nonshedders

[nonshedders]

The Hunting of the Snark:  Lessons For and From a Life in Policing.

"But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day, If your Snark be a Boojum! For then You will softly and suddenly vanish away, And never be met with again!"*

*from 'The Hunting of the Snark', by Lewis Carroll

Most police officers entering into retirement have found their Snark to be a Boojum.  This is not necessarily a bad thing.  There is something to be said for softly and suddenly vanishing away.  Organisations evolve relentlessly and leave all contributors, even the most significant of them, in their wake.  If cricket can move past Don Bradman, then policing - well, you get the analogy...

The trick to softly and suddenly vanishing away is, however, a pathway laden with hazards as fearful as Lewis Carroll's Bandersnatch; even more perilous than the JubJub.  It is a journey requiring; in fact, demanding, significant forethought and planning.  Of course, almost all retiring professionals will arrive at this realisation; but many of them do so too late.

The Bellman looked uffish, and wrinkled his brow. If only you'd spoken before! It's excessively awkward to mention it now, With the Snark, so to speak, at the door!*

Our profession, the profession of policing, is an immersive one.  We take it home with us; and to parties.  It comes in phone calls and emails when we are not at work.  It gets between us and those we love.  It comes in insomnia.  It comes on our holidays with us.  It appears suddenly in the places we thought we went to escape it.  If we are not careful, it consumes us.  We need to be careful because, if we allow ourselves to be consumed by it - if policing becomes our identity - then, when we are no longer police, what remains?

The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because He had seven coats on when he came, With three pair of boots—but the worst of it was, He had wholly forgotten his name.*

Of course, at the beginning of our careers, when we are young and strong and can leap tall buildings in a single bound, none of this matters.  Except it does.  We are the frogs in the heated pot, and we need to be conscious of the water temperature rising around us.  There are two alternative certainties: we will learn to cope, or we will fall over.  Coping, therefore, is good.  However, it is a learned skill, and all of us learn in differing degrees, at different speeds, and by different methods.  But teaching ourselves how to cope is an important and necessary thing, and it is is beyond dispute that having some deliberative strategies to guide us is much preferred to a reliance on good luck and a fair breeze.

He had bought a large map representing the sea, Without the least vestige of land: And the crew were much pleased when they found it to be A map they could all understand...

...This was charming, no doubt; but they shortly found out That the Captain they trusted so well Had only one notion for crossing the ocean, And that was to tingle his bell.*

Don't be that Captain.

Have a sensible map; a realistic plan.  Some reference points are handy.

Many of us commence our vocational journey without that plan (or, if you like, possessed of a map with no markings).  We have no conception of the shape or direction of our career other than, perhaps, a careless awareness of the absence of any such direction.  And often there is comfort in drifting with the current and breeze.  But all of us, even those who enter the profession with clear and unambiguous plans for their journey, can discover that a life in policing will take us in unexpected and, on occasions, inexplicable directions.

But the principal failing occurred in the sailing, And the Bellman, perplexed and distressed, Said he had hoped, at least, when the wind blew due East, That the ship would not travel due West!*

Trust me; in 40 years of policing, I have seen examples of such navigational absurdity.  So a plan is great, but not foolproof.  Plans don't always go according to - well, you know.  What does one do when the plan fails?  When we are being tossed about in the tempest, how is control regained?  

You might begin by discovering - and it is a journey of discovery - who you are.  Not name, rank and payroll ID number, but what is at the core of your being.  Who are you?  Where do you belong?  What makes you happy?  Are you the winger with no left foot but a liking for tall stories in the bar after the game?  Are you the only member of the choir with the vocal range required for the Hallelujah Chorus?  Are you a favourite uncle / aunt?  Ratbag cousin?  Are you the most predictable non-winner in the tipping competition?  

Where do you belong?  And, most importantly: who is there for you when work is not?  

When you make that discovery, never let it go.  To do your job well, you do not have to neglect that aspect of yourself.  In fact, to continue to do your job well is almost impossible without that aspect of yourself.  Nurture and develop your self as if it is your most precious possession.  Because it is.

You may seek it with thimbles, and seek it with care; You may hunt it with forks and hope; You may threaten its life with a railway-share; You may charm it with smiles and soap.*

Having found your self, and having discovered your place, you always have safe harbour to which to return.  Which provides confidence, and great comfort, for a person who subjects themselves to the tumultuous forces of a career in policing.  This job will offer you a profusion of possibilities, and for every single one of them, there are further multitudes of uncertainties.  

If all goes according to plan, my own journey in this profession will end on my 58th birthday, having spent 40 and one half of those years as a police officer.  Can anyone doubt that the 58 year old me would be a very different person if the 17 year old me had made a different career decision?  This profession has shaped me into the person I will be when I leave it and go out into the world.  Whether that is a positive or negative result is a judgement for time and for others, but here is the crucial point:  if a career in policing is going to alter the person you are, then should you not do everything in your power to observe and control that process?

