Meeting of the Minds

Partly, a desire to have a last look at some of the iconic areas that make Sydney Sydney and partly to arrest my ever expanding girth, I have been taking early morning runs in Bondi, Circular Quay, Woolloomooloo, Darling Harbour, The City and Kings Cross.

This morning it was Kings Cross. I parked at Garden Island and began there. 

It was still dark when I reached the Nightclub strip and amongst the collection of strung out junkies, hookers, bouncers and hardy souls searching the food vendors to place some solids in stomachs that for some time had only felt liquid, I saw a bloke that was leaving a club, each of his arms around the waist of a stunning looking lady, book ended by beauties, all three laughing loudly.

By the frown that developed when he saw me, I gauged that my presence was a reality check that the night may not last forever and whatever responsibilities he had before it began were still around and may have to faced sooner rather than later.

I didn't mean to rain on his parade or maybe I'm projecting to much on the moment but it seemed like a meeting of the minds. He was thinking, as good as this looks it would be wiser to be where you are now and all I was thinking was, I'd like to be where you are now.

An unabashed fontist

Having lived and worked in the confines of a ship for a long period I have developed a thick skin against the foibles of others. I grant latitude to peoples idiosyncrasies. I have become tolerant of behaviours that once I would have addressed.

What is beyond my grace, something I cannot abide is a font that was in vogue but thankfully has fallen out of favour. As with all prejudices, I instantly dismiss the users of this font and whatever they are trying to convey. If I see it in a presentation a heavy mist rolls over me and I start to consider why someone didn't sterilise the shallow gene pool this cretin was spawned in and spare me the misfortune to have to suffer this. If I see it in an email, delete. If it is used to promote a business or product I give it a wide berth and wish a plague o' both their houses.

I won't name the font for a precious few to still cling to it and I want to see them as they are. If I did name it they would disown it, that's what they are like, spineless. I urge you to be vigilant you never know where they will strike next.

Through rose coloured glasses.

Despite years of State of Origin indoctrination and all the bile spewed forth by Queensland supporters concerning residents of New South Wales, up until this afternoon I was a Sydney convert. When a discussion about the merits of Sydney arose I was quick to nominate as a speaker for the affirmative. The most common argument presented by the negative side is traffic congestion.

For the better part of five years my workplace has also been my home. When ashore in Sydney I call HMAS Watson home. Occupying the south head of the entrance to Sydney Harbour, HMAS Watson and the surrounding suburb of Watson's Bay is far above my station, so if not for the Navy's natural predilection for prime waterfront real estate I would not know Sydney's pleasures or be spared its pain.

This afternoon I had reason to climb down from the Ivory Tower that is HMAS Watson, join the unwashed masses and experience the pain of their daily commute.

An outdoor clothing retailer was holding a warehouse sale in the western suburb of Lidcombe. I still required a few items for the trip to South America so I set off straight after work. It took me 40 minutes to reach the city and another hour to make it to the warehouse in Lidcombe. I must state that for me it was an enjoyable novelty and at times I saw the better side of human nature. Not being familiar with the route I was often stuck in the wrong lane and people showed me more courtesy than I deserved.


On occasions when the traffic was bumper to bumper, I would look to the people in the lanes either side of me and some seemed pleased with their lot but mostly I thought of Henry David Thoreau's statement that, "the mass of men (sic) lead lives of quiet desperation."

I tried to console myself by thinking the jobs that required them to go through this daily frustration were worthwhile but that is a long bow to draw. Thoreau also commented,

If a man walk in the woods for love of them half of each day, he is in danger of being regarded as a loafer; but if he spends his whole day as a speculator, shearing off those woods and making earth bald before her time, he is esteemed an industrious and enterprising citizen.

he then asked the question,

It is not enough to be industrious; so are the ants. What are you industrious about?

Should the same question be posed of my occupation I could not say it is worthwhile. As my time in the Navy comes to a close I look back at the great energy I have expended and I am no better than the ant. As far as being regarded as a loafer, it looks promising.

The next time a discussion on the merits of Sydney arises, I will endure the pain and have a leg slung over either side of the fence.

Time for rambling is just begining.

