Is a Wednesday eve. Have been participating in grandson, Mendoza’s, matriculation from school.
He has been going to school here for 6 years.
It’s all done now.
Now I sit in an aged bar, Toowoomba is an old-ish regional centre. A lot of nice old stone buildings with high ceilings and dark wood paneling.
The family has been busy enjoying Mendoza’s success.
Tonight Grace and Don are off to the formal. Space is limited I don’t get to go.
So I’m on my own… I Sit in this bar and wait for a burger while sipping a cider. Old dance music plays in the back ground. The place is kinda busy.
I guess I am lucky to be young enough while being old enough to enjoy my grandson’s graduating. Speaking from experience, there are no guarantees your kid will make it through all 12 years.
I see it as a rite of passage, a societal accolade, a certified success. A pass.
And it’s good.
I’m pleased Mendoza’s dad and family could come. The little girls are so impressed.
So I’ve just about had enough of this place. And I’m still waiting for my burger.
Some folks get it. Some do not… 11.11.11, I shan’t explain it, here.
Lest We Forget
But I am compelled to comment on the political scene that USofA is.
For decades the goings-on of the US political scene have entertained, maddened, confused and frustrated many an observer. As “A Stranger In A Strange Land” kinda guy, I have always been on the outside looking in. I was germinated and propagated in the US, then allowed to grow and mature in a non-US-political environment.
For the casual observer such may not be of huge import. But from a practical point of view it’s huge. Being on the outside looking in. Offers the observer a certain amount of clarity not found from within.
I have had the fortunate misfortune of spending the majority of my days in some form of Parliamentary system. Noting well that the system in the Solomons is not the system in Australia, etc, etc. Coming from the US it was quite a task to logically come to terms with the differences. To figure it out for my own mental calculations.
And, of course, there is nothing like the USofA. It is an honest aberration. Almost an accident.
I shan’t go into the various differences within the three systems I am a card carrying member to. It’d take way too long. And my day beckons. I have things to do. But as I drink my coffee, as I prepare for my list of “things to do”, I’ll comment a little bit on the recent Mid-term elections in ethnic USA…
As we have seen in recent years, the US is basically divided into two equal and very much opposed visions for the future. The recent elections are often called by the smallest margins. It’s common to see neither mainstream candidate receive over 50% of the ballots cast. It’s often a case of “too close to call”. When this happens it boils down to the State-wide “machine in power” to start the shenanigans. Right or left, red, blue, green, yellow… all political machines have a dirty-play-book.
I mentioned above “ballots cast”. Not VOTES, not votes, but Ballots. It’s not about casting your vote and filling in your legal ballot. Not at all… it’s about counting ballots. Its about fishing for ballots, harvesting ballots, manipulating ballots… Who has the most ballots at the end of the counting is where it is at.
Each and every self respecting Political-Manager has a box stuffed with ballots ready to go. Just in case. My guy is losing, and, what! Wait a Minute! A box of mail in ballots just got found in that toilet. No matter they aren’t signed or dated or that the info is incorrect or that an actual voter is 122 and died in 1976, nope, we must by law count all the ballots cast. Legal ones and illegal ones too.
So, after the dust settles, we end up in a 50/50 power share position. And if the 50/50 wielding power do not get their shit together and start looking for a common path forward, we’ll remain in a self made purgatory.
Of course our ol buddy The Donald sure as shit didn’t help much. It would appear that the players he held close lost big. It would appear as though associating with The Donald may not be good for your political future.
????
I also like the idea that some players spent tens of millions, while other only spent millions.
Sure appears to be an expensive game.
Me? I’ll stick to puppies and children. A lot more honesty therein., noting well puppies and children are notorious liars.
It is with tears in my eyes I write this obituary…
Kenny The Wadd, Doo-check, Holmes…
The above pict is early 1981 on Guadalcanal.
I met Ken in November 1980. We were both to-be Peace Corps Volunteers, went to an orientation on the East Coast. It was a Cape Cod kids meets the Iowa farm boy situation. We became friends quickly.
We spent the next 3years 81, 82, 83 being PCVs together. Most of that time we lived near each either other on the Island Of Choiseul. I was teaching at Choiseul Bay PSS, Ken was a Business Advisor based on Taro Island. By the end of ’82 we both had Choiseul ladies to spend time with. By the end of ’83 we both had Choiseulini baby girls.
Of course, times change and Ken left the Solomons (the first time) in 84. Traveled, grew, changed, came back a few times, traveled more… somewhere in there, was it the late 80s, Ken sorted the paper work out so his daughter, Roycie, could move to the US and live with her dad.
Ken was one of those PCVs that never stoped coming back. Of course, Roycie visiting her mother was important, and we all know how addictive, or maybe infectious the Solos can be. So, suffice it to say, Ive never been out of touch with Ken. My family and his are forever bound. Our daughters are the closest peers Ive ever met. PCV daddies + Choiseul mommies. A rare breed indeed.
Some where along the journey Ken got lucky and married Jennifer. Roycie struck it lucky and got the best Mom the world could conjure.
For too long she’d been the only child of a single father. A good father indeed, but we all know Moms are soooo good. Everyone should have at least one.
Just last week, I commented on one of Ken’s FB posts:
Bro, Just looking at your picts and the positive vibes I feel round, but feel I must comment, with huge respect… you look like shit. Damn, they beat you up good. How much weight did you lose? Was it the illness or the cure that has beaten you up the most?
Im old and sore and slow, and I know I look like shit too, but Im still 100kgs. not that its good but its better than 60kgs.
You could wrestle at fly weight by the looks of it.
I shan’t apologise for the irreverence due to longer term super-friend pass. But I do smile when I see the islander in your grandson, Luka(?), and the glow of familial joy that I find in each pict.
God, our Solomon babies produce such gorgeous kids! Damn!
So what is your known or predicted trajectory? Have the medicos got that hooks in you? You going to be able to run wild and howl on the hill tops, again? You do indeed know I am always and all ways standing by, somewhere on the planet, available to help, talk, assist, go get wild, get in a fight (a small one please) or generally be young, together again.
big smiles, old friend
This was four-days ago.
Guess I know what Ken’s trajectory is.
So, all my energy to Jennifer and Roycie and her family. You both know where I am. Holler when I can do or help with anything.
Saturday here. Been raining. The place was starting to drying out, the 60mm/ 2.5inches has made things muddy again. But that is ok. I can’t get much done anyway so it might as well rain…
I turned my ankle the other day. Was coming down off the tractor, out in a paddock, stepped down from the machine and my foot hit a tyre rut. My ankle turned and I saw stars. A 5-7day recovery. Add a couple days for olfarts….so have been hobbling around. This will take way too long to mend. It’ll be sore and weak and at risk. I’ll need to be very careful.
The trick is to not re-injure.
So I sit quiet. Do the minimal of what I must do. Sit and read and catch up on the “world as we know it”…
And I find this:
I know its suppose to be funny. I find it rather sad because there is a lot of truth in it all.
Remember this…
And this…
Sure don’t look like the “Summer of Love” I remember.
I am wondering if the values and mores of society are changing so drastically, that some of the most basic things known, proven, factual are being reversed? Point in case…
Is female the same as male? Hubbard competed as a man, now competes as a female. Is he a female? Should he be allowed to compete against “biological” females? What does it mean to be male or female? What about The Female Athlete that he took a spot from. I bet she was disappointed. Whilst we applaud Hubbard we fail to think of the damage done to others. Its strange that we fail to admit….
Even the terms male and female, man and woman are not interchangeable. What it means to be male or female originates from physical characteristics derived from sex chromosomes and genes that lead to certain gonads, internal and external genitalia, and physiological hormones.
