Blackwattle Boy

If it's too loud you're too old

2011-12-04T14:05:00.005+11:00

The video of these cars being torched, bashed and painted was mesmerising - KidZoom moved with the power and grace of a parkouriste and entered into a dance with these vehicles that was exhilarating - the man slid over burning cars and allowed his spray paint to ignite in a requiem for the relationship between Aussie youth and overpowered cars - it seemed he was farewelling his past like a viking longship being torched on its final voyage - whoever was behind the camera was as much part of the dance as the images flowed and ebbed revealing the mixture of affection, excitement and contempt which the past arouses

The best things in life are not things

2011-11-24T05:58:00.004+11:00

Further to my last post I find myself forced to look more closely at my own capacity for violence, for abusive, manipulative and intimidatory behaviour. I recall with the shame the moments when I have chosen the easy option of repeating the behaviours forced into me as a child rather than the more difficult and rewarding path of taking responsibility for how I am and choosing to make the good overrule the bad.

My body tells me that this struggle is never ending as I pace a silent early morning house unable to tell where the screaming comes from or if it is audible to others. I feel the noise as a slicing sensation, weasels ripping my flesh, scalpels turning me into sashimi. Sometimes I realise I have let out an audible moan or squeak or if I have managed to stay asleep for more than a few hours I burst awake unable to breathe, my lungs too full to get any air in and too paralysed to let any out. Fortunately this has happened enough that I can disguise the appearance of it if I wake anyone as I drown, clasping my neck and gulping ineffectively for - I don't know what - it's air of course, oxygen, nourishment, sustenance but more it's a desperate desire to be seen but not hurt to be loved but not smothered to live feeling free and safe.

So I lie there perhaps clawing at my neck, my back arched, my face a rictus smile of need knowing that unless I help myself I will die. I wake in a house where I am coccooned from reality by the warm embrace of my wife and daughters' love and over time the terror recedes and I can reassemble myself to pass for normal for every hour that I feel compelled to leave the house.

And then reality bites, every car journey involves encounters with angry aggressive motorists competing for their space on the road to nowhere, their need to get to their destination 37 minutes late rather than the 41 it will be if they drive as if other people matter. The streets of Sydney are lined with beggars, junkies, broken arses and backpackers smirking when I will not sign up to give monthly direct transfers to support charities they've worked for for four days. Yes, I say, I have worked 14 paid hours in the last eleven years - you're welcome to all of that money. I worked for charitable trusts for the last eight years of my career you're welcome to the difference between their wage rates and what I could have earned if I'd remained a seat-warmer in a government department. Take, I say, the $A11.50 an hour I earned as a residential care worker at an adolescent rehab centre along with the dysfunctional management team and the constant abuse and occasional death threats - you're welcome to all of it - spend it well. And I smile and nod my way through the day dreading the arrival of night when my family one by one falls asleep and the people I e-know are busy or offline so I must calculate the balance of coffee and whisky and how loud the music can be so it disturbs no one else and do I go to Coogee for dawn and feel the sand abrade my feet and draw me home into the earth and the wind come off the water and the waves play and tease with their ever changing shapes and patterns and the light, the dawn bringing warmth, illumination, safety to the day and where the sea meets the land but before the land turns into property and I remember Peter's rules for approaching the sea and I recall a song my children sing "the earth is our mother, she will take care of us" and the sea a fickle lover and demanding parent reminds me it is there and on the edge there are bits of building and of ceramic and glass and other gifts given by the sea and remnants of what has been taken - and I recall people taken, and with the city at my back and the sea facing me and the light increasing I stare loss and loneliness in the face and know that it is all right that there is pain and with it joy and the sea takes my howls and my screaming and lifts it from me and in its passion and fury it washes me clean and from the loss comes the the reminder yes they are gone and you don't have them but remember they are here and they were there you did have them so think on what you got what they gave and how the world is a better place and you are a better person for having known them and so go now clean and strong back to the city and wrap your loss in a blanket of forgiveness and joy thank you for your tears the sea is a better place for them thank you for your howling the wind is stronger and cleaner for it and as the rising sun lifts the light off your wet cheeks it is brighter fresher so thank you for all that is good and bad about you and thank you and thank us for being ourselves we will always be here think on Michael and his ho'oponopono chant and in your forgiveness allow in other's forgiveness and as the sand appears later on and out of your clothes remember that the sea and the edge always remain and always change - come again soon and surrender to the sky your heart of anger.

The bullied become bullies - hurt people hurt people.

2011-11-24T05:47:00.003+11:00

After a few frustrating weeks I sent this message to Lisa Keating at the Sydney Region office of the Department of Education and Training:

Culture of bullying and intimidation at Annandale North Public School‏

For some months my daughter has been one of the targets of intimidation, exclusion and verbal and physical abuse that currently characterises a significant part of the culture of Annandale North Public School. This seems to be escalating and the current principal and several of her staff seems unwilling or unable to address or even acknowledge it.

I spent 90 minutes on Tuesday morning discussing this with the parent of a child who she'd removed from the school as he'd been bullied for two terms and for the previous year. The parent felt that her attempts to redress the situation were ineffective and that the ongoing harassment of her child was trivialised by his teacher and by the principal. This parent was not contacted by the principal nor given the opportunity of an exit interview to explain her reasons for removing her son or to hear why her concerns for her son’s safety were not being addressed. This boy was slapped on the face by two of his classmates every day during his last two terms at the school.

When I first heard on arriving at school on Monday afternoon (21 November 2011) that my daughter had had a basketball thrown at her head I spoke to the teacher at the school in charge of the class at the time. She initially said she'd been told it was an "accident" but when my daughter informed her that the perpetrator had verbally gloated about it and had in the past threatened to have my daughter and others of her classmates killed by another pupil in the class. This teacher seemed to then take it more seriously and informed me she would be speaking to the class teacher Tuesday morning. She also informed me that she had removed her own daughter from a Sydney public school as she had been bullied and the school had not responded effectively. Unfortunately by the time I arrived at the school the teacher had gathered information that he believed or said he believed showed that this latest assault was an "accident". He stated that my daughter’s oral report of the incident was wrong and that the verbal gloating had not taken place. My daughter had given this report to me and repeated to the relieving teacher who prepared the original Accident Report.

At this point I realised there is not currently within the staff team of Annandale North Public School the volition or ability to address what I've witnessed as a culture of bullying and intimidation. I was furious and regrettably swore at the teacher who seemed more concerned at my language that at my frustration that he was once again minimising the bully's behaviour.

I believe that there are elements within the P & C at the school that intimidate the principal and other parents, that the principal intimidates the school’s administrative staff and the staff of the not for profit ANOOSHCA programme and that there is a culture of ignoring or downplaying abusive behaviour by staff and pupils at the school. Parents removed the bullied because they learn that they will not be supported.

I would like you to collate the three incident reports that should have been generated by my direct complaints to teachers which I believe demonstrate a pattern of bullying and a corresponding pattern of inadequate or ineffective response by the teaching staff. I would appreciate a prompt response to my email. I currently have two daughters at the school and if their safety cannot be guaranteed and the school has to be forced to act on its duty of care towards them and other pupils then I would rather that happen quickly rather than continue to hope that the school culture can change by itself.

I worked as a Therapeutic Community Worker for the Richmond Fellowship for some years, managed a residential youth centre for the Wesley Wellington Mission in New Zealand and worked at the Ted Noffs Foundation in Randwick before retiring. I have been made painfully aware of the long term effects of bullying in my professional life and know that when professionals minimise or ignore abusiveness it adds another layer of distress to the victim. If this cannot be addressed procedurally within the Department of Education and Training I have to consider taking legal steps to ensure my daughters' safety. The school under its current management is failing to meet its duty of care to her and so many other pupils.

When I went to the school to pick up my daughters on the afternoon of November 22 the daughter who had been struck with a basketball the previous day informed me that the Principal had shouted at the Years Five and Six pupils giving a list of grievances that she seemed to be holding them collectively responsible for. The only part of the tirade that could be fairly applied to my daughter is that she was near the construction site on the school grounds playing ball with some of her peers. The Principal accused them of displaying a lack of commonsense by being near the work site – she did not point out that she as an adult with a duty of care towards them was actually responsible for their safety. My daughter does not enjoy being shouted at, being held responsible for things she did not do or having the schools duty of care towards her being made her responsibility.

WorkCover will have clear requirements for workplace safety on construction sites that are particularly important at schools – these requirements are the responsibility of your department, the Principal and her staff to monitor not the responsibility of a group of 10 to 11 year old girls.

The bullied learn nothing positive from having to move away from dysfunctional situations other than that their parents take their safety seriously. There is currently a sense of “learned helplessness” with some pupil, parent and no doubt staff members. As a member of an effective team of people providing support and psycho-social rehabilitation to residents aged from 18 to 34 with psychiatric and psychological illnesses at the therapeutic community Arisaig House run by the Richmond Fellowship of New Zealand I learned how important it was to attend to what was known as “the parallel process”. It was very apparent that stresses or conflicts within the staff team were reflected in the dynamics of the residents. The general mood in the house matched the general mood within the staff team. By monitoring this closely we were able to respond more effectively to group and individual issues.

I would gladly participate in any professionally moderated group process which addresses the current toxic culture at Annandale North Public School. It naturally would have to begin with an honest and open acknowledgement that much of what happens is currently not working. Bullying can not continue to be dismissed as minor or disguised as accidents.

I’d also like to draw your attention to the fact that one female student in my daughter’s class is constantly the source of many complaints from her classmates about her behaviour. The extreme nature of her behaviour, her “acting out”, suggests to me that she is a very unhappy young girl and that by minimising and ignoring her behaviour her teacher and the principal are not only failing to meet their duty of care towards her but are also exacerbating the situation. When I worked as a group therapist I worked as part of a team one of whom would be assigned to monitor the emotional health of all the group participants as the rest of us focussed on the main interactions. I know that 10 or eleven year old girls do not threaten to have people killed, or to strangle them, or constantly draw negative attention towards themselves unless there is some underlying reason. Maladaptive behaviour serves a purpose, the perpetrator gets some need met from constantly being “in trouble” or being disliked by her peers. I like this girl and regard her parents as friends but would like her to stop hurting my daughter and her friends. I believe the school by ignoring or trivialising her behaviour is creating further problems for her, her family and the people she will encounter in later life.

My experience as a youth worker made it clear that maladaptive behavioural patterns that begin in early life and are not addressed in a supportive and non-judgemental way re-occur later as substance abuse, self-harm and other risk-taking activities. I have no confidence that the school under its current principal has either the will or the ability to heal itself. I don’t believe that the principal or her core group of staff has the self-awareness to acknowledge that they are contributing to a toxic environment that continues to leave the bullied feel isolated and helpless.

Fortunately the boy who was bullied out of the school is now somewhere he feels listened to, his parents feel listened to and his mother has got her happy affectionate son back. I will not allow my daughter to be steered down the same path and would appreciate your support in ensuring that this sad broken school is fixed.

Crown Lynn at the Gus Fisher Gallery

2011-11-05T05:00:00.003+11:00

As Ed Hillary is reputed to have said "that's knocked that bugger off".

I did the speech on Friday night at the official opening and then the floor talk on Saturday. Both were nervewracking - the speech mercifully short, the floor talk endless but more or less finished on time.

I got to meet some interesting people and the events were more fun than I remember openings being in my National Art Gallery days.

I had a lot of conversations about Crown Lynn and Richard Quinn and not everything I heard was inaccurate. One of the people I met was Alan Topham General Manager at Crown Lynn up until 1962. His anarchic view was the company mainly manufactured dinnerware. We were standing next to a shrine of Dorothy Thorpe pieces at the time and he had a few amusing anecdotes about going to the US with Tom Clark to recruit her. He thought that a couple of the pieces in the case weren't Crown Lynn and the colours unlikely to have been selected by Ms Thorpe. Later they were upturned to show they had the same backstamp as they pieces they were displayed next to. Alan had been a buyer for McKenzies when Fiesta was commissioned to their specifications.

As well as a visit to Limeburners Bay with a few Quinns I also saw an impressive private collection of New Zealand ceramics. The owner is even more appealing than his collection and is clearly very passionate about fired clay and its variations. Two of the pieces he thought were late-nineteenth century pieces turned out to have been made by Clays of Calico at Caldwell, Montana ca,1970s but I'm not sure how to break the news to him. Earlier he had been very relaxed about joking about other miss-attributions he'd made.

I also got a lot of practice smiling and nodding as people spouted demented nonsense at me with knowing looks on their faces. I think I smashed a few molars gritting my teeth. The wacky world of Crown Lynn continues unchecked.

Kauri Foreshore Hotel

2011-09-25T05:54:00.006+10:00

I got barred from this delapidated shithole last night. The landlazy had switched the All Blacks/France rugby game over to league ten minutes before the final whistle. I reminded her that the poster outside said that all Rugby World Cup games were going to be screened live and that she was obliged to do so. She said no. I informed her that as she'd advertised that it was going to be screened live it was a breach of the Commerce Act not to do so. She replied "Ain't going to happen, mate".

I wittily quipped "You're managing a fucking toilet" and she reposted "Don't come back" as I walked out. I realised she thought that being in this rundown messy dive was a good thing and that by agreeing that I won't be going back she was causing me some inconvenience rather than confirming my thoughts and feelings about the place.

On my way home I walked past the guy who runs Cafe K coffee shop in the pub as he is attempting to set up a cafe serving midday and evening meals at the hotel. He is a friend of the licensees so I told him of my experience. As I've been helping his mother set up the coffee shop most weekdays for the last couple of months he seemed concerned and wanted to go back with me to talk with the woman. I told him I'd been barred, that his friend didn't give a shit and his wife was a drunk. I gave him my estimate that the business probably had another six months at most. I'm hoping for less - the rubbish and cigarette butts that constantly flow into the gutter are doing damage somewhere.

I'll miss early morning contact with the woman making the coffee, she was honest, hardworking and enthusiastic - she'll end up on her feet somewhere else soon.

Ganesha

2011-09-19T05:33:00.004+10:00

For a long time - 30 years or so - I've been attracted to Ganesha - I've never known why but on Friday I walked into a shop where Ganesh was playing - I was given a CD called 'Ganesh - He Listens, He See, He cares' and a prasad ladoo Ganesha's favourite sweet - I bought some red mukhwas and some ganeshania and then went to buy some clay-based paint for the outside of our home

On gratitude

2011-08-27T02:26:00.002+10:00

My sister-in-law posted on facebook:

I love my 50 year old husband, my new job, my adorable three children, my extended family and my doggie! Life is Good.

echoing Sri Prahlada's recent newsletter on gratitude. He starts kirtan sessions by asking "Who are the special people (mentors, friends, teachers, parents, God) who have been instrumental in inspiring you on your spiritual path? How have these people helped bring you to this moment?" This reflection on kindness and inspiration instantly awakens within the audience the "great-attitude" of a "maha-atma".

