The dance of the honey bee

I'm going to disappoint some of you when you find out what this posting's about, but stick with me, if you will.....

   Once you get the idea properly, Twitter is like the dance of the honey bee, telling all the others where the nectar is.

   That’s my paraphrasing of someone else’s quote, though the supreme irony here is that, try as I might, I can’t find the original reference to it!

   Oh well, it doesn’t matter. Someone will turn it up for me, I’ll bet. Have a look at this:

   http://tinyurl.com/5tmo6nv

   This morning, Twitter has done many things. It has brought me breaking news from the best of sources, and because the sources are people who have a variety of other interests we share, they post references to other things that I just wouldn’t find otherwise.

   Take this for instance. Not only is it well written, its contents are fascinating for anyone contemplating a trip to a Japanese bath house:

   I change out of my clothes into a cotton yukata and geta (traditional wooden sandals) which, like almost all house shoes in japanese hotels, are several sizes too small. They force me to walk in an alarming see-sawing clomp. After a couple of trips to bathe, tradition gives way to convenience and I swap the geta for the rubber pool shoes everyone else has chosen.

   The ritual of communal bathing (like any situation in which you get naked with strangers) is one of those areas where a basic knowledge of etiquette comes in handy. British bathing habits are perplexing to the Japanese, who wouldn’t dream of sitting and soaping themselves in a tub full of dirty water and skin follicles.

   All the actual washing is done outside. You squat and sluice yourself with water from a shower-head or a wooden bucket, then vigorously and thoroughly clean every part, rubbing yourself down with a little washcloth. Only then are you ready to get into the water.

   Once you’re in, it’s polite not to immerse your head, or your cloth. Many people fold them up and put them on top of their heads. A foreigner in a rural onsen is, to say the least, something of a curiosity, and people watch me, albeit discreetly. Soon enough my novelty value wears off, and I join in the soothing ritual of bathing, scrubbing, soaking, steaming and cooling down in a tepid outdoor pool.

   As dusk falls and the lanterns are lit, I sit and watch water tumbling down a twenty metre cliff. Then, crossing the little wooden bridge which spans the river, every pore clear, every muscle relaxed, I go to dinner, which is eaten communally in Aoni’s main hall. Perhaps fifty guests sit down at long low tables and tuck into a meal of seasonal food, matsutake mushrooms and grilled fish and rich autumnal miso soup formally presented on lacquer trays. By nine the place is silent. Everyone is in bed.

   http://www.harikunzru.com/following-basho-through-tohoku-2007

   And that’s just one bit of it. The rest of the story is equally fascinating. By following the right people on Twitter, you get a lot more of this sort of thing where that came from, if you choose to go on with it. But please remember, that's just an example of one type of reference you may unearth.

   As I said in another Blob entry, it’s easy as pie once you know how, but if you want real news, stories and information from a variety of sources compatible with your fancy, then try this.

1. Go to

   https://twitter.com/

2. Create an account for yourself. It’s free.

3. If you feel a bit game, type your first message to the world into the ‘What’s happening?’ box. But you don’t have to.

4. Type deniswright into the search field at the top.

   You’ll see some of my tweets. Start by ‘following’ me. (There’s an option there for you to do that.)

   If you do that, I’ll ‘follow’ you, I promise, as Twitter will tell me that you are a ‘follower’ of me. That will show you how things work.

   Really, you don’t need to do anything much more but just see what comes up. A lot of them will say something and give you a source to go to. For example:

   ==============================================

   TheEconomist The Economist

   Japan’s steadfast ability to endure adversity is being tested http://econ.st/faF2vb

   ==============================================

   abcthedrum The Drum & Unleashed

   The inability to reconsider the image of the female body has damaged the women of my generation, writes Kate Phelan http://bit.ly/dU9m3y

   ==============================================

   Colvinius Mark Colvin

   Bit of a split at The Oz over the Assange #qanda question. Shanahan - it was a disgrace. @overingtonc - it wasn't. colv.in/eXDPSe

   ==============================================

   washingtonpost The Washington Post

    by MADinMelbourne

   Missing DNA may explain differences between chimps and humans http://wapo.st/fHsxJL

   ==============================================

   TimeOutTokyo TimeOutTokyo

    by drng

   'A fire is happening, but it's an ordinary fire. It is emitting heat, and radioactive substances are thought to be escaping.'

   3 minutes ago

   ==============================================

   I’d be interested to know if you find it useful. Of course, you can always put in the search field at the top a subject that interests you, and find things related to that. I’m just happy to be your guinea-pig!

   

Mt Fuji's warning

My nephew, Glenn Stockwell, is Professor in Japanese Applied Linguistics at Waseda University in Tokyo. (That's right, he teaches Japanese students about their own language!)
   A few days ago, he and his wife Esther took a train trip out of Tokyo and while travelling past Mt Fuji, he photographed the famous mountain from an unusual angle. 
   But it wasn't the angle that got my attention; it was the wisps of smoke puffing up from the crater. This happens from time to time and usually indicates there something unusual going on down there in the bowels of the earth. 
   Last week, Glenn sent this picture to his mother, my sister Jan, and she passed it on to me.
   I couldn't help noticing that the clouds looked eerily like a skull, maybe with a bit of hair hiding the ear, the 'mouth' also blowing a wisp of smoke as well, and I remarked on this two days ago to my sisters.

