blown inside out

Tonight is a crazy wind, air energy gone mad. After the literary journalism workshop this morning I rushed home because I had been a bad Mum and not taken Freddie for a walk before leaving. He greets me with the full force of his enthusiasm; wagging his whole body. At the hint of me reaching for his lead he pants excitedly, runs round in tight circles. He pulls me out of the door and we're off and racing. We lunge forward into the weather - I take a peak over my shoulder and notice more storm clouds gathering over a feverish sea. Enough time for our walk before the onslaught I calculate. Rugged up and ready we are buffeted up the street with the wind a chaotic roar up our rear. The street is littered with leaves and branches and small cones that have been flung from the pine trees up by the school. As soon as we enter the park I realise that I have sadly misculculated the approach of the next squall and that the umbrella is sadly not up to the task of protecting me from the force of the sudden amplification and power of a relentless ferocious gale. We turn into the maelstrom; in one hand I sieze hold of a rapidly disintegrating and distorted umbrella that has developed a life of its own, in the other I am tugged this way and that by Freddie who has sensed a weakness. Now a slanting sheeting rain comes in waves across the suburb drenching my pants that are blown cold against my legs. It goes on and on as we plunge homewards with no vision past the tattered umbrella held grimly, shieldlike. As is the nature of squalls, they are quick to arrive and quick to depart - by the time we turned into our driveway a restless patch of blue sky and a pale sun whisked across the sky, flashing and dazzling in the puddles and lighting the dark streams that surged and gurgled down the side of the road. I chuck the umbrella in the bin, towel dry the dog and let myself into the blessed sanctuary of home for a restoring cuppa.

Walking on the edge

Now that the days are sunny and warm it gets harder to stay indoors to write and read. The brilliant day screams to be enjoyed - outside. The pull is a strong magnetic force. Freddie bounds around madly as I put my shoes on ready for our daily walk up to Booyembarra Park. Out of the gate and he instantly pulls hard on the lead, desperate to sniff around the letter box and pick up the scent of other dogs visits. After the obligatory pee we head up Watkins past White Gum Valley Primary. It's recess and the kids are screaming around on the grass in their red and black uniforms. Fred's pulling my arm off in his eagerness to get ahead. Heel Boy. No response. The phone box on the corner is surrounded by broken glass. I pull him onto the verge to protect his paws. Up the hill to the park. Uh ho, from a street away I can hear the penetrating drone of the park-keepers favourite toy - the dreaded leaf blower. He seems to spend hours blowing the paths free of the every concievable speck of detritus. I noticed that they have also given one of these loathsome tools to the groundsman at the school and ever since he wields it from morning to night. Paths have never been cleaner or clearer. These men seem to lay in wait for a leaf to fall and pounce on it straight away, and then blow to the farthest point of park or school. Fred and I take a route to avoid the noise and enter the haven of 'boo park'. The council in a moment of rare foresight have created the most beautiful public space on the site of an old limestone quarry. In the centre is a big lake that hosts a variety of birds; ducks, swans, coots and herons. On Sundays blokes drive up to the park and play at racing remote control sailboats. The lake is surrounded by lawns and used for picnics and kids parties.

It's a bit dangerous to let Fred off the lead too soon. He has a tendancy to bark at and chase anything on wheels - skateboards, bikes, rollerblades, he can even take offence to pushchairs and prams - but during the week the park is often quiet so I let him have a run. Paved paths circle the park then we take a bush track that takes off up the hill beside the golf course. Right now this track is like walking in heaven. On either side is regenerated bush with wattle trees dripping with yellow pom-poms. Under the trees and stretching across the edge of the golf course is a meadow full of lupins, yellow sour sop, mallows, and three different coloured wild radish - all flowering like mad. This morning I was able to just gaze at this wonderous site, watching bees softly land on the flowers and butterflies dance around amongst them. I could almost imagine that I was walking along a country lane in England on one of those rare perfect summer days.

We come down the track and onto another large grassy area. Here we meet a young man who is hitting golf balls for his dog, Zulu, to run after. Fred has a great run around with Zulu but soon tires of running after balls and goes back to sniffing. I put him back on the lead and head home for breakfast.

Notes on a few books

At the moment I have three books on the go. After reading Orwell's The Road to Wigan Pier for the Literary Journalism course I have been inspired to read more of his work. I read Animal Farm when I was still at school and 1984 while working on a kibbutz in the early 1970's. His name came up in the Brittania to the Beatles history unit that I studied last year and so I was glad to get the chance to study him in more detail this semester. His use of language is stunning. His style is 'plain English prose' and in an essay entitled; 'Politics and the English Language' (1946), he gives some examples of bad ugly and incomprehensible writing of the kind found in academia and politics and some sound advice on how to write clearly: He suggests asking yourself several questions when it comes to writing - 1. What am I trying to say? 2. What words will express it. 3. What image or idiom will make it clear. 4. Is this image fresh enough to have an effect? 5. Could I put it more shortly? 6. Have I said anything that is avoidably ugly? Having applied these questions to his own writing what emerges is a style of clarity and beauty of language. So to further my study of his writing I am currently reading, Coming up for Air. Even though he was writing before the second world war much of his writing is still relevant. Even then his narrator is harking back to the 'good old days' before the WW1. It is inspiring me to do some blogging about childhood memories of growing up in rural England in the 50's and 60's.

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland is having the effect of allowing me to see the strange madness of the world. The other morning on my morning walk with Freddie the Dog the world seemed like a Mad Hatters Tea Party at full throttle - and I was a part of its dazzling insanity.

My final book is a real treasure. I found it in Bill Campbell's Secondhand Bookshop on High Street. A slim volume with a brown cover, it could easily be overlooked. The title is Bodhinyana: Teachings of Ven. Ajahn Chah. I read this book over and over again as it is full of incredibly simple wisdom. It provides the inspiration to practice and spend time out from the Mad Hatters Tea Party of worldly concerns.