Anth 28 7.2.02

Thursday 7/2/02. Im at Marlay Point (2.50 pm) on Lake Wellington about 15ks south west of Stratford through which flows the Avon (but its a different Stratford & a different Avon as Im in Gippsland not england). Is it possible not to be overcome by the magic of this place? I come here often. I was here when I wrote what I considered to be some important observations in the piece titled ‘27/11/00 – 7/12/00’. Its cover was fotographed here as was an earlier one whose title I cant remember featuring an ornate wicker chair. Some of the material in it was hard earnt. I hope it reached its mark. (pelicans are flying overhead) I drove in past a couple of west australian flowering gums in full bloom; turned left at the huge river red gum on the shore; got out of the van on the little exposed headland (but everything is exposed here) next to the jetty; the wind whistled in the mouth of the stubby I was holding. There is no one here other than the seagulls on the breakwater. The car & boat-trailer nearby means that a fisherman is out of sight on the lake. No doubt Ill see him come in. Im spending the night here. Its warm, large thunderclouds are building up in the west & north. A change in weather is predicted but Im writing sitting under a blue sky. You guessed it – Im over 0.05! Distinguished citizens of Melbourne, pillars of society, sensible parents, I lay down this challenge : is any one happier & freer than I am ? … Ive just had a couple of new ‘mini’ turkish bread buns (“97% fat free, no added sugar, excellent source of fibre (for chunky craps), rich in carbohydrates”) with kaiserfleich, onions, tomato. H. & I said our goodbyes just as we did last year before the equivalent trip (see ‘13/2/01 – 26/2/01’) under a gardenia bloom freshly picked from the garden, redolent on the window sill. I notice that our goodbyes are taking longer. Thanks honey. This morning I got up slowly. For once I didnt replace the maps in the car at the last moment. When I told John Grant after the Make It Up Club on tuesday night that I couldnt decide whether to go east (where there is shade which is important when you carry a weeks supply of food in the car) or west (which appeals because it is bleaker & less well known to me) he said : “go east”. That was it; most of my decisions are made like that : a little bit of sense (you cant go north into the inland in february) & the rest intuition, hunch, chance influence. I read the Age noting the Leunig cartoon. (the fisherman has come in) Bought 4 days supply of bread at Coles (also have biscuits). Didnt get away until about 10.30. Ive discovered as I get older that the more I hurry the more likely I am to miss my appointments – so Im taking it easy. Stopped at Rosedale for a bacon & onion hamburger (not as good as the one at the Bocadillo bar in Brunswick st. but at $4 less than ½ the price) & bought a copy of the Age because I thought I might want to paste the cartoon into the journal. Its 4.40 & the clouds are getting dramatic. Better go for a walk before it starts pissing down.

take it as a warning: dont become jealous of time there are times when you should be behind there are times when you should go ahead you can become so accurate that you feel times heartbeat like a birds, but better late than dead on time

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why didnt you come when I called ? asked the prophet but the prophet had forgotten that while he was asleep many had come and many had gone

* there are wheels in clocks and watches wheels of time there are wheels in bureaucratic departments wheels within wheels and a man may easily be tangled up in all those wheels but dont worry it doesnt matter as long as you are in time with the wheels of god

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The lightning was so fierce last night that I was wondering what would happen if the van was struck. I was parked partly under a large cedar. The thunder made the van shudder. I liked it but I didnt get much sleep. Then it rained lightly but steadily till morning. Its drizzling now (8.50 am). Ive put in the Leunig cartoon because I think its true. The treatment of the so-called al Qaeda (the US administration is now saying they cannot be distinguished in practice from the Taliban) prisoners is barbaric. I suspect they are being tortured in ways that can be disguised by the misuse of language eg. by chemical means disguised as medicine, interrogated under sedation, blindfolded, kept in confined spaces in strait jackets & prevented from communicating in order that they be disoriented. It may be that the intention is to drive them insane in a controlled manner so that we can get them to say what we want to justify our treatment of them & the conduct of the war. (just went to the toilet & there are dozens of bunnies out there; the wind has picked up & its raining heavier so Ive had to shift into the car) They may also be offered financial inducements, or threatened, to achieve the same results. If they dont co-operate their murders can be disguised as justifiable executions by the setting up of military tribunals (like the ‘troikas’ of Lenins days) to provide a veneer of legality. When a civilized nation descends into barbarity it is amazing how easily the executive is able to recruit the services of pastors, teachers, medical personnel & above all the judiciary. Eminent members of the legal profession in the US (the former chief government prosecutor; an eminent lawyer with a post at Harvard) have argued for a denial of rights for all foreigners & even openly advocated the torture of suspects. The public supports these positions. I am told that lecturers have lost university postings for criticizing the president but I bet the lawyer in Harvard advocating torture retains his. It was like that in chile & in germany too. My guess is that most of these prisoners are just misguided boys with too much testosterone who are gullible enough to believe what they are told by clerics, elders & generals. Some are probably so poor that they would hire themselves out to any army to be able to send money home. Most were probably foolish enough to believe they were fighting for the one god – gods soldiers. (As if in a feeble old age god needed their support!) While cosmic wisdom understands all things are good and just, intelligence may find injustice here, and justice somewhere else. Heraclitus To suggest that those from among the prisoners who cannot speak english (apparently most cant) are would-be terrorists in any sense remotely comparable to the ones who piloted the aeroplanes into the towers is ridiculous. The australian, Hicks, is probably no more than a foolish mercenary. If he had been a would-be terrorist he would have stayed in australia and joined one of those ‘sleeper cells’ which US intelligence claims exist in practically every country in the world. There is not much difference between those who enlist to take up arms for god, or country, or god & country, or for pay. The cause of infinite justice & enduring freedom will not be saved by men of war. Nor will “progress and freedom and choice and culture and music and laughter and women” as the president claimed in a speech at a military academy in december last year. Whenever my attention is drawn to camp x-ray I feel ill. Ive worshipped at the altar of european culture for too long. When I was younger my heroes were Galileo, Copernicus, Alexander the Great, Napoleon. I admired the european literary & musical inheritance. I studied classical Athenian democracy & still believe it represents the golden age. Though a fringe member myself I was inclined to sneer at the hippies for their adoption of what I considered to be the vague & meaningless languages of eastern mysticisms. New age talk still makes me bristle. Now as I consider how we treat our prisoners I think were on the skids. We will implode. We have already made the decisions in our ‘hearts’ that seal our fates. When dictatorial regimes & extremist groups in the middle east mistreat prisoners they can at least argue that they have been hardened by an environment where life is cheap, where everyone has been brutalized by poverty & hopelessness, where no one knows or expects any better. We dont have that excuse. Intelligent & moderate people in the 3rd world will look at camp x-ray & judge us for what we are. They will know, probably do already, that they are looking at the face of technological modernism unmasked. All the double talk, & all the money thrown at the elites of those countries, afghanistan etc., will not exonerate us. The cause is already lost … 1.50. Im sitting in the van overlooking the lake (many 3

black swans on the other shore) across from the bakery that is called Lakes Patisserie which makes a lousy coffee & where I just ate a tasteless hamburger. This is Lakes Entrance. Its a miserable almost wintry day. Judging from the number of elderly couples walking about hand in hand its a favourite spot for pensioners. (my seniors card says “The holder is a valued member of our community. Please extend every courtesy and assistance.”) I shouldnt have eaten the hamburger as I wasnt hungry but I wanted a table where I could take my time to read the paper in good light. On the way here I heard that a distinction is to be made between Taliban & al Qaeda prisoners. I wonder what purpose that will be put to. It doesnt affect the comments Ive made about their treatment. All prisoners should be treated humanely. For once Im in agreement with Malcolm Fraser who wrote an excellent article a few days back. If someone had told me years ago that a day would come when Id hold him up as a man of principle I would have burst out in derisive laughter. As I get older I increasingly value the capacity for fearless speech (I respected Brian Harradine; will vote for Bob Brown & the Greens in the next federal election finally breaking my labour party habit; even the comely Natasha is coming across as a lady of principle). I had not intended to write on topical ‘political’ subjects but am glad Ive expressed my views on this one as I would not want to have abetted the forces of barbarism by a failure to speak up. Its my tiny contribution in the immediate circle of my friends. Recently Ive scored some lavish praise for topical comments & though I squirm with pleasure at the flattery (celebrities & the rich probably take praise in their stride knowing that they deserve it) it puts me on my guard. I must be saying things that are easy : perhaps without realizing it seeking to please. Nevertheless I continue with the comments. Those who kill others in war are murderers. When states attack others they will always find ways of calling it self defence. When we treat others inhumanely we will always find it easy to say that we do it for the benefit of humanity. Religions that are prepared to supply pastors for the armed forces stink. By doing it they legitimise deliberate killing. They do it because they know that if they genuinely upheld the commandment ‘thou shalt not kill’ they would be persecuted by the state. The cessation of the persecution of the early christians by rome was conditional on the church abandoning its commitment to uphold the commandment. Are there any religions that do not make that compromise? Perhaps the jehovahs witnesses? The bahai in the middle east? The falun gong movement? I dont know enough about any of them. How did japanese buddhists, who presumably dont believe even in killing animals, conduct themselves in the 2nd war? Did they refuse to enlist? Pershaps all religions are on the nose …. Im about 7ks past Bemm River which is about 20ks south of the Princes Highway on Sydenham Inlet. Ive been here often. Its 5.20. I come here for the privacy though there are always mozzies & Im already being buzzed. Its a densely vegetated area with quite a few bird sounds. The ocean is just over the dune & its nice to walk to Pearl Point to the west. (the mozzies are thick & they are biting through the nylon trousers). People come to Bemm River for the quiet. Once when I was here every conversation I overheard over several days was about fish: whether they were biting, who had caught what, etc. Right now I am getting a whiff of rotting fish from pieces that have been thrown into the scrub. I wish that people didnt do that. At Bemm River I bought 3 stubbies in the rather impressive new pub (one drinker inside) that has been built to replace the old one that burnt down years ago. For a long time you could only drink at what was little more than a temporary shed. There is also a big caravan park & a general store. The beaches are known for the paper nautilus shells that get washed up in certain years. Last year me & H got about a dozen along the coast about 40ks to the west. On the way several ks before Newmerella I stopped at the roadside cross erected for Kevin J. Hawkins. I wanted to write down his name for the journal. The cross is made of railway size sleepers & is about 6 foot high. On it it simply says Kevin J. Hawkins 1946 R.I.P. 2001. There is a rose planted at the foot of it. I saw his dead body sitting in his car, his face singed, his head split vertically at the back, with his brains spilt out hanging over the back of his neck like the flap of a legionnaires hat. I described the accident in the story ‘13/2/01 – 26/2/01’. He was a prawn fisherman (Lakes Entrance) returning home to his partner in Newmerella. There was another death then which is marked by a bunch of flowers on the opposite side of the road. It will have been the truck driver who I thought was dying when I heard his groans in the grass. The drivers partner was the one who couldnt move because of the pain in his back. A few weeks ago there was a report of another death of a Newmerella resident. I think a man of similar age was murdered by a girlfriend at Lake Tyers. 4

