“The Head of John the Baptist”

This is one the last works that Caravaggio ever painted. Circa: 1607.

The Head of John the Baptist is set upon a large plate by the alleged executioner. The ugly man appears neither pleased nor displeased with his work, and is merely following orders; though is aware of the prophet’s status amongst the Jews and the ‘reason’ for his execution.

Holding the plate though looking away in apparent shame is Salome, the daughter of Herodias.

Herodias, however, appears curious, somewhat pleased, whose image seems to merge with her daughter, Salome.

The head of John the Baptist is appalling, an expression of a man not exactly dead but in the midst of prayer…

According to the Gospel of Mathew in the New Testament, King Herod was having an affair with Herodias. Herodias is the wife of Herod’s brother, Phillip.

John the Baptist, the cousin of Jesus Christ, publicly announces the transgression of Herod and Herodias as against Jewish law. This public announcement causes John to be imprisoned. He wastes in prison and is tortured for many weeks while the followers of the prophet grow increasingly angry, crying for his release.

Something must be done...

It is Herod’s birthday and his entire court is in attendance. Herodias’ daughter, (who is not named in the Gospel of Mathew) on her mother’s request, dances for Herod, (the dance of the seven vales) and, as he is quite drunk, he promises with an “oath” that he will give Salome anything she desires. As this is a conspiracy planned by Herodias, her daughter requests the head of John the Baptist to be given to her in a “charger” (basket).

Herod winces but to not lose face with his court, orders that the execution be done...and the beheading follows only hours later.

In this particular scene, after the terrible deed is done, Salome takes the head to her mother with the help of the executioner and this is what we see in the painting.

This painting by Caravaggio lacks in his usual spectacular use of colour, almost, as some biographer’s have claimed, reflects the painter’s troubles at the time of the painting…and Caravaggio had a knack for getting himself into trouble.

Despite it lacklustre appearance and dismal content, the painting has always shocked my literal senses, somehow making this particular scripture ‘real’ and not simply a legend.

All would agree that this painting is another example of bringing his subjects and contexts to life - Caravaggio’s genius.

This piece is not one of my favourite works by the troubled Italian master, but certainly, when set against scripture, always fascinating.

Caravaggio & Judas Iscariot.

Judas Iscariot is not mentioned at all in the New Testament until day’s before Christ’s torture and crucifixion.

We have allegedly found the actual Writings, “The Gospel of Judas” telling a story that is quite different from the Gospels of Mathew and John...

The Aramaic scroll tells of a conspiracy; that in order for the prophet’s foretelling to manifest, Jesus, had to be “turned in” betrayed, by one of His brethren. Thus Judas volunteered for the job, keeping it a secret from the other disciples. This makes sense because it is beyond my understanding how a man, an intelligent individual, who has seen and felt the signs, wonders and miracles of the Lord, could possibly betray Him for a mere 30 pieces of silver.

In the Caravaggio painting, both subjects, Jesus and Judas, look to know exactly the role they need to play…and both appear not happy about the situation.

Judas’ “burning” kiss of betrayal is portrayed in this beautiful painting.

I believe this particular work, like many of Caravaggio’s paintings, can be gazed at for hours, seeing and finding new aspects about the story it tells from the New Testament.

Most all of Caravaggio’s paintings are rife with meaning.

This one of Jesus and the infamous kiss is just one of them, the kiss of “planned betrayal?”

Beautiful.

The Magic Circle

This particular painting at least appeared in the public domain circa 1886. The painter, J.W. Waterhouse was only 35 years of age upon its release. (Though I believe this work was painted much earlier) This work caused protest from religious circles though naturally applauded by critics.

The Academy acknowledged the work for its unique subject matter and the artist's apparent knowledge of its content.

What exactly is occurring in the scene?

The Black Arts is a complex procedure of ritual and chants. In order for any true magic to manifest, a "magical Space" must be provided to ensure the Dark One's can enter without fear of reprisal from those who had not fallen from grace. In other words, the witch is creating a safe place for demons to appear, listen and perform the Black Arts on the sorceresses request.

This painting is subtly different, however.

As is well known, practising old pagan rituals was & is a very dangerous activity.

What is interesting in this scene is all the subjects of evil associated with the Black Arts, are outside the circle, Frogs, Ravens and other unidentifiable symbols.

On the inside of her circle, as she draws with her large wand, beautiful flowers and her, a beautiful women, remain within the magic circles confines. The woman is creating a space of protection from the one's who only wish her harm.

The neo-classic attention to detail as Waterhouse is well known, lacks in this painting, thus it is much older than 1886: later we see his art grow and his attention to detail more focused.

Certainly not one of his popular paintings, ironically, upon closer examination, reveals a pagan's desire for good, beauty and to rid herself of a situation, that she did not forsee.

Although somewhat stereotypical, a la Macbeth, the paintings irony, her wish for protection from harm using the Black Arts, makes this image unique.

Modern Technology amongst the Forest

Most Saturday mornings around 6 a.m., we do what we call our 50 minute jaunt, that is to say, as work is not pending, we can exercise and take a scenic path through the forest that lies behind suburbia. The lush trees and creek that runs along the path, including the wildlife flying overhead and across our feet, and a glorious lack of people makes the excursion pleasurable and a perfect activity to begin the weekend.

After about 45 minutes of brisk walking, nature began calling, loudly, thus I searched franticly for an unnoticeable tree off the path in order to handle the situation which, by the way, was about to hit “Breaking Point”.

Fortunately, we had made a full circle around the forest and up ahead stood a modern facility for such emergencies.

It was a small building made of polished steel with various buttons and symbols one associates with Star Wars movies.

“Now”, I thought, jumping up and down like a madman, “Which bloody button should I push?”

By sheer luck, I pushed the correct button that caused the heavy sliding door to open, and immediately closed once I was inside the small space. The walls were polished stainless steel and not a speck of dust could be found. Upon beginning to relieve myself, elevator music of the most lame variety blasted through the ceiling above me, a cheesy rendition of “What the World Needs now is Love Sweet Love.” Needless to say, this caused me to jump slightly forcing my aim to falter. Nothing too serious. (However, I thought: were the tolilet police about to crash in and arrest me for terroist urination.)

Once finished, an automatic voice boomed through the speaker with a computer voice like “Al” in the Kubrick film, 2001 A Space Odyssey: “The Toilet will flush automatically after you wash your hands in the sink to your right. Please follow the instructions carefully”

Pushing the button with the symbol “soap” a small portion squirted in my hands. The second symbol for “water”, once my hands were underneath it, rinsed them thoroughly, and lastly the drying mechanism (once my hands were in the correct position) shot forth hot air which, all said and done, had the capability of giving me second degree burns. Once the dryer stopped, the toilet flushed and the heavy steel door opened. The voice said,

“Thank you for using “Never-Waste, we hope your experience has been a pleasant one.”

The heavy steel door closed behind me, seeing the lush forest and my friend, I felt to have been returned to earth after an alien abduction, and relieved to have been returned to earth safely.

We then walked to the nearest coffee shop for a double-shot macchiato, as my nerves were slightly frayed and I had actually witnessed all our futures to come.

“On second thought, make that a triple-shot.”

'The Naiad'

If one attempts to immerse into a certain artist, writer or poet, will discover a theme or motif that casually travels throughout their particular body of work.

The Pre-Raphaelite, J.W. Waterhouse, had at least two obsessions, his model, Muriel Foster, and his focus on water spirits, nymphs, sirens and other mythical water beings.

Although most his female subjects were characters or representations of ancient myths and poems, his model, Muriel Foster, appeared as the main star, the leading lady in all his work. She was the "Marilyn Monroe" of the 19th century art movement...though her true identity was kept secret because of the social mores and hypocrisy’s of the time period.

Muriel was indeed a classical beauty.

This painting, The Naiad, has always intrigued me because the Naiad has the expression of pure wonder and curiosity, almost intently surprised as if the boy is hurt in some way. She has seen a human being for the first time: and luckily, while he sleeps by the river.

What is a Naiad?

Always connected to a body of water, it is their world and they depend on the water for their existence. The ancient Greeks believed after many encounters with these beautiful beings, that they had inspirational powers and the knowledge of healing. Some also believed they could predict the future…they were special divine beings connected with divinity and growth.