Modern group think does not approve of us saying a Man is not a Woman. And a Woman is not a Man.
In the 1990s I coached the Solomon Islands Olympic Team. I had a dream of participating in “The Olympics” in Sydney. We worked hard, dominated a couple weight classes in the Oceanic Olympic scene. But did not qualify for The Olympics. Very disappointing.
I feel for the young gal that has been training for years to get to The Olympics. Only to have her ticket taken by a guy. Oopps, A guy claiming to be a gal.
So, I am wondering if the values and mores of society are changing so drastically that some of the most basic things known, proven, factual are being reversed.
Gracie and I recently became Australian Citizens…
Its official
Now, it may sound corny, but I feel pretty damn good about gaining my Aussie ticket. Its a hot ticket to have. This is a good country. Noting well that I have, to-date, acquired three legit and operational passports: USA by birth. Solomon Islands by choice. Australia by very good fortune.
If you do not value your citizenship, your Nationality, then I believe there is something very wrong with you.
Another sad trend that is occurring: It has become fashionable to damn one’s homeland. I am confused by the words I hear that disparage and belittle the land of one’s birth.
Being patriotic is positive. Being Nationalistic does not make you evil, racist, dumb, stupid, pathetic or deplorable. Being both patriotic and nationalistic is positive. To be a proud American, or Solomon Islander, or Australian is good. Even great.
To teach your children to be patriotic is positive. To show pride in your homeland, your life, your family, your world… well DAMN! Did I say “DAMN!” loud enough… Its very very sad if you cannot be proud of your Homeland. Your life. Your family. Your self.
It has sadly become fashionable, in the USA (and elsewhere), to not be proud of your homeland. And to verbally proclaim such. Its been coming for quite some time. I think this slipped by most people but… in 2008 I was shocked when I heard Michelle Obama say she had never been Proud to be an American… https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LYY73RO_egw
I am and shall always and all ways remain proud of my USofA Nationality. I grew up in the USA. Was educated, trained, conditioned, taught within the USofA system to be proud, patriotic. My father and uncles were all vets. My brothers, my peers all served in uniform. We were proud of them. I said the Pledge of Allegiance daily in my school life. And we said prayers a couple times a day too. I was a Boy Scout and proud of it. I found my home in Solomon Islands when I was still quite young… landed on Guadalcanal the 11th of January, 1981. I was 23yrs, 4 months and 20days old. I built my life and matured in the Solos. And, all of us that have been infected by the Solos know, its as bad as heroin. The Solomons is a very easy place to fall in love with. And I am very proud of my Solomon Island Nationality. And now I boast Aussie citizenship. Man, what a stroke of luck! How can anyone not be Proud of their Aussie Nationality?
So, with my track record as a serial emigrant, I wonder what the folks that have so much to say on the matter know? What is their experience with emigration?
Twice I have emigrated. Each time I followed the rules, legally and transparently and honourably, obtained the rights and privileges of a citizen. Each time there was a not-so-insignificant cost associated.
When I see the burning of flags in Tehran I am not surprised. When I see the burning of flags in New York I am confused.
Did I say I am quite confused by it all…
The speeches we hear, in the USA and in other countries, touch less on tangible daily items of importance, and more on ethereal “ifs” and “maybes”… If the temps rise 2c we all die. If the seas rise 2mm we all drown. If the sky falls Chicken Little shall be crushed.
And… If we spend trillions and trillions, subsidise elite ideals and peruse confused pathways we shall survive. If we don’t change our ways NOW we shall all die. If we don’t admit we are sinners we shall curse the future of all.
If “HE” get reelected all hope is lost.
As near as I can tell, facts are no longer facts…
and I really dig the ol Skool, dark n sinister themes underlying here…
Sunday 21st of the 8th month. Time sure do fly when you are having fun.
BloodSports always make a Sunday good. Means I dont have to do much. Have a great excuse to sit and be entertained. I really like Blood Sport Sundays
As I age I view the world differently. Which is only natural. From the youthful idealist to the pragmatic ol fart, in 50 years. Age is a factor.
I have recently been talking to a friend from the past, a guy I met in 5th grade. Maybe 10yrs of age, children thrust together in a classroom in a small school, in a small town, in a small world. We were both outcasts of a sort. We were both readers in a place where books were not cool. Neither of us fought to be jocks. As our peers competed for being “starters” on the scholastic teams… track and field, baseball, football, basketball, wrestling… we read, shared books, took karate, he was a musician and I a poet, we wrote songs together. And branded ourselves as outcasts. We did not fit in.
Not in that small-town, short visioned parochial world we shared.
We both left that world while still young. While our peers married their sweet hearts and got jobs at John Deere. As they all became their parents, we both moved on, moved away.
We reconnected a few years back on social media. One of those messages… “are you Mike from Independence?”… and we reconnect. Which is very good.
A sense of personal history is important. I contend that 99% of all folks are trying to be either MORE or LESS than they really are.
Knowing your past, recognising your history, being honest with one’s self lends hugely to knowing yourself.
Honesty is very important. Essential.
As I age I see more and more how people live in self made and managed fallacies. Its is often too painful, too difficult, too dangerous to be too honest with one’s self.
Our modern media filled world is full of such dishonesty.
I have discussed the need I feel to remember. To honestly remember the past, my past.
Again, honestly is very important/ essential.
We know there are society lies that we all (almost all) support. Small lies like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. Large lies like the”carbon scare”, “climate change”, the anthropomorphic nature of global warming, and the idea that we can buy our way out from disaster that is filled with “Ifs” and “Maybes”.
My favourite lie of this past week or so is the “Mar A Lago Scandal”.
It is what it is… the blatant weaponisation of the Federal System to persecute an Enemy.
Remember? Orange Man Bad? Orange Man Bad. Orange Man Bad.
I see a funny/ interesting/ disturbing trend… From the 60s, The AntiWar movement, The Peace Movement, The Summer of Love, MLK and the march on DC, “kill them with love”, Bobby Kennedy and his inspiring message of “a better world”, “…all we need is love…”, “The Age of Aquarius”… young Democrats standing up for free speech and equal rights…
Now the same 60s era protesters (of which I am one) vote for Bernie Saunders and his Communist agenda. Refuse to shake the foundations of their status quo lifestyles. Invest in more of the same. Wars, famine, pestilence, disease, infant mortality: All man made, part of the design.
My 60s era peers have now become Elites.
Those of my peer group who have remained thinkers, readers, researchers, seekers know that the entire scenario has been predicted, planned and prepared. I can no longer see any difference between the main-stay political parties… the war mongering, deepstate, men in black republicans are now, and always were chameleons. They come in both flavours, both colours.
I have been ruminating on the concept of “de-civilisation”. The backwards movements of modern society, the degeneration of norms, standards, mores.
I have been doing my usual reading-up on the topic. Researching and trolling the www for discussion on this topic. Of course no one has yet started calling the “homelessness” plague “De-Civilisation”. Not yet.
As I look at the photos in these articles I am struck by the similarities I see/ have seen in “developing countries”…
I have spent the majority of my life living as, I call it, a LDC Junkie… LDC = least developed country. I lived through the 80s as a barefoot, ragged-arsed, off the grid, “aid-worker”. I lived so far off the beaten track that very, very few folks ever got as remote as “Susuka”.
In the big scheme of things… Susuka is a long way off the beaten track
Susuka is my wife, Gracie’s, home village. Her people have been living, surviving, existing on the north coast of Choiseul, for a long, long time. On the island of Choiseul there are no roads. None, anywhere. Other than logging operations where the tropical rain forests are raped, pillaged, and plundered, there is no vehicular transport of any kind. Not even bicycles.
