What the fuck is going on?

I’ve discovered over the last few years that I couldn’t be less in touch with what the fuck is going on in the world if I tried. I guess it started with Brexit. And then Trump. But this shit just keeps on going. Is it just that I am getting older? I’m sixty now and some days I feel fucking old. Maybe it’s just me. The world moved on in a different plane and left me behind. Maybe all generations feel like this. We as a generation, in this part of the world, have certainly been blessed for a very long time compared to our forebears. Our generation came to being post the second world war. My parents were children in that time, and what’s more Jewish children, in a time where Jews were being exterminated in Europe. My grandmother had her parents and a whole lot of siblings wiped out by the Nazis (do I really have to give those fuckers a capital letter Mr. Autocorrect). She lived through the great depression where her husband, my grandfather, lost his business and went broke and then died leaving her with nothing but a couple of sons to feed in a time when women typically didn’t work. She left Latvia just after the Russian revolution when Stalin came to power. So, the world has always been mad. And my family have had to be dealing with it for generations, like everybody else’s family. But I guess I felt that mostly I could make sense of it during my time. Certainly at least since I reached adulthood. Now, I’ve got no fucking clue. I know that if my grandmother was here, she’d just tell me to get on with it. But, right now, I feel in despair.

At heart, I’m an optimist. And I want people to get along. Love is the answer. Surely, we all know that, for sure. But I feel so disappointed by my fellow humans. So let down. Not that I am putting myself out there as perfect. Far from it. I know that I’ve been a right cunt at times. And for those times, some of which come to mind, I am truly sorry. But I’d like to think that these days I’m mostly guided by principles of fairness, and compassion, and a desire for equality. And it is in these contexts, that I now pass these following judgements.

I have no understanding for anybody that voted “no” in the recent Australian referendum to give Aboriginal people acknowledgement in the Australian constitution and the forming of an advisory body on Aboriginal issues to Parliament. It was such a simple ask. It would not have affected any non-indigenous person in any way whatsoever, but as a nation we said, “fuck off! We don’t give a shit what you want”. I can’t help but feel that those who voted “no” either have no understanding whatsoever on what Aboriginal people have had to endure in this country, or they simply don’t give a fuck. I don’t see any other option. And either option makes me feel sad. And angry.

And now, we have the whole situation in Israel/Palestine to deal with. So, bear with me while I pour myself another drink, and launch into this dangerous territory. And launch, I will.

 

I’m not really sure where to start, but as a person of Jewish heritage, and so with some inherent bias, I guess I’ll start with the fact that I think that what Netanyahu and his cronies have done over the last fifteen or so years to the Palestinians is a disgrace. The expansions in the West Bank are a crime for which I hope he is eventually called to account. Likewise, the overt policing that has made life unbearable for everyday Palestinians who, like you and I, would just like to wake up in the morning and lead a normal life. They should be free to live in their own country without impediment from some other force. And clearly the response from Israel to the horror of October 7^th has been extreme to say the least.  I’m torn on how justified it is. For those who see Hamas as freedom fighters, just trying to overcome Israeli oppression, you have no clue. They are like the Taliban. And how good are they for the people of Afghanistan? Hamas need to be gone for there to be any chance of peace in this region, because like it or not, Israel isn’t going anywhere.  And like the Mujahadeen may have once seemed like a good idea in Afghanistan to free the local citizens from the oppression of the occupying Russians, it hasn’t worked out so well in the long run. But I also understand why people who are so oppressed take some joy in the death of innocent people from the side of their aggressors, as happened on October 7^th. While it disgusts me, I understand it. Persecution does that to people. But, at the same time, every time the Israelis have given some kind of leeway and pulled back from occupation and control, such as unconditionally withdrawing from Gaza in 2005, members of the Palestinian community have launched violent attacks against citizens of Israel. Be it a bus blowing up or a bomb in a pizza parlour or rockets fired onto towns. And unfortunately, all the rhetoric I see coming from Palestinians and their supporters, indicates that to me this has got a long, long way to play out. Because it needn’t have been like this, and yes, I do also blame the Palestinians for this.

