I've been watching the covereage of the Queensland floods.
Why do reporters ask such inane questions of people in times of crisis? How do they expect people to feel when their homes have been washed away in the floodwaters, when they have seen their neighbours' houses smashed by a torrent, when they have watched helpless as a car and its occupants float by? By all means, ask what happened, but don't ask "How are you feeling?" I'm surprised no-one has turned on the reporters and said "How the bloody hell do you think I am feeling?" Or maybe some have, but they are not the bits that get shown.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The transforming power of light
1.
Who’d come and paint sweet Dora Creek?
Leave out the rubbish
Scattered by the bin,
And at night, the corner shop’s bright flashing light
Hot pink and blue.
A mini homage to
some greater sign –
Kings Cross perhaps? Or Piccadilly?
Plastic chairs and tables don’t quite
Channel Paris despite umbrellas on the pavement.
Customers in thongs and baggy sweats slump slobbily
Over frothy coffee. After three o’clock the louts-in-waiting
Scoff their hot chips and crumple coke cans.
Next year,
like their older brothers, will they smash the panes
of the telephone booth and screech wheelies down the street?
Leave out the black marks and shards of glass when you paint
pretty Dora Creek.
Attend instead to the pastel patches—
Those shimmering smudges which nudge the bank.
Reflection sweetens both tired old shacks
and flash new homes with boats to match.
2.
Lakeside,
Wangi Workers shines its own bright beacon,
calling to the tired and the bored,
to visitors and long-term locals and those
newly-retired at nearby Wangi Shores.
Roast offerings of lamb and pork and beef
(with chips and veg and gravy ladled over),
cheap Chinese, and monster chicken schnitzel
Are provided.
Order and eat under fluorescent glare.
In other rooms, yet more lights attract:
Beer signs beam steadily from the bar,
A band pumps colours in a rhythm different to its sound and
Beyond a part-glass door, the pokies flash their charms.
Outside, the neon glows.
Fractured light ripples past the quiet boats
To meet the moon.
Who’d come and paint sweet Dora Creek?
Leave out the rubbish
Scattered by the bin,
And at night, the corner shop’s bright flashing light
Hot pink and blue.
A mini homage to
some greater sign –
Kings Cross perhaps? Or Piccadilly?
Plastic chairs and tables don’t quite
Channel Paris despite umbrellas on the pavement.
Customers in thongs and baggy sweats slump slobbily
Over frothy coffee. After three o’clock the louts-in-waiting
Scoff their hot chips and crumple coke cans.
Next year,
like their older brothers, will they smash the panes
of the telephone booth and screech wheelies down the street?
Leave out the black marks and shards of glass when you paint
pretty Dora Creek.
Attend instead to the pastel patches—
Those shimmering smudges which nudge the bank.
Reflection sweetens both tired old shacks
and flash new homes with boats to match.
2.
Lakeside,
Wangi Workers shines its own bright beacon,
calling to the tired and the bored,
to visitors and long-term locals and those
newly-retired at nearby Wangi Shores.
Roast offerings of lamb and pork and beef
(with chips and veg and gravy ladled over),
cheap Chinese, and monster chicken schnitzel
Are provided.
Order and eat under fluorescent glare.
In other rooms, yet more lights attract:
Beer signs beam steadily from the bar,
A band pumps colours in a rhythm different to its sound and
Beyond a part-glass door, the pokies flash their charms.
Outside, the neon glows.
Fractured light ripples past the quiet boats
To meet the moon.
Online again in 2011
2010 has been and gone, and most of 2009 before it - without me having posted here. So much for my '(almost)daily' intentions. So with the new year, new intentions.
Part of the problem has been that if I limit the focus of this to local and personal happenings, I run out of things to write. There's only so many times I can comment on the flowers and rainbows - lovely though they are. Although some people can make a lifetime's work out of local and parochial commentary. Or paintings, or poems or sculptures on a limited range of subjects... as they perfect their skills, or find infinite variety and beauty and challenge in a small domain.