There are very few areas, villages, towns that have running water. Folks live off their rain catchment. And use ground water where and when possible.
There is no “power grid”. Of course there are some private generators providing power for modern necessities like video and cell phone charging, but most devices are battery powered. Most folks have a small radio to “stay in touch” with the world. A small solar panel charging a standard car battery is not uncommon.
There is no rubbish collection, no council by-laws, no speed limits, no stop lights or speed traps or any other symbols or symptoms of modern civilised society. But I dont think there are many folks on Choiseul who would be “homeless”.
If the Solomon Islands is a LDC, then Susuka is a least developed area in a least developed country. With zero homelessness
A few years ago, 2018 I was in LA. Passing through, visiting the US and preparing to ride my motorcycle a bit. For a number of years I had a small apartment in Pasadena. I kept a nice Triumph motorcycle in the underground garage…
On the road USA
I know a guy in LA that does airport pickups/ drop offs. We met by chance and for years I always would call Lamont up, have him meet me at the airport, take me to Pasadena, talk about the city and the state of the Nation. Always a useful intro to the US, a long chat with BigL, as we drove through LA traffic. One of the things BigL talked about then, in 2018, my last trip to the US, was the increase in homeless folks on the streets.
I saw it in Pasadena, a supposedly “up market” area… more people setting up shop on Colorado Blvd. Sorta like the days before the Rose Bowl parade, but in June… small areas of the wide sidewalks along Colorado Blvd marked off, claimed, secured by physical barriers: a bit of card-board laid on the ground, a blanket or a rug, a packing crate turned on its side, an umbrella propped sideways to give shade…
Pasadena was a nice neighbourhood, rather affluent, up-market in many ways… I walked around a lot when I was there, as I prepared for a road trip on my bike, or as I shut down things after a couple weeks of riding, Id walk the city blocks north and south of Colorado Blvd… The closer I got to the freeway(s) the more homeless Id see… I surmised that the homeless used the large undercover places – stairwells, underpasses, train and bus stations as shelter. These folks would come out during daylight hours and practise the ancient art of Pan-handling.
“Panhandling” is the practice of imploring others to grant a favor, often a gift of money, with little or no expectation of reciprocation. A person doing such is called a beggar or panhandler. Beggars may operate in public places such as transport routes, urban parks, and markets. Besides money, they may also ask for food, drinks, cigarettes or other small items.”
If I hung around Pasadena enough I would get to know some of the Panhandlers… one I recall had a dog, Id stop and say g’day, pet the dog. The owner was a young woman. Her sign said she was trying to return “home”, to the Midwest. Id ask how things were going, make a small donation, never much, never enough to cause trouble…
My elder brother has a past of being homeless, living rough, panhandling, living on the fringe. A combination of substance abuse and situations led him to being “on the streets” for a number of years. As with a lot of folks trapped n the world of substance abuse, he’d come good, get cleaned up, accept help, get off the streets, only to return at a later date. He has told me that “giving too much”, offering too much help, money, time could be harmful for all involved. So I developed a habit of saying hello, exchanging pleasantries, offering a handful of change. A couple dollars…
In the Solomons I had developed the habit to always have some “small change” in a seperate pocket, away from my main cash reserve. If someone asked for a handout, for “help” I could pull out of one pocket just enough to remain polite but not get caught up. A few dollars at most, but enough to help. Not enough to hurt.
I think there is a huge difference between helping and enabling. I know that people who are living on the streets, who are living homeless are not there by great and glorious planning and design. They are where they are through mishap, misunderstanding, and mistake.
A large percentage of those living in a homeless manner are where they are by mistake. Bad luck, even… but there is always, I believe, a modicum of choice is involved.
Unlike those in developing countries where life carries on in a sad, minimal level due to the environment and circumstances of their world, The Developed World decay comes from a lack of making good choices. In the lap of excess and comfort. Running water, power,education, employment opportunities abound in the modern world, just inside the doors where the homeless now reside…
So why the de-civilisation? Why the retro-grade movement?
I see more and more similarities between the streets of the US, the streets of LA, and the streets of Manila.
I am confounded when coming to try to explain this phenomenon.
I’ll read and think about it more. Write more… later
Just having a conversation with my neighbour about the deer. There are a lot of folks out there that would love to come and shoot one. I am told they are very good eating. Some hunters think that the killing of feral deer is a good thing. The deer do carry ticks and parasites, in season, and they can cause problems if you’re getting deer (and kangaroos) in your paddocks with your cattle.
But I do not have cattle any more. I am not concerned about the tick season/ situation. And I find the deer to be a pleasing visual.
But I am not open to letting folks come shoot here.
Biggest issue is that hunters want to come, kill, bleed and gut the animal, and go away. Take the best parts. Leaving the offal.
This of course attracts other unwanted feral critters. Namely wild dogs.
Though I do not have a problem with wild dogs… I have two big Maremma Guard dogs that keep all intruders away… But wild dogs are a problem in this area. I do not want to attract them.
One guy I know, Mitch, is a keen hunter. Goes out west and shoots a fair bit. Mainly killing feral pigs and kangaroos that are considered vermin/ pests. They shoot and simply leave the carcass. Not shooting for meat. Just shooting to shoot, and kill.
Now my buddy Mitch has a property to the west of here. He has deer as well. And does not shoot them. For the same reason I dont shoot or allow shooting. But I know he, and others, would love to come shoot the deer here. Funny how that works.
This past week has been rather interesting, in a news/ politics sorta way…
In George Orwell’s “Homage to Catalonia”, https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/9646.Homage_to_Catalonia , he wrote of life in the trenches of the Spanish Civil War. One story tells of the famous American, Ernest Hemingway, showing up and, as a reporter, touring the front lines. He recounts how Hemingway got to fire a couple rounds from an artillery piece. Firing across the “Front” into the Fascist Spanish lines. And how, after Hemingway left, returned to his hotel and typewriter in Barcelona, the fascists hammered the hell out of the “rebels” in retaliation.
So we have Speaker, Pelosi, doing a trip to Taiwan. She did such against the advice of the Foreign Office, and under strict warning from the Chinese.
So she goes and scores some huge personal political points. Has huge exposure. Heaps of press… and then she flies home, a self proclaimed hero.
Today the Chinese have emabargo’d Taiwan. Shut it off from the world. Are staging “war games” within the 200KM economic zone.
Taiwan will take a bit of a whooping for The Pelosi trip.
I know Taiwan pretty well. Have done numerous trips, done a lot of business, made lots of good friends in Taiwan. I know the Taiwanese to be tough, tough folks. I know they will resist the Chinese aim of formal acquisition of Taiwan. I know China is making a huge effort to fulfil their goal of unification.
Why did Pelosi go to Taiwan? To show solidarity with Taiwan, to support their democratic aims, to make a statement? To gain press?
If she wanted to “do something” positive, perhaps she should have vocally said more that was positive. As it is she simply said she supports “the status quo”. Which I fear is not terribly meaningful.
The status quo is not very positive.
Why not pursue a “Two China” agenda? Like the Two Korea situation.
I think of a couple old friends of mine that are going through health issues… TWD, battling cancer, letting the medicos cut and operate and remove, so he can survive. DokCF, undergoing chemo for a lymphoma. DokRW, living with Alzheimers, still so young, but bereft of memories. I send positive and healing vibes their way.
An overcast, chilled, blanket wrapped morning here in my little valley. The deer are in the paddocks, the dogs are curled up in warm, furry balls. Temps today are 8c/45f – 20c/ 65f. Not much sun out.