'Tis a pitiful tale," said the Bellman, whose face Had grown longer at every word: But, now that you've stated the whole of your case, More debate would be simply absurd.*

I'm pleased to be retiring.  Not because I dislike this career, nor because I have tired of my colleagues.  I'm just ready to embrace the opportunity to live a hundred percent of my life as the person I now know myself to be.  Like any veteran police officer, I have seen my share of stuff, and not all of it has been disheartening.  In dealing with situations that bring the worst to people, we often see them at their best:  spirited; stoic; generous; strong; determined.  And of course, in dealing with those situations we, as police, form our own bonds of fellowship with each other.  I've been supported, nurtured and reinforced in that fellowship.  Of the countless people I have worked alongside over four decades, I could count on the tines of a cocktail fork the ones I found it hard to like.  And even they taught me things!  

So, thank you Tasmania Police, for taking the teenage me and shaping him into something which I hope is not a complete bastard.  Thanks for teaching me about life.  Thanks also for equipping me, at least in part, to bring the three finest young adults I know into this world.  

Thanks to this island. If you are going to be police, this place is a good place to do it.

Thanks to the villains, victims, bystanders, collaborators and magistrates who played their role in my pageant.  Thanks to my mentors; and to those who at least pretended to heed my (too often not) occasional advice.  

Above all else, thanks to those who love me (others might doubt their existence, but I know who they are!) for giving me a retreat, and a mirror.  

I'm stepping out the door with a smile on my face and a sack full of plans.  Four decades after accidentally starting an unplanned journey, I can sense that the Snark is nearby - so close, in fact, that I think I can distinguish its features ...  

In the midst of the word he was trying to say, In the midst of his laughter and glee, He had softly and suddenly vanished away— For the Snark was a Boojum, you see.*

[nonshedders]

The Western Side of the Island

It looks like my final professional posting will be in this area around Macquarie Harbour. In an unfocused attempt to document part of that, here is a random bunch of photos from that place.

[nonshedders]

Thoughts and Prayers

In the wake of tragedy or adversity, those who offer thoughts and prayers exhibit a breathless paucity of the former.

Almost 300 years ago, Jonathon Swift, offered his own thoughts on the baseless and insignificant "reasoning" which divides the populations of this planet:

...(F)or about seventy moons past there have been two struggling parties in this empire, under the names of Tramecksan and Slamecksan, from the high and low heels of their shoes, by which they distinguish themselves.  It is alleged, indeed, that the high heels are most agreeable to our ancient constitution; but, however this be, his majesty has determined to make use only of low heels in the administration of the government, and all offices in the gift of the crown ...  The animosities between these two parties run so high, that they will neither eat, nor drink, nor talk with each other.  We compute the Tramecksan, or high heels, to exceed us in number; but the power is wholly on our side.  We apprehend his imperial highness, the heir to the crown, to have some tendency towards the high heels; at least we can plainly discover that one of his heels is higher than the other which gives him a hobble in his gait.  

Now, in the midst of these intestine disquiets, we are threatened with an invasion from the island of Blefuscu, which is the other great empire of the universe, almost as large and powerful as this of his majesty...  Which two mighty powers have, as I was going to tell you, been engaged in a most obstinate war for six-and-thirty moons past.  It began upon the following occasion.  It is allowed on all hands, that the primitive way of breaking eggs, before we eat them, was upon the larger end; but his present majesty’s grandfather, while he was a boy, going to eat an egg, and breaking it according to the ancient practice, happened to cut one of his fingers.  Whereupon the emperor his father published an edict “commanding all his subjects, upon great penalties, to break the smaller end of their eggs.  

The people so highly resented this law, that our histories tell us, there have been six rebellions raised on that account; wherein one emperor lost his life, and another his crown.  These civil commotions were constantly fomented by the monarchs of Blefuscu; and when they were quelled, the exiles always fled for refuge to that empire.  It is computed that eleven thousand persons have at several times suffered death, rather than submit to break their eggs at the smaller end.  Many hundred large volumes have been published upon this controversy: but the books of the Big-endians have been long forbidden, and the whole party rendered incapable by law of holding employments.  During the course of these troubles, the emperors of Blefusca did frequently expostulate by their ambassadors, accusing us of making a schism in religion, by offending against a fundamental doctrine of our great prophet Lustrog, in the fifty-fourth chapter of the Blundecral (which is their Alcoran).  This, however, is thought to be a “mere strain upon the text; for the words are these: ‘that all true believers break their eggs at the convenient end.’  And which is the convenient end, seems, in my humble opinion to be left to every man’s conscience, or at least in the power of the chief magistrate to determine.

Jonathan Swift. “Gulliver's Travels into Several Remote Nations of the World.”

