Hieronymous the Anonymous

The Hollowmen

Last few weeks I've been catching up with The Hollowmen on pay TV. I missed most of it the first time around, but one of the great things about cable is that everything makes to the small screen again. And again, and again...

The Hollowmen is a cynical, very funny, often whimsical satire on the political process. It's based in the Prime Ministers office and the behind the scenes advisors and bureaucrats there trying to make the PM look good and to advance his political aspirations. There is nothing that can't be exploited for political gain - national security, global warming, big spending, and so on.

It's really very cleverly written as you've come to expect from the Working Dog team (The Castle, The Dish, Frontline), but the real beauty of it is in the diversity of characters each representing a different perspective - the earnest, the innocent, the honest, the blindly cynical, the loyal footsoldier, the oblivious, and so on - and all perfectly cast.

I don't know much it actually reflects political reality, but I doubt it's meant to be a literal representation - it is a comedy after all - but rather the comedic exaggeration of a much smaller reality we all believe to be true. I hope there's a second series coming.

It reminds me of another very funny Australian satire I watched re-runs of earlier in the year. The title of The Games refers to the Sydney Olympics in 2000, and was actually made in advance of that. It takes the form of a documentary on the remarkably small organising committee and the government minister they deal with. It details the variety of challenges and controversies they have to overcome, not to mention the political shenanigans they have to manage, not dissimilar to what is represented in The Hollowmen.

John Clarke, who doesn't do near enough TV, heads a stellar cast - Brian Dawe and Gina Riley join him. It's very funny, very clever program which may seem dated with the Sydney Olympics fading into the distant past, and in truth the ripping, brilliantly organised success the games became turned a lot of the program on its head. Funny is funny though, and just as good watching now years after as it was when the games were ahead of us, an unrealised hope we all keenly awaited.

Transformers ho hum

Image by nicogenin via Flickr

Yeah, saw Transformers 2 last week. Not much to say really, diverting enough but very forgettable. Too many flash special effects, too much CGI, not enough on a purely human scale. Megan Fox is good to look at Shia La Beouf is fun, and one of the baddie transformers (Isabel Lucas) is very sexy, but not much to really to engage with.

By far the highlight of the night came before, some very good European beers at Murmur and then a pizza at Portello Rosso washed down with a decent Tempranillo.

Reading William Styron

I had one of those restless days yesterday when I couldn't settle down to anything. After a productive morning I spent the afternoon trying to find my way. I couldn't. At one point I returned to a story I had been writing but found I was creatively bereft. I turned out pure drudge. This added to the sense of restlessness, which in a way becomes self-fulfilling. When there's nothing there it's hard to do anything.

I felt particularly sour about my effort to write. In many ways I'm absolutely impervious to doubt, but my writing is something I feel less certain of. When I think about it it's the things I take for granted that worry me least, which is no surprise. Though the nature of my work often throws me into complex situations I have confidence that I'll manage them - I've done it before after all, and any doubt is quickly quashed by actually doing it. By and large that's pretty characteristic of the rest of my life. If I don't know something I'll find a way, and I never doubt it.

My writing is different. For a start it means much more to me. I might take a lot of confidence from my professional abilities, and some small part of my identity, but my writing really is who I am. I am much more intimately engaged with it, and so when it fails it gives me cause to question something of myself.

Writing is so much harder as well. It's not necessarily difficult to turn out a well crafted sentence - but it's hard turning those into chapters and stories that are actually coherent and mean something. It's delicate work and I've not mastered it yet.

For want of a better word I felt a little despondent yesterday afternoon - an unusual emotion for me. I was restless and so felt lost. I thought to go for a walk but as I did it began to rain. I stood at the window and watched the rain pour down and then the hail, small balls of frozen rain bounce from the deck of the front courtyard. The sky was dark and low and streaked occasionally by lightning which a moment later ushered in the low rumble of thunder. I watched some people hurry by covering their heads with their jackets and knew the sensation. By my side Rigby stood similarly fascinated, unpeturbed by the thunder. Then I remembered the clothes on the line.

As is so often the case I felt myself energised by the rain and the lightning. It had become dim inside without light and it was warm and cosy as I looked out, grateful for the shelter and for the unexpected pleasure of watching the rain fall.