A very good UFC card on in a bit. Blood Sports Sundays are my favourite. Ask me why I like the violence and aggression… and I won’t be able to answer. Ive been involved in martial arts all my life. I firmly feel violence and aggression is something one must learn, understand, and consider a factor of life. I have taught my children and grandchildren about violence. That the world is not a safe, soft, comfortable place. That you must walk through life prepared for violence.
Not to say being a bully, or a thug or a gangster is good or correct, but that life is predatory, and I shall not be nor shall I raise my offspring to be prey of any kind.
UFC offers a positive catharsis of martial arts, all styles, all disciplines, all practices in one place.
There is an old, old – age old – argument of “who is better”… the boxer, the kickboxer, the rassler, the grappler, the submission artist, the high flying acrobat…. And the answer is very simple… a combination of all is what it takes to beat all…
I grew up in Iowa. The land of Wrestling. Iowa is recognised as a land of elite wrestling.
The Gracie family took jujitsu and gave it a Brazilian twist. The Thai-fighting styles have been rehashed and refined and defined by many real and not so real fighters… I think of JCVanDam, and my ol buddy Steve Segal. Both trained martial artists, but neither ever “real fighters”.
As UFC has grown, developed, matured we have seen the advent of, the growth of high-tone, intensive training centres. I Think of Jackson-WinkleJohn in Albuquerque. Or City KickBoxing in Auckland. I see the scene changing, developing. The fighters are getting very much better. They have to. Competition is fierce.
There are many specialist training venues where the elite trainers and coaches make a decent living out of professionally training professional cage-fighters. People will always pay for blood-sports.
I think back to wrestling and what I call “The Grind”.
Through the 1990s I coached the Solomon Islands Olympic Wrestling team. I took very athletic island kids (guys and gals) and taught them the basics of Olympic wrestling. Both Greco and Freestyle. My favourite training session was “the pain game”.
Wrestlers learn at a young age to grind, to push, to keep going. You can see it in a fighter who has a wrestling background. They are wrestlers (rasslers) first and fighters second.
We won medals. Brought a lot of recognition to the team, the Solomons.
In the Pacific Olympic venue we were know to have an “Iowa” advantage.
So, as I wait for the fights to start, I shall ruminate, write from a stream of unconsciousness point of view…
I think the world is hobbled, injured, walking into the future like there is a stone underfoot.
The modern “Go-Green” foolishness has everyone paying more, moving less, concerned about the future. As quite adequate energy systems are being shut down to appease the elites of the planet, school aged children are taught about transgender rights, the soon to come end-days, and being prepped for a rather grim future. Where the designs of the few dictate the future of the masses.
We are in a world where we applaud the invention of gas/ methane collectors for cows, tell everyone to buy electric cars, as the elites of the world take their friends for joy-rides into outer space.
I live, proudly, in Australia. Its a great place. I worked hard and towed the line for more than a decade before I was granted citizenship. As a serial emigrant I thoroughly understand the need/ desire to relocate, to emigrate, by choice and forethought. I thoroughly understand and respect the rights of each nation to control who comes and when they come. Nationality is a valuable thing. More valuable in some places than others.
I fear that citizenship in the USA is being devalued.
I left the USA in early 1980s, January 11, 1981, to be exact.
I had by that time decided I needed to look a far from the USA, see what was out there… its is a big world. Many things about the USA have rubbed me wrong, since my youth, and I was destined to emigrate.
For me, the idea of emigration was not new. All sides of my lineage were emigrants. The German side, the Irish-English side, the Greek side… we know their stories. They taught us about the plights and perils and joys and successes of emigration.
I found the Solomons Island. I got real, real lucky. For 30 years I lived, enjoyed, and prospered in what I still think is the most beautiful and liveable place on earth.
But as I aged I found I needed to rethink my life, to consider finding a place that could cater to my needs as I aged. That could offer me the medical care and attention all old, ageing, decrepit dudes need.
So I came to Australia. It’s close to the Solomons, has about the best healthcare on the planet, and the climate is good.
One can understand why Australia is so tough on its immigration. I understand.
So, as I sit wrapped in a granny blanket, finishing off my coffee, waiting for the blood to flow…
I look toward the USA… where the Orange Man was bad. Where, by hook or by crook, he had to be deposed. anyone would be better than bad Orange Man…
So we let the kiddies loose in the candy shop. Old Uncle Joe cant keep up, has no intention of even being on the job. Like an elderly Pope, he is wheeled around and made a fool of by all. His acolytes are doing a quick-grab, stuffing their (and their cronies’) pockets full from the public coffers. The longer they are in power the worse the lunacy.
I love the idea that we can redefine failure into success… Recession becomes a good thing. Printing of billions in new currency is not feeding inflation, its stimulation for the economy. Millions of illegal immigrants are positive, they shall alleviate the employment crunch. Its all a silver lining sorta thing, as is the turd covered streets of SanFran and other “sanctuary” cities.
Defunding the police is a great idea, and not incarcerating law-breakers is a way to keep the justice system under control. Keeping the prison population in check. And if you claim to identify as a woman, they move you from a male facility, where you’re being raped daily, to a female facility, where its your turn to do the raping.
Sure, all makes sense to me.
I fear a nefarious plan, a very negative future being designed by those who think they “know best”.
And the beat goes on.
The fights shall start soon.
Some picts from the past weeks, to end on a positive note…
NiaIn the distance, an upside down buggy. Good job Mendoza.The XMan with his mommyMiss A, looking cute in pinkNewly minted citizensDon visitingTtown rugbyGracie with her boyfriend in TtownCooking for the teenage boys… turned out really good
Sunday here on my side of the planet. Had another few days of rain, accumulating in excess of 150mm/6inches of precipitation. My little farm is a mud puddle. The dogs are wet, muddy, with poor Nia wondering and stressing why she cant come inside. This darn Global-Warming has to find another venue to influence. I cant get much work done when the ground is a mud puddle.
Just wondering how much rain we’ve had in this year-to-date… just found this:
Sunshine Coast Airport Rainfall Reports
date
rain to 9am
interval
mm
hours
Fri 01/07/2022
7.2
24
Sat 02/07/2022
28.6
24
Sun 03/07/2022
4.2
24
Mon 04/07/2022
3.0
24
Tue 05/07/2022
12.6
24
Wed 06/07/2022
5.4
24
Thu 07/07/2022
0.2
24
Fri 08/07/2022
0.0
24
Sat 09/07/2022
–
–
Sun 10/07/2022
0.0
24
Mon 11/07/2022
0.2
24
Tue 12/07/2022
0.0
24
Wed 13/07/2022
16.0
24
Thu 14/07/2022
0.0
24
Fri 15/07/2022
0.0
24
Sat 16/07/2022
0.0
24
Sun 17/07/2022
0.0
24
Mon 18/07/2022
0.0
24
Tue 19/07/2022
0.0
24
Wed 20/07/2022
16.0
24
Thu 21/07/2022
7.2
24
Fri 22/07/2022
44.6
24
Sat 23/07/2022
18.2
24
July 2022 Total
163.4
13 day(s)
July 1994-2022 Average Total
67.0
13.4 day(s)
July 1994-2022 Wettest Total
252.6
2008
July 1994-2022 Wettest 24hr Total
73.4
24th 2008
July 1994-2022 Driest Total
2.2
2002
Jan-Jul 2022 Total
1901.8
123 day(s)
Jan-Jul 1994-2022 Average Total
1055.6
109.9 day(s)
This is from the local airport about an hour away. I believe we’ve had more rain than we see reported here.
Note that all measurements are metric so the 1901.8mm noted = 6foot3inches. I know that during one week of rain in Feb/March, I dumped over 1500mm out of my rain gauge. And feel quite certain Ive dumped at least another meter out since. I dont record my rainfall but I take note mentally as I empty the gauge, and think Ive seen closer to 3meters of rain than the 1.9noted herein.
