February 2009

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burnt-houses1

Chap called Sheahan up in Reedy Creek got into bother a few years ago when he bulldozed 247 eucalypts around his house, thus creating a 100 metre moat against fire. Nillumbik Shire fined him $50,000 and his costs added as much again. After the fire last Saturday, his is the only house left standing for several kilometres around. The Sheahans lost some vehicles, their TV antenna melted, it took four of them, all CFA trained, to save the house, but save it they did.

The Shire of Nillumbik will not permit ratepayers to cut down a tree further away from the house than six metres. That’s the trunk we’re talking about, so plenty of houses in the shire are overhung with branches. And a fire-wind can snap large trees at the base.

Since Wordability HQ is at the southern edge of Nillumbik we take a close and particular interest in this policy. We understand that in our area, which belongs to something called the Green Wedge, the shire is intent on preserving an uninterrupted canopy. That’s an uninterrupted canopy of volatile eucalyptus leaves.

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We, too, have incurred the wrath of the shire when we felled half-a-dozen trees just outside the three-metre limit, partly for fire safety, partly because their roots had gummed up the septic system. Not good enough, said the man in the cardigan, and before leaving he took a lot of photographs. My partner got us off. She wrote a magnificent letter of placation, pointing out how many trees we had in fact planted, how many environmental weeds removed. Nothing further was heard, and as you can see, there are rather a lot of trees still around, if not quite the uninterrupted canopy of councillors’ dreams.

I wonder if this catastrophe (over 300 dead, 1800 homes destroyed, 7000 people homeless) will mark the beginning of a new phase in Australians’ attitude to the bush? Phase 1, as we know, was to find it ugly and alien and impossible to draw with any verisimilitude. In phase 2 we learnt to love the gumtree, people hung Hans Heysens on their walls but continued to plant camellias.

1950s-suburban-house-canberra

A 1950s ideal. But notice the gumtree lurking in the background . . .

The 1960s ushered in Phase 3, in which urbanites began to apologise for our existence, native gardens became fashionable and the green movement was in full swing. This is the period in which places like ours became sought-after and protected.

Not that we’re all that authentically natural. Our district was settled in the 1840s by loggers and goldminers. (Yes, before Ballarat.) Between them they pretty much took out the over-story. Most of the bush around here is regrowth, some only thirty or forty years old. People who have bought houses here since that time – most of us – chose a home among the gumtrees. In so far as they understood them, they thought the risks were worth it.

Saturday will begin a new period of strife over these issues – that’s abundantly clear from the press. And in these places on the edge of the cities, I predict we will see the beginnings of Phase 4, a return to the view that the bush is all very well, but it needs to be tamed and caged if people are to live alongside it. As for those who live in the middle of it, the people in those small places like Reedy Creek (which the press has taken to calling hamlets) their situation is desperately grim. To construct a genuinely safe set of dwellings will involve not only new building standards, but the destruction of the bush around them. Will Mr Sheahan prove a prophet in his own country?

native-rock-garden

How do you feel?

ABC headline tonight:

Dead baby discovery ‘hard on police’ Photo

It’s not that I don’t understand that police cop it. Talk to one, you’ll find out. But the headline strikes a note we hear incessantly. Everyone covering the fires for the ABC has been all over everybody else asking how they feel. Announcers even ask other announcers. Now as someone who lives in the path of Saturday’s fires, half-an-hour south of St Andrews, where people died, whose house and possibly whose family were spared by a late wind-change, I have a few feelings of my own. They seem to me completely without importance. Have we so much energy to spare from those who are truly suffering and in such terrible need that we should go about cossetting one another? Have we forgotten that there is strength in just getting on with it?

Stunned by facts

Bright young woman told me today that she worries about what the web is doing to conversation in her age group. Supposing people are sitting around and someone wonders what colour is the Peruvian flag. You could kick this around for a while, maybe guess, maybe design one for them, based on your ignorance of Peru, maybe stray off onto llamas, Shining Path guerillas, whatever; you could talk to one another. But instead (she tells me) someone looks it up on Wikipedia and there’s your answer, and there’s your conversation over and done. Pretty soon someone will mention something cool on YouTube and you all wind up standing around looking at the screen. And no-one’s going to remember the colour of the Peruvian flag.

Obama swooning

In the midst of the joy, a quiet reminder that hope is not quite enough.

I couldn’t count the number of times I heard the words “transformational” or “inspirational,” or heard the 1960s evoked by people with no apparent memory that what drove the social revolution of the 1960s was not babies in cute T-shirts but the kind of resistance to that decade’s war that in the case of our current wars, unmotivated by a draft, we have yet to see. It became increasingly clear that we were gearing up for another close encounter with militant idealism?by which I mean the convenient but dangerous redefinition of political or pragmatic questions as moral questions?”convenient” because such redefinition makes those questions seem easier to answer, “dangerous” because this was a time when the nation was least prepared to afford easy answers.

It might not be ‘politics as usual’, but it’s still going to be politics. Deals will be done, compromises reached, bad things will happen. Let’s hope the bien-pensants don’t succeed in smothering the Obama presidency in the treacle they used for Kennedy. Then we won’t have to wait a generation to find out what happened. I’m too old to wait.

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Statement by Treasury Secretary Henry M. Paulson Jr. following Congress?s passage of today?s rescue package:

As we all know, lax writing practices earlier this decade led to irresponsible writing and irresponsible reading. This simply put too many families into books they could not finish. We are seeing the impact on readers and neighborhoods, with five million Americans now behind on their reading. Some are just walking away from novels they should never have been reading in the first place. What began as a subprime reading problem has spread to other, less-risky readers and contributed to excess inventories.

Julian Gough in the New York Times. He doesn’t spare the ratings agencies, either.

Hat tip to the good Dr Phillips.

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O to break loose. All life’s grandeur
is something with a girl in summer.

_ Robert Lowell, ‘Waking Early Sunday Morning’

The lines came back to me tonight after forty years. It was 1968 when I first read Lowell’s Near the Ocean. I was 25, the summers were hot, young women were still ‘girls’, the alliance of sex and grandeur not yet comic. I knew what those lines were about.

When I went to check the quotation the web offered up this:

Lowell’s decline begins shortly after his next volume, Near the Ocean, whose opening poem also contains the dated and sexist couplet ‘All life’s grandeur/ is something with a girl in summer’.

Tom Paulin, reviewing Lowell’s Collected Poems in the Guardian
and making certain sure, in the manner of the old Soviet Writers Union, to show that he knows who and what to denounce.

Here’s the complete stanza.

O to break loose. All life’s grandeur
is something with a girl in summer …
elated as the President
girdled by his establishment
this Sunday morning, free to chaff
his own thoughts with his bear-cuffed staff,
swimming nude, unbuttoned, sick
of his ghost-written rhetoric!

And the complete poem, the strange, strained, fitfully brilliant poem is here.

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