Tag Archives: writing

Just thought I would poke my head in

Poke my head in
 
Next Saturday I will have been completely alcohol free for a year. I’ve lost 26 kilograms, regained a love for my life, and people who see me regularly are saying nice things about how well I’m looking. I’ve even reduced my tobacco usage by $200 a month.

If there’s a downside to recovering from manic depression (let’s just call it that and be done with it) and accepting the results of all the associated weird public behaviour that I’ve been responsible for during the last 5 years, it’s the awareness that I knew exactly what I was doing, even when I was drinking a full 1 litre bottle of whisky each weeknight and passing out in the laundry after vomiting in the wash tub. In fact, when I inspected this house I am renting there were two deciding factors that led me to apply for tenancy. Firstly, the undercover outdoor area where I could smoke and drink while reading and blogging. Secondly, the large metal wash basin in the laundry for me to vomit into and wash away the mess without too much fuss.

There was no particular reason for me embarking on the challenge of straightening my life up. I wasn’t dissuaded, for example, when I knocked three front teeth loose after one particular passing out event in the laundry. I simply grew tired of the fact that my body wouldn’t give in and give up my ghost. I kept waking up every morning and arriving early for work, and doing my work well, and leading an apparently normal life among my workmates. I didn’t try to make friends with anyone at work, and when people tried to be friendly with me I did my best to be polite and professional while remaining distant. I would even refuse Friday arvo beers and snacks.

There is no doubt a much longer story I could reveal here. If I were to continue on from here I would pause to quote Edward Dahlberg…

“When one realises that his life is worthless, he either commits suicide or travels.”

then I would counter it by noting that, while my initial response upon reading that quote recently was one of absolute agreement, I have found on further reflection upon my own experience that it’s quite possible to balance suicidal behaviour with travel. But to go any further from here I would need to explain how the kind of suicidal behaviour I was engaged in is equivalent to ‘committing’ suicide in the manner that Edward Dahlberg meant it. Frankly, I don’t want to go any further with it. I’ve moved on, and I don’t feel there’s anything more to be gained from dwelling on it. Nothing to be gained for me, and nothing more to be gained for anyone else.

I had a piece of furniture delivered today. Then I went out and bought a TV and a DVD player to put on it. It’s the first time in 5 years that I’ve allowed myself to buy anything that might pin me down to one place and dare me to call it my home. Soon I will buy a bed frame and stop sleeping on a mattress on the floor. I will still be traveling, but probably less often and not so far away from home.
 

Little Day Out

Little Day Out


On separation anxiety

Way back in August of 2010 I bought a bromeliad for company. It was very much a pup at the time. 6 months later I sent it away to live with my parents, and I spent the next couple of years living in the bush with my car and a tent.
 
Fast forward to August of 2014 that little pup had had many more pups, was flowering in two places, and despite having seemingly run out of room was immaculate green through and through. I reclaimed it and brought it back home.
 
It was happy enough for a while. I started researching methods online for separating the pups since I was feeling bad about it being so cramped. None of the online methods left me feeling truly confident that I could separate them without doing irreversible harm, so I kept putting it off.
 
One fateful mid-summer morning I tenderly placed it out in the yard for some sunshine before going to work and proceeded to forget about it for a few days, since it was so hot at the ends of the days the only thing on my mind was to turn the air conditioner on and lock myself inside. When I finally thought to bring it back in, half of the leaves had burnt dry.
 
I was devastated, but over the last few months it has bounced back and started to shoot out more pups. Given that it’s just turned to winter down under, now’s not the ideal time to be re-potting but I couldn’t bear leaving it any longer, what with all the worry about how the new pups would fit in to that twee little pot.
 
Less than $20 worth of potting mix and plastic pots later, and only one spider to find a way under my collar!, I’m feeling much better. I hope they are too. Wish them a comfortable winter. It would be a delight if August 2015 brings more flowers.
 

Bromeliads_3


Definitions and examples #1

A case of caffeine withdrawal
 
An experiment in lateral thought


Charters Towers, outside hours

If everything had unfolded according to my travel plan, the 6 hour wait at Townsville Airport for the last flight home to Sydney on Wednesday this week could have been easily avoided; I could have booked in for the last Tuesday night flight out. It would have been tight time for check-in, but do-able. As it happened though nothing went wrong, or even slightly awry, to delay my completion of the install I was flown for: I didn’t get lost or take a wrong turn on the drive in to site; the client was fully prepped, present, and had all the necessary personal protection equipment on hand at the ready; no last minute changes required rewiring or hardware adjustments. In short, there was no need to stay late or go back again the next morning. But you don’t get bonus points for being ready to take your flight home a day early. Rather, they’ll keep what you paid in the first place and then make you pay the full price once again. So there was nothing to do but stick to the plan and stay one more night in (beautiful one day, perfect the next) Tropical North Queensland, Charters Towers.
 
I had the rental car back at the airport by 11am the next morning in order to save an extra day’s rent, checked in my tool case, and read the latest issue (#8) of New Philosopher on the theme of travel from cover to cover between numerous coffees until 4:30 boarding. By the time I was home—just on midnight—my reading had left me so deeply in such diverse thoughts on the ethics and utility of travel in general that I couldn’t get myself off to sleep for another 3 hours. Here are a few quotes from Issue #8 of New Philosopher to give you a taste for what’s inside.
 