For once I went to bed early last night and as I reached for the book I was reading I paused. Instead I went to the bookcase and got a book of stories out by James Salter, and another - A Tidewater Morning - by William Styron. I lit a tea light and set it up beneath the oil burner in my bedroom. Then I climbed into bed to read while the sweet perfume of the scented oil infused the room.

I read Salter first. Though I admire his writing I felt uninspired. Then I opened the Styron.

Styron is an author I greatly admire. I guess he is best known for Sophie's Choice, which is a marvellous book (a million times better than the movie, though Meryl Streep is perfect as Sophie), but he is the author of many other very good books.

A Tidewater Morning is one of those, a kind of fictionalised memoir of his early life growing up and going to war. It is an immensely intelligent and beautifully written book - it is authors like Styron who both intimidate and inspire my own writing aspirations. It is also the book which has become a talismanic touchstone to me. I read it when I wonder about things, I find myself reading it when I find my own writing go off track.

More than anything it is the quality of writing that draws me back again and again (though I find myself identifying with the sensibility of the young Lieutenant in the first of these stories). I read taking it all in as if it is a gorgeous piece of art. It reads so easily, so artlessly, so authentically, and with nothing left out and nothing out of place. This is how to write I think, simply, economically, honestly. It feels so true, so lived, that afterwards I sit back and watch the shifting shadows on the wall and simply ruminate on all I have read.

As I hoped I found something in the reading, found myself reconnecting to what I really wanted to say in my story, rather than what I thought I wanted to say. I turned and began to write in the notebook I keep by my bed the scene I had been trying to write so unsuccessfully earlier in the day. This time it flowed and felt real rather than contrived. Whatever I had lost earlier I had regained in the night, and I slept feeling content and with all my restless urgings vanished.

Prove me wrong England

I'm watching the cricket sitting in my loungeroom in Melbourne, the wind lashing at the trees outside, while they play in faraway Cardiff, the capital of Wales, where the weather - in summer - is forecast to degenerate into something like our winter.

It's the first ever test match played at Cardiff. The Welsh are better known for their rugby, but it has been a good turnout and despite the home teams travails they seem to have enjoyed themselves. I'vre enjoyed them - the singing, the trumpet playing, the occasional chanting. It brings a very different, and welcome, flavour to the game.

As I watch Australia march on. In all likelihood the weather will prevent a result, but if there is to be a winner then it will be us. England made a good first innings score without really captalising on their opportunities. The Australian bowlers stuck at it well, with a brief exception, and minimised the damage.

Australia then batted and has been at the crease for 2 days with still only 5 wickets down. Ponting made another century, so too Katich, and as I watch North is slowly approaching the mark. We've batted with application and characteristic determination, and in so doing have slowly ground England into the ground. As it stands the lead is 88.

By comparison have become sloppy. It's hard being in the field for over 150 overs, but it could have been a lot harder. It's not Australia when the temperature would be something in the thirties, it's England in summer where the temperature has been no more than 21 or 22, and a lot colder. The conditions are not tough.

I sometimes feel I am tough on the English. I have some of that disdain which comes easily for Australians. I go on about this I'm sure, but for us it's all about the contest, whereas it seems something they fear. I think there is a widespread view over here that the English are soft, and that's a pretty damning thing to think.

Right now they're not doing much to dispel that notion. They're sloppy in the field, their bowling is largely uninspired and captaincy is by the numbers. They've clearly given up on this game, which is pathetic. They're playing slow to use up time and hoping for rain. It's against the spirit of actually competing, let alone sport, and actually becomes self-defeating - if only they could see it.

On paper there's not much difference between these sides. I think Australia might just shade them for talent, but that small advantage is mitigated by the home ground advantage they enjoy. The big gap is in attitude, and it's an attitude that is bred into us and seemingly bred out of them.

It's this difference in attitude that sees England giving up on a match 2 days out when, in a much more dire predicament in Adelaide 2 years ago the Australian team refused to concede - and then went on to bully their way to a famous victory on the last day. And it's this attitude that means while England may enjoy occasional success it will be fleeting. You have believe to win, you have to be positive and be ready to put in the hard work.