Although this quote is specfic to yoga practice it has more general application. These days I often think myself lucky and am surrounded by people who also realise that their lives are mostly great - because of the people they love and the people who love them. The little things fade in significance.

Also via Sri Prahlada: "Gilbert Chesterton (1874-1936), an English writer and poet, similarly stated, "I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought, and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder""

I too have a loving and tolerant partner, children who delight me and a life that causes me way more joy than sorrow.

Loss and the sea

2011-07-27T02:58:00.003+10:00

Does the sky weep tears for the earth and the sea knowing what humans do to the three of them? My friend Peter is a man of the sea, a writer and a mark maker. He gives me permission to be better at being all three. Here I write to him about the business of living:

The large part of me that is cliche likes the moment in 'Strictly Ballroom' where the Roma grandmother says "A life lived in fear is a life half-lived" and she dances a Passo Doble (?) that makes a short, stout slow moving older woman into an elegant graceful passionate beauty - her son transforms from a Gypsy bum into a matador the instant his heels stamp on the floor and a cluttered backyard in working class Melbourne becomes a bullring, the stage at a grand opera house - in a hand gesture, a glance, a foot movement we are reminded of all that is noble and passionate about being human, about working out what it is to be human, to risk loving and risk being loved

now I've gone off - I'm thinking about your marriage and how very very lucky you were and how very very unlucky - I'm thinking also of my friend Richard where similar kinds of luck applies

you'll surf again and it may not be in the sea but you are surfing, it is you, you write on a sea of words and you draw on and of a sea of images and words - I realise you're not a painter you're a mark maker and sometimes brushes and paints are the medium that chooses you and sometimes not - and the possiblity arises that even if you were not physically capable of moving you'd still be drawing, carving a track through the sea, on the page, on the canvas, on the wall and in the marks left - maybe a wake, maybe a poem, maybe an image - we'd read "Peter was here - and it was good" and if he was here, and good so too can I be, can we all be - and the world of possibility of all the good that humans do and all the good they can do gets larger and more expansive - and the world of hurt and pain and damage gets smaller and less powerful - the dark creatures become less threatening - they are muzzled by glory, chained by possiblity, their dark bad balanced by a shimmering good

and when I go to Coogee and am mystified by the movement of the waves and the changing shape of the beach and I see the distant dawn breaking I feel you there and the people we have loved and lost there too and it is very sad and very good and beneath the tears there is a warm glow, a celestial humming that comforts the bestial howling and we sob and laugh and throw our heads back in the wind and our tears are flicked away to wet the ground and we are not alone and we howl as if the moon is our mother or a memory of an older mother as we sit and the sky and the sea and the earth are our mother and our father both and we lie back and look at the sky anger and pain drain from us into the cold sand and hot tears flow into our ears and we're very sad and very happy and poems and paintings hover around us like bats or butterflies waiting to be plucked from the air and pinned to the page and we are not alone

July steaming to a close

2011-07-26T01:16:00.004+10:00

Things are steaming along - the new pottery tutor is great - I'm encountering some excellent music some creative projects and family life is purring along - fingers crossed.

The shop is settling down into a routine though volunteer staffing is stretched thin.

I've been invited to talk about my friend and mentor Richard Quinn at an exhibition in Auckland later this year. The show is based around a small portion of a large research collection he'd amassed while trying to record a history of fired clay in New Zealand. There are also ancillary collections of popular areas of Crown Lynn collecting - something that has blossomed over the last ten or so years. Richard's Crown Lynn collection, now under the custodianship of the Portage Ceramic Heritage Trust, should allow informed reasearchers the chance to balance some of the dubious claims made about Crown Lynn over the last quarter of a century - let the objects speak I say.

Kirtan Yoga with Sri Prahlada @ Yoga in Daily Life Kensignton

2011-06-18T23:35:00.005+10:00

we went to this event - it was lovely - this man shone - if you think you can't sing and you think you can't dance then you're right and if you think you can sing and dance without being able to you're right - at some point my chest started vibrating with aum and the sound was me but not made by me - had become a conduit for something that was uniquely me and also part of something else -and in a week that had been about disappointment and conflict and loss the well of sadness I was often tipped into became surrounded by a bigger warmer blanket of happiness - by the time we left everyone was so beautiful - we glowed

I usually use the apparent beauty or ugliness of strangers to judge where I am on the bi-polar spectrum continuum but an evening of kirtan freed me from this - there was just me, us, and the universe of possibility.

Moanaroa Krysia Zagrobelna

2011-06-18T06:22:00.006+10:00

Fifi Colston drew my attention to Matariki and I found there's a kapa haka concert/competition in QLD later in the month but no local celebration that I've discovered yet. Now some mornings I take my putorino down to Coogee for dawn but when I think about doing it this Sunday - ie 24 hours away - all I can think of is that two of the people who got it for me are dead.

And this Saturday was the unveiling for one of them in Petone. And her sister suggested I write something to be read out at the unveiling. And I all I can think of doing is screaming out "I wish you were'nt dead" which might sound better in Te Reo but still doesn't need to be said. And I don't want to think remember hearing father at the Tangi crying in the rain and saying over and over "this is wrong - you shouldn't bury your children". And he is right - it is wrong. And the sheer bloody wrongness of it all tears at me.

And the madness of it all, and the memories of her, and her family, and where we worked, and parties, and a clever little daughter - and finding her again via the net 17 years after we last spoke and emailing her new work place to find she'd died the week before, on holiday in Malaysia, after cut-price cosmetic surgery and a whole world of wrongness opened up to me then.

I realised too late that I've been thinking that the unveiling was planned for Sunday. I sent my message to Ewa too late - about the time she would have been heading to the urupa arther than the day before. This is what Ewa might have read:

"I miss Krysia.

When I met her and soon afterwards Moanaroa and Eddie and Ewa and Keri-Mei I was very lost.

I'd talked myself into a job I couldn't really do properly at the Shop at the National Museum.

I was Krysia's boss.

Yeah right!

While I wandered around for three years

pretty much not being able to find my butt without using both hands

Krysia ran the Museum Shop,

and me,

and bought up Keri-Mei,

was a daughter

a sister

a friend

and did all the many other things that she is loved for.

When Taonga Maori opened at the museum Alan Baker the Director was sidelined by a mob of new middle managers

- he was a marine biologist and out of his depth amongst sharks in three piece suits.

He gave a brief speech and as it finished a quiet mumbled waiata began in Kiwi-reo

and then from the kitchen came this huge voice and through the entrance came Krysia

- like a yacht in full sail

- and she sang and strode towards the Director

- and everyone who knew the waiata joined in behind her

- and everyone who respected, Alan, the Museum and the taonga also joined in

- and suddenly this awkward Department of Internal Affairs off the shelf - paint by numbers powhiri became magnificent.

The Museum became magnificent,

Alan Baker became magnificent,

the air was electric with the staffs' respect for Alan,

words like aroha and tautoko became feelings not ideas

and the world was a better place.

Krysia knew that what was happening was wrong and she stepped out to change it

- not caring about how others reacted.

And we all got behind her

so pleased

and so proud to be part of what she'd started.

When Ewa suggested she could read out some words from me all I could think was:

"I wish you weren't dead - this is wrong"

but now I'm also thinking

"Krysia you were always beautiful,

you were often so strong,

you often knew what was right

and what was good

and you made a difference to the people around you.

and you made a difference for the people around you.

The world is a better place

because of who you were

who you are

And I am a better person

because of who you were

who you are

Thank you

Thank you""

Go West

2011-06-12T03:35:00.017+10:00

I've been spending a lot of time at Parramatta lately working on our PCAI shop across Church Street from St John's church - in the Connections Arcade. Nearly there despite some road blocks both human and practical.

We're hoping eventually to build our studio/workshop at a site across the river from Rangihou Reserve. This park was recently renamed to recognise links going back to 1814 when the first CMS settlement was established at Oihi or Rangihoua in the Bay of Islands.

Marsden's Maori Seminary (also named Rangihu) was located here. It's sometimes described as New Zealand's first school and New Zealand's first brickmakers were trained here. Young Maori men, the sons of chiefs, were trained in a range of mechanical arts. This could be seen as Marsden spreading his version of the Word through demonstrating superior technology or more simply as the holding of hostages to ensure the safety of the CMS personnel in New Zealand. Typically Marsden assumed a superiority of intelligence and ability to strategise that was to later see many British soldiers and carpetbaggers fall in to traps in New Zealand. As Marsden went about gathering his Maori flock iwi acquired tame Missionaries for the access to guns, iron and other European goods that came along with the CMS settlements. I think more Pakeha-Maori were converted to heathen ways than Maori people were converted to Marsden's version of Christianity. It was clear early on who were the more sophisticated and who were the more naive.

I always get lost in Parramatta - I don't know where or what the landmarks are and my inability to relate what's around me to maps I've seen leads to chaos. I get lost finding the Westfield carpark, I get lost in the Westfield carpark, I get lost in Westfield and can't find my way out or my way back to the right floor of the right carpark.

A state of irritated frustration. of being lost, out of my depth helps me blend in with the locals as I make my way to the Connection Arcade.

On Friday I got lost driving back to Sydney. Just where I was expecting Jame Ruse Drive I found a suburb I'd never been in before. I stopped realising I needed sustenance and saw ahead of me the Tres Bien Fresh Coffee and Nuts Shop in Good Street. Call me a gubba or a skip if you like but I saw the name and thought "That's French - it must be Vietnamese - I'll get some rice paper rolls".

Turns out I'd found a very good Lebanese grocery store quite by chance. It looked good and smelled better, and the people working there or just dropping in were funny, friendly and helpful. 600 ml of Al-Rabih pomegranate molasse for $6.80!!!!! A 1.9kg jar of gherkins, a can of houmos, and one of okra in brine, foodie heaven at local prices.

I started off back to the big stinky eating sweets as I drove and almost turned the car around at 90kmh they were so good. There was a roll with apricot paste around it that was almost to die for at high speed on the M4.

The next day I was talking to the people who run the new local coffee bar. They're Lebanese and I could sense them struggle not to laugh out loud or seem patronising as I described my exotic adventures in Granville. They used to be amazed to see Australians buying groceries in single items, two apples, one banana, a can of tomatoes etc they always bought in bulk. At the moment buying bananas in bulk seems an act of stupidity - or showing off at $A14.99 a kg (or $A11.99 at Parramatta!).

When I was at Tres Bien the owner was negotiating the purchase of something - dried goods, fruit, spices, I don't know what but he settled for an order of a ton of it/them if the price stayed at $6.

Sometimes having no sense of direction and getting lost is a good thing.

Coogee mourning

2011-05-30T07:51:00.002+10:00

On Sunday morning I heard that Gil Scott-Heron had died on Friday. He hadn't had an easy life but has produced some of the pivotal music of the last twenty five or so years.

Later that day I got an email telling me that a female relative, one I have only a vague and unreliable memory of having met, had died after a three year battle. Her children are 13 and ten - too young to be mourning your parents.

Mooring posts disappear and we are left adrift.

Life doesn't frighten me at all

2011-05-16T02:01:00.006+10:00

When very little sometimes I was so scared and so lonely that I'd scream, for company. The echoes of those screams accompany me still.

They waken me in the night and delay my return to sleep. I realise quickly that the scream, my scream didn't happen in the now, the echoes troubled no other in the now, and the reverberations have died out - leaving a trace of a memory of a half forgotten....something. I know that now is OK and that then was then.

I think on Roy Williamson's words:

Those days are passed now
And in the past they must remain
But we can still rise now
And be the nation again
And stood against him
Proud Edward's army
And sent him homeward
Tae think again

For me this is not only about Proud Edward's army but about every tyrant., every bully.

And we are an army, the bullied. And we are not alone. And sometimes before we die, either the living death of those that have lost hope, or the slow death of those whose bodies turn against them, we recognise each other. Sometimes in that recognition there is succour and at others fear and contempt. In our mutual acknowledgement of the terror we do risk disappearing, we do risk losing sight of all that is good and noble and joyous about being human but when we're lucky we embrace in the warming, calming, energising pulse of survival.

Alone we are born
and die alone
Yet see the red-gold cirrus
over snow-mountain shine
upon the upland road
ride easy stranger
Surrender to the sky
your heart of anger.

Sometimes in the high country we'll pause briefly and glimpse a distant stranger. We see in the set of his shoulders and the palpitating jaw muscles that his big anger, his old anger remains. But as our eyes meet over an impassable gorge there will be a brief flick upwards of both eyebrows. I know you we'll not say. You're going to be all right. It's OK - life doesn't frighten us anymore. You are OK and You am I. And the anger will dissipate into the glowering sky and dusk will become dawn.

We nod an embrace of departure and move on homewards. Alone but not lonely. Seen and heard.

And with each meeting on the high road the screams lose volume, intensity and frequency until finally....there is but one finally. The more scarred fellow travellers we share a story with the freer life becomes as if in acknowledging the many small deaths we defuse the the power of the spectre.

Other times - as close to never as we're strong enough to manage we slide into the maw and become the bully ourselves - so in our bond with the bullied is also our knowing that the easy choice is to bully - understandable but not excusable.

Meeting the shadow is the start not the end.

Fear of a black planet

2011-05-11T07:17:00.008+10:00

"The Arc of the Moral Universe Is Long, but It Bends Toward Justice" MLK jnr

My wife and daughters are Australian and I don't pretend that NZ doesn't have similar problems and doesn't struggle daily with the wrangling between the tangata whenua (people of the land, first nations?) and those whose families have arrived since 1816 or so. Health, justice and education statistics all over the world reflect the problems that arise when large groups of people move from one region to another: Who is in prison, who is sick, homeless, educated to less than their potential, earns less, lives a shorter time?

Recently my concern about this has gone from a theoretical quandary to an urgent problem because I now have daughters approaching adulthood, too quickly. What kind of world will I have allowed them to grow up into? What futures am I denying them by being overwhelmed by the size of the problems the planet faces? By feeling powerless in the face of greed and cynicism?

My daughters have Maori cousins and have more connection with them as individuals, as relatives, as people like them than they do with the Aboriginal people they encounter - Caz the local begger a poly-addicted homeless woman with mental health issues - Mazza the feral urchin who sprays racist homophobic abuse everywhere - The intimidating gangs of kids who loiter menacingly nearby with barely concealed clubs and the hint they have knives and that they do not see us as like them - my daughters are afraid of Aboriginal people and see them entirely as other - junkies, thugs, crims, losers

Men often hate each other because they fear each other; they fear each other because they don't know each other; they don't know each other because they can not communicate; they can not communicate because they are separated.
- Stride Toward Freedom : the Montgomery Story (1958) MLK jnr

When she was little Little Bear who is now seven regarded Caz the begger as a friend because she was friendly and three year olds assume everyone is going to like them. Caz not sure whether Little Bear was genuine or just playing a whitefella game was really, really pleased when she realised Little Bear saw her simply as a friendly person. White middle class three year olds know nothing of history, of racism, or prejudice - they have two mobs; people I like and who like me and: the others. It didn't occur to Little Bear not to like Caz. It didn't occur to Caz that Little Bear might like her, for who she is with her, for how she behaves. Little Bear made it OK for Caz to just be - that there was nothing innately wrong with her and how she is. The opposite of the racism and prejudice she encounters every day.