160 years after Swift daringly challenged the basis of religious affiliation, Mark Twain took his cudgel to the issue of religious hypocrisy:

But then the Church came to the front, with an axe to grind; and she was wise, subtle, and knew more than one way to skin a cat—or a nation; she invented “divine right of kings,” and propped it all around, brick by brick, with the Beatitudes—wrenching them from their good purpose to make them fortify an evil one; she preached (to the commoner,) humility, obedience to superiors, the beauty of self-sacrifice; she preached (to the commoner,) meekness under insult; preached (still to the commoner, always to the commoner,) patience, meanness of spirit, non-resistance under oppression; and she introduced heritable ranks and aristocracies, and taught all the Christian populations of the earth to bow down to them and worship them. Even down to my birth-century that poison was still in the blood of Christendom, and the best of English commoners was still content to see his inferiors impudently continuing to hold a number of positions, such as lordships and the throne, to which the grotesque laws of his country did not allow him to aspire; in fact he was not merely contented with this strange condition of things, he was even able to persuade himself that he was proud of it. It seems to show that there isn’t anything you can’t stand, if you are only born and bred to it...

...When the harvest was at last gathered, then came the procession of robbers to levy their blackmail upon it: first the Church carted off its fat tenth, then the king’s commissioner took his twentieth, then, my lord’s people made a mighty inroad upon the remainder; after which, the skinned freeman had liberty to bestow the remnant in his barn, in case it was worth the trouble; there were taxes, and taxes, and taxes, and more taxes, and taxes again, and yet other taxes—upon this free and independent pauper, but none upon his lord the baron or the bishop, none upon the wasteful nobility or the all-devouring Church; if the baron would sleep unvexed, the freeman must sit up all night after his day’s work and whip the ponds to keep the frogs quiet; ... and finally, if the freeman, grown desperate with his tortures, found his life unendurable under such conditions, and sacrificed it and fled to death for mercy and refuge, the gentle Church condemned him to eternal fire, the gentle law buried him at midnight at the cross-roads with a stake through his back, and his master the baron or the bishop confiscated all his property and turned his widow and his orphans out of doors.”

Mark Twain. “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court.”

[nonshedders]

Benjamin Britten

Benjamin Britten The Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra, Op 34 (Variations and Fugue on a Theme by Purcell)

BBC Symphony Orchestra Leopold Stokowski

London, July 1963

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vn8fKWcDojM

The first Sunday of autumn offers a sunny and warm morning, and I take advantage of it and allow the gentle breeze to ruffle the pages of my notepad, and the sparkling pinpricks of sunlight from Bass Strait to enchant me as I listen to the BBC Symphony Orchestra take me on a journey through Benjamin Britten's The Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra. The piece opens with an overture which Wikipedia tells me is based on Abdelazar by Henry Purcell.   Britten's version in this opening is reminiscent of a military march, punctuated by cymbals, as the refrain which is at the centre of the composition is introduced, repeated and reinforced.  Soon, the same refrain is taken up by the lighter woodwind instruments in a gentler, more peaceful, almost medieval feel.   Suddenly, Hamlet's Polonius is centre stage, dispensing his advice and accumulated wisdom in the form of the same refrain from the pompous, stern brass section; replaced just as suddenly by damsels in distress of the silent film era evoked by the strings.   The simplicity of the refrain is demonstrated when its conjunct notes are reflected by a kettle drum, before the full orchestra, with the xylophone prominent, unites in a final cycle. [2.38]  A slower, gentler, yet playful, melody its taken up by the wind instruments, evoking butterflies bobbing above meadows on a summer's day.  But when the clarinet and oboe assume focus, the mood becomes, at first, melancholy, then playful and mischievous.  Strings warn of some unseen threat, yet the horns blunder on in an arrhythmic progression before they too seem to recognise the looming danger. The orchestra unites into a fast flowing river, complete with a waterfall, before reaching calmer, still, reflective waters - which then give way to the strings and woodwind instruments engaged in a playful, almost discordant dance, like a hummingbird at pollen or a swooping magpie.  The great contrast brought by the sudden emergence of the harp then evokes the peace and majesty of falling leaves, before a flourish of horns, tempered by the harp, bring this section to an end. [11.56]  The tempo increases as the galloping brass commences a fox-hunt, jumping logs and hedges and building to a flourish before the storm.  Strings  and horns announce the gathering of storm clouds, before kettle and cymbals bring thunder and lightning.  After the storm, startled birds remain, most prominently represented by a xylophone and percussion woodpecker, while behind him, the music assumes the nature of flamenco. Woodwind butterflies appear, and are bolstered by horns, percussion and strings, until the full orchestra reintroduces the original refrain in a grand, multi-layered and climactic finish to the performance.

[nonshedders]

My brother and I have just returned from a  six day road trip.  No existential crisis or deep personal revelation instigated the trip - we just thought it would be nice to spend some days of late spring driving unfamiliar places with the top down and the radio on.

It was.

[nonshedders]

I wa reading something today, which prompted me to go back though some old photos from Rome.  These are a few of my favourites.