It may be fear too. For so long Australia has been the master of England in style as well as in substance. That Adelaide win in fact typifies so much in the sporting relationship between the countries. I wonder if they ever think they've got it won. I wonder even despite all the hyperbole - and there is always a lot - if they don't really believe in their heart of hearts they don't measure up to the Australians they have grown up losing to (and I include the English public in that). That they can't really beat Australia.

And it's that mindset that leads them to play more conservatively, more defensively, forever looking over their shoulder - when Australia will and always have played their own game very aggressively. I'm guessing, but I wouldn't be surprised.

Regardless, it makes me feel very sour, but it also explains why genuine competitors like Flintoff are so well regarded here. We recognise something in him and respect it. He's also a darling of the English for his big heart and great performances - but it seems something they admire from a distance without being capable of emulating.

They need to follow his example, need to play with the heart the Kiwi's do, and the Saffies, not to mention us.

England may well win this series, but I think not, certainly not with duds like Broad in their team. Australia 2 or maybe 3-1. Get on top of them early - as we are - and I doubt their capacity to fight back.

PS Two things to add. I rang JV before, home watching the cricket to. I asked him if I was being unfair. No, he thought, that's just the way they've always been

Secondly, North just got a century on his Ashese debut. In a lot of ways he epitomises the difference between the teams. He's not the most talented player in the side but he just puts his head down and does the job. He's prepared to work on the basis that nothing good comes easy. There'll always be someone putting their hand up, you can rely on that.

Drinking again

I went out last night, last minute, picked up JV and drove to my old stamping ground of Carlisle Street, where we had a quick dinner of a cheap but tasty hamburger, then wandered down the road.

Went to The Local, my old local when I lived in East St Kilda. Back in those days - about 2 years ago - it was largely a student pub with an interesting clientele, transsexuals and other St Kilda types. It was the place where the Israeli guy tried to pick me up, the venue that JK and I would meet after one of his regular calls, fancy a drink he would say and my willpower being what it is I would grudgingly accept, walking down the street and around the corner to meet with him some time after 11 midweek, staying put until closing time.

I think I've been once since I've moved out of the area, and not since they'd finished their renovations. It was always a pleasant place to drink and so I was happy to roll-up last night and curious to see how it had been changed. It was somebodies birthday, JV's hairdresser, and so we climbed the stairs to the upstairs that was never there before and to a very comfortable bar area - an outdoor terrace with an enclosed fireplace that would be great in summer, a little bar area with a plenitude of beers to choose between, and a dining area out the back done up in plantation style, shutters and wicker light-shades and classic beer posters framed on the wall. It had a powerful and pleasant ambiences.

We sat out the back area occasionally venturing to the front terrace for JV to have a fag. In between we talked a little to the people there we didn't know and caught up with the scores, cricket and football, on our mobile phones. There was one girl there I fancied but in the end didn't stay long enough to make a move on. We had about 5 beers and then headed off.

We went back to JV's place in Prahran and watched the end of the footy and the cricket from Cardiff, where the Aussies were powering ahead. I left after an hour and headed home through the quiet, dark streets. Rigby was waiting for me, his snout under the side gate expectantly, jumping all over me as I opened the back door. I watched the cricket for another hour with him nestled in my lap before hitting the sack.

Today it's Saturday and so I can be a slob - and I will be.

The working day

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I work to a pattern. When I work from home I am awake by 7.30 when I get up, let Rigby out to do his business, make a coffee, and feed him. Like me Rigby knows this routine by now and as soon as he hears the coffee being ground he jumps up on me in anticipation of his breakfast.

With coffee in hand I return to bed, where I will read until I have finished my coffee - usually about 45 minutes. I'll get up properly then and shower, dress, and do my morning exercises before getting some breakfast organised - typically this winter porridge with butter and brown sugar. Delish. I'll take that with me and sitting down in front of my PC(Mac!) will eat it in preparation for a long day of work.

I often wonder what I achieve, but I am always busy and never have enough time. As I did when I worked in an office first thing I do is read my emails and respond as appropriate. I'll check a few other sites including the latest news. Then I'll settle down to whatever task I have set myself for the day.

The tasks vary. It might be some work I am doing for myself, some marketing spiel, maybe a white paper I am writing. Today, for example, I worked on a electronic brochure to send out to interested clients.

Other times I may be making calls or dealing with potential clients or service providers. My mind is always ticking over and I am always searching for a different angle.