Four years later Little Bear has learned to be wary of Aboriginal people, to see them as potential threat. This same reaction applies to the homeless, to beggars, to junkies. I've let this happen.

The challenge now is to change this - day by day.

"Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care"

2011-05-11T04:06:00.002+10:00

I do not rise slowly from Morpheus' restorative embrace like a wary but excited child but am instantly awake in a new phase full of the unfocussed creativity of the erratically alert.

Words, images, ideas spring effervescently from the meeting place of Id, Ego and Super-Ego. The wire in the blood is already fizzing its exciting dangerous zing, part energy source part burning fuse. I'm ready, always ready to start great things with the alertness of Bambi and the focus of the substance addicted. One eye on potential predators the other on the fabulous futures that wait not too far off. And have waited for half a century.

There is a Henry James story about a man waiting for an incredible event or fortune to land at his feet. His anticipation is so great, his want so strong that he neglects the present and misses the good he has within his grasp. He has lost the fabulous future by looking forward to it and not considering that it could have its genesis in the past and the present. He is, like the users of Blackberries etc, unable to be anywhere because there is always a better somewhere else, something else. Unable to be fully present in his desire not to miss out. Here is simply the place we wait for our next txt msge, our next FB status update, our next tweet.

I thought of Twitter as I administered to sick daughters this week. What if instead of discarding every used tissue, every sheet of toilet paper, every sprayed sneeze and trail of drool they tweeted them? So all their followers, their facebook friends would be up to date on the status of their various irritated mucous membranes? The responses might suggest that that they're not Samuel Pepys but Paris Hilton's chihuahua's pedicurist. Or not - their viruses might go viral.

Fresh and local

2011-05-09T10:19:00.006+10:00

This plant, Warrigal greens, has quite the history. I cooked some I was given when we were just out of town for a family Mothers Day lunch. Like spinach as they say but coarser and firmer than the English variety as you'd expect.

Our evening meal included a salad with Warrigal greens, rocket, tomatoes, avacado and basil.

My lunch - red miso instant soup with udon noodles - both of which I suspectare not late eighteenth century convict recipes.

A fresh local start

2011-05-08T05:50:00.004+10:00

Dawn at Coogee is always spectacular, often transcendant. Everyone I see there at this time of day has an enormous look of gratitude and relief and joy on their faces. On the radio I listened to the man who was going to have a surfing lesson with Tony Abbott. He seemed pleased to be in Australia too.

I've been thinking about nature and our relationship to the planet and ourselves much as Werner Herzg did in Burden of Dreams. Herzog doesn't approve of many things I take succour from. Including self-reflection and herbal tea but as I like to say or think I like to say "there is no I in team but there is one in ginseng".

2011-05-06T23:14:00.005+10:00

I have to go for another glucose tolerance test tomorrow. They're a bore - hours long and sometimes inconclusive. The last one somehow resulted in me having to have a colonoscopy. Couldn't see it myself - the sweet bone's connected to the bum bone?

I'm hungry and can't eat. I'll want coffee in the morning and can only have water. And this is healthy? Might try and get some happy snaps to post. I made the mistake of quoting Yoda to my daughters "Try there is not, only do there is"- that's come back to hit me in the face too often. And "Do as I say not as I do" hasn't flown since the 1960s.

Serendipitiously I made contact with two people via facebook that I'd not seen for years, 15 and 25 to be precise. One of them has Al Jazeera English as a favourite and the other works there as a Beijing-based cameraman.

Thirty Years of Tears

2011-05-06T02:55:00.009+10:00

Looking towards ANZAC bridge - the roof of the Kauri Foreshore Hotel in the middle ground - at dusk.

Via the curate's egg that is the life online I've linked up with friends from the glory days - 1978 to 1982 - when every thing seemed possible - we reminisce and discover that we remember differently - the past is a different place - and we are attached to it differently - so many people that energised us then have died since yet the strongest memories endure.

I've tried to revisit those days but find my version of them didn't exist or if it did it was parallel to but separate from the versions/visions of others that were there. I went to Upper Cuba Street about a year ago and it is as Peter McLeavey says a Disneyland version of itself. They paved paradise and put up a motorway. It's like a lot of things that are re-worked - someone who wasn't there recalls something they didn't understand and produces a Stepford Wives version of it - think of the "new" VW - like something from Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons

Upper Cuba Street is now a wikipediased version of its earlier grittier incarnations. So too the "Wellington Punk Scene" - romanticised versions of which are cropping up on the net - it was dumb and ugly and fun and glorious - some of the best musical experiences in my life took place back then - the Wallsockets on one of their perfects days: the rhythm guitarist relatively straight, the drums and bass locked in like Sly and Robbie on sensi, the lead guitar cutting through like something from Jefferson Airplane and the lead singer like a cross between Debbi Harry and Poly Styrene with a hint of ancient passion

Or the Gordons every show or Mike the Cripple in his homemade Charlie Parker t-shirt gallumping across stage to sing the Endless Sea with the Androidss. (I thought the t-shirt said BIRO) - the now legendary New Wave Special at the town hall at the same time as buddha sticks hit town - the possibilities were endless - I coulda been a contender. I was heading for a career as an art director or "something in graphics" but then came to believe art was too important to me for me to be able to make money out of it (childish or what?) plus I discovered fun - being dopefucked and thinking I could levitate - "dropping" acid and seeing the black dull twigs on a tree outside the window arrange themselves into a grid and the cat with the deep deep abcess on its neck that could act like a vortex and suck me in unless I intwined my fingers in the carpet and the formica bathroom walls running and turning into caverns and crevices and being what-is-now-known-as-P-fucked and seeing Roger as God bursting through the sun at Makara beach as birds dived into the sea and the wind whipped our voices away and the thrown stick tumbled through the air and hit a carload of hoons who laughed at it and us and Roxy the dog and everything was good and Tony tooted at the horse to see if it would rear and buck off the rider and then we were in town and fucking protesters were blocking the roads and we wanted to drive some more and had forgotten about the Springboks and Void leapt on the car knowing we were totally wired and we screamed and laughed Amandla Ngawethu and the marshalls made him sit down and then it gotbad. People started dying and ordinary hoons dressed as skinheads committed their dull suburban atrocities scaring women and children and things fell apart - the centre could not hold and fun was no longer enough and the chemists must have changed or lost the recipe and windows were being smashed and lives shattered and love lay limp and people escaped into nostalgia. And now nostalgia is not what it used to be.

Coming back to NZ later I stopped in Sydney and went with friends one old one new to see Dogs in Space. Though set in a different town in a different country it captured those days. The lead singer was gorgeous and my friend Jeff said he's a famous Strayan muso in a famous band I forget who and the teenage Aussie chick behind us said "INXS" like we were the dumbest people she'd met since she left home. That's how I like my nostalgia - by people from another place who can say well this isn't your reality this is ours.

Bran Nue Dae

2011-05-05T12:27:00.007+10:00

So the doctor said let's sort out the blood sugar thing first, and the sleeping patterns and then look at the heart and weight stuff once we know what we're dealing with. I've outlived one grandfather by 16 years and have eleven years to go before I catch up on the other.

I bought a milky macchiato this morning. Ziad's mother runs the place. I told her that her macs were milkier than I was used to but my stomach appreciated the difference. "I know, darling" she said "I can make it the other way if you like." Macchiatos like a good mother. They're normally like a slightly scary cousin. The one from out of town who smokes and wears AMCO Peaches too tight. Dangerous but exciting to be around.

The start of the day

2011-05-04T06:35:00.004+10:00

I'm on two macchiato's a day. The first, now, comes from Cafe K (top pic) and the second from Sappho's in Glebe Point Road. The Sapphic mac is shorter - the milk lesser in quantity and liveliness. The atmosphere at Sappho's, the vibe, the decor is more appealing. Cafe K sits near a corner of the Bridge Road rat run, opposite a mediocre apartment building and close to a cement dispatch yard.

Trucks start arriving for cement early in the morning and the dispatcher announces well I'm not really sure what "Come in number seven. Your time is up", "Security to hardware please", "Cathy, price check at register three please"? The industrial equivalent of an early rising bird. Been part of the aural landscape in Blackwattle Bay for at least the fifteen years we've been here.

It looks to me as if the workers there are starting to appreciate good coffee two minutes from work. If I'm at Cafe K early enough I'm the only customer not wearing serious working clobber, hi-vis polos or bomber jackets, "I'm walkin' here" boots, can-double-as-an-ashtray trousers - not a chisel toe or pant to be seen.

The macchiatos differ greatly as well. The Cafe K one is smoother richer, the extra milk and air gently aiding the caffeines passage into my bloodstream. By the time I get to Sappho's with its more genteel opening hours I'm ready for a if-it's-too-strong drink a warm mikshake instead mac, or mach, or mack. My stomach has survived the early morning onslaught of a breakfast I craft to suit the aging digestive system. (Nobody told me that having children late in life meant a very very brief gap between my world being dominated by their digestive systems to it being ruled by the various indignities of the march of time - try and tell a 23 year old that with luck the worst part of a colonoscopy is the purging diet or try and tell an NRL player that a DRE is a medical procedure not a kind of tackle).

I've stopped eating breakfast at Sappho's. If they had a kilo of lukewarm spinach sprinkled with two cups of bran and Goji berries on the menu I'd be there but no, it seems they'll only make things people actually want to eat - go figure. Once they get the quirky antics of the night staff sorted it'd probably be worth popping in then as well. No one likes to walk into someone else's family squabble. You want that in Glebe you stay out on the street for a few hours. Or go to any bar about 3am.

The macs at Sappho's have been consistently good since I first started going to the new location when my oldest daughter was doing a pre-kinder course at GlebePS late in 2006. Her sister and I would wait at Sappho's before we picked her up. I'm pretty tolerant about coffee - simply put if you can't make a good short you shouldn't be allowed near a coffee machine - make instant or get a plunger, don't waste the coffee. The strongest coffees I've ever encountered were at Sappho's. A roaster/barista had the wheels of steam so tight and so finely calibrated that you were drinking hot coffee paste with a stain of water. This was fine for the people too dim to access the local illegal substance dealers but not so good for the people who drink why-bothers - the various buckets of slop that American chains have perfected. If it's got bean juice, de-anythinged anything and /or fruit of any sort it's no more a coffee than a marshmallow-laden chocolate sprinkled spoiltbratino. Drink water.

It's no wonder the Cobra had a sting in it's tail. You can run a cafe like a Fawlty Towers theme restaurant or the Soup Kitchen in Seinfeld but not every daytime customer got the joke. New coffee supplier, new baristas. Strong,narrow opinions will get you a blog but not a publishing deal or successful cafe. The customer is always right- especially when they're wrong. Service industries and retail outlets always have an element of amateur individual or group psychotherapy to them. It's not just stuff to eat and drink you're selling.

Family Day

2011-05-02T00:11:00.005+10:00

We spent most of Sunday at Lovett Bay. The weather was better than forecast. The barbecue'd meats more delicious, and we paddled about in the water.

On death and dying

2011-04-30T03:05:00.006+10:00

image: Points of Departure - Margaret Elliot. Tony Carr Collection - Sydney

An email from a friend:

Before I Forget…

Thesis:

We are all born with a ticket in our hand. It says ‘Destination: Death.’ It does not state how long the ride will be, whether we will travel first-class or third, or whether we will get a window seat or not. Just the facts: we are born and from that second on, the only other certainty is that Death will ultimately clip our ticket. We’ve all got a ticket to ride. One way; non-refundable; delivery guaranteed.

Message From a Fellow-Traveller:

Gidday. For anyone reading this who doesn’t know me, I’m Richard. I’ll be 62 on June 26. I have prostate cancer with metastasised tumours throughout my skeletal structure; terminal. Also, I have ischemic disease of the brain, (in the white matter), mainly affecting my memory. It too is both progressive and irreversible. Them’s the breaks.

Every day, chunks of my memory break off like great ice floes from a frozen continent and crash irrevocably into the sea of nothingness and unknowingness, there to melt into useless slush; cold, deep waters indeed. I know this is happening because people talk to me about things I should know of and remember, but don’t and can’t. It’s a frightening thing – and tinged with sadness, too. Memory is much of ‘who we are’. If I lose all or most of my memory, who will I be then? I don’t know – but certainly not the ‘me’ that is sitting at the keyboard right now typing this message. I hope that the cancer kills me before the ischemic disease progresses much further.

I’ll use ‘TIP’ as an abbreviation for ‘terminally ill person’ (or people).

TIPsters like myself devote a fair amount of time to thinking about death – though often, not in even a slightly morbid fashion. It engages one’s intellectual interest. What will it be like to die? I don’t know and I may never know. I do know that all the genuine experts on the subject are already dead. We all have to fashion our own path to death. But I am very curious about it all. How could I be ‘me’ and not be curious? It is the very last and greatest adventure, I guess … but one with an unknown ending: Indiana Bones and the Temple of Whom? Or where.

The body accepts the need to die before the mind does. Resolution comes when the mind accepts that simple fact of life and death – or goes mad denying it. Once accepted, TIPsters can get on with the business of living well and dying better.

Believers in a deity might be happy to die in the belief that they will get their reward in a life hereafter. Atheists – and I am one – cannot or do not share that belief. This has a sad corollary: we do not have the comfort of believing that life’s wrongs are all neatly remedied in the hereafter. How sad. But, having given it all much thought, I can only see the concept of divine justice as a convenient human construct. Frankly, the Universe, my dears, couldn’t give a damn. What we have is what we get, then finis.

Well, maybe not. Surely if we have lived, no matter what we have done with our time or life, we have certainly changed what would otherwise have been? The very fact of our existence is a guarantee of a kind of immortality: the world would be different had each and every one of us not existed. I find quite some comfort in knowing that. But I do believe that death marks the end of all consciousness, for ever, in every dead individual. I know, of course, of the stories of ‘near-death’ experiences. Classically, the person experiences a tunnel-like dark environment, with a blinding white light at the exit end. Often, they see white-clad figures who speak encouragingly to them as they approach the light. To me, it all sounds remarkably like a baby’s trip down the birth canal. The white-clad figures are probably the medical staff who orchestrated our birth; the encouraging voices are probably saying ‘push’ to an exhausted mother-to-be. So it seems to me. Having been born stupid and worked assiduously at graduating from being a halfwit to a complete idiot, I’ve had a few near-death experiences of my own, by the way. They usually involved things like cliffs, power lines, deep water, etc. Life is for living, after all!