Saturday 9/2/02. It was raining most of the time after I got up. No way of avoiding getting wet when I went for a crap. Breakfasted under the tailgate (which lifts up) of the van. Thought I might as well do a few miles as there was no point in going for a walk. Topped up with petrol & bought the Age at Cann River. As I was getting into the van I saw a swaggie. He had two dogs trailing along each dragging a couple of meters of rope along the ground with a loop at the end. I suppose the idea was to make it easy to hitch them to something when they stopped. The swaggie was wearing a thick woollen jumper & a jacket was tied around his waist by the arms. He was walking through the rain & that made me think. Wool takes forever to dry. The first rule of rough living is to keep dry. When he got closer I noticed his face was like the face of any bearded young man in Melbourne. The ‘swag’ on his back was one of those khaki coloured canvas things you buy in camping shops & he carried his possessions in a well sewn canvas bag with good handles. There is an irony in seeing a pretend swagman in East Gippsland when a couple of weeks ago in Melbourne in the little triangular garden on the corner of Errol & Victoria st where the big elm & the blocked up underground toilet are (Big Dave says they closed it because it was being used by gays) there was a real one lying asleep on the grass. He too had a beard & his dog was tied up to the bench nearby. But it was a solid cattle dog unlike the twitchy pair of this one. The face of the sleeping swaggie was weathered & blotched reddish by the sun or alcohol. Next to him on the grass was a wine cask & his gear was in a large blue & white bag of reinforced plastic with handles & a zip-up top of the type that you can get for a couple of dollars, or find. ( a really big goanna was about to check out under the picnic table Im writing on. I stared him down & now hes heading for the beach. Hed be 6 to 7 feet long) (bell-birds are chiming; frogs are croaking) I suppose hed been knocked back by the emergency accommodation place about a block away because of his dog but could count on a feed for both of them at Ozanam House (3/3/02. most of the people who go there are alcoholic schizophrenics, according to Dave) a few streets in the other direction. I am at Bithrey Inlet (4.40) which is 3ks off the road that connects Tathra to Bermagui about 11ks north of Tathra. I dont know if I can risk spending the night here as if it rains I wont be able to get out till the road dries. Its clayey in parts & last winter when H & me tried to come into here I lost traction half way up a hill & had to slide / reverse 150 or so yards down without going into one of the runoffs on either side. On the other hand the weather is due to clear, its a dreamy spot, & Ive got heaps of food. A slight complication is that camping is not permitted according to the info board it being a day picnic area only. But I stop here regularly on the assumption its less likely to be visited by a ranger than an official camping area where they check for fees. Anyway after leaving Cann River I didnt stop till I got to the Bournda National Park. I wanted to have a look around as Ive never been in there having been told that it was a manicured, regulated sort of place. Thats how it is & it costs $6 for a ticket from a machine just to go in. Its laid out so that its easy for a ranger to drive around & check for non payers so I was uncomfortable every time I left the van to check out an access to the beach or lake. The few other cars I saw had day permit tickets on the dashboards. Over the last few years an increasing number of places Ive been used to stopping at are having ticket machines installed. Out of season a lot of them are not being visited because of the cost. I can affort it but poor people cant. Theoretically its possible to exclude the ‘riff-raff’ from a large part of the coast. Ticket machines are not sympathetic to those who do not belong to the money economy. My suggested solution is to squirt super glue into them. They dont like glass either. After that I stopped at Tathra for a fish hamburger & coffee ($10) at the wharf café as I had promised H I would. Rang her from the phone booth next to the store at 3.00 figuring shed be back from visiting Vi at the hospital. She says she couldnt get through to Joe because his mobile has been disconnected. I knew that 2 weeks ago. Theres been an inch of rain (according to the gauge in the back yard) so the garden is OK. Dan is here from Sydney for the summer fashion festival. Egle is crook on him, apparently, because he didnt prevent Matti & his mates (of whom there were at least 10 on any day) from consuming every drop of alcohol in the house (in Balmain) while they were away. Dan reckons he is going to London & Germany in April & if that doesnt work out hell consider trying something else like study. H checked out the 1st of the nursing homes for the list she has to supply the hospital with to send Vi to now that she is stable & has indicated she doesnt want any more intrusive procedures (eg. no transfusions, resuscitation (oxygen or electric shock to the heart), angioplasty 5

for kidney arteries, endoscopy to check for ulcers, colonoscopy for bowel cancer, no more cat scans of which shes had ½ doz; “doesnt want to be pushed & pulled anymore” she said; just wants to be protected from pain). Its the one in Livingstone St. next to the medical clinic. It was grotty & smelled & appeared disorganized & understaffed. The person she made the appointment with to show her around didnt turn up. Shes added places to investigate further afield. Good and ill to the physician surely must be one, since he derives his fees from torturing the sick. Heraclitus I also stopped here on the equivalent trip a year ago (‘13/2/01 – 26/2/01’) …Other than the maps, bird book, fish book, & the obligatory bible on the dashboard these are the books Ive brought (cant break the habit) : 1. ‘Fragments. The Collected Wisdom of Heraclitus’ which I read last week with great enjoyment. An exact contemporary of the buddha & also an heir to a throne (in Ephesus) his original book is lost & he is known only from having been quoted by other great thinkers. I intend to continue the practice. 2. ‘Meditations of Marcus Aurelius’ because its mentioned on the back cover of ‘Fragments’ as worth reading. Marcus Aurelius is one of the people who quoted Heraclitus. 3. The ‘Dhammapada’ which I read last week. Dhamma can be translated to mean truth, and pada in sanskrit & pali means footstep or path (pedis is foot in latin; peda is foot in litho; so is the pad as in cattle pad or as in to pad along from the same root?)(buddha comes from the sanskrit /pali budh meaning awake; so is the litho budek, pronounced the same way & meaning be alert or stay awake, also from the same root? Is everything connected?) 4. ‘Fearless Speech’, a set of 6 lectures by Foucault on the greek notion of parrhesia or “frankness in speaking the truth” because I want to tackle the question : “What is truth?” 5. Foucaults ‘The Use of Pleasure’ which is the 2nd volume of his 3 vol. history of sexuality (28/2/02. in medieval times manuals of confessional practice exhorted penitents to be precise in giving lengthy detailed accounts of how their emotional responses, whether peaks of excitement or minor tremblings, related to the physical actions they were performing. I suppose this was to enable priests to dispense penance in correct amounts.) because I might want to use a passage from it. 6. Foucaults ‘The Care of Self’ which is the 3rd vol. of the history because thats where Im up to. There is a 10 year gap between Vol. 1 & Vols 2 & 3 which were published in the year of his death. Im so impressed after reading the first 2 vols that I reckon no one can consider himself educated in humanities if he hasnt read them. I had thought that one day Id try to find a way of discussing the topic but as with nearly everything else I think of I find someone else has done it much better. 7. ‘The Lost Messiah’ by John Freely. This is “the astonishing story of Sabbatai Sevi whose messianic movement emerged from the mysticism of the Kabbalah” because I want to point out some parallels & divergences between the lives of Sabbatai Sevi & jesus of nazareth. Sunday 10/2/02. The harmony past knowing sounds more deeply than the known. Heraclitus Thus in the abysmal dark the soul is known by scent. Heraclitus Of all the words yet spoken, none comes as far as wisdom, which is the action of the mind beyond all things that may be said. Heraclitus Woke early to the sound of frogs serenading & the faintest glow in the sky. Much later there was a single distant chuckle of kookaburras & much later again the bell birds who are dominant in the vicinity 6

started chiming in . After breakfast as I sat copying the above quotes a whip bird, various tiny birds, lorikeets & a wonga pigeon with its irritatingly insistent, repetitive call joined in. When the sky darkened I left. A bloke (fruit picker from Menindie) I talked to yesterday evening said it rained for a good part of the two weeks hes been here. I can tell, there are lakes where there were only paddocks this time last year. I thought to continue writing in my spot in Biamanga National Park 5ks this side of Bermagui. I had wanted to stop there from the start as I had it in mind to comment on issues related to ones I was writing about then. But when I got there I found the track in was a series of huge puddles. I walked in to check it out & found that you can no longer get a car in as new bollards have been driven in blocking off the side track. The arm chairs I had sat on to do the writing (see back cover of ‘13/2/01 – 26/2/01’) have collapsed, one is missing. So Ive stopped next to the road by the bridge at the entrance of Baragoot Lake to the ocean. There is a variety of birds on the shore nearby : 11 pelicans, ½ of them asleep with their heads tucked under their wings; over 20 cormorants, mostly black but also some pied, a few holding their wings ‘out to dry’; there were ½ doz black swans making beautiful deep flutey conversation before flying off disturbed by my presence; there is a bittern standing stock still in a small clump of weeds like an island in the water; a large pure white egret with black legs prodding in the shallows is the only bird that is active; 2 gray cranes are preening themselves a hundred or so yards away from the main group; & I nearly forgot to mention the seagulls because they are so common. Its 9.25 am. Just now I was distracted by the chirping of a small bird which sounded extremely close, almost on top of me. & so it was. As I craned my neck out of the door of the van I spotted it perched on the drainage channel about a foot from my nose. It was a honey eater with yellow wings. Continuing with the quotes. Although we need the word to keep things known in common, people still treat specialists as if their nonsense were a form of wisdom. Heraclitus Some, blundering with what I set before you, try in vain with empty talk to separate the essences of things and say how each thing truly is. Heraclitus A word has no meaning other than its usage. Sayings of a …z @ … A few weeks ago back in Melbourne I got pretty excited about the prospect of tackling the question : “What is truth?” Previously I had been inclined to dismiss it & have had no inclination to pursue it myself. Perhaps I had been overly influenced by Wittgensteins discussion of grammatical ‘knots’ & what he claims is the nonsense that they disguise which he attempts to make patent. The more I considered his point of view the more I realized how conceited it was, or at least that his attitude itself disguised a contradiction (pushed it one step further).What is truth, where the word is used in the general way a cartoonist might if he drew a picture of a man climbing to the peak of the mountain & posing it to the guru who sits there, has always been asked. A question asked by so many great men over the ages is certainly important. The issue is why do we ask a question to which we dont expect an answer? What process is involved (the actions of it) in the asking of it? As I say I got pretty excited about it & thought that the effort to give answers would keep me out of mischief on this trip. Then it all evaporated. So much froth. I cant even remember the chains of language I employed then. Nevertheless here goes, not so much a search for answers, as a curiosity to find out what can be said about it. One thing we do when we ask any question is direct it to someone. If we direct it to a scientist he might talk about the experimental method & verifiable predictions. The guru on the mountain top is likely to say things that are vague, mystifying, contradictory. Plato talked about the forms or ideals or abstractions which were more real than the world of shadows we live in (though he probably abandoned this world picture in late life). Early christian scholars turned Platos ideal forms into gods thoughts. The answer will be determined by who we address it to so that at the moment that we pose the question we 7