In any event we have had and shall continue to have too much rain.
But the sun is shining and the air is warm today. I have chores to do but I’ll be lazy. Its been a rather busy past week. Don was here from the Solomons. His first trip in over 2years. Mendoza got out of school to come hang with his dad. It was good. But the house (both houses) are empty and both need cleaning. The cars need to be washed. Garbage bins go out today. Lots to do.
So I sit here, wrapped in a granny blanket and communicate with my family back in Iowa as they prepare to “farewell” my Mother.
Mom passed away 12th July my time. Aged 95, her passing was no shock. She had been fading/ failing for quite some time. She passed away in the house she considered her home, surrounded by family. Her end-life care is an example to all us ageing rebels. Teach your Children Well…
A Service will be held tomorrow, Iowa time. The family shall be gathering. Food is being prepared. I have a big family. Lots of food is required.
For a number of reasons I shall not hustle back to Iowa right now. These past months/ years of covid-confusion and restrictive social interaction has meant I last saw my Mother in mid2018. Life and externals has prohibited me and mine “getting back” to see mom as she failed. And such is life. Ive been “leaving” for most of my life. I originally “left” in January 1981. For the past 40years I have made a point of ensuring my goodbyes were said each and every time I left, again. Do not let your goodbyes go unsaid. You never know when you will or won’t get to say it all, so always and all ways say your goodbyes thoroughly and consciously.
I’ll end with a story about my Mom…
DISCLAIMER: All my stories are purely fictional. And, as usual, the names have been changed to protect the innocent.
Being raised in a family of women leaves one with a strange sense of proprieties. Being raised in an old fashioned family filled with women leaves one with a profoundly warped sense of proprieties. I was raised in such a family. In a very old-fashioned and Matriarchal family.
There was my proper and prim Grandmother. In her eighties she was the very essence of a mature matron. Erect if not stiff. Tender but very firm. She never swore. Had a small glass of schnapps on “special occasions”. Took a nap every afternoon. And wore a large hat and clean white gloves when she worked in the garden. She always smelled of roses.
There was my forceful and loving Mother. In charge of everything. She ran her world as a Master Sergeant would run an army. She knew what was happening before it transpired. She was able to see through walls and hear across large distances. She was omnipresent and clairvoyant. She was a force to reckon with.
There was the gaggle of sisters I called “mine”. I was never sure how many there were. I know there must have been better than half a dozen. Yet they changed so quickly I could never tell. They also tended to bring home friends whom they looked alike thus one could very seldom tell one visiting female from one in residence.
Within this mess of female functions existed my Father, my elder brother, my younger brother and me. We “men folk” tended to live within this flurry of the female lives that we were little more than satellites to.
I am not sure if I learned about women from my Father or the females around me. There were many, many rules pertaining to a life ordered and operated by women. Perhaps I followed my father’s and the elder brother’s lead in some things but I think that I learned most of the rules from the women themselves.
Women were to be respected. Failure to show respect could result in Mother rapping you on the head with a four-pound wooden spoon, direct and still hot from the pot of simmering stew on the stovetop. Grandmother was adept with the backhanded dishrag. Take a step away from the accepted and Grandmother would snap you about the face with a greasy and hard worked dishrag fresh from the sink. My various sisters, being younger and less trained in the ancient female arts of inflicting pain, would simply punch, bite, scratch, kick or other wise render you delirious with pain and humiliation.
Women were to be treated with honest attention and decorum. Failure to pay proper attention to a female was in direct violation to most civilized rules. One was expected to be as telepathic as they were. Failure to anticipate the need to hold a door open was a misdemeanor. Yet failure to anticipate the need to open a door – when her arms were full of something- was a hanging offense.
Women were made, came off the assembly line, equipped with the tools to investigate, try and judge any crime. They can worm answers out of you with little more than a raised eyebrow. A stern glare is enough to make a “big boy” wet himself. A smile and a bit of kindness can make even the worldliest man fall over him self to please. Women may well be the perfect creatures. They know all, see all, and understand all. They can work better than most men. The females I was raised with were always stronger than I. They could clean, bake, sew, hammer, build, paint, tend, plant, dismantle and think (so I was raised to believe) better than men.
The one thing they could not do was fart.
I was raised with the belief that women did not need to fart. I always thought they were above it. That men, being the crude and semi-domesticated creatures we are, abased themselves by “passing gas’ whilst in a communal setting. I was raised allowed to laugh and make light of the male ability to “pass gas”. My Grandfather would hold his finger out to small children and tell them to “pull it”. The result would be a startled child and a Grandfather roaring with laughter.
In the warped upbringing of the matriarchal household I felt as though it was a fair trade. I could fart and they could rule. I learned from my father that I could cock my cheek and let a “good one” rip. Grandmother would simply state that “You’re too much like your granddad”. My mother would ignore it completely. My sisters would move without comment.
I spent little time pondering this difference between the genders. There were so many differences that something as simple as – guys fart, gals don’t – made a perverse kind of sense. This sense was enforced by my strict private school education where then nuns and the “young ladies” in the school enforced rather than dispelled this belief. I actually believed that either women could not or did not need to “pass gas”.
I was sixteen. I had hitched a ride to a near by city to see a popular rock band in concert. A gal I vaguely knew from “around town’ picked me up. She was several years older and, at that time, living a “Hippy” life style. As we were tooling down highway 20 in her beat up corvair she looked soulfully at me and said “Mike, I need to ask you something very serious”.
My heart went into my mouth. My imaginations ran wild. She, this older gal, a hippy gal, was going to ask me “something serious”. Sweat broke out on my palms. I was tongue-tied. I simply nodded for her to go ahead.
“Mike”, she said, “I don’t want to give you the wrong impression but… I really need to let a fart”. And with that short introduction she cocked her cheek to the left and let rip with a prize-winning rumbler.
At the same time, as she filled the small car with noxious fumes, my life forever changed.
I was dumb struck. I am certain that my mouth hung open like an idiot’s. I am certain that I stared at her in disbelief. I saw her blush under my stare. I assume I made her feel uncomfortable. All I could do was stare. I was experiencing an epiphany.
Epiphany is the right word to use. It is defined as: a sudden intuitive leap of understanding, especially through an ordinary but striking occurrence.
Ordinary and striking are so very right.
Females had been lying. All this time. In many, many ways. I saw it clearly. My epiphany, my revelation allowed me to see it all. The hallucinogenic tab the hippy gal had given me before she farted was not required for me to see through the smoke and mirrors of this small mystery of life. No, it had not taken effect yet. I was still sober. And I would remain sober through the course of the night. The tab had been a waste. As the bands came and went on the stage. As the decibels pounded my eardrums. I kept running the scene through my mind. My epiphany had irrevocably damaged me and made me unconditionally stronger at the same time. My world had changed.
I remember thinking about the childhood story of the Emperor’s New Clothes. How everyone went along with the farce simply because everyone went along with the farce. I saw this scenario in so much of my life. It applied to everything. In the religious dogma I was spoon fed each day. In the pseudo relationships I saw others foster and yearn for. In the horseshit propaganda trickled down through the media.
I think my youthful rebellion in life began at this time. I knew now that women were not infallible and that I did not have to spend my days worrying about their superiority. The agreed farce of life became clear to me. If women need not be feared then all else was 100% unadulterated boloney.
I started my rebellion by no longer listening to the nuns in school. I went out of my way to challenge them. I began to stand up for myself and to argue with these women who ruled our academic lives. And every turn I took, every challenge I instigated, they would back down.