TIPsters watch people a lot. Do they treat us differently now that they know we are dying? Yes, they do. It’s almost like we are already dead at times. Some folk hold conversations in which the TIPster, though present and the subject of the conversation, is simply ignored. How extraordinary! People also tend to get a bit tongue-tied at talking about death or dying; especially with or to TIPsters. It’s the last great taboo. How odd, because it’s the only thing I know for sure that every other person on the planet will share with me: death. Still, maybe if we don’t talk about it, it’ll just go away, eh? No chance. As I am now so you shall be. The bell tolls at the right time for all of us. So even if you go like the clappers (sorry!), death will find you when it will. Given enough rope, even campanologists eventually die.

Some folk have asked me if I’m angry about dying at a relatively young age. No, I’m not. What possible good would it do? And who would I be angry at? Sure, I look at my family and friends and regret that I will be leaving them, but no more than that. No bitterness, no ‘if only’ rubbish or mad attempts at weird diets, faith healers, novenas, charms, witch doctors of any and every kind, alternative healers, or any hocus-pocus at all. I’m dying. I know it and accept it. Anything else is madness.

I mentioned watching people. TIPsters have to be careful. There are people who care for us, who hurt on our behalf. We must reassure them that ‘everything’s okay’ and that we are not in too much pain. If we cannot ease pain for ourselves, we can at least do so for others. We can also talk about dying and death and make friends realise that we have come to terms with it, so that they know it’s okay. I tell some appalling jokes about death and dying, the whole purpose being to make people lighten up and laugh a little. But I’m a Celt, and we find it hard to take much seriously at the best of times. As I often say, I’m only dying. It’s nothing serious like becoming a naturalised Australian. I have also said that when Death comes for me, I’ll look him in his spectral empty eye-socket and say “You’ll never take me alive, you know.” Well, what else can I or should I be doing? Crying? No thanks.

But seriously, other people will still feel pain after we TIPsters have ceased to feel anything. It behoves us therefore to be kind – and thoughtful - to those we will leave behind. Reassure them, hug them, let them know that it’s all okay with and for you. Be an adult. Care. Lie a little if you must.

People who die suddenly are sometimes perceived as lucky. “He went to bed at night and didn’t wake up in the morning.” Well, luck is how you see it. Certainly, such people avoid a lot of physical pain by dying in their sleep. But they lose too, the opportunity to hug those dear to them and say “I love you” to them. Who is to say which one is the ‘better’ death? The price of foreknowledge of death is paid in coin of a harsh currency; but it has its compensations, too.

A reflective state is one of the recognised steps in the protracted dying process. A weighing and balancing of weights, an accounting in and of life’s ledger; a summation, if you will, of one’s victories, losses and draws. As an atheist, I find it easy to thank Mother Earth for sheltering me for 62 years. She has given me everything. Earth can happily survive without people; people can’t survive without Earth. She is the perfect landlady par excellence. But in the end, even she calls for the quitrent to be paid: death is the quitrent. Thanks, Earth, for giving me a home. I sometimes have sneaked into parks and reserves and planted things (no: not that stuff!). Earth needs us to help pay the rent properly; each and all of us, often. If we don’t we’ll lose our home; simple, brutal and factual.

Should I forget you, friends, family, acquaintances, it will not be because I choose to. I already know that you know that. I feel sure that, though the memory slate will be progressively and irreversibly wiped clean on its exterior, deep within my damaged brain, the paths of love that memory has scoured out will remain, though they will be unable to be accessed. Perhaps – and I certainly hope so – in a coma before death, I shall walk those paths again. But even if I cannot do so,

be assured: the love and goodwill remains strong and indelible inside me. It anchors me.

I can’t and don’t bleat at what life has dished out to me. Why should I? I have lived and still am living. Every day and in many ways, some old, some quite new; but all part of an exciting life. I do weep, rage and rail at a God I no longer believe in for the damage little children undergo, in body, mind or spirit. Oh, suffer the little children indeed! It is so cruel and so obscene. No God either could or would allow such dreadful things to happen to children. So I am an atheist. How could I not be? It is either that or accept an unjust God. I cannot do so.

Would that memorable, immortal and novel words of wisdom could flow from my fingers and mind into this keyboard. They can’t and don’t. I know only this: if you would truly find salvation, seek it within yourself. We are real; there is no act of blind faith necessary. We exist: We are who are. Be gentle to yourself; be gentle to others. Be gentle to the planet. Never stop learning, enquiring, marvelling, wondering. Be brave, for as long as you can, as much as you can; all things end - in itself a benison and a blessing, surely? Pain ends, just as life does – and often at the same time. Pain is an inevitable part of life. Life itself is a wonderful, ongoing adventure, all the way through: enjoy the ride. I know of no other one.

Now, here comes the conductor. All tickets please!

7 June 2008

PS And Before I Forget: I love you.

- an old email from an old friend

Burn, baby, burn

2011-04-29T18:22:00.006+10:00

I made it back to Kerrie Lowe's whimsically named Kerrie Lowe Gallery this morning.

The works continue to enthrall. I hope the pictures speak for themselves - in a calmer more coherent way than I do.

Cafe K at the Kauri Foreshore Hotel

2011-04-28T06:58:00.006+10:00

Not long after six in the a.m. I go down each day to get a macchiato from Cafe K. This morning I took a glass to transport it home. A better option than the usual paper cup or to wait and drink it when it reaches the right temperature.

The cafe is a venture that I hope succeeds. Many have tried at that spot and all have failed. When we moved to Glebe there was a very good restaurant at the Kauri. I don't think it had a name. It was run by Joe and the sandwich board on the corner said Joe of No Names. When Joe was asked about No Names he'd consistently say either "I don't have anything to do with those people anymore" or "I don't talk about those people anymore". Joe worked for No Names and then he didn't. Our gain.

We'd take people used to fine dining all over the world to Joe's and they always enjoyed the food. It was Oztalian in style, well cooked and generously proportioned - much like Joe. Our Catalunyan nephew once sat under the table drawing while we feasted on grilled seafood. I think he was wondering why we were eating before 10pm. His mother asked me whether because I was a New Zealander I was able to eat prawns easily with a knife and fork. When I left NZ prawns came in tins or frozen from supermarkets in Asian enclaves in the bigger cities. I hadn't seen a fresh one.

Joe's did so well that eventually even the asleep-at-the wheel landlord of the pub noticed and demanded a huge rent increase. Joe packed up and left. The aatw landlord converted half the dining room into a pokie den and there's never been a successful restaurant at the Kauri since. They come, they fail, they go. The pub changed hands a few years ago and is still finding its feet.

Under the last management the upstairs accomodation area was little better than a doss house. I unwisely booked friends into it for two nights without looking at the room. The cleaner advised Robyne not to use the upstairs bathroom because the "men" were none too finickety in their hygiene and little concerned how their actions affected others. The pub was like a Fawlty Towers themed venue with a lazier and less interested host. I don't know how or why he ended up with the job but he stayed too long. When my friends asked about the possibility of a fan to disturb the cloud of mosquitos they attempted to sleep in the barman said he couldn't help, didn't know the manager and didn't know how to contact him. Turned out he was the aatw landlord's son. You can't buy publicity like that - word of mouth can lead to return business - or not. Suffice to say artists and designers from Christchurch didn't start booking the place out.

The coffee is now good, opening at six is good and the bloke running the cafe isn't expecting to make a fortune in three months, retire and move to the Gold Coast. Good luck.

Clayotearoa

2011-04-27T05:02:00.006+10:00

We had lunch with friends yesterday - another Easter ritual. Often during the day they complimented us on how great our daughters are - funny, clever, articulate, and good company. It is gratifying as parents to get immediate feedback on your children - particularly when you've seen what is being commented on and know that it's not the biased praise of grandparents or the guarded language of teachers.

My friend Richard has nine children - that's right - count 'em, nine. Over the time I knew him he was voluble about their achievements, their talents, their beauty. Increasingly his pride in them and love for them cropped up in our conversations. He was quick to deflect any suggestions that he was at least partly responsible for this. Similarly he ignored any implication that because of who he was with them they were able to be who they became and are becoming.

He had a number of projects going at any one time and his heightened sense of what was right and wrong, what was fair and unfair often lead him to a point when he abandoned his dreams. Sometimes only temporarily. In his expression of his hurt and fury at the insult or slight he perceived he could cause damage of many types.

The world of ceramic heritage or industrial heritage research in New Zealand is very small. Despite the lack of depth and breadth there are piranhas and parasites aplenty lurking in the shallow pool. Most people seeing a sign saying "Caution Crocodiles In Area" would find another swimming hole. Richard said "What's a caution crocodile? I'll jump in and sort the feckers out!" He'd be correcting the spelling on the front of the bulldozer as it came at him.

As he encountered petty tyrants, ego-driven politicians, grandiose self-appointed experts, rag and bone merchants masquerading as curators - the whole motley conga line of bottom-feeders that lurk anywhere discards can be turned into lumps of cash [see the Australian mining industry to watch these Gollums run wild and free] he never took a step backwards. He won many a Pyrrhic victory. There's a scene in a Monty Python movie of a knight still fighting after he's lost all his limbs - Richard would've regarded that knight as lacking commitment.

In his youth he ended up under lock and key in what is known now by various euphemisms but was known back then as the naughty boys' home. These places hung over 1950s and 1960s New Zealand like a vague threat - a bogey man. They were and to a lesser extent still are presided over by sadists and staffed by bullies. Early on his fellow "clients" realised he was a fighter who had or at least displayed no fear. Then and throughout his life people used to getting away with things because of their size or because of delusions of having real power learnt that he didn't stop fighting until he was physically unable to. He was known in borstal as "Boxer".

Once when television was still a novelty and only broadcast things people wanted to see Richard and one of his daughters were watching a boxing match from the pavement outside an appliance store. I think he said it was a title fight. A large man pushed his daughter aside to get to the front. Richard interceded on her behalf and the large man with his ego bruised as well decided he had an appointment somewhere else. The small crowd's attention had switched from the TV to Richard's explanation of streetside etiquette, he taught in the action method. The crowd applauded and the large man, like many large men do, scurried off looking smaller than the wee girl he'd pushed aside. Today he'd be saying "I'm the victim here. I'll sue". In the simpler morality of those times he was wrong, he was punished, balance was restored. [NB - this is my garbled version of what I recall of a long ago phone conversation - it is no more accurate than a Wikipedia entry].

Richard's simple black and white moral code and the manner in which he expressed it could result in conflicts that ended up in entrenched stand-offs. He was often right but the broad armory he could draw on to support his view meant a lot of collateral damage was possible. The fight often became about the fight and how it had been enacted. He left a trail of upset people all believing "I'm the victim here". It's a handy out for them because the trigger for his grievance gets lost in the distress generated by the people hurt by the way he responded to his awareness of some act of bastardry. His behaviour rather than theirs becomes the focus. He is the problem not the revealer of it.

In his version of the Emperor's new clothes he leaps down from the tree, kicks the Emperor in the shins and calls the crowd gullible fools for believing the spin doctors. In their shame they turn on him. He is satisfied but exhausted and alone. His family and friends pick him up, dust him off and carry him home to live and fight another day. St George having slayed the dragon or Don Quixote having charged the windmill?

He designed a tour for me of the signifcant sites of the West Auckland fired clay industry - he called it Clay-otearoa. Witty but mostly a bad pun - again. This tour was part of a larger dream for long overdue acknowledgement of all aspects of cultural and industrial heritage preservation. The most significant site has all but disappeared under a property "development" that proceded regardless of the legislation intended to preserve New Zealand's cultural heritage. By then Richard was dying, exhausted by his struggles and his unwillingness or inability to pick his battles, to channel his energy, to identify which victories would earn more than they cost. He wept over the fate of Limeburners Bay but had to walk away.

Aucklanders will get a chance to see the results of some of Richard's efforts when Crockery of Distinction opens at the Gus Fisher Gallery next November. His more prosaic research collection may sit alongside the flamboyant displays representing the brief periods when Crown Lynn's output married solid production values with cutting edge creativity. Ironically it is the commercial failures atypical of the company's mainstream wares that most excite the appetites of the hoard accumulators. The icing on the cupcake rather than the meat and three veg.

Feet of Clay

2011-04-26T02:27:00.011+10:00

A Richard Quinn Story

- - in which I meet a man, am wary of him, grow to like, admire, and then love him. He gets ill, he dies. I miss him then and I miss him now.

In the late 1980s I developed an interest in New Zealand’s Crown Lynn Pottery founded by the Clark family in 1929. The products of this company, once the largest pottery in the Southern Hemisphere are everywhere in New Zealand and yet at the time there was little published about it and nothing in print. I decided to resolve this and began an odyssey that so far has taken almost quarter of a century.

I began by tracking down and taking notes from every published source I could find. A limited number of Crown Lynn products had cast off the shackles of mediocrity that typified their output and were collected by people with an interest in design - The Bohemia ware range, the Keith Murray-influenced thrown and turned range designed by the man then known as Ernest Shufflebottom and the Hand Werk range by Frank Carpay. People I knew through my job on the fringes of the art scene had a few pieces of Crown Lynn. Others had examples of the early multicoloured experimental running glaze works. And of course virtually every house in the country had Crown Lynn products in their cupboards. In that period every op shop had shelves of the pottery and many catering companies used or rented out Crown Lynn. It was ubiquitous and perhaps is more so now. Along with its iconic status and a growing if erratic secondhand market a mythology is building up around it – where there’s brass there’s muck.

I drafted a timeline compiled from my notes and sent it to Linda Tyler a lecturer at Unitec who I’d known through Wellington’s small art gallery openings party scene. Linda complimented my research and suggested drafting an exhibition proposal. She also gave me a list of potential sources for more information. There was an acrimonious dispute going on at the time over pottery stored at the Ambrico kiln site in New Lynn. Lynda wrote that the person saying the collection is his is Richard Quinn an amateur researcher from Avondale. She gave me his address as well as Trish Clark’s and that of another ex-Wellingtonian who was working at the Auckland Institute and War Memorial Museum. I also sent a copy of the timeline to my uncle John who was a friend of Tom Clark’s. I was hoping to arrange to meet Tom and discuss my plan to write about the company. I had the impression my uncle was quite protective of him and besides by that time Tom had little involvement in the day to day running of the company. I also felt that my uncle didn’t want Tom to be bothered by more approaches by under-informed inquisitors and certainly didn’t want to be responsible himself for introducing an additional irritant into Tom’s life as he was by then often ill.

I decided to go with the Richard Quinn option despite or perhaps because of what I saw as Linda’s implication that there was something a bit off about him. I wrote a letter to him enclosing a copy of the timeline and asked for his comments on it and his advice on how to proceed with writing on Crown Lynn for publication. And so began a deluge of comments and advice that still resonates through my life eighteen months after Richard died.

When I worked at proto-Te Papa Tim Walker curator of New Zealand Art had done his thesis on Major-General Robley or Te Ropere. Robley was a fascinating man who had left a number of descendants in New Zealand when he returned to England. Tim describes him as having spent his last days living in cramped accommodation surrounded by his collection of mokomokai, preserved heads and writing obsessively about them and his adventures in New Zealand.