I can’t believe that there is a narrative out there about the Palestinians being the indigenous people to the region that were displaced by a decision of empire for Europeans to come and replace them as part of an imperial colonisation. To that, I say, “fuck off!”. The Jews have lived in that region at least as long as the Arabs have. The sacred Al Aqsa (Dome of the rock) mosque is built on the ruined foundations of a Jewish temple. Who are the colonizers here? And when you put up your Christmas trees to celebrate the birth of a Jew in Bethlehem, don’t come and tell me that Jews have only been living in that region since 1948.

My grandfather was born in a town called Be'er Tuvia, near Ashdod, about 40km north of the Gaza strip in the early 1900s. Long before the creation of the state of Israel. His brother, my Uncle Joe, told me that the family frequently had to take refuge in their stone barn when local Arab youth would come into town to wreak havoc on the Jews who lived there, in the British controlled Palestine. He told me that on one occasion their rabbi was taken by some marauding Arab youths, wrapped up in the parchment scroll of the Torah and set on fire inside the local synagogue. So, all of the people out there suggesting that Jews living in an Arab majority state of Palestine would be able to live a nice peaceful life, if there were to be a single state solution with a majority of Palestinian people, can also fuck right off. You have no clue. This all had nothing to do with the creation of the state of Israel. It happened decades before.

What is it with people? I know that this is an alienating phrase, and clearly I don’t mean you if you have taken the time to read this rant by a drunken lunatic, but the world is full of proudly uneducated people. People who have only the barest understanding of a situation but can form such strong opinions based often only on what seems to be the popular opinion of their political leaning. And yes, I’m looking at you the left. I thought I was one of you, generally speaking. I thought that the position of the left was supposed to be of humanity. For all people. But actually, as a political collective, you are just another bunch of pathetic “black and white” viewing simpletons manipulating facts to suit your political agenda. And that saddens me. Because I thought that in you, there was a hope for a better humanity. I’m not talking of people who want to stop the Israeli bombing of Gaza. I totally get that. I’ve been crying in front of my TV frequently watching that horror unfold. And I’m not talking of people who oppose the policies of Israel. As you can see from my opening paragraph, I have been one of those people over the last fifteen or twenty years. But I am talking of people who question the right for Israel’s existence. Who take the opportunity of this current situation to question whether it is right for there to be a Jewish homeland. The rise of antisemitic crime occurring in the world makes me feel that it’s not only justified, but that it’s required.

I am an atheist. As Nick Cave, who now appears to be a Christian, once said, I don’t believe in an interventionist God. I don’t believe all the Jewish stories of God talking to Moses and all that stuff, but I do do a mighty good impersonation of the almighty when leading a seder at Passover. Just don’t cross me or ye shall be smote. Just make sure you drink that fourth glass of wine while leaning to the left. But the one thing that does make me feel Jewish to my core is antisemitism. And there seems a bit of it around at the moment. But I also hate the kneejerk reaction of people who criticise some shit policy of Israel being labelled as antisemitic. And then there are those who say that they are antizionist, but what really does that mean? To me, from my readings on social media, that seems mostly a convenient modern moniker for antisemitism. Anybody who denies the right for the state of Israel to exist, as a traditional Jewish homeland is denying all archaeological evidence that Jews have been there for thousands of years. How that state goes about its business, and where exactly the borders are, is a different matter, and I’m totally up for the discussion around that. Hopefully one of the positives of this horrific situation is that Netanyahu will be gone soon from Israeli political life. And to that end, here is my optimistic plan for peace in the region.

Netanyahu and the ultra-orthodox right-wing Jews in the Israeli parliament gone. Fuck right off!

Hamas gone. Hopefully the Palestinians can see that Hamas, Islamic Jihad and similar groups are not the way forward for them to achieve their desire for a self-governed homeland where they can live in freedom and peace. That’s clearly not going to happen unless Palestinian people see real hope and possibility of it happening and that Hamas are just getting in the way. And true peace won’t happen until the Palestinians get this and have the power to do something about it.

