Hieronymous the Anonymous

Retreat of the naysayers

Hieronymous — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 14:36:57 PST

Let's face it,there's an element in every society who are straight out whingers. They're the people who are never happy; or at least not happy unless they have something to complain about. They're a bit like Goldilocks except they never seem to find that thing 'just right'. They piss me off.

There are myriad public examples of this every year. Right now though the big topic of complaint here in Melbourne is the new Myki ticketing system.

Now it's too be admitted that this has had a long and difficult gestation to birth. In theory the current public transport tickets are to be replaced by a Myki card, essentially a smart card you can load up with dough which will then be automatically deducted for each trip you have. It's a system that incorporates trains, trams and busses. In theory it is a very good enhancement to our public transport system.

This is what has to be remembered I think. I've travelled all over the world and experienced many different public transport systems. The best by far is the Octopus system in Hong Kong. Now as it happens our new train and tram partner also runs the trains in Hong Kong, which are brilliantly efficient. It would be nice to anticipate similar efficiency being introduced here, but it has to be admitted that the challenges of a far-flung public transport system are much greater than the relatively compact Hong Kong. Still, I have hopes that we may approach some of that, and in conjunction with the Myki card we will soon have a world leading public transport system. That has to be the goal.

Unfortunately there have been a litany of issues with Myki, which have been compounded by public relations fiascos and incompetent government ministers. Well, shit happens. I don't agree with all the decisions they've made regarding the operation of Myki, and I anticipate some further issues in the months ahead. I prefer to look ahead though. Whatever kinks there are will be ironed out sooner hopefully, rather than later. I like to believe that we have made a positive step forward rather than languish where we were. Regardless, this is here to stay.

Sadly there are many who would rather complain blindly rather than giving something a go. At the first sign of difficulty they throw up their hands and complain bitterly about the government and how things were better before. I need hardly say that's the sort of attitude that blocks progress of any sort: perhaps they would be happier with horse and cart? And it's timely to recall that when the current ticketing system was introduced 15 years ago there were great complaints then too. I guess that's the ugly but unavoidable aspect of progress: there'll always be someone complaining at it.

There will be teething issues, there always are, but we need to persist beyond that. One day we'll clap our hands at the ease of it and wonder how we did without it. Until the next improvement of course.

Dreams of dying?

Hieronymous — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 22:53:47 PST

Image via Wikipedia

I had an interesting dream last night. In it I was in a plane flying somewhere when it was struck by a rocket fired from the ground. It was not enough to crash the plane, but it was good enough to incapacitate it. The pilot could keep it aloft for a few hours more perhaps, but at some point it was going to crash to earth.

As it happens I lived in an age where you can beam from one place to another (which begs the question why I was on a plane, but never mind). Like most on the plane I chose to teleport myself off the doomed aircraft and into the company of family and friends. I might have felt safe there thinking that while the plane might crash I would not be on it - but no. We were gathered together all of us who had beamed off and told for whatever technological or scientific reason that some of us must return to the plane. It was further announced that the cabin crew would be doing just that, but they needed just a few more volunteers to return with them to balance up their requirement.

There was silence in the roof as the news sunk in. I know in myself I felt suddenly as if the safety I had presumed was revealed to be false. This was a death sentence, some of us would die. Overhead somewhere the plane flew on, slowly failing, heading to an inevitable doom. I stood there willing someone else to step forward, but knowing that I would, that I must - it was not for me to remain safe while others died in my stead. With a sigh I stepped forward, this was it. And that was the dream.

I had another dream somehow similar a few nights ago. In that dream we have been abruptly invaded. Enemy troops are in the streets shooting at anyone that moves. There are dead everywhere as they go house to house taking no prisoners.

I am trapped somewhere in their path. I am aware that our troops had fought back and were doing battle not far away, and that safety lay in that direction, yet to get there I had to go unarmed through enemy lines.

It's a scenario in the light of day you might consider rationally without really taking account of the danger and the terror involved. I think myself a resourceful, calm type, in the clear-light of day I would back myself to find a way, killing if I needed to. There is no clear daylight in your dreams though, and sometimes they see more true because of it. My rational mind was not engaged; in my dream I faced the raw, bleak peril of the situation with nothing to comfort me.

At first I was terrified, so terrified that I refused to move. How often have I watched a movie or read a book and have in frustration urged the paralysed protagonist, to move, to, to act? More times than I can count. In the dream though that was me. Faced with the very real possibility of a violent death I could do nothing. I could feel the very real terror of my predicament.

