Mark's Diary

Idea for novel - based on solipsistic fantasy that the narrator is known by everyone in the world.  For example, he might see a celebrity in a cafe - and goes up to him to greet the celebrity.  The celebrity knows him as a friend, even though they've never met before.  Wow.  Perhaps idea for short-story instead.

Meditation on a Sunday afternoon

Blessed decisions I've made

Regretting many of them

But ultimately I honour them

Made out of fear or little hope

I honour their completion, their foundations for my destiny

Such as it is and always will be

Present.

Day 1

I didn't go to church on Sunday, but I knew instinctively what time the church service I had attended for 20 years was about to start.  I no longer attend regularly.  This may have something to do with the 12 years I spent working for the Uniting Church in its Queensland 'head office'.  I was employed as the church’s social issues officer: which meant that I was often squeezed between the outspoken church-based advocates in Sydney and Melbourne and the conservative grassroots congregations in Queensland.  I took any criticism of the church far too personally - which reveals how institutionalised I became during this period from 1988 to 2000.  One thing I did gain from this experience, however, was a clear preview of the social undercurrents which swept Paul Keating out of power in 1996.  The backlash against asylum seekers, same-sex marriage, ‘dark green’ ecology, the United Nations and native title that became evident at various stages between 1997 and 2004 were all enacted in microcosm within the Uniting Church in the late 1980s and early 1990s.  Similarly, the rhetoric of Pauline Hanson’s One Nation Party during the 1998 Queensland and Federal Elections was a chilling echo of that which I had heard in Protestant circles in 1988 and 1989 when Rev (and later Senator) John Woodley, Neville Busch (an historian) and I took on the Toowoomba-based Logos Foundation and its theocratic philosophy of ‘Christian Reconstructionism’.  Two authors saved my sanity at that time – the Lutheran theologian and editor of “The Christian Century”, Martin E. Marty, who has written several books about the differences between evangelical and fundamentalist Christianity in the US; and novelist Douglas Kennedy who wrote a great non-fiction book from his travels through the American Bible Belt called “In God’s Country”.  These are must-reads for understanding North American Christianity’s potential influence on Australian cultural and political life over the coming decade.

Day 2

Getting to work has been difficult for me at the moment.  Perhaps it is an 'end of year' weariness.  My problem is that in recent times I have had this weariness at the start and middle of the year as well.  I try not to label myself as suffering from 'chronic fatigue' for all sorts of social and psychological reasons, but I do experience an alarming lack of energy.  One can't always blame Brisbane's humid climate for feelings of lethargy - although this week we're in the mid to high 30s with 50 to 75% humidity. Mind you, there's nothing lethargic about the City of Brisbane at the moment.  The central business district, where I work, has never buzzed as much as it does now with people, construction work, commerce, Advent shopping and traffic.  We have interesting local politics in Brisbane too, at the moment, with a popularly-elected Liberal Mayor (an urbane engineer) and a Labor-council-appointed Deputy (an artistic altruist).  Consequently, there's plenty of speculation on how to channel the council buses that pour into the city, what to do about the lack of shade or trees or places to sit, as well as how to provide standard services to the increasing number of students, businesspeople and travellers who call the CBD their (more or lesspermanent) home.  My biggest challenge has been how to ride my bicycle to work without getting knocked off, as happened to me on one occasion when a driver opened his car door at the last minute.  My acupuncturist has also suggested that I deal with fatigue by only drinking 2 cups of coffee per day, instead of 3 or 4 - makes a great deal of sense.  With the number of new coffee franchises percolating through the city blocks of Albert and Edward Streets, it's a wonder anyone is sleeping through the night.