And maybe, most importantly, but severely overlooked in all the discussion currently going on, the ayatollahs of Iran to fall and give way to a secular society, which it seems is what the majority of people in Iran actually want. Without the support of Iran, Hamas and Hezbollah and other similar groups lose massive funding and armaments and Israel feel less threatened, meaning that they can perhaps lighten the fuck up in their need to defend themselves. They feel less threatened, the Palestinians have a better chance of living in peace. And we’d all be happy. Especially the Iranian women, who can then wear whatever the fuck they want.

Anyway… that’s how I feel today. Some of those feelings will be with me forever. Some will change with circumstances and perhaps with good arguments from my fellow well-meaning protagonists. I welcome dialogue on all this. I’m just trying to sort it out in my own head. It’s all been a bit overwhelming.

Shalom.

Pourquoi apprendre le français? Je ne sais pas

Claude - My French teacher in Paris. 

I turn sixty next month. That’s some large number and I can’t say that I’ve been handling the impending milestone brilliantly. All the maths indicates that I’m much closer to the end than the beginning. And that has caused me some consternation. What it also does is act as a significant reminder to do things now, because there may not be too many laters. So when Tori asked me where I wanted to spend my birthday, my spontaneous decision was to spend it in France. Not content to do things the easy way, I’ve opted to spend a month doing one-on-one language classes while living with the family of a French teacher. Well in actual fact, four teachers and three families, in three different locations – Montpellier, Carcassonne and Paris. After that, Tori and the rest of the crew will be joining me for a bit more of a relaxing time that takes in a few places across the country where I’ve never been, as well as a couple of old favourites. I’m mostly spurning England and the rest of Europe, with apologies to my good friends there, and as attractive as many of those other countries may be. I just want to hang out in France for a bit.

So, what actually is my aim here? The truthful answer after much consideration is, fucked if I know.

I’m now pretty close to the end of the four weeks of classes and am getting a better understanding of where I am with this language. The fluency light at the end of the tunnel seems quite a distance away. I’ll likely never reach it unless I get to spend a significant amount of time living here and that seems difficult given the various components of my life. I have no doubt that to the French I sound like an anglophone speaking their language, but I’m ok with that. It’s pretty clear when the majority of French people speak English where they are from, however well they speak it. And there’s nothing wrong with that, so the inverse doesn’t bother me, as long as I can make myself understood. I feel that I now get where most of the major building blocks for this language fit in with each other. I just struggle at times to assemble them, especially in spoken French where the blocks need to be put together quickly. Some days, the blocks are difficult to handle and it all resembles a very rapid game of Tetris. On those days I can’t help but feel that if I haven’t got it by now, at nearly sixty, then perhaps I never will. But then, I ask myself, does it really matter. And what’s it all for anyway? Maybe Camus could help me. Or Sartre. They’d probably be satisfied that I’m just plugging along with this seemingly futile task as if it’s something important, when in fact nothing really is. And there’s something in that too. Is it about an end goal or is it the journey? There have certainly been a few very frustrating days where I’ve been disappointed with myself that I haven’t attained the level that I aspire to. But some other days have been brilliant where I’ve had moments of erudition and fluidity. And when it comes down to it, I’ve spent three or four hours every morning speaking and hearing nothing but French and being able to comfortably communicate in this fashion with another person. So, that’s something quite significant. And while doing it, I’ve been in France, staying with some very nice people, experiencing how they live, eating delicious food and enjoying the wine.