In the ancient chronicles of Japan, such as the Nihongi, the islands of Japan are all children of the deities Izanagi and Izanami, and the story of the birth of these islands is a fascinating one. With the massive earthquake and tsunami of 11 March 2011, maybe the venerable mountain, which hasn't erupted since 1707, was sending out a warning that something big was going to happen! 

As a footnote to this story, Glenn and Esther were going home by train yesterday afternoon when the earthquake struck, and their experience, like that of thousands of other commuters, was that the train stopped. After a long wait they decided to walk the five km from where the train stopped, and made it to their apartment. Jan just wrote to me a description of what they found when they got there.

They then walked up fourteen flights of stairs to their unit before finally reaching their front door - as all the lifts were closed down.  Inside was a bit of a mess.  Their fridge had been moved about 30cm out from the wall and the door was hanging open with a lot of the contents on the floor.  They were amused to find their eggs still unbroken in the fridge – but cheese and other foods were all over the floor.  Cupboard drawers were open – and things had fallen over.  They were unable to get into their bathroom because a large drawer had jammed open against the door, so there was a bit of drama there until Glenn, ever resourceful, managed to get one of his swords through about 5cm of space and move the object that was stopping the drawer from closing.  Their TV was still safely attached to the wall – so obviously the person who installed it did so with earthquakes in mind!

They are still experiencing regular aftershocks, and probably will for some time to come.

Let's hope the earth settles down again and gives Japan the time it needs to deal with the immense task ahead. And let's also hope that Mt Fuji needs to give no further warnings for quite some time at least!

Grading brain tumours

It is always encouraging when people come up with the growing number of instances where people with brain tumours have extended life with recent treatments. As someone whose life has extended well beyond expectations for a person with a Grade 4 tumour, I am very happy for others with reports of success, whether spectacular or limited.

   It’s a year ago, almost to the day, when we arrived back in Armidale, my having spent months in Melbourne being blasted by radiotherapy, experiencing the discomfort of oral chemotherapy, injections, blood tests and the stress of travel, appointments with doctors, specialists, etc.

   The time since then has been a rollercoaster, no doubt about it. The slow steady deterioration that led mid year to the use of steroids and the beginning of the soul-sapping intravenous chemotherapy made it seem almost inevitable that the battle was being lost and would be before 2010 was out.

   But the use of Avastin changed things for the better, and in a strange way, I found it hard to adjust to an extension of reasonable quality of life when little hope of that remained. The thought that it could all come undone in an instant makes one wary of hoping, and almost afraid to do something positive only to find crushing disappointment just over the hill.

   But it is possible to get past that as the time lengthens.

   I really started out to write this posting with one important thing to get across. Frequently people report success stories with little or no knowledge of the condition. A happy report that someone had a brain tumour removed decades ago and is fine now is wonderful, but when I dig around, I often find that the tumour was benign, as in the case of Sylvia.

   Long periods of extended life with malignant tumours usually reveal that the grade of tumour that the person has is, or was, low – not so aggressive a type as mine is. Not too impossible to remove by surgical or chemical means known at present, at least.

   A GBM (i.e., Grade 4) is the most difficult to inhibit. The brain is intimately interconnected – that’s why it functions so well in all its tasks – and a GBM hijacks these pathways and sends its cloned cells along the myriads of connections, nerve cells and synapses in a way that other brain tumours don’t. If not with radiotherapy and chemotherapy, it can only be treated with inhibitors, such as Avastin, or perhaps unconventional methods that may or may not be useful. To be truthful, I have not heard of any success with these on a highly aggressive GBM, but will be delighted if someone can prove me wrong.

   I guess what I’m saying is that success stories, cures, extended reprieves etc. have to take such things into account, together with age and medical record prior to detection of the cancer, tumour location as well as psychological outlook. Nothing is off the books completely, but the spectrum is very broad.

   This of course is true of other cancers as well, in different parts of the body, some of which can be even more aggressive by the time they’re discovered than a GBM.

   The main thing is to be as realistic, positive, and active as possible, and to deal with things as they arise while looking as far into the future as we can. But let's not treat them as if they are all the same.

Scott's traffic tale - and my Sikh driver

I am retailing my nephew Scott’s description of riding a motorbike in India (10 years ago? 15?) after reading my tale of Dhaka traffic. It’s a very good description, and reminded me of a funny story of my first ever (1973) visit to India in the traffic in Delhi, when I was riding in a taxi with a Sikh driver. If you haven’t read what Scott said, here it is - then I’ll tell my tale:

Ahhh, brings back memories of untamed traffic in India. I know downtown Mysore is no match for Dhaka traffic, but I did actually ride a motorbike regularly in that throng, and I remember having to put my feet out to push away the rickshaws to avoid becoming part of the pavement! I think I have a better understanding of what a sardine might feel like, should two schools collide.