Maybe a couple of days a week I do some research. I subscribe to a number of business related sites which I'll follow to see what's going on, and often to educate myself in something new. I download a variety of white papers for my own reference, from server virtualisation to Six Sigma, and I'll notes as I read so that I can retain it. I have a good memory for that sort of information in any case, and manage to hold a lot. I am always trying to squirrel away interesting ideas or concepts, products even, which may come in handy.

Some days, though much less lately, I'll make an effort to do some creative writing, and perhaps to update this blog.

I am very scrupulous. I have a fear of wasting my time. I want to feel productive, and with so much still to do and to learn there is no excuse for slacking off. Most days lunch will slide by until after 1, at which time I'll generally whip up something quick - a sandwich, some soup - and eat it working at my desk. In the afternoon I might make myself a cup of tea, but generally I'll go without it.

I knock off sometime after 5 and usually closer to 6. Occasionally I'll crack a bottle of wine and have a glass at my desk that I'll continue later as I whip up dinner.

I try and get out every day. Often that's as simple as giving Rigby a walk, or wandering up the road to buy some groceries. This morning I popped around the corner for a latte and muffin at the usual cafe. Yesterday I dropped by Mum's at lunchtime to fix her PC. On Wednesday I walked to the library and back.

Sometimes I'll take a break mid-afternoon to prepare dinner while listening to my iPod. I enjoy cooking - I find it therapeutic and satisfying - and so I always enjoy these rare interludes. Generally this will be for more involved and ambitious meals when I have people coming over, or to stick in the freezer.

Occasionally on these days I'll venture out to the city. I have the occasional appointment outside of anything work related. And sometimes, like today, I'll go in to catch with someone for lunch.

Today in fact is a little different for most. I was busy all morning and then left for the city to lunch with Tim and Sam, which we do every 4-5 weeks. We had a nice meal, a few beers, and swapped the usual stories. That went for about 90 minutes.

I wandered into the heart of town then, bought a pair of shoes I had my eye on, then ventured into David Jones Food Hall - one of my favourite places. I enjoy my little city excursions and today was no different. Ambling through DJ's I was reminded on the many occasions I have done this, not to mention the many dollars spent.

Job done I caught the tram home listening to my iPod then responding to an urgent email when back at my desk. I looked then at the things I have to do, and for once digressed from the plan. It was Friday afternoon, I had a couple of beers in me and outside was cold and overcast. Hang it all I thought, or something similar, it can wait. And for once in my life I picked up my book and lay, reading, on my bed.

Throughout all this Rigby is thereabouts, sitting at my feet under the desk or lounging on his mat on the futon behind me, and occasionally going for a run or play outside. Sometimes he'll come up to me with his ears cocked and an intent look on his handsome doggy face and will demand my attention, grabbing me by his crooked paw or standing his hind legs or pushing his head onto my lap, or simply licking at any exposed skin he can find.

Again

I spoke to my Dad this morning. Normally I'd speak to him every 5-6 weeks, but it has been a lot more frequent this year. His wife, my stepmother I guess, has cancer, as I think I've mentioned here before.

It's not something I have written a lot about. It may seem selfish, but I've been trying to put it out of my mind. I am over-familiar with cancer having witnessed its insidious toll on my uncle, aunt and stepfather - and now my stepmother. It is a terrible way to die, and I am of the view that if I am ever diagnosed with it than I'd rather go out sooner, when I am still physically and the memories of me are healthy and warm, rather than later when I am a mere husk of a man. I pray it never comes to that.

I can't ignore it any more though. I speak to my father, a proud, strong man whose habit is to fight for everything, and hear in his voice the quiet despair of a man who has run out of ideas. He still searches, but I get the impression he knows that the search is futile. He'll stay strong till the end, you can rely on that, but I wonder what comes after.

As for my stepmother I can only imagine what she is going through. I haven't spoken to her since Christmas and I respect her wishes in that. One of the awful things about cancer is that it can rob one of their sense of dignity. The treatment is intrusive and toxic and leaves its mark. She has quietly fought that battle with my father beside her and unseen my sister and I supporting from the sidelines. There is nothing more we can do.

Today they are greatly disappointed. They had thought the treatment had gone well, the signs were positive - yet the doctor gives them no further cause for help. His prognosis is unchanged - before Christmas, and quite possibly well before then.

