will usually be a sea of yellow as the Pumpkins - intentional and self sown - make their annual dash for immortality, and keep the bees happy in the process. It is a wonderful world we live in, may we all treat it kindly.
The constant downpours sent many of the marauding molluscs up the tree trunks, but the flood they were fleeing did not eventuate, and now they are coming back down to munch on the tastier parts of the vegetation.....
The rain of this month alone has deposited almost 600,000 litres of water - 600 tons - on our property, and more is seeping in from the places uphill. The frogs are calling in great numbers, the birds are excited, and I am jumping at sudden skittering noises among the leaves, as I walk around the place.
After encountering that Copperhead a few weeks ago, my snake-alertness levels have risen. Also rising fast are the numbers of tiny Skinks that are seeking warmth and food in every corner of the garden. So far, the rustling and skittering has all been from those tiny, scaly slivers of lizard, dashing for cover as I crash about. Their parents and grandparents seem to know me well enough not to bother spoiling their sunbaking when I pass, but the tiny ones seem to fear everything that moves - and rightly so, as many of our birds would see them as a perfect snack for the squalling nestlings constantly calling for food, and the smaller snakes, too, would not pass up such opportunities.
When I walk to the village in the mornings, I often pass some time chatting with our local baker - if that is the right term, as he does a lot more than just bread and pastries. He has been cooking german style food in the same place for decades, and is known well beyond this neighbourhood. The other morning, as he was opening the big, canvas umbrellas that shelter the outdoor tables between his front door and the street, he told me that one of the things he loves about Australia is that, no matter what the season, he always has flowers in his garden.
He's right - we live in a wonderfully fortunate place. His home town was somewhere well into the hills and forests of Bavaria, and he has often told tales of the great depths of snow that would pile up around and upon the buildings. At times, it was possible to open a window on the upper floor of his mother's house and step straight out onto level snow. That depth of cold is unthinkable to someone like me, who grew up on the Cumberland Plain, and was astounded if there was frost on the lawn.
Here in the Blue Mountains, which most Sydney-siders regard as the cold place up the other end of the M4 Motorway, we see seasonal waves of brilliant blossom roll through our gardens, providing highlights above and amid a constant flourishing of so many different plants, native and exotic. In fact, the poorest time for blossoms is late Summer, when even the "cold" mountains can wilt under 35 to 45 degree (Celsius) heatwaves, and week-long blasts of hot wind from the interior of the continent.
Still, late Summer is a great time for the Roses, and, in my back garden, there will usually be a sea of yellow as the Pumpkins - intentional and self sown - make their annual dash for immortality, and keep the bees happy in the process. It is a wonderful world we live in, may we all treat it kindly.
Monday, 8 October 2018
It's Not What You Know......
.... it's who you know. A trite old cliche, perhaps, but far more apt than many in power like to admit to anyone outside of that circle of people that they know.
A quarter of a century ago, British anthropologist Robin Dunbar proposed a relationship between the size of the human neo-cortex and the number of relationships with other people that a typical person could comfortably maintain. He suggested 150 would be about the right number.
Others have suggested as low as 100 or as high as almost 300, but there seems to be agreement among scientists that there is a limit to how many people one person can comfortably know and relate to. For some of us, those relationships might be mapped on a set of concentric circles, with our family and loved ones close around us at the bullseye, and the remainder - friends, colleagues, neighbours, team-mates - distributed across the rings. Others might view those relationships in the form of a web, or perhaps as a pyramid, with themselves at the apex.
If Dunbar's Number is accurate at 150 relationships, consider that the current population of our planet is approximately fifty million times that number - that is 50,000,000 lots of Dunbar's Number. In Australia, the difference is about one hundred and seventy thousand - 170,000 - times Dunbar's Number. Our National Parliament contains 150 Representatives - one Dunbar - and the Senate contains 76 Senators - half a Dunbar.
So a member of our Federal Parliament is going to be expected to be able to talk to all of the other politicians in the House and Senate, as well as his or her own staff, and the senior staff of the House or Senate, and various other senior staff working for other Members or Senators, or for various Departments and Agencies, as well as to non-elected members of their own Party, including, especially, those Party members back in their electorate - upon whose continuing good will the Member will be relying for future campaign support and pre-selection votes.
Did I forget to mention the various Very Important Donors and Lobbyists with whom the politician will be expected to chat, drink, eat, and generally socialize?
Worst of all, I seem to have forgotten the Member's family - who might surely be expecting some continuing social and familial intercourse and support. That's alright, though, as a number of Members also appear to forget their families, so I can't be blamed for my omission, and it can be hard to apportion care, compassion, and fellow feeling to people beyond one's own Dunbar Limit.
