For four days in August, 2018, I was glued to the TV screen. I watched, horrified, as the greedy, ambitious, racist and self-absorbed underbelly of Australian politics was laid bare – as the full ugliness of Australia’s right wing politicians and media was exposed. None of the talking, shouting, hate-spewing heads cared what we thought, as they left us all in no doubt how little we were worth. When it was over, they were still there.
For some years now, I have been wondering where this country is headed, and have been drawing away from old allegiances. I have withdrawn my vote, my loyalty and my faith in political solutions,. That used to be my hope for the future. Now I watch NITV and SBS for messages that someone still cares about the earth beneath our feet and the life on it that needs our allegiance. I will use my vote for this – I will ask, do you inspire me? Can you offer this country a way through the spreading filth of cruelty and hate? Not Pauline Hanson, of course, but neither do the people who now lead us or would lead us. I want to think carefully about who or what I support. Not for political correctness but because I no longer want my hands to be soiled with the slime that pours out of Canberra’s parliamentary sewers – nor do I want to wash my hands of it, as I used to. It is too appalling. I want no part of those who imprison and torture children, who scrape the coffers clean to line their own pockets while families sleep in cars and others sleep in doorways, who refuse to acknowledge anyone under $40,000 per annum even exists. I will oppose this in any way I can for however long I have left.
Both my blogging efforts and my photographic efforts were intermittent during 2017 and for a long time I didn’t even have a working camera. I was not a regular contributor to Paula’s challenges but merely dropped in from time to time. Looking back it seems like 2017 carried me along on a flood of physical, emotional and spiritual upheaval. Old sureties were swept away in a rush of wild energies that cast me hither and thither in the swirling currents. For that reason I am posting a mobile phone photo I took of a local river in flood last spring.
The inner and outer turmoil I experienced in 2017 shows no sign of letting up and…
The back yard at my grandparent’s house in London after the war didn’t encourage gardening. It was paved with cracked stones, and the only thing that grew there was an invasive lilac bush which often blocked the back door. But my granddad lived in the country before moving to London, and he loved to grow things. So he applied for an `allotment’, a small patch of ground rented from the Local council.
During WWII allotments became very popular as Britons were exhorted to `dig for victory’ and keep themselves and their neighbors supplied with fresh vegetables. Granddad called his allotment his `victory garden’ – a victory not only over war itself, but over his exile from the country places he loved.
Edward ‘Ted’ Woodruffe, my grandpa (this is the only picture I have)
The first time Granddad took me to visit his garden, we walked through rows of allotments. The fencing was chicken wire, and surrounded each small plot. Some plots were sadly neglected, overgrown with nettles and thistles. But my granddad’s allotment was lush with vegetables – silverbeet, spinach, cabbages and cauliflower. There was a chain and padlock on the gate, and inside I could see a small shed in one corner.
Granddad took off the padlock and we went inside. He paused for a moment, breathed deeply, and smiled.
“Nuffin’ like it, is there, gel?”
He led me over to the cauliflower and broke off a floret. “Taste that.”
Cauliflower at my home was always served grey and overcooked. I took a suspicious bite, then ate the lot. I don’t think I ever ate a cooked vegetable from that moment.
There was another chain and padlock on the shed. It was a tiny shed, made of wood and looked like a country outhouse. But inside were his neatly stacked gardening tools, his bottles of homemade ginger beer, a stash of tobacco and a pipe, a kitchen chair and a pile of newspapers. He took out the chair and set it against the fence, then started sorting through the gardening tools.
“Weeds,” he said. “Bane of me life. Here, I’ll show you what’s weeds and what ain’t.”
He led me round the garden beds, pointing out the differences between his plants and the nettles and thistles that were poking their heads up. He gave me a small gardening fork and showed me how to uproot the ‘little beggars’ and toss them in a compost pile by the fence. I felt very important, declaring war on these enemies of my granddad’s cauliflowers.
It was a warm day, and we worked at those weeds until the ground was clear of them, then we took a break. Granddad gave me the chair and a bottle of ginger beer, and lit up a pipe for himself. he wasn’t allowed to smoke his pipe in Gran’s presence and I began to see that there was more to this allotment than just a chance to grow vegetables. He hunkered on his heels, puffing contentedly, while I sipped the ginger beer.
“You be good to nature, gel, and she’ll be good to you,” he said, pointing with his pipe at the garden beds. “We’ll take home a cabbage for dinner tonight, and some o’ that spinach.”
After the break, Granddad put away the gardening tools, and we cut the vegetables to take home, wrapped carefully in some of the newspaper from the shed. He showed me how to clean the gardening fork with newspaper.
“Never put things away dirty, gel. Had this stuff for years, I `ave.” He rarely spoke of his life in the country, but as he lined the spade, fork and hoe up against the shed wall, he smiled to himself. I had seen pictures of the cottage my grandparents once lived in, and thought how much he must have loved the generous gardens he kept there.
Then we caught the bus back to the cramped suburban street and terraced house in which he now lived. Granddad worked on building sites when I knew him, and it all seemed a long way from the life he had known. Yet, on his allotment, he recaptured some of the life he loved most.