Eventually I moved. With every step I feared discovery. I could hear gun shots still, and expected to come across an enemy soldier at any moment. My greatest fears came when I had to expose myself: when I must cross an open space or veer from the nooks and crannies and the side of the road.

I remember as the dream became muddled how I watched an enemy soldier and considered how I might get by him. I thought of killing him, but how? I considered him dead then, and thought to acquire his gun - but the thought of crossing to him in the wide open and being visible to unseen enemies stopped me. Then I faced another dilemma. As I neared 'our' lines I wandered how I was to cross to them. I did not want to be shot inadvertently by my own people. But if I were to alert them to my coming I risked exposing myself to the enemy.

The dream ended at that point. While the events of the dream were much like any other dream, the raw terror I felt seemed very real. This is how it would really be I thought, for all my bravado, my 'resourcefulness' and 'calm' I would be scared shitless. I guess though that's the only sensible way to be.

Peter's principle and how it works

Hieronymous — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 22:54:54 PST

I was reading an article before on the Peter principle, which basically proposes that employees will be promoted to the level of their incompetence. Essentially the theory is that someone does a great job in a role or on a project and as a reward are promoted. Now logically speaking doing great at one job doesn’t mean they will do great at all jobs, and certainly there is no guarantee that put into a higher role that they’ll continue to excel. There are good reasons for this, but they can be pretty well summarised as being that the skill-set or temperament on show in the lesser role may not be the skill-set or temperament needed in the higher role. In other words people promoted on performance rather than suitability will often flounder/stagnate in the higher role. That’s the Peter Principle in action.

It was timely reading. For reasons unknown I had been considering the trajectory of my career overnight. I reflected that at some point I had leap-frogged a level. I wondered at that, and then figured that the combination of quickly shifting jobs and some ambitious claims had elevated me in advance of the usual program. It’s what I wanted, and I’m happy for it, but it seemed curious. I’ve got away with a lot because I look and sound the part. It may seem trivial, but that’s an important aspect of office life. I’m certain it’s easier to fudge details if you sound authoritative and act confident. You may be no better than the guy in the next office, but if you have the presence he lacks people will trust you more.

Thankfully there’s more to me than that. I’m still managing without the Peter principle being applicable to me. I’ve got the raw smarts that make up for any deficiency in experience or training. In a lot of ways this gives me the freedom to act in ways foreign to those beholden to set ways of doing things. It also gives me a lot of confidence in my own ability, and ability to get things done. That said, I have the benefit of very broad experience that I’m able to intelligently apply – typically taking a bit from each role I have worked in and applying it as is relevant much like a bird constructs a nest from the pieces around them.

By and large these ‘skills’, if that is the word, are normal. I have a certain amount of chutzpah and am more than usually intelligent. Well, tick them off, but the reality is that as you get to the pointier end of the corporate ladder that’s pretty well true of most people in varying degrees (though there are some very dull people, the occasional dunce, and the rare character who is both: a dull dunce). I have an ability less common, that to take in the big picture, to see the connections and links, and to use my imagination creatively in a business context. It is unusual, but it’s been done before. What makes me different I think (besides the odd savant inspiration) is a particular skill I unconsciously apply, and which I’ve only really come to acknowledge in recent times.

I know how to read people. I do it without knowing that I’m doing it. The sensitivity that leads me to write is equally effective in the workplace. I instinctively know what makes people tick and how to work them. It’s what made me a good manager of people: I knew who needed encouragement, who needed room to move, and who needed a kick up the arse to get them going. Everyone is motivated differently, have different needs and varying perspectives. Everyone is unique. It’s something I took for granted, even considered normal, until I began to shake my head at the ignorance people had for things which seemed obvious to me. How could you not see that? Gradually I realised it was something different, and as I began to analyse it I realised that it was just another aspect of the prevailing quality in me: a creative but rationally based sensitivity.

Here I am then, the beneficiary of an unsuspected skill. If you know your way through the tangled path of human need then it becomes a lot easier – which explains perhaps why I managed to jump a level and why the trajectory of my career continues to climb. And perhaps why I come to question it.

What I'm reading

Hieronymous — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 20:37:54 PST

I finished two books late yesterday.

