Leaving Home

​It’s more nutty at our place than usual which is fairly challenging. Trying to get the boys ready to leave for Swinburne on Sunday. After weeks of procrastinating they are clearing out their Skunk Hole of years of accumulated  chip packets and Passiona cans. They are also trying to work out what to take. They are also very nervous. Tali went to Alpine School so he has been away from home before. Patric has not and resisted travel so it is BIG for him.

I am having my patience and ingenuity tested by all this but also  by cat proofing the house and building Catopia onto the side of the house with access through the lounge room window. Minerva (the cat) has been living in the Skunk Hole with the boys and hanging out on the veg cage, She is Talis cat, he got past my guard a couple of years ago when he pointed out that Patric had had pet rats and a dog and he hasnt had anything. I hate it when they are reasonable. On top of Catopia I have also had to build three sliding screen doors from scratch as our french doors are custom size. 

I am also building a whole pile of solar powered fruit and flowers for  F’ville in my spare  (sic) time.

The veg garden has gone bonkers with 2.5 metre tomato plants and the day of the Triffids in the pumpkin patch. 

Also back to work in The Music House. Thank Ghod I have put off stilts and New Kids on the Block until after Frouteville.

Very mixed feelings about the boys going. They will be so far away! I will miss them so.

FOOTY

When I arrived in Australia as an attachment to my parents Document of Identity (10 Pound Poms didnt require a passport – a hold over from the original British settlers) I had no idea the foopball existed. The day after our arrival I was confronted for the first time by Morris Bexley, the boy over rhe road, with ‘Who do ya barrack for?’  I looked blank and he asked me if I was a wog and didn’t know English. After further mutual misunderstandings Morris decided I should ‘barrack’ for Collingwood. I still admit to this on rhe rare occassion when foopball enters my conversation and partisanship is required.

In Blighty I had played soccer disgracefully but had as a result an abhorrence of touching the ball, while in play, with my hands. So when it came to  ‘Sport’ at Chadstone High (a three storey cube of sadism and suffering just down the hill from a tiny, newly built  Chadstone Shopping Centre)  I was at a loss. In the fine Australian educational tradition I was given no instructions on how to play. On the field I followed instincts and kept the ball down kicking it along the ground. This was awkward, at first, as Australia hadn’t worked out how to make round balls yet and still followed the traditional pig bladder shape,  This was surprisingly successful, as you were only allowed to scrag your opponent if you were in possession of the ball. I scored quite a few goals. Very soon the other chaps got the measure of my tactics and would kick me in the knees, eventually causing me to end up in hospital. This fine display of sportsmanship got me out of foopy till we changed schools the following year after we moved. I went to Croydon High. It was a school full of Poms and Wogs and  bushy grounds where one could hide during sport. 

Mallacoota doesn’t have a foopy team, we have four soccer teams that admit both men and women and sometimes win the pennant. Sometimes other teams players complain about women because they are better than them.

Education.

​Education has been hijacked by the economists, which is darkly humorous  (in a way), when you consider how naive and befuddled they are mostly. This is encouraged by politcians, religous leaders and their paymasters because the last thing they want is a population that can think and reason clearly.  

History is also an unreliable teacher as it is rewritten by every generation, to suit the exigencies of the times, which is mostly what causes its fascination.

Reading

​My first big read for this year is ‘Scatterlings’ by Martin Shaw. It has all sorts of resonances to Robert Holdstock. I am being captivated by the notion that identification with ‘place’ transcends language and this doesnt have to have anything directly to do with aboriginality.

I have been counting and I average ab.out one new book a week and at least one reread (these are often audio books). There are also authors being perpetually reread like Tolkein, Peake, Hoban, Hesse, Garner.

Gerard Manly Hopkins is a great way to learn English. When I think of Delany I think of scaffolding.

I am on the brink of another book cleansing. Somewhere in Dune there is a remark that says something to the effect that you can find out most aboit a person by what he rejects. So – book cleansing may be a much needed act of self discovery.

Welcome to the 21st Century

It is the 22nd birthday of my oldest son Patric.  It is also the start of the voting period for East Gippslands Council Elections. The two events on the surface may seem irrelavent to each other. This is not the case.

While it is clear, that based upon previous performance, a pile of old bricks could do a better job than our incumbent councilors and most of their senior administrative staff, it is not altogether clear that the majority of the 39 prospective candidates will do any better.

The reason for this is, that even a cursory examination of the buzz words and spin, that make up their candidate statements, reveals that they not only do not understand the game they are playing, they are playing it in the wrong venue.  They are playing it in the 20th Century.

What does this have to do with my son’s birthday? Consider – The Earth is warming, natural resources are getting very stretched, pollution and populations increase and biospheres collapse.  If you do not resonate with this list please return your attention to the sports or business section. My son, in what has become the normal scheme of things, could live for at least another 60 years. This will bring him very close to the start of the next century. Should he have grand children they could potentially live well into it. If they get the opportunity.

It is by no means clear that this will be the case. My generation and that of my parents are the architects and engineers of the unfolding crisis. The warnings and the warning signs have been with us for well over half a century now.

Many of us are now living off our superannuation, garnered at the expense of our planets resources, the exploitation of The Third World and the wholesale disfigurement of our planetary ecosystem. We will die soon, leaving our children with the mess. Denial may make us feel better about it, but does not make it any less true. I am always surprised that our children are not angrier than they are.

What does this have to do with our Council Elections? Having spent a considerable period reviewing the various candidates statements and other writings with which they have put their names: the outlook is bleak indeed.  Of the 39 candidates a small handful address our looming problems.  The old guard, who everyone seems to be so keen on removing, are probably so deep in denial that they will not even understand what this letter is all about.  Most of the wannabees make meaningless remarks about ‘sustainability’ and then go on to contradict themselves  by talking about traditional models of growth and development.