I love this painting for many reasons: the beauty of the Naiad and her cautious curious expression as she peers at the half naked human, covered in what appears to be an animal skin: perhaps a leopard or something more mundane.

The Naiad are divine spirits of a natural existence. They are shy, humble and fearful of the out side “real world”. Thus this painting is special as it is a first encounter between the human and the divine. (Of course in the pagan sense)

One of my all time favourites.

Hylas and the Nymphs & Muriel Foster

My favourite art movement aside from German Expressionism was the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, and my favourite artist from that time would have to be John William Waterhouse.

Waterhouse, like most of the Pre-Raphaelites, painted exotic scenes from poetry, myth and legends. It is a neo-classic style that more often tells a story, depicting a particular dramatic moment.

In a previous BLOG entry, I wrote about visiting the Victorian National Gallery and witnessing the original ‘Ulysses and the Sirens’ by Waterhouse, and how seeing the original painting against my print, that has hung on my walls for years, was a much more meaningful experience, as one can see aspects in the painting that one cannot see in a mere copy.

What is most interesting about most all of Waterhouse’s paintings is that he used the same model for most of his work. She was one of the best kept secrets in the art world for many years. Most of J.W.’s paintings, whether depicting Sirens, Nymphs, garden scenes or historical representations, this model’s face is in just about every painting. Who was she and what was Waterhouse’s relationship with her that captivated him so, inspiring so many beautiful paintings?

We have come to discover that her name was Muriel Foster. She is the quintessence of classical beauty with that lovely face and slender figure. It was only in 1981, where a sketch by Waterhouse was discovered, and written along the bottom of the drawing bears her name.

She first appears at the speculative age of fifteen in Waterhouse’s 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci', where, from that point on, she appears in most of his paintings until his last unfinished work because of his death, 'The Enchanted Garden', which is considered the artists’ best work despite being unfinished.

We see Muriel Foster grow older with utter grace in Waterhouse’s paintings, the most distinctive being 'My Sweet Rose', seeing her in a beautiful bohemian green gown, her elegant red hair, tied back, smelling a rose, and her lovely slender hands touching the flowers.

As it happen to be the Victorian era, where sexual hypocrisy reigned supreme, and most artists at the time always sketched their models in the nude at the start of their specific project, (A common practice of the time) rumour did and has run out of control about their ‘true’ relationship.

In present time, who really cares, but I have my own thoughts on the matter…that she was his lover, inspiration and ‘muse’. Waterhouse had all the middleclass façades: a good family man who preferred to live in Italy than London. He had six children and loved them dearly, supporting his family from his art.

In Hylas and the Nymphs, Ms. Foster’s face is on all of the dangerous water beings.

This story is from Greek mythology, where Hercules and his long time companion, Hylas, travelled with Jason and the Argonauts in search of the Golden Fleece. It was known throughout the ancient world of Hylas’s beauty…he was sought after by many queens and royalty because of his incredible beauty. Because of his unbending loyalty to Hercules, half human and half god, promised to never leave his side.

In the painting by Waterhouse, are Hylas’ last few moments before being pulled into the magical pond of the enticing nymphs, who could not resist taking him, because of his incredible beauty.

This happened on an unknown island where Jason and his crew stopped to retrieve water and food to continue their quest.

It was time to set sale but Hylas had not returned. Hercules searched the island for hours for his friend but he has already been taken to another world. Hercules refused to leave without his long time companion. Jason promised to return once his quest for the Golden Fleece had been accomplished.

Hercules wandered the island for many years in search of Hylas, his echoing screams unrelenting. It was there on that small island that Hercules died of a broken heart, never to see his beloved Hylas again.

This painting depicts the exact second where Hylas looses his life...taken by the nymphs, all of them with the face of Muriel Foster.

This is a wonderful painting focusing on a specific dramatic scene in the tale. The print, the second one I purchased of Waterhouse, has a significant meaning for me, that is to say, love lost, beauty and the steadfast loyalty of a friend.

Novel Finally Completed

There was an interview with a prominent writer that I watched on television years ago who said, “To be a writer is like being a student who always has homework to do.” I remember a prominent screenwriter saying too, that writing journals was a good exercise because he was always compelled to fill a blank page.

Writing is an interesting art form.

My journals go back twenty years, and it is astounding to go back and read where you were, how you were feeling and your responses to life’s vagaries, exaltations and tragedies.

I’ve always, in one form or another, put pen to paper, attempting to express my feelings, work out a problem or merely record the events of the day.

My first attempt at writing a novel was in my teens, but it was merely a “copy” of the novel I loved at the time, “A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexandr Solzhenitsyn. The story was about Stalin’s imprisoning of all the great scientists, writers, poets, engineers, and forcing them under Concentration Camp conditions to “Work for the State”: A beautiful though tragic true story.

I gave up after thirty pages.

As the years progressed, my short stories continued and will continue because the art of the short story is a wonderful exercise as it is compact, succinct and, of course, short. As a writer one feels that gratification of completing a tale in a relatively small amount of time. Writing a “novel” is an entirely different genre.

I remember making several attempts at a novel, the best being 12 years ago, ending at 50,000 words and the damn thing read like the confused babbling of a mad man, and, which was obvious at the time, the story would never go anywhere, as was the author too… at the time.

My new novel seemed to write itself.

As a teacher of High School, time is all important: lesson plans, meetings, troubled students, troubled parents, and troubled staff members and so on…therefore to have the energy to write something like a novel is difficult unless one has the discipline of a Christian monk…which, to my dismay, do not.

Over the last six years, I would write a chapter or three and, mysteriously, the tale would take off from where it left off as if time did not exist.

Though, similar to a conscientious student, that “homework” would be hanging above me like the sword of Damocles, descending and swinging slowly, my death inevitable.

This novel was always on my mind.

What I like about this novel is that I could never imagine writing a tale like this….so strange, so out there…

As a writer, my pleasure is that it is complete; if the book is published…cool, but that would be just icing on the cake. The joy of writing the piece over the years is the true gratification, though if others have the chance to read it and enjoy the tale, all the better.

Thank God it is Done.

Sirens

Of all the ancient poets, Homer has maintained modern civilizations imagination, because the stories epic proportions of his tales capture the human condition… even today.

There are many, many examples including the representation by the 19th century painter, J.W. Waterhouse, and his rendition of Ulysses’ long journey from the useless and proud war at Troy. Over his long journey home they have to sail through the Halls of Hercules, his loyal followers obeying his every order. The Halls of Hercules, known for its deadly songs of wisdom and destruction of the Sirens. As was commonly known, ships never ever passed through because of the Sirens words and songs, causing the ships to dash against the rocks, the ship mates dragged under, slaves of the Sirens, forever.

As the story goes, Ulysses created the famous Trojan Horse that led to the destruction of Troy and create the vengeance of Poseidon, the god of the sea, against Ulysses…thus Ulysses’ treacherous and suffering journey home.

The Sirens knew of this vengeance from Poseidon, however, did their best to dash their vessel and the men on it, including the impressive, Ulysses.

In this Waterhouse painting, commissioned by the 19th century curator of Melbourne’s Art Gallery, ( requested Waterhouse paint this particular scene; and paid a pittance... the painter’s only second painting) J.W. Waterhouse soon over time, working in Italy, painted wonderful, beautiful depictions of myth, art and life. And delivered the work, landing in our museum, where it has moved from time to time, but most often hangs in the Melbourne Gallery.

Australia owns this painting as it was specifically commissioned by the then curator of the National Gallery of Australia. (Interesting choice of subject matter) This was the young Waterhouse’s second painting he ever sold. Thus the start of his inspiration and productivity.

The print of this painting had hung on the wall above my desk for many years: wonderful memories. Ulysses an inspiration for so many essays and story’s, sadness, sorrow and pure joy.

The print continuous to hang above a conspicuous place in my flat.

The questioned must be asked?

Why did Ulysses order his men to tie his body to the mast of the ship? He then ordered the crew to cover their ears as best they could: wax, cloth, anything and ignore the song.

“Tie me tight to the mast and do not follow any of my orders until we’re through the halls of Hercules. Cover your ears and not listen to anyone until we are through…”

As the sailors row through the hall s of Hercules, the Sirens emerge from the water and descend from the sky.