That’s what it felt like. I dug through and found this snippet from my journal relating to road rules ... "While I'm on the subject, I have a theory about how Indian roads work. We look at the highway and see two lanes, but for Indians there are five. The left most is for pedestrians, push bikes, motor bikes, autos and cattle drawn carts. The next is for cars, trucks and busses (kings of the road). The middle of the road is the overtaking lane, sometime in both directions at once. The 4th lane is for oncoming cars, buses and trucks, or sometimes the really impatient. The right most lane is for pedestrians, bikes, etc going the other way.

Road rules are based on size and speed. Motor bikes can often zip around most traffic, though on the better roads they are limited by their small engine size (175c is the largest bike you can buy unless you import it!) Buses and trucks are the masters of the highway, giving way to no-one, occasionally not even each other. This usually results in horrendous accidents. Overtaking involves one game of chicken after the next.

It can be pretty hair raising at times. Being run off of the road is always an option." I'm looking out the window now at the freeway in Brisbane, three very neat rows each side of evenly spaced cars and a few trucks, no cattle, push bikes, autos, ox-carts or foot traffic, all driving in the same direction, obediently contained within neatly marked out lines, an empty emergency lane to the side --- what a contrast! :-)

Now my story: 

I was riding in this yellow and black taxi with a very typical Sikh driver of the early 70s. Fortunately in New Delhi, a system had been devised for traffic control using many large roundabouts, which meant that if traffic collided, it usually was at least going in more or less the same direction instead of vehicles coming head-on at each other, so accidents were not quite so serious as they might have been.

On one of these roundabouts there were about three lanes (unofficially!) of traffic of all sorts as Scott described, and we were careering round the roundabout at great speed, and a taxi on our right wanted to cross our path to turn left. It got closer and closer, and there was no way my driver was yielding an inch of hard won space.

At the very last possible moment, a microsecond away from disaster, the other driver hit the anchors with a terrible squeal of brake pad steel on steel, and barged in just behind us.

I turned to my driver and said, ‘Wow! That driver – he had a nerve, didn’t he?’

My turbaned Sikh driver turned briefly to me as we continued at the same breakneck pace, and smiled hugely.

‘Not enough, Sahib. Not quite enough!’

Why men are never depressed

I am assured by a good friend who sent this that it is ‘an oldie but a goodie’ but somehow I’ve never seen it before. That means I can’t imagine that anyone else has!

I do think it’s worth a run here and I hope you get some fun from it. There’s just enough truth in it to make men even happier and women to sigh a little more deeply.

Men Are Happy People - What do you expect from such simple creatures?

Your last name stays put.

The garage is all yours.

Wedding plans take care of themselves.

Chocolate is just another snack. 

You can wear a white T-shirt to a water park.

You can wear NO shirt to a water park.

Car mechanics tell you the truth.

The world is your urinal. You never have to drive to another gas station restroom because this one is just too icky.

You don't have to stop and think of which way to turn a nut on a bolt. 

Wrinkles add character.

Wedding dress $5000. Tux rental-$100.

People never stare at your chest when you're talking to them.

New shoes don't cut, blister, or mangle your feet.

One mood all the time.

Phone conversations are over in 30 seconds flat.

You know stuff about tanks.

A five-day holiday requires only one suitcase.

You can open all your own jars.

You get extra credit for the slightest act of thoughtfulness.

If someone forgets to invite you, he or she can still be your friend.

Your underwear is $8.95 for a three-pack.

Three pairs of shoes are more than enough.

You almost never have strap problems in public.

You are unable to see wrinkles in your clothes.

Everything on your face stays its original color.

The same hairstyle lasts for years, maybe decades.

You only have to shave your face and neck.

You can play with toys all your life.

One wallet and one pair of shoes -- one color for all seasons.

You can wear shorts no matter how your legs look. You can "do" your nails with a pocket knife.

You have freedom of choice concerning growing a mustache.

You can do Christmas shopping for 25 relatives on December 24 in 25 minutes.

No wonder men are happy.

Twitter power

Last week Mark Colvin posted a tweet regarding an answer I gave on this blog about future treatment for my brain tumour. If you look at the stats for my blog for the week, you can see the effect of that. 

   Normally, as you can see at a casual glance, the viewings go along at a steady rate as family and friends check in to see how I'm going, either by looking at the WHAT'S NEW! page or the last blog entry, but that big spike coincides with his posting the URL of my comment.


   Colvin of course has a large following on Twitter, because he makes interesting comments on breaking news with integrity and good humour, and points people to the net location of stories by those he knows are insightful and worth reading. Even if a small percentage of people pick up any link he mentions, that would undoubtedly boost numbers dramatically, if temporarily, for a small blogsite.


   I am in the fortunate position where I don't really care whether people visit the site or not - I just know that family and friends can get a quick update here without having to ask what may be difficult questions, or read a new story from my past if and when they choose. But even as a total rookie on Twitter as I am, it doesn't take long, once you find the right sort of people to follow, to understand what immense speed, power and spread of information it is capable of generating.