My relationship with the French language and of its nature France itself started in my year 7 French class with Miss Hurse. I remember my excitement when I had to do an assignment on French cheeses. After savouring a few of whichever cheeses mum was able to procure in Australian supermarkets in the seventies (I do remember trying and liking Port Salut) I lovingly stuck all the wrappers neatly onto a sheet of folder paper and notated whatever my 11-year-old mind made of them.  I did well that year in French, receiving a distinction from Miss Hurse, but the comment she wrote on my report card still stings. “Greg has produced some excellent work but unfortunately spoils it at times by chattering like a parrot”. I guess it was a sign of things to come. My year 8 French teacher, Mrs. Leonard went with the rote method of learning verbs. If you were caught talking in class, which surprisingly enough I often was, she’d just turn to you and say “dire and devoir, five times English and French”, meaning that you had to write out the conjugations as a form of punishment. Sometimes the verbs were replaced with vouloir and pouvoir. That helped me learn those potentially tricky verbs well. Year 9 and it was Miss Hurse again, followed in year 10 by Mr Dobberstein, an old German guy who universally was known as Dobbo, though not of course to his face. At this stage, my enthusiasm for learning French had somewhat waned and I was far more interested in whatever mischief was going on in class. This culminated in year 11 where it all degenerated into turmoil which among other things involved a couple of Saturday detentions. I even had one on Grand Final day where I had to rock up to school on the Saturday morning for three hours to repeat an exam that I’d responded to on the original day by answering all the questions in a completely mocking manner, which I found hilarious but unsurprisingly the school didn’t. When I’d completed the detention, I jumped immediately on to a tram to the G to watch the Blues sink the Pies, thanks partly to a piece of Wayne Harmes brilliance from the boundary line. I did pass the subject that year, but it was conditional on me not choosing it as a subject in year 12. So that was it for me and French at school. Started on fire, finished in flames.

My next flirtation with the French language wasn’t until Tori and I relocated to England some 17 or so years later. I’d managed to find myself eight weeks between work contracts and decided to spend it in Nice, living with a family and going to French school every day, having a completely immersive experience. I had a ball. I loved being back in the classroom and surprisingly had matured enough by then to pay attention and be an enthusiastic student. My level of French improved to a point where I could communicate in a basic fashion with my host family. On returning to England, I spent nine or ten months seeing a French teacher one-on-one in Brighton and even achieved the basic certificate for language proficiency needed at that time to get a job on Eurostar or British Airways. I felt that fluency could perhaps one day be in my grasp. But leaving England and the arrival of children put all of that on hold again for some years, as my language goal tumbled down the priority list. Australia is a long way from France, and it is incredibly difficult to learn a language if you are not surrounded by it. That’s the case for me anyway.

Another twenty odd years passed. How did that happen? My amount of French in that time was effectively pas du tout (i.e. fuck all) outside of a couple of brief side trips to France when I’d been in England for work in more recent years. Before one of those trips, I went and saw a local teacher up in St. Andrews in a bid to resurrect my latent knowledge. Though it wasn’t really until last year when Jazzy bought me a Christmas present from Alliance Française that my learning goal resurrected itself again with appropriate vigour. Firstly, I had to do an assessment of my level of proficiency where I was completely flattered and surprised by the result, coming in at the upper end of intermediate. I then had a term of one-night-a-week classes, which was also quite encouraging. So I followed it up with another term. Most days I was able to comprehend what was going on and found my levels of grammar improving and old forgotten knowledge coming back to me. Though pretty much every week after the two-hour class I felt completely drained and relieved it was over. I’d also found that on the days when I was feeling not quite up to par that I was able to mostly hide in the class and not speak too much. It may have been counterproductive to me improving my French speech, but it was definitely the path of least resistance when my brain just couldn’t deal with it. I knew that if I really wanted to learn the language, I needed to put myself in a position where there was no escape and nowhere to hide. Which is when I discovered the possibility of living in France with a French teacher and studying with them one-on-one each day. I recalled the fun I’d had in Nice and how much progress I’d made. And I do love the AirBnB experience of staying in somebody’s home and getting to know them and their town from a local perspective. So, with my upcoming birthday, I decided (with Tori’s support) that this would be a present to myself.