[nonshedders]

There is a definite feeling of change of season in the air this morning.  Its the last weekend in August, and only about 11 degrees Celsius.  There is a persistent breeze in town, bringing cool air from the frosty highlands to the south.  Nevertheless, it begins to feel like spring.

When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh! the doxy, over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year; For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale. 

[nonshedders]

Forests of the Liffey

...I go from here to stand within the cavernous green mottles of the forests of Gondwana, listening to the drip of slow water and the plop and snark of small life within the leaf mould and in the mossed, fallen myrtle ...

Pete Hay, Vandemonian Essays

If you have never had the opportunity to spend some time in the cool temperate rainforest of this island, and you still can, you should.  They are places of great peace and beauty.  Even the bureaucracy responsible for their maintenance describes the forest in poetic terms:

Cool temperate rainforest is characterised by an open and verdant, cathedral-like quality; a silent, cool, dark and damp place where both the trunks of trees and the forest floor are festooned with a luxuriant carpet of mosses and lichens. In autumn and early winter in particular, the rainforest floor is dappled with an array of brightly coloured fungi.

It was as a teenager, as part of an involuntary training exercise, that I first donned a backpack and waded uphill, along mud-filled tracks, in the cold rain.  I recall disliking the experience greatly.  Yet some unconscious attraction must have germinated because, within 12 months, I was back on the same uphill, muddy track, but this time on an entirely voluntary basis.

Since then, I’ve been lucky enough to spend plenty of time in the various differing ecosystems of this place, but the myrtle and man-fern rainforest remains my favourite.

A magnificent, and relatively accessible, example of this type of ecosystem exists at the Liffey Falls State Reserve.  The Liffey River gathers its waters from the snow melt and rain on peaks above 1200 metres, and channels those waters through limestone and rainforest valleys, dropping 900 metres in elevation over the course of about 9 kilometres.

These photographs were taken in the late days of winter (at the beginning of August) 2017.

[nonshedders]

Plot Spoilers Abound!

Shakespeare?!

The History Plays!?

You can't be serious?!

I am.  Write about that which you love, they say.  Well, I just love these plays.  They were, to the playhouse patrons of Elizabethan and Jacobean London, the HBO and Netflix dramas  of their day. They were, first and foremost, commercial works, aimed to generate a profit. They were fictionalised dramas; adopting themes, developing characters, and scripted carefully to entertain, provoke and manipulate their audiences. And, loosely - very loosely - they were based on the origins and consequences of the conflict between the Houses of Lancaster and York.

And so, if we imagine that boxed-sets were available at the 17th Century Globe Theatre, the back wrapper may have read something like this:

King Richard II is an indecisive, self-centred, adult-child, who ascended the throne at the age of ten.  Feted by the Court since childhood, Richard has grown to adulthood with an overdeveloped sense of entitlement, and no concept of self-discipline.  A disappointment to the great promise of his lineage, Richard has surrounded himself by sycophants, and squandered his personal wealth, leading to increased taxes on his subjects.  He is resented by the commons, and disrespected by the nobility.

When Richard's powerful and wealthy uncle, John the Duke of Lancaster, (John of Gaunt), dies, Richard seizes Gaunt's immense wealth for himself.  Gaunt's eldest son and heir, Henry Bolingbroke, already harbours reason for enmity towards the King.  Bolingbroke had been banished from England by the King prior to his father's death.  And now, driven by that enmity and a strong sense of injustice, he plans to return to England and claim back his rightful inheritance.  

Bolingbroke is everything Richard is not.  He is greatly admired by the commons, and deeply respected by the nobility.  And Bolingbroke, being also directly descended from Edward III, has a claim to the throne.

Bolingbroke's original intent, to simply claim back his Dukedom, is tested by the despair with which he views Richard's England, and also by Bolingbroke's immense popularity with Richard's subjects.  He claims his Dukedom - and then the throne; usurping Richard and ascending as King Henry IV.

Although popularly acclaimed as King, divisions and resentment remain in the Kingdom, and Richard's death has not only stained Henry's reputation, but eroded his own certainty in his divine right as King.  Meanwhile, King Henry's eldest son, Prince Hal, has a reputation as a wastrel and an associate of men of disrepute, most particularly the scoundrel, John Falstaff.  Upon who does Prince Hal model himself:  his father the King, or his de-facto father, Falstaff?

Dissension turns to rebellion in the north, and Henry is challenged by the Duke of Northumberland and his son, Henry Percy (Hotspur).  King Henry openly bemoans the cruel fate which sees Northumberland blessed with such a heroic and worthy son as Hotspur, while the King sees "riot and dishonour stain the brow" of his young Harry.  Prince Hal and Hotspur meet in battle at Shrewsbury, where Hotspur is slain.  King Henry IV retains his kingdom, but loses his health, and goes to his death doubting the capacity of his heir, Prince Hal - now King Henry V.  Falstaff, expecting great favour from the new King, is coldly rebuffed by his now regal former associate:  "I know thee not, old man ... Presume not that I am the thing I was".