“[Susan] Sontag argues that taking photos is a way of refusing life, of limiting experience to a search for the photographic.”
(News: Stealing the moment)

 

“Few places today uphold the right to be bored. Even our thoughts are hijacked. “Silent and lifeless, people sit side by side as if their souls were wandering far away,” writes Kracauer.”
(News: Radical boredom)

 

“[Peter] Singer’s is a philosophy that demands the end of travel as we know it, in that it demands that we unpack the special box of experience it represents and instead judge every action by the same criteria. How does what we say and do, every single day, affect the aggregate suffering of the world in which we exist? Where can most good be done – and how can we ensure that we contribute to that good?”
(Travelling with purpose: by Tom Chatfield)

 
I’m not sure that my purpose in Charters Towers – to help make personal protection equipment more accessible and accountable on a gold mining site – would impress Peter Singer, but it’s a step forward from my purpose 10 years ago, which involved servicing cash handling equipment for the gambling and hoteliers industries.
 
In brief response to Kracauer, I can say with some confidence after 6 hours waiting at an airport that airports are one of the few places that still uphold the right to be bored, though they do make the boredom, should you choose to accept it, terribly comfortable.
 
Finally, I haven’t read Sontag’s full argument On Photography for the dismissal of photography from the list of life enhancing experiences, but I have read elsewhere that she changed her mind later in life about some aspects of that argument, and, so, having now, by way of diary entry, at least partially justified using my free travel time between Sydney and Charters Towers to do some photography, I give you some photos of light playing on clouds filmed at a few different heights.
 
p.s. I’m not at all disappointed that I didn’t capture a photo of the iridescent fog that rippled and surged overhead of me like an aurora during my drive back to Townsville, but it wouldn’t have harmed my experience if I’d been able to stop by the highway for just a few moments to capture it without the fear of a truck slamming into me.
 

Brisbane descent

Brisbane descent


 
Townsville descent with solar glory

Townsville descent with solar glory


 
Fog bow at Macrossan camping ground

Fog bow at Macrossan camping ground


 
Pajingo access road at sunrise

Pajingo access road at sunrise


 
Towers Hill Lookout, Charters Towers, with town under fog

Towers Hill Lookout, Charters Towers, with town under fog


 
Towers Hill Lookout, Charters Towers - Sunrise with town under fog

Towers Hill Lookout, Charters Towers – Sunrise with town under fog


 


Regrasslandestation

It’s surprising how many ecological transformations are possible given a salt lake bed and a patch of common reed to begin with. So many in fact that it’s taken a few days of sorting through all of my artist’s impressions to pick out a series that’s not merely arbitrary, but seems to comply with my basic idea of how reforestation works, but this is more like a regrasslandestation. Here we see what is basically the original salt lake bed, except I’ve cleared some haze out from the background to improve the view. You can almost see the low mountain range on the horizon.
 
Salt lake - Gippsland
 
The next step involved planting a nice green lawn in the salt bed.
 
Salt lake with lawn
 
I’m not sure what species of grass it was, but it clearly thrived on the saline conditions; it even outcompeted the common reed grass.
 
Regrasslandestation
 
It strikes me now as I weigh up the pros and cons of this transformation that where there were at least three biomes before (mountain range, salt lake bed, and common reed patch) there is only one biome now (if you don’t include the sky). So there is nowhere for two communities to meet and integrate as per the definition of an ecotone, unless you include the sky.
 
The obvious thing to do here is to define the sky as a biome, thus permitting whatever community happens to be there to transact with the one on the overgrown lawn. This in turn leads one to wonder what kind of transactions occur between the other side of the sky, and, say, the surface of the moon. The result of this kind of wondering I found turns out to be mostly very silly, but I did start to wonder about how one would go about terraforming another planet to make it suitable for life as we know it on Earth, and that’s not so silly to wonder about. For instance, can the terraforming process manufacture a wide range of ecotones where biomes from different communities can meet, integrate, and produce edge effects? I’ve not seen any such consideration given to this question in the literature of terraforming. And if it can be done, how many salt lakes should there be compared to lawns and common reed patches? Which countries on Earth will the salt lakes and their vegetation be introduced from?


While filming a raven

While filming a raven raiding a jam-packed garbage bin at a shopping centre car park in a Western Sydney suburb, a regular ABC Radio National listener accidentally records the sound of an unidentified stationary motorist adapting a personal safety device to the purpose of warlike behaviour blaring over the program he’s listening intently to.

The listener notices a woman in the car on the opposite side of the garbage bin becoming visibly distressed and can’t tell if it’s because she can see the camera pointed in her direction, or because the motorist leaning on the horn is right behind her and she wants to reverse out. The raven takes off with a brown paper bag from McDonald’s, and with nothing more here to see the listener brings the film to a conclusion. He plays it back on the phone to see how it looks and thinks, ‘Cool! It couldn’t have ended sounding more sweetly than that if I’d planned it.’