The first was the The Summer Game, by Gideon Haigh. Haigh is the foremost cricket writer in the world today. His journalism is always interesting and incisive, and the series of cricket books he has written widely acclaimed. He is a local Melburnian, but travels the world following the cricket – when he’s not playing for his amateur side, the Vincibles.

This book was about Australian cricket in the period between 1950 and 1970 – which roughly equates to the immediate post-Bradman era to just before the Chappell era, with WSC looming darkly somewhere on the horizon. By and large it’s very much an amateur era, with the players paid a pittance and setting off on long overseas tours on ocean liners. It’s an era of great and resounding highs – the Windies tour of 1961/62 being the exemplar – amid unremarkable and dull lows of defensive cricket and slow scoring. And sprinkled throughout the era were some great players: Miller, Lindwall, Harvey, Hassett, Benaud, Davidson, O’Neill, Lawry, McKenzie, Chappelli and so on.

This book was the very compelling story of all that. I found it fascinating and raced through it. Given his cred in the industry Haigh had great access to past players and they were very candid with him. It was a very different time in our history, I knew that, and I knew the cricket, with some exceptions, was reflective of the quieter, more conservative, less commercial times. Still I managed to be surprised. I was surprised at the bureaucratic shenanigans and incompetence in the background which did very little to advance the game – and which led ultimately to World Series Cricket. I loved reading about the old players, most of which I knew, but some I knew by name only. It was interesting to hear their story and to see it in the context of the times. Just as it was fascinating to hear the background stories, the gripes, the tensions, the pranks, and most of all, the strategies.

There are a lot of heroics in this book, but reading it now it seems quaint. Looking back it was an era sandwiched between two momentous times – the war, and Bradman and his invincible; and the inevitable commercialisation of the game, one day cricket, WSC, coloured clothing, and the elevation of cricketers from struggling amateurs to professionals idolised the world over. No doubt this is why Haigh chose this era to focus on.

The other book was The Hidden, by Tobias Hill. I have to admit some disappointment in this. I was looking forward to reading it because it sounded fascinating: an archaeological dig in Sparta and the tensions/mysteries arising out of that. It was well written, but unsatisfying. A day after finishing it what strikes me is that the motivations where never adequately articulated. What led them to do what they did? How did the leaders enlist the others in the cause? It also seems somewhat prosaic in the end, a bit like listening to a great joke in the telling only for the punchline to fall flat.

The writing is top notch, but somewhat murky. It ‘s the sort of writing that lends itself to a story like this, but I think is also more characteristic of European writing: not murky so much as closed in. I think in general you can hypothesise and suggest that most European writing in general is inward looking, where as writing from the ‘new world’ countries (America, Canada, Australia), looks outward, is more expansive. You can hypothesise further and suggest that is symptomatic of the different cultural and geographic heritage. Europe is crowded with history, much as it is crowded with people. They have centuries of struggle and enquiry behind them, of wars, plagues, of kings, queens, popes, and the general rise and fall. There is much to reason out, at the same time the only real space one finds is inside. There is little sanctuary in the wider world all crammed in together.

This is in complete contrast to the writing of the new world. To start with our countries began. Despite the existence of indigenous peoples, in terms of western culture these were uninhabited lands. They were discovered and settled by a combination of adventurers and refugees and people seeking a new start - and in the case of Oz, built on the back of convict transportation. The concept of our nations is very different, even now. On top of that these settlers found a lot of untamed space, room to explore and to ramble within. It must have been revelatory for those early settlers, and though we have become accustomed by it in the generations since we view a world from the broader perspective an untrammelled sky presents to us. And so we look outwards looking to continually extend the boundaries of our own personal world. Over time that perspective has infused our writing. There’s a lot of blue sky in the writing of the new world.

I digress. Looking back at The Hidden the writing is darker and has a lingering shadow of menace which is perfectly in tune with where the story was presumed to be going. More problematic for me was the lead character. For the story to work he had to be of a particular character, gullible, yearning, confused, aimless. There’s no way a Hemingway character could have played this role, and in fact the protagonist is very much an English, almost archetypal, character.

Mercer is the sort of diffident character that Americans probably find charming, but which Australians just find plain annoying. He frustrated me no end, to the point I had no sympathy for him. He was just a gullible soft-cock walking into trouble – which, I guess, is what he was supposed to be. I just think it might have worked better had he not been such a cliché.