already have designated the domain where we expect to find the answer & since nearly everything is outside that domain we have already made assumptions about just about everything before we hear it. This is another way of saying the answer is in the question. Another thing we do is we transfer authority from ourselves to the one we address the question to. We say we cannot answer it but you probably can & since you are so smart we will accept it even though we cannot understand what you say – enter the expert. Foucaults lectures in ‘Fearless Speech’ are an examination of the criteria that were used in classical greece to determine who was a legitimate truth sayer. Some of the required qualities were consistency, courage (Diogenes of the Tub told Alexander the Great to get out of his light & that he was illegitimate), that the truthsayer be male, that he be a citizen of Athens & so on. The interesting thing is that the qualities required of a truthsayer can be shown to be a social product that changes with time. If we believe with Foucault, as I do, that what the truthsayer says is the truth then we have to accept that it is always changing, evolving . I am talking about language, not wisdom. I notice that people find it disturbing, even unacceptable, that truth should be mobile. They would prefer with Plato that it be fixed in a spot eternally still (in a kind of hyper space perhaps). It would give them a chance of locating it & though not necessarily understanding it (for that would be presumptuous) at least to bask in it or be illuminated, however slightly, by its eternal glow. If it were so there would be no value in forging consensus which is always changing. I go further (where angels fear to tread) with the claim that if it were so, consensus would be impossible, have no meaning, & even the word wouldnt exist. The important thing to note about Platos forms was that the guardians required a special education (maths, music, P.Ed.) & that Plato himself wrote the curriculum. Plato was the first to be in charge of the academy; the first academic. The path to truth (dhammapada?) that he promoted is inherited by contemporary academics, philosophers & theologians. It is wordy, exists within an interlocking system of accreditations in society, is funded by governments. In Bermagui I bought a piece of fish (marlin, $3.50) at the fish co-op in the port area. Drank a pot of beer in the pub decorated with the plaster cast marlin & which has the unusual pissoire (which has a meter section separated by a panel for a shy person). Investigated the activity in the park. There are two sets of events going on there : a dog show & a christian symposium. The christians have a very large tent called ‘Tent of Promise’ (promises, promises). Taken jointly they make a palindrome : dog-god. Went on to Mystery Bay where I tried to ring H. Wanted to suggest she find out what Doig has to say about the surrounding nursing homes. Hed have an idea because hed be visiting them on his rounds. But I couldnt get through though I tried repeatedly. Now that H is on the fucken internet we cant communicate. Its overcast & surprisingly cold. Im spending the night in a ‘basic amenities’ park which is as good as empty. Its in a stand of large spotted gum with an understorey of burrawang cycads. This kind of forest started in Tathra & is the characteristic vegetation along the coast northwards for the next 100ks at least. Monday 11/2/02. It started drizzling as I was preparing to go for a walk after trying to ring H yesterday & by nightfall it was raining properly. It rained all night & there are plenty of showers about this morning. (10.45) At least I slept well & long soothed by the sound on the roof of the van. Im trying to get through to H again but both the lines in the library are engaged. I could leave a message on her mobile but I dont know if she has a habit of checking it. The sun is breaking out but its not a day for a long walk. After I make the call Im going into Narooma to read the paper. About 5 ks this side of Narooma is a fruit wine place where Ill be stocking up with a few bottles of rose and lavender wine for birthdays etc. (I did get through & shes volunteered to go halves with me; theres a big wind out there; Im sitting in the car overlooking a choppy sea) Before I go Im copying out the quote from Foucaults ‘The Use of Pleasure’. I want to comment on it later in the day but its worth putting in for its own sake, he says it so well. Its the first paragraph of chapter 3, titled ‘Enkrateia’ (meaning self-mastery over desires & pleasures) : “The interiority of Christian morality is often contrasted with the exteriority of a pagan morality that would consider acts only in their concrete realization, in their visible and manifest form, in their degree of conformity with rules, and in the light of opinion or with a view to the memory they leave behind them. But this traditionally accepted opposition may well miss the essential elements of both. 8

What is called Christian interiority is a particular mode of relationship with oneself, comprising precise forms of attention, concern, decipherment, verbalization, confession, self-accusation, struggle against temptation, renunciation, spiritual combat, and so on. And what is designated as the “exteriority” of ancient morality also implies the principle of elaboration of self, albeit in a very different form. The evolution that occurred – quite slowly at that – between paganism and Christianity did not consist in a gradual interiorization of rules, acts, and transgressions; rather, it carried out a restructuration of the forms of self-relationship and a transformation of the practices and techniques on which this relationship was based.” …. My memory is playing tricks on me. Fruit Ballad Country Wines is at Quaama, closer to Bega. It was closed today anyway. I got that from their brochure at the Narooma info office. Their Tel/Fax : (02) 64938382. Website : www.fruitballad.com.au E-mail : [email protected]. At the info office I also picked up a calendar titled ‘Eurobodalla Stormwater Calendar’, subtitled ‘The Drain is Just for Rain’. Its illustrated by primary school kids in the shire. Across the road I bought 3 stubbies which I asked to be put in a paper bag so they wouldnt warm up on me too fast & he not only done that but broke up a cardboard carton so the top could be snugly folded down for added insulation. Earlier I walked the new boardwalk that was being constructed when we were here last winter. Thats from the bridge to the coast on the northern side of Wagonga Inlet. Bought a piece of grilled fish (flathead) at the place I was reading the paper in (Age) for $5. It must have been the smallest fillet ever & it came with a cupful of rice (that I hadnt asked for) to disguise that you were being ripped off. Ate the last of my turkish bread because I thought it mightnt last till the evening as I had been picking the mould off it yesterday & this morning. I am at the picnic area on Corunna lake just off the highway. Returning to the passage by Foucault (yes! stubby no. 2 (Coopers Sparkling, no.l was Reschs Real) is very cold). I think Foucault is justified in rejecting the interiority / exteriority mode for comparing christian to classical greek morality as he is anxious to stress the evolutionary nature of the development as against a revolutionary replacement of one structure by something completely different or opposite. Many people (eg. Derrida) are finding the inside / outside distinction to be no longer a satisfactory way for us to talk about ourselves. For mine, the distinction is meaningless. For instance, the way people dress is said to be an aspect of their exterior nature, a superficiality, while poetry is claimed to be an expression of interiority – it comes from somewhere deep we are told. Rubbish! (3rd stubby, Sheaf Stout, still pretty cold) Neither is more interior or exterior than the other. You write with hand & pen & the product is on bits of paper that lie scattered on the table & can be sent far away.You dress with your hands just as you write poetry with your hands & , if anything, the clothes are more connected to you as they stay right next to your skin. The processes involved in choosing what you write are similar to the ones in choosing what you wear : sorting, comparing, discarding, repeating. The inside / outside metaphor is used to sort things into two groups. It is a vehicle for making value judgements. We have a habit of putting the things we value less outside of the box : appearance is superficial, quick changes are chameleon-like, the wearing of cheap jewellery is an affectation, but things we value more : ownership of expensive jewellery, endurance, courage, any kind of moral fibre, & above all thought (since it leads to science we say) as coming from the inside (we keep valuables in a box) which we associate with stillness & perhaps the permanence of god (the centre of a circle is a still point; deep water is still as any diver can tell you but its choppy on the surface). The value judgements come first & then we look around for the metaphor that would allow us to reinforce them. After awhile the metaphor becomes more real (we forget that its only a model) as it gains support from various discourses (using the word in Foucaults way) & if we all agreed on it it would become a solid object. But among philosophers it is being discarded. I want to comment on the passage from Foucault because despite appearances I dont think he manages to. The underlying notion that leads to the metaphor inside / outside is the division into two & no matter how hard we try to get away from it it just keeps resurfacing in different disguises. The greeks talked of self control or self mastery but if the self is being controlled or mastered who is the controller, who the master? Its as if there are two. The 3rd vol. of ‘The History of Sexuality’ is called ‘The Care of Self’. Who is the carer? Or are we to imagine that the self is split in two so that one part, which doesnt care for itself, is caring for the other? Elsewhere Foucault talks of the art of self & the style of self. Who the artist? Who the stylist? In the passage he feels 9

as if he has solved something by replacing interiority / exteriority with “forms of self-relationship”. Are there two – can the self have a relationship with itself? (other than masturbating?) And if there are how do they differ from the exterior & the interior ones? The duality from which Foucault tries in vain to extricate himself is integral to the culture of classical greeks (& hence ours) which is the source of his inspiration. Socrates ( reputed to have been able to hold his drink though he did everything else in moderation) who knocked up saying that he didnt know anything nevertheless took the soul so much for granted that he valued it more than his life. Is the division into the soul & body that he made anything other than the same division into two : the thing we dont value (what passes) & what we do (reputation)? What passes (ourselves); reputation (others). (Incidentally both Heraclitus & the Dhammapada (3rd cent.) talk of the soul, that is if the translators are correct) It seems to me that the division into two is the most tenacious language move in the history of ideas (Foucault was the prof. of the History of Systems of Thought at the Sorbonne Uni.) I suspect nevertheless that Foucault would be secretly pleased if I were to accuse him of inheriting his ‘care of self’ directly from Socrates ‘soul’. The flight of the alone to the Alone is no journey for the feet. Plotinus Two made one are never one. Heraclitus Tuesday 12/2/02. At last was able to get into normal mode. Left Mystery Bay at 9.00 for a walk north along the coast. Its very pretty but then it all is around here. Mostly I was within the Eurobodalla Nat. Park. In the forest backing the beach there is a variety of waters : frog holes, swamps, lakes. At the first patch of water I came to just as I was thinking it was a likely spot for a snake a huge black one spotted me & coiled down into a hole that took it under a derelict concrete water tank. The next snake I disturbed was dozing on the track over the low dune to the beach. It was about a foot long, a browny slatey colour, except for the head which was almost charcoal. The two colours were separated by a precise ring the colour of sand. Some of the ponds had large congregations of frogs of a variety that sound like engines being revved. For the scientifically minded the rise & fall in the volume of sound from such gatherings is caused by a sine wave effect, the same effect that causes an occasional larger wave in a sea that is otherwise fairly even. At one of these there was another black snake, 3 to 4 feet long on a spongy green carpet of tiny violets enjoying the sun. It wasnt at all disturbed by me wading about nearby. Ive probably seen hundreds of snakes & can assure Carl Jung that I have not inherited a primeval fear of them or of spiders. I try to be sensibly cautious. They dont seem to fear me much either. Once as I was putting away the binoculars I saw a tiger snake eying my bare ankle from about 6 inches away. Ive stepped into the coils of a giant king brown & all it did was move aside a bit. (In pubs in the inland grown men have been known to argue about whether a particular snake is a king brown or a mulga. Relax fellas, theyre the same snake but I cant give you the latin name coz I havent got my book with me). A lady at a tourist resort, who maybe was annoyed that someone who didnt quite look like a dinky-di aussie was presumptuous enough to talk knowledgably about snakes said to me once, accusingly, that in a lifetime of bushwalking all over australia she had never seen one. How is one to understand that? I think I know – someone was lying. Every headland I came to can be accessed by a 4x4 track but I met no one. There were no footprints on the beach. I turned around at the Handkerchief Beach picnic area. That was at 2.00 but it took me only 1 ½ hours to get back walking straight along the beach on a low tide. Ive driven over to it because its pretty here. There is a stream of translucent water with some deep spots in it flowing strongly into the sea. It drains Nangudga Lake. There is a caravan park a k. away but it should be quiet as the road that brings you here from the highway is unmarked. Its the spot for me. The sign says no camping. When I arrived there was an elderly couple wading in the river trying to net poddy mullet & a young couple in the sand at the waters edge. He was dressed in jeans, elastic sided boots & a cowboy hat & she was lying beside him starkers. He was playing a guitar & trying to sing snatches of a song. Sometimes shed lean over to turn a page of sheet music for him. I get that sort of thing all the time. Its my 10