I do believe that I got lost in this heady world of rebellion. I know I was perverted by this revelation. It was like learning the secrets of the ancients. Like learning something mortal man was not fit to know. It was information far too serious and dangerous for a 16-year-old, testosterone poisoned punk like me.
I became a jerk. I lost my respect for women. My elder sisters would attempt to dominate me and I would pop them in the chops. All this “thou shall not hit a woman” crap was expunged from my psyche. I would argue the nuns into tears of frustration. I am certain my grandmother spent time praying especially for my salvation. My poor mother never realized what hit her.
And the years rocked by. The youthful rebellion was replaced by the need to feed a family. My wife dispelled any doubt in my mind that women did not require the release of abdominal gases. My grandmother passed away. My mother got old and my many sisters learned to never screw with me. I would still pop them in the chops.
It was a quiet winter’s eve. We were sitting at my parents’ house in rural America. My father had a nice fire going. Mother had just cooked an expansive meal. My wife was finishing the dishes. My teen-aged children were fighting over which video they would watch. We decided to play a couple hands of cards before we called it a night. The table was shifted. Chairs were carried in. The cards were brought out and shuffled. I made a pot of fresh coffee.
The general confusion that occurs at the beginning of a game of “friendly” cards was taking place. The general arguing over who kept score, (if my daughter keeps score she always wins) the vying for positions at the table (don’t sit next to my wife, she’ll look at your hand) and the establishing of the basic ground rules for the game (grandfather could not fall asleep in the middle of a hand).
I was waiting for the coffee to percolate. I had chosen a seat between the living room and the kitchen. My father was on my left. My mother was on my right. My daughter had the pad and pencil and was preparing to keep score. My wife was positioning her chair so she could see the hands to the left and the right of her. My father was taking a quick nap.
We were playing a two-decked game. Two decks were combined to allow everyone to play at the same time. It was a quick paced game like gin rummy but with more cards and more people. The deck was being split up and handed around for shuffling. My mother fumbled with her share of cards to be shuffled. A card fell on the floor. She leaned out of her chair to pick it up.
As a youth with little to do we would discuss the best farts and the best farting situations. The old oak pews in church were pretty good. The plywood seated folding chairs at the VFW were ok. But the consensus was that hard seated, straight-backed wooden chairs were the best. These old style chairs with the carved out places for your cheeks gave you a chance to “play” the chair. You could let a winner rip with out too much effort. The hard wood had a nice tonal quality. For the farting aficionado these chairs were the epitome.
I was about to stand up and get a cup of coffee. I had half turned in my seat. My father was chin on his chest napping in his chair. My daughter was laboriously writing our names on the score pad. My youngest son was arguing with his brother over who would sit next to my wife. My wife was getting the cards ready to deal. My mother was in the act of retrieving the card she had dropped.
She would have won a prize at any fart fest. If there were medals awarded for farting this would have won the platinum with diamond trim. It was possibly a world record. It started as she was in decent, hand stretched out for the card. Mother’s age and her arthritis could not allow her to cut it short by quickly sitting straight. She was committed to touching the floor, retrieving the card and pushing off the floor with her hand to gain her upright position.
It started and it lasted. For the entire duration it took her to bend over in her chair, touch the floor with her hand, grasp the card then push herself upright. I estimate it had a complete duration of something near twenty seconds.
The divergent tonal qualities achieved through the variation of the “angle of attack” through the changing of the position of the stationary cheek would have left a master in awe. It was a virtuoso use of the old fashioned hard-seated chair. I have never seen a better performance.
My father’s eyes popped open. He held his face in a noncommittal and non-commenting demeanor. My wife blushed. My daughter held her hand to the perfect “O” her mouth had become. My sons were looking around the table for a clue as to what their reaction could safely be. I fell out of my chair.
I rolled into the kitchen. I choked with laughter. I held my ribs. I was in pain. I was in awe. I could not breath for the convulsing air erupting through me. The memory of that epiphany came shattering into the light of day. It took me ages to compose myself enough to get up off the floor. I returned to the card table with my coffee.
My father had not changed his countenance. My daughter was politely smiling at a distant spot in the air. My wife was patting my mother’s hand telling her to ignore me. My son’s were following my lead and making a bit too big of a deal about it. My mother was glaring at my father. Was giving him the hard look. I had gathered myself up off the floor in time to see her point a finger at him and say. “Not a word from you. Not a damn word.”
I was distracted in my card playing. I kept falling into fits of laughter. My father had managed to not crack a smile over it all. I was impressed by his self-control. By his sense of self-preservation. I ended up losing the game. It made my mother feel better. She had been embarrassed. She deserved to win. I was caught up in the revelation type memory of that trip with the hippy girl all those years ago. I saw a story coming together.
A story about the night we had played cards and mother farted.
Some lights burn bright and fast. Others burn long and slow.
After 1142 months of life, of existence, of burning bright and warm, my Mother has passed-on.
After 95.16 years and thousands upon thousands of miles, Mom’s trip is done. Her destination achieved.
Of course, as with all deaths, all passings, we the living mourn. Of course, the mourning is more a selfishness, a self centeredness…. we mourn our “loss”, rather than celebrate the moving on, the arrival, the departure.
Of course, the passing-on of a loved one is a powerful reminder of our own mortality.
I am by nature a nostalgic sorta guy. I also possess an evil memory. I claim that I remember everything. I know that I can scan my memory banks and find just about any memory. I have written about this, and how I exercise my memory. Keep it fit and healthy, just like you would exercise a muscle.
I remember being very small. A baby. I can find the point in time where I gained language. I claim I remember the womb.
Of course, of course, my Mother looms large in my memories.
And nothing will change this.
Ever.
My life experiences have given me a number of “hands-on” death opportunities. Its something the Solomons has given me, a rare gift of learning how to touch, handle, respect, and appreciate Death.
In a number of my experiences Death arrived after a long, arduous, pain filled illness. Sitting with, living near Death, knowing Death is “coming” can be quite stressful.
I have found that Death’s arrival can be a release, a reprieve, a relief for all involved.
My Father-in-law, Boaz, Mother-in-law , Flory, Bro-in-law, Jimmy, niece, Barbra, indigent old man and friend, Ron, grumpy old fart, Paul…
Each of them died after long, long, painful, stressful illnesses.
Of course, of course, the “accidental deaths”, the surprises, the unexpected passings are more traumatic. We didnt have time to prepare. To accept. It came as a surprise. Caught us off guard.
A Mom Story…
I was maybe 16, it was the middle of winter. Bro Monk was home on leave from the Navy. He and I had gone out to the bars in Independence. I was a big kid, and easily passed for legal-age. We shot pool at The Spot. Hung out at Joe’s. Ended up as the night was failing at The Shamrock.
I vividly recall leaving The Shamrock at 2am as the bar closed. I recall walking outside into a winter’s gale. Cold cold wind blowing hard. As we walked across the bridge it was bitter. We were facing the howling wind. Tho only 5 blocks from the bar to the house, it was a cold, long walk.
I dumped Monk on the couch, went up to my bed. We’d both been drinking but I was still a kid and didnt drink all that much. Not as much as Monk.
Early in the morn my bedroom door bursts open, Mom is damn mad. pissed. Angry… “Monk pee’d on my new couch”.
Well hell. The world had ended. Mom’s new couch now smelled of drunken piss. She was not impressed.
She made us both get up and do what we could to remedy the situation. Wash the cushions covers, air the cushions, spray cleaner and freshener, do what we could.
But the stain, the discolouration on the covers never faded. Mom would often growl at me about the event. Remind me of my mistake… I should have made Monk take a leak before I put him to sleep. I should have put a diaper on him. I shoulda…
Maybe 15 kids, 20 adults, 9-10 bikes, a couple quick buggies, and heaps of fun.