Their song is sweet, alluring and seductive. They promise everything that a man would ever want…though the crew continue to push their paddles, pushing harder and harder through the halls yet can just make out the screams of their leader, Ulysses pleading to row ashore and join them…but they never do.

This is the scene of the painting: the curious and brave attempt to understand the “unknown”, and be free; the loyalty of a few men, despite the temptations, cover their ears, because they want and need to get home.

Once through the halls of Hercules, the crew untie their master as he falls into a heap of sleep. Two of the crew take their leader below to his bed to slumber, which he does for many days.

Thus the story continues.

To finally see the original of the painting was dazzling, the colours true, the painting stunning, the story more clear…

To actually experience, to see a painting close to one’s heart was a gift.

An aesthetic moment to remember.

Striving Writer's Diary cont...

December 3, 1951

The famous Parisian café society, the literati, lends itself accurately to the many descriptions writers have made over the last century. Everyday for three to five hours I would sit outside surrounded by an array of humanity: French, German, Swiss, Russian et al. putting pen to paper, drawing and painting. I’d attempt to express the tales that continually ran through my little mind…but something was missing…heart or deep passion?

Something or someone was missing…

I was tired of the French communists believing that it was “the” answer to the world’s problems.

I refuse to join their meetings but they’re relentless…

Stalin and Hitler were always neck and neck in the evil stakes, but history focuses on the German’s…Stalin makes Hitler look like a school ground bully. But the French intellectuals were either socialist or died in the wool Marxists’… what fools they are. It seems that good intentions (in ignorance) are paved to Hell.

The new year was approaching and I was determined to finish my book..

My beautiful partner and son had plenty of money, as she came from Austrian aristocratic stock, and her family managed to maintain their wealth. She loved me and our son and she continued to support me in my writing pursuits.

So I would return to our little flat and she would be reading to Karl in French, English, German or Russian, depending on the night, and I would arrive with my M.S, half drunk, self absorbed, selfish and grumpy.

Margi would always insist on reading my day’s work.

On that night she was not happy, as I had written not a single word because of self pity and alcohol, and because on that particular day, artistic neurosis took precedence.

My excuse, as always, was “writer’s block.

Magi kissed me tenderly and said, “Tomorrow you’ll write pages of beautiful prose, right? Now love, Karl.

Karl was Magi’s son from an unfortunate encounter during the war, but I loved him like he was my own.

My little boy was not only special, but a miracle. At four years of age he’d ask, “Dada, French or English?”

Thus we would read a book in the language of my choice, usually English or French.

The little man would fall asleep…and I would too.

Then everything changed.

Writer's Diary continued...

November 10, 1951


Scribbling page after page of rubbish at the “Dome” this afternoon. So immersed in my work, I lose track of time and come to realise the restaurants dinner patrons have begun to arrive. The owner of the establishment, Henri, has always been unusually patient with my lack of purchasing power: two cups of tea and a little glass of port the entire day. In the end, finally, after a few disturbing looks, he approaches my table.

“How is my little Australian poet today?”

“Disappointed, Henri.”

“Why, monsieur?”

“The words are flowing but lack meaning and heart.”

“Ah. Possibly a glass of wine to start your artistic blood boiling!”

“Possibly, Henri.”

Henri’s expression turns suddenly curious and he asks:

“Was any of your family in the Great War, monsieur?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. My grandmother’s brother, Jack Reeves, fought on the battlefields of France against the German’s in the Great War.”

Henri sits down in the chair opposite me and rests his chin on his hand looking even more curious and sentimental.

“I do not mean to pry, monsieur, but did he survive?”

“He lasted until the end. But because of excessive exposure to Mustard Gas, he died within three months of arriving back in Australia.”

“I’m very sorry, monsieur.”

“That’s alright, Henri, war is war and is always a terrible thing.”

The noise level had risen as more guests arrived and filled the tables around us. Henri remained seated in front of me gazing above my head as if remembering some important and sad chapter in his life. After a moment, his eye’s cleared and stood up from the table and disappeared behind the counter and soon reappeared with two waiters, a bottle of wine and a handful of glasses. He passed the glasses all round and poured the wine then slowly raised his hand in the air as if to make a toast.

“Ladies and Gentlemen”, his voiced boomed across the restaurant in English. “I want to toast my little Australian writer but, more so, his Grandmother’s brother, Jack. Who fought bravely on the battlefields of France against the German’s in the Great War!”

Henri raised his glass higher in the air: “TO JACK!”

Reminiscent of the glory war films of the 30’s and 40’s, everyone in the “Dome” stood and raised their glasses and in unison toasted my grandmother’s brother, Jack.

“TO JACK!”

“Viva la France!”

“Viva la France!” the crowd resounded.

After a delicious meal and several bottles of wine later, Henri and I closed the “Dome” for the evening. He escorted me back to my little apartment, our arms around each other, stumbling and singing through the foggy streets. At my doorstep, he drunkenly planted two sloppy kisses, one on each cheek – sentimental kisses – and bade me adieu!

Walking up my stairs, I could hear him singing, (out of tune) “Waltzing Matilda” in his thickly accented, baritone voice. I waited on the landing, propped up against the banister, until that wonderful song faded into the soft light of the Parisian dawn.

Excerpts from the Diary of a Striving Writer

November 1, 1951


The dream is always the same: I’m sitting on a boat train floating into Paris, gazing at the little red rooftops and the old men along the shore, dinking wine, laughing and arguing, and dancing together with expressions of pure joy. Sometimes I’m flying from Marseilles, free without a plane, wishing only to be with my lover and my cat beside a blazing fire and a book.

Then I wake from this dream looking up at the ceiling in utter excitement: “I’m finally here…I’ve finally made it!”

I roll out of bed and start a small fire to warm our tiny bungalow. She is asleep. After drinking my first cup of strong coffee, I sit down at my little desk and resume writing the tale already in progress. Looking out my small window, the winter light of the Paris morning is beautiful, despite the dark clouds and the patter of rain upon the sea of multi-shaded roof tops extending over the Latin Quarter and beyond. Below my window I hear the shop keepers opening their doors for the day’s trade. Along the gravel paths, too, young Parisian girls are riding to school on their bicycles, ringing their bells” “Bon jour, Bon jour” - Ting-Ting Ting-Ting.

After writing for some hours, the clouds dissipate and my friend is still asleep due to too much wine and conversation and love. Completing the day’s work, I walk down the winding staircase outside onto our narrow street. The air is crisp and pungent with the smells of fresh bread. Sitting at my usual table at the “Rue de Fleurus”, I order an old red wine and notice a beautiful woman at a table in the corner, writing frantically, like the fate of her soul depended on its completion. A strange looking little man joins her and her eye’s sparkle with joy. As my French is poor, they speak very quickly and I only here certain words, names of philosopher’s, I believe: Husserl, Kierkegaard, and Heidegger. Finishing my wine, I leave the beautiful writer and her little friend with the wandering eye to their soft debate.

‘Is she still sleeping, I wonder.’

Climbing the stairs to our little home, I open the door to find her sitting by the fire, wrapped in her red dressing gown and a woollen scarf around her shoulders. She is reading my morning’s writing.

“This very strange, and at the same time very beautiful.” she whispers.

“It isn’t finished.”

“You don’t have to finish it. It is beautiful just the way it is.”

Our old cat yawns, stretches and jumps on her lap. The three of us stare into the fire as day turns to night.

Oscar Wilde in the depths of Love Lost

In a letter to his Lover:

"You came to me to to learn the pleasure of life, and the pleasure of Art.

Perhaps I've chosen to teach you something much more wonderful - the meaning of sorrow and its beauty."

Your Affectionate Friend,

Oscar Wilde

"The wallpaper and I are fighting a dual to the death; one of us must go."

A diary entry while in Paris after leaving the Reading Gaol- alone, destitute and very poor.

"If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.”

My favourite Love quote from Mr. Wilde, because those that truly love someone ...will always wait.

"The heart was made to be broken”

This I believe to be true.

Oscar Wilde: a true romantic, a tragic poet and a man of LOVE.