kind of country. In fact it is my country. There is a sign saying that dogs are allowed on the beach. A couple with a little girl came in with 2 grown dogs & five pups. One of the grown dogs was the mother. I got to pat the pups. (Consolation prize for not having been allowed to tickle the pussy? - helenz) Ive got a great spot to park the van now that the musical couple are gone. Its out of sight in a stand of casuarinas just near the rivers edge. Wednesday 13/2/02. I cant remember the last time I spent a summer in Melbourne. Prior to the trip, except for a few days in Sydney for christmas, Ive been in the city the whole time since coming back from the Flinders Ranges early in november. January has been spent waiting for Vi to die. The burden of it has been shared by her & Helen. Helen has been leaving in time for the start of the first session of visiting hours then going in again in the evening to help her with her tea as the stroke has left her partially paralysed on the right side. Just when everyone, including the doctor (who had listed the possible procedures all of which she had rejected & who later told Helen that Vi was one of the most rational patients shed talked to) had prepared themselves for her death her condition stabilized, the internal bleeding has slowed , the blood pressure is under control. But she is unable to get out of bed, dress or wash, or do hardly anything else unaided so she cant go back to the hostel. The last chapter of her life is to be spent in a nursing home. The white nightie in the cabinet by the bed which she explained to Charlie Chan (to Vi all asians are chinese and all male chinese are called Charlie Chan), to his consternation (“you mustnt talk like that”) to leave for the special occasion will follow her to a bedside drawer in the nursing home. Its not the first trick fate has played on her. About 1 ½ years ago it seemed she was dying from loss of blood & she was looking forward with curiousity to meeting up with old Noel (who died from emphysema long ago after being tortured in his final days by having his life artificially prolonged in an intensive care unit; prior to that he was pestered by ‘sky-pilots’ & ‘god-botherers’ as he called them) again on the other side, seeing what he was up to, when her life was saved by the miracle of medicine. An operation to remove a cancer which it seems may have been 10 years old but as good luck would have it came out neatly & a blood transfusion (or a couple) combined to save the day. I have no doubt that the event will have been recorded in a hospital register or data bank as a success. Some future statistician will draw positive conclusions about the benefits of medicine from a comparison of the years gained against the number of procedures performed. These things are measurable. But soon afterwards Vi lost most of her mobility which together with her deafness meant that she was barely able to participate in the social life, such as it is, of the hostel. No small loss to someone as mentally alert as she still is. How do statisticians incorporate into their conclusions, or measure, the loss of quality of life? I am sure that if she was asked now whether the operation had been worth it, she would say no. Nevertheless she consented to a transfusion this time round because the doctor asked her to have it for her (the doctors) sake. I think that was probably to allow her the opportunity to have a longer conversation with Vi to present the options Ive listed. When in doubt the doctor chooses to prolong life. The pharmaceutical industry counts on it. The bulk of its products (Vi takes 13 pills a day) are consumed by the aged. Medical technology depends (shareholders know) on the body falling apart. In the same ward as Vi there was on old codger of 89 who had been given only months to live five years ago. A young doctor said “Monty, you could do with a pacemaker. It could make you feel better. Consider it.” “Orright doctor, if you say so”. Later his wife Beryl, who looks considerably younger & also minds a backward nephew, says to him (Beryl told H) “What do you need a pacemaker for Monty? Dont be silly. All you do is sit in a chair”. “Yes Beryl, I suppose so”. (26/2/02. By contrast, the very decrepit, barely alive old man in the corner bed of Monty’s ward even older and sicker than him, when prompted by the specialist that he didnt really want more operations to keep him alive, replied loudly and crossly “Of course I bloody do! What the friggin hell am I in the hospital for!” – helenz) Ive visited Vi in hospital once. That was before her condition stabilized, when she still thought she was dying. She seemed bemused, the edge to her humour was still there. She cant wash herself properly & has to be helped with the toilet. She showed a black (like the colour of dried blood) mark ½ by 2 inches on her shin caused by her slightly hitting it on a chair leg. I was unable to more than glance at it because Im squeamish. In a voice between sobbing & laughing she said “I have no dignity. I have lost my dignity.” (11.45) 11

… (5.40) This spot has proved busier than I expected. Yesterday evening there was a procession of people coming in to give their dogs a run. After I was in bed another set of people came prawning. Then a tray truck pulled in right near by into one of the 3 spots among the casuarinas where I am. The two guys (& a dog) in the truck stayed overnight. They left this morning. They came from Canberra just for the one nights prawning. This morning I had a long conversation with an old dude who is selling his house in the caravan park (asking price $60,000) as he has shifted into Narooma. He had an accent, perhaps german. He said all the people going for prawns here last night were from Canberra but that they didnt know what they were doing & were mainly grogging on. He reckons he got 19 kilos of prawns here in one effort. It took him longer to shell them than to catch them. He was using a net across the mouth of the river (which is tidal I now realize) which is illegal without a licence. He was very informative about the behaviour of prawns & about the fish that spawn in the lake. He travels north most years with his partner & has been to Normanton & Kuramba as well as other places I know. He says people have been known to park here for a month without being hassled by rangers. Him & his partner also never pay on their travels & they sneak into camping parks for showers & to use the laundries. We agreed that the regulations I am in the habit of complaining (there is a blue wren at my feet) about are probably necessary to keep these places from getting trashed & that avoiding the fees is part of the fun of travelling. That conversation was in the middle of me writing this mornings entry. As a result I wasnt ready for a walk till midday, not that it mattered as I am sunburnt from yesterday. As I was passing the car park I exchanged a few words with a large guy of about my age who was sitting on the boundary railing. There was something familiar about him & then I recognized that it was Rein Tender whom I went to uni with & we travelled on a trip to the inland together (Tony Kesminas, Audrones sister Jurate, & Reins wife Jura were on that trip) & with whom when he was with his first wife we regularly socialized. He didnt recognize me till after I introduced myself. He was here staying at his current wifes brothers place in Narooma & showing a young couple from estonia around the area. We hadnt seen each other for 20 years & compared notes about the kids. In fact the only member of the family I have met in the meantime is his daughter Daina who came to Eddies place on a few occasions to sing litho village songs. She has spent a year in litholand & another in mexico with husband & daughter teaching english. Shes pregnant again. I asked him to give her my regards. He sends his regards to you & invites us to visit. Hes in the phone book. They go north for winter too & like the person I had just talked to they have been to Normanton & Kuramba. (I am watching a rat). Hes been retired since he was retrenched 5 years ago & also has a seniors card. Charlie Kazlauskas came from Brisbane for his 60th birthday. Apparently their house had burnt down & things got too much for them for a while (the Kazlauskas’). We talked about nursing homes. His mother is in a good one he says. Shes 95. He visits weekly but she can only cope for about 10 minutes at a time then asks him to leave. When they go away in winter he makes a point of sending cards to break up the week for her. The mother of a friend of his also about 95 has alzheimers & has been in a home for 15 years. She is scarcely more than a corpse, doesnt recognize anyone, just sits in a chair. I think that when we try to evaluate the contribution made by medical science we should balance against it the nursing home phenomenon which is its by-product. It may be that the way we die, especially if we take a long time about it, is important but easy to overlook because a lot of these geriatrics are hidden away. It may not be worth it at that price. The problem has to be faced. You cant ignore it simply because it cant be quantified. Ive digressed. Rein & me talked for over half an hour, till the rest of them came back from the beach. He talks in exactly the same slow, measured manner as he always did. When they left I was at last able to go for the walk. I was away only 3 hours. Walked north till I got to the beach were the Narooma Life Savers clubhouse is. There is a very impressive headland just before you get there on top of which is a cemetery where they were burying someone as I walked through. I was able to walk back along the shore at low tide again. Its very quiet this evening so far. I dont think there is anyone about. Thursday 14/2/02. 8.30. Yesterday evening I gave away the set of handouts I had brought with me for just such an occasion. It included all the stories I wrote last year & the first one I put out this year (‘The Hat’). Giving away my stuff to someone I meet by chance & will probably not meet again is right down the middle of what I do. (just saw an azure kingfisher, the lady to 12

