Botannical Art from Tanya Scharaschkin

Nelumbo-lutea

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From the Seed

Acacia_leiocalyx                                                            

                                                               Artist   Tanya Scharaschkin

From the Seed

Acacia_falcata

                                                             Artist   Tanya Scharaschkin

Remembering 25th November, 1999

The flower withers, but the seed remains.   

(Kahlil Gibran)

Remembrance

November seems to be the month for media remembrance.  This month we have been revisiting film of violent events.  30 years since the murder of John Lennon, 47 years since the assassination of John Kennedy, 15 years since the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin.  In November we also commemorate Remembrance Day.

For me, November brings back memories of my first visit to the USA.   One month after that visit John Kennedy was killed.   Three months after my second visit to the USA in 2001, 3000 people were killed in the Twin Towers.

However, we should also commemorate in November the flowering of one man's far-sighted vision for a collaborative, interactive and peaceful world.  20 years ago Tim Berners-Lee published a formal proposal for the World Wide Web.

The House that Dennis kept

High up in a Greenwich home

a chorus of birds brings dawn to my room.

High up in a Spitalfields attic, no birds sing.

Nothing disturbs the silence of death and decay,

not even the woman, whose face at the window

gazes down through the gas-light below.

A lonely canary is still being fed

though there’s nobody there in the house,

only whispers, reflections and clocks ticking on,

meals left half-eaten, warm fires and a cat

and someone who seems to be just out of sight.

Will she step from the shadows and speak
of the Huguenot weavers?

How they lived in the cellar and toiled full of hope

down the years.

How their status advanced as fortunes improved,

and in rooms richly-furnished and warm,

they rose up the floors

with the years.

 

Until wealth dwindled slowly, poverty neared

rooms lost their comfort and cheer,

and there in the attic the family perished.

As all turned to dust

with the years.

94 years in all.

So many lives to recall.

But nothing is certain in this house full of past,

where time seems to fracture and fray.

A woman’s life may be shaped and re-cast,

as a ghost that intrudes on today,

or fate might decree that she not live at all.

Was there only a house, with no movement, no talk,

no woman observing, no one out on a walk?

Just a woman ‘s profile on a window up high

a cut-out of cardboard?

or a face that won’t die?

How to sunburn a cow

I've been attending a U3A course exploring ideas about time.  In discussing the introduction of daylight savings (summer) time across Australia David gave the example of an opponent of this change (a Queensland farmer) who thought that the extra hours of sunlight  would 'sunburn his cows'.

Last year I spent time in Greenwich, London and visited the Royal Observatory.  I remember standing on the Meridian line, after finding Hobart marked out, and then discovering that nearby schoolchildren had no idea where Hobart was.  However, the children knew my friend and I were obviously Australian, because they thought we sounded just like the stars of 'Neighbors'.

As I spent a lot of time thinking about time in Greenwich (including reading a book by a scientist, who argued that time did not exist) I have been very interested in David Leaman's course.  It has also reminded me of my visit to an amazing house Spitalfields in London, where Dennis created a home that seems to be still occupied by the original Huguenot owners.  It's an unusual tourist attraction.(http://dennissevershouse.co.uk/)

Paperless Office?

Is there a convergence of ideas whose time has come?  John Quiggin (http://johnquiggin.com/) recently asserted that the paperless office is closer than we commonly believe.  The purchase and use of e-readers and e-books in Australia seems to have really taken off this year and every day, as we spend more and more time in social networking, information gathering, communication and artistic expression using screen-based activities, the need for paper is lessened.  Perhaps our literary-based culture is in the process of transforming into a visually-based one.  As we digitise everything we can for easy on-line access we create an on-line world that is multi-faceted: on the one hand personalised, immediate and accessible, on the other hand   universal, omnipresent, and inter-active, but  in either case a world  framed in ways that use much less paper.   This week in Tasmania we are finally reaching a peace settlement in the 30 year battle of the forests.  Wouldn't  it be ironic to reach this point only to find that the market for paper products is decreasing with every day that passes? 

Quip of the month

 A jug fills drop by drop

Buddha's words seem appropriate for the start of our new parliament at the beginning of a new month

Reading in the digital age

I've been thinking lately about how the internet is changing the way we read, think and behave.  At a  recent meeting of the Hamilton Literary Society, I read my poem (below) and asked members if we were losing the plot, as reading changes to accommodate digital technology.