Everyone camped. It got down to maybe 7c/40f over night. Both nights. The huge fire was not a luxury. It was a necessity.
As was the winch on the big buggy.
Happy to report no broken bones. No emergency medical services required.
We shall try harder next time.
Of course, Saturday was rather drunken out. The drunken weather intensified as the sun set.
The youngest contestant was 6months old, next cam Xman weighing in at about a year and a half. I of course count as the old fart in residence, so spent more time kinda managing things rather than competing. Managing and imbibing. The big, fast buggy got rolled a couple times. My buddy, Andy, dropped his big BMW adventure bike into a steep gully. He was up not the mountain. That’s when the winch was required.
Happy to report that after a few re-bending of disfigured pieces, Andy’s bike was – is fine.
We broke the door and the roof on the big buggy. Neither of which were required for operations so we just took them off completely. Who needs a door or a roof.
One little guy, on his own bike, went into a barbed wire fence and has what looks like a heart surgery scar on his chest. Luckily his mom didn’t come. So he didn’t cry too much. His dad had brought his own bike and was way cool. Knowing the ways of gravity and speed and 2wheels.
The sun is shining, the wind is brisk, its 7c out, and I’m wrapped in a blanket drinking coffee. This old farm house is hollow and cold. The windows and doors rattle when the wind howls. I tell the grandkids “its the ghosts”, when the wind howls n screams through the loose window panes.
Its a grand old house. A great big, high ceiling-ed, wood floored, double story affair. impossible to heat or cool. And this being Queensland, there is no insulation, no double panes, no attempt to build the house to be “weather proof”. Nope. This house reflects, if not magnifies the outdoor temps.
Hot in summer, cold in winter.
I am moving slow today.
One thing positive about the chilly weather is that it is easy to stay in bed in the mornings. Maybe correct to say, “hard to get out of the bed in the mornings”.
The newz this past week has been mostly about the bullshit-hearing about the January 6th “insurrection”. And I find it perplexing, sad, frightening…
Are the people in the USA, the general populace, the average mom n pop so easily led that the BS and drivel expounded by the general media becomes gospel? That the words of shisters and crooks and dishonourable people (the elected leaders) are trusted and listened to, when deep down we know they are false?
It might be an age thing with me. My disagreeable nature. My lack of trust and support for these supposed “leaders”. It might just be age…
I have too much time on my hands. I read a lot. I do watch/ listen to the newz, but more for entertainment than for content. I dont like being fed. I prefer to prepare and consume my meals on my own, and such it is with the newz, the bluez… the entertainment channels posing as purveyors of public information.
Nope, I dont think its wise to fill up on the fluffy bullshit called news. It’ll give you indigestion. Stop being lazy and put more effort into you consumption… newz and food.
As I have aged I find I am better, healthier, happier when I eat simply, sparingly. For a long time I have been on a -one meal a day- diet. I find I enjoy being hungry, feel good if my body is empty, at least part of the day. I find I can do with out most starchy foods… bread, pasta, potatoes, and such are not required much any more. And once Ive gone off the starchy foods I feel a lot better. Same with fried foods. And large quantities of meat.
I grew up at a “meat and potatoes” table. It was good honest food. Mostly “home grown”, always very tasty, always with massive amounts of salt and butter. And bread. My mother baked fantastic bread.
But that was in the days when meals were made “from scratch”. All the veggies we had came from our own garden. We worked hard to feed the family. All of us, the folks, the kids, everyone worked in the garden(s). The meat we had came from local farms. We had a freezer or two filled with packaged meats… chicken, pork, beef. It all was home grown, locally butchered and packed.
Those days are gone. Most everything these days is “processed” in some way shape or form.
My mom’s home made noodles were to die for.
These days I eat red beans. Almost every day I have beans in some way shape or form. I use beans as meat replacement in most dishes. I do often add meat to my beans. Its hard to make beans bad. They are born and conceived as an almost perfect food.
My buddy, BigG, has recently asked me to teach him how I do my beans. Noting well there are many recipes in play, but my daily food intake is 80% comes from a humble pot of bean soup. I produce a simple recipe here for Big G…
Standard pack of red beans bought off the shelf. Beans can be softened in a large pot of boiling water. An hour gives you stronger beans than 2 hours of boiling. I like the beans soft so I boil well over an hour.
Once boiled I drain and wash the bean real good. In the same pot I add a couple nice cuts of beef (I prefer beef but pork or goat works too). I like cuts of meat that are fatty. I want the fatty oils to be part of the dish. The cubed beast goes into the same big pot, on high heat, with a bit of olive oil. I want the meat to sear, start releasing its oily goodness.
I chop up fine and add to the pot… a big pile of celery, at least 2 onions, a shit load of garlic, a big leek or two, a couple nice capsicum – red or green or both.
I cook the stew type concoction for a long time, let the veggies degrade and turn to moisture, let the onions burn. burnt celery has a flavour of nuts.
Eventually we have a fair bit of stock building up. I stir a lot but still want the mixture to burn a bit too. The meat and veggies all charred up is good. To this I add the drain beans. Stir it all up. And add a packet of beef or vegetable stock. Cover the mixture, put the heat down, and let it simmer for a long time.
I dont often add salt or other spices. I do often drop a couple whole, hot chillies from my garden in. I like to crush up a handful of fresh basil. If I use whole chillies the soup is not too hot. If you want it hot you can crush one of the soft chilies in your bowl. If you dont, leave the chilies alone.
As it cooks taste it and add what you want. I like a couple spoon fulls of balsamic, or Worcestershire sauce. I do like full pepper corns that burst with flavour after you bite them. Bay leaves are good too.
A pot lasts me days. The pot on my stove is only on its third day, now, but thats because Gracie has been joining in. The cold weather suits a nice bowl of soup.
Sunday here in QLD. It has not rained appreciably for a day or two. We still live in a mud puddle, but its drying out. Slowly. Today a brisk wind from the SE is sucking moisture out of the earth. The sun is shining. Life is good.
I was out a bit, feeding the dogs, and checked to see if I might be able to do some mowing. Not yet. Not today. Probably not tomorrow. The ground is simply too wet. Even walking on it mushes it all up. Some places worse than others. Wont be any mowing tomorrow either.
It’ll take a couple days of dry before I can start cleaning things up.
There is a lot to clean up.
Hoping for a bit of dry, more dry, less rain, its all very unAustralian. Terribly unQLD, not wishing for more rain.
I feel like I’ve been through an Iowan winter. 5 months forced indoors. 5 months of inclement weather. Nasty weather. Destructive weather. Nothing to do but watch TV and gain weight. I feel fat and lazy.
As the winds blow I watch the lush green grass dance and wave. After almost 4 years of “growing grass”, fertilising, seeding. Slashing, harrowing. We did a great job, the grass now is fantastic.
But the inclement weather has forced me to sell my herd of cattle. And thats very sad. I had great cattle. A lovely breeding herd of fine, fat, friendly beasts.
If I’d kept them, by now they’d all have foot rot, be suffering, probably would have lost a couple of the older ones, definitely would have lost a calf or three. Quite sad, but I made the quick decision over 2 months ago, and can assure myself it was the best decision at the time. Can’t raise cattle in a mud puddle.
I like the fact that the land, the little stream, the hills and valleys on this property have all changed. Tera-forming has taken placed. The waterway is drastically different. Deeper, wider, rockier. Tons and tons of aggregate, of all sizes has been washed down hill, down stream. We have rubble piles big enough to build with. Sand banks that never existed before. Trees have been un-rooted, washed down stream. A huge red-gum, growing at the bank of the stream forever, was eroded out of its footing. Its massive, ancient roots exposed.