whom I gave my stuff says they are rare in the area). Her name is Sally & she works in a library, presumably in Narooma, as she is a local. She was walking her dog at sunset along the outlet when we got talking but we had already exchanged a few words in the arvo when we found ourselves separated by only a screen of dense bushes engrossed in similar tasks : she had a board on her lap on which she was sketching a vine & I was writing my journal entry resting it on a board on my knees. She had come back looking for a pencil shed lost. I asked her who owned the imposing house on top of the hill overlooking the picnic area. All up & down the east coast you get these huge rich mens houses with well tensioned barb wire fencing, trespassers prosecuted signs, & sometimes even private airstrips as this one has. They tend to be on hilltops & often have observation towers. She turned out to be very informative as people who work in libraries should be & often are. The “urban myth” in Narooma is that it belongs to Mel Gibson but she reckons its a different Gibson, one of a group of a consortium of americans. She also knew about the ownership of various other large houses especially in the stretch of coast between Bermagui & Tathra. So we were able to talk about things we knew in common including an architects house that is right on the beach that I had mentioned in the story, now in her possession, I wrote this time last year. She is a fan of Steinbecks writing & went to some kind of writers fest at Rodney Halls place because a local writer had written a play based on a Steinbeck story. Now it so happens that Rodney Hall is on my mailing list as a result of a chance meeting I had with a couple that were going to a poetry reading there when I was writing parked nearby. I gave them a one year set of stories just as I did yesterday to Sally. I was interested to hear her stories about him as Ive never met the man. Apparently he is the most pompous character she has ever come across. Shed be a good judge as she struck me as the opposite, very personable & unpretentious. Incidentally she writes compulsively herself but says shed never publish. Apparently Rodney Hall writes poetry & puts on an impressive display at readings. (a jogger has just arrived & is stretching his hamstrings by the water, he hasnt seen me) She told me other stories about him which I wont repeat. It is my observation that being pompous is the surest sign of an impoverished imagination. I have just struck you off my mailing list Rodney! Im about to have a dip (in the nuddy) & drive back to the “primitive” camping area (where the guy who caught 19 kilos of prawns tells me there are overnight fees but as its administered from Batemans Bay no one collects them out of season) among the spotted gum (eucalyptus maculata) where Ill park the van in the shade & walk south …. 6.50. I left at 10.30 & was back at 5.30. It was as good a day as you get. I recommend the walk : its a perfect balance of rocky shoreline, beaches of various lengths, beautiful lakes backing them, a couple of attractive headlands & its all easy strolling, good for daydreaming. I turned around when I got to the long beach that goes to the edge of Bermagui. Sat in the mouth of the Tilba Tilba lake hanging onto a rock as the water raced out on a falling tide for at least ½ an hour. It was body temperature & I needed a wash. Snorkelled in a rock pool in colder water to test out the new ear plugs. Theyre OK. Saw another couple where the woman was starkers & her partner in bathers. That must be the fashion here, or are the guys shy? Their convertible was parked nearby; they had driven down the private track from one of the millionaires houses. I find these houses with their observation turrets a bit of a negative but what the heck, if they want to spy on you thats fine with me. They are usually a long way from the beach where they have a commanding view of all the land they own. Much of this coast can only be accessed through private property but the owners are obligated to let you through to certain spots. These are usually great spots that are known to practically no one & I found a beauty. Its called Hoyers Camping Park & its on Little Lake with the beach over the dune at the back a few hundred yards away. It must have been the private hideaway of the Hoyer family thats been taken over by the parks people. Im going to try to get there to spend a couple of nights by myself as I think it would be conducive to writing. Ive driven back to the Handkerchief Beach picnic area as I like being able to take a dip out the back of my kitchen first thing in the morning. I felt today I was getting into the right rhythm, into balance with the surroundings. Friday 15/2/02. As I said destiny has played tricks on Vi. It gave her two unsuitable husbands. The first was a philanderer. Her son from that marriage, Dean, who was raised in his grandmothers household became a successful manager of many large companies. When he parted with Coca Cola Amatil they gave him a $19 million golden handshake. Noel, Hs dad, a heavy 13

drinker all his life, was pathologically jealous. I think Vi would have become a successful manager herself. I feel sure its from her that Dean inherited his abilities. Her good sense, cheery manner & leadership ability earnt the respect of anyone she came in contact with. But life in the workplace was made impossible by Noel, for whom the liklihood that she might glance at other men & notice that not all of them were as morose as him, was intolerable. The ever present danger of him arriving at the workplace to cause a scene by making drunken accusations meant that she had to leave her job, which she loved, as head girl at Coles. The justification given was that a womans place is in the home. Vi could have (& would have liked to I think) made a mark in society for she had natural elegance, a quick wit, tall figure, a capacity to tell a story & an easy way of holding centre stage. She had a good humoured but tolerant disrespect for the pretentious that would have allowed her to hold her own in any company. There is an irony then in the fate which prevented her from having even the normal social life that anyone expects of visiting & being visited by friends & relatives or taking part in community activities. Noel was shy in company & would drink steadily becoming more morose as he went. Under the circumstances socializing was always tense & there was a risk of a price having to be paid afterwards. It just wasnt worth it. So Vi devoted herself to raising her daughter & since both parents doted on her it was what made their life comprehensible. I think that was Hs role, whether assigned by the gods or demanded by necessity doesnt matter. The buying of books, the homework, school functions, her obvious successes : dux of school, head prefect, scholarships provided a veneer of normality to the outside world such as there was of it. It all seems so long ago. Vi has forgiven & appears to have forgotten. The question I always used to ask was why hadnt she left him, because she had often been driven to the edge. The answer given by H was that she was afraid that wherever she hid he would eventually find her. And perhaps kill her. Yes, it was a real consideration, maybe the decisive one. Strange how cooperative our memories have been in letting it submerge & also strange how easily dredged up now that a life has to be reviewed. I suspect it was H herself who was most responsible, by providing a meaning, for them staying together. I think she saw it as her duty, or if she didnt its how she acted, to make Vis life tolerable in purgatory. & I think she succeeded. Its why the memories have been allowed to fade. When it wasnt H then it was the grandchildren. No grandparents doted more on them than Vi & Noel & the long period over which everyone of the 5 of them used to spend each weekend (& often weeks at a time when H was in hospital with the next one) there even in their teenage years was a process which finally closed many wounds. It was the golden age. The marriage really did become normal. Though Noel gave Vi only a moderate weekly allowance (no one ever worked out where the rest of his pay went & both H and Vi wondered if he wasnt supporting someone they didnt know about) her generosity had no bounds. They would come home with money jingling in their pockets at a time when we gave little, me being old fashioned & not wanting to spoil them. I think if they had asked for more she would have given & gone hungry. I am not suggesting she be given credit for being generous because though she scrimped & saved pennies all her life (jars for small change, jars for money for the rates) & though her proudest achievement was the purchase of the housing commission house which she did by forging Noels signature (he wouldnt co-operate) & paid off out of the same weekly allowance, she simply did not value money or possessions. Her life which once had been devoted to H was now centred totally on the kids. It has been another irony of her fate that lately they have not been frequent visitors though they are not far away. She doesnt expect them to but when one of them visited her at the hostel not so long ago she told H afterwards she felt as if her heart was going to burst with pride. Over all this time she has never lost her good humour though an acid edge, which has always been there, has become more pronounced. In spite of two failed marriages she had succeeded, till now, in retaining her dignity. (I dont want to cast stones. I dont make judgements, am not, dont have the capacity. But as Voltaire said somewhere the dying (or was it the dead? ) dont ask to be mourned just that the truth be told. I got on well with Noel. The circumstances that made him the person he was are no longer recoverable. I hardly ever heard him talk about his childhood or youth. This is as much as I know about him. His father, Granta, had a stable of 18 horses in Bourke st. just near where St. Augustines (where me & H got married) is. Noel could remember playing marbles in the street before parts of it were paved. The primary school was right there as was a police station & lockup. He remembers the kids singing to the prisoners for 14

pennies they threw. He left school at 13 to work. In those days gangs controlled parts of the inner city. I wish I had paid more attention to the occasional stories he told about them. There are hints that Granta was a hard man. (26/2/02 hard? – an old bastard - helenz) The only mention of him I ever heard was of pig shooting expeditions to the Riverina in N.S.W. I dont think Noel depended on H as much as Vi did as his life was his work. As long as I knew him he worked for the british car manufacturer Roots as the traffic manager which was a responsible position. In his entire life I think he only took three days off work. He was greatly admired and liked by the drivers who when he retired gave him more bottles of whiskey of every variety than I had seen in one room. After a lifetime of serving the same company his retirement benefit was a pittance because when Roots & Chrysler amalgamated (actually Chrysler took them over) long serving Roots employees were swindled out of their retirement funds. Thats it.) Saturday 16/2/02. I did go to the Hoyers Camping Area yesterday afternoon where I wrote part of the above entry then walked south to Wallaga Lake & Muranna Point. That means Ive walked the coast between Bermagui & Narooma. Its characteristic features are that its overlooked by Mt Dromedary from the west & Montague Island 8ks out to sea is directly east of the Handerchief Beach picnic area where I am writing now (8.51 am). It has a lighthouse on it. You get to Hoyers by driving 2ks out the back of the dairy of Robyn & Dudley Lucas. Robyn (3/3/02. who is a Hoyer; the name figures prominently in the historic cemetery on a nearby headland) was milking the cows when I asked permission which she gave immediately as long as I didnt camp near the buildings which she said are their camping site. A shopkeeper at Tilba believes the area is private property. Hes wrong of course. Soon after I settled in one of the Lucas boys came by on a trail bike evidently checking that I had done the right thing. There is a section of track immediately past the dairy & then up a short steep rise that is really bad & would be impossible for me if it rained. As it was I was sliding about on the cow pats & the car still smells good. A big northerly was blowing & dark clouds coming up in the west as I was coming back from Wallaga Lake (the near edge of it is only 2ks south) so I decided to come back. Its been pretty eventful here but Ive enjoyed it. The prawners come every night because as the water runs out the channel, which is right where I am, it becomes only seven or so yards wide & only 1 or 2 feet deep. Its easy to wade about in or stretch a net across. The prawns dont have a chance but it doesnt matter as if they get through the fish are waiting for them at the mouth of the inlet. Ive already had a dip. Yesterday I jumped in at 10 past 7 in the morning with my watch on & thats where its stayed. The last two nights Ive been entertained by the scrabbling of small feet on the roof of the van. It must be the rat Ive been seeing. Thursday night there was a display of fireworks in the carpark, like a mini millennial celebration at Southbank or Sydney harbour. It was right in the middle of the night & went on for 15 minutes. I didnt hear any voices & a single car drove away. Perhaps someone had stolen a sackful of fireworks or maybe it was intended for Mel Gibson in the big house which has been lit up every night like an alien spaceship thats landed on top of a mountain. I am without a watch as the only ones for sale in the whole of Narooma were in the two chemists at a starting price of $30 & there werent many to choose from. Rang H at school. Shes seen Doig who was helpful. He says he knows a good nursing home which he visits regularly but the waiting list is closed. However he knows the manager & will see what he can do. So far she has only three on the list which has to be submitted to the hospital on the 20th of the month. Today shell catch up with Kate at the market. Shes bought the last available ticket to a show by the visiting flamenco group (recommended by Juanita) for friday 1st march so Im not to come home that night. I usually try to get back on a friday & we go out to the Bocadillo bar. When I stop writing Im going north to the other side of Narooma to investigate the area around Potato Point where I havent been before. Ive just noticed that the forestry commission map Im using which I consider the best for bush tracks doesnt show the track to the southern shore of Lake Brou. Thats where we managed to get a fire going with wet wood last winter. There is a point I want to make in preparation for some parallels I want to draw later between Sabbatai Sevi & jesus of nazareth. I think it was last month that I read in the paper that a scientist claims to have pinpointed the exact location in the brain of the mystical faculty. Doesnt matter for the moment that the word mystical, in my opinion, is used by the priestly caste to lay claim to what I suspect are common experiences nor does it matter exactly how it was defined by the scientist. What matters is that a 15