I worry now that I sit Robley-like in my cramped study surrounded by books, papers, pottery and Quinniana obsessing about getting reliable information out to as wide a readership as possible. My wife wonders why I’m cluttering up the spare room with junk and my daughters can’t understand how they’ve lost control of the playroom. We had to get them a laptop as daddy's not so good with sharing.

There has recently been an exhibition of Crown Lynn at Wellington’s City Gallery. The core of the show was pieces from the research collection Richard had amassed over quarter of a century. He’d told me that when he and his family moved from Wellington to Auckland he’d noticed on the drive up that the appearance of buildings changed significantly. There was a point where brick became the dominant building material and he wondered why. Noticing and wondering and asking “Why?” are some of the characteristics that drove the Richard Quinn I grew to respect, admire and love.

When I heard that the Wellington Crown Lynn exhibition is going to show at the end of the year in Auckland’s Gus Fisher Gallery which is administered by Linda Tyler I felt that a circuit was being completed, a homecoming for Richard’s collection and a way for me to unshackle myself from the pile of stuff, baggage I’ve accumulated through my interest in fired clay. Richard had given me architects drawings for Broadcast House the home of the gallery. He'd salvaged them from Crown Lynn - possibly Amalgamated Brick and Pipe supplied some or perhaps all of the bricks for the building. I quickly passed the drawings on to Auckland University as that seemed their most natural home.

I’m in contact with Richard’s family and so far have the encouragement of two of them to write about him. I intend to have something ready to post by September 11^th 2011 the second anniversary of his death. I also have a mountain of drafts and Word docs of his book(s) that remind me that intentions, tears and hard work are not enough to get something in print. His history of fired clay in New Zealand eventually became a biography of the odious Samuel Marsden.

Richard regarded much of what was appearing online about Crown Lynn as apalling - poorly researched, unsupported by primary or even secondary sources and in some glaring instances just plain wrong. Such is internet life. I hope to provide an alternative and work with a fine bunch of people doing this here.

In the meantime listen to this - one of Richard's poems set to music by the son of one of an online group he contributed to as the benevolent elder he was becoming as cancer overtook him. The song and its genesis reveal another Richard Quinn story. There are many.

Easter Sunday

2011-04-24T23:10:00.006+10:00

Today we had a family lunch. Us and six guests. In the top photo you may notice that the dial selecting which combination of elements and fan are on in the oven is missing. And a replacement may take months. After a few days of an odd burnt-plastic smell when we used the oven I noticed a fizzing sound accompanying the smoke drifting from the knob. That's not good I thought. The smell reminded me of the Triang-Hornby electric train set we had as children. When minor arcing took place there'd be the same combination of sound and smell.

We had to cater for ten or possibly 11 using only the stove top. Pasta seemed the obvious choice. The house favourite is a tomato-based sauce - a variation on a Napoli style. I first started cooking Italian style when I was living in London twenty-five years ago. Most of the time I flatted with a man who was a skilled cook. We were often broke working jobs seemingly designed to keep us that way. Brian could make a tin of tomatoes, an onion and a 33p packet of spaghetti into a feast - a cheap meal and for the time we were both working in the Buffet Bar of the Hammersmith Palais often a free one. Ever since I've made variations of that basic sauce.

After watching Antonio Carluccio cook a sauce that he kept simmering for long enough to attend mid-morning Mass I added time to the recipe.

After our first daughter was born we went to a new parents course run by the local health service at the Early Childhood Centre in the Dr Foley Park in Glebe. Through this we met a couple who we spent time with before they moved to Darwin a few years ago. Once I helped Alex cook pasta sauce and his recommendation was to use finely diced bottled barbecued red capsicum as a key ingredient. I've been doing variations of this tomato-onion-garlic-capsicum sauce ever since. I build on it depending on who is eating. Today we had the basic tomato variety and another with prawns added for the last few minutes of cooking.

I was a given a pasta machine in Sydney on my way back to New Zealand after I'd served my two years in London. The big OE. My daughters use it now to make spaghetti, tagliatelli and fettuccini. It's not something you whip up on a school night but the texture of the home made pasta is worth the effort. Particularly when you're involved entirely in an advisory capacity.

As the core to a meal pasta and tomato sauce makes a warm reliable heart around which a good meal and a great day can be built. If it's dark outside when your last lunch guests leave it has probably been a good meal. For much of the day we were like a TV family - all tidying, all cooking, welcoming guests and feasting together. Despite or perhaps because of the absence of any religious dimension we enjoyed a warming communal gathering.

My sister-in-law, a potter, has taken my clay god and some pots up to be fired in one of her kilns. Some of the pinch pots were made from clay from Lovetts Bay where my wife's family, my family, has been holidaying for fifty years. I first went there for New Years Eve during that return trip to New Zealand. That homecoming journey contained the seeds of the home I have now.

Inspector of Public Nuisances

2011-04-23T02:03:00.006+10:00

I oftentimes end up scrolling through archives trying to patch together stories about people, places or events. It's easy to get sidetracked by what I see on the way but I think it's important to take time to smell the microfiche. In looking at film of Sydney street directories from 1858 on I found that an Inspector of Public Nuisances lived along the road from our home in the 1870s. (This is remarkable as the house we live in was built about 1914.)

I like the job title, would like the job, and could write my own job description. My wife suspects I'm already doing it unofficially and in the passive-aggressive style that reveals my New Zealand origins. Car journeys provide many opportunities to practice. "Oi, you can't park there! You're blocking the intersection"; "Hey, you're old enough to ride your bike on the road not the footpath"; "They're speed limits - in kph"; "You should be wearing a belt with those, young fellermelad" - not loud enough to be heard by the offender, of course. Possibilities are endless although I was reminded of the golden rule of traffic misdemeanours "You get fined it's a damn good thing - I get fined it's revenue raising".

I was wired to believe that there are rules and maps for everything. You can't always find the maps and the rules can be hidden, incomprehensible and enforced inconsistently. But they're there and must be obeyed. at all times, by everyone - except for the people who don't care, the people who don't know there's a difference between right and wrong, the people with power enough to make their own rules and apply them to others.

I remember when one of those barely coherent US of A presidents sought to explain American policy in, can't remember - somewhere US multinationals had major interests - by saying "they're not terrorists they're freedom fighters". Or was it the other way round?

And now we have the phrase “not intended to be a factual statement.” It was used in a press statement after US Senator Jon Kyl quoted statistics that were so wrong as to be absurd in a speech trying to cut government funding to Planned Parenthood. He was shown to have miss-spoken and rather than admit to it and apologise came up with a convoluted way of avoiding responsibility for his actions.

There's talk that politics, elections etc are the sideshow the rich and powerful use to distract us while they get on with the real business of making themselves richer and more powerful. The deus ex machina appears when one of the rich and powerful takes a holiday and dabbles in politics. New Zealand is a classic example at present - slumming it on a Prime Minister's stipend the current leader and his round table have bought backroom deals out into the spotlight, the secret handshakes and "you scratch my back and I'll suck yours" arrangements that have been going on there since the start of the nineteenth century are now policies in the best interests of "the people". Like something George Orwell would have had getting past his editor US conglomerates now write Kiwi industrial legislation, giving $36,000,000 to a few old mates for a racing yacht is somehow part of a cost-cutting regime, draconian internet laws are marketed as helping earthquake-proof Christchurch and the IRB's latest cash cow will be subsidised by tax and ratepayers.

I'm wondering if over the last ten or so years a number of methamphetamine factories have exploded in Noisyland polluting water catchments? How else to explain how bizarre behaviour has become the norm? The emperor's new clothes are made of pounamu, a treasured green stone, used for objects of prestige and value and souvenirs.

It's as if the Prime Mover has looked over the Tasman, seen NSW politics as it was practised in the Askin Error, or under the Carr/Iemma/Anyone-else-brave-or-naive-enough-to-take-on-the-rightwing-unions-and-the-shonks Error and said gimme summathat. Nicky Hager who wrote The Hollow Men is a different kind of kiwi, a very articulate intelligent and concerned individual who has consistently been saying "Wait up, this isn't right". His 2006 book outlines dodgy deals, backroom tactics, marketing as policy, the insidious actions of the merchants of spin Crosby/Textor, everything that makes politics a soul-less cynical activity. Paradoxically it seems to have been adopted as a training manual. Rather than a dreadful warning.

Of the two men most shown to be hollow in the book one was sent to the wilderness and the other elected PM. That's comedy gold right there.

When the toil of the day is all over

2011-04-22T18:10:00.005+10:00

The end of a seemingly long day of mostly sunshine. The tide is high and I'm moving on. The full moon has drawn the sea nearer to the shore.

Sunrise Coogee 22 April 2011

2011-04-22T08:30:00.003+10:00

Easter Sunday falls on the first full moon after the equinox. A celebration that predates Christianity was most likely co-opted to give this day credibility. Much as in the US Labor Day became Loyalty Day - keeping Johnny Red in his place.

Coogee has attained a signifigance in my life since I've been in Australia. In the geographically inept map of the world I carry in my head it is the place on the Australia coastline that is closest to New Zealand; to Te Henga, Ihumoana Island and Eranga Point, to Marton, to Te Horo, to places people I love live and where they are buried.

It is the beach closest to the first place I worked when I arrived in Sydney - adolescent rehab - we'd take groups of angry, frightened children to the beach and to the cliffs. For a time they were part of the ordinary world, connected with it and able to be beautiful, powerful, loving and loved. I met one of these boys years later - he'd been clean for two years and was happy and strong - I next saw him on TV in a news item about homelessness, no longer happy or strong.

It is the beach I go to when I need a shot of - what is it?; beauty that takes my breath away, power that stills me, joy that makes my fingers tingle (this was before my first coffee of the day but felt like after my third).

It has become more recently a place tinged with the sadness of grief - a friend's wife died - I imagine that from Coogee early in the morning I can see their happiness and see his pain - I can see the gift she was to him and how he in turn is now able to give other people strength and encouragement. She is in the enduring beauty that is Coogee, like the rocks, the sun and the sea their love enriches me, his passion and anger inspire me, the people I've met through them enhance my life and so make me want to be a better [Oh, damn, hang on - Sorry hon, daddy can't talk now - I'm blogging about how much I love you. I'll let you read it later if you don't interrupt me.]

Insomnia

2011-04-21T20:21:00.004+10:00

A new coffee outlet has opened about 150 metres from our home. It's in the Kauri Foreshore Hotel and started trading in this guise on Monday. Coffees, teas and a small range of food including pies, foccacia and bacon and egg rolls. It opens at 6am which means it's serious about offering coffee to workers and other morning people.

I've had a few macchiatos (macchiati?) already. Toby's Estate supply the tea and coffee so they're good. The coffee is flown in fresh and roasted locally in City Road. I decanted the one above into a glass when I got it home so missed the view from the side as the coffee settles. Macchiatos in Sydney have taken on elements from the coffee scene from L.A.Story. Each uninformed barista makes their own variation on what is a very simple drink. Each uninformed drinker has an idea of what a proper Mac is - often with bizarre variations on the standard. Sappho's in Glebe Point Road has taken to serving them with jugs of frothed milk on the side so experts can adjust them to suit their own idea of how they should really be. Silly really but the customer is always right especially when they're wrong.

The end of daylight saving has thrown my sleeping patterns into chaos. I am often awake hours before I want to be and find it hard to get to sleep when I should. Strong coffee helps me endure the resulting tiredness. Discovering Facebook and particularly its chat function has allowed me to unproductively fill my oddly spaced waking hours. Conversations with London come to a close as ones in New Zealand start up. There was a moment last night/this morning when I was exchanging emails with someone at the same time as the person we were discussing was in FB chat with me. Had to make sure I kept a good grasp of who I was saying what to.

My mother delights in the story of a moment at a work party when someone intending to introduce my father said to a third person"Have you met Jack Blackwattle?". He replied "Yes I have. Nice enough sort of chap but the wife wears the pants". My father enjoyed the situation signficantly less than my mother. I don't know what happened next. You need to know who is going to hear or read what you are saying.

Pots are children

2011-04-20T03:29:00.006+10:00

Tonight our daughters are staying with their grandparents. The house is eerily quiet. The expectation that they will wake with some urgent need to be attended to remains. The muted cacophony of little noises and small movements generated by sleeping children is replaced by the roaring emptiness.

I remember the awful moment after I had dropped our youngest daughter off for her first day of kindergarten. I drove off weeping. "What" I lamented "am I going to do now?". For seven years I had spent almost all of my time with one or both of our children. Now I was by myself feeling an overwhelming loneliness. Without a child nearby I had become nothing. Without the endless parade of needs and wants to attend to I had nothing to do - ahead of me the gaping maw of possibility. If you are a parent what are you when your children are elsewhere?

I was reminded of this sense of loss when I went to the 'Woodfire' exhibition at Kerrie Lowe Gallery in Newtown yesterday. I hadn't been close to a gathering of woodfired pieces before. Each clamoured for attention. As I understand it (glibly and superficially - that's how I roll) woodfiring is a process in which much is a matter of chance, a pocket of heat, a flash of flame, a falling of ash and your pot begins a different journey. During the firing of the kilns many variables are at play that provide infinite possiblities for the final state of the piece being put to the heat.

The potter then can hand over care of the work to a new owner, a curator or someone facilitating its placement in a new home. I think the women that run Kerrie Lowe Gallery fall equally into two categories - those that are named Kerrie Lowe and those that aren't. They remind me of film I've seen of Soviet nurseries - babies wrapped tightly for sleep and efficient, loving women moving assuredly around taking care of all of them. It's rare to have retail experiences where the customer, the salesperson and the stock are treated with respect.

Two days earlier I'd been to JB HiFi and Dick Smiths. I was an inconvenient nuisance at both places. Acknowledging my existence interrupted, briefly, the shop - I was going to say assistant but now can't think why - attendant[?] at JB HiFi. Insisting on a discount because the overpriced gadget I bought from Dick Smith was a, a display model; b, missing its original remote and cables; and c, had no manual or handbook turned me into a tyrannical con man ruining the manager's day. I paid for an extended warranty as there was, they assured me, a good chance it wouldn't work with the replacement remote and cables they begrudgingly "gave" me. As it was an obsolete model having been released 18 months earlier in the dawn of electronics history it was going to be written off at the next stocktake. Giving him $150 dollars for something that might not work and was going to be worth $0.00 next June 30th seemed to me an act of generosity and to the manager an act of piracy. This then is contemporary shopping.

Being in the Kerrie Lowe Gallery was a dramatic contrast. Yes it's retail but you both know that when you buy a pot you're also getting thousands of years of human creativity and the potter's whole life. I don't think I've ever seen a piece of pottery where the price reflects what goes into it. At auctions you're often paying heavily for the noise that has accumulated around the pottery and in first sale situations, direct from a potter or at a gallery or shop pretty much everything that has gone into the pot is free. So as I was looking at pieces I was aware that the prices were going to surprise me. They were not going to reflect what I felt about each piece.