Day 3

During my involvement with the Christian Community movement, there was a noticeable tension between and within communities about whether to work for social change through established institutions or not.  There was a tradition of dissenters who believed – and still believe - that Christianity is essentially a utopian anarchist philosophy of building a new self-managed society from ‘within the shell of the old’.  Communities such as the Catholic Worker movement, the Bruderhof, and other groups from the Anabaptist tradition would emphasise the importance of being ‘faithful rather than successful’ in any encounter with power or reform.  I was more influenced by the ecumenical Student Christian Movement which emphasised engaging with political ideas, social movements and the disciplines and structures within institutions such as the university or the church.  I was reminded of this ethical dilemma this week while walking along Boundary Street in West End.  Quite apart from the many posters and street magazines urging one course of action or another, I passed the shopfront of a cafe, no longer there, that was once called the “Brown Pot”.  It was a simple, cheap eatery run by gentle folk who remembered your name as well as your plans for the weekend.  I used to take my friend Edmund Cocksedge there for a weekly meal.  Edmund, who died in the year 2000 two months before his 85^th birthday, was a committed pacifist who had lived in Paraguay for many years with the Bruderhof community.  Edmund had strong beliefs in favour of communal expressions of faith and non-violence.  Indeed, if anyone came to worship and asked “who’s in charge here?” Edmund would look seriously perplexed.  He wouldn’t even attempt to make it easy for the person wanting an answer to such a straight-forward question.  However, while Edmund ‘stuck to his guns’ in nearly every given situation, he was very supportive of people like myself who did try to make a difference working within the institutional church, public service, college or school.  I’m still not sure if he wasn’t right more often than I was prepared to accept at the time.  Someone really should name a street after him.

Day 4

We held our final bookclub for the year on the verandah of a popular Turkish restaurant in West End.  At the end of the year the group rates which book they liked best from the monthly gatherings.  Each person gives 2 points to their favourite book and minus one point to their least favourite book (a short-cut preferential voting system that took hours to devise).  “Due Preparations for the Plague” by Janette Turner Hospital won the two-party preferred vote followed by “The Ladies No.1 Detective Agency”, “Holes” and “Eats Shoots and Leaves”.  The least favourite was “Ghost Stories”, a collection of classic short stories edited by Roald Dahl, followed by “The Da Vinci Code”, a collection of esoteric Gnostic myths edited by Dan Brown’s accountant.  (Actually, I rather liked Dan Brown’s best-ever-seller given my background in ecclesiastical controversy.)  The bookclub has been a great way to discover new authors and define one’s literary tastes.  For example, I’ve appreciated discovering the satirical delights of Jonathan Coe, Magnus Mills and Jerome K. Jerome (his "Three Men in a Boat" is something you could read every Christmas holiday just to kickstart the relaxation process).  When it comes to nominating titles each month, we try to avoid choosing our very favourite books in case they are not sufficiently loved.  For example, I’d never bring my Henning Mankell crime novels to bookclub, nor my Lawrence Block “Burglar” series – these are precious gems that I keep to myself (and you dear online reader).  Recently I discovered a second-hand bookshop in Manly, Sydney, which stocked all of my precious titles.  I felt like the quest for the perfect second-handbookshop was finally over (after the legendary Bent Books in West End, that is).  I soon fell in love with the shop’s carefully crafted ambience – the turntable playing a classical music LP, the book categories spelt out in glued scrabble tiles, the “we loved this book” stickers on emerging writers who won't sell as many books as Dan Brown.  So when the ABC broadcasts the results of “My Favourite Book” this weekend, I hope they also mention the cherished bookshops that have held our special title for all of this time.

