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THE SUM OF ALMOST EVERYTHING

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One of the great things about not being great is that you don’t leave much of a footprint anywhere. At 65 years of age, self-reflection leads to an almost ‘inert’ current status. In fact, over those entire six and a half decades the dashboard controls have probably been fixed on the same settings. The journey has featured minor meanderings, a couple of unscheduled turns that were fairly quickly accommodated and a general movement in the direction of the grand arrow. And that’s about it. As the abyss begins to take on a recognisable form, predictability and familiarity have, so far, been key factors in the process. In keeping with all this ordinariness, my profile includes-       having a ‘role model’-free physique. Nothing in my social, physical and emotional domains lends itself for copying or emulation by others.           a benign attitude towards other punters. I figure that most citizens are just like me and should be painted with the same brush…at least in theory.
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TOWARDS THE MEN IN BLACK

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  Novelty is not a part of my genome and I’m definitely ‘addicted’ to habit. As you get older, rituals form an increasing part of day to day living. They’re regular, time-wasting and provide comfort. In fact, they tick all the boxes for a unit who doesn’t work and has a few spare hours locked in on most days. I was in Sydney this morning and, while engaged on my compulsory tour of the music shops along York, George and Pitt Streets, I calculated just how long I had been doing ‘the walk’. The closest that I could figure was about fifty years. The outlets may have changed but my intent on searching for those hard to get releases (in varying formats, given my advanced years) has not. Luis Gasca’s For those who chant (1972) and Suntreader’s Zin-Zin (1973) might still be elusive but they haven’t weakened the crusade. Perhaps the chase is as important as the vinyl. Who knows? I can remember in the early seventies heading off from Abbotsford on Thursday nights or Saturday m
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SOUL MINING

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  Investigating the past often involves travel and a second visit to Cootamundra occupied a few days for Kerry and me during this last week. Kerry was after some further intelligence on her family and the home of the turtle is definitely a base station for research and signage. In transit, we passed through Harden on Thursday morning and it seemed almost deserted. The hub of the community (i.e. the Chinese restaurant) featured a ‘Closed’ card on the door which was probably significant. In fact, the whole place looked like a series of cardboard cut-outs which had slightly faded in the sun. While decay might be too harsh a word, there was an absence of humans and activity. Kerry and I walked the main street alone. Even the one operating pub only had action in the cellars and not on ground level. Muffled noise which couldn’t quite be pegged. Perhaps a theme for our task. The entry to Cootamundra involved a first-up stop at the cemetery. Surprisingly large, it was very much
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PARADISE LOST

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  I now play a lot of golf. In fact, over the last three years I calculate that I’ve played more golf than the first six decades of stomping around the goat tracks on the Cumberland Plain put together. But the abundance of time now allocated to chasing the pill through fairways, bunkers, the rough and fuckin’ crows’ nests has come at cost. Like most things, delusion has infected any type of reasonable self-analysis of my game. In the younger years, I figured that the main reason I played golf like an arsehole could simply be put down to the fact that I didn’t play enough rounds. Family, work and the alarm clock all conspired to thwart my attempts to have a fair crack at the title. My own diagnosis was that I possessed the skills and latent talent that would be immediately liberated once the time and motion creeps disappeared and the associated prognosis was one of realising golfing nirvana- along with the added bonus of a complimentary token to the afterlife. Win/Win!
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PRISONERS OF AGE

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  One of the greatest myths in Boomertown is that advancing years open up worlds of wonder, exploration, understanding and relative tranquillity. Time itself doesn’t appear as the enemy or, at least, the force that travels around the town with a big stick. A strict adherence to the clock is for the workers, the kiddies and anyone else who is unsuitable for membership to the Sexy Super Sixty-plus Club. There are regulation descriptions and statements that are always used by seniors to piss around their turf. Examples include- ·          I don’t know where I found the time to work. ·          This is the life. ·          I’m living the dream. ·          Life is good. ·          I worked all my life. Now is the time to ‘enjoy’. Please note that the veracity of any or all of these statements should never be tested since myth deconstruction is trouble-making at best and ‘communist’ at the basement level. The interesting thing about boomer dogma
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VALHALLA BOUND- Part 4 (The last)

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  The fourth and final leg of the trek to the hall involved a cruise. The departure point was Bergen and our ports of call over the twelve day journey would include Eidfjord, Stavanger, Kristiansand and Oslo (all within Norway) followed by Gothenberg (Sweden), Alborg (Denmark), Berlin and finally Copenhagen. Bergen was a revelation. Deceptively large, the joint was busy, beautiful and, in certain areas, boisterous. Its links to trade were obvious given the location and it had formed an important part of the Hanseatic League centuries ago. There were boats of all types in the harbour when we were there and it was quite a show. The galleries and museums were tops. We walked around Bergen Art Museum uninterrupted. I think that at one stage we were the only ones there. Munch, Picasso, Klee and Christensen were all represented. Installations were in the city’s parks and Kerry and I, on our second night, walked in on a classical guitar performance happening in an old (I think
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VALHALLA BOUND- Part 3

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  Following the deferrying at Cairnryan, the Regans’ Scottish leg kicked off with a café stop somewhere on the way to Ayr. While waiting for our coffees in a booth we heard a ‘conversation’ taking place with some youngish tradie locals at the counter. They were laughing, talking, laughing again, talkies etc. etc. and Kerry and I just shook our heads. We had no fuckin’ idea about the keynote topic, what the words were nor the reason for their mirth. These citizens speak a whole different language and yet it’s nominally ‘English’. The coffees were good, though. We visited Troon later that afternoon. First rate place and the pro even gave me a couple of free cards to the two testing layouts (Portland and Royal Troon) that snake their way alongside the beach. A busload of sharply dressed yanks arrived while we were there and emptied an attached enclosed trailer of golf bags. No push buggies for these boys. If the last lap on the ghost train or the trek to Valhalla is to
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