And indeed, he is not.  King Henry V is the warrior King, who hammers the French into submission at Hafluer, before leading the exhausted and vastly out-numbered English forces in a famous speech,  and to a famous victory, against the French at Agincourt.  When he firmly establishes himself as the undisputed monarch of England and France, English supremacy seems assured.  Yet King Henry's reign is ended by illness at a young age, and the crown passes to his infant son, King Henry VI.

England, again, experiences a minority monarch, and the nobles jostle for dominance.  France seizes the opportunity to reassert its own sovereignty, assisted by the self-proclaimed agent of Heaven, Joan la Pucelle (Joan of Arc).  The loss of territory in France inflames the divisions in the English court, a situation perfectly described by Lord Exeter:  "'Tis much when sceptres are in children's hands; But more when envy breeds unkind division; There comes the rain, there begins confusion."

The Duke of Suffolk, having seen the power wielded by the Lord Protector, Gloucester, plans to undo the Protector and seize control of the throne.  He does so by wooing Margaret of Anjou to adopt the roles of wife of King Henry, as well as mistress of Suffolk.  Thus, in his own words:  "Margaret shall now be queen, and rule the king; But I will rule both her, the king and realm."

Suffolk's manipulation of the King riles Richard, Duke of York, who openly proclaims his right to the throne; claiming that his direct lineage would be kings, but for the usurpation by King Henry's grandfather.  York is supported by the Earl of Warwick, "the Kingmaker", and thus the kingdom, again, falls into dissension and rebellion.  The weak King is coerced into formal recognition of Richard of York as his heir, effectively disinheriting the King's own son.  Queen Margaret is outraged, and spurs her supporters within the House of Lancaster into open civil war with the Yorkists.  When the forces of Queen Margaret cruelly taunt and murder Richard, Duke of York, the Yorkists are provoked to their own righteous outrage, and the die is cast in the fight for supremacy between the houses of Lancaster and York, now led by Richard's eldest son, Edward of York.  King Henry is captured and imprisoned in the Tower.  Margaret and her son, Prince Edward, flee to France.  The Yorkists prevail, and Edward of York succeeds as King Edward IV.

But Edward's hasty and secret marriage to Margaret Woodville causes dissension within his own house, most disastrously with Warwick, who hears of the marriage whilst in France negotiating the marriage of Edward to the sister of the French Queen.  So aggrieved is Warwick by this betrayal, that he abandons all allegiance to the House of York and swears to aid Queen Margaret in her quest to have her son recognised as the King of England.

Margaret, Warwick and Edward of Lancaster return to England to garner forces to overthrow King Edward IV.  At the Battle of Tewkesbury the future of the House of Lancaster is extinguished when Edward of York and his brothers, George, Duke of Clarence and Richard, Duke of Gloucester, take their revenge for the murder of their father by slaying Prince Edward of Lancaster before his mother's eyes.

York is victorious.  The winter of discontent is made summer.

But the evil and misshapen Richard, Duke of Gloucester, has clearly stated his ambition.  "I'll make my heaven to dream upon the crown."  And so, King Edward IV is undermined by the duplicitous "support" of his younger brother.  When King Edward falls ill and dies, his teenage son is briefly proclaimed King Edward V, but before any coronation can be arranged, Gloucester, assisted by his "second self", The Duke of Buckingham, manages to discredit, murder or disappear all claimants between the throne and himself, finally emerging as King Richard III.

Once King Richard has achieved his ambition, his great affection and reliance for Buckingham is replaced by disdain.  Buckingham switches allegiance to Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, a direct descendent of John of Gaunt and claimant of the throne of England.  Meanwhile, Richard, in a bid to reinforce his royal credentials, poisons his wife and sets his sights on his niece, Elizabeth of York, the heir of the former King Edward.  But before the betrothal can be realised, rebellion boils over in the form of an invasion by Richmond.  They eventually meet in the Battle of Bosworth Field.  

The night before the battle, Richard is visited, and clearly distressed, by the ghosts of those who have died in his quest for the crown:  "Shadows tonight have struck more terror to the soul of Richard, than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers".  

During the battle, King Richard is unhorsed, then slain by Richmond, who is subsequently crowned King Henry VII.  The first act of the new king is to proclaim a pardon to the defeated soldiers, declaring, "We will unite the white rose with the red: smile heaven upon this fair conjunction, that hath long frowned upon their enmity".

[nonshedders]

Vale Mo

I had nothing at all to do with Mo coming to live with us.  Michelle and the girls headed off one Saturday 10 years ago, and returned with a black and white ball of fluff with an attitude and a white stripe across his backside.

“He came from Morris’ Road, so we’ve called him Mo.”

I feigned displeasure.  No-one believed it.  Not even me.

Toby, however, was most put out.