Another Lost Love

To pine for a recent former lover, the sadness all prevailing, one’s desire to even live, one’s greatest goals and aspirations fall by the wayside because that Love that once seemingly existed has now ended – and without this love, one deeply feels life is not worth living.

It has been said that it is a dangerous act indeed to wallow in this lost love, and if you have read Goethe’s novel, ‘The Sorrows of Young Werther”, know that the young man merely wanted to fit in, stumbled into Love and lost, thus, in the end committing suicide. One can forgive young Werther as he was a boy, naïve and a true idealist.

But for one to really Love a new woman with such passion as an older man, reveals that at least the “capacity” to love, so intense and sublime, brings hope that it is even possible for someone who has experienced life on so many levels, can fall so totally in love with a woman.

Sadness, grief and sorrow are emotions connected with a great loss.

Reflecting, however, does not one’s experience, age and inevitable cynicism, (a better word would be jaded) excuse him from this terrible pain?

Well it seems that these passionate emotions are not only intended for the young because one can continue to feel the pain of a lost love whether 13 or 60 – there are no ‘statutes of limitations’ on romantic and passionate love. But it feels as though the older lover, because of their experience in life, will feel the pain in a more powerful way. Perhaps because they realize life is all too short and the experience may never come again.

What is so difficult is to rationalize in one’s head with the emotions of one’s heart. We “know” wallowing in, and feeling this sadness, are to some extent absurd, but the heart pays no attention, and continues pouring forth the sadness and love – the feelings of loss.

Love is a mystery without any clear-cut answers…


Rainer Maria Rilke
For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.


Francois de la Rochefoucauld
When we are in love we often doubt that which we most believe.

When wanting to withdraw from life because of some pain or sadness, I often remember a line from a poem by Emily Bronte:

“No coward’s soul is mine.”

Memories of Childhood (The Challenge)

Ten year old boys have a way of spurring you to heights you would other wise not even imagine. Their cruelty as well would surpass the most evil of men.

Brent Phraser had charm, smarts and natural leadership skills. He had the looks of an elite German Arian: cropped blond hair, cold blue eyes and spoke with the authority of a SS officer. He was handsome, brave and intelligent, and we all looked up to him – he was also a Master bully.

Brent was the leader of the Belford Drive gang. A group of ten year old boys who thought they ruled the territory of our one block street. As most boys at that particular age will do, Brent would put up dares or dangerous challenges, usually directed at a single member of the gang. If you complied and succeeded, your membership and acceptance in the gang was assured. Non-compliance or failure, however, resulted in banishment – an unthinkable fate worse than death.

The days of summer that year, 1967, were hot and long. Our small gang roamed the outer fringes of suburbia known as the field, the ditch and the lake. We swam in the lake to escape the heat, played war games at dusk in the field using rocks and dirt clods as weapons in the field, and along the ditch, constructed secret fortresses made from pieces of wood and clay.

One sweltering afternoon the gang decided to head for the lake to catch a swim. Upon our arrival, we found Brent standing beneath the largest tree at the shore of the lake with a coiled rope lying at his feet.

We all knew instantly that a challenge was about to be proposed.

“What’s that for?” one of the gang asked.

Brent smiled. “It’s a swing you idiot!”

“Cool”, David exclaimed. “What a neat idea!”

“And one of you pansy asses gotta climb that tree to tie it: Any volunteers?”

No one uttered a word.

Brent smiled. “See that branch up there – that’s where it’s gotta be tied.”

Our gazes followed Brent’s pointing finger to the thickest, highest branch of the tree. From the lake’s surface to the branch, it had to be at least twenty meters. (Sixty feet).

“Well, Brent shouted, who’s it gonna be?”

“Why don’t you do it, Brent? You’re bigger than all of us.” I said.

To this day, Brent’s sardonic smile remains firmly in my memory.

“I don’t think so, bubble butt. You do it!” Brent shouted.

The gang burst into laughter of embarrassment.

“Craig the little wimp. Forget it. He’ll fall and break his neck.” Tim said in a cruel tone.

“Shut-up ass hole!” Brent shouted.

“C’mon, Craig. You’ve been putting up a lot of dares lately, but not taking any!” Danny exclaimed.

“Yea, man!”

C’mon, pussy!”

“Yea, faggot – let’s see you break your skinny neck.”

The exclamations and insults reached a crescendo as I peered upwards towards the intended branch as the late afternoon sun blinded my vision.

“Well?” Brent asked. “Are you gonna do it or not?”

Brent’s eyes scanned over the whole gang. He picked the rope up and walked towards me, smiling like a professional executioner, whose pleasure in life resides in seeing someone else’s pain. He tied the rope around my waist and pushed me towards the tree.

“You got a choice, faggot. Either you climb the tree or we’ll kick your skinny ass. It’s up to you.”

Let’s face it, my honour was at stake. There was only one place to go, and that was straight up.

Small wooden boards acting as a makeshift ladder extended up the trunk of the tree, but only about two meters, the rest was an improvised guessing game between life and death.

Then something very strange happened.

Closing my eyes, Captain James T. Kirk from Star Trek began his preamble:

“Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the star ship Enterprise. Its five year mission, to explore strange new worlds, seek out new life and new civilizations – to boldly go where no man has gone before!”

Opening my eyes slowly, I found myself horizontally wrapped around the highest branch of the tree.

I could hear David below saying, “Hell, I’ve never seen anybody climb a tree that fast before.”

Either by the hand of an angel or the extraterrestrial help of Captain James T. Kirk, I found myself hanging for dear life around the highest branch of this 300 year old tree. In an instant the realization dawned on me: my angel or Kirk may have helped me up here, but they sure as hell were not going to help me down!

“Don’t just lay there, stupid. Tie the rope!” Brent ordered.

My body had frozen – I couldn’t move even my little finger.

“Are you gonna stay up there all day pansy ass?”

“He looks like he’s dead or something.”

Brent yelled, “Tie the rope you little shit!”

Tim yelled, “Should we call the fire department or something?”

The gang all laughed in unison.

As afternoon turned to evening and slowly into night, each member of the gang wandered off one by one, leaving me alone to deal with my own plight.

A cool wind skimmed across the lake and the rustling of the leaves around me soon was the only sound…

“Damn if I’m leaving my friend alone in some fricken tree.”

Looking down through the shadows, I could see Dave pacing around the trunk of the tree.

“You gotta do something, man! You gotta jump. The water looks deep enough. Jump, man. Friggen JUMP.”

A gust of wind thundered across the lake. I shut my eyes tightly and slowly loosened my grip around the branch. Letting go, my decent was fast and painless. I found myself submerged in the cold, murky water of the lake.

Coughing and spitting, my body finally surfaced. Dave had jumped in after me, and now was dragging me to the shore.

We now sat side by side on the shore of the lake in the dark. Both drenched to the bone, we began to shiver from the cold.

“You wimp! Why didn’t you jump four hours ago?”

“I don’t know. I was just, you know…stuck.”

We left the lake and walked home on that clear and warm summer’s night. We talked about important matters like Cathy, Jenny and Sharon – the three “fox’s” in our grade. We also talked about football and the last Star Trek episode on T.V., and for some reason, nothing about the day.

Later that night, after a hot shower and a beautiful dinner, I laid in bed thinking about Brent Phraser, Dave and the Belford Drive gang. Was it important to have a lot of friends? Or was it alright to just have one good one? I fell asleep that night without answering my thoughts.

As I grew older, the answer to these questions started to become clear.

Although now living continents apart, Dave and I are still close friends.

The Consequence of One Choice.

When one reads the multi-versions of the Arthurian legends, including the originals’, Malory’s and Tennyson’s poetry, there is a predominate theme that moves through all the interpretations: Only those that are pure of heart can discover the cup that Joseph filled with the blood of the dying Christ on the cross: The blood of Jesus Christ.

In this Edward Burne- Jones later painting, an angel appears to Sir Lancelot in a dream (one of the greatest of all the knights) and tells him he will not find the Grail because of his betrayal, his flesh-bound transgression, his affair with the beautiful Guinevere, the wife of King Arthur.

One can see that Lancelot has reached his end: he’s exhausted, and is finally told that because of his adulterous affair with the Queen, the wife of his King and best friend, his searching is all in vain, but it is an angel that informs him of this fact.