A swagman who goes by the name of Campbell is a mainstay on the dusty avenues of the Woodford Folk Festival. I have spent hours listing to him recite bush poetry and I always marvel at his recollection.

While not of Campbell's genre, Prayer before Birth, a poem written in London during the depths of WWII when it seemed people were intent on wiping themselves out, is a poem I came across sometime ago. I have spent this evening trying to commit it to memory.

Prayer before Birth by Louis MacNeice.

I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
club-footed ghoul come near me.

I am not yet born, console me.
I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,
with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,
on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.

I am not yet born; provide me
With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk
to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light
in the back of my mind to guide me.

I am not yet born; forgive me
For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words
when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me,
my treason engendered by traitors beyond me,
my life when they murder by means of my
hands, my death when they live me.

I am not yet born; rehearse me
In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when
old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains
frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white
waves call me to folly and the desert calls
me to doom and the beggar refuses
my gift and my children curse me.

I am not yet born; O hear me,
Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God
come near me.

I am not yet born; O fill me
With strength against those who would freeze my
humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton,
would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with
one face, a thing, and against all those
who would dissipate my entirety, would
blow me like thistledown hither and
thither or hither and thither
like water held in the
hands would spill me.

Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.
Otherwise kill me.

When ignorance is bliss.

My local shopkeeper is a Lebanese Muslim. I live in an area that has a proud and vibrant Jewish community.

The shopkeeper serves good coffee and I consider it my primary filling station. The shop closes early in the evening so if I get a hankering for a caffeine hit after this time the alternative is the gelato shop run by a pleasant lady of Italian origins.

The bus stop is in front of the gelato shop and in view of the local store. For some time I felt guilty to be drinking a coffee from the local store in view of the gelato shop, so I would wait down the street to finish the local store bought coffee. On a few occasions this necessitated a mad dash to reach the bus before it pulled away. Why I feel a loyalty or a desire not to offend one store owner or the other is a topic for a later date but I have settled the dilemma by placing a time demarcation. If the local store is open I will purchase from there. When they are closed it's the gelato shop. I tried it on the weekend and felt uneasy so it may take some time to bed down.

Those observant few my be asking, 'why just not have a coffee ?' Last year I quit smoking. I have replaced nicotine with caffeine.

This afternoon I went for a walk and, as is my want, I stopped at the local store for a coffee. Before me a lady was buying some goods and, to judge a book by its cover, appeared to be of Jewish heritage. When the shopkeeper was adding the cost she remembered she wanted some paper towel and asked him if he had any. It was on a high self and when he took a roll down the lady could see another product that had an Australian made symbol. 'Ah where is that one made?' she inquired about the roll he had in his hand. As he was looking she said, 'No I think i'll have the other one, we should buy Australian.' The item was added and the goods paid for. Another quick decision to add a bunch of flowers to her goods and she was gone.

Now, she may have set it as her life's struggle to lift the paper towel workers of Australia from a terrible plight, despite the economic arguments that protectionism in any form creates inefficiencies. It may have been a genuine desire to support Australian manufacturing that did not extend to clothing, textile and footwear workers from the designer labels she was wearing or automotive employees by the late model Volvo she drove away in. It may have been an emotive and impulsive comment. Whatever the motivation was it seemed strange to a bystander such as myself.

In relating these events I am not intending to portray this behaviour as indicative.

As I approached the counter the shopkeeper said, 'A coffee for you ?' I found it hard to resist and said, 'Only if the beans are made in Australia.' He turned back with a smile.

Considering recent events it would have been understandable if our conversation moved to a discussion of the events surrounding the falsification of Australian passports and their use in the assassination of a Hamas leader in Dubai. It is usual, if there are no customers to serve, for us to have a quick chat about the days news. But this wasn't the case. He only said how he was looking forward to taking his kids for a swim this evening after closing the shop.

I have often been critical of my friends lack of awareness of world or national events and their indifference or lack of passion for politics. I don't profess to having even a rudimentary understanding of the causes of conflicts in the Middle East. After some more small talk with the shopkeeper, I left to watch the sun go down over Sydney Harbour. There are horrific things happening in many parts of the world but in this little corner things seem right. 

It may just be that ignorance is bliss.