There other book I have started is Primo Levi’s The Periodic Table. Levi is one of the great characters. He was a Jewish-Italian chemist who survived Auschwitz and who came out of it writing lucid prose about it whilst returning to his career as a chemist. He wrote a number of books notable for their intelligence and objective humanity and was widely lauded; then one day he fell, or jumped, from the top of the stair well in his apartment building. This is generally accepted to be suicide.

The Periodic Table is basically a series of essays, stories, memoirs that begin with a description of a chemical element before broadening into a piece thematically sympathetic to the qualities of chemical. I’ve only just begun, but have read other works by him, and find him a very intelligent, highly sympathetic writer. I don’t doubt that he is one of the most important writers of the last century for his work interpreting the experience of the holocaust in a humane but scientifically precise method. His life as a chemist is hardly incidental. It was important work for him, and the scientific approach he learned as a chemist was applied when he wrote of his experiences in Auschwitz.

The inner H

Hieronymous — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 21:30:18 PST

The other thing, and I think this is unfortunate in relation to my friends and family, yet I believe no-one can know me properly without reading what I write in this place. I don't discuss these things with others, rarely does any of this escape onto the outer world, and none of my friends or family read this.

I look forward to that changing one day, but on my terms.

Crash, burn, fly...

Hieronymous — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 21:24:20 PST

Image via Wikipedia

The night before Christmas I woke up at about 5am. I had been dreaming intensely, complex dreams full of intricate detail. Into my dreams a sound had intruded. The sound was incorporated into my dreams in the way of these things, it had swelled and become so insistent that the narrative of my dreams fell away, and I woke. I lay in bed feeling disorientated at first. Then as I slowly found my bearings I realised the sound from my dreams continued now that I was awake. I lay still listening, trying to follow the source of the sound. At first I thought it was coming from next door and I wondered what it could be. Then I realised I was wrong. I continued to listen before getting out of bed. I walked down the hallway towards the sound without turning a light on. I could see clearly with my dark accustomed eyes. Rigby followed at my heels. The sound became louder as I approached. I felt no alarm, though I wondered what it could be. It sounded a little like a smoke alarm, but knew it couldn't be. I poked my head in the loungeroom and the sound diminished. When I turned towards the bathroom it became louder.

Earlier in the day I had bought a new iPhone clock radio and had put the old one in the bathroom. In my fumblings with it I had inadvertently set the alarm to go off at 4.55am. I switched it off and went back to bed.

Awake now I lay in bed and recalled the dream. I slowly put it together again from the fragments I had left in my memory. I recalled a series of women asking me questions about what I wanted to do. The dream shifted into different locations and different scenes, but this remained the constant: a subtle, gentle and genuinely curious probing of my ambitions. I tried to answer and as I did one after the other to the series of questions asked of me I found my answer shifting. It was as if in my first response I had answered conventionally with the expected answer, and the answer I had not bothered to question myself. With the stress of answering and of examining myself again and again it seemed I gradually went beyond the expected to something deeper. What did I really want then? And who does that make me?

The night before the yoga teacher had asked me about the job I was in. In answering I explained to her some of the dilemma I potentially faced. The truth is I am bored and am not sold on the company, yet I am already being sounded out about a permanent role there. That would be a role hard to resist - great money and a senior role at one of the biggest companies in Oz. It would set me up. It felt though I choice between what I wanted to do and what I thought I should.

To my surprise the yoga teacher thought I should continue to go my own way. It's more fun she said, more dynamic. As I sat there I wondered at that. It is a lot of things, and maybe those amongst it - yet her point is well made. I continually think I must establish myself into a life and career. I think I should 'settle'. I feel the need to re-build and to reclaim some of what I have lost. The sensible option then is to accept the gilt edged option when it is presented to me.

That may yet happen, if in fact the opportunity comes, but I think it unwise to commit myself one way or the other yet. As always I remind myself to be true to who I am - and I increasingly believe I am made for certain things and not others. This was the sense of the dream I think, brought on perhaps by the comments of the yoga teacher.

Funnily enough earlier in the day I had come across one of Rilke's more famous poems: Archaic Torso of Apollo.

We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,

gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could 
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark centre where procreation flared.

Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast's fur:

would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.

There in the last sentence of the last line is the kicker. In all my little journeys this is something I find myself returning to. Not that I should be changing my life necessarily, but that I should be taking proper account of it. It is easy to slip into easy ways. I think to myself and the sensual delight I take in life, in what I eat and drink and touch. It is pleasant to eat Haigh's chocolate and to order in fine wine and to sit comfortably in my home watching cable TV in between jaunts to cool bars and top notch restaurants. There is nothing to complain at any of that, but it is lifestyle, not life.