Killer George and the high jump (Final Part)

Part 1 | Story Index | Home  

Three truths, in fact. He was my age, he stood a whole head taller than I did, and I would be competing against him in the high jump.

   So, the games began. Handsome certificates printed by the State Department of Education were handed out to the place getters; blue for first, red for second, and yellow for third. These were much prized by those who got them – or at least, some of us. I certainly did. The winner's name was written on the certificate and signed by the headmaster of the hosting school.

   The little collection of these certificates I had, including a blue certificate for broad jump at the Gladstone sports of which I was very proud, was lost when a carton they were in was damaged by water. The soggy mould-ridden mess had to be thrown away. Very sad. Blue certificates were hard to come by, especially in the Gladstone sports competition in which Calliope took part as well as the Boyne Valley sports. It was quite a bit tougher.

   Oh well. Mould happens, as they say.

   I mention the certificates because it needed a good army of scribes to keep up with the writing of these, and as they were won this was done in shifts by parents, usually mothers. Our mother was doing her bit writing out certificates for the headmaster to sign on that day when I faced Killer George in the Intermediate division of the high jump. I was very happy that she was able to turn her job over to someone else and come and watch the event. Usually for such events there was rarely anyone else watching but the other competitors, but not this time. Having a personal fan to cheer me on was quite out of the ordinary.

   So Mum was there, and so of course was Lloyd George. He was having a busy morning as he had so many of his kids to watch, but he was enjoying it all immensely, even on the rare occasions when one of them didn’t win the event they were in. He gave them all a big cheer no matter what.

   Now, when I was telling one of my Topsy stories, I got into trouble from my daughter Sylvia for giving away the ending before I should have, so I won’t do that again, but I do promise to keep it as brief as possible – OK?

   There were as many competitors in each age division as wanted to have a go, except that jumps were restricted to the boys. It wasn’t regarded as a ladylike enough activity for girls, though all the other sports were. And the high jump had other perceived but unspoken dangers for girls I'll leave you to consider on your own.

   Maybe for the boys it was just as well the girls didn’t get to compete in the jumps. I’m not sure I would have wanted to come up against any of the George girls – broad jump, high jump, or hop, step and jump. All were on the sports agenda. I really liked hop, step and jump, which we usually called hop-step.

   But my immediate task was the high jump. The bar height started at 3 foot 6 inches, and each boy had three jumps, just like at the Olympics, only there was no option about not having a go each time the bar was raised. You either had your go at each one or you were out. If you didn’t clear the bar by the third jump, you were on the sidelines.

   Now I realise there are some of you who won’t know how high 3 foot 6 is, because your brains are metric, and you mightn’t even care, but I’ll give you an idea anyway. That height is a bit more than a metre, and if it doesn’t seem all that high to you then remember that it was above the shoulder for plenty of us, and just you try clearing your front fence at shoulder height, and see how you get on.

   Not that easy, is it? So no sniggering, thanks. We were using the scissor jump too, rather than the one you see at the Olympics, where they clear the bar by oozing over it on their backs, and land on sissy-baby mountains of foam rubber, the wimps. You don’t know what a scissor jump is? Don’t you know anything?

   That’s where you run in from the left or right at the bar according to which is your take-off leg. Left-handers tend to run in from the left, taking off on the right foot, and right-handers from that side. You clear the bar with a hurdle type jump and land on your feet. OK, I admit we did land on a truckload of sawdust ordered from the sawmill, but that’s only because of the number of sprained ankles that happen if there isn’t a bit of cushioning on the other side, especially if you hit the bar and have to land awkwardly.

   I know about sprained ankles and high jumps. One day I didn’t make it over the bar, came crashing down and felt this crunchy nasty sensation in the left ankle and it hurt like blazes. I couldn’t walk. Kelvin (‘Boofhead’) Thompson carried me home on his back the best part of a couple of kilometres, and I’ll never forget that act of pure generosity on his part. It was even more amazing considering he was as likely to bully me most times and knock me down just for fun, but credit where credit’s due. I thank him heartily because I don’t quite know how I would have got home on my own. I guess Jan or Lyn would have worked something out.

   Now where was I? This is all your fault, as I was forced to explain metric equivalents for Imperial lengths as well as scissor jumping for so many of you, and you got me off the track.

   So as the bar went up inch by inch, the jumpers were pretty quickly sorted out and most fell by the wayside. By the time it got to 4 feet, there were only a handful of us left. Kyla George had cleared the bar first time, every time, by inches. Miles, it seemed to me. I was clearing it too, but as the pegs were raised inch by inch, the bar was getting perilously close to portions of my anatomy where I preferred a safe gap. I had never jumped higher than 4 foot 4 in my life.

   The bar, I have to say, was a solid one of seasoned hardwood. Aluminium bars hadn’t been invented yet, as far as we knew in Calliope. By the time it got to 4’3, only Killer and I remained. I suspect my still being there was largely due to my mother’s presence, as she was watching with great glee as I scraped over the bar each time, not always on the first go. I badly wanted to please her.