After he died, my grandmother had to hand the keys of the allotment back to the council, and it was passed onto someone else. There are still allotments in the UK, and I’d like to think that his little plot is still being worked by someone, still producing fresh cauliflower and cabbage, still being cared for.
The Dead smell of musty files and fading ink. The Dead are wary, and hide among crumbling papers and three ring folders, and they are coy, and leave little breadcrumb trails through the forests of the past, that you follow eagerly only to find yourself with a handful of dust and the sound of mocking laughter.
It’s called genealogy but there is nothing genial about it. Those elusive ghosts have all sorts of tricks up their ectoplasmic sleeves. They change their names, forge their papers and lie about everything. Born in Buffalo sounds better than born in Bermondsey, and even census takers have a weird sense of humor, writing down New Yorkshire for New York.
But every now and then one of these timid ghosts steps out from the shadows and shakes off the dusty cloak of the past. Not timid at all, they look you in the eye with a knowing smile, and you can’t hide, or look away, not while you are looking into your own eyes, and she is smiling at you with your daughter’s mouth. She seems amused that you have found her while you were stumbling about the Internet in search of your great great grandmother. That is not who she is, this perky little lady – she is great great grandmother’s sister, and she is me.
She died so long ago that it would have been impossible to know her. I can only meet her ghost on a cabinet card from 1884, and wonder. She lives in the country of the dead and their musty boxes of files but she doesn’t belong there. She belongs here with me, sharing reminiscences of our past, my little sister who never was, my blood sister from long ago.
I’m missing someone I never knew, yet she is somewhere here inside me, in my genetic memory. I strayed too far into the country of the dead. I want her here now, I want to hug her and hear her speak, I want the sepia complexion to be flushed and shining as it was in life. I want her to be alive – and I look at her, so young and fresh, I know I looked like that once, and my daughter looks like that now. It is not all sadness and a sense of loss. I know now why I went looking for the past – to find her, to find myself.
The food channel is almost as addictive as cupcakes – I say almost because I don’t really like cupcakes. especially the modern extravaganzas covered in gooey fondant and piles of candy. Perhaps it is more like lasagna – when it is good, it is very, very good, but when it is bad, it is bollocks. But if you watch it long enough, you do learn a few things.
Would you eat this bad boy? I can hear my own bad boys yelling “Yes! Yes!”
1: Disgusting food is very hot right now. Whether it is the biggest, greasiest, most revolting pile of deep fried crap the eye has ever beheld, or the guy on Bizarre Foods inhaling something really offal (see what I did there?) with bits of fur and claws hanging out, this is the very definition of food porn. It makes you feel dirty, queasy and desperate for a shower. It’s the Zapata moustache and tight flares of food porn. Watching huge men tucking into huge food resembles an orgy in a pig factory. Suck on those trotters! Yet it also hugely popular and won’t go away – like porn.
2: Some of the women on the Food Channel look like Stepford Wives on steroids. They have names like Giada, Tiffani and Katie Lee and are so skinny and shiny and well dressed that you can’t help wondering if there is a lot of regurgitatng going on between takes. They have frightening Hollywood hair and teeth and there are some celebrity connections – Giada is the granddaughter of Dino Di Laurentiis, Tiffani Thiessen was all over TV soaps once upon a time and Katie Lee was married to Billy Joel. They make Nigella look overfed. Are they really actually cooking and eating that food? How do they stay that spotless without an apron?
3: Aussie chefs rule. No really, forget Jamie and Gordon, the US is having a moment with Curtis Stone. His chiseled Bazza Mackenzie jaw turns up all over the place. When he’s not churning out recipes for our local Woolies, he’s making American women swoon as he leans over their culinary efforts on cooking shows. He’s their Manu Fieldel.
4: You can’t teach Americans to eat healthy food. There’s a show called Junk Food Flip, where two earnest young foodies try to emulate some disgusting deep fried concoction using substitutes like lentil fritters and millet buns. They and the demonic minds behind a burger that looks like it would have made Elvis puke (but not their customers) go head to head to see which version the great unwashed prefer. No contest really.
5: Cupcakes! There’s a show called Cupcake Challenge where contestants have to create cupcakes that make the judges drool. Then they wheel in snake-hipped Jessica Alba as one of the judges. That woman looks like she could do with a cup cake or three. One of the contestants, a well padded Latino, beams at her as if all his Christmas cupcakes have come at once. Once again we are
reminded of food as porn. An orgy of Latin loveliness and foxy fondant awaits. But would she really eat one? Desserts and cakes don’t stop at iced buns on the Food Channel. These are towering confections of cream, fondant and candies. And nobody gets fat on them except the contestants.
OK, it’s not all skinny chefs and junk food, but with the US content in particular, there is an almost gleeful approach to unhealthy cooking. The traditionally built host of Farmhouse Rules piles on the butter, sugar and cream with abandon, while contestants on Cutthroat Kitchen seem to dish up an endless parade of burgers and hot dogs. But there are real chefs heading real cooking shows like Adam Liaw’s Destinations, .Maeve O’Meara and the team from The Chef’s Line and Shane Delia. Try NITV as well, Cafe Nugini is sheer pleasure.