Playwright R Foreman, Crikey writer G.Noble, as well as commentators J.Achenburg and B.Macintyre have all explored this issue recently and suggested that information overload creates pancake people (people spread wide and thin as they try to connect to vast amounts of data) or magpie readers (gathering bright buttons of information, before hopping on to some shiny new thing) and may even be threatening the very concept of culture itself.

Possible themes for the next meeting of our informal discussion group, perhaps.

When word was king  (how long ago was that?)

the news was in the paper to be read

in depth, at leisure, every word a thread

 to lives unknown and worlds  unseen.

Now image rules the world and slick and pat

the news is in full colour to be viewed

and words are only captions sparsely glued

on all and sundry’s giant plasma screen.

While in the logged-on world that followed that

a web of screens entices us each day 

to phone, to view, to scan and surf away

but not to question what our icons mean.

Almost, but not quite

2010 is shaping up as the year of the drawn contest.  First the Tasmanian state election produced a hung parliament, then the British election did likewise, followed by the Australian election resulting in a hung parliament (for the first time since the Second World War) and now the Aussie Rules Football Grand Final has ended in a draw (for the first time since 1977).  Something in the air?

Pakistan

In happier times before the Great Flood

Election quip

Time wounds all heels

It's still not over

We've survived a 5 week election campaign and the election itself only to find ourselves straight into a new campaign to seize government from a hung parliament by winning over the independents. Ironically, my electorate of Denison may turn out to be the one that determines the final result.  We were considered too safe a seat for the leaders to even visit during the campaign and there was so much emphasis on western Sydney that it seemed that our votes counted for nothing. As it's turned out we are very likely to elect an independent.  It will go down to the last few votes and reflects the general disdain felt by many Hobartians for the major parties and their fatuous campaign.

Return of the whales.

Electioneering is almost over and put into perspective by some real news from Hobart.  For the first time in 189 years a whale has given birth to a calf in waters off a Taroona beach close to my sister's home. So much more exciting than Julia's 6 radio interviews before 8am today, or Tony's vow to keep talking to voters all through the night.

Holidaying

Around this time last year I was in Cornwall holidaying with my grandchildren.  Come to think of it the weather then (mid Summer) wasn't very different from what we've been experiencing here lately in Winter. What I remember most from this trip, however, was how I came  to appreciate the joys of parenthood more keenly.

Observe a father taking his near-teen daughters on a half-term holiday.  See how number 1 daughter strides confidently off 50 yards in the lead with a number 2 daughter in rapid pursuit, while father valiantly struggles to steer the small procession from behind: establishing destination, setting direction, purchasing tickets, managing mountains of luggage and carefully supervising your global grandparent, who is always to be found a considerable distance to the rear.  Along footpaths and platforms, over footbridges and steps, along tunnels and corridors, down escalators and up stairways, in and out of trains see them go.

Are we there yet?

No, but we've passed the halfway mark in this election.  Just as well, as we're in danger of being swamped by the number of Prime Ministers (current PM, very nearly current PM, immediate past PM and at least three even- more-past PMs) who have now entered the ring.

Quip of the month

Out of the mud into the puddle.

                   (Czech proverb )

McDonnell Ranges, Alice Springs

In the beginning

I was here.

Long ago in the Dreaming,

when all that was

was sea and stillness,

I was here,

waiting.

When my time came, 

giant spasms shook the sea,

churned and strained, thrusting upwards

in cataclysmic shudders.

They ripped the sea's womb wide open
and flung me out into this world.

Mine was a violent birth,
but I was a long time young.

You didn't see me then, 

when I was young

and partly hidden high beyond the clouds,

my face all smooth, my body strong,

rising imperious, abruptly sheer

from endless flatness far below.

I was a roof for all the earth,

a sanctuary for those beneath,

who cherished me.

You didn't see me either, as I aged.

when the fierce winds came

and the storms raged and the rain coursed

deep into my limbs

etching furrows in my skin,

sheering offspring near and far,

as I began to falter

down the millennia.

Now that you've come

like all the others, 

and looked and wondered at this place,

remember that I'm old, like you,

grown heavy, wrinkled, as I'm weathered

slowly downwards,

in buckled, folded, jagged slide

towards the earth,

from where beneath

 my home is calling.

Yet on this day I still stand watch 

and talk to you, who stops and listens,

and contemplates how brief a stay,

is given us from dust to dust.

You feel my guardian spirit's touch,

enduring deep and long.