   4’4. Killer, jumping from the right, cleared the bar first time. I managed on the second. 4’5. Killer, over as usual first time, no effort. Lloyd George, standing of the right side, cheered him on, clapping his hands and when I made it, clapped just as loudly and grinned widely. 4’6. A similar result. The audience was growing and I could hardly believe I was still in the comp. 4’7. Killer was at last having to put in some effort but cleared it first time. I failed the first two, and on the third, hit the bar hard as I went over. It jumped up and down on the pegs, but stayed up there. Mum was smiling and holding her hands together. Lloyd George was having a ball.

   4’8. Kyla took a good run and cleared it, without much leeway, but clean. I was way out of my comfort zone. Again, much as I strained on the first two goes, the bar went down. On the last, again I hit it hard. It jumped up and down, clear of the pegs and I lay below it looking up, expecting it to fall on me at any moment, but however much it rattled the pegs, it just wouldn’t fall off. It should have, but it didn’t.

   That I have to say was the last time I was so lucky. At 4 feet and 9 inches, not without serious effort, Killer cleared the bar first time once more. I knew in my heart I was done. On each of my jumps, the bar rattled wildly on the pegs and dislodged. On that third jump, it should have fallen off immediately, but it bounced up and down before slipping off slowly, one end after the other, somehow reminiscent of the sinking of the Titanic, and it was all over.

   I was very happy with what I had done. The result was as it should have been, but what pleased me most was that my mother was there and so delighted to have seen it.

   And Lloyd George? He clapped Kyla’s shoulder and then came over to me, putting his arm round my neck with his left hand and shaking my right hand with the other, smiling hugely. I’ll never forget his exact words as he looked from Mum to me and said:

   "You good boy. GOOD BOY!! You make my son JUMP AND JUMP AND JUMP!"

   I can tell you this much. Never in my life has second place felt so much like first to me.

Kay, Lyn and I ready to do battle for Calliope in the School Sports.
(Obviously adolescent growth spurt time for Lyn, but not me! Jan
would have been at High School in Brisbane by then.)

Part 1| Story Index | Home 

Killer George and the high jump

‘My brothers call me “Killer.”’

   The crowd of Calliope kids who had made a ring around him opened like a flower when he said that, as if he suddenly needed a bit more more space. I was one of those kids. He grinned, flashing perfect white teeth against his dark skin.

   ‘But my real name is Kyla,’ he added softy, and grinned once more. Reassured, our little group moved in again around him.

   Kyla George. I can see him now as clear as a bell. Ah, if I only had a photo, but I don't. It was Boyne Valley Sports Day, one of the special days of the year.

   All the little schools dotted up the Boyne Valley would meet annually at one or other of the schools and there would be inter-school competition in running, jumping, and ball games. Calliope school, with about fifty pupils at the time, was one of the biggest schools of the Boyne Valley. Most of them had about twenty kids at the most.

   They were usually one teacher schools, though occasionally there was an assistant if for some reason there was a population explosion in one of the townships. Just having twins could increase a school’s numbers significantly. A new family’s coming to town was a major, if rare event for most of them, like when the Harrisons came to Calliope from Sheffield and added five pupils to the school. Calliope school numbers increased by 10% as a result.

   Calliope, Ubobo, Nagoorin, Many Peaks, Littlemore and Builyan were ranged in battle. Bororen and Miriam Vale did not compete, as strictly speaking they weren’t real Boyne Valley, being right at the mouth of that river and not on the Monto rail line through Biloela. We regarded them as being more in Gladstone territory, like Yarwun and Targinnie and Mount Larcom. Other than for events like these, there really was little contact between these tiny villages.

   Calliope school colours were gold and black. Gold shirt for the boys, black shorts. I’m really not sure about the girls’ sports uniform - probably a gold blouse and little straight black skirt. I had no interest in such details at age 10, but I did love Boyne Valley Sports Day.

   Still, I’ve found that gold and black have been excellent jockey silks colours to choose when picking a winner of the Melbourne Cup over the years. Ignore the form guide or anything else – just put your money on gold and black. It works for me.

   Many Peaks was the home of Killer George. He was the son of Lloyd George – not that one in the Old Country, of course, who made a bit of a splash in British politics in the early twentieth century. No, the real Lloyd George of Many Peaks, Boyne Valley, Queensland, Australia was a tall, solid, well built Aboriginal man who fathered ten children at least, thus making Many Peaks one of the few towns down the coastal region of Australia where the Aboriginal population was in a majority in the school.

   I never saw Mrs George, but whatever contribution she and her husband made to the gene pool in Australia, it was a magnificent one. Every one of those kids was half a head taller than just about any white kid of their age, and each of their physiques, boy or girl, was practically perfect. Not only that, they stood tall as well. You know what I mean. Manly – that was what Captain Cook called the Aboriginal men he first saw where Sydney now is, and why the Sydney suburb of Manly is so called. That’s what they were.

   The thing is, or was in 1957, the George family on its own made Many Peaks, with its total of twenty children, a formidable school to be reckoned with at the Boyne Valley Sports. If, in the boys’ tunnel ball event there weren’t enough boys to fill the six spaces for the Senior Boys’ team, the George girls stepped in, and they were at least as strong, agile and sharp as all the boys in any team, pound for pound.