East Gippsland represents an opportunity to lead the way in developing new models, new ideas and new goals. We have a low population base and a relatively unpolluted environment.  It is not to late yet, but that time is rapidly approaching. The timber industry is having its destructive, primitive, wholesale clearfell and pulp way –  endangering our water catchments, affecting our weather and impacting on our ecological integrity.  Our urban ‘planning’ is threatening our agricultural land areas and waterways. There are attempts being made to establish extraction industries in areas sensitive ecologically and agriculturally. The members of our community in a position to take advantage of these get-rich-quick -and-damn-the-consequences-schemes try and justify their position by declaring  it will create jobs. Surely it will, but so would turning the shire into a national centre for nuclear, chemical, domestic and industrial waste, but I don’t think we want that either.

What is needed is a new plan, a new methodology, serious examination of all our current practises and heaps of vision. There is no sense that there is much, if any, of this amongst most of our council hopefuls.

If our children and our children’s children are going to have meaningful healthy lives they need to participate in meaningful healthy means of living and employment. Companies whose CEOs are paid bonuses for firing people (reducing the effectiveness of the opperation and causing unsupportable strain on the remaining employess are clearly not that. The alternative is small business, creating useful and durable goods and services that conserve non-renewables and concentrate on renewables. They need to bring a direct social as well as economic benefit to the community. We need social enterprises. They must add value both tangible and intangible to our town, East Gippsland, Victoria and Australia.

East Gippsland Shire needs a new plan. Emphasis must be on a balanced integration between rural and urban. A public transport plan needs to be established and implemented for both residents and tourists that radically demphasises the private car. Our changing demographic means we need an integrated health and aged care network, that because of the vast size of the shire and the scattered communities, needs to be something utterly new – the old models just don’t work.

We need to create a society that encourages young families to settle and employment opportunities to retain their children when they are grown. East Gippsland Shire is potentially in the position to create a flagship 21st century society. Lets leave the 20th Century minds behind.

I present this list below for your consideration. Don’t take my word for it, check them out.

(In no particular order)

JEREMY SCHRODER.

DEB FOSKEY.

JES JOHN.

PETER GARDENER.

JACKSON ROBERTS.

Live Music

​One of the things that clearly represents the changes in Mallacoota’s population demographic is a growing reluctance to participate in live art events.  We had a stunning show of beautiful music last night. We had  a good crowd but nothing like the crowds we used to get.  Interestingly our events are not generally  patronised by the remnant of Mallacoota’s once thriving arts community that still remains here. 

I have been under increasing preasure to get an alcohol license for The Muddie. People tell me they would be  more likely to come if they could buy a drink. This is sad. I think art should be about art. Music concerts are about music not drinking and competing with it to talk with your friends. It’s one of the reasons why I never go to art gallery openings. 

Reluctantly, if the trend continues, I am going to have to stop bringing artists to Mallacoota. I bring between 8 and 10 musicians and groups of musicians here a year without any funding support and it is getting unrealistic to ask musicians to come for so little return. My events also provide critical funding to our School Music Program which is where  the house percentage and sales from Cafe Mud go so, this would have a damaging knock on effect for our community in general. Probably the oddest thing is locals will travel to Melbourne and pay hundreds of dollars to watch an international bimbo lip-sync their latest CD in a stadium but are reluctant to support local live Australian music.

One of the more inexplicable things is often people tell me they did not know about it. I adverise my gigs in The Mouth, on 3MGB, handbills down the street, by email and social media so it is difficult, short of skywriting, to know what else to do.

There are four or so gigs coming up before the end of the year, let’s see what happens.

They 

They that support the bombing

Hourly kill their children and grandchildren.

Those that hate the ‘other’

Hourly hate their children and grandchildren.

They that are profligate

Hourly pillage  their children and grandchildren.

They that look the other way

Hourly care less for their children and grandchildren.

They that are them, 

They that are us,

They that look our of every mirror,

They that sadly shake their heads

And change the channel,

Or scroll quickly past

the suffering of their children and grandchildren,

Are deenched in so much blood,

So much loss.

Teasing the waving nerves of pain

Of their children and grandchildren.

They.

Have an art

​It’s curious. The punters will go to a huge arean and pay $100 dollars to watch someone lipsynch a cd on a big repeater screen but wont turn up to their local hall to listen to real live musicians.  

I think art galleries are a little different, watching the punters at the art gallery in town. Mostly cashed up bored tourists. They seemto be looking for something to match their curtains. Its decore rather than art that sells. The serious artists, who put blood, sweat and tears into their work don’t sell while the glib and the mannered walks out the door.

I think more and more that for the serious artist it has to be about the process with the final product as a kinda by-product. 

If you go to serious writers workshops (rather than the tea and knitting sort) you bo barded with info about ‘what sells’ and how to write it. The result is that everyone is writing like each other in a horrid homogenity. There are exceptions of course. I used to read the slushpile for The EJ Brady SS competition and you could tell which writers had been to which workshops.

I think us artists have to have fun together and create greatness and include the punters where appropriate but do it for ourselves.

You can always eat froute.

JONI SAID

​Joni said

We were stardust

On that Woodstock road 

She didn’t travel,

Except in a smoke dream

Joni said

We were stardust.

Born, we were,

In the heart of suns.

That had to die

To pave

The Woodstock road.

Joni said

We were stardust

Singing like the 

Crystal spheres

Bouncing down

The Woodstock road.

Joni said

We were stardust.

That gilded the

Giddy dreams

In our antic heads

Hitching down

The Woodstock Road

Joni said

We were stardust and

When our sun goes new

We will all be one

With the Woodstock road

Streaming out

Forever

Joni said.