For me again I reiterate that I feel I must scoop out everything inside me. I have to use it, put it out there, know and understand it. I don't think I can settle, I don't think I'm made for the sedate and comfortable lifestyle, and no matter what riches there are within my reach they are good only for a nice flat-screen TV, a cool holiday and the lifestyle I speak of. I can't help but believe that I am built in such a way that I must follow my own erratic course if only because that way truth lies. And perhaps enlightenment.

Is this the choice everyone makes? I tend to think not, for whatever reason. It is true for me though. The story of my life is the story of my wrestling with this decision. For every time I wish to settle down and to lead the conventional life there is a part of me that says ok, but... I want those things, I hope to have them, but I think now it must be within the context of my own journey. I have to go the way my instinct leads, must continue, I think, to crash sometimes because I have tried for too much, have outreached and sometimes outsmarted myself, as I must do...I cannot deny who I am.

So, we'll see how things unfold. Odd to think though that a person who thinks this way can possibly be the serious master of the universe in the corner office.

Farewell Mr D

Hieronymous — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 04:12:45 PST

Last week the father of my oldest friend died from cancer. He was a good age and had lived a full and successful life, but it was still a sad way to go. Like everyone I have known to suffer from this his death was long and drawn out. Cancer is the most malignant of diseases not because it is most deadly, but in the way it kills. I don’t know anyone who has had a quick and easy death from it. Instead it eats at the body from the inside like a corrosive acid. The body wastes away to nothing; even the most robust become frail and helpless. And it robs the patient of dignity, unable to resist and unable in the end to manage for themselves. Each person becomes reliant on friends, family, the doctors and nurses, for the simplest of functions. In my experience death comes as a relief to all.

I had hoped to be at the funeral. I had gone to school with my friend in the brief period I lived up there as an adolescent. After I had left and returned to Melbourne we had remained in contact. In those first years after my return I would visit and stay in his family home in Turramurra. His father was always welcoming and gracious towards me. I remember him as a very kind and gentle man, a little absent minded sometimes but always interested and encouraging towards me. In particular I recall how he would always enquire about my writing, and was heard telling others that I was a talented writer. This was both flattering and a little embarrassing – but it was also lovely to feel his gentle and unwavering faith in me. It’s fair to say that there were times I felt better understood, and better appreciated by him than by my own family. Many times I would share their Friday night meal. Being Jewish it was the day when all the family came together to celebrate the Shabbat. There I would sit feeling very welcomed and part of the family as I broke bread with them, even if a little uncertain about the proper protocols as the gentile at the table.

My memories stretch over 20 years or more. Mr D was a noted sculptor and model-maker with a studio in the back garden of his home in Turramurra. It was a lovely home in a lovely setting. Many a day over the years I have sat there reading the newspaper or a book while classical music poured from the radio. In the early days of he had a yacht he kept up at Pittwater. I went out with him a number of times sailing around the tongues of heavily wooded land. My friend was uninterested in sailing, so often I would go out alone with his father and whatever guests he had. I remember one occasion when I was about 20 years old and full of juice. On board that day was a red haired woman from Somerset. She was pale skinned and lively, but what I recall most vividly was the tufts of brightly coloured pubic hair unashamedly poking out from her bikini bottoms. It excited me no end.

I regret that I have not managed to see Mr D in recent years. He has always asked after me, and I wish I had have taken the time to properly acknowledge him. I guess that’s a not unfamiliar feeling. It’s sometimes only when we lose people from our life that we realise what they meant to us. This is what happens, people die, and whatever the tragedy of it it serves as a prompt of what we have, what we have lost, and what is important.

I’m sorry I didn’t make it to his funeral. I would have liked to be there to pay my respects to him and his family, and to acknowledge what he meant to me. As it happened it was bad timing for me. He died just as I began my new job, and according to Jewish tradition was buried the next day. In the end I guess it doesn’t matter that much. I will remember him as a lovely man, and I’m glad to celebrate him here in these pages. My heart goes out to his family, but I remember him for what he gave to me.

Easy days and sleep-ins

Hieronymous — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 16:34:58 PST

Image by harold.lloyd (won't somebody think of the bokeh?) via Flickr

If Christmas eve is a day that leaves me mainly indifferent then Boxing day is one of my favourite days of the year. Sandwiched in between is Christmas day, which is neither one nor the other for me - which is pretty appropriate really.