If one observes the painting closely can see that the angel has empathy for Lancelot and of course wants him to succeed but, as a messenger, must tell him the truth: because of his betrayal and all the terrible consequences that this love affaire created, the destruction of Camelot itself, there is no forgiveness, at this point in time, thus he must rest, and do what he can as an essentially Good man, but the Grail, this lifetime at least, will not be found.

According to the legend, Lancelot fades out of the story and is not mentioned again.

The only Arthurian Knight in the legend that actually finds the Grail is the young Sir Galahad. Galahad’s motivations are pure: his love of God and to bring back Camelot back to its original glory.

This, of course, never happens.

Galahad never shows the new so-called regime the Grail or what it means. It is said that because of his love of God, the angels came to him when he was an old man, and carried him to Avalon.

The blood-line of Christ continued, and Galahad’s mission was to ensure it would…and according to legend the Grail continues.

I find this painting by Burne-Jones very sad.

Sir Lancelot was also a Good man but fell in love with his King’s and best friend’s wife, Guinevere.

He relented to temptation…I have compassion for Lancelot because like me, he’s human.

The point is Lancelot was always aware of what he was doing, and thought he might get away with it…he couldn’t help himself – love between humans is and continues to be a mystery.

Edward Burne-Jones was fascinated with myth but what makes his paintings so important, is that he focuses on specific aspects of the story which reveals the entire myths meaning.

I love most of his work though this painting, for me, hits hard.

Excerpts from the Diary of a Striving Writer

The Crying Girl

It was sometime yesterday or last week, (my time perceptions are meshing) while travelling into the city of Melbourne for no reason other than to feel the energy of its streets, a beautiful young girl, no more than 25 years of age, suddenly fell into a deep grief, sobbing, not the wailing type, though a quiet somewhat restrained release of pure sadness.

The woman’s sadness was palpable, contagious as I felt like weeping with her. No, I thought, do not interrupt, and let her sadness release naturally.

At first I felt compelled to ask her if there was anything I could do to ease her pain. I wanted to help her but did not have the courage to do so…

Our train reached Flinders Street Station and finally came to a grinding halt. The passengers began standing up, gathering their belongings…but I waited. I could not even bring myself to look at her out of fear of possibly embarrassing the woman.

After a few moments, when most of the passengers had left the train, she gathered her small back pack and headed towards the outside platform. I slowly stood up too, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, walked directly behind her with the only thought in my mind: is there anything I could do to help this woman experiencing so much grief and sadness.

As we walked along the crowded platform, I could not help looking in her direction. I noticed her long auburn hair caught under the strap of her carry bag; where, ever so gently and with such grace, pulled her hair out from under the strap. She lifted her head, her body pushed consciously straight up and true as she ascended the escalators with the rest of the crowd. Through observing her subtle body movements, I saw a raw courage in a fellow soul ; feeling so much sadness only moments before, deciding to carry on with life despite life’s pain.

There are moments that require us to ‘intervene’ in a strangers’ life, and the motivation to act is instinctive. In this case, a mere kind word might have helped this beautiful young woman, but out of a cowardess, chose to sit back and let the important moment slip by.

I regret this moment but must remember to act in the future when at least a simple kind word might ease someone’s pain…if only a little.

The Emotion of Sadness

The emotion of sadness throughout my life has never really manifested in its most all-consuming form. In my superficial thought-wanderings, I’ve always equated the emotion of sadness with grief. My conclusion was sadness and grief are in the same “genre”, so to speak, but to experience sadness alone without the grief is a new experience for me. Included in this emotional genre, if you will, is sorrow.

Most of us have experienced sorrow when a loved one passes on, this is only natural: however the emotion of sorrow and grieving are interlinked in a profound way.

The death of a loved one brings forth sorrow and a grieving process begins, and as the old cliché states, “Time Heals”; which is more than likely the last the thing a person in grief wants or needs to hear.

I’ve lost family members who’ve passed on and felt deeply sorrowful, angry and so on. Death is part of life, but we sometimes terribly miss those we love that pass on, and it sometimes can go on for many years. It is just the way it is on this planet, which, really, for the most part, we do exist on a “pain planet”.

My point is that sadness can almost be classified as an emotion without sorrow or grief – this emotion can be felt all alone.

This notion came to me this week while spending a delightful (in the end) evening with my only sister who really knows me, she said “When our sister died, you were grieving, when father died you were grieving, but looking at you at this moment, knowing you for so long, I’ve never seen such sadness in your eyes.”

To attempt to describe this emotion, sadness, as not part of sorrow or grieving is difficult.

One walks at a slower pace, like wading through water. Complete strangers on the street look at you and their expressions reveal concern. You are aware how you feel, and have been indoctrinated not to feel this emotion, but it continues despite all efforts to rid oneself of it. Then, of course the guilt sets in for feeling sad in the first place. Sadness brings on attitudes of meaninglessness, the world losses it colour, its purpose, its true Beauty.

Years ago I would have blocked this emotion of extreme sadness into the recesses of forgotten memory. ‘It’s not right to feel this way, banish it from your mind and pretend it doesn’t exist.’ This strategy has worked in the past, but in time it surfaces again, and usually at the most inopportune moments.

This BLOG was never meant to be a “confessional” or day-to-day diary of my life, which really I find adolescent – one never wears one’s emotions on one’s sleeve – though today the emotion of sadness prevailed and my only thought to combat it was to write about it.

I feel no grief, I feel no sorrow only a deep sadness – and this too will pass.

Romantic, Fairy Tale Love

A new file for my “musings” BLOG, because unfortunately the hardware in my laptop crashed to such an extent that, it had to be replaced by a new one, hence, everything that did not get backed up, including unfinished articles, BLOG’S and teaching plans, unfinished letters, short stories, power point lessons for the Senior levels – poof! – they are all now floating somewhere in cyberspace, and irretrievable.

What a fool!

The irony is I tell my students everyday to back their work, “Physician Heal thy self!”

Most my writing is on line, my novel had been backed up (luckily) and most reviews are all on Amazon. However those few short stories that needed to be completed, well, if they are worth it, they’ll come up again.

Alone in my apartment, sitting on couch, laptop comfortably in position – candles alight around the room with a little jazz playing in the background. Atmosphere is something that can take one down to the depths or raise one to creative ecstasy. I enjoy soft light, slow music and incense burning; a pleasant atmosphere –books surround the room as my old friend, George, my cat, lies his head on my lap…strangely, when one feels that one’s heart has been broken, almost nothing can take that terrible feeling of emptiness away. There are many distractions, but no matter what is going on, that indelible memory of pure Love and Separation is carved in your consciousness and, for me, in one’s dreams…

I cannot remember who said it, Oscar Wilde or perhaps Yeats, that the true poet or true Romantic is, “In love with Love”. Why? Out of all the emotions, virtues, morals, Love is the one thing that permeates all that is good, all that is Beautiful.

To have the chance to experience true Romantic Love with a fellow human being, for me, was miraculous, something that should not happen at my age…but it happened.

Romantic Love can be described as child-like, innocent and pure. All the feelings erupt – butterflies in the stomach, with hints of true hope that real happiness is possible, that it really exists; you’d be happy just to be next to them, and if push came to shove, you would certainly, without hesitation, die for them.

One day you’re in a scene at the focus of all that Love: a miracle, an unexplainable Wonder, you find yourself with Them. The focus of all that love, and it feels so unreal, but she smiles like a Beautiful unknown Being from Heaven.

Fairy Tale Romance can and does exist but it never lasts, because as always, the god’s get jealous and the “wonderment” disappears.

If ever, the opportunity presents itself, jump in, “boots and all”, may you feel Love, so pure, so innocent, Romantic and totally Beautiful?

You will never be the same.

Beauty & the Pre-Raphaelites

“Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.” Edgar Allan Poe

The battle concerning what truly is the nature of art and beauty continues to rage in universities, galleries and salons designed for those who claim an artistic sensibility. What is beauty? Can it be defined? As the great American poet, Emily Dickinson, once wrote, “Beauty is not caused. It is.” When first exploring these questions, I discovered as many opinions as there are lovers in the world, and all think themselves an authority not to be gained said. It is possible that we will never know exactly what beauty is. Never the less, like a neurotic fixation, this question has haunted me over many sleepless nights.