I also think that the potters don't really want to sell the works and the gallery doesn't want to take the risk of handing them over to strangers. But needs must. Like choosing a puppy or selecting a child for adoption a dialogue is established.

The works themselves? Each demands its own biography. I think to effectively display a piece it'd have to be on a slowly revolving platform with warm bright spotlights focussed on it and possibly Handel's Messiah or something equally triumphal playing from concealed speakers. The viewer would have to be wired to brain and heart monitoring equipment so the brightness of the lighting, the loudness of the soundtrack and speed of the platform's rotation would adjust to the amount the viewer was thinking and feeling. This is probably not practicable in a gallery space but worth considering.

There are 91 works listed on the price list ranging from Jan Kesby's small bowls at $33 to Don Court's Eucumbene at $2,200. Both are bargains. I was initially too timid to touch the pieces. When I was at the Gwynne Hanssen Pigott exhibition last week it was made obvious that in the presence of art one approached the work reverently with touch, taste and smell on hold and kept at a polite distance. Besides they appeared to have been hot-glued to their plinths.

In Newtown once I'd made the mistake of picking up a pot, encouraged by the wily (or do I mean crafty?) gallery curator, it was all over. "We do layby" she whispered as if she was mentioning what tea she'd had that morning and though a mildly interesting topic not related to me in any way. Wicked woman. The other pots knew and in the manner of desperate children in overcrowded Romanian orphanages began performing, subtly demanding my attention. The gallery became Aladdin's cave. Each pot was surrounded by more seductive peers. And perhaps the soundtrack and variable spotlighting had begun somewhere. Each pot quickly set up its own Facebook and Twitter accounts but realised I'm at sea with both and so began a more primeval appeal.

And somehow by it being made obvious that all the works belonged to the gallery and would be loaned out begrudingly but only if unavoidable I came to realise that I had gone from liking them to wanting them to needing one. Somehow my inner-Gollum had been brought to life by the sirens running the gallery. I have a vague memory of something possibly from the Illiad and the Odyssey. Women who lure sailors into dangerous situations by the seductiveness of their behaviour. I was in a whirlpool, pots silently urging "You know you want me", the curators working their subtle charms "Are you up to taking care of one of our pots at your home? We're not entirely sure". The music got louder, crashing of symbols, thunderclaps, lightning. How are you even allowed to run a business like that? Don't the neighbours complain?

By now the sickly sweet smell of joss sticks and opium pipes had dulled my senses. My body ached and my eyes itched. By sheer force of will, by tapping into ancient energy sources, I was able to block out the mesmerising forces at play and seeing a portal open briefly flung myself out onto King Street.

I lay there for a time. Newtown residents are used to stepping over prone bodies and I was dry and relatively clean. Later I'd recovered enough to walk home where I fell into an unsatisfying sleep. My relief at having escaped Newtown dissipated when I found folded into three in my wallet written evidence that I now owned one of the pots at the gallery. I'm going to have to go back to collect it. I'm thinking that I might go back sooner. Today even. I could wait outside. It's already 5.30am. I could take coffee and a little folding stool. I'm quite relaxed about it and there are a couple of pots I need to see again. By couple I mean no more than seven or eight or so. And by need I mean would like to - it doesn't bother me either way. Actually they didn't seem to have much in the way of security so I may be able to get in and just sit with the pots. In an hour or so the curators will have taken on human form again and will be pleased to see me. Probably. What's not to like.

I'm walking here.

2011-04-18T04:46:00.005+10:00

It's concerning me more and more that people are getting thoughtlessly damaged by the various conflicts that attract my attention at the moment. I lived most of my life in a country where some people attack others because of the colour of the clothing they're wearing. There's talk now of this behaviour having migrated from New Zealand to Australia. "Are you for blue or red?" Because the word "gang" is linked to this behaviour it's seen as more sinister than "Are you a Ford person or a Holden?"

A decade or so ago I had a friend who worked at a pub in Bondi Junction. Her boyfriend was Irish. One night he ended up immobilised by anger. He'd been bailed up by a young Irish backpacker who on hearing him speak had interrogated him to find out where he was from and if he was Catholic or Protestant. The young bloke eventually realised that he wasn't going to be told and walked away not knowing whether to hate him or like him. "I came here to get away from that shit ".

In Australia the sail-boat people argue with the powered-boat people over who are Australians. Both agree that it's not the plane people. The various waves of plane people seek out subtle differences of timing to prove that they are more Australian. This all looks like Dr Seuss's Star Bellied Sneetches to me. I wonder what the people who were here before there was an Australia make of these arguments? Gulls fighting over a chip?

A few years ago I was walking through Glebe and one of a group of teenagers didn't like the cut of my jib and insulted me by calling me, amongst other things, a typical Anglo. This wasn't like the insults I've had for my skin colour in other parts of the world. I wanted to explain that though, yes, most of my ancestors are from England the ones I want most to be associated with are Irish and Scottish. Label me if you must but I prefer gubba, palangi or better still pakeha. "Anglo" as an insult contains the same message most abuse does - "there's something wrong about who you are".

I don't like bullies and I don't like bullying. I've been a bully and I've been bullied. In both situations I lose something of myself. When we're lucky we meet people in our lives that make us want to be better people. I've met a few - I live with three now. They encourage me to behave well and remind me when I behave shabbily. I bully less and feel worse about it when I do. It's a betrayal of them, of myself.

I have the same simplistic grasp of Jungian concepts that I do of most things but as I see it we're attracted to people who have more of the aspects of ourselves we like and repelled by people who have too much of the aspects of ourselves we don't like. So with bullies I feel an immobilising disgust at them and also their reminding me that I can act in a vicious underhand way, can misuse what power I grasp on to. Oftentimes institutions talk about changing bullying cultures but usually ringfence where the bullying occurs. If it's a school only pupils are considered as bullies or victims - not teachers or P&C members. If it's a government group the actions of MPS and political parties are ignored. If it's a company the shareholders and board are at the eyepiece of the microscope. It's a localised problem not a society-wide one. It's something "they" do, not us, not me. A bullying approach to challenging bullies. Like fighting for peace.

For years BHP was called the Big Australian but now considering the trail of wrecked communities the company has left in its wake they've achieved multinational status. I'm thinking Twiggy Forrest's FMG is now the Big Un-Australian. "Un-Australian" is a hopeless term meaning not the kind of behaviour the speaker think typifies Australia. Includes everything anyone takes exception to. Given Australia's history since January 26th 1788 the actions of FMG are typically Australian. Befriending selected Aboriginal people at the same time as you're attacking others is a long practiced strategy. Handing out a few blankets and putting on a good feed while you're sending in the surveyors is what shaped New South Wales. Dangling the shiny baubles of Western civilisation in front of people while you're taking everything of lasting value from under their feet is World's Best Practice colonisation. Or old school NTI.

So part of my disgust for Andrew Forrest and his cabal of the self-serving and the misled is driven by my realisation that given $6 billion and the admiration and respect of the people that admire and respect power and money I might behave in exactly the same way. And if a whole lot of country dies in the process that surely is simply collateral damage.

Daniel Walbidi reminds me what art can do

2011-04-15T05:35:00.005+10:00

"People prefer looking at our art rather than listening to us. I think [non-Aboriginal people] need to not only admire our art for its colour and its beauty but also for the significance of it, because I guess our art is our voice now." - Daniel Walbidi from here

I went as part of a small family posse to the Newcastle Region Art Gallery yesterday. We were drawn there by the Hanssen Pigott/Morandi exhibition which was calmly stylish. What ended up happening was that the other exhibitions clamoured for attention. If you ever despair about the self-obsession, shallowness and vacuity of "young people today" get to an ArtExpress exhibition. You'll see proof that teenagers think deeply, care passionately and are creative and articulate. I think I've allowed myself to forget this. It's now over 30 years since I was a teenager but if you'd labelled me then with any of the broad cliches applied to youth now I'd have felt like attacking you. Or walking a long way away.

This was the first gallery experience I've had for years where everything was good. Each of the exhibition spaces had something dynamic and exciting to still and stimulate the mind and to calm and excite the heart.

What lingers the strongest though is Speaking in Colour and in particular the work of Daniel Walbidi. At first I passed them by "oh yeah, Aboriginal contemporary art - again - these are pretty colourful - show me the ceramics" but I had to keep going back. And Daniel Walbidi's work? Firstly - "Woh, daddy! that's bright!" and then "Looks good, but" and then "Hang on, that's beautiful" and then "What's he done there?" at this point I was about to start picking at the paint with my fingernail, just at the edge where I wouldn't do a lot of damage, but remembered that I shouldn't.

One painting in particular had become hypnotic. I felt like I could sneak up on it and see that it had changed into something else. I could turn my back on it, walk away and quickly spin around to catch it becoming another painting. By the time we left what had appeared garish, over-busy and too bright had become meditative and alluring. This painting might not change the world but for a time it changed who I was able to be in it.

So thank you Mr Walbidi.

Behind every great fortune there is a crime. Pt. 2

2011-04-14T03:09:00.004+10:00

It turns out the title of this post is not an accurate quote from Honore de Balzac. In Le Pere Goriot (1835) is: "The secret of a great success for which you are at a loss to account is a crime that has never been found out, because it was properly executed."

Credit for the phrase should belong to Richard O'Connor. It is, ironically, from his 1971 book The Oil Barons; Men of Greed and Grandeur.

The photo, taken without acknowledgement or ethically obtained permission [hope that M.O. is not copyright?], depicts Twiggy and the Stooges when he acted as if he still thought most people would believe him. The last few days may have shown him otherwise. As wordsmith Sarah Toa says "Ain't the internet a beautiful thang?"

It'll be interesting to see if his GenerationOne is independent and ethical enough to take a stand on this. If it, sadly, turns out it's just spin and another Andrew Forrest tax minimisation strategy then perhaps it deserves to wither and die.

Is this just a glittering cover thrown over a cess pool? And whatever happened to that bloke that sung:
"How do we sleep while our beds are burning?

The time has come
To say fair's fair
To pay the rent, now
To pay our share"

(lyrics taken without acknowledgement or ethically obtained permission -hope that M.O. is not copyright?)

Be good to have him walking the talk. Imagine if he was involved in schools so had access to the best anti-bullying policies available. He could chat to his mate Stephen Stephen.Smith.MP@aph.gov.au and apply the torch he is belatedly applying to the ADF to the mining industry.

Behind every great fortune there is a crime.

2011-04-12T18:27:00.008+10:00

To see nineteenth century attitudes running wild and free in WA look at http://vimeo.com/21871850 Twiggy Forrest and his hired mouthpieces running the Great Native Title Swindle. Keep a bucket handy.

PS that link now goes to "Sorry, "FMG's Great Native Title Swindle" was deleted at 11:14:52 Tue Apr 12, 2011. We have no more information about it on our mainframe or elsewhere."

This comes as no surprise. The video is now in two parts on youtube here and here

In the photo the lawyer Ronald Bower, acting for the Wirrlumurra splinter group, paid for by FMG and appointed by himself to chair the meeting is wrestling to keep the microphone away from the representatives of the group who oppose FMG's proposals. Says it all really.

Recycling

2011-04-12T10:39:00.003+10:00

This mug was given a second life by its owner. It reminds of the pieces seen on http://andrewbaseman.com/blog/ but is a newer, humbler Sydney version.

Garden edge tile

2011-04-11T09:18:00.010+10:00

This tile from one of the West Auckland brickyards has different looks all over it. There are two words drawn into the back "Plato" and - not sure - could begin with and "H" or possibly "F"? Maybe the work of a worker with his mind elsewhere.

Turn, turn, turn

2011-04-09T14:16:00.004+10:00

I turned the bottoms of these pieces today. The clay develops an attractive roughness under the tools.

Throwing pieces

2011-04-08T15:57:00.003+10:00

I tried throwing on the wheel today. It's going to take some getting used to. I find having the wheel going anticlockwise works best for me. The connection between the clay, circular motion and me is very direct.

Clay god

2011-04-08T07:00:00.002+10:00

The first piece I've made is a guardian to watch over me as I work. I'm deciding whether to leave her unfired like a kiln god or to put her to the heat.

lime and ginger and honey

2011-04-04T09:42:00.004+10:00

I am drinking the house blend in an attempt to ward off the colds that are plaguing our part of Sydney at the moment.

ParraClay at the Armory

2011-04-03T05:33:00.006+10:00

Yesterday I went by ferry to the Armory at Newington for a meeting of Parramatta Clay and Arts Incorporated: http://parraclay.org/

The nearest wharf is at Sydney Olympic Park at Homebush. There's a walkway/cycle path along the river. The armory is an interesting place with lots of old function specific buildings now put to other uses. By chance I encountered an ArtExpress exhibition http://www.sydneyolympicpark.com.au/Visiting/Whats_on/events/all_events/artexpress_2011_-_a_field_guide_to_human_life which impressed me with the sophistication of the concepts behind and execution of the artworks. It's a tribute to the excellence of art and design teachers in NSW. I think when I was at high school the big issues were if someone you knew could bring you back a pair of Adidas from overseas and whether Amco, Wrangler, Lee or Levi's were the best jeans. Thinking about politics or social issues was rudimentary at best.

The meeting was a lot of fun. I sat at a table with twelve clever, articulate creative people who managed to make thoughtful constructive decisions quickly. Every discussion involved flights of fancy and pragmatic resolutions. It was a delight to be part of and it feels like good things are going to result.

Bring the noise

2011-03-28T08:38:00.005+11:00

There's something very exciting about loud repetitive noise - especially when heard in common with a large group of like-minded people. Like this

"Earth, Fire and Water"

2011-03-22T06:21:00.003+11:00

I found this quote on a pottery blog: "We can make our minds so like still water that beings gather about us that they may see, it may be, their own images, and so live for a moment with a clearer, perhaps even with a fiercer life because of our quiet."- W. B. Yeats, "Earth, Fire and Water" from The Celtic Twilight.

I started throwing on my new wheel yesterday. I'd dug the clay some years ago and had done some prep work on it. It felt workable but as I tried to centre it I felt that it had lots of sand in it. The amount of water I needed to keep it moving dissolved the body. I had developed a technique for removing the outer layers of skin from my palms. I've put the clay aside for more contemplation.

Old brickmakers used to fire a test load of bricks probably in a clamp kiln and only when they'd cooled would know whether they'd "answered". Experience would tell them whether a clay was likely to answer but there was always uncertainty.

I think I'm asking this clay the wrong question.