Toby - Toad, informally - was the faithful old family dog who was sighing and shuffling through his autumn years.  He reckoned he deserved some dignity and gravitas during that period.  Mo robbed him of that, but eventually brought an occasional spark of youth to his rheumy eyes, and a begrudging kind of companionship to his final days.  Toad’s inevitable departure was painful for us, but anticipated; and made much easier with the youthful, boundlessly energetic and idiotic presence of Mo to bring a smile to our faces.

Mo’s departure this week was, on the other hand, sudden, unexpected, and deeply saddening.

His time as part of our family brought us great happiness.  To each of us he granted the gift of unquestioning faithfulness and devotion.  He was the smartest idiot I’ve ever encountered, but his love for each of us was without bounds and expressed on every day he was with us.

He is greatly missed.

[nonshedders]

Genesis and the Holy Grail

During 1973, Pink Floyd's groundbreaking Dark Side of the Moon album was beginning its germination in the consciousness of music fans.  The album's themes of time, opportunity, and financial greed were reinforced, in England, by conflict between the conservative Heath government and trades unions.

In August that year, three former pupils of Charterhouse Boarding School, one knockabout West London former child actor, and a bloke who responded to a newspaper advertisement, assembled at a house in Surrey to write and rehearse a new album.  Genesis were riding a surge of critical success in England, but were significantly in debt.  They had, however, attracted interest from record companies in the United States.  

That combination of the social situation in England, and the circumstances in which the band found themselves - creators of art becoming increasingly dependant on corporate support - led to an examination of "traditional England" and its erosion at the forces of the contemporary world (trading prize for merchandise).  The album forged out of that environment would be released in October that year as Selling England By The Pound.  

At a concert recorded at Shepparton Studios in the months after the release of the album, in his stage monologue prior to Dancing With the Moonlit Knight, Peter Gabriel announced:

I am in the English Channel.  It is cold, exceedingly wet.  I am the voice of Britain, before the Daily Express.  My name is Britannia.  This is my song.

And then followed the opening lyric:

Can you tell me where my country lies? Said the unifaun to his true love's eyes. It lies with me! cried the Queen of Maybe. For her merchandise, he traded in his prize. Paper late! cried a voice in the crowd. Old man dies! The note he left was signed Old Father Thames? It seems he's drowned; Selling England by the pound.

Later in that song, the Arthurian legend is invoked with references to the "grail sun" and "knights of the green shield".  

Half a century earlier, in 1922, T. S. Eliot had also referenced the Arthurian legend in part of his long poem, The Waste Land.  The meaning and message of the poem is anything but straightforward, however it is not unreasonable to suggest that the poem is sympathetic to the general theme of Selling England By The Pound.  Which is why, presumably, the poem is so heavily and obviously referenced in the wonderful album track The Cinema Show.  Consider the following extracts from both.

Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.                                                                             The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot

Home from work, Our Juliet Clears her morning meal She dabs her skin, With pretty smells Concealing to appeal I will make my bed, She said, But turned to go Can she be late for her cinema show?                                                                            The Cinema Show by Genesis                                                  (Banks, Collins, Gabriel, Rutherford & Hackett)

He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.                                                                            The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot

Romeo locks his basement flat And scurries up the stair With head held high and floral tie A weekend millionaire I will make my bed, with her tonight he cries Can he fail, armed with his chocolate surprise?                                                                            The Cinema Show by Genesis                                                  (Banks, Collins, Gabriel, Rutherford & Hackett)

I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives ... I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest.                                                                             The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot

Take a little trip back, with Father Tiresias Listen to the old one speak, of all he has lived through I have crossed between the poles For me there's no mystery Once a man like the sea I raged Once a woman like the Earth I gave But there is in fact more earth than sea                                                                            The Cinema Show by Genesis                                                  (Banks, Collins, Gabriel, Rutherford & Hackett)

And that is how, Dear Reader, the political and social nature of England in 1973 brings us to Selling England By The Pound, which brings us to The Cinema Show, which brings us to The Waste Land, which brings us to the quest for the Holy Grail.  Of course, this game of "theme association" is potentially endless.  Perhaps the next of many potential steps in the chain could be to link Genesis' observations about the erosion of traditional England to the legend of King Midas?  Ultimately, it doesn't matter - unless of course, it leads to a deeper appreciation of some music which you love.  Then, whichever path you choose, it matters.

[nonshedders]

Poking The Stick

My mate, Stickman, and I are headed towards a fierce debate.  There is nothing surer.  Its just that Stickman doesn't know it yet.

Stickman is a purist.  He's been operating a camera, professionally, for three decades.  Stickman cut his teeth on emulsion film, and the Holy Trinity of shutter speed, aperture, and film speed. Stickman has built his considerable professional reputation, in part, on the guarantee that the photographic image before you is a true and accurate representation of what he saw with his eyes at the time he produced the image.  And in Stickman's eyes, if you haven't got it all right when you press the shutter release, then you haven't got it.

The thing is, all that has changed.

In the emulsion age, Stickman's doctrine was beyond challenge.  Photography was at least 90% image capture, and less than 10% image manipulation.  But the emulsion age, if not extinct, is on the endangered list.