He tells me, dad, that he has seen it himself in the last few days. She has no energy, can't walk 100 metres and even doing that is at a shuffle with frequent stops. She is on oxygen, and from what I gather has lost hope after this most recent examination. I have not enquired about her physical state and do not want to know - though I can imagine.

I feel a little disloyal writing this even if I do it under my anonymous identity. It is something I have to write though because it is of my life, and because it is not something that can be ignored. More than anything, it is not something that should be ignored.

I won't be writing a lot, though it is inevitable there will be things that must be reported. There is little anyone can do. I told my dad that, told him I knew there was nothing we could do but that we, my sister and I, are here whenever and however we are needed.

This is a terrible, terrible thing. Again.

Do yourself another favour

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In the way you do I happened across a Brisbane singer-songwriter I think is just great. Tara Simmons performs this very catchy, melodic pop with very creative arrangements that work. Her voice is pure and clear, and in tone reminds me a little of another Australian singer, Angie Hart - and another singer I am struggling to place in my head. She sounds warm and engaging, her songs intimate and intelligent. Her music is a combination of electronic beats overlaid by her voice and the backing vocals, with the occasional string accompaniment and the odd but effective background 'sound' used.

I'm no expert on her, I've only listened to a few songs and downloaded a couple (her latest album - Spilt Milk - is digital only), but I reckon she''s well worth checking out. I'll definitely keeping an eye, and an ear, out for her.

Stray associations, random memories

It was one of those clear, bright, cold winter mornings where the chill penetrates your clothes and seeps into your bones. I felt my fingers turn blue with it as I walked up the road, and my cheeks sting with it. It reminded me, as often these mornings do, of the occasions years ago now when I would travel inland to hunt for goat or wild pig or deer. I recall those frigid mornings I would wake to find any water left out overnight frozen, and the sun come rise in a brilliant sky as we stood by the fire clutching hot cups of instant coffee. How I wanted to go back to my sleeping bag then. Instead as the first rays of light stole over the landscape we would set off with the peculiar curly chirp of the magpie in our ears. For a good while I would be numb, but with a creeping expectation beginning to fill me. I looked about, at the austere landscape snap frozen overnight - largely red earth country, filled with hardy, straggly bushes and by the rivers and streams taller gum trees sprawling and for years undisturbed. In the hills where we hunted deer it was different, lush vegetation grown close together, tall, thin mountain gums and ash trees closing out the light above us, and cherry trees with the bark ripped to shreds and the red wood exposed by deer rubbing the velvet off their antlers.

They are vivid memories and good ones though it is a long time since I've carried a rifle in anger. More than anything else it is an experience you carry with you, to live a little like that and to behold these different landscapes and to begin to understand the life these habitats supported. As we stalked our game the hunter we went with would feed us information I always eagerly lapped up, about the habits of the deer or the wild pig, the difference in their tracks, what they ate and how they lived. He would point out the different trees and bushes, tell us what could be eaten and what not. He had magic eyes from years of doing this and would pick out a bird in flight and name it, and on the horizon would point out a smudge he might declare to be kangaroos. We would look and after a moment discern the strange motion of animals hopping.

In the evening after early mornings out and late dusk we would eat well feeling all the days ramblings in our bones. It was a feeling of satisfaction no matter what we had potted that day. We would sit by the fire and talk, telling stories and drinking beer as we shared a hearty meal, a joint of goat perhaps, an ostrich schnitzel maybe, venison or maybe roo. The dark would enclose us and the cold as we sat around our ring of light and warmth. We would laugh and sometimes play music, incongruous music that somehow seemed perfect for those distant places, Sam Cooke or Vince Jones. And as we sat there enjoying that we would hear the rustlings and calls of the nocturnal creatures come to life, and occasionally see a pair of big eyes reflected by the light of the fire. You became aware that you were far from the civilising graces of the big city, that while that was your territory this was theirs. I always felt richer for knowing that.

I returned from my walk this morning feeling warmer, the blood pumping through me and the sun as it climbed in the sky more more accommodating. These memories went through my head and I wondered as I have often about the associations we form in our mind.