Not that everything here is beautiful, and I have been reluctant to comment on that which is less attractive. I don't want to offend anyone with whom I might have to interact - being perhaps a bit of a coward - and this is a small place. Being a small place, it has its limitations. Being a small place, it has its advantages.
We had various friends and family come visit over the holiday period. Some came for lunch on different days, some came to stay a day or two. Everyone comments on how peaceful and lovely it is, and over the last week it has been particularly lovely, with long sunny hot days, the creek and my pool sparkling and the big birds - probably white-bellied sea eagles - soaring high on the thermals. The fish have been jumping furiously in the late afternoons - jumping for insects, for life, or for joy - who can tell? We sit down on the jetty and enjoy a cup of tea or a cool drink at the end of the day , watching the light change on the the trees and the water and the peace is interrupted by splash after splash after splash of leaping fish. Each day they seem to come a little closer to the jetty: yesterday B said if we held out a landing net one was sure to jump straight into it.
All our city visitors enjoy the chance to see the wildlife. There are the fish, and a variety of birds. As well as the eagles we see cockatoos, lorikeets, corellas, herons, magpies, crows, Native and Indian Minors, butcher birds. We hear the Koels - I like their repetitive liquid tones, but B doesn't, and I have heard bell birds occasionally. There are many more birds including pelicans, black swans, and cormorants. And there are the lizards. We have large water dragons hiding out under the jetty. They like to stretch out along the sea wall to soak up the sunshine. The dogs like to chase them off the sea wall and into the water. First thing in the morning when I let the dogs out they are off to the bottom of the garden barking and scaring the lizards. We also have blue-tongue lizards hiding out under the pool side decking and the dogs like to scare them up too. Fortunately, the lizards are quick to scurry.
So those are some of the charms. Less attractive - and part of the price for living in a semi-rural area - is the smell of manure on a still, hot summer night. There are cows in the fields across the creek, but the smell probably comes from the chicken-raising sheds up the hill. There are a few in this area. Chicken shit is great for the garden, but in industrial quantities it sure raises a pong. If there is a wind, we don't smell anything, but on a calm night the odour can be distinctive. And it's those same warm calm nights when we really appreciate being able to sit outside and dine alfresco. Fortunately we don't smell it often - either that or our olfactory systems are quickly desensitize to the smell.
Even less attractive than the side-effects of a staple food production are the ugly behaviours of the human animal. There's the loutish behaviours of the bored young boys (and probably some girls) who are out late, unsupervised, probably a bit the worse for drink. There's the odd bit of graffiti, the odd bit of vandalism, and the broken glass and empty bottles and cans strewn in the park areas along the creek - they haven't even bothered to put their rubbish in the adjacent bins. Then there's the too-loud music played until 4 in the morning by someone along the street or up the hill with a hugely powerful bass system: no melody to be heard, but the thump thump thump of drums reverberates through my whole house and body. It doesn't happen often, but when it does I get really, really angry.
I lie in bed and fantasise how I might get my own back on these insensitive noisemakers.
Sometimes I imagine sneaking up to the culprit's house and just flipping the switches in the electricity box so that nothing works and it cannot be turned back on. Other times I imagine giving them a dose of their own medicine: blasting them at close quarters with a bit of full-on Wagner or brass band, or police siren sounds. I imagine waiting for a different time of day, mid morning, perhaps, when they are in recovery mode, and then cranking up the biggest system I can find, with a monster megaphone funneling sounds at maximum volume straight into their room. (The megaphone is a special design so that the sound is only heard where it is directed.) Part of that fantasy is that the sound JUST KEEPS ON GOING AND THEY CANNOT ESCAPE and I don't let up until they are grovellingly sincere in their promise that they will never inflict their noise on me again.
But of course, I never actually do anything. I drift in and out of sleep and am too tired during my awake moments to get out of bed and find which house the noise is coming from. Unless I have developed a migraine, in which case I am too ill to get out of bed to do anything except heave in the bucket. Funny how the throb of the migraine tries to synchronise with the throb of the music; and fails because this 'music' has such an asynchronous non-rhythm.