In my quest for beauty, and I feel the journey could well be an endless one, I came upon a curious movement that seemed to ring of a semblance of truth. It was a certain sensibility, a philosophy of life and art, a literary and artistic wave, culminating in the 1890’s – Aestheticism. For the Aesthete, the quest for unadulterated beauty is recommended as the finest occupation humankind can find themselves during this short “visit” and “indefinite reprieve” from death that we have come to call life. The art of life or the life of art, the aesthete equates with a form of purified ecstasy that can flourish only when removed from the roughness of our stereotyped world of “actuality”. One of the most extravagant exponents of Aestheticism was the Irish writer, Oscar Wilde. He said that, “the seeker of beauty should never accept any theory or system that would involve the sacrifice of any mode of passionate experience” How true.

Closely associated with the Aesthetes was another curious artistic movement known as the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. Such forgotten luminaries as Holman Hunt, John Everett Millais and Dante Gabriel Rossetti founded the PRB in 1848. My personal favourite painter of the later period of this movement is John William Waterhouse. A close net group of art students, painters and poets, they revolted against the canons of the English Royal Academy, and dedicated themselves to recovering the purity of medieval art which Raphael and the Renaissance had destroyed. Inspiring even today, they turned their backs on the realities of the 19th century Industrial society and anticipating Symbolism, merged classic form with the dream world of myth, spirituality and the human imagination.

Any conservative or stalwart of the classical persuasion will tell you that the “death” of art occurred after German Expressionism. This is quite possible considering the work of the Abstract Expressionists.

Be that as it may, the Pre-Raphaelite artist were amazingly proficient in depicting vividly, naturalistic detail, that the Australian art critic described as “…spectacular, beautiful in patches and coldly, provokingly weird in others, sometimes both at once.”

For me, their work provokes uncannily, moods of dreamy melancholy. There is a painful yearning of sentimentality in the work combined with a cold realism that is sometimes quite frightening.

Edward Burne Jones, the dreaming aesthete who cared for Beauty, almost single-handedly brought the English aesthetic movement into existence. His work was the exact opposite of Realism. In a conversation with Oscar Wilde, he rhetorically asked, “Realism? Direct transcript from nature? What does that have to do with art?” Indeed the growing abstraction in his work began to upset some important benefactors at the time. But he didn’t care – Burne-Jones’ quest for beauty continued into the realms of the imagination, attempting to remove the vulgar roughness from the stereotypical world of actuality.

As fashion changes so too does artistic sensibility. However over the last ten years or so, the work of the Pre-Raphaelites are becoming more popular. The art critic Robert Hughes speculates, “Modernism is losing its mandate in our fin de siecle.” I would venture to say the reason painting this century is losing its mandate was its never ending preoccupation with form, lacking in that certain quality the Romantics attempted to explore and strive towards – the Divine.

In an effort to describe what Edward Burne-Jones was striving for in his work, he wrote the following diary entry:

“I mean by a picture a beautiful romantic dream of something that never was, never will be – in a light better than any light that ever shone – in an land no-one can define, or remember, only desire – and the forms divinely beautiful.”

If this is not actual Beauty, it is at least, in the quest alone, beautiful.


Note: The painting shown above is called “The Annunciation”, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.


Craig Middleton

Letter’s Never answered… Melbourne Australia, February 16, 1942

I have written so many letters to you my darling without a single response that my hopes of you remaining alive grow more dim as each day passes…the thought of living without you is too painful, too heart-wrenching to even contemplate. Robert, my true and only love, everyday and night (mostly late at night) I pray with all my soul, heart and mind that you are alive in this terrible war.


The most dreadful news came in the morning papers: The Melbourne’s, ‘Herald-Sun’ headline, read, “British Surrender Singapore to Japanese Invasion.”


What does this mean my darling?


How can a little country like Japan win over British, Dutch and Australian forces in only a matter of months? These Japanese appear to be monsters and now the rumour is Australia is next!


I’m so frightened for you my sweet, afraid for myself, afraid for mum and dad but mostly terrified for our baby girl, Kathleen.


Yes my darling, you have a 12 month beautiful girl who looks like an angel.


I know this may be a shock, and sound like a bad romantic war novel, but our beautiful daughter was conceived on that lovely, warm night on Brighton Beach. Remember the fire blazing and we all fell asleep. You snuggled into my “smelly” and sandy blanket…and it was the best night of my life. Because you were leaving in two months to Singapore, I didn’t want to worry you, perhaps I was wrong, but Kathleen is beautiful and is so much her father’s girl without any doubt in the world.


I wanted to tell you that just last night, while cradled in my arms nursing her, Kathleen peered up at me, and there were your beautiful blue eyes! She has your straight and also perfect aristocratic nose and high forehead, (her lovely blond hair will grow in time) but of course its Kathleen’s smile that is all yours which makes me cry from joy and sadness…because you are not here to see her wonders.


I’ve tried very hard to find you, but there are thousands of Australian soldiers in Singapore fighting in this god forsaken war. My friend Margaret, next door, receives letters all the time from her husband. Paul is stationed in London reading suspicious letters, (part of some British “secret” organization). Wish you were in London, my love.


I think about you all the time. I’ve sent many letters to the government and their reply has always come back to me in straight forward government nonsense…"Sorry, Mrs. Malone, we do not know Private Robert Malone's whereabouts… but when we here word...blah, blah and bloody blah.


I think about you every second of every day, my love, and imagine the moment you come home, gallantly walking off the ship with that beautiful smile and into my arms!


I imagine and dream every night of that wonderful face of yours, smiling and always so kind, (you were always a kind man) and coming back to us…taking me into your arms and kissing me.



I really know, once you finally see Kathleen, your beautiful daughter, our lives will change and we'll be a family and 'live happily ever after'…forgive me but I miss you so.


Please come back to us Robert.



We love you and only want one thing, this terrible war to end.


Once again, we love you and pray for the day you return so we can see that handsome and kind face.



Your love forever,



Kate & Kathleen


xxxx oooo

Philosophical Musings (Thoughts on Nonsense)

All too often (and I know I’m guilty of this) we seek to generalize or conclude about some aspect or observation of a person or the world – rather than attempt to really grasp (its) essence, at least confront openly and try to understand the parts, the reasons why it is the way it is…most of us automatically summarize and rush to a conclusion, flittingly without further reflection, move on to the next thing. Critical thought or a ‘process of thought’ has gone by the wayside, we merely skim over – speed read our way through life. Near enough is always good enough, basing our judgements on superficial and spurious premises, only adding to the world’s confusion rather than seeking earnestly to find the truth.

A good example of this absence of “thinking” is our use of language. Language is a tool in which to exist in the world. Language is culturally specific, that is to say, it changes, and certain words have a variety of different meanings depending on one’s race, culture or group. Wittgenstein called this Language Games, relative use of terms within particular frameworks can and does, make-up our knowledge of the world.

Language can either set us free or chain us to a dark and false way of existing. Often we engage in these ‘language games’ without thinking about what we are saying, and whether noticing what we say is based on fact, in other terms, communicating things that ‘can’ be described without falling into nonsense.

The 20th century thinker, Ludwig Wittgenstein, believed that confusion in the subject of philosophy lies in our use of language. It was his notion that the purpose of philosophy was to untangle the subjects ‘confusions”, its muddled language, attaining clarity of thought, expression and perspective, leading to understanding.

Most of us are guilty in our misuse of language when it comes to describing those things that are indescribable…in the case of metaphysics, for example, philosophers have expounded on the ‘true nature’ of the universe or the reasons for our existence, creating vast systems of belief, notions of the very core of life. These systems involve describing the human beings ‘true’ nature, and telling us how we feel or should feel, and why one act is wrong and another action, the right and virtuous one. Engaging in describing the indescribable is nothing but nonsense, but because we have forgotten how to think, we accept and ignorantly move on…

For most of us I believe it comes down to basic old laziness. We have forgotten how to think. Taking words and thought at face-value, accepting “received wisdom” without critical thought, without analysing, has made us into passive receptacles, always going with the flow. It is really too hard to think, so we hang back and chill, letting someone else run our minds and lives.

What is nonsense?

According to the Austrian logician, nonsense is an attempt to describe the indescribable.