Day 5

About four decades ago, Trappist monk and poet Thomas Merton wrote an essay called “Rain and the Rhinoceros” in which he reflected: “The time will come when they will sell you even your rain. At the moment it is still free, and I am in it. I celebrate its gratuity and its meaninglessness. The rain I am in is not like the rain of cities. It fills the woods with an immense and confused sound. It covers the flat roof of the cabin and porch with insistent and controlled rhythms. And I listen, because it reminds me again and again that the whole world runs by rhythms I have not yet learned to recognise, rhythms that are not those of the engineer.” (reprinted from http://www.herondance.org/)  I don't know much about Merton but I read this quote 20 years ago and enjoyed it.  Even more so today because Brisbane has far fewer rainy days than before. When I was playing cricket at High School in the autumn of 1977, I can recall from my interrupted scorecards that it rained heavily every second weekend for 3 months.  Nowadays the only thing that interrupts cricket schedules in Brisbane is the Brisbane Lions AFL team.  Today had promises of rain – but we received barely a sprinkle.  I start to relish rain when it does come: if only to look forward to a more reflective light and mood.  I’ve almost got ‘blue sky blindness’ from the climatic and cultural glare of the Sunshine State.  It is interesting to read Tim Winton’s latest book of short stories, “The Turning”, in which he writes so beautifully of the ‘creamy sunlight’ of Western Australia.  His male characters seem so sun-baked with grief and remorse, running away from emotion just as they flee from their home town where it rains all the time.  On a different cultural note, the latest Bridget Jones movie features a wonderful denouement of precipitation and passion, in which the rain is seen and heard (just as Merton wrote) as a festival.  I’d better sign off now in case I start quoting Eric Olthwaite from Michael Palin’s “Ripping Yarns”.  At least it’s trying to rain now and this, for me on a humid evening in Highgate Hill, is meaningful enough.

Day 6

As you can see from reading my diary, my head is full of thoughts.  While I may desire inner peace, I experience a seemingly endless schedule of restlessness, unfinished thoughts and emotions returning, like migratory birds, from the past into the present.  I also tend to magnify the intensity of other people's energies.  For example, I often interpret assertive behaviour as a form of aggression.  If I try to be assertive, it feels to me like I am summoning aggression.  My psychiatrist thinks that I am trying to break free of an inner dictator - which would explain my frequent if not constant tiredness. 

Day 7

I've never owned a kitten before.  Fitzroy is a Devon Rex with a lovely inquiring gaze.  Occasionally he will bring me food - bits of sausage, cooked chicken, hotdogs - in exchange for all the Whiskers Singles I give him (I wonder if Fitz can obtain corporate sponsorship?).  Plus he brings in lizards; but these are for his benefit not mine.  Right now he's sitting on the ledge watching the comings and goings of Blakeney Street.  There's a fair bit to watch out there - two days ago we had an attempted car-jacking.  Once upon a time this would have meant people trying to change a tyre; but now it has a real-life LA drug crime feel about it (thankfully without the weaponry).

Day 8

I went to my friend Tayeb's place this week.  He, his wife Jillian, and their son Taher, were hosting a gathering of Iranian community members, friends and associates to honour Tayeb's father who died this month at age 81.  Tayeb hadn't seen his father since arriving in Australia in 1989 - and probably a while before that time while he was imprisoned in Teheran for his democratic beliefs.  I had helped Tayeb settle in to Brisbane as an asylum seeker, then refugee, then citizen of West End and Australia.  I remember taking him to the Big Pineapple and Underwater World on the Sunshine Coast to take his mind off memories of imprisonment, torture and the separation from his loved ones.  Surely a massive piece of sculpted fruit and a twist of old sharks imitating creepy-crawley pool cleaners would do the job.  He remembers the visit but also recalls, more fondly, our attempts to communicate with one another without any common language.  Being of similar age, albeit with dramatically different life experiences, probably helped.

Day 9

Fitzroy is going to "Rex Camp" on Boxing Day.  He's meeting up with his Devon Rex sister Nina and half-brother Digby in Toowoomba for a week of kangaroo-fighting, curious gazing and post-Christmas havoc wreaking.  Plus the odd catnap I hope - especially in the 90 minute car ride.  At the moment, Fitz is bringing in small lizards for compulsory hide 'n seek sessions.  He brings in the lizard and puts it under the rug, then sits on the rug waiting for the hapless reptile to emerge.  Escape if you can, the Lord Devon watches you! When they appear he chases and paws them to a state of exhaustion.  I've warned him that being a predator has its downsides.  I don't think he heard me.