And now here I am, pretty much at the end of it all. It’s been a bit of a rollercoaster. My brain no longer fatigues in conversation and goes searching for the door. If somebody wants to have a conversation with me in French, they can do so, and I’ll be able to express myself back to them in a reasonable fashion about most topics. Often though I’ll hear the words come out and know that I got the gender wrong, or the verb ending wrong, or the relative pronoun wrong, which really annoys me because I know how they all should fit together. I understand most of the concepts of how the language works, but I still find it difficult to put it all together in speech. And still too often for my liking, people will say things to me that are just too fast and go right past me, but I don’t freak out about that quite so much anymore. I can watch the news on TV and understand most of what’s going on. I can read the paper and get most of the story. I’ve had the experience of watching a Clint Eastwood film and hearing him speaking in French in a voice that I know isn’t his. I’ve had a good taste of French life and got to know some extremely interesting and lovely people. I’ve had the opportunity to see the cities of Montpellier and Paris through the eyes of a local. To really feel like I was living there, as short a time as it’s been.

My final teacher, in Paris, was my best teacher. This is not to denigrate my other fine teachers, but she has undoubtedly had the most experience, having been teaching diplomats and ex-pats for several decades. She loves language and the origins of it all. The rare moments when she flicked into English to explain a concept that I couldn’t get from her explanation in French showed me that her English is flawless, at a higher level than a lot of native speakers. She was ruthless in correcting me every time I made an error in my speech, which was frustrating but something that I needed and appreciated. She honed in on any weaknesses that I showed in my grammar or pronunciation, and gave me detailed explanations of how it all worked. She held me to a high standard. She made copious notes for me of everything we discussed. She was quite incredible. And at the end of it all she graded me at an exceptionally high level in the feedback form that she was sending off to the school, which both surprised and flattered me again. So, while I still can fumble over words to a waiter and get frustrated, maybe I can actually speak this language better than I think I can.

But what is it all for anyway? And does it matter? Well, I guess it matters to me for reasons I still can’t fully explain, but maybe it’s becoming slightly clearer now. I love this country. I love how entrenched the enjoyment of life is in their culture. I love the passion that the country has for sport, in the way that Australia does. I love their outdoor lifestyle and their streetside restaurant and bars. I love going to a market and buying a baguette, some fine cheeses, tomatoes, strawberries and a bottle of red wine, and then supping on one of the finest meals known to humanity. I love the passion of the people. I love that as a people they stick up for their rights, even if it means bringing the whole country to a standstill. I love that in their history they decided to cut their king’s and queen’s heads off. I love the philosophical thinking of Voltaire, Montesquieu, Rousseau, Camus and others. I love their appreciation of the arts and the way that they value and support their artists and musicians. I love their architecture and how many buildings seem to be works of art in their own right. I love the gritty reality of French cinema and the fact that however beautiful the people in the film may be, they look like real people. I love how welcome I’ve always felt in this country.

So, maybe I do know what it's all for. I still feel equal measures of encouragement and frustration with the language, but I’ll persist. I’ll take some next steps in my attempted mastery of it on returning to Australia. And I’ll start planning for how I can relocate my life here for a slightly longer period next time. Along of course with Tori. In reality, and naturally enough, I’ve already started planning.

Clotilde and Anne Elisabeth - My teachers in Montpellier

Eliane - My teacher in Carcassonne

A photo a day - Day 43 - Bill and Barry

 

Bill McAuley with his iconic photo of Barry Humphries, a copy of which is hanging in the National Portrait Gallery in Canberra

A photo a day - Day 42 - A lucky escape

 

On a dark, wet and slippery night, Finn lost control of his car when the wheels locked up on a hairpin bend in Donvale, and went careening over a bank and into a tree. Thankfully he and his two passengers walked out of the wreckage completely unscratched. Very very lucky.

A photo a day - Day 41 - A big surprise for D

Surprise party for Derek's 60th, organised by Tony, at our house, on the night of King Charlie's coronation.

A photo a day - Day 40 - Tori's pop-up exhibition

 

Tori's pop-up exhibition with Jac and Sarai, in the gallery space next to the Warrandyte Library

A photo a day - Day 39 - Un jour at the G

A day at the G with Finn and Clément. Très chichi in the Members Dining Room before the Geelong v Essendon game, Clément's first AFL game.

A photo a day - Day 38 - Kimi shoots, he scores

 

Start of season six for Kimi and he has a nice jump shot

A photo a day - Day 37 - Finding my feet

 

What is this weird thing on the end of my leg?