Rivers of mercury

2011-03-18T12:13:00.003+11:00

I've been playing with the idea of fish chasing their tails, or their shadows - in a pool of mercury. The fish is drawn from a Sukothai fish bowl that is here: http://dwing.blogspot.com/

More on the wheel

2011-03-12T17:51:00.005+11:00

I've done three coats of the red waterproofing in the tray and given the moving parts a brush down. I was going to brush the metal with fish oil but when I read the instructions I was so frightened by the precautions that I changed my mind. Anything that has touched the oil when applying it can spontaneously burst into flame at any time. It must be drenched with water immediately and disposed of in a sealed water-filled container.

Waterproofing the tray

2011-03-10T17:45:00.006+11:00

I've started waterproofing the tray. It's plywood and has many splits in it. Limited colour choices resulted in an initially startling appearance which I'm hoping use will soften.

I've also reattached the footrest. All the wood seems to be appreciating the beeswax I'm slathering on. It's been a long time between drinks.

Wheel head

2011-03-08T20:55:00.006+11:00

The wheel had been stored without being cleaned after its last use. I've managed to get the head cleaner although there is some pitting where the old clay was the thickest. I've also been working on the wood which is very dry. I had to reattach the foot rest as it'd been broken off when it was moved readying it for listing on eBay.

Tossing and turning

2011-03-06T07:31:00.002+11:00

I bought this Leach kick wheel yesterday. It travelled 17km on the roof of a friend's car to get here but now will have a more dignified future as I clean it up and learn how to use it. It has "5 76" stamped under the seat and a makers sticker from J H Wilson, Punchbowl.

Hidden faults

2011-03-02T13:48:00.005+11:00

I listened to Hamish Keith interviewing Martin Edmond about Philip Clairmont here: http://culturalicons.co.nz/episode/philip-clairmont-by-martin-edmond

and naturally there's so much more to it than a 12 word intro can describe. It's about art, life, death, shifts in international curatorial stances. In this photo taken while the video was playing on my ridiculously large pc monitor Martin is being menaced by his shadow. Throughout the interview shadows threaten, ghosts of people passed and conflicts past.

Possibly what looms largest is the space left when Philip Clairmont died. The paintings unpainted, the exhibitions not held and the books not published.

Lately I've been encouraged to think about shadows and the relationship we have with the shadow within. I've got a vague and simplistic understanding of Jungian concepts concerning this dynamic and am not sure whether I want this clarified at all.

Throughout the interview there are moments when I was forced to stop and scuttle off into the google world for more information and images. Basically it's two articulate, intelligent, well-informed and generous men talking about things that are important to them.

A nice contrast with the many petty squabbles involved in having a property developer operating on and too often over our boundary.

2011-02-22T22:35:00.003+11:00

These bisque fired pieces haven't been glazed. As I was asleep at the wheel over December I didn't enrol in time to start classes at the beginning of the year so will have to try and get into the second term. I think Yoda said "Try there is not - only do there is" or words that effect to.

Pottery

2010-11-10T16:45:00.004+11:00

This is the batch from last term that were glazed this term. I'd loaded one of them up with celadon glaze which didn't take. I think I should've rinsed off the pot as it must have collected some dust between the bisque and glaze firings.

School Holidays

2010-10-09T14:45:00.004+11:00

We spent a few days at Katomba recently and part of one at the Jenolan Caves. There are some striking examples of the forces of nature at work.

More pottery

2010-09-06T23:39:00.006+10:00

Today I brought home the pieces I've made so far this term. I'd put green glazes over a white glaze but had done it so thickly that large flakes had come off in some places before they were fired. This led to more unpredicatability than expected. The first of the single images shows a piece that has green and transparent glaze without an initial white.

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold

2010-08-23T20:28:00.003+10:00

I find the further I go into this adventure with clay and fire the less I "get it". The beginning is centering - making the clay one with the wheelhead - balancing the forces at play. I can see and feel when the clay is not centered but only with luck can I push, shape and cajole the clay so that it is centered.

I wonder what there is to learn from this. My mood fluctuates through frustration, bemusement and exhilaration depending on what happens and the degree of control I feel I have over the process.

There is jackhammering going on nextdoor. A 200,000,000 year old sandstone outcrop is being smashed to rubble to make way for a townhouse. This afternoon I briefly escaped the noise, dust and vibration to sit in our car. By chance two poems by W B Yeats were read over the radio: "For Anne Gregory" and "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death".

Glazing over

2010-06-29T09:53:00.003+10:00

(a shelf in our playroom)

Yesterday morning I glazed the rest of the pots I've made this term. Again a complex and multi-faceted business. Variations are endless and happy accidents as likely as carefully controlled predicatble outcomes.

It'll be next term before I get to see the results. I imagine I'll be more and less surprised than I think.

More pots

2010-06-22T13:44:00.004+10:00

These are the other three from the first batch. Experiments with underglaze decoration. I'm not sure that I like the middle one. It has a cartoonlike quality that should have been predictable.

Feats of clay

2010-06-21T21:12:00.005+10:00

These are two of the first batch I've made. When I first saw them I realised I'd lost sight of the fact that everything I do to the clay is recorded in it or on it.

I had the last but one class for this term today. This was spent turning the bases of the last few pots I'd thrown. They'll be bisque fired during the week and I'll glaze them next week.

Battling the clay god

2010-04-25T22:14:00.003+10:00

I went to my first pottery class last Monday. The group of us that were new to it decided we wanted to start by learning to throw. I found it really difficult to get a lump of clay centered on the wheel. It felt like there was too much to remember so that I remained in control.

It was a battle of wills that most times I lost and what felt like promising shapes ended up more and more awry and eventually fell to pieces. This was simultaneously amusing and frustrating.

Later I e-discussed this process with a friend who is a potter and she described the centering process as I'd seen it demonstrated and it was more absorbable to me as words than it had been watching it. Reading it made more sense than seeing it.

No class this Monday as it's the Anzac Day public holiday but I'm really looking forward to trying again the following Monday. The two pieces I did make will be ready to have their bases shaped.

George Hudson Pty. Limited

2010-03-26T15:49:00.002+11:00

Barriers

2010-02-14T12:20:00.003+11:00

I've been thinking about barriers and walls and separation lately. I took these photos around New Year shortly before the locations changed dramatically.

Gateway into the world

2010-01-03T20:56:00.001+11:00

This bowl has two different whites and variations of both in the glaze.

Mirek Smisek

2010-01-03T12:31:00.003+11:00

Gateway into the world, Mirek Smisek, 2009. Snowglaze, 85 x 175.

Mirek Smisek has worked as a potter in New Zealand since 1951. I met him at his studio/gallery at Waikanae last Wednesday. He seems very grounded and very energised, calm and vibrant. He emphasised to me and the friends I was with that life is enhanced if you're doing something creative. He encouraged us to start some creative activity.

His advice contrasted to that given by a "life coach" on the radio on New Year's Day who managed to seem manic and mawkish - banality masquerading as profundity.

2010

2010-01-02T12:59:00.004+11:00

We've had a good batch of night flowering cactus flowers this season. Since I took this photo Xmas and New Years Eve have happened and I had a four day trip to Te Horo to go to a wedding.

I went with the friends I was staying with to Mirek Smisek and Pamella Annsouth's pottery and gallery at Waikanae. Mirek spoke of his belief that creativity is an essential part of human behaviour. The exhibition '60 Years 60 Pots' is a survey of his work from 1949 to 2009.

http://www.exhibition.services.co.nz/exhibitiontours/show/smisek

Bright lights - Big city

2009-08-04T14:19:00.002+10:00

Again with the colours.

Gardens

2009-07-28T12:58:00.002+10:00

These fruit bats or flying foxes hang out during the day and can be very destructive.

Spinning colours

2009-07-14T15:00:00.002+10:00

I think this is a bubble captured by the unknown photographer.

Colours

2009-06-19T15:57:00.003+10:00

I'm not sure what this is. It appeared in my camera but I suspect as a result of human intervention.

View

2009-04-28T23:45:00.005+10:00

Got myself becalmed recently. Looking forward and looking back.

Short macchiato

2009-03-29T02:17:00.006+11:00

I've recently discovered that there are short macchiatos. The alchemy of their creation results in a drink that is richer and smoother than the maccs I'm used to. I'm now wondering if the ones that have really stood out over the last 15 years were crafted by baristas who make short maccs automatically.

There's only one place to drink coffee in Glebe - Sapphos. The baristas there take it seriously without becoming too twee with it. They also remind me of an old fashioned breakdance crew where the young pups are all keen to have a crack at the old man but realise that when it comes down to the wire he's probably going to bust moves they've only read about. Or at least looks like he could.

Every time one of the boys look like getting close to the captain's skill level and consistency they usually disappear overseas for some months and avoid crunch time. It's a mixture of loyalty and ego. Is it better to knock over the Master of Steam and feel guilty or fail to dislodge him and feel embarrassed? If they stay too long they risk becoming Prince Charles or Peter Costello. Or at a stretch Al Gore. Not that I'm saying The Steve is a mixture of HRH QEII, John Howard and Bill Clinton - far from it. Less English than the Queen, more attractive than the lying rodent and more reliable than Slick Willie.

Sk8er Bois

2009-03-29T01:37:00.008+11:00

I helped break up and remove small sections of concrete that skateboarders had shaped at the bottom of large pre-cast barrier walls. The walls were put in place by the local council probably as a cheap alternative to fixing the rotting concrete and rusting armoco safety barriers at the top of a ten metre drop along one side of the street. Over the last few weeks the new sections of what I assume are temporary additions have become a combination of ramp and rail for skateboarders. They were there again on Friday early evening taking photos and on Saturday morning.

The noise they make is surprisingly load, repetitive and grating and led to a confrontation with a local resident. She was advised to move, do something creative with her life, make more of a contribution to society and be careful where she parked her car lest it come to harm. It was after hearing of the abusive and threatening manner in which this life coaching was proffered that I felt that taking direct action in response to these invaders was reasonable.

Might've been the timing. Seems like the amount of anti-social activity in the neighbourhood is going through one of its occasional periods of increase. Good to have a chance to chip away at this process.

So here's a basic principle - if you want to share someone else's neighbourhood do it with humility, respect and graciousness.

Glebe Point Road

2009-03-24T06:44:00.007+11:00

When I worked in an adolescent rehab unit I asked one of the residents why beggars seemed to target me and ignore people around me. She said it was because they could tell I was likely to give them something. Still not sure how.

I often give money to one of the regular Glebe Point Road beggars. Well I did until her last complex story fell apart within minutes. Usually they sound credible for a day or so. I'm annoyed that she believes she still needs to play me. Probably unreasonable to be annoyed.

More recently I spoke to the local Big Issue seller. He'd been celebrating selling the mag for eight years and intends to keep going for another two and then retire. I find this admirable. Maybe I'm just stuck in a "deserving poor" mindset.

Sometime in the last hour another four shots were fired along the street. Same address, same gradual build up of police response. Probably the same limited coverage by the SMH and more excited response by the Telegraph.

Flight of the Codchords

2009-03-08T11:34:00.009+11:00

Cod. The Monster Cod. At the Lansdowne. Scheduled to finish at 10.30 (at night) so I could be home with a cup of green tea watching classy porn on SBS before real night begins.

Crossing City Road I spotted Thor, G-cod, in a wife-beater singlet. What next? A Merv Hughes mo? Didn't put me off though. After the usual dweeblings the band started. Straightaway I noticed a difference. Where's Dave? A no show? Some Oasis-like punch-up? Or had Dave formed his own band? "The Original Cod feat. D-cod"?

No matter. The boys did what they do best. I think if I was a musician and had spent years honing my craft and creating songs that were of the now but not too obviously derivative I would hate Cod. It looks easy. Underlying their music is a respectful acknowledgement of the past which anchors the song they are "doing". On top of this is a musicianship that allows the song to be used as a framework to embellish without destroying. So you get an alt-Classic Rock feel which becomes the setting for the show.

When you see a drummer and bass player with a "Holy Shit! What's he doing now?" look to them you know something is happening. G-cod, the wife-beater replaced with Marc Almond's shirt and Peter Fonda's kerchief and the sunnies Partis Hilton would buy if she was po' white trash, is working it. Around me people were laughing out loud. On the stage people were laughing out loud. Where does he get it from? It just keeps on coming.

There was a different feel to the pub than last time, a lot less people. It was Mardi Gras night so I didn't feel as old, fat and badly dressed as I normally do of a night. All the beautiful people were being fabulous somewhere else. This was more your saddies, maddies, baddies and daddies scene. And of course the flock of PYTs that G-cod attracts to the bewilderment of the posse of predators that trail them. Like hyenas they (we? surely not?) wait for the leftovers once the lion in G-cod's pocket has roared.

It's all about the music. They nail it. I've seen it happen with rhythm sections before. They lock it in. They become one and that thing they do gives them and the rest of the band the chance to soar. I once saw Art Pepper talking about being in the zone. When he was playing at his best he would leave his body and go somewhere in front of and above the stage and watch himself play.

When the Cod are in the zone and leave their bodies they seem to think "These fools can play. Dang me if I ain't getting up on stage with them". So there is the song, the "cover version" locked in and playing along quite nicely, thank you, ma'am, and then there's all this room for the performance on top. Part jam session part catwalk for the stylish struttings of G-cod - a new way of relating to old music is created.

I worked briefly at the Hammersmith Palais when Luna Park was the resident covers band. Between the seven or eight people on stage and the thighsands and thighsands of pineds worth of equipment they could do note-perfect renditions of every song ever. If you shut your eyes, always a wise choice, it was like listening to a record. Cod's not like this.

The record's still playing but the kids have taken to the pots with the spatulas again, Uncle Bernard's got into the Bundys again and Barrel from Maintenance is channelling Englebert Humperdinck, again. The PYTs from telemarketing have turned into the Amy Whitehouse precision dance team and the bloke who had to leave the army has turned into a mechanical bull and is being ridden by a blonde without a stetson. It's like red cordial day at the creche (Please remember our nut-free policy).

In the movie Purple Rain there's a moment when Prince glances briefly at the camera and then tears into some gee-tar playing. It is as if he is saying "If all I wanted was to be as good as Hendrix it'd be this easy but I've got ambitions". Or maybe it's like the moment in Town Bloody Hall when Norman Mailer says that straight men can do all the sex that lesbians do and the other stuff as well. Mailer got booed off stage - quite the tongue lashing.

But I digress. Cod say "Yes we got the songs down, plus we got the licks, and the show and we're having fun".

Later a disco starts up. For no good reason. It's like being at a cousin's 21st in Wagga Wagga. I'm not sure why there was a DJ. Half a dozen Disco Magic CDs downloaded to the i-pod, into the dock, "Random Select" and Woohoo! Arnold van Whoever, eat ya heart out!

Driving ambition

2009-03-08T10:42:00.005+11:00

On my way back from Coogee yesterday morning, tearing along Anzac Parade at 70km someone started moving into my lane. Into the space my car was occupying. I had to brake noisily to avoid a crash. I would have been sitting in his blindspot and moving at exactly the same speed. He veered sharply back into his lane neither of us having been at risk of losing control.

Seconds later he passed me and moved into the lane. I could see that he was waving in an apologetic fashion, first via his rearview mirror and then with his hand out the window.