When reading the newspaper, gazing at the television, listening to people speak, if vigilant, can hear nonsense, that is to say, people describing things that cannot be described. Because of our lack of “thinking” we make assumptions about people’s thoughts or feelings and judge these assumptions as true. When in reality, certainly, we cannot “know” the feelings of other people, but we assume we can. Really, no-one actually “knows” what another person thinks or feels. We assume we know based on certain language games, usually based on spurious evidence, and all these descriptions are, in the cold light of day, pure nonsense.

Psychoanalysis is a pertinent example of using language games to confuse and draw us into (its) game, based on theory, telling us how we feel and why we feel the way we do. Our modern world has pendulum swung from facts to games of assumption and specious knowledge of the unknowable, accepting nonsense because we have lost the aptitude of critical thought.

Why?

It is laziness, perhaps, or possibly unwillingness to go against something seemingly out of our control.

Language is the key to understanding, and using this tool to seek the truth rather than obscure it, is necessary, probably now more than ever.

But this could be, well… all nonsense.

The Mysterious Grandeur of The 12 Apostles.

Although having lived in Victoria, Australia for many years, have never ventured out to see these marvellous rock formations so named The 12 Apostles. Of course have seen pictures on many “Tourism’ advertisements in the newspaper and on television over time; however the opportunity never presented itself to actually witness these natural wonders.

We set-out in the early morning after breakfast along The Great Ocean Road towards Port Campbell, the home of this holy site. The drive was pleasant enough, the scenery a blend of rain forest and cattle-grazing green pastures.

Only a 90 minute journey from Apollo Bay, we arrived to blue skies and moderate winds. Many tourists could be seen walking on the man-made pathways along the edge of the cliffs, peering out over the coastline, gazing in utter amazement, at these strange rock formations of a seeming brittle-like sandstone composition, jutting out from the ocean like Excalibur, like ruins from and ancient civilization.

Because my intent on this trip was to immerse myself into the sight and sounds of the environment, brought out my sketch book and started to draw these unusual rocks. Finding the appropriate position, a comfortable perspective, my pen began to scratch in earnest along the page. During these moments, time slows down to a leisurely crawl; the “outside world” diminishes to almost nothing and all that exists is the object of my study.

Suddenly a tap on the shoulder interrupted my concentration and looking down, a little girl stood there looking up at me, and asked, “Are you an artist?”

Feeling a little off balance, I said, “Sometimes.”

“Can I see your picture?”

Bending down I showed her the half drawn sketch. She blushed and smiled, running off, I assume, in search of her mother. Resuming the drawing, a few minutes later, another tap on the shoulder and this time a middle-aged woman, slightly on the chunky side wearing a bright red ski jacket, asked, “Sorry, can I ask what you’re doing?”

“Trying to draw a different perspective of the rocks.”

I must have sounded a tad annoyed because she said, “Sorry, it looks really good.” Thanking her for the compliment, she strolled off in the opposite direction. I found this question a little strange because I thought it was obvious what I was doing.

Time passed and in the background I could hear an assortment of various languages: German, Japanese, Malaysian and French. Though not understanding any of them, their tone was the same, amazement at these mysterious rocks along a beautiful coastline.

There is something timeless and mysterious about the rocks: The sound of the surf and constant tide, slowly pushing the coastline back further and further inland. At the risk of sounding banal and clichéd, nothing is more true to form than nature’s art; these rocks are individual sculptures, specifically moulded, created by the hands of the sea.

My first experience with The Twelve Apostles was much more than a pleasure; it was an event to remember.

A Lighthouse and a Warm Little Cottage.

It is a wonderful treat to have a two week break in the middle of the school year. Since teaching high school, this time of the season, the winter months, can be breathtaking, so manage to take flight somewhere in this beautiful state in search of new sights, unusual surroundings, intent on moving outside the familiar. I’ve discovered this activity does wonders for one’s general sanity, well being and somehow creates balance to a life that has a tendency to tip too far in a certain direction. Moving out of the neibourhood, at least for a few days, is not the key to happiness, but can provide a rest from the banalities, routines and vagaries of one’s day to day existence.

Arrived in Apollo Bay after sunset in the midst of a rain storm.

The Great Ocean Road is truly a sight to behold, only the beginning of a week of sights to excite the senses and move the soul.

Our cottage is a lovely bed and breakfast. A two-story, re-furbished house…polished wooden floors, wooden staircase leading to a loft-like bedroom over looking the rolling green hills reminiscent of Sussex in England. The countryside is vast with cow’s grazing down towards the east and sheep, appearing like tiny white dots to the south against shades of brown and black while shadows travel leisurely across the landscape. As I stand at the window the outstanding quality about this environment is its silence. After the rain had stopped, however, the faint sound of the ocean’s surf gently echoed in the distance.

Entering the cottage for the first time, strangely, on the wall next to the fire-stove, hangs a large print of one of my favourite J.W. Waterhouse paintings: a little girl dressed in white leans over amongst ancient ruins to smell red and white roses in black vases. Why I call this “strange” is that this was the first Waterhouse painting I ever purchased, giving it to my grandmother as she spent her last months in a small room in my mother’s house. She loved this painting and it seemed to make her happy as it brightened the room. At first startled because I had not seen the painting for years, later it became a kind of comfort, creating a warm feeling in the house.

The next morning, we left the cottage around eleven, driving for only 30 minutes or so, to arrive at the light station.

As luck would have it, the morning was clear and crisp with the sound of the surf and the smell of salt in the air.

The Cape Otaway Light Station had been built in 1848 by orders from the Prime Minister at the time because several shipwrecks had occurred in the area.

On the grounds inland from the white tower, stood the old Head Light Keepers Residence, constructed in 1857; not far away was the Assistant Light Keepers Residence which has been turned into a café for visitors like us. The assistant Residence also was used as a school house for the children and one can actually feel the history as you move from room to room, almost hearing the joyous laughter of the students as they learned their lessons and played precariously next to the cliffs.

As an amateur artist, I had brought my sketch book along, sitting in the café and gazing at the magnificent lighthouse, a beacon of hope for lost sailors. Sipping my coffee and drawing with care, a local man walked up behind me, not saying a word. His presence did not bother me as I continued to draw the lighthouse. Once finished he said, “Most people take a few pictures and leave, grumbling about the admission. It’s good to see someone take the time to “look” at this wonderful place. It’s not a bad picture either, mate.”

I think it was the 19th century art critic and writer, John Ruskin, who advised that to truly experience meaning and the beauty of the sights you come upon when travelling, one should sit still and write about them, draw the landscapes, the buildings, the objects of interest, and the experience will be that much more meaningful and memorable. Drawing the light house did indeed create, personally, something akin to “being in the moment”…my appreciation for the place grew the longer I lingered and studied its details, nuances and history.

Later that night at home in the cottage, I stirred the fire, adding more wood causing the flames to come back to life. Showered, clean, fed, warm and tired, I jumped into bed between washed crisp sheets to then fall into a deep sleep with nothing but the scent of the sea and sweet silence.

May I come in?

The children have all now flown from the nest, grown older, following their respective goals and dreams. For most parents this can be a double edged sword, an irony, really; we want them to leave, but have a difficult time scooting them over the edge. We want them to stay with us forever but desperately need them to go.

When do you know it is time to push them out and create their own families?

Parents tell me that it is a natural process and so do the children.

My friend and I walk most mornings between 6am & 7am… we hear familiar sounds, see the same light appear, a new day born, can at times hear and understand each other’s thoughts. This is a magical time of the day. It is these times we talk freely, the topics ranging from philosophy to knitting.

On this walk she conveyed to me a wonderful tale.

“My brother is a great soul, he makes more money than he can spend, loves his life with his partner because well, all the kid’s have grown and moved away.

This can be hard for some parents whose entire life revolved around their children…a void created, a void needing to be filled.

On a walk one morning he came across a little Cocker Spaniel, acting strange, following him…

In fact the little girl was relentless, following my brother home, and remaining in the front yard, wearing a forlorn expression, hoping to be fed.

Concerned after many weeks, because she was a well behaved and a loving animal, now naming the dog, Stephanie, my brother set upon finding the true owners, and why, in God’s name, would anyone leave a middle aged Cocker Spaniel with so much heart?