A photo a day - Day 36 - Mother and daughter

 Mother and daughter

A photo a day - Day 35 - Pure joy of swinging

 Nothing quite beats that free feeling of swinging through the air

A photo a day - Day 34 - Strange bird in a Ballarat swamp

 

I don't know what this strange water bird is. But there were quite a few of them around the swamps and wetlands of Ballarat.

A photo a day - Day 33 - Ribbons for the victims

The Catholic church in Ballarat, like in many other places, has a lot to answer for. Home to George Pell and convicted paedophile Gerald Ridsdale, the diocese of Ballarat counted many victims of sexual abuse at the hands of the clergy. The ribbons on the fences at St. Patrick's Cathedral are a show of support for the victims of the heinous crimes perpetrated under the watch of the church.

A photo a day - Day 32 - Ballarat swan

Lake Wendouree at Ballarat is teeming with bird life. On a weekend trip there with Jazzy and Kimi, we hung out particularly with the swans.

 

A photo a day - Day 31 - A bust at Montsalvat

 

Decades ago, early on a Saturday evening when all the shops were already shut, we needed a birthday present for a friend whose party we were going to. Not wanting to turn up empty handed, we nicked a solid metal bust from Montsalvat. I always felt a mix of guilt and pride about that theft. I'd like to know who the rightful owner was and somehow return it if I could. Whenever I find myself at Montsalvat, I'm always drawn to the busts.

A photo a day - Day 30 - Photo by remote control

 

Kimi wondered how I took a selfie yesterday with my fancy camera. So I showed him. Though the presence of a phone in this photo belies the true magic.

A photo a day - Day 29 - Vote YES

 Time to start my unofficial campaign to try and increase the YES vote in the upcoming referendum to recognise indigenous Australians in the constitution. The result will show us what kind of nation we have.

A photo a day - Day 27 - Whiskey in old glass

 A nice drop of whiskey in a beautiful crystal glass that is older than me. It was a wedding present given to my mum and dad. The old hip flask came from Tori's dad to Tori, but I've procured it. The whiskey is a nice ten year old Talisker from the Scottish isle of Sky.

A photo a day - Day 26 - Tamil fish feast

 

Nige is a Tamil asylum seeker who came to Australia some years back and set up his life in Australia with assistance from Now and Not Yet, particularly from Derek, the main guy at the cafe. Nang is a Burmese refugee, who after spending ten years as a refugee in Malaysia came to Australia with some assistance from me, as part of the Warrandyte Refugee Support Group. Tonight the two of them, with assistance from Nang's husband Maung, cooked up a Tamil feast for a room full of fortunate diners.

A photo a day - day 25 - Waiting to bud

 

Tori loves flowers. Very occasionally I remember and I buy her some. She bought these ones herself.

A photo a day - day 24 - Buddha chilling in the garden

 

On the day after the Dalai Lama was caught asking a young boy to suck his tongue, Buddha relaxes in the garden.

A photo a day - day 23 - Django claims the blanket pile

 

Django will sleep on anything that newly appears in the house. Even better if it's as comfortable as a pile of blankets.

A photo a day - day 22 - Friends reunited

 

Jazz and Em reunited after nine months. Great friends.

A photo a day - day 21 - There was gold in them thar hills

Warrandyte was the first place that gold was found in Victoria. Old mine shafts and tunnels dot the hills in the surrounding area as a testament to those who came here to seek their fortune. And the old bakery, primary school and various other buildings in the main street give an indication of how long a village has been on this spot. Of course the indigenous history in Warrandyte goes back for thousands of years. Not sure when the original locals came across the gold or really whether they thought much of it. Quite odd really the value that some people put on this shiny metal.

A photo a day - day 20 - Wii Indoor Sports Day

 

Wii indoor sports day with a friend.

A photo a day - day 19 - Portrait of Greg

On a day that started with news at 5am that a distraught Jazzy had purchased an airline ticket today to be flying home from France tomorrow, followed by a full day of intense work. Worn out.