Once the moment of potential impact had passed I mainly felt a sense of relief. I also knew that we were both lucky that the other person had been comparatively sane. I felt a bond with him. We all make mistakes and this time we were lucky. I was calmer about this than any of the other near collisions I've had that are part of driving life in Sydney.

Then today I encounter:
"Surfing in traffic, merc's tips.

1. there's always another peak further down the beach away from the throng
2. remember every day in the water is a good day
3. be humble paddle harder
4. give a wave get a wave
5. if you start to lose calm leave the water and take a walk along the beach
6. remember what D told you (GOM's suck)
7. this may be your last wave ever
8. the best surfer in the water is the one having the most fun
9. grumpy loses karma given waves
10. like attracts like"

If there are sets or patterns of traffic movement perhaps only taxi drivers, cops, couriers and other all the time drivers notice them. These tips feel like they apply to city driving and I discover other aspects of modern life.

D is for dawn is for merc

2009-03-07T09:27:00.004+11:00

At Coogee from behind a cloud the sun's rising got steadily brighter. From the grey sombre quiet a brightness blossomed which erupted into a joy. There were so many people, so much activity I had to leave.

Glebe shooting

2009-02-25T06:00:00.004+11:00

I've struggled to write something clear and positive about this.

Underbelly 2 screens on Monday nights. We try and get the children well away before it starts at 8.30. About 8.20 last Monday as one daughter was getting out of the bath I heard a series of five or six small explosions. Fireworks or possibly some minor act of vandalism I thought. A little later there was some shouting outside and the other daughter went out on to the front porch to look but wanting to avoid attracting attention I urged her back inside.

Much later I realised that a large noisy engine or generator had been running for some time and looked out the front to see a police truck turning into the street. I noticed that Police Line tape had been stretched across the street and across the laneway at the back of the house. Summat's up I thought.

The next morning the online Sydney Morning Herald had a brief report of a knee-capping in the laneway. The more sensationalist online Daily Telegraph report relishes the drama. There was, perhaps, a party to celebrate the release from prison of the 25 year old target. The comments section of the Telegraph added nothing productive to the situation.

I hope but don't expect that something positive will happen as a result.

This article in The Glebe of March 5 sums up the situation but doesn't seem outcome focussed:
http://glebe.whereilive.com.au/news/story/living-in-nightmare-street/

Modern Pharmacy, Fareham

2009-02-25T05:01:00.004+11:00

My Great-Aunty Lavinia was married to Wilf Smith from Fareham. Wilf's brother Syd was a photographer and produced a series of real photo postcards of Fareham and the surrounding area as well of others of ships at Portsmouth. Their father W O Smith was a pharmacist and his Modern Pharmacy advertised High Class Artifical Teeth amongst its wares.

As children we thought Aunty Vini (pronounced Veeney) had been married to a man called Wolf. The family story was that Wilf had been gassed in WWI and never recovered but like all family stories I now don't know how accurate this is.

Lovett Bay

2009-02-16T09:40:00.005+11:00

My wife's family has had a weekender or bach in Kiwi-ese on Lovett Bay near Church Point for fifty or more years. The bay has gained some recent publicity as the fictionalised location of 'Salvation Creek' in which a romanticised view of the local floating population is part of the setting for a living with cancer book. My best friend is dying of prostate cancer and he and one of his fellow end-of-lifers call this approach to discussing cancer an "organ recital".

I spent new year's eve at the house on my way back from London in 1986 and perversely feel protective of a place I have a one-step removed connection with. My daughters are the fourth generation of the family to belong there. There's something about being an incomer that gives desperation to developing a sense of belonging. Like a cuckoo.

Kings Bloody Cross

2009-02-12T05:56:00.004+11:00

I first visited Sydney about 28 years ago. I'd been in India for a month or so with a tour party organised by the Religious Studies Department of Victoria University of Wellington. We had a night at the People's Palace in the Cross on our way home from Singapore.

I went with two people to a pizza parlour and encountered a group of young Aussie suburbanites who'd come into the Cross to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show which screened continuously for years. Although the sheilas were all dressed in regular Friday night going out clobber the blokes were wearing black corsets and fishnets and too much make-up.

It was somewhere between garish misogynistic Rotary Club fund-raising drag and serious cross-dressing. Somehow it was a useful stop off experience between the confronting otherness of India, the manic capitalism/tourism of Singapore and the dreariness of early-1980s Wellington.

Now that binge-drinking is the main nocturnal activity in night-time Sydney men dressed like that are bashed by men like the ones who used to dress like that, as a laugh, 28 years ago.

The Mardi Gras may move to Homebush because Oxford Street, Darling-it-hurts, etc have been abandoned to the self-destructive. Too much revenue in alcohol for the situation to change much. It seems a million schooners away from stilettos and pizza.

Let there be music

2009-02-06T03:52:00.006+11:00

Two band posters - the old for a gig at the Glebe Rowing Club featuring Nunbait who are worth a google and the new for Cod who are the most entertaining live act currently strutting their stuff around Sydney. Years ago and next month.

One webpage giving Nunbait's history says the name came from the singer's interaction with his Christian flatmates when he was tripping.

Australia Day

2009-01-27T15:13:00.004+11:00

The day began with no real sunrise just a lightening of greys.

Anniversary Days (for aml)

2009-01-25T08:59:00.005+11:00

As well as being Australia Day Monday is also Auckland Anniversary Day.

The following week the writer of the Art and My Life blog has a birthday. http://artandmylife.wordpress.com/ if you want to read about NZ art and life without feeling either patronised, annoyed or bored this is the place I'd recommend

The Spanish wine shop in Glebe Point Road has been selling Cuba '59 for a few months now. It's made by an Australian independent brewer as a tribute to the spirit of Cuba. The Cuban revolution and I were conceived and emerged in the same year. Despite obvious problems with the implementation of good intentions we're both doing OK.

It took me a few weeks to realise that it's not imported from Cuba.

Industrial neglect

2009-01-19T08:45:00.006+11:00

I went to the fish market on Sunday, a mixed experience as usual. On the way I noticed that the coal loader is deteriorating even further. Every so often there is a flurry of activity resulting in further sanctioned demolition of the structure. The signs claiming that it was going to be restored, preserved, or an appropriate interpretation rebuilt from or of it have now disappeared.

My prediction is total destruction through neglect, some twee statue in its place and the rumoured apartments and retail complex planned for that section of the foreshore, a little slice of the ugliness that is Port Douglas, will go ahead in the next year or two.

By then the asleep-at-the-wheel state Labor government will have got their just desserts but it will be too late for this and other heritage sites. The city will have been Sartorised almost completely and the Land value and anti-Environment Court will have sanctioned the bulldozing of everything of any historical merit.

Bondi surfers

2009-01-18T10:22:00.004+11:00

There seemed to be three places favoured by surfers this morning - three kinds of waves and three clusters of ability.

Coogee pool

2009-01-18T09:57:00.002+11:00

A magnificent dawning and a pool of memories -the stellae guarding the first swimmer

On solid ground

2009-01-14T14:10:00.002+11:00

After a week of the sun, tides and weather determining activities I now feel like I'm back on dry land.

A bushfire in Killara, 31 degrees in Glebe and the new owners pottering around at 72 all conspire to make me feel back from the sea.

I got two loads of washing on the line but it's too hot to get them in yet. I heard back from the Powerhouse Museum about Ken's objects. The Social History curator may uplift them as a collection. This'll make a change from Kylie's hotpants and blockbustershows from American movies which seems to be the public face of what was a technology and industrial history museum.

This used to be called the Disneyfication of museums but is probably better known now as the Paris Hiltonisation. The superficial made flesh.

I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky.

A passage to the sea

2009-01-11T22:39:00.005+11:00

merc's lessons. Things to be mindful of:

1. Sun protection
2. Hydration
3. Fuel (bananas)
4. Approaching the sea
5. Staring at the Ocean
6. What are waves?
7. What is sand?
8. Where do waves come from?
9. What is the tide doing?
10. What is the wind doing?
11. Breathing
12. Where is my mind?
13. Never run into the sea. Walk on sand in seawater with a pronounced thump, stingrays sense you coming and disappear.

Pittwater mornings

2009-01-11T22:06:00.004+11:00

We spent Monday to Saturday in a weatherboard cottage at Lovett Bay that my wife's grandfather bought in 1964. Each day began and ended differently and activities were determined by the sun and the tides.

Coogee morning for Merc

2009-01-05T09:25:00.001+11:00

January the fifth 1997

2009-01-05T08:23:00.001+11:00

Today we are 12 years married.

2009

2009-01-01T08:29:00.003+11:00

The local trees have grown so much over the last few years that our back of the bridge view has almost gone. The Darling Harbour fireworks are easier to see and this year someone had their own to set off in the street along a few doors.

We went to Kirribilli for the 9pm lot and then home for the midnight ones. Lots of people at Bradfield Park on Milson's Point rushing around excitedly.

1959

2008-12-28T07:48:00.004+11:00

The birthday feast. Lunch all over by 7pm.

but wiser?

2008-12-27T08:30:00.012+11:00

Fresh this morning is this portrait of me as an older man.

Today I turn 49 and am thinking about age and the past. This is my grandfather, Bill, on the left and his three brothers. He and Dot had eight children. The family moved from Rangiwahia to Kairanga and one of my uncles kept the dairy farm until he retired.
These are Bill's parents, Jack and Lavinia. Jack had moved to a new settlement at Rangiwahia following the ffrench-Pemberton family who his father worked for. He married Lavinia in 1898.

Bill's father's parents, Hugh and Margaret.
Donald Duff and Grace Low who arrived in NZ in 1861 from Perthshire. They both pretended to be younger than they were to meet migration rules. Their Grand daughter Margaret married Hugh Carr.

“He ao! He ao! He ao tea roa!”

2008-12-25T07:38:00.003+11:00

Looking at Glebe from Te Horo and looking at Te Horo from Glebe, or the points on the coast that are the closest.

In Sydney we live on the fringe and yet constantly show we don't, most of us, understand the sea. It is, like all pre-1788 Australia, there to be conquered. Having once been caught in an undertow in a relatively benign bay I now am wary of the power of volumes of water. Each year Australians and visitors to Oz drown when they're ripped away when not being mindful of their surroundings. Respect would be the starting point.

We, the post-26 January 1788 arrivistes, are tourists trying to make our new land home by seeing it as a version of home. We remain "fresh off the boat" despite our claims to be local.

What must the traditional owners think when people with roots less than 220 years old or deep squabble over which mob is really Australian? Like gatecrashers scrapping over a plundered beer cache?

And what must the land feel? Formations 200,000,000 years old in the guardianship of one group for the last 40 or 60,000 years or so and scrabbled over by dozens of others for the last 220 years.

There's a story about an elderly Aboriginal man and a gubba or Anglo woman stepping up to a counter in a bank at the same time. Their eyes met and the woman said "I think you were here first". After a pause the man said "I think I was". They both smiled an old smile of recognition and acknowledgement.

Big mac

2008-12-20T09:23:00.003+11:00

My coffee shop of choice is Sappho's across the road from the Glebe Public School. Usually I drink a macchiato.

After discovering this small but perfectly formed beverage in a coffee shop in Wgtn fifteen years ago I'd been disappointed by every one I'd had in Sydney until I ordered one at Sappho's in its new location. My daughter, now eight, was attending a preparation for big school programme at Glebe PS called Head Start. After we settled her in my younger daughter and I would go to Sappho's. On the first day I ordered a macchiato - a short that most places get wrong in a perplexing variety of ways. Buying one is always a leap of faith.

But this was liquid heaven - smooth, bitter, sweet, sharp, hot, warm, shocking and relaxing. The barrista of the day, Toby, restored my faith in Sydney coffee making. In a glass with a tiny amount of milk and a stain of froth. After seven years of mediocre or just plain bad macs I was instantly reminded of why it's my favourite drink.

Store of family memorabilia is 'a unique record'

2008-12-19T04:41:00.006+11:00

My email to and chats with a journo from The Glebe made it into print yesterday. The local state MP has organised a petition with her photo and contact details prominent asking the council to protect the home.

Her government has just rushed through legislation to allow two story properties to be built without any public previewing of the development plans or any local council involvement in the approval process. In a state ridden with shonks and greedniks this is dangerous and casts further doubt on the ethics and real interests of the current administration.

The NSW Labor government is a lame duck which has almost no chance of retaining power in the next election. The Premier is in the same situation as George Bush but the changeover won't occur for years (2011 perhaps ?)

Regrettably the Liberals should sail in on a "We can't be any worse but" or "Anything but the ALP" ticket. Providing BO'F can keep the weirdo religious and fascist cabals hidden away till then and the ALP keeps letting its loons off the leash. Bizarrely Smilin' Bob Carr, the ALP's Dr Doolittle, is looking better and better in hindsight.

It's a toss up between the treasonous military landgrabbers/alcohol-spruikers who overthrew Bligh, Robyn "What's the cash price?" Askin's crooks and the Carr/Iemma/whoever's left era for the dodgiest period of NSW governance. Probably still Askin by a nose this week but the current regime will be stumbling on for a while yet coughing up blood. What's that the Fench say? The more things change the more they stay the same?

At federal level the brown coal industry is once again dictating the country's environment policies.

Check out: http://www.getup.org.au/campaign/ClimateActionNow&id=488

Remember Peter Garrett? Singer of "How can you sleep while the planet is burning?" I think he's now in a covers band that finishes each night with a medley of "It ain't easy being green", "Always look on the bright side", "Don't worry, be happy" and "Shaddup you face". Either that or working out how to get more government subsidies for companies that put asbestos into ethanol-flavoured cigarettes.

Safe landing/Home from home

2008-12-17T04:48:00.003+11:00

I am sitting at a window seat. We've landed and are waiting. I see a luggage train. I recognise the bags. They're mine - all of them. I see the ones I bought with me but either recognise the others or know they're mine as well - every piece of baggage is mine. I'm roused from my thoughtfulness by the sight of two children standing on the tarmac.

They stand silently staring and I know and they know that the luggage train is heading for them. They wait stoically. I watch in horror. I know these children - girls aged eight and four - my daughters, our daughters standing calmly and confidently. The train travels recklessly as they often seem to.

The plane is one of those shared flights from Wellington to Sydney, the passengers a mix of AirNew Zealand and Qantas customers. I seem to be the only one on board although the flight is full. I am alone with too many people too close. I see the speeding luggage train. I see the waiting girls. I anticipate the impact.

The train with all my baggage, accumulated over almost 49 years, hits them. They almost don't notice. Luggage and pieces of the train fly everywhere. The contents of the cases and boxes and bags blow around. My daughters see me through the plane window and start waving.

Later at home I tell the story of the crash. The eight year old rolls her eyes and accuses me of being an extremist. The four year has moved on to other better more four-year-old centric stories mainly about kindy friends and candy canes.

It's good to be home.