In the digital age, photography is at least 90% about image manipulation.  That's not to suggest that Stickman's considerable skills at image capture are not valid in the digital age.  On the contrary,  it is an unchallengeable contention that image manipulation requires an image to be manipulated, and so the higher the quality of that image, the higher the likelihood of a successful, post-manipulation product.  But two fundamental truths are evident in the digital age:  poor quality image capture can be successfully compensated for; and a whole new skill set is required in the discipline of image manipulation.

The image above left is a stark example of a lack of skill at the point of image capture.  Pretty much everything is wrong with it.  Twenty years ago, when you received your prints back from the processing laboratory, this image would have resulted in significant disappointment.  Homes all over the world contain boxes, drawers and cupboards full of similarly crap images; beyond salvation; only kept because of some aspect of the human psyche which won't entertain disposal of photographs.  But, here in the digital age, we should be aware that the RAW file of even our crapiest image captures, contains some elements of merit which can be teased out with patient manipulation.  So the resulting post-manipulation image above right, whilst not something you would enlarge and hang in the living room, at least offers some memories of the experience.

This image (at left) is a lesser example of unskilled image capture.  Stickman, in capturing this image, would have employed fill-flash to ensure that the flanks of the horse were properly exposed and contrasted in the first instance.  I lack the foresight, skill and experience to carry that off in anything less than half a day of planning and practice.  I am, however, slowly teaching myself the skills to retrieve the proper exposure and contrast post capture - resulting in the image on the right.

Even on occasions where image-capture skills reach the dizzying heights of near-adequacy, manipulation after the event can improve the product.

And, there are, almost certainly, occasions where highly-developed image capture skills are just not enough for particular photographs.  Out of ignorance, I struggle to conceive of how a structure of the size of the Arch of Septimus Severus could be captured with the detail and contrast evident in the manipulated image (above right).  

But I fully anticipate receiving a detailed lecture on precisely how that can be achieved from Stickman in the very near future.

[nonshedders]

I’ve written about Darwin before.  I was given the opportunity to visit again this month, about three years after the family and I were last there.  My fondness for the place grows.  This time, instead of the written word, I’ve let my Nikon D200 do the talking.

[nonshedders]

A Non-Routine Morning

I’ve had the most – well, let’s not over-egg this particular pudding – unusual morning.  As it is now still prior to 9am I am slightly apprehensive about what the rest of the day holds.

I should explain that my usual practice of a weekday morning is to ease quietly out of bed and slink out of the house prior to daylight, leaving the remainder of the household slumbering unawares.  Lately, Gap-Year-Daughter, who has obtained some employment in the primary industry sector, is often circulating around the time of my departure, but all else remains somnolent.  

This morning I awoke to the sounds of GYD readying herself for a day of harvesting, assessing, sorting and delivery for sale.  As I lay in bed fortifying myself for the usual brisk stroll to the office, I heard GYD talking – I assumed – one or both of the household cats.  Only when that murmuring became a full-fledged conversation did I wonder what was occurring.

I should insert into this narrative at this point that High-School-Daughter (School Holidays) never emerges prior to the sun being well clear of the yardarm; and on those occasions where this rule is required to be breached, she remains incapable of civil conversation until most of the rest of us are wondering what is for lunch.

Clearly the pre-dawn conversation also puzzled Wifey who bestirred and rose to investigate.  As she did so she let the dog out for his morning ablutions. 

Wifey discovered GYD in full and pleasant sisterly conversation with HSD(SH)!  It seems that the younger daughter awoke several hours earlier and had not been able to return to sleep.  Accordingly, for the first time in her 14+ years, she was functioning in midday mode well prior to breakfast.  

Meanwhile Household Hound, well aware that this was no usual morning, returned to the house.  

My alarm clock, quite unnecessarily, activated.  I shut it off hoping for that extra 5 minutes of cocooned pleasantness.  But HH was not being fooled!  HE wanted whatever special event was obviously in store to commence.  So he dance-cantered into the bedroom and prodded and pummelled me with his front paws to end my relaxation.

As a result I clambered into my walking clobber and, in place of the usual surreptitious slink out the front door, announced in a loud clear voice, “GOODBYE EVERYONE” as I headed to the front door.

Now, if I can only safely negotiate the remaining 15 hours of this particular Wednesday …

[nonshedders]

Stories That Will Never Die

My rubbish bin is located quite close to my letterbox.  Which is convenient for those many occasions when one arrives home from work to find the letterbox chokkers with unsolicited promotional mail for unrequired goods and services.  A casual scan through the wad of papers is usually sufficient to weed out any actual real letters with my actual name and actual address on them, then the remainder gets dumped immediately in the bin.  Occasionally I rail away internally at the sheer waste of resources at play here and whether I could take a more socially responsible approach to ignoring junk-mail - and I almost certainly could.  But my mind conjures up a quick-fire series of synapses about the minimal effect of a single person’s refusal to accept such items; and whether the junk-mail delivery folks (who seem quite nice) might hate me for endangering their source of income;  and whether, by opting out, I just refine the profitability of the corporations flooding the community with unwanted pamphlets; and other wild theories, and it quickly becomes all too hard and I venture inside to decide instead what to cook for dinner.