I had earlier recalled a time in Vietnam as I ate my breakfast. For some reason I remembered the time I was in Hoi An in 2001 on the Vietnamese national day and how that evening they floated down the slow river hundreds of delicate paper lanterns each with a little candle burning inside. It was a beautiful sight and said much about the aesthetic grace of the Vietnamese people, who are friendly and generous, a warm, happy people.

These random remembrances and thoughts fill our mind all the time, though I guess they're not as random as they might seem. I wonder at the synaptic connections between one memory and another, in the web of associations and thoughts and long ago events.

It is fascinating, and welcome too. It's more complex than anything we can build, I thought as I turned the corner for home. And then, recalling once more those coloured lanterns and the visual picture I have of them, it's lovely having the memory - but it's the living of them that is everything.

As good as it gets

For probably the last 8 weeks of the footy season the match between Geelong and St Kilda was hyped as a meeting between titans. Every week past with them unbeaten was ticked off and the days remaining counted down. Last week the hyperbole reached ridiculous levels, with some scribe (incorrectly) claiming this to be the biggest match ever outside the finals.

To be honest I got a weary of all this - not like the media to overdo something, is it? - but I still looked forward to sitting to watch the match, and in fact had a coup[le of mates over for lunch to make day of it.

How often are great expectations disappointed? For all the hype, the reigning premiers went into yesterday's match as firm favourite. Geelong had the score on the board, indisputably one of the greatest sides of all time they came up against St Kilda, perennial losers and in more recent times good looking pretenders. They have taken their game to a new and much tougher level this year, but even those of us who wished otherwise suspected they might get found out when the heat was on.

Amazingly, for one of the very few occasions I can recall, all the hyperbole, the purple prose, the runaway hype and general excitement was matched - if not surpassed - by a classic game of the highest quality that went right down to the wire.

We sat in my lounge room having supped on a roast leg of lamb with all the trimmings, a few beers, as well as the very excellent 1999 Moorilla Estate Cab Sav I'd forgotten was in my wine rack. We were content. When he wasn't trying for our attention Rigby sat quietly at our feet, roused occasionally by our excited cries and occasional invective at the TV screen.

Beside me JV, having tipped Geelong, lived and died with every kick. Both Whisky and I were superficially neutral, though as the game progressed we both found ourselves barracking for the Saints. They were the underdog after all, the challenger taking on the established champion.

The challenger started beautifully and skipped out to a handy lead that over the course of the next few quarters the champion slowly reeled in. 25 points at quarter time, 15 at the half, and 10 with just 30 minutes to go. With about 5 minutes left on the clock Geelong kicked the goal to level the score, at which point they were strong favourites to go on and win a match they had been behind in all day. But it was not to be.

Back and forward the play went, the umpires wisely putting their whistles away to let the game flow and unfold unimpeded. Both teams got to the teeth of goal and were both repulsed, until it seemed a draw might be the most poetic of results. Nobody wanted that though. We'd lived with this contest in our mind for months. To have all that anticipation and bitter contest end in a inconclusive scoreline was against the spirit of the battle.

And so it proved. With a little over a minute on the clock Michael Gardiner soared over the pack to take a great and decisive contested mark 15 metres out from the St Kilda goal. He had been one of the heroes of the day, and his story, like the match, had found some kind of resolution.

He had been the much hyped first round pick many years ago, had become a champion player for the Eagles and played in the grand final loss against the Swans. The margin had been a single point, but when the result was reversed 12 months later he was not in the team. Instead he had been disgraced, a drug user with shady friends, he looked set for the scrap heap. Looking for a last chance and dumped by the Eagles the Saints had picked him up. He slowly rebuilt his career, handy more than dominant, a shadow of the player he had been. This year had been his best in the Saints red, white and black, and yesterday the game he announced himself to the football world again.

Now he lined up to kick the goal that would likely win the match. He had already kicked three opportunist goals. On the ground one of his Geelong opponents was being treated, knocked out in the contest. While he was carried off Gardiner stood there with the ball tucked under his arm. Two minutes had passed since he had marked, and while any score would put them in front a goal would make safe from defeat.

And he kicked it. That was it, pretty much. And epic match played at breakneck speed and with incredible pressure was over, St Kilda by a solitary goal. We always say this, and it rarely works out like this, but this was a game worthy of a grand final. And for once the hype was matched by reality. What a great game, what a great sport.