But as I said, it doesn't happen often. Generally this is a quiet and peaceful and lovely place to be, and the biggest noise at the moment is the splashing of the fish and the sounds of the cicadas. Did you know that cicadas make the loudest noise of all insects? At over 120 Db the Green Grocer cicada can hurt the human ear. So next time the local human noise makers annoy me I think I'll fill their house with a truckload of singing cicadas.
Part of the problem has been that if I limit the focus of this to local and personal happenings, I run out of things to write. There's only so many times I can comment on the flowers and rainbows - lovely though they are. Although some people can make a lifetime's work out of local and parochial commentary. Or paintings, or poems or sculptures on a limited range of subjects... as they perfect their skills, or find infinite variety and beauty and challenge in a small domain.
Not that everything here is beautiful, and I have been reluctant to comment on that which is less attractive. I don't want to offend anyone with whom I might have to interact - being perhaps a bit of a coward - and this is a small place. Being a small place, it has its limitations. Being a small place, it has its advantages.
We had various friends and family come visit over the holiday period. Some came for lunch on different days, some came to stay a day or two. Everyone comments on how peaceful and lovely it is, and over the last week it has been particularly lovely, with long sunny hot days, the creek and my pool sparkling and the big birds - probably white-bellied sea eagles - soaring high on the thermals. The fish have been jumping furiously in the late afternoons - jumping for insects, for life, or for joy - who can tell? We sit down on the jetty and enjoy a cup of tea or a cool drink at the end of the day , watching the light change on the the trees and the water and the peace is interrupted by splash after splash after splash of leaping fish. Each day they seem to come a little closer to the jetty: yesterday B said if we held out a landing net one was sure to jump straight into it.
All our city visitors enjoy the chance to see the wildlife. There are the fish, and a variety of birds. As well as the eagles we see cockatoos, lorikeets, corellas, herons, magpies, crows, Native and Indian Minors, butcher birds. We hear the Koels - I like their repetitive liquid tones, but B doesn't, and I have heard bell birds occasionally. There are many more birds including pelicans, black swans, and cormorants. And there are the lizards. We have large water dragons hiding out under the jetty. They like to stretch out along the sea wall to soak up the sunshine. The dogs like to chase them off the sea wall and into the water. First thing in the morning when I let the dogs out they are off to the bottom of the garden barking and scaring the lizards. We also have blue-tongue lizards hiding out under the pool side decking and the dogs like to scare them up too. Fortunately, the lizards are quick to scurry.
So those are some of the charms. Less attractive - and part of the price for living in a semi-rural area - is the smell of manure on a still, hot summer night. There are cows in the fields across the creek, but the smell probably comes from the chicken-raising sheds up the hill. There are a few in this area. Chicken shit is great for the garden, but in industrial quantities it sure raises a pong. If there is a wind, we don't smell anything, but on a calm night the odour can be distinctive. And it's those same warm calm nights when we really appreciate being able to sit outside and dine alfresco. Fortunately we don't smell it often - either that or our olfactory systems are quickly desensitize to the smell.
Even less attractive than the side-effects of a staple food production are the ugly behaviours of the human animal. There's the loutish behaviours of the bored young boys (and probably some girls) who are out late, unsupervised, probably a bit the worse for drink. There's the odd bit of graffiti, the odd bit of vandalism, and the broken glass and empty bottles and cans strewn in the park areas along the creek - they haven't even bothered to put their rubbish in the adjacent bins. Then there's the too-loud music played until 4 in the morning by someone along the street or up the hill with a hugely powerful bass system: no melody to be heard, but the thump thump thump of drums reverberates through my whole house and body. It doesn't happen often, but when it does I get really, really angry.
I lie in bed and fantasise how I might get my own back on these insensitive noisemakers.
Sometimes I imagine sneaking up to the culprit's house and just flipping the switches in the electricity box so that nothing works and it cannot be turned back on. Other times I imagine giving them a dose of their own medicine: blasting them at close quarters with a bit of full-on Wagner or brass band, or police siren sounds. I imagine waiting for a different time of day, mid morning, perhaps, when they are in recovery mode, and then cranking up the biggest system I can find, with a monster megaphone funneling sounds at maximum volume straight into their room. (The megaphone is a special design so that the sound is only heard where it is directed.) Part of that fantasy is that the sound JUST KEEPS ON GOING AND THEY CANNOT ESCAPE and I don't let up until they are grovellingly sincere in their promise that they will never inflict their noise on me again.