whole range of awareness that in this case the scientist in question claims not to have experienced can be located to a small area of tissue. It was implied, at least the way it was reported in the paper, that the smallness of the area was somehow a commentary on the importance of the experience itself for after all you could eliminate it by surgically removing or chemically modifying without damage to anything else. There is an interesting slide in thinking that can take place in cases like this which I find quite extraordinary & impossible to account for yet which seems to be commonplace. Its as if it is being said that to be able to effect an outcome is to be able to understand or evaluate. In the same way an extraterrestrial surgeon whose senses operated on different principles to ours could say dont worry Ill just remove this little bit of tissue, a slice of your optic nerve & it will get rid of your eyesight (which he might think gives you an unfair advantage). Its only a few little cells, wont affect anything else, you wont feel a thing Ill do it with lasers. But its my eyesight, you might yell, its all those things I love to see, the sky, the mountains, the faces of my children. No, no its just these few tiny cells, he says as the anaesthetist puts the mask on (heart be still) & Ill remove just another couple of little slivers from between the frontal lobes here & you wont even remember what it is youre missing. Of course the scientist in the newspaper report wouldnt talk like that about vision because he is able to see himself & so knows what would be eliminated. Yet we often make that slide as if humans are not all these extraordinary things we know & do but just cells. Protoplasm. Ill drill a weenie little hole through your head with a little bullet & youre dead. See how easy – thats all you are. I suppose we most often make that slide when we are dealing with those we think are different. Its why some people are not bothered by experimentation on animals. It may be possible for us to devise ways of treating others that would make them appear like animals (dehumanise) & then we could conduct experiments on them with a clear conscience (27/2/02 – move over Dr Mengele – helenz). If we controlled how things were presented on TV we could control how one group of people views another group so they would kill them for the benefit of humanity as easily as you kill vermin, or remove a cancerous growth. It is the same slide we make when we list the genes that control our development & say we are – a code. Or if someone says we are molecules or organs. When we make such moves we are always returning to a distant primordial past because it is only the components that have gone to make us up (our history if you like) that we can hold before our gaze. The river where you set your foot just now is gone – those waters giving way to this… now this. Heraclitus … 6.20. I am at a mozzie infested place by a creek just outside Potato Point. The only other place I can find to park looks just as likely to have mozzies. This arvo I drove down a bad track past dumped car bodies to the northern side of Lake Brou. Its not the sort of place anyone would want to visit now but there is evidence by way of abandoned rotting foam mattresses etc. it was once a popular camping spot (28/2/02. must have been a koori camp). Ive walked to the end of the spit to the north. Wouldnt mind walking around the base of Potato Point now but there are large clouds about, a few spits of rain, & growls of thunder. The mozzies might convince me to risk it. The beaches are pretty enough but a bit standard so I cant see myself spending much time here. Sunday 17/2/02. I read the John Freely book ‘The Lost Messiah’ which is the story of Sabbatai Sevi known to history as the False Messiah in a day & have forgotten the detail. I have the book with me & could check it for accuracy but I am interested only in the broadest comparisons not in scholarship. For anyone interested its published in 2001 in hardcover by Viking of the Penguin Group. Here is a quote : “Sabbatai Sevi … was born in 1626 to a Jewish family in Izmir, Turkey’s principal port on the Aegean. He was educated as a rabbi, but his unconventional behaviour and unorthodox ideas prevented him from serving a congregation in one of the synagogues of the city, from which he was forced into exile. He returned to Izmir in 1665, after having declared that he was the Messiah, the saviour for whom the Jews had been waiting since biblical times. He then went on from there to Istanbul, attracting numerous followers from over the dispersed Jewish world. The 16

following year he was arrested by order of Mehmet IV ….” By the time of his arrest much of the jewish world was in ferment at the news of the arrival of the messiah. The largest jewish community in existence, that of Salonika, were overwhelmingly his followers. They called him AMIRAH from the initials of the hebrew for ‘Our Lord and King, his Majesty be exalted’. The jewish diaspora was profoundly unsettled at the time by the Chmielnicki massacres of 1648 – 49 & many feared the approach of an apocalyptic cataclysm with the hope that the messiah would soon appear. “Messiahs had appeared periodically in Jewish history, arousing the hopes of the dispersed Jews and in the end leaving them in desolate disappointment. But still they continued to hope, encouraged by the predictions of the mystical movement known as the Kabbalah, whose masterwork, the Zohar, prophesied that one day the Messiah would appear and lead the Jews back … to redemption in the Land of Israel.” Remnants of the movement in the form of the secretive sect known as the Donme (‘turncoats’ in turkish) survived in Istanbul into the 20th century. Perhaps some still do & believe that the messiah is alive, in disguise, because when the cave, guarded by a dragon, in which he was buried after he died in exile in Albania in 1676 was entered by his brother, after three days, the body was gone. Here are some comparisons with the prophet from nazareth : In the case of both messiahs their actual ministry was short, lasting for about a year in each case. Both began by scriptural prophesies being fulfilled. Jesus was baptised by John, with water, who prophesied that he would baptise with the holy ghost. Sabbatai Sevi had gone from Cairo to be purified by Nathan of Gaza (in 1665) who though considerably younger was being hailed as a great prophet who instead declared that Sabbatai Sevi was the messiah whose arrival had been predicted in a vision. Nathan, who remained a devoted follower all his life & outlived Sabbatai by four years, describes the vision in his ‘Book of Creation’. During the vision he suddenly saw the image of Sabbatai engraved on the merkabah, the sphere of the divine sefiroth, & a prophetic voice issued forth : “Thus saith the Lord, behold your saviour cometh, Sabbatai Sevi is his name. He shall cry, yea roar, he shall prevail against his enemies.” At the time of their ministry both messiahs were relatively young, the nazarene about 30 & Sabbatai about 40. It is interesting to compare their relationships to their own community. It appears that the followers of jesus came mainly from the class of the poor & dispossessed. He does not appear to have gained any support from the religious leadership of the jews & he does not appear to have taken much part in religious ceremony let alone conducted such. The sharing of wine & bread at the last supper was the closest perhaps (my knowledge of these things is negligible, a rank amateurs, so I am happy to be corrected on everything) that he came to presiding over a ceremonial event. Sabbatai also received the bulk of his following from the least reputable sections of jewish communities but substantial proportions of rabbis & learned men of most major cities, including some of the leaders, became devoted followers (later many pretended they hadnt been). He presided in a formal capacity in ritual ceremony & was renowned for the spiritual intensity of his singing. By 1666 his following was so large that business was coming to a halt in many cities of the ottoman empire as jews closed or sold off enterprises in preparation for the return to the promised land & redemption. I am interested in the light of the comments I made earlier on ‘truth’ to compare exactly who it was that handed over authority over themselves to their respective messiahs. In both cases they were undermined & denounced to the authorities (roman & ottoman) by sections of the leadership of their own communities. I suppose it is the owners of tradition that have most to lose when the messiah finally arrives. It is interesting in this regard to note the nazarenes claim that he had not come to change the law whereas Sabbatai expanded the commandments to 16 & made changes in ritual to the extent of reversing the intent of several important observances. The prophet from nazareth was ambivalent regarding his own status other than the claim that he served the will of god. Sabbatai on the other hand was definite in his claims to be the messiah & by his actions increasingly laid claim to being god himself. He made a point (opposite to the nazarene) of doing “that which is forbidden” such as uttering, and encouraging his followers to utter, gods secret name. I find it astonishing that this was acceptable to them as I would have thought that the notion of messiah would be modelled on the example of moses the patriarch who led the jews from exile to the promised land. Clearly moses was not god as it was from god that he received the commandments. As a renowned rabbinical scholar Sabbatai (& Nathan of Gaza) would have been aware of this. But I know even less about jewish scriptures than about christian ones & it may be that the blurring of the distinction between god & saviour is implicit 17

there. There is a strange irony in the fact that the nazarene who came with the avowed purpose not of changing the law but to fulfil the prophecies was in the end so comprehensively rejected by the jews whereas Sabbatai, for awhile, raised such excited hopes. Both, of course, had the reputation of being miracle workers (though neither did as many as the modern catholic saint Fra Pio is reputed to have. Interestingly Sabbatai was said to leave a scent of roses which led to his enemies accusing him of wearing perfume. Fra Pio is also said to have exuded a fragrance of flowers). Learned rabbis & scholars not only from the ottoman empire but also from far away places in europe reported that they were literally blinded by the light in Sabbatais face (followers of falun gong report they see an aura surrounding their master Li; I have seen peoples faces as masks) when he was conducting services in one of his states of illumination so that they were forced to avert their gaze. I cant resist another quote from Heraclitus : What eyes witness, ears believe on hearsay. There is no reason to believe that Sabbatai was not as genuine in his convictions as the great prophet or other great men. I believe that the experiences he had during his states of illumination were unclassifiable (4/3/02. am I trying to gain ownership (or some control) by reverse labelling?). Faced with such knowledge he was more than ever dependent on the responses of his followers. The interpretation of the most banal experience is a sharing process, the forging of a joint language. It is difficult enough in aesthetics, politics or the moral sphere let alone in the religious setting that Sabbatai must have known it was his fate to play a major role. The roles we play are a joint enterprise. It is a kind of dance. You believe you are doing it right because its effortless, but maybe it seems effortless because you are both doing it wrong in the same rhythm. Sabbatai comes across as an appealing person in John Freelys account in spite of his outrageous claims. In the end, except for the Donme, his followers couldnt desert him quickly enough as if they had been betrayed. Jewish religious leaders in town after town forbade even the mention of his name so that the embarrassing episode would be wiped from memory. Yet perhaps the bulk of the blame should be laid at their own door for having elicited the claims they later repudiated. It may be that the role Sabbatai Sevi accepted was determined not by him but by the culture he was born to. I think, in continuing the comparison, that today both messiahs score a label from the psychiatric fraternity. Sabbatai was clearly an example of bipolar disorder & the prophet from nazareth was a schizophrenic. (Interestingly of the 4 men generally considered to have been the most influential in history ie. the buddha, confucius, jesus of nazareth, & mohammad two ie 50% would be classed as mentally ill). It doesnt matter what these appellations mean exactly, & their meaning changes. What is important is what they do. They place the psychiatrist (the very word (from greek : psyche) traces a history of change in ownership) in a postion of authority over the recipient. The frame within which it is done is the system of mutual accreditations between agencies & institutions, the final authority resting with the state. The psychiatrist can encourage the use of mind altering chemicals or sign documents that can incarcerate or lead to compulsory medication. I dont think Sabbatai would have accepted voluntary medication – nor would have the nazarene, nor the buddha. Both jesus of nazareth & Sabbatai were brought before a court by the intrigues of rabbis whose authority they were considered to be challenging. It appears that neither Pontius Pilate nor Mehmet IV had anything against the men whose fate they held in their hands. Pilate probably respected the nazarene & Mehmet IV actually liked Sabbatai. From the perspective of rulers of empires they were judged as troublemakers (psychiatric appellations are variations on the theme). Sabbatai was interrogated by a panel of muslim scholars as Mehmet IV sat out of view behind a screen. His trial took place in 1666 in the royal palace in Edirne (the old capital of the ottoman empire before the capture of Constantinople in 1453). He was given the choice of converting to the muslim religion or being impaled (2/3/02. its worth giving some thought to exactly how it might have been done) on a stake already erected at one of the city gates. He chose the less painful. He was given the honorary & quite important title of keeper of the palace gates which enabled him to live in comfort & continue his life as a religious leader. There were rabbis who argued afterwards that if he really had been the messiah he would have been prepared to be torn limb from limb for his people. From then on his star waned though many of his followers remained faithful believing his apostasy to be only apparent or a necessary stage in the 18