For me the period leading up to Christmas can be a frenzy of social activity. More often than not I find myself doing things because I think I should rather than from a real desire to do them. By the time Christmas comes around I am pretty well socially exhausted and generally over it. Boxing day though and everything starts again. You draw a deep breath and relax.

That's certainly my intention. I can recall this period 2 years ago, which lingers in my mind as the near perfect template for post-Christmas perambulations. I did nothing exciting. I hardly saw a soul outside of my occasional ventures to the shops or a local cafe, and that suited me fine. After a hectic few months - I had returned from Morocco a little more than a month before, and was in the middle of my Jennie phase - I wanted nothing more than to live quietly and within myself. Fortunately for me I had a pile of very good books, and amid the occasional break for a cup of tea or coffee, I read my way through them. I think I figured I read somewhere around 900 words in 4 days, a pretty good effort.

The other thing I did was let my mind ramble. Everyone needs me time, but everyone needs it for different things. Like most people I like to get back in touch with my true self, but unlike most that involves me following the labyrinthine path of my own curiosity. In part that was kicked along by my reading material, but the recent events in my life at that time added some extra spice - though my inquiries were never less than objective. It might seem odd, but it is at times like those when I feel myself most fully (which is different to 'most like myself', which generally is the case when I'm travelling).

This year I'm hoping for something similar. I have a bunch of books to read. I hope to do some writing. I'll do a bit of cooking. I may pop down to the MCG tomorrow to catch a bit of the test match; and on Monday I might trundle into town for an hour or so to check out the sales and get some fresh coffee. My ambitions extend no further than that - and that makes me perfectly happy.

Forever nights

Hieronymous — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 04:15:51 PST

Image by Mimi_K via Flickr

Like much of Melbourne I ended up at the beach last night. It was a hot day and a warm night, the second warmest on record for December according to the weather bureau. It was nice to be at the beach.

The yoga teacher had invited me over for dinner and a bottle of bubbles. I had driven over as the sun had headed towards the horizon. It was a good drive, little traffic, the sun roof open, another genius playlist pumping through the car - this one was labelled new wave: Devo and Big Country, The The, Tears for Fears and The Cars, plus many more. Great stuff. I had zipped along, at one with the vehicle as if I was controlling it by mind control, dodging the slow drivers in East St Kilda and avoiding the Elwood drivers who went through roundabouts without a sideways glance.

I was weary after what felt like weeks of socialising; but I was happy to. I knocked on the door with a bottle of sparkling shiraz and was let in.

Elwood is one of my favourite suburbs in Melbourne if only because it is one of the most distinctive. It's nicely situated by the beach and not far from the action of St Kilda, but with a nice villagey feel of its own. What really sets it apart though is its architecture, it's architecture and the trees and the streets whimsically named after poets, Tennyson, Keats and Byron, with Shakespeare and Dickens thrown in for good measure. The architecture is wonderful, great old art deco buildings right out of a thirties pulp novel. They've got style and attitude, and set amongst lush gardens they're just the thing.

The yoga teacher lives in such a building, though one of the less impressive ones. She has a small ground floor unit with an excellent L-shaped courtyard overflowing with an abundance of tropical plants left over from the jurassic age. The wall of the garden faces onto the street and is topped by fancy wrought iron stylings. We sat in that garden, drinking bubbles first, and then sharing a simple but very satisfying meal of lasagne and salad.

As we chatted I watched the goings on in the street. Over the road was an old apartment building, big windows and high ceilings with pretty cornices. The lights went on and off in those revealing the terracotta paintwork inside. The next door neighbours talked loudly, a family, and then all laughed together. Not long after they went down the street individually in their shorts, a towel over their shoulder and on their way to the beach. Then as it darkened further it became still. The yoga teacher went inside and I was left to ponder.

I took in the ambience. It felt good, like summer, a classic day, a classic night, our life, our times. I tried to explain when she got back. It's like in one of those movies I said, or in a book, you know, a balmy night when things happen and everything is so clear and particular as if its been engraved. You can see the night, how the breeze stirs the leaves just gently and the shadow of them shifting ever so slightly against the lit building while the conversation goes on, drinks are shared and glasses clinked and laughter tinkles into the still night watching and then the serious conversation starts and it's as if tomorrow is far away and another place and it's just now, all in these moments and she agreed the yoga teacher, that's what it's like.