But of course, I never actually do anything. I drift in and out of sleep and am too tired during my awake moments to get out of bed and find which house the noise is coming from. Unless I have developed a migraine, in which case I am too ill to get out of bed to do anything except heave in the bucket. Funny how the throb of the migraine tries to synchronise with the throb of the music; and fails because this 'music' has such an asynchronous non-rhythm.
But as I said, it doesn't happen often. Generally this is a quiet and peaceful and lovely place to be, and the biggest noise at the moment is the splashing of the fish and the sounds of the cicadas. Did you know that cicadas make the loudest noise of all insects? At over 120 Db the Green Grocer cicada can hurt the human ear. So next time the local human noise makers annoy me I think I'll fill their house with a truckload of singing cicadas.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Reading and writing and rain
Today it really feels as though summer is over. I woke to the sound of heavy rain on the roof: a brief but dense shower which means I did not have to worry about watering the garden and pot plants. I had been warm during the night, so much so that I had thrown off my duvet, but I felt cold at 4:30 AM. My alarm went off at seven, but I snuggled down in the half dark and dozed, listening to the news bulletins and then the morning classical music program. Of course I did get up eventually, rubbing the grits of sleep from my eyes, brushing the night breath from my teeth, scrambling through my knicker drawers for clean undies, and dragging on the relatively clean clothes I had warned last night. After all there was no need to dress for anyone: B is away enjoying the subtropics of Noosa, leaving me in some peace and quiet so that I can get on with my first lot of assignments of the year.
I took the car in for a service, and whiled away my waiting time reading Jeanette Winterson's "Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit". I'd started this last night, and was so captivated by it, that after I got back from having the car serviced, I continue to read it until I had finished it. I then spent an hour or two searching the Internet and the online facilities of my university library to find out more about Ms Winterson and in particular this book. I had read it when it first came out or soon after, and while I had remembered the bones of the story, and had remembered how excited I had been by the way in which it was written I had forgotten all the details-both of the story, and of the style.
I do so admire the ability that some people have to critique a written work. I know I am going to use "Oranges" in one of my assignments, so as I read I try to look beneath the surface, to identify technique, and elements of style. I try in my mind to articulate what it is that is going on, how it is that this writer manipulates images and emotions and ideas. I try to identify the metaphors and the symbolism, but mostly I just get caught up in the story. I know that there is more to the story than just the story, and I know that my thinking is expanded by works of this quality as opposed to just merely entertained and amused. At least I think my thinking is expanded or it may just be that I recognise in some writers' works things that I have always known or felt or believed, but have never been able to say.
But then I read other people's commentaries and find that they see other things, some little, some large, as well is seeing some of the things that I see. And some of these critics write so clearly about their interpretations that I feel there is no point in me writing mine, they have already said it and much more besides. So I struggle in my essays sometimes, to find and clearly articulate a new idea, because I really cannot see the point in merely re-presenting what has already been said by others, and said so well. After all, I have not gone back to uni merely to acquire a degree - I have gone back to develop and grow my own thinking and writing capabilities.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Ant cleanliness
I fished an ant and a ladybug out of my swimming pool this afternoon as I was cleaning the filter box. They were both still alive, much to my surprise, and I watched as the ladybug navigated its way over the rough terrain of the pebble dash pool surround. The and, a medium-sized black everyday garden variety type of ant, walked a few steps and then began to clean itself using its forelegs. First it wiped its antennae, then the rest of its head, then its middle legs and its back legs. I have seen flies cleaning themselves; rubbing their heads between their forelegs sometimes seeming to twist their heads to an alarming extent. I did not know that ants did the same thing, but then I have never really thought about it before. This ant reminded me of my cat in the way in which it gave careful detailed attention to each part of its body before moving on to the next.
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