inscrutable ways of the lord. Some believed that the visible messiah was a fake while the real one moved among them in disguise. Those of the believers who followed his example in converting to the muslim faith, like the Marronas of spain, continued hebrew religious practices in everything but name. Finally the last of the Donme migrated to Istanbul during the exchange of populations between greece & turkey after the 1919-21 war. Although by then they were to all appearances practicing muslims some were said to be still keeping the faith with Sabbatai Sevi, their messiah, whom they believed would one day return & lead them to redemption. Monday 18/2/02. 9.15. Just noticed that the 1st of march isnt a friday. Hope H doesnt get her dates mixed up & miss the flamenco show. Theres no mobile reception here for me to leave a message but maybe theres a phone at Potato Point. Potato Point is composed of large well appointed houses but it doesnt have a town feel. There is no shop, not even a shelter to get out of the rain. Last night I shifted to the southern side to the other spot I had sussed out just next to Jamiesons Point. Its very pretty & quiet & I can have a dip in the banked up mouth of the same creek (2/3/02. I was wrong. Its a different creek.) I was parked on the night before last. The mozzies arent too bad as its turned out. After I finished writing yesterday arvo I did a walk to the south from here & its all very beautiful & caused me to change my mind about the place. There is an isolated entry to the beach about a kilometre away which must be the continuation of the Lake Brou track that I said wasnt worth it a few days back. What I saw of that end of it is great. It goes under a canopy of spotted gum forest to what would be a very private place to prop behind the dunes. There is another lake this side of Lake Brou called Lake Tarourga & I have found out how to access that too. After I write a bit more Im going back there to walk further up the Lake Brou track. Its cloudy with the occasional spit of rain as it was all day yesterday. The weather prediction for the arvo & the next few days is for showers & the occasional thunderstorm. Its an encouragement to sit in the car writing. The greatest challenge to the theistic point of view that I know of is presented by confucius. He has said clearly that he is not like one of those who receive their knowledge directly but that his is a secondary knowledge coming from careful observation of human institutions & behaviour. The reason it presents such a challenge is because he comes to the same conclusions as many religious do without recourse to a higher authority. Essentially it boils down to saying that fulfilment is achieved through service to others. When men who claim to be inspired cite a higher authority for their pronouncements the rest of us are always faced with the problem that we dont know whether they are making it up or not. So on the face of it it would appear that there is no necessity for a god & for those who claim private access to his thoughts. Honest observation & scholarship can lead to the same results. Unfortunately the problem is not solved as easily as that, rather it gets shunted to another location. For if we believe what men like confucius have had to say it is because we accept that they have greater powers of observation, or are smarter, or more dedicated than the rest of us. It is not for nothing that confucius had thousands of disciples in his own lifetime. They hung on his every word because he himself had become the authority. It became a case of confucius say this, confucius say that & that was the end of it. There has not been a better example of a ‘truthsayer’ in the sense that the classical greeks & Foucault use the term than he was. I think it boils down to the same thing : we decide who is a truthsayer, whether he be religious or secular, from the example set by his whole life. But my own experience is that everything is given freely. One reason I am against copyright is because I cannot claim ownership over what I havent earnt. Thats how it feels. I hope I pass on what I have been given by my writing for it seems that if you are given something it is meant to be passed on. If what I write benefits one reader I will have been rewarded for what I havent earnt. Its more than I need. It is because of this experience that I find the claims of confucius that hes responsible for what he knows, and more, for he claims we should know how much we dont know, to be inadequate. I am sure the experience I am describing is quite common among artists. Its as if you get led to where you should be (green pastures). Things that youve kept for no apparent reason suddenly find a use. What should be hard seems effortless (yet hard earnt in some way too for it may be that you are putting in everything youve got). Some call it inspiration & when it leaves you you feel empty. People in many walks of life have testified to the same thing. Sportsmen who seem to be performing at a level 19

beyond everyone else have had a habit of saying that their ability comes from god. Gary Abblett did, thats why they called him ‘the god’ (I prefer Wayne Careys ‘the king’). The experience is the same but to attribute it to god is an extra step (an aspect of culture; you propose a role for yourself in a set of power relationships that have conditioned the use of the word.) If I were an artist I might favour attributing it to the muses. The nine of them were goddesses but relatively minor ones. I do what I do like a compulsive hand-washer who goes to a doctor & says please help I keep washing my hands for some reason, its as if Ive been told to, & Im going through a fortune in soap … well no, maybe thats an exaggeration, one end of the spectrum. … Im writing this (5.20) overlooking the north bank of the river going towards the heads from Moruya. Just tried to get through to Ivanhoe for the umpteenth time but when H is home shes on the net continuously (2/3/02. not so – though I do use it for work related reasons, I have absolutely no interest in surfing for any private pleasure. Its Dan reading the Age - helenz). When I finally got through just now Dan answered but my mobile ran out of power & H wasnt home anyway; she is visiting Vi. Ill give it a final try when I go through Moruya on the way back to Potato Point. There are heaps of places to stop around here too but I like my spot there. Ive only got a couple more entries to put in & intend to be home on friday. Ive been driving around from place to place like a tourist because its drizzled all day (great advice, John). Read the Age in Moruya : “birthplace of the Sydney Harbour Bridge” whatever that means. Yair, Collingwoods been done in their first show for the season. Typical! Walked to the end of the breakwater then drove to Broulee where I walked around the island reserve. Its very pretty & no doubt swarming with tourists on a good day. There are a number of small copper plaques cemented into the rocks at the tip of the island. They are simple memorials with just a persons name & dates of birth & death. Nearby there is a sign saying the erection of new ones is forbidden & any that are put up will be removed. It also says old ones wont be looked after & that its illegal to replace them or place flowers. Im off. Oh, yes, Dans got work at the fashion show … The charger for the mobile just busted when I tried to pull the connection out & it wouldnt. Felt like throwing the phone out too & maybe I will. Dont think Ill replace me watch either. Ive reached an age when I should be able to do without that crap. I am back at Potato Point. Got through to Dan again at Moruya. Him & Ben have been out with Kate a few times. She likes her job with Gallup. As I was driving back over the bridge at Moruya I recognized the pub outside which I killed a dog years ago (not more than 15 as thats how old the van is & I was driving it). It jumped out the back of a ute on one side of the road as its owner was coming out of the pub on the other & ran in front of the van. Tuesday 19/2/02. People have an easy notion of themselves as separate individuals. Some imagine they are unique, or isolated like islands. Yet as we look at ourselves in a mirror, making slight rearrangements to our clothing, turning our head a bit for a profile, patting down a stray hair, every change we make is an adjustment to the way others might perceive us. & we have no way of knowing how they perceive us except by having learnt it from them : from what they have said; from their glances; from their body language, the way they have wanted to be near us or moved to another seat. It is interesting that we are the only animals that use mirrors. When a bird sees a reflection of itself it attacks it as a rival. When we see our reflection we are viewing it with the eyes of others. In the privacy of our bathroom we are not alone. Because we are accustomed to the inside / outside metaphor it is tempting to believe that we are alone at least in our thoughts as if they were hidden in the back half of our head. But every thought & every single word with which we do it has been first put there by our culture, taught to us in constant practice by the same people we try to impress as we view ourselves in the mirror. Our consciences, arenas for heroic moral struggles with which we like to credit ourselves (for what could be more personal?) are an inventory of all the things we have been taught are right & wrong by word & by look by our parents & various agencies that have sought to influence them with their moral authority. Much of it takes place when we are quite young : there are many books weve forgotten weve read. Perhaps the most important have been the examples set by people weve loved & admired. None of the influences are lost because they are traced into our bodies (our organs, muscles, nerve endings, brain 20

tissue) as its living memory. That is what memory is. The bodies they are traced in are a memory of the species. Those weve loved always remain with us but so does everyone else. … From about 11.30 to 4.00 I spent checking out where the tracks went. First I said goodbye to the two surfboard riders who had come in after dark yesterday while I was trying to find my way back in the maze of tracks on Jamison Point. They had invited me to share a meal with them but I had eaten earlier. They were on their way home from Tassie to Woollongong. I was mightily surprised to find them with their tent pitched about 5 yards from where I am. This is a terrific spot now that I am used to it but not as good as the one on the other side of the point on Lake Tarourga. A couple have been camped there for a month. There are many private spots there & they suggested I come over but Ill keep it for another time, when its empty. A kilometre further there used to be a large koori camp but only one permanent dwelling (caravan etc.) remains discreetly hidden at the end of a few hundred yards of bush track. I nearly blundered into it & am glad I didnt as there are dogs on the place which the couple say theyve been hearing at night hunting kangaroos of which there are scores. Their browsing keeps the grass on the point under control. Found a huge mud crab claw which I left with the couple (theyre from Pascoe Vale). Walked up the track that goes past Lake Brou to the beach up to where I had parked me car a few days back. There is a horse track that intersects with it & I followed it past another small lake to the southern shore of Lake Brou. On firm ground like here horse tracks are great to walk on. This one probably goes all the way around Lake Brou as there is a horse place in Bodalla which advertises adventure hikes. The track probably starts & ends there. The car clock says its 5.00 pm. Im spending another night here. I find it gratifying that my slightest tremors, the shaking in my hands, my agitations & indecisions are ripples of competing claims of warring factions in society. I am an intersection of many such ripples, eddies & rivers, as is everyone else. It means that when I have to decide where my allegiance lies between contending claims of good & evil all I have to do is look. Its so easy a child can do it. I try to be aware of the discourses that find expression through me but I also know that the more fundamental they are the less I am capable of bringing them into view or language – because I am formed of them. It pleases me that I do not require a special education devised by Plato that would send me searching for answers in a celestial hyper-space. …8.45. I am writing this addendum by the aid of my head lamp sitting naked in the van. If there are any ladies among my readers look the other way as you read on. I got back to the van late because I noticed there was a public phone here in Potato Point & finally managed to get through to H for a long conversation which exhausted the chip card & all my small change. Everything is OK except she is buggered from looking for nursing homes to add to the list. Most of them are lousy. Even this time I had trouble getting through coz Dan was on the net at first. Back in the car I lay back starkers, coz its warm & humid, & felt what I straight away knew was a tick in me crutch (mea maxima culpa). That was the penalty for walking along the horse trail. (3/3/02. a penance in advance it seems – helenz). Despite poor eyesight (x3) & gnawed down fingernails I was able to pull it out with a sigh of relief that it wasnt in a more inconvenient spot, most of which I then checked out. However as I lay down again, hugging myself for company, I felt another one a bit under & to the back of the left armpit. He was more tenacious & difficult to detach as I couldnt get a proper sight of him & wasnt going to get out to use the side mirror in case I copped more as the front of the van is nosed into bushes. Im getting back into bed now & hope I dont have to add to tonights entry (just as the head lamp is losing power). Ive thrown the two critters into the bushes out the side door that Ill be getting out of in the morning so theyll be waiting for me. Wednesday 20/2/02. Over the last couple of years Ive been subject to an increasing intensity or agitation. Its difficult to nail down : its as if a pressure builds up, the kind of thing that you might feel before you decide to change direction, or the restlessness before embarking on a major journey. I wonder whether its part of the ageing process but when I observe contemporaries of mine I notice the opposite. They seem to have come to conclusions, settled into sedate habits, plateaud out. What is this uneasiness? Why the foreboding? A few weeks ago I was talking to an english kid (touring here; just finished a fruit picking job) at the Young & Jackson hotel in the city & he was saying that he sensed that western civilisation was on the skids & that the survivors would be the sort 21

of people who live in afghanistan & africa. He was saying it was those who are now on the margins that would ensure the survival of the human species. It was just a feeling he was saying & I was saying “I hear you, I hear you mate, I could have said all that.” I wonder how many others feel the same without speaking out. But perhaps its not that at all. I look for explanations, metaphors. Imagine a beetle that has been sucking sap attached to the same root deep underground for years, its entire life in pitch black, immured in clay. Then something stirs inside it, something it has never felt before. & then in an extraordinary spasm, it wrenches its mouth parts from the root & blindly, without knowing why, starts digging furiously upwards. A new incomprehensibly violent life has begun leaving no space for memory. But thats only the start. Later, after a herculean effort, it will break through into another world & immediately be blinded by an unimaginable sun so that it has to scramble backwards into its hole to save its life. That night it emerges & guided by the light of the moon starts climbing up the rough bark of a tree trunk, fanned by breezes. It splits in half along its back & loses consciousness. Next day on a leaf nearby there is a cicada. It is a vivid green. Its eyes stare into a brilliant sun without being blinded. I wonder about those first stirrings (& they must have been preceded by signs : slight uneasiness, disorientation). Are they what I am feeling? & its strange to consider how thousands of individuals, separated by night & clay, felt the same stirrings at the same time. Here is another example. When the low pressure trough that will bring the change is arriving a few of the ants in the colony become edgy, start running around agitated but aimless. Very soon others are on the move & before long the entire ant city is in upheaval. The turmoil increases all day & by nightfall it has risen to a frenzy. Then in a final crescendo of disorder the winged queens emerge for their nuptial flight. Their wings glitter as they take off into a starry sky. A day later the clouds roll in. It starts raining. Here is another. There is a palm in the tropics that doesnt flower every year like normal palms do. Each year it adds a new ring of leaves only & by the time its about 70 years old it has grown to be one of the large palms. Then a flower stalk emerges from the crown. But its not an ordinary flower stalk. Its a huge spike that divides and subdivides till it overtops the entire palm. The spikes are covered with buds which will soon burst into thousands of crimson flowers. Already the palm which still looks the same is barely more than a husk, depleted of nutrients, almost exhausted. A final effort ensures that the seeds ripen, & the palm dies. The question I ask is : did the palm after 69 identical years in its final 70th year, but still before the emergence of the enormous spike already forming inside it, have any inkling of what was about to happen? … I am at Mallacoota (6.00) at the Betka River picnic area. Later Ill find a quieter spot for the night. Its warm, there is a change due tonight. I had intended to stop at a spot 5 ks out of Wonboyne but right at the beach end of a bad track it was covered by over 0.4 metres of water. That detour took up over an hour. On the way out of Potato Point I gave a koori a lift into Bodalla. He said he had seen me on the beach yesterday when he was fishing on the lake. I reckon he had been staying in the caravan home at the end of the track Id discovered. Read the Age at Narooma in the same boathouse I had gone for a coffee ($2.80) the previous times. Bought 6 bottles of fruit wine at the Fruit Ballad place south of Cobargo. 3 are lavender & apple & 3 are rose petal & honey. That was $100. Stopped for a snack near Wolumla. Im sure this is no interest to anyone but the wine reminded me that the litho word for honey ‘medus’ is the same as the singhalese word ‘medhu’. I found that out from Malika who used to do typing for me. Gathering honey is a very ancient activity. No doubt both words are related to the sanskrit word for honey. The fermented drink made from it is called ‘midas’ in litho which is obviously connected to the english ‘mead’ which is also fermented honey. How come the connection? The answer is that the old english word for honey is ‘meodu’ (old teutonic : meduz) but has not been in use since the middle ages. …Im at Quarry beach by myself. Its good here coz youre close to the water so the waves are loud. This is the place we left once, honey, when a bunch of druggies came in during the night to shoot up … Found another tick in the hair of me head at the back but it was only the pinhead stage. Thursday 21/2/02. A few years back I had a vision. Im calling it that because it was more vivid than something you see when you are awake by as much again as the waking state is than dreaming. Its still with me less vividly in the minds eye though the visceral intensity of the feelings that accompanied it are only a memory. It happened when I was lying in the van 22

somewhere on the coast north of Ulladulla. It was quite brief. It was of sand & the branchlets of a straggly green bush . Its special effect came from my realization that I was seeing it just in front of my face as I would if I was lying on the ground. It was a bright day. A particular stillness that accompanied what I was seeing (or was it in the gaze?) stayed with me for hours afterwards (the rest of the day? I cant remember). I interpreted it to be a premonition of my death on a sandy beach. & my friends, I must tell you, it felt good. (3/3/02. “ And I am half in love with easeful death” (Keats I think) – helenz). I dont know if the interpretation was itself part of the vision or took place immediately afterwards but the realization that the scene could be a place in inland australia came a bit later. Last night it occurred to me that it could just as easily have been a vision of what I was seeing as I was dying rather than of the place where I was seeing it. Or it may have no significance. I had decided before I left on this trip that Id incorporate into my journal notes a document of requests covering illness, death & dying for situations where relatives might be asked to make decisions, especially medical ones, on my behalf. I told several people (including Joe) to expect it & have left it almost too late. Last night I realized how difficult it is to talk about as if the language belonged elsewhere to agencies in society, doctors, clerics or professional experts rather than to me whom it concerns the most. Perhaps it is death itself that refuses to be interrogated. I am facing east into an ocean only a 100 yards away. The early morning sun is shining directly onto the page. There were periods of heavy rain last night which together with the sound of the waves contributed to good sleep. I am of a clear mind. It seems that I should make some general remarks that would protect me from being misinterpreted. I have no idea how to go about it. A person (Hans) that I used to play chess with when I lived in White Cliffs many years ago & who in spite of his reputation for eccentricity never allowed me to win a game died from internal bleeding when he was probably younger than I am now. He had an interesting past. He had been a soldier in Rommels army in africa & had avoided years in detention simply by not turning up at the appointed time for the formal surrender. He put on civilian clothes, went the opposite way, & spent the remaining years of the war with an arab family. At the time he died he had moved to a mine (opals) some 20 miles out of White Cliffs because it had become too modern for him. This happened long after I had left. I found out later when I was visiting. His goats were still browsing in the vicinity of the dugout (he might have been the first person to move into one; that was in the early postwar years) & were looked after by neighbours as a reminder of the man. People talked about him in a low voice implying that he had committed suicide. It was said that he could easily have got the medical attention he needed if he had come into White Cliffs from where he could have been flown to hospital by the flying doctor service operating out of Broken Hill. I have a different view. I think is was a simple, natural death appropriate to the man & his circumstances. Whether you can call it suicide is debatable but that his survival had he sought treatment would have been a case of his life being artificially prolonged is not. Besides playing chess we used to get into the occasional long ‘philosophic’ discussion which cemented out mutual respect. I think it was time for him to leave. His way of dying ensured he retains an important place in my memory. … H says that the nursing homes she is visiting are depressing places. The majority of patients are in various stages of dementia, wandering about without knowing where or who they are. If it were possible that I would end up like that it would be a denial of my life, of any small example that I may have set. Luis Borges used to claim, with some insistence for such a mild man, that he couldnt think of anything worse that to be sentenced to eternal life (but then undermined his position by accepting the last rites in the catholic church). I go further. I have no ambition to live longer than I already have. Old people in good health sometimes draw my attention to their age as if it were their proudest achievement. I am not impressed. I have already lived longer that the life expectancy of many people in third world countries & I have not deserved it as much as they do. Good luck, not good management, has ensured that I have had it easy. I have looked about me & never seen anyone with whom I would have liked to exchange places. There is nothing that I might want which money can buy that I cannot afford. Yes, people call out (in fact clamour to be heard) for help but it is only through writing that I am confident I can be of some value & I already have said what I know. I have sat under the tail gate on the back bumper of the van at nightfall, stubby in hand, countless times & felt that I was complete. In recent times I have had the experience on 23

several occasions of the absence of all desire. It is a strange sensation & may be the same the buddhists speak of as a necessary stage. Yearning hurts, and what release may come of it feels much like death. Heraclitus …(2.00. Gypsy Point) The problem is that there are all kinds of unforseen circumstances that are out of my control. I can be knocked off the bicycle (more chance of me getting killed or injured that way than an allied soldier has from enemy fire in afghanistan) & be in a coma or brain damaged. I could have a stroke, aneurysm or a host of other events that could leave me unable to give a clear expression of my wishes. I could be diagnosed with alzheimers or age related dementia. In the case of the last two I would attend to it provided I knew early enough. My desire to look after myself comes mainly from wanting to provide a backup for H in her efforts to help other family members : I would not only be useless but an impediment if I had those conditions. But perhaps by the time people are diagnosed with them (or just in excessive old age) they have already lost the capability or the insight required to do anything about it. In which case please take me on long bush walks in remote country; or snorkelling. Please do not feed me if Im unable to do it myself. If I am dying from some simply rectifiable condition such as bleeding or pneumonia it would be ridiculous to take measures to prevent it. Above all dont lock me up somewhere where I cant get away & get lost. That is if you respect me. … (6.30 Marlay Point) I, John Arunas Zizys of Ivanhoe & West Melbourne, being of sound mind & having drunk only one stubby of beer for the day (to this point) request that in all cases where a choice is to be made (even if the procedure is a simple one) between me dying & a medical intervention being performed that I be allowed to die unless I request the procedure. (A case in point would be if I was unconscious & bleeding to death I would not want a blood transfusion even if the prospect of a full recovery was high). In the case of there being a choice between dying in a hospital or at home (ie any terminal illness) I ask that I be allowed to be at home. I hope that in such circumstance I am still able to access the help of medical science for pain relief. Another request though of less importance is that I not be dissected & I do not want to donate body organs. Also I would prefer that my death be attended to in the least expensive way (I wouldnt want it to cost more than the deaths of street people I see in North Melbourne). I do not want a funeral, newspaper notice, marked grave or anything like that (4/3/02. having said plenty already). I think the prophet of nazareth made a comment about the dead which went something along the lines : if you cant revive them, leave them be. Heraclitus said : Corpses, like night soil, get carted off. Friday 22/2/02. Ive written about a topic we dont practice talking about. Dont get me wrong I am not planning an early exit. Every year is a bonus. Tonight Ill be back in Melbourne. I intend to have a good time at the Bocadillo bar, and afterwards.

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