During one recent such letterbox clearance operation, as I scanned the contents, I noticed a glossy brochure extolling the Spirit of the Anzacs (at the time of writing the centenary of the landings at Anzac Cove are approaching).  What immediately struck me about this document was that it had the photograph and endorsement of my local member of the Federal parliament prominently displayed across its front page.

In 1998, while living and working on the East Coast of this island, I had the honour of meeting the 99 year old Merv Lewis, a veteran of both the great wars of the 20th Century and a thorough gentleman to boot.  Merv would occasionally visit me at my small office and bring me a puzzle of some kind and watch and laugh as I tried in vain to separate the intertwined links or place all of the small ball-bearings in the small holes on the inclined plane.  Merv never spoke to me in detail about his roles in either war, but his closeness to those events and the warmth and genuineness of his personality left me with a feeling of familiarity and deep gratitude towards all the young men of this young country who went to war on behalf of those yet unborn - of which, of course, I am one.

And so, when I am confronted by the shameless, self-interested efforts of a politician, or a pizza franchise, or a TV network, or a brewer to bathe in the glow of goodwill associated with the bravery and selflessness of the young soldiers, sailors and airmen of this part of the Pacific, the grumpy old man within me bursts to the surface.

In many ways, because of the inevitability of such self-interested self-promotion, I am dreading what I should be celebrating:  the occasion of the passing of a century since that April morning in the Hellespont, the declaration of the quality and substance of the people of this new country, and the growth to adolescence of that young nation.  I’ve resolved to quarantine myself from the efforts of TV networks and national broadcasters to show me their version of that journey (complete with “tributes” from their corporate sponsors).  Instead, I’ve armed myself with a copy of Oliver Hogue’s Trooper Bluegum at the Dardanelles and have decided to immerse myself in Mr Hogue’s contemporary account of events, prior to quietly attending the dawn service at my local cenotaph.

Wherever you are, and however you observe, I hope you are enriched by this 100th Anzac Day.

[nonshedders]

How can he explain that to him? The world is not run from where he thinks. Not from border fortresses, not even from Whitehall. The world is run from Antwerp, from Florence, from places he has never imagined; from Lisbon, from where the ships with sails of silk drift west and are burned up in the sun. Not from the castle walls, but from counting houses, not by the call of the bugle, but by the click of the abacus, not by the grate and click of the mechanism of the gun but by the scrape of the pen on the page of the promissory note that pays for the gun and the gunsmith and the powder and shot.”

Hilary Mantel, Wolf Hall

[nonshedders]

The Perpetual House of Representatives

Below is the preliminary outline of the nonshedders System for the Perpetual House of Representatives.  The plan is intended to reduce, minimise or remove some of what I believe impedes good Federal government: an absence of long term planning driven by short term election cycles; a lack of genuine succession planning; ultra-partisanship; and presidential election campaigns (this is by no means my exhaustive list of impediments to good government).

Of course, history’s blackest bogs often contain the footprints of good intentions, and so any plan to reform something so intrinsic to democracy in Australia as the mechanisms of the Lower House demands comprehensive and critical examination.

So, in a nutshell:

These proposals concern the House of Representatives only.

No change is proposed to the number of electorates (150), nor to their relative distribution throughout the states.

General elections on a 4 year cycle cease to occur.

A member, when elected to the house, is elected for a period of 10 years.

A member may serve no more than one full term.

Each year, in 10% (15) of the electorates, a process similar to a bi-election occurs. The following year “bi-elections” occur in another 15 electorates.  Thus, after 10 years, the entire House has been renewed without a general election.

Government is formed by whichever party or coalition can assemble a majority (or working minority) of the members of the House at any particular time.  As with the current arrangements, any time a party/coalition leader thinks he has the numbers to topple the government he can move a motion for dissolution of executive positions and, if successful, apply to the Governor General to form a new government.

Of course there will be questions; the obvious ones being:

Transition – how do we move from the current arrangements to the Perpetual House?  I have no answer.  The process of transition will be tricky and challenging. I have not addressed any further here because to focus on that is to not focus on the system itself.  Let’s keep the horse before the cart.

Short term vacancies – where a member resigns or otherwise vacates his/her seat part way through a ten year term, what process exists for filling the vacancy and is the new member barred from a term beyond the partial term currently being completed? Again, I have no definitive answer. Yet I believe this to be an easier issue to resolve than that of transition.

Stability – does the proposed model provide for a less stable House?  I say no, but I encourage the discussion.

Party influence and spending in the annual 15 “bi-elections” – is the influence of political parties enhanced or eroded in this model.  Again, please discuss.