What's my point, you ask? Well, it is that the public perception that the average politician, once ensconced in Canberra (or Macquarie Street, or where ever it is they went after the votes were counted), seems to forget about the needs and wants of the electors who sent them into Parliament is supported by the science.
Their brains - specifically their neo-cortexes - are not up to the task of remembering the rest of us, as it is all they can do to keep track of the faces they encounter each day in the Corridors of Power.
Should we feel sorry for them? Possibly; at least, we could feel as sorry for them as they do for us.....
A quarter of a century ago, British anthropologist Robin Dunbar proposed a relationship between the size of the human neo-cortex and the number of relationships with other people that a typical person could comfortably maintain. He suggested 150 would be about the right number.
Others have suggested as low as 100 or as high as almost 300, but there seems to be agreement among scientists that there is a limit to how many people one person can comfortably know and relate to. For some of us, those relationships might be mapped on a set of concentric circles, with our family and loved ones close around us at the bullseye, and the remainder - friends, colleagues, neighbours, team-mates - distributed across the rings. Others might view those relationships in the form of a web, or perhaps as a pyramid, with themselves at the apex.
If Dunbar's Number is accurate at 150 relationships, consider that the current population of our planet is approximately fifty million times that number - that is 50,000,000 lots of Dunbar's Number. In Australia, the difference is about one hundred and seventy thousand - 170,000 - times Dunbar's Number. Our National Parliament contains 150 Representatives - one Dunbar - and the Senate contains 76 Senators - half a Dunbar.
So a member of our Federal Parliament is going to be expected to be able to talk to all of the other politicians in the House and Senate, as well as his or her own staff, and the senior staff of the House or Senate, and various other senior staff working for other Members or Senators, or for various Departments and Agencies, as well as to non-elected members of their own Party, including, especially, those Party members back in their electorate - upon whose continuing good will the Member will be relying for future campaign support and pre-selection votes.
Did I forget to mention the various Very Important Donors and Lobbyists with whom the politician will be expected to chat, drink, eat, and generally socialize?
Worst of all, I seem to have forgotten the Member's family - who might surely be expecting some continuing social and familial intercourse and support. That's alright, though, as a number of Members also appear to forget their families, so I can't be blamed for my omission, and it can be hard to apportion care, compassion, and fellow feeling to people beyond one's own Dunbar Limit.
What's my point, you ask? Well, it is that the public perception that the average politician, once ensconced in Canberra (or Macquarie Street, or where ever it is they went after the votes were counted), seems to forget about the needs and wants of the electors who sent them into Parliament is supported by the science.
Their brains - specifically their neo-cortexes - are not up to the task of remembering the rest of us, as it is all they can do to keep track of the faces they encounter each day in the Corridors of Power.
Should we feel sorry for them? Possibly; at least, we could feel as sorry for them as they do for us.....
Thursday, 4 October 2018
Not What it Looks Like
The aridity of late Winter was eased by early Spring rains - more rain is falling on The Mountains, and across The City on The Plain as I sit and watch the birds fossicking amid the falling petals...
There was wind yesterday, scattering petals in sudden gusts that made the parrots and rosellas sound the alarm and flee for the trees along the creek, like minnows scattering when a pebble lands amid the school. It is rarely very long before they are back at the feeder, squabbling over precedence like petty politicians at the annual photo-op with the VIP. If the birds were absent for more than a minute or two I would be outside, hoping to see a hawk or eagle circling - not that they would be seeing much today...
As lush as our garden has suddenly become, and as damp as everything looks, there is no extra water running down the creek to the Kedumba River and the great reservoir behind Warragamba Dam. Our lake at the head of the valley is still lower than I have ever seen it, and will need inches of rain to lift it to the level of the overflow - sorry, Sydney, we are keeping all of this batch for ourselves.
We promise to enjoy it, though...
Perhaps there will be apricots before Christmas.....
There was wind yesterday, scattering petals in sudden gusts that made the parrots and rosellas sound the alarm and flee for the trees along the creek, like minnows scattering when a pebble lands amid the school. It is rarely very long before they are back at the feeder, squabbling over precedence like petty politicians at the annual photo-op with the VIP. If the birds were absent for more than a minute or two I would be outside, hoping to see a hawk or eagle circling - not that they would be seeing much today...
As lush as our garden has suddenly become, and as damp as everything looks, there is no extra water running down the creek to the Kedumba River and the great reservoir behind Warragamba Dam. Our lake at the head of the valley is still lower than I have ever seen it, and will need inches of rain to lift it to the level of the overflow - sorry, Sydney, we are keeping all of this batch for ourselves.
We promise to enjoy it, though...
Perhaps there will be apricots before Christmas.....
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