A photo a day - day 18 - Pound Bend, wide and slow

Pound Bend was the first place I ever visited in Warrandyte. Lazing in and around the river on a hot summer's day with a group of good friends, while sharing spliffs and strawberry wine. We were all in our early twenties and life was fine. 

A photo a day - day 17 - A portrait of Kimi

 

Kimi, aged 11 years and 9 months. Grade 6. A basketballer, tennis player, bike rider and guitarist. 

A photo a day - day 16 - NaNY Gallery exhibition opening for David Hewitt

 

Tori has created a gallery and a social happening out of nothing more than an idea. Initially looking for a space to hang her own art, it has morphed into the NaNY Gallery at Now and Not Yet cafe, thanks largely to the generosity of Derek and Biff, who run the cafe. The bi-monthly openings now draw a regular crowd, paintings are purchased, wine is drunk and a celebratory social occasion has blossomed. Kudos to Tori for making it all happen.

A photo a day - day 15 - Sainters celebrate 150 year anniversary in style

After complete despondence last year, renewed hope and joy as the Saints bring supreme effort and a recognisable game plan to be undefeated after three games of the new season. The Saints players truly came to the party at the celebration of the clubs 150th anniversary with a fighting win against the Bombers. Sainters!!!

A photo a day - day 14 - 18 Toulon Drive, Lower Templestowe, Victoria 3113

18 Toulon Drive is where I lived for the majority of my teenage years. I turned 18 here. And 21. We had some of the best parties ever in this house, especially when mum and dad were away. There were great days of water cricket and hanging out in the spa with my friends. Countless table tennis matches. Our erratic German Shepherd, Caesar, holding court in a fearsome manner at the side gate. Our cat Mischief playing hide and seek with me in the neighbours' gardens in the wee hours when I'd come home. At those late hours I'd turn the engine of mum's car off at the top of the street and roll silently the rest of the way and into the garage to try and not wake mum and dad. I'd then tiptoe up the stairs hoping that I'd arrived home before dad got up to go to work. Sometimes it was a close thing. Once or twice he was already up and I'd have to have a conversation while trying not to give away that I had spent a large part of the night smoking cannabis and was still under its effects. I moved out and back a couple of times but was out for good in 1990 as a 26 year old.

A photo a day - day 13 - Basketball breakup with my boys

Finn and I coached Kimi's basketball teams in partnership for five seasons in a row. In that time, we turned Kimi from an "I don't like sport" kid into one who now actively engages in a number of sports. Primary goal achieved! Winning a premiership while coaching alongside Finn, with Kimi playing in the team, was one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. Being able to share that with both my boys was a beautiful experience that I will never forget.

Photo taken at the team breakup party at the Cooper's.

A photo a day - day 12 - Queen of the Shire

 

The Queen of the Shire welcomes me home whenever I cross the bridge over the Yarra into North Warrandyte. It feels special to have such a beautiful piece of art in our locale. Sculpted by celebrated artist and local resident Deborah Halpern, the queen provides a link from Warrandyte to the heart of Melbourne where a couple of Deborah's other pieces, Ophelia in Southbank and Angel at Birrarung Mar, sit on the banks further along the river. There's something about Deborah's style that has similarity with Tori's. The use of bold colours, a love of eyes and something slightly surreal. I've always loved her work. And I love that she has created the queen especially for us.

A photo a day - day 11 - Whiskey

I've recently fallen back in love with single malt whiskeys. From the highlands of Scotland to the pure waters of Tasmania, there is much to explore. It depends on the day as to which region is my preferred, but I've been leaning of late to the more local drop. Sometimes there's nothing better that a dram or two of fine amber liquid.

A photo a day - day 10 - Music Toys

 

Whenever I get it together to hang out in this room, where my music toys are, I have a great time. But in the busy life I seem to have, doing who knows what, I spend far less time in here than I'd like. I need to change that.