   Thank heaven we didn’t have javelin throwing included in the school sports, or Many Peaks would have wiped us out. I don’t mean literally, though maybe they could have done that too, in about ten minutes, if they had enough javelins and put their mind to it.

   Let me say right here and now that there was no racism where we lived, certainly none amongst the kids. If there was amongst the adults, we kids weren’t infected with it. Sure, there was an awareness of difference of skin colour, but there was no negativity about it. Come to think of it, in the tropical sunshine of Central Queensland, we were all pretty much the same colour, by and large. Even the paler skinned whites had freckles that joined up, or as Eric Olthwaite said of black puddings in Ripping Yarns, 'Even the white bits were black!'

   In any case, it would have been folly of the sheerest kind to pick on the George kids because of the colour of their skin, not that there was the least trace of aggressiveness of that sort exhibited by them – nor towards them by white kids.

   They didn’t have to be aggressive. I can’t speak for the rest of the country in that era, but there was none of that smouldering resentment not far below the surface we see today - nothing like that in the Boyne Valley. Kids were kids; black, white, brown or brindle. There were children who were descendants of the Chinese gold miners and others like the Singhs whose ancestry went back to the Afghan camel drivers. The Singhs came and went from Calliope, like gypsies. Maybe they were. Did you know the gypsies actually came from India originally, not Egypt?

   Anyway, no-one gave a hoot about their colour.

   Lloyd George had brought his kids down to Calliope for the School Sports that year in his big white truck. Apart from one or two in the front, they were all sitting or standing quietly in the open tray as it pulled up at the school. He had the sunniest of dispositions and his face was wreathed in smiles as he got out of the truck, and told them all to get down - not that they needed telling. Forty kilometres of bush roads was long enough to stand or be jolted about in the back of any truck, holding on at times like grim death through rough creek crossings.

   They also brought wooden crates of food with them – thick sliced sandwiches filled with great slabs of chicken or beef, in brown paper bags, together with clingstone peaches, guavas and bush oranges, a bright red tomato or two and a four gallon steel jerry can of rain water.

   That’s when it was that a group of us Calliope kids gathered around Killer George and we talked in that shy, quiet way that country kids do with strangers. ‘How old are you?’ one of us asked.

   It was only a few minutes after disclosing his nickname and his age that I became aware of a rather disturbing truth.

   Three truths, in fact. He was my age, he stood a whole head taller than I did, and I would be competing against him in the high jump.

Part 2 (Final part)  | Story Index | Home 

For your amusement etc....

1.   On procrastination - this includes 2 different and brilliant short animations and a very funny spot by Ellen Degeneres, someone I’ve never liked but who just went up 3000% – no, 5000% - in my estimation of her comic status.

http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2010/10/08/5-perspectives-on-procrastination

2.   Pirated eBooks - you’ll never guess what they are! Top 5 Pirated eBooks.

http://www.mediabistro.com/ebooknewser/pirates-have-a-strange-reading-list_b6684

3. Photo portraits - these really are amazingly honest portraits that I’ve seen, of people you probably know.

http://community.livejournal.com/everyday_i_show/106914.html

When people start off a comment about someone else with a phrase that means the opposite.

http://grammar.about.com/b/2011/02/16/this-is-for-your-own-good-and-other-phony-phrases.htm

If you want to see something volcanic with fantastic WOW factor, go no further than this. I’ve never seen natural phenomena images like this before – nor the length some go to get the shots.
http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2011/02/nyiragongo_crater_journey_to_t.html

Elbows, ankles and life's four stages

So, I took a risk early this morning. I started to exercise again seriously after two, no, four days since a seizure. Time sure flies when you're having fun....

   It’s the day before another Avastin treatment. The risk is that the exercise I’m doing may set off another seizure, but I felt I had to keep those joints as supple as possible, the muscles working, the symmetrical exercises repeated, and the crookedness of the arm in particular worked on.

   This is even at the risk that, if they have to use the right arm tomorrow to find a suitable vein, I might get a seizure in the middle of that infusion, which could interfere with a process I don’t want even slightly disturbed. But somehow it seems right. Just one minor seizure the whole past three weeks. Surely the risk is worth taking to keep the rest of my body tuned as far as that’s possible?

   I confess to being bamboozled about the relationship between manipulating my joints down the right side of my body and the seizures. After all this time, I feel I know less about it than I ever did. The Brain-Brian thing remains much of a mystery to me. Sometimes it seemed perfectly clear; now? I don’t know. 

   Maybe seizures have nothing to do with the exercise at all. Maybe Brian just has a growth spurt at certain times and kicks off a seizure. Maybe the relationship just isn’t that close. Maybe maybe maybe. I realize I don’t even know at the deepest level what a seizure actually is. All I know is that a perfectly good limb, undamaged physically to begin with, starts to misbehave.

   And I also know that with the seizures under control as much as possible, the exercise I do makes a significant difference to me in all sorts of ways.