I feel your sense of kindred fate,

that all must end some day.

Remember then when your time comes,

the centre's heart will take you in

and I will point the way.

For until time itself is done,

I'll still be here to guard this land.

 

The heart of Australia

 It's a long way from mega city traffic to the vast stillness of the Red Centre.  But this is one journey that's well worth making.  While in Alice Springs recently, I couldn't help but wish that all Australians could visit here to reconnect with the heart of our country.

Near Alice Springs

A grandparent braves the London Underground

 Returning home to Hobart from the warmth and hustle of life in a big city I find myself remembering other cities and other transport systems, I have struggled through.  I wish someone had given me some helpful travel advice about the intricacies of getting around London, for example.


When using the London Underground for the first time on your own without a carer, you need to be prepared to find yourself relying on a power greater than your own to get you into the bowels of the earth and out again.  It seems easy  enough, just find the familiar red circle symbol and start your journey.  But be warned: feelings of panic may start to arise, as you find yourself being impelled down the stairs by the pressing throng, for the Underground will always be crowded, no matter when you travel.  Try to set your own course though, for before you proceed you will need a ticket and everyone else will already have one.  You won't need cash, but you will need a ticket--and any number of machines will welcome you to embrace them, touch their screens and get yourself the magic Oyster card that opens up all barriers to you;
    just as long as the machines don’t chew up your credit card, of course.

Beautiful Hobart

I'm now back from Brisbane on a calm, crisp and sunny day.  Once again as I step onto the  tarmac  and breathe the clean, pure air and drive from the airport towards the bridge with that wonderful sweeping view of the  river and the city nestling under the mountain, I realise just how lucky I am to live in this beautiful island state.  Tasmania, the hidden
jewel in the (Australian) crown.

From whoa to go in a week

At the beginning of the week, in this election, It was:

        game on, or a race, a play or an act,

        a lurch to the right and the right,

        the pollies perform in a make-believe world, 

        where  there's nary a voter in sight.

Now we're to have a People's Assembly!

Moving forward without taking any action

This election is bordering on farce.  The leaders shadow box the ghosts of Rudd and Howard, while mouthing the puerile slogans of "moving forward" or "taking real action".  The media treats it as a blood sport: own goals, fouls, tactics, quarter-time scores and the visceral reactions of the crowd.  Where are the policies and where is reasoned analysis?  Thank God for Possum Comitatus and The Piping Shrike, among other informative blogs.

Election Quip

One day a rooster, the next a feather duster

From Brisbane

Tanya's Penrose Quilt

From Brisbane

Tanya's flora and fauna quilt

Not another election

Julia has called an election for August 21st.  We can look forward to weeks of sloganeering driving us crazy again.   Julia, the slayer of Kevin versus Tony, the slayer of Malcolm both trying to out-slaughter each other.  It won't be an edifying time.
How many PM's have I seen come and go--- it must be at least 10.  Will Julia remain our first female prime minister, or will she become our shortest lasting female PM?

.

Sunshine State

Brisbane is a very different city from Hobart.  I was surprised by its vast skies, far horizons and heat shimmering over a never-ending flatness, when I visited family there. Their Brisbane suburb sprouted  suddenly out of long stretches of bushland cut in half by a major highway.  My visit prompted this poem.



Sunshine State

Up here where the sun is always on and the sky is forever blue,
everything lingers.

Only the road brings noise and movement,
its man-made pulse beats counter-point to the brooding notes of emptiness,
just over the Great Divide.

Up here where the road fractures the bush, great gums still tower.
Their grey-green presence is everywhere,
crowding the edges of things with darkness.

Immutable, mysterious,
encroaching.

Travel advice

For an aging grandparent travelling alone to visit offspring on the other side of the world, there is only one piece of advice worth heeding (and it isn’t to be found on the official travel advisory sites). That advice is that:

whatever happens, you are never to panic.

Don’t panic, even if, on emerging from the stifling 2 hour torture of immigration processing in the Heathrow cattle-pens, you don’t recognise the long-haired, part-bearded Rasputin-look–alike, who says he’s your son.

He will be.

Don’t panic, even if, having successfully negotiated the train trip from Euston to the correct Birmingham station, you cannot find your daughter-in-law and grandchildren at the designated meeting-point and you cannot find a public phone and when you do, you cannot get it to work, and when it does, you find that your family are only a few metres away, but you still can’t find them.

Eventually you will.