A photo a day - day 9 - Django

 

Django fulfils the job description of a pet cat far more readily than Ali. He is social, affectionate, playful, feisty, curious and a hunter to boot. Ali made the mistake of bullying him when he was young. As an adult cat who is now much bigger, faster and stronger than her, he occasionally likes to get payback, just for kicks. But mostly he's not bothered with her these days and they sort of coexist in some kind of harmony. He is na beautiful cat. So fluffy.

A photo a day - day 8 - Ali Cat

We picked up Ali from the RSPCA a little while after Pusskana died, around eleven years ago. She was already four years old and had been through who knows what before getting to the shelter. Perhaps her previous owner, who was apparently a little old lady, had died and left her orphaned. Or perhaps she was already shedding everywhere and shitting on the floor, so her previous owner gave her the boot. Lord knows I've wanted to at various stages. She is a highly strung and demanding little thing. Just when my steely heart towards her softens I step barefooted in some fresh, moist cat vomit that once again has me cursing her. I've only ever had pets that I adored before, so she is a new experience for me. Sometimes she brings out my cruel side, which is never good for either of us. Sometimes we get along well. We coexist in the same space. I wish I liked her more.

A photo a day - day 7 - Magpies

When I was a child I hated magpies. This was due to them being the emblem of a despised football team that two out of every three obnoxious kids supported, along with the fact that they regularly swooped me when I was walking around my neighbourhood. I've grown to love them. They are highly social creatures and have the most beautiful warble to welcome the Warrandyte morning. I still hate the football team though. 

A photo a day - day 6 - Tori on the roof

 

Autumn arrived with all its glory today. Pissing down rain and a shit ton of leaves in the guttering, blocking the flow of water and diverting it instead down through the ceiling and into Tori's studio. I planned to get up on the roof and sort it out, but the slipperiness of it all in combination of a phobia of heights caused me to chicken out. Tori to the rescue! She is the brave one amongst us. Spider catcher and roof climber. Up she went in her thongs. And sorted the whole damn mess out.

A photo a day - day 5 - Kookaburra

 

I've always loved kookaburras. Their laugh has been a welcome sound my whole life, even if they wake me up early. When I was a child I was frightened of snakes, and there were plenty to be found round where we lived. I recall one morning seeing a kookaburra sitting in a tree beside our house, with a snake hanging from its mouth. It whacked it periodically against the tree, happy to have caught its breakfast. I was completely in awe. And still am.

A photo a day - day 4 - Stella from next door

 

Stella is the annoying dog who lives next door. Barking incessantly at us as we walk out our front door and up the driveway. Pushing her head through the fence, trying to barge through to get closer. Yet, if you meet her anywhere out of the house, she is a timid little thing who cowers behind her owner's leg. Poor fucked up little unit.

A photo a day - day 3 - The river on a morning walk

 

So lucky to have this place just down the road. A nice six kilometre walk through the forest and along the river today. Some quiet meditation around this spot. Feeling full of joy and love this morning after a three hour video chat last night with Jazz. Felt the glow of love radiating from and all around me. If only I could bottle it and save some for later on.

A photo a day - day 2 - Kimi the giant jellyfish

 Kimi and a group of other kids his age have had five or six sessions learning how to walk on stilts. It has culminated in this appearance of a giant jellyfish in the parade of the Warrandyte Festival. Nervous parenting in the beginning from me as he walked around the kitchen on stilts amid my fears that he would topple over backward and smash his head on a stone benchtop. But, thankfully, it was not to be. Instead, he and his colleagues were all so comfortable on their stilts that the parade marshall had to continually stop them from running ahead and usher them back behind the band. Top performance!

A photo a day - day 1 - Tori painting in her home studio

 

Tori has been extremely busy. Having spent hours organising Bill McAuley's SkySong extravaganza at the Mechanics Institute, she has been straight into helping organise the Warrandyte Festival. This has included a massive rejuggling of events as Saturday's festival program was cancelled due to a fire rating of "extreme" for that day. She has simultaneously been making a jellyfish costume for Kimi to wear while he walks on stilts in the parade and, as shown here, painting some pieces to hang in the NaNY Gallery festival stall. Busy girl.