   So, I wake, often round 5 am or so. I stretch the arms, the fingers, rotate the wrists. If the right one won’t rotate like the left, which it usually won’t, then I use the left hand to push it firmly into the similar position to what the left hand was in, and hold it. Every exercise I do, I do it ten, maybe twenty times, depending on what it is. Arms, legs. I won’t go into it, as this is hardly riveting stuff, but doing an arm or leg exercise slowly and methodically gives you time to think.

   Hinduism gives everyone within its fold a complete religion, a way of life, a social structure and a flexible philosophy adaptable to every person. I focus when doing these exercises on one aspect of the way that works for the individual. It divides life into four stages, very sensibly. In the first stage, you are the student. Your task is to learn, whatever it is you need to learn for your future. Parents and wider family support you. Who could argue with that? It sounds very familiar.

   Now, stand in the doorway. Hands on the door frame. Do a vertical pushup against the frame. Slowly. Now, repeat that twenty times.

   Then, when you have learned as much as you’re going to purely as a student, you pass to the next phase, that of the householder. This is the time of marriage, of creating a cocoon to raise children, to acquire the necessary possessions for food and shelter for the family. It’s your duty at this stage to do so. No need to feel guilty that you own a house and a car, or acquire material things; at this stage, your family needs them.

   Now, do that door frame exercise again, only use just the right arm, with the left not even touching the frame. Make the right do all the work. Oh dear god, how weak that arm is! The right one, that you once did all the heaviest lifting with. Pitiful. Work it. Work it hard. No, come to think of it, not today. After Avastin, then work it harder. It’s doing OK.

   So the time comes when your kids are no longer dependent on you. (Will that ever happen, some of you might ask! Let’s not go there...) They’ve left the nest and now you enter the third stage of life – to start to withdraw from attachment to all these things. The possessions you cling to and don’t want ever to let go and the things you don’t want to change... get over them. They’re not going to fulfil you for the rest of your life. You want something deeper and more meaningful, but you can’t do that clinging on the things that will ultimately let you down.

   You need to come to terms with, or be at peace with real fulfilment, free of attachment to possessions. You start to let go.

   Now, those ankles and feet. Stand there, holding the door frame with your left hand for balance, and just raise the heels so you’re standing on tiptoes. Twenty times. Now, ten times for the left foot only. Not too bad. Now, ten for the right. That’s a struggle. It’s like the foot is glued flat to the floor. Raise the heel. Yes we can! Where’s Obama when you need him? I can do it. Not great, but I can. Brain, not Brian.

   Finally, you reach a stage where you can free yourself mentally and learn about the things that matter to you as you approach death. You realise the limits of attachment to the world and the freedom that brings. That comes with real maturity. If you’re still chasing around after new possessions or gratifying the senses alone, you’ve got a long way to go. Sorry – I know the truth hurts. Yes, I can do without an iPad. Truly.

   But, you can do what a lot of people do and deny the whole idea. That’s a pity, because I’m sure the Hindus have it right. Contentment isn’t about possessions. Not of course that that idea is peculiar to Hinduism. Christianity has the same outlook in this respect. So has Buddhism. BUT, for all of them, as Shakespeare thinly disguised as Hamlet says,

      "...it is a custom

      More honor'd in the breach than the observance...."

   Now, do an alternate heelraising like pedalling a bike, only standing. How floppy that right knee joint is! Yet how much better than the first time you tried doing that. Ten times. Come on, don’t wimp out on me. Just do it.

   It’s a day for slogans, it seems.

   When I was at my lowest ebb, some months ago, I had certainly started that process of withdrawal, well and truly. I lost interest in many of the things that were almost a passion to me. World news became depressing – well that hasn’t changed - but at least I don’t ignore it now. I withdrew into a shell that extended not much beyond my front door. But there was a sense of freedom in that. An absolution from responsibility.

   And yet, whereas by the Hindu model this should promote a loss of ego that is part of gaining spiritual freedom, maybe it did the opposite for me and put the focus where it shouldn’t have been. On myself, way too much. A better sense of well-being offered by Avastin, however ephemeral that may turn out to be, gave me a second chance to get things into proportion, pour all that ego and self-obsession into writing it down, and to feel as if this frees me to face whatever is ahead.

   I’m tipping it out of myself, like a form of sludge. That’s good.

   I’m ready for the Avastin tomorrow. And a bit more arm, leg and ego bashing.

Mark Colvin's question

Anyone in Australia who listens to serious radio will know the name Mark Colvin, best known for presenting the ABC’s PM programme. He had mentioned briefly (not on PM) the research relating to brain tumours and mobile phones. Using Twitter, we had a short dialogue during which he asked the question, 'Apart from the Avastin, is there nothing a Charlie Teo, for instance, could do?'

   It was a good question and set me thinking yet again. At this stage of my treatment, what really are the options for me? Which ones matter to me?

   There actually are a few options – more chemotherapy, more brain surgery at the top of the list. I have rejected these for what I believe to be very good reasons, mostly involving overwhelming risk to the quality of life I still have, calibrated against the likely time remaining. Chemotherapy would be a forlorn hope - grasping at straws. My oncologist admitted as much. Anyone who’s followed my blog on these matters will understand those reasons and I won’t go back into them here, but given it’s my life at stake you can bet I haven’t taken them lightly.