A souvenir of a perfect day in Bude, Cornwall – I’m sitting between Uncle Richard and Aunty Annette,with my mother at the back.
The rocky coast of Cornwall is one of the most beautiful places in the world. Little towns and bays nestle amongst the cliffs, each with its own distinct character.
In 1957, I spent a wonderful late summer touring these towns with my parents. Mum and Dad were part of a carnival that visited places such as Clovelly, Barnstaple, Bideford and Bude. Part of the touring company on this trip was a dance duo, old friends of my parents, whom I called Uncle Richard and Aunty Annette.
We loved every minute of the tour, but at Bude we had a special treat. No one came to the fair. The other attractions in that beautiful little town proved too strong for the tourists, so the fair closed early and we got the day off. Show people and travellers rarely get to play tourist – other peoples’ holidays are our working days. It was delicious fun to get away, like playing hookey from school.
First we looked around the town – especially the churchyard, for we all enjoyed studying old headstones. We had tea at a charming inn with white washed walls, sitting outside under a magnificent bank of wisteria, sipping shandies (beer and lemonade) and enjoying scones with jam and fresh clotted cream.
Finally we went down to the beach, but it was too crowded so we braved the climb down to the wonderfully named Strangles beach, where many ships have foundered over the centuries. My father took a picture of us all sitting on one of the jagged rocks, then he went for a stroll. He was an inveterate beachcomber, and among the treasures he found that day was a small, perfect white pebble.
Later, he polished the stone and painted the word Bude on it in bright red and yellow letters as a memento of the day. My mother kept that stone in her china cabinet and would take it out and show it to her grandchildren and great grandchildren, and tell them the story of the Bude Stone.
The most fitting tribute I can think of to our new poet laureate – my current favourite version of one of his greatest poem/historical novels by the immortal Eddie Vedder. It sums up the reason Dylan is one of our greatest literary figures – in this short verse he creates a whole world, a drama bigger than Game of Thrones and a cast of characters that fire the imagination.
Pull out of your comfort zone
Far away from your home, and into the unknown
I guess you could call it fate
That every time I hit the road I find myself
Quite too late
The lanes are crowded
Unable to pass left or right
One slip and the moment is lost
Lovely evening turned panic stricken night
There’s so many out there
Big, small, and in between
Happy and sweet, angry and mean
Many I pass by, pushing faster as I go
Because that one I never wish to know
I slow down for others, even checking their rear
Wide, luminous, and ironically austere
But there’s one that stops me entirely
Hands up, windows out, breaks down
To her everything I am bound
Over mountains, under trees
Every passing minute makes this feel like a tease
But when I see her lights flash
Eyelids rise, pupils dash And all…
I’ll start by saying this is the first Paul Auster novel I have read, although he has a large body of work. I was attracted by the enigmatic title, and by the first page of the novel. You’ve heard all that advice about hooking them from the first paragraph – Auster does it so well it looks easy.
Oracle Night is a deceptively simple story. Sidney Orr, a New York writer, has suffered a near-fatal illness, and is slowly recovering. He walks into a stationery shop called the Paper Palace, run by the strange Mr Chang, and buys a blue notebook from Portugal.
This very simple act sets in motion a chain of events that leads to the question every writer, sooner or later, asks his or herself: why does everything I write come true?
Oracle Night is a writer’s novel – it is about a man writing a book about a man reading a book, to put it in the shortest possible terms. Orr uses the blue notebook to begin composing a story based on Dashiell Hammett’s `Flitcraftian episode’ from the Maltese Falcon, Flitcraft being a man who decided to walk away from his humdrum life after nearly being clipped by a falling beam from a construction site.
Orr’s protagonist Nick Bowen is an editor, reading a manuscript called Oracle Night by one Sylvia Maxwell. While out walking one night, he escapes death by inches when a piece of masonry plunges into the street. Like Flitcraft, he has an epiphany and sets off for Kansas City. Orr is using the Flitcraftian episode as a springboard for a new novel. As Orr writes compulsively in his blue notebook, fiction and reality begin to intertwine, and tragedy becomes inevitable.
Auster’s writing is extraordinary. While I found Sidney Orr to be a somewhat weak, unattractive character, I couldn’t stop reading. Orr breaks every rule in and out of the book – he eschews chapter headings, so the novel reads more like a long short story, he switches viewpoints and tenses willy-nilly, he writes long sentences with loads of commas, and he even adds numbers into the text for back of book notes, for Heaven’s sake.
Yet it all works, in this ghost story without ghosts. Orr is haunted by the past, and by his characters, and most of all by the feeling that the world has become a dangerous and unpredictable place.. Meanwhile, Orr’s wife Grace is acting oddly, his writer friend John Trause has a blood clot in his leg, and Trause’s son Jacob is heading for Hell in a hand basket.
It is truly fascinating to see how Orr develops his Flitcraft story, to watch briefly sketched characters come to life – and within this story again, is another story, the true Oracle Night, the story of a psychic called Lemuel Flagg. As for that question that every writer asks sooner or later – he wisely ends it on an uplifting note, or none of us would ever write another word.