Omens to our Romin's

Dear loved readers,

Well here it is the eve of departure for my first trip away from this continent in over thirty years and the day has dawned in an ominously Armageddon like shroud of red dust. If I’d heard that Lord Carnarvon opened Tutankhamen’s tomb this morning I would not have been surprised except that he had done so back in 1929. The red sky of my five thirty dawn walk seemed to promise a spectacular sunrise but alas it was not so. Rather the light simply rose in sepia tone to reveal cars, roofs and eventually clothes covered in a fine dust of red earth that will be welcomed only by our gardeners. This was whipped by a steady strong north westerly that became confused in the artificial hills and gullies of suburban streetscape till it came from anywhere. Sometime after midday the skies cleared leaving a somewhat springlike vista which seemed only to emphasise the inherent warning of natures passion and wrath that had come to whip the emerald city just as she does our southern rival Melbourne.

If there is a personal message in this phenomena for Alice and I on the eve of our big adventure I’m not egotistical enough to believe it. I’m not ignorant of the fate of Carnarvon and I’m aware of the travails of Moses, Noah, Job and their ilk but still its difficult to believe that this display could have been mounted for my sake only. No I don’t speak for Alice, who knows what she has been up to - well I should, but aren’t parents always the last to know? None the less she shall have to come up with some very convincing collaborative evidence to persuade me not to board that flight tomorrow.

As I say it’s over thirty years now since I last clambered aboard one of the great white birds that visit other continents. That’s approximately half my now substantial lifetime. Back then those white birds never managed to resist the lush gardens of asia. This one shall to propel me back to the continent where I can sate an obvious ancestral longing. I suppose it’s possible to imagine an Australian five hundred years from now, content with that as his origin. Maybe the essential seed of his existence has been sown but I can’t imagine any today who don’t still feel the sense of another beginning.

I should have had as good a chance as any, other than the obvious aboriginal, to feel native to this state that has stood me in such good stead for these substantial years. Had I been raised by wolves, er dingoes, perhaps I would feel as a Greek feels Greek and the Kurd, Kurd but I don’t and never shall. As soon as my mother began to sing to me the childhood rhymes of a foreign to Australian (Gondwanaland) language my detachment was commenced and my European Ancestral fuse lit. From then it was downhill all the way as my educators taught me of Copernicus and Galileo, Greek history and worlds at war, none of which happened in my part of town. No mention ever of the Rainbow Serpent and only the vaguest reference to Bourke and Wills who were after all European and doing what had been completed in Greece thousands of years before.

If I seem to be biased here in reference to Greek whose ancestry is not mine and where I shall not set foot it’s probably because I have prepared for this trip by reading Dead Europe by the Australian, Christos Tsiolkas. Probably not everyone’s choice of pre holiday reading but I enjoyed this somewhat gothic horror tale of ancestral pilgrimage. I don’t expect my own travels to include any so lurid adventures but perhaps with the application of imagination I can in my usual florid style make them palatable at least to my related readers.

Maybe Ill find time to log and blog as I go. That would be good but if not then you can take solace in the knowledge that I’m having too good a time to even think of you and isn’t my good time your foremost interest.

Robert

This was pretty much as the pigeons and I saw it

I Cant Sleep

To those loved so far away,

I’m so restless. My mind keeps wanting to read lists and tick completed items. A native early riser I’m finding myself wide awake ever earlier. Earlier even than week day alarm time (5.30). Out walking at six is the calmest I feel all day. I’m sure my constant calls to Alice to say ‘um I’ve got some shoes’ are getting on her nerves. I’ll try to start a book today. That might pass some time, otherwise I’ll be a nervous wreck without even leaving the tarmac. Drinking helps, and food, though it’s really the scheduling I crave. Lunch is like an anchorage around which I’m blown by quests for the right luggage, underwear and gigabytes of entertainment.

Thank god for work at Bunnings is something I thought I would never say. Weekends are the worst and mine are three days long. Last Sundays family day hosted by Jameson and his folks, was a welcome distraction. It was also well patronised. Jameson was able to pull Chris and Sue back from Mission Beach, via Goulburn where they must have had barely enough time to brush the cobwebs. This weekend will be the last but will also be two days longer as I shall be on holidays. As luck has it though there is an excellent blues festival on at The Towradgi Beach Hotel on Sunday featuring the one off reunification of the legendry ‘Whose Muddy Shoes’. Even better Towradgi turns out to be just north of Wollongong and has its own railway station only one and a half hours and two dollars fifty from our very own Central. It should require little effort to write off Monday in the hangover from this leaving only Tuesday and Wednesday for list ticking.

Looking forward to seeing those of you so far away in company with jetlag soon (anything would be preferable to this). Meanwhile please find evidence of your provenance in the following pictures.

See you all soon

Aunty

They started out posing but it was all down hill from there

Well of course they're happy shiny people

Digital really lacks a proper depth of field

Just couldn't get the other wise monkey into shot

This is me and some other less important folk

And this is an up to date Alice

Good morning Miss Heggen

My Week

Loved ones,

I visited Hugh at his university office yesterday. I Took my camera intending to get photographic evidence of same, perhaps even featuring Hugh camping it up in cap and colourful gowns that hang on the back of the door of course. The real purpose of my visit was to assist Hugh in the manipulation of photographs of floods etc. onto his recent part published memoirs of Goolmangar. Alas like Don Quixote waving his sword at windmills we were defeated by the technology and forced to retreat to lick our wounds, steak, sausages and wine at The Forrest Lodge. Naturally, thus defeated, there was no further thought of gay photo sessions. We will remarshal our forces probably including a savvy Gen-y or two and do battle another day but not until we solve the problem of Hugh’s half formed Blogspot home page that provides no access for posting pictures.

I’m a bit concerned about an article I read in the paper describing a pilot plan to feed the north coast dairy herds on seaweed in order to kerb their flatulent contribution to global warming. I can just imagine the alternative health market getting into the act with snake oil concoctions for that part of the human population with such afflictions. In the battle against global warming it’s easy to imagine govt taking the easy option and legislating against those with methane production over a certain scale. Implanted chips (no not the greasy kind) would alert restaurants and other food providers that this one should pay a premium ‘methane tax’ for normal foodstuffs or eat only the discounted kelp. They’ll have to do a major overhaul of its public image before I’ll chow down. Get rid of the word ‘weed’ for a start. Sea caramels might be OK, or sea marsh mallow. What ho I’ve got it, sea chocolate.

Went to a benefit for an old friend last Sunday at the Palm Beach RSL club. Terry was an artist sculptor and though not devoid of charm he was also a scoundrel, bully, abuser of friendships (especially with the opposite sex), serial unwanted guest and general nere do well who owed money to all who came close to him. It’s alleged that Terry became involved in an argument with his not much acknowledged son at the funeral of the mother in the Byron shire some while ago. In the ensuing fracas Terry’s head came into contact with some other hard surface resulting in his now vegetable state.

Despite a general “he had it coming” attitude his benefit, with the aim of purchasing a wheel chair, was well attended and hosted by Austentatious who also participated in the auction of works donated by artist peers. Austentatious was the perfect choice as he cut Terry no slack even offering punters the option of deducting Terry’s debts to them from their bids.

I arrived quite late having completely bungled the public transport and left early with Jack and Alice who had spent the previous night at Palm Beach. This short stay was long enough though; to meet up with friends some of whom I had not seen in Alice’s lifetime; to meet Terry’s son who along with his mates seemed to have the confidence of those in their hood and no signs of remorse; to hear several bids for three four and five odd thousand dollars go down which should surely go some distance towards a chair. I can’t wait to see Terry in it at the North Avalon bus stop drooling into his herald as he awaits the next sympathetic female face.

Have to go now an get back to the lists. Let’s see, socks, done, scrub, done, shoes! Oh no gotta go. See ya all soon, some in seventeen days.

Aunty


A freshly primed canvas, all an artist needs

Last Night