   As Mark mentioned Charlie Teo, I’ll say on that point that the treatment using some forms of brain surgery could extend life significantly, but is so fraught with complications that there’s no way I’d countenance it at this stage. Some of those who took the fight in this direction spent much of the gained time in misery. Not for me, not at the age I am.

   So my plan, having exhausted all the traditional options for treating this form of cancer, is to ride the Avastin wave till we hit the beach, and hope the ride is as fulfilling as it can be. No-one knows quite when we may hit a sandbar or find the water too shallow, or be taken suddenly by a Noah’s Ark, but ride it we will. I’ll do all in my power otherwise to assist the fight in using anti-angiogenic elements in my diet, and a mental attitude derived from my philosophical approach, and I am very comfortable with this.

   Below are some of the relevant references to the mobile phones studies. Given that some cellphone companies refuse to let their employees work there unless they use earpieces instead of jamming the phone in their ear, I’d do the latter as little as I possibly could if I were you....especially now that in some countries brain tumours are the greatest killers of young people. You want the reference? I put it on FaceBook some time ago but could unearth it if you can't use google.

   So the jury on cellphones is still out. Care for a smoke?

   http://www.nhs.uk/news/2011/02February/Pages/mobiles-increase-brain-activity.aspx

   http://www.wired.com/wiredscience/2011/02/cell-phone-brain/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed:+wiredscience+(Blog+-+Wired+Science)

   http://www.scientificamerican.com/article.cfm?id=can-you-hear-me-now

Reply to Brian

(This makes more sense read in conjunction with Brian Calling)

home | brian calling | stories from my past

Hello Brian. There I was, dignifying your existence by creating for you a persona you don’t deserve and never will. I have done you the unearned honour of anthropomorphising you, by giving you a name and crediting you with intelligence you don’t possess, but we’ll go with that for as long as it suits me. About ten minutes, I suspect....

You’re dead right when you say you’re not too smart. When it comes down to it, you are really my flesh and blood, literally, and your one purpose in life is to reproduce your damaged cells. My cells, actually. Nothing and no-one could be more mine than you are. And you are utterly powerless, Brian, to be anything other than what you are. You’re trapped in a way I am not and never will be.

You are different, that’s fatally true. Every other cluster of cells in my body knows when to turn itself off when it doesn’t need to reproduce any more. Not you. You burrow down into the useful parts of my brain (Hi Brain!) and sap its life force. You take its nutrients and its space and smash its structure and leave your detritus – a mess for someone else to clean up. You’re the super-obese man on the crowded bus, Brian – or that’s what you’re trying to become. But you don’t make choices, because you can’t.

In the past I think I’ve respected you way too much, because there’s no doubt that any time you’ve said jump I didn’t bother to ask why, but just went on to asking the old clichéd question, ‘how high?’ And I did everything I thought you wanted. Maybe that was mistake, but we don't know that. I just make decisions and see where they lead.

I can’t be angry with you, Brian, any more than I can be angry with an ingrown toenail. You actually don’t mean any harm; nor could you ever mean any good. It’s just that your program’s faulty and made you a useless malignant parasite. When one of your faulty cells became two in five seconds it didn’t matter, but you are racing towards the time when one billion becomes two billion in that same amount of time, and that does matter. But you can’t help it. You’re just a population explosion of useless cells and nothing more, and we’re locked into a battle to keep that population down, for both our sakes. If and when that fails completely, then we’re in trouble, both of us.

Speaking of anger, I may be angry with myself if I knew the cause of your existence and it turned out to be something I could have prevented if I were a little wiser, but I don’t know that. I’ve searched for that answer a thousand times, just for my own satisfaction and the thought that if I discovered it, a lot of misery could be avoided; not just on my behalf but of the increasing number of people affected by your presence and those like you that have invaded so many others’ bodies and caused such heartache.

I know many of my friends have spoken of their anger at you, but what’s the point? Better that I turn my strength and energy towards learning the best way to accommodate you, if I can’t get rid of you altogether. And there’s always a part of me that refuses to dismiss optimism about outcomes. Stranger things have happened before and they don’t need a newly created saint to invoke them.

But I’m not counting on it. I think that’s foolish as well. I understand well enough the laws of probability in this case. Nor am I counting on some benevolent deity to take an unaccountable interest in just one of us when billions of others far more deserving are being ignored. Surely that would be the height of ego and presumption and irrationality. But that’s another story. I have a reasonable conception of my relationship with the Infinite that you, Brian, don’t even figure in.

A last word, my Unwelcome Stranger. Avastin is your friend, as much as mine, because it keeps you alive. You would have been dead months ago if it weren’t for our exotic mate. You depend on him just as much as Brain does. Not that you know, for you can’t know. You are, let me again remind you, as thick as two very short planks. I’m done wasting my time talking with you.

So you’re wrong, Brian – I OWN YOU! For all your bluster, we can’t get away from that. It’s more likely than not that my decisