Mount Annan Botanical Gardens

Image via Tom Häkkinen
The view from Mount Annan out towards Menangle.

Image via Tom Häkkinen
Another Southerly view from Mount Annan.

Last weekend, Esther and I visited the “Australian Botanic Garden: Mount Annan”, which along with the “Blue Mountains Botanic Garden: Mount Tomah” and the “Royal Botanic Garden” make up the three Botanic Gardens in Sydney. The three gardens have something of a division of labour -- the Blue Mountains garden is a “cool-climate” botanic garden; the Mount Annan garden is an “Australian natives” botanic garden; and the Royal Botanic Garden, is of course the original botanic garden built on what was previously the Governor’s “demesne” or “domain” and converted into a botanic garden in 1816.

Image via Tom Häkkinen
Gum trees in the afternoon sun.

Image via Tom Häkkinen
The beginning of the Southern Highlands.

Walking around Mount Annan last week, I could see why they chose it as a site to specialise in Australian natives, it’s just such a dry-looking place. You will notice from the photos that the landscape looks typically Australian. But you will not get any clue from the photos that the week prior to us visiting had been a week of almost incessant rain across Sydney. In fact, I was walking around the garden in a pair of plimsolls, because my more trusty everyday shoes were at that moment sitting at home in the balcony in the hope that they might dry-out. I must have put those old shoes back in their box when they were still wet, because when I took them out they had a good covering of mould and a green shoot sprouting from under the soles!

Image via Tom Häkkinen
The Blue Tree -- don't ask...

Another thing you wouldn’t notice from the photos is that it is the middle of Winter down here. Australian natives don’t tend to lose their leaves and if you do see a tree without its leaves it’s most likely dead. Like the blue painted tree that we came across out in the middle of the garden just before leaving.

Talking to Yourself

Image via Tom Häkkinen
As cute as he is, it's not rational to talk to him -- he doesn't
understand a word you're saying.

It’s been said that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness. But surely that means all the world’s mad because everyone’s done it - at least once.

Surely you’ve been caught talking to yourself before - in childhood perhaps? I remember my own childhood running around muttering fantastical conversations between knights and sorcerers under my breath as I sought to re-enact some sort of Arthurian Romance playing in the garden. Another alternative when compelled to play by myself was the ubiquitous “commentator’s voice”, which I know I wasn’t the only child to have recourse to, as I kicked a football around passing it to myself and imagining future glory leading the Eels to Premiership victory.

Even as adults people continue to talk to themselves. What about that passive aggressive muttering that occurs when a large and rude person steps in front of you in a queue. Something about the role of mothers in teaching manners, or perhaps an idle reflection on the patent visibility of queues? Because of course, I’m sure if the gentleman or lady in question were to turn around and query whether you were directing such comments to his or herself, especially if the person in question was a large bogan with a violent aspect, I’m sure you would maintain that it was nothing: “just talking to myself.”

The plausibility of this excuse bears testament to the fact that even bogans occasionally can be found “talking to themselves”. What about, for example, the “That’s how it’s done!” that might slip out during a “Eureka” moment?

Or talking to your computer? Like that’s rational.

Talking to other drivers on the road -- ditto.

“Talking to Go--” “Um, let’s not go there.”

The worst is when you remember something funny or think of something funny and nearly laugh or you do laugh or you’re trying not to laugh and maintain a straight face but the best you can do is only one side of your face -- so that one side of your mouth rises up in a bizarre sort of schizophrenic smile.

That’s when your afraid people think you’ve got some sort of mental condition.

Image via Tom Häkkinen
A metaphor for random thoughts -- unconstrained by the
limits of language.

The reality is that we think in words. Our thought is expressed, and indeed constrained, by language. Surely I’m not the only person who has some sort of continuous dialogue running through my head as I go about my daily routine? I remember once speaking to a friend about the phenomenon of having a song stuck in one’s head and the friend mentioned that she couldn’t imagine not having a song stuck in her head -- but what I find even more difficult to imagine would be to exist without some dialogue of words running through one’s head. In fact, I can’t imagine conscious thought without words.

It’s not quite as socially acceptable to comment on though. Whilst people complain of having certain songs stuck in their heads, I’ve never heard one complain having a fantasy interview on The 7:30 Report stuck in his or her head before.

Because that’s something I do all the time. I see a politician on the news one night and often can’t but think what I would’ve said in the circumstances or how I would’ve phrased a particularly unpalatable policy position.

I anticipate, in my head, things that I might say in a future conversation that I will have to a person who I’m on the way to meeting. Like a sort of rehearsal of the funny events or observations I intend to relate and hope to receive some sort of positive feedback from.

This post, for example, began it’s life as a running dialogue in my head on the nature of why it is socially unacceptable to talk to oneself. The genesis of which came from accidentally muttering under my breath after receiving a text message on the train.

When I was a child I used to imagine myself as an adult and famous, after having for example, realised my ambition of world conquest, and sitting with Parky:

Parkinson: “But did you always know that you were going to be world dictator? I remember in your book at one point it says that as a child you had ‘strong premonitions of future greatness’ and I find that that drive must have been necessary to achieve what you have achieved.”
Me: “Well, as a child I always greatly admired Julius Caesar and I was conscious that I would like to emulate his great achievements. I’d also like to recognise the influence of Sid Meier’s celebrated PC game “Civilization” for making me realise that world conquest was a legitimate ambition --
Parkinson: “Yes, as you mention in your book, through world conquest comes world peace.”
Me: “Yes, that’s exactly right, and that’s what I set out to achieve in my life.”

As you may have gathered, my ambitions have been somewhat revised downwards since those ambitious childhood years. I think it might have had something to do with my school career’s advisor. I don’t think he considered it a very realistic ambition. In fact, I think I remember him being not at all convinced by the “world peace” argument either.

Yes that’s right, I remember now, I was referred to the school counsellor after that discussion. I think his report to my parents said something about concerns regarding “delusions of grandeur” and “megalomania”? Something like that.

But I digress. Now, what was I talking about? Oh yes, those first signs of madness.

Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

Image via Tom Häkkinen
Crystal Castles at the Big Day Out in Sydney 2011 --
that was a night out!

Having surrendered the joys of previous Saturdays to that unproductive and vaguely remorseful feeling that generally follows a Friday where a lot of money has been spent and way too much alcohol consumed, I’ve learnt to mistrust my judgement as to the appropriate time to go home on a Friday evening.

There are simply too many vitiating factors that allow a contract with one’s sensible sober self to be able to be set aside. For example, obviously a contractual term specifying “one drink” should be read as “one round”. One drink is one round, everyone knows that, you can’t let someone buy you a drink and not return the favour; and if you’ve bought three or four drinks for everyone else you’ll want to get your money’s worth. Additionally, if the current establishment is a bit quiet, going somewhere more lively is always going to imply an obligation to stay at that place a bit longer. Midnight is really two, that’s another element to remember in the construction and interpretation of contractual terms with your evening self. You’d know this if you’ve ever tried to act on a commitment to go home at midnight - the first hour of the day is also the liveliest hour of the night. It’s almost impossible to leave when so many other people are obviously having fun, even if you’re not.

Although, to be fair, the idea that you can just make do with three hours sleep and then you’ll be fine is really nothing but a convenient legal fiction and in truth a most mendacious lie.

So it has come to the point that during the cold light of day I now view my night-time self as a person of Mr Hyde type malevolence. For example, last Thursday I went to see an event that was part of the Sydney Writer’s Festival: the Chaser’s “Empty Vessel”. As a precaution I put no less than five alarms on my phone between the hours of ten and eleven-thirty reminding me to go home at the end of the event. Being a Thursday I could brook no chance of waking up hung-over for work. I don’t really think this is socially acceptable after you’ve completed your first under-graduate degree. Not to mention the fact that it’s not exactly professional either.

Anyway, the scary thing was that as I was diligently putting reminders on my phone to keep my night-out self on the path of the righteous, I could just picture myself later surreptitiously deleting them from my phone and dancing with wild abandon in some King’s Cross den of iniquity.

OK, maybe that last line was half fantasy -- deleting them from my phone and ordering a second round in any case. Because the second round is no longer lying to yourself. After the second round you’re on a night-out.

The Station Platform Campbelltown

Image via Wikipedia

Campbelltown Station.

“Excuse me, do you have one dollar for phone call?” I am asked by a ruffled looking man with a thick beard and an accent of some indefinable sort.

I stop eating my apple and look at him. He is wearing sneakers and a navy blue suit which looks un-ironed on him, flecks of grey streak through his black beard and hair. He could be a swarthy looking Russian or an Armenian or from somewhere similar. Without saying a word I reach for my back pocket. He takes this gesture for an acceptance and thanks me but not waiting for his coin takes a seat at a bench. I give him two dollars, the only gold coin I have in my pocket, and he then lies down on the bench and shuts his eyes as if to sleep.

The station guard walks down the platform.

“Where are you going mate?” Which station are you going to?” He asks, waking the vagrant.

“The city,” mumbles the other.

“Well you can’t sleep, you’ve only got eight minutes. You can’t sleep and miss this train like the last one.”

He’s not going to the city, I reflected to myself. Didn’t have a phone call to make either — he has no-one to call. No more than he has a place to go to. I reflected on this strange enforced wandering of the life of a vagrant.

The Blue Mountains

Image via Tom Häkkinen
The fog gave the town a quiet mysteriousness.

Last Monday, Anzac day, Esther and I, getting away from the city and all the “old diggers” headed up to the Blue Mountains for the day. It’s not that we have anything against war veterans, it’s just the jingo-istic patriotism and fake solemnity and nationalism of Anzac day is getting increasingly unbearable. I suppose Anzac day always had a nationalistic element that sought to glorify war, but I get the distinct impression, that as the years pass and the memory of the horrors of World War II fade, that the tone of Anzac day is evolving from a day of sombre reflection to one of bellicose flag-waving similar to that which has taken-over Australia Day.

Image via Tom Häkkinen
The cooler climate of the Blue Mountains led early settlers
to plant European trees and create English Gardens in an
attempt to recreate the "Old Country".

The Mountains however remembered the spirit of the day. From Lithgow, to Blackheath to Katoomba, the mountaintop towns were enveloped in a great grey fog.

Leaving Sydney at the break of dawn we arrived in Katoomba on the train at nine in the morning, the fog gave the town a quiet mysteriousness. We caught a bus to Echo Point and after talking to a lady at the Information Centre who told us that in this weather walking to the Ruined Castle wouldn’t be a good idea we departed in search of the Ruined Castle.

Image via Tom Häkkinen
In the shadow of a looming mountain, almost completely
swallowed-up in the fog.

I know, you’re reading “Ruined Castle” and thinking there were no castles in Australia. What was this? Some early colonial fort? Some rich pasturalist’s folly? Sadly, nothing so grand, the early colonial forts were directed towards the sea and Australia’s pioneering pasturalists hadn’t the imagination to build themselves a European-style castle, not even a folly. The Ruined Castle is a strange rock formation that, seen from afar, looks uncannily like a ruined castle. Of course, on a day like last Monday there was no chance of seeing it from afar, and as we never got near so far as our intended destination on the waterlogged muddy track that day, we didn’t get to compare how close the rock formation resembled a castle at a closer inspection.

Image via Tom Häkkinen
A Ghost Gum in the mist.

The forest though was altogether otherworldly. There is a species of Eucalypt commonly called the “Ghost Gum”, named for its ghostly white pallor. In the silver-grey light of the fog, these strange trees had an ethereal presence, which combined with the architectural gracefulness of their long slender branches to make them seem like the marble pillars of some pagan temple. The surreal imagery stimulated the imagination like a strange narcotic, the naked limbs of the trees at times seemed like dancers locked in a final pose of supplication to the sky; seen from a different light, with strips of bark hanging from the branches like so many nooses from a gallows the forest took on altogether different hue.

Image via Tom Häkkinen
Is it just me or do these trees not look like they are reaching
out towards the sky?

I’m glad, however, that I took some photos (if you click on them you will be able to see them in their full-size) because in reality my purple prose and unimaginative metaphors give no justice to the stately grace and serene quiet of these trees standing quietly in the mountain fog.

How to eat a Hamburger in Circular Quay

Image via Tom Häkkinen
Escaping from Circular Quay - home of the swooping
seagulls - on a ferry.

There’s a trick to eating a burger at Circular Quay. First of all you have to remember to hold the burger close to your body, right in front of your heart like some sort of makeshift shield. You should try to avoid walking and eating simultaneously and you should avoid open spaces. In fact, if possible, it’s best to position yourself so that you eat with your back to a wall.

“What is the reason for such surreptitious guardianship of your burger at Circular Quay?” you might ask.

Seagulls.

I once bought a burger from the McDonalds at Circular Quay, I can’t remember if it was a Big Mac or just a Cheeseburger, in fact I think it might have been some one-off type of burger, “Bacon and Cheese burger” or something, I remember I bought two because there was a special deal on. Anyway, as I was walking back to the ferry wharf to catch my ferry home - swoop!

My burger was plucked clean out of my hands and hit the floor in front of me where it was immediately set upon by flock of seagulls. I use the collective noun “flock” but in reality “swarm” would be more appropriate. I moved to kick the horrible birds who’d stolen my lunch and they scattered away, but there was not a trace of the burger. It had dematerialised before my eyes in a frenzy of pecking and flapping.

Image via Tom Häkkinen
Nowhere is safe from the damned seagulls - if you're
eating, at least one of them will find you!

Just as well I’d bought two burgers.

I suppose what happened next is predictable for you, dear reader, but unfortunately it wasn’t for me. Having walked further along to my ferry wharf, I took a look over each shoulder to make sure that there weren’t any more of those wretched seagulls and unwrapped my second burger. Then, just as I lifted the burger to my mouth to take a bite.

Swoop!

Seemingly from nowhere and in one clean and continuous motion the seagull flew right over my left shoulder and plucked the burger from my hand just as after I’d taken my first bite. This time I managed to hold on to my burger, but it was a bitter consolation. I wasn’t going to eat a burger that had been in a seagull’s mouth, or beak rather. A whole flock of birds had materialised around me, expecting the food to be on the floor. Well, making straight for the bin, I protected my pecked-at burger from the swooping seagulls long enough to deliver it into the hands of the Sydney City Municipal Rubbish Collection, if I wasn’t going to eat it no-one was!

Image via Tom Häkkinen
I got some relief from that particular seagull pestering me
when her adolescent chick came to pester her for food.

It was only upon later reflection that I realised that there was some canniness behind the swoop mechanics employed by those seagulls. On both occasions the bird flew right over my left shoulder (I’m right-handed) and plucked the burger from my grip just after I’d taken my first bite. Those damned seagulls must’ve been watching from the air and recognising a human burger-eating motion quickly swept into action.


Damned seagulls.

Tales from the World of Achaea - La Abadía de San Joaquín de la Ascensión

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La Abadía de San Joaquín de la Ascensión

Alan was panting. He had begun his trip 2 days ago. The first night had been cold and his sleep was fitfull. But last night, fearing he didn’t have time for the luxury of sleeping and knowing from experience that sleep would be uncertain in any case, he decided to continue climbing straight through the night. Two hours ago he was almost ready to give-up and just lie down on the frost-encrusted dirt and be done with it all. But since, about half an hour ago, the sun had finally emerged from above mountaintops ahead, he had found a renewed strength.

Below fog from the sea was the rolling up the mountains. Ahead, the Abadía de San Joaquín de la Ascensión, the Monastery of Saint Joachim of the Ascension.

“Buenos Diaz” Padre Juan-Maria Gomez, said to Alan as he entered the old Abbey. He squinted at Alan, then “Alain” he cried, recognition filling his face with a new warmth. “It has been many years since you left the church’s embrace.”

“I seek shelter, father. Someone, I don’t know who, denounced me before the Inquisition as a member of the Cult of Archimedes,” a worried look crossed Father Gomez’s face. Alan continued, “if they’ve searched the house I am sure they will have the found the computer.”

“If they have found you in possession of a computer that will be evidence enough in their eyes. The monastery will not be able to save you. They will demand to search the monastery, they will have a commission from the Cardinal and if they find you, we will all be denounced as Heretics, computer programmers and servants of the devil.”

“Father, you must offer me sanctuary.”

Father Gomez shook his head, “follow me,” he said. Alan followed Father Gomez outside the Abbey into a vegetable garden. “Please wait here.” Alan sat on wooden bench next to a greenhouse and waited.

About an hour before noon an elderly monk came to Alan with a bowl of soup and a piece of bread. Alan got up immediately. “Please, where is Father Gomez? I cannot simply wait here. If he cannot offer me shelter I must leave immediately.”

“Have patience my child.”

“How can I have patience?” Alan knocked the proffered bowl of soup onto the ground, “my very life is in danger!”

The monk said nothing. Instead he stooped over and picked-up the bowl from the ground. Empty bowl in his hand, he stood and faced Alan. “We will not abandon you,” he said, before turning and leaving. The day was clear and crisp, whisps of steam rising from the spilt soup on the ground shone in the sunlight. Alan looked at the hunk of bread left on the wooden bench. His body would have appreciated a warm bowl of soup, especially his feet and hands, which were aching from the cold.

Finally Father Gomez returned. We can offer you an escape of sorts Alan, but your previous betrayal of the Chur--”

“I never betrayed the Church!” Alan protested, “I fell in love.”

“You abandoned your calling Alan,” Father Gomez retorted, “and all of us here. We are about to share with you a secret that no-one outside this monastery has ever been privy too. This is no ordinary monastery Alan; we monks are the guardians of a secret 300 years old.”

Alan was nearly overwhelmed by the dizzying heights of the steeple of the Abbey. Already at the summit of a mountain nearly 4000 metres above sea-level, the view from the steeple of the abbey was incredible.

“It is the only way.” Father Gomez whispered.

Alan looked-up, suspended just above his head he saw a thin white rope. Incredible that no-one had seen it before, but the rope was white and no more than an inch in diameter. Alan tried to follow the rope to its source, but the thin white line was soon lost in the blue of the Earth’s atmosphere.

“This is the secret that we guard Alan, the path to the Ascension. You must climb it, it is the only way.”