Day 10

The previous diary entry was spookily prescient - Fitz was attacked by a dog on Christmas night.  I had to take him to the Vet ER at 3am for an X-Ray and anti-biotics. No permanent damage, thank goodness.  Hopefully permanent lessons learned, however, about dogs and their territories.  Meanwhile in Toowoomba, Fitz's sister Nina was also involved in a catfight.  So Fitz and Nina are comparing stomach wounds on the Range.  More like Rex Hospital than Rex Camp. 

Day 11

Tasmania was mostly relaxing although I felt that, at times, I was trying to re-live a happier holiday from 1997.  If I was, it didn't work.  The new experiences were worthwhile, however: a lavender farm days before harvest, the Esk river, Evandale, the inner rooms of Woolmer's Estate.  Virgin Blue made me earn my discount ticket by insisting I wait in airports for hours at a time as the full-paying customers made their immediate connections.  I watched the Abba special for my New Year's Eve's entertainment which, in light of the Tsunami in South Asia, was probably all the joy that was left in 2004.  I'm finding the Indian coverage of the tragedy an effective way of stepping outside of the Australian frame that inevitably borders our commercial TV coverage.

Day 12

I really do feel quite bewildered when it comes to love and relationships.  It's amazing that I managed to get married at all, let alone twice (once in 1985, again in 1995, not likely in 2005).  Maybe not so amazing, actually, in that I was probably so overwhelmed by the positive feedback each of my (to-be) spouses gave me that I charted a course for marriage early on as a way of avoiding the shipwreck of separation.  This is, naturally, a recipe for divorce.  Now I feel like Robinson Crusoe on a deserted island; the island is a flat in Highgate Hill and, instead of "Friday", I have the company of the 10 month old Devon Rex, Fitzroy.  Rob never had broadband either.  By the way, if anyone wants to send me a message in a bottle - my email is blakeney522(at)bigpond.com

Day 13

I read recently that the week between Christmas and New Year in the city is so good because the tempo slows down to one's preferred pace.  I certainly feel this way.  Even Christmas eve afternoon was deserted in the city - thankfully the shops were still open for me finally to get a look-in.  Sometimes I feel like I have a country town beat inside my capital city rhythm.  Unfortunately, as I've mentioned before, Brisbane seems to be going up a gear into overdrive, so I often feel out of sync.

Day 14

The thing about working in the public service is that it's so bloody boring.  My job involves one program and every day I have to squeeze another drop of 'public service' out of it (and me).  Consequently, I suspect that I've become quite dour - my colleagues give me a wide berth as I have become fiercely obsessed with tasks and deadlines that only I seem to know or care about.  It's almost trench warfare in a futile/World War 1 sense.  Maybe I could think about it as a guerilla conflict in the cubicles.  The brick walls are familiar - forms and templates that are so saturated with demands for information and high-level approvals that they deter anyone from starting to fill it out.  Then there are the customers that don't appreciate what you, the individual public servant, do for them - they only want justice which you, the collective public servant, are apparently denying them.  My goal for 2005 is to take deeper breaths.  So I've enrolled in a yoga class.

Day 15

At the end of the yoga class, I had a pleasant day-dream of all of the world's creatures watching in awe as life ebbed and flowed, through life and death.  It was a wonderful glimpse of 'life as if it really mattered'.  I wonder why I've only had glimpses of this perception of existence?

Day 16

I really enjoyed the novel "Miss Garnet's Angel" by Salley Vickers, which I've just finished.  Vickers is well-versed in the meeting of psychology and religion.

Day 17

I used to identify with Fleegle in the "Banana Splits" TV show as a child.  Maybe because he was the leader, very sensible, and less open to ridicule.

Next entry

I stayed in Melbourne for the weekend a couple of blocks from Fitzroy Gardens.  Staying in Melbourne more frequently removes its illusory luster but reveals its core appeal.