I’ll cut the roots out and see what I can carve from the hard, knurled wood therein.
I plan to recreate this property. Turn it into something different. I’ll start by removing some fence lines. I’ll then start developing tracks that can be used with car and bike and buggy. Build jumps and drenches and slews and corners… a rural motorsports park for off road dare devils.
Its going to be fun.
I recently bought 100 flowering vines. Orange Trumpets grow long and tall. They’ll make the place dramatic and humorous… like a theme park…
I’ll festoon them all over and give the place a surreal splash of bright colour. Cover the obsolete fence lines with bright orange. It’ll be cool.
I have to wait for it to dry up a bit before I plant them. It’ll be a big job, and I am keen to see them grow and flower.
Its a funny world where one can sit, and have a thought… I want to plant 100 flowering vines, then get online and have them delivered to your door within a few days. Its very cool.
So the sun is warm n bright. The brisk wind chills the air. The fauna is happy, vibrant. Bird life abounds, the deer are constant fixtures in the fields, the dogs are laying in the sun, snoozing and grooming in the heat. The flora is singing, a cacophony of colour and movement. Ill have to do a big “weed clean up” soon. The weather has been grand for weeds.
Or so some folks think. We have Uncle Joe in the US, Boris in the UK, immaculate Macron in France, Truthful Trudeau in Canada, and now Amazing Albo here in Aus.
These men represent the axis of western power and are soon to make life better for one and all by removing the nasty, dirty, wasteful source of all humankind’s modern problems… Its soooo simple….
Ban the use of fossil fuels, rely on the clean and green technologies. Its time, all ready to go, to change the world for the better… yeee haw…
Side step the nasty and mean capitalist industrial machine that has enslaved us to dirty, dug from the earth, energy… lets flip the switch. Make the change. Go team go…
What’s that you say, Huh, What??? The technologies aren’t ready for use? We cant rely on wind and solar and hydrogen and magic wands? Why not? Because we cant supply our modern needs completely, reliably, so the dirty nasty dug from the earth fossil fuels must be held in stand by. Just in case?
But, cant we just store the extra we need in costly batteries? No, the tech aint here yet? You sure? Well hell! So we have to keep the coal and gas and diesel fired plants on-line, keep them working, but we dont need to use them because our magic wand is in hand and loaded… but not ready yet… gee , makes me feel better. The beginning of a new golden age! Hell yea!
Oh, you say the price of everything we touch needs to rise, we need to readjust, go through some growing pains, suck it up, as the cost of all and everything goes up?
I dont get it. We have to wait a bit? Oh, you say it’s because our future “energy” costs will represent the duality of the system? The cost of the green n clean plus the cost of the dirty n nasty… ??? Side by side, at the same time. I gotta pay for both? Or go without? Because I want to charge my new electric car on green and clean electricity, my beer and pretzels and ice cream will double and triple in cost… Well, hell! That aint fair.
I want green n clean! I want to charge my modern electric car on modern green n clean. I want the virtue I gain through buying my electric car to radiate around me, to encompass my world, my life, my existence. But I dont want to pay too much. That’s understandable, isn’t it? Give me clean n green but at a fair price.
What? Cant do it? What’s that you say? If we were to replace dirty n nasty with nuke? It might work? The only way? But it’ll take a long time?
What the hell did I buy my virtuous electric car if I aint filling it up with virtuous green n clean electricity…. ??? I am confused!
Oh, I see, its all on its way. The new tech, the new life, the new green n clean is on its way. Great! This new tech will change everything… great!
What is it?
You dont know? Not yet? Hmmmm…. Maybe hydrogen? Maybe a magic wand we don’t have a name for? Ok, I see, its coming though? You’re sure about that?
But for now the prices skyrocket? The prices for everything reflect the price of energy. That’s understood, but what about that magic wand? Ok, I see… not ready yet?
Well, its over, for now, for three years. The wasted money, the bullshit being spread like butter, the finger pointing and accusations, the acrimony..
The incumbent power-brokerage-firm has been removed. The opposition has “won”.
But what have they “won”?
Are “things” going to be better? Will the price of fuel for your cars and power for your homes go down? Will the children in school start scoring higher in basic skills tests. Will obesity be reduced? Will the roads get better, traffic thin out? The floods subside and the droughts lift? Will my hair grow back?
I dont think this is as much a pendulum swing as it is a different flavouring in the water. Both sides, both teams have quite similar rhetoric. If you close your eyes and listen to the tune being sung you cant tell if the choir is dressed in Blue or Red.
The campaigns has been based on what has passed. There was little substance offered in regards to future plans and policy. Covid is the big topic. Of course the opposition claimed they could have handled it better, cheaper, with less invasive-ness. Kinda similar to the TrumpvBiden fight. And of course we see that Uncle Joe has proven himself to be correct. Life in the US under Joe is much, much better, cheaper, less stressful than under Trump.
Those darned mean tweets hurt us all.
Its is another blood sport Sunday here. So the fight analogies shall continue.
The big, big issues on the table get little attention at times like this…
A world in conflict is a huge matter of concern. Both Russia and China have expansionistic attitudes. Perhaps Russia may be reevaluating their future expansionistic plans, but China sure as shit is not content to sit quietly within its borders. And this is huge to Australia. Noting well that Australia has little by-way of military capacity, (nothing in the military spectrum is manufactured here) relying mostly on their US treaties and agreements for their own border integrity and security.
I believe China to be Australia’s biggest trading partner. The out-going shot-callers have recently been rather tough on China. (Tough in comparison to past) The new administration has traditionally been quite pro-China. China owns a huge portion of Australia’s agricultural capacity, has the State of Victoria signed on as a partner in their belt and roads initiative, the Port of Darwin was sold to China (by the incumbents) quite a few years ago. I believe that China will have more influence in the HALLS_OF_POWER with the new administration than the out going mob. Time will tell.
China looms large in our future. One way or another.
Australia’s dismantled industrial capacity is, too, a huge thing. Aus holds less than 60days fuel capacity in store. 99.9% of all liquid fuel is imported. Steel manufacturing used to be big here, but is nothing more than a memory these days. No automobile industry any more. Most of Australia’s raw materials are exported (to China) then reimported as value-added consumer goods.
So, in ending, after this trial of democracy, this most recent test of electorate wisdom… time now to see if the future will be brighter. Like in the US, where the absence of mean tweets is all that is required to make things right.
Friday on his side of the planet. The day before the next federal election here. Election-mania is roaring at high speeds…
Pre-voting has been open for a couple weeks. I find that about 20% of the voting population have cast their ballot.
Aus is a funny democracy in that voting is compulsory. And utilises a preferential voting system. Both concepts are foreign to the past systems I have been exposed to. But I kinda like it all. I like Australia a lot.
Of course, world-over, politicians are a less than savoury demographic. World-over politicians will say just about anything to “win”, to “get in”, to be elected. I have always and forever been a political sceptic. My adult, working life has allowed me to interact with and around the Ivory Towers of political control. My experiences were seldom, if ever, heartening. And most generally quite disheartening.
I am considered a harsh judge of others. My code and morality and ethics are firm, staunch, probably draconian. I measure my world around me by my strict criteria. Any wonder why I am most always disappointed, disgusted, discouraged when it comes to politics?
I find the general electorate to be lazy. Easily swayed, sold on simple rhetoric, slow to think, consider, be critical. The status quo is good enough for most folks.
Ive always been looking for the next great leader, the changer, the “good man”, the “wise woman”.
I’m still looking.
Weather here in Aus is still wet. Too wet. I cant get much work done.
The Native Iowan 
thoughts and opinions