The following afternoon, the listener goes to the local DVD retailer and asks a young bloke at the counter for anything directed by Rolf de Heer. The bloke finds a box set collection of six Rolf de Heer films in the system, but they only sell it during Christmas. The bloke writes the catalogue number down for the listener so he can order it online, then the listener browses the shelves to see if any of the other films nobody ever has when he’s looking are maybe there this time. To his delight he finds two of them:

a) π: faith in chaos (A Film By Darren Aronofsky)
b) Grave of the Fireflies (A Film By Isao Takahata)

The bloke from the counter wanders over and mentions the 20% discount on all DVDs and Blurays that ends today, so the listener checks the price on Batman Begins and The Dark Knight and decides that at five bucks a pop if they’re as emotionally unfulfilling as he suspects they will be, they’ll be just what he needs to restore his façade and face up with cool, calm collection to the world after

a) π: faith in chaos
b) Grave of the Fireflies

have shot, he’s long been expecting, his emotional order to pieces.


Sydney to Ceduna return – Photo Essay (Part 12)

After leaving Whyalla Wetlands at midday and setting off for the general direction of Port Lincoln, a definite mental exhaustion began to set in. All of this moving from place to place while remaining alert to the whole experience was becoming hard work. I drove into a rest zone by the Lincoln Highway about 45 minutes south of Whyalla, and seriously considered camping right here for the rest of the day and overnight.
 

Whyalla to Cowell - rest zone by Lincoln Highway

Whyalla to Cowell – rest zone by Lincoln Highway


 
A pleasant enough spot: shelter from the sun, a sturdy table to read and write at, and the scrub was holding the wind back a little. Then the wind changed and blew all my maps and info pamphlets off the table after I’d carefully arranged everything for optimum study. The place lost its simple charm, quick smart. A short time later we had arrived at Cowell – a pleasant little town on the northern shore of Franklin Harbor – and I tucked into a delicious comfort-feed of King George Whiting and hot chips at The Fish Box Kiosk. If I had been thinking clearly I would have taken a photo from out the front, or at least waited until the fish and chips were on the table before snapping a shot from the back.
 
The Fish Box Kiosk - Cowell

The Fish Box Kiosk – Cowell


 
With a satisfied stomach, I decided at once to stop in Cowell for the night. I located the local caravan park, made a note to myself that I would be back later, and took a scenic drive into Port Gibbon along the Coastal Ketches Drive. Here’re a few bits of scenery that caught my attention.
 
Saltmarsh at 4 Mile Lookout

Saltmarsh at 4 Mile Lookout


 
Coastal Ketches Drive - Soothing colours

Coastal Ketches Drive – Soothing colours


 
East of Port Gibbon

East of Port Gibbon


 
Port Gibbon Jetty Shelter

Port Gibbon Jetty Shelter


 
Ketch Lillie Hawkins - Port Gibbon

Ketch Lillie Hawkins – Port Gibbon


 
There was still plenty of time left in the day, so I continued into the sand dunes south of Port Gibbon. Found a drive-in spot with private beach and went for a swim.
 
South of Port Gibbon - Drive-in sand dune

South of Port Gibbon – Drive-in sand dune


 
Soaked up a few more soothing colours.
 
South of Port Gibbon - Soothing colours

South of Port Gibbon – Soothing colours


 
After an hour or so of lounging in the dunes I turned inland for the Lincoln Highway and made my way back to Cowell. The petrol tank was showing empty by this stage, but I’d seen the petrol station in Cowell so wasn’t too concerned. That changed when I drove into the station and discovered it closed. Oh well, not to worry; the caravan park is a couple of blocks away. In I drove to the caravan park. The office was closed! I rang the number on the door. No answer! So I drove back to the closed petrol station and willed it to be open, but it didn’t work, so I started searching on google maps for the nearest petrol station. They directed me a few short kilometres across the surface of Franklin Harbour to Port Pirie or thereabouts, which wasn’t going to work for Vincent. A few internet searches and I located a servo up the road on Lincoln Highway. Unfortunately I had already passed that one on my way back to Cowell, and the internet has not been made aware that it doesn’t exist! If it did exist, I would have seen it. I paused…
 
looked at the maps a bit longer and decided Cleve to the west was about 1km closer than Arno Bay to the south, so I held my breath and cleaved for Cleve. Whew! They have a petrol station, and it was open. I filled up with much relief and promptly turned back again toward Cowell, then south to Arno Bay, then doubled back north to a non-signposted turn off for the overnight camping spot I noticed on a map somewhere earlier, which took me in a loop back to Arno Bay without going past the campsite. Sigh. Turned north again and went a little further to the next non-signposted turn off.
 
And so it was that I arrived at Redbanks Camping Area, a little after 8:30 pm, to watch the sunset.
 
Redbanks Camping Area - sunset

Redbanks Camping Area – sunset


 
Redbanks Camping Area sunset 2
 
And, as the last bit of sunlight disappeared into Spencer Gulf, I spotted Mercury setting close behind it. Just as well I hadn’t read the sign I slept overnight in front of… “Camping Prohibited”.