Afterwards we went for a walk ourselves towards the beach. She gave me a stubby of beer to drink as we walked along. I feel very blokey now I said. Is it legal she asked. Who knows these days I answered.

It was cooler on the beach with the breeze soft coming in off the water and in the distance around the curve of the bay the city twinkling in the night. We walked along with her dog Kelpie on a lead. There were others with their dogs walking and others just walking. Here and there couples ate fish and chips sitting on the low bluestone wall facing out to see, and in the water people stood cooling off.

After a while we walked out onto the sand in a secluded spot. The yoga teacher found a piece of driftwood and threw it into the sea for Kelpie to fetch, and repeated that a dozen times or more. I slipped off my havaianas and walked into the water up to my knees. It was cool, and on the ground smooth, large pebbles. Then we sat together on the sand and talked about her plans.

Later we walked back. I felt good. My back felt fine and I was striding out so that she had to hurry to keep up with me. That felt good too. As we walked and discussed different things I remembered how everyone we passed had their own issues and hopes and things they have to deal with and throughout the country and the whole world thousands, millions more are just the same like I am and like the yoga teacher is, and occasionally and randomly we come into contact changing ever so slightly what the issues are and how we respond to them and that is the world.

I went home. It was late. She had given me a gift of shortbread and biscotti she had made and kissed me on the cheek by the car. I drove feeling content. The roads were emptier than before and my music played and I thought things through. I idly wondered if human consciousness had changed since cars came along. How many people drive along feeling all mellow while they figure things out. It's almost like you the driving sometimes to do the thinking. I do anyway, and I enjoy it. How did we manage before?

The cool air flowed in and before you knew it I was home, simple as that.

Christmas eve: what is it good for?

Hieronymous — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 21:16:16 PST

Even after all these years I don’t know what to make of Christmas Eve.

I don’t mind being at work on the day. There’s a festive air and while you work hard for a bit there comes a time when you lay down tools to enjoy the occasion. Some places I’ve been we’ve popped a bottle or two of bubbles, and almost invariably have a Kris Kringle involving a lot of laughter. We always knock off early. All in all it feels like a different, special day.

Outside it is all a frenzy as last minute shoppers scour the department stores for the gifts they’ve left too late. Christmas carols play as muzak, Santa’s are to be found all over town, and more than one person is walking around with a set of reindeer ears or red Santa’s hat on their head. It’s all happening but it’s not a bad vibe. Then, sometime in the afternoon it begins to tail off, the shoppers with their newly purchased and wrapped presents head home leaving only the diehards and truly disorganised to wander the increasingly deserted streets of the city.

This is the bit that I don’t like. At the risk of sounding a bit like Scrooge I find the evening of Christmas Eve boring verging on the depressing. I understand how many people want to spend it with their family, though it’s an urge I’ve never experienced. I do, but in the vacuum it creates is a kind of dead world where those of us more inclined to party find ourselves floundering. Left without options you flick on the TV to take in the viewing options: a variety of Christmas related films and the inevitable carols by candlelight.

Now carols by candlelight are a Melbourne institution. They’re always a very big deal at the Myer Music Bowl, a great venue, and generally the performers are pretty good to childish. It’s not my thing though. I find it hard to be critical, but the fact is that nothing is more certain of making me miserable than watching them. It’s strange because my Dad, a tough old boot if ever there was one, swears by them and wouldn’t miss them. For him it’s part of his Christmas tradition. For me avoiding them is a big part of my Christmas tradition.

I'm half inclined to venture into town and start the seasons celebrations with a backpacker or two, but chances are instead I'll be home with Rigby, just the two of us. Maybe we’ll watch a slasher movie together.

Speaking of festive airs, this place where I’m working right now really gets into it. You have to admit that they’re a pretty generous and warm-hearted joint. A few days after I began everyone in the organisation got a beach themed hamper, worth a couple of hundred dollars I would tip – including me. In my time here they’ve had several themed presentations and get-togethers, and as I write this the kids of the people working here are in the cafe enjoying party pies, fruit and the entertainment provided by a few lissom Santa helpers in red outfits singing along to the brightly garish Christmas songs. And as I write Santa has just arrived to great acclaim. I’m not sure if that’s a job I’d fancy – I’d be frazzled in no time – but it’s great to see a corporation take the time to give something back to their staff and their families.