It was then my brother, feeling guilty, thinking Stephanie was missed, made a flyer and distributed it around the neibourhood.

LOST DOG – COCKER SPANIEL: BLOND, OLD AND BEAUTIFUL. Please contact…

After a few days someone responded.

An address on the note, my brother followed its directions and met the last owners of little Stephanie.

“We are in a bad way. Can you take our dog into your home? No one wants her, can you take her?”

My brother found the house to be empty of furniture and of life. Most had already moved out and moved on.

Of course my brother agreed to take Stephanie and the previous owners seemed relieved.

However for some reason Stephanie had disappeared, but only for a day.

The next day the little Cocker Spaniel appeared at the front door of my brother’s house with an old and tattered “teddy bear” in her mouth. The dog knew this move was now permanent and set out to find her most valued possession, to then join her in her new home. Stephanie absolutely knew that the move was a sure thing and brought her prized possession, her stuffed teddy bear.

The void my brother’s children had left was now filled with Stephanie.”

I found this story touching because all too often we believe animals to be less than intelligent, devoid of character or soul.

The story of Stephanie confirms that animals do have character and more soul than most.

Small Tales of Love

Fill It Up!

Over the last ten to twenty years, perhaps more, a phenomenon or fascinating chain of events occur because of a particular area of “focused attention”. While in university, for example, studying literature and philosophy, I’d perchance read an article on Neo-Gothic architecture and suddenly I notice that the entire city of Melbourne, more than likely, has the finest examples of this 19th century revival – neo gothic architecture now is everywhere! By focusing my attention on the subject, this opens my awareness, and suddenly I begin to ‘see’ it all around me…

Another example is music. I will focus on a particular group, style, time period, genre or composer to then suddenly begin to hear it on a daily bases, all though by pure chance: hearing Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings in local pubs, over the radio and while visiting a friend’s home… I love this piece of music, and discovering it, listening to the piece’s haunting sounds in my home, it seems to move out into the world…and all at once it is played everywhere.

Another example is specific subjects of study.

In the case this week, my focus of study has been the philosophical discipline of Ethics, more particularly, Aristotle’s wonderful instruction on virtues and his “Doctrine of the Mean”. Rather than launching into an explanation of this doctrine, let me just say that the virtues themselves are worthy to emulate or strive towards.

It is my observation that all of us, whether we are aware of it or not, are in possession of at least one particular virtue. It does not matter whether priest, criminal, despot, poor, rich or in between, we possess one "strength", one virtue...compassion, courage, generosity, kindness, loyalty, humility, perseverance, patience, etc. To be sure, we all have at least one of these strengths and will “present” this virtue in life without even thinking about it because it is part of ourselves, something close to home.

The other day I listened to an acquaintance tell a story that is worthy of re-telling.

He is an American from New York City that has been visiting Australia over the last seven years because he married a good Aussie girl who insists on visiting her parents once a year…fair enough. John is a big guy and very intelligent and this latest trip “down under”, has brought the family a little granddaughter only six years of age.

Last weekend they visited one of our more popular shopping centres, that is, grandma, mum, dad and the little one.

As some men do not like “shopping” per say, my acquaintance felt hungry, a little tired and somewhat grumpy, telling the two, that he was taking the little one to the food court for a feed.

The little girl likes to ‘talk’ (non-stop, he says) and climb on his back like a good six year old would…

Not at all feeling well, he told his daughter in a somewhat stern voice:

“Daddy loves you but today has run out of patience, so I really want you to be good.”

As they sat down at a table, the little girl put her hand against dad’s temple, like a faucet, making a weird noise.

Dad asks, “What are you doing, honey?”

“I’m filling you back up with patience!”

He said that he stopped for a brief moment and looked at his little girl and knew that she was very special.

During the meal, the pet casually leans over and says, “Dad how is your patience?”

He said he just kissed her at this point.

Why I bring this story up in this BLOG, is that short but interesting anecdotes about life are always fun to read and more often educational.

Patience, unfortunately, is not one of my virtues, but one I’m striving towards and to hear that story confirms that patience is one of the most important virtues of them all...

Reflection on the “Socially Negative” at School and their Affect on the Everyday

One of the most basic tenets of teaching in the classroom is the attitude of the teacher.

The students’ can be tired, upset, caught-up in teenage social issues, ready to fight or wanting only calm after a particularly rough game of football on the school oval. A thirteen or seventeen year old feels life very strongly because these emotions and feelings are new and dealing with them is, for the most part, a guessing game. Really, these young human beings do not “deal” with these new feelings but seem to lash out like cornered animals because this is the only response, instinctively, they currently know. Unfortunately we sometimes, as teachers, will over look these in-your-face emotions, only wanting to deliver the curriculum, move the day forward, get the day over…thus no connection between teacher and student is made, nothing of common ground is established – students react and teachers react thus the environment becomes a dark cloud of irrationalism.

My point is that despite an apparent riot in the classroom, there is a process going on; dealing with emotions run amok…and shouting or threats of punishment from the teacher mostly go unheard and in the end have no effect nor outcome.

I can see or sense when a girl or boy have been deliberately harassed or intentionally humiliated or bullied. I can see it in their eyes – fear and humiliation or embarrassment are the most frequent and common expressions.

Classroom management and caring for the individual student's welfare is a big job but truly vital because without it, learning and teaching does not occur.

Apart from teaching the curriculum, these issues should be our main concern.

Despite main stream media and their campaign to make the teaching profession something low or unworthy…or inefficient, (most journalists are over paid hacks, by the way) popular society takes these lies in and responds to teachers inappropriately. I attempt to communicate to the majority of parents and succeed more often because we have something in common: the welfare of the child.

We try and try very hard because this is our purpose.

My grief is not the students or the children but the “big” children one has to deal with every day: one’s work associates.

The ranting of children can be understood but the negative ranting of adults can be extremely troublesome.

My question is this: what affect do complaining, negative comments and general down tone behaviour have on one’s working environment?

The answer: Probably more than you think.

To walk into the staff room after, for example, a successful lesson, to find someone complaining about how “nothing is ever done in this place” without providing any solutions, can bring down the most optimistic teacher.

A negative employee will:

Come to work in the morning with a negative expression: unhappy or seemingly ‘depressed’ about something.

Despite one’s best efforts, the negative employee will criticise everything, finding fault with any positive comment you put out there...

“The students seem relaxed today,”

“Yea, that’s because they’re asleep. Wait till 4th period!”

“The new attendance system is working well. Don’t you think?”

“It is crap. “They” (meaning the management) have no idea! Sooner I find another position the better!”

Often times, they never do.

These seemingly innocent comments or flippant statements affect everyone and general moral, overall, plummets.

The negative staff member will most often use generalities, ‘they’, ‘them’, ‘everyone’ and ‘all’ when assigning blame.

In group conversation, someone will comment on a good situation or person, the negative staff member will counter the comment with a negative generality: wording their statement so that there is no possible retort.

When attempting to describe this kind of person, words like: insidious, covert, subtle, anal, annoying, anti-social, destructive, sadistic, selfish, sarcastic, power-aware, conscienceless, immature and cruel are a few traits that instantly come to mind.

When in the work environment, merely a genuine “good morning” can make someone’s day a lot brighter. Providing solutions to well known problems can change conditions for the better. Helping a fellow worker who you believe is over-worked can change the entire feeling of the work space. Nipping negative comments at the start, in other words, challenging them as they arise, will force them to move away.

A negative free work environment is a realistic goal.

Most of us want to at least come to work and do our best without someone criticising every movement and decision made.

Some common sense advice:

Be vigilant of those that only think of themselves, utter general criticisms, try to make you look bad and smile as they wriggle out of another situation, while, as always, pointing the finger at someone else or some abstract “they”.

At least be aware of those that pour vinegar into the sugar bowl. Notice the negative comment, think it through: is it legitimate gripe or simply another “whinge?” If the latter, ask them, on the spot, what “They” are doing about it. In most cases the whinging will stop, at least in your presence.

Mostly though, one will and should keep one’s eye on the task, which are the students, their welfare, their learning and their general well being.

Because a negative free environment is a productive one, when suddenly the staff discover it is a joy to come to work. Most importantly, this joy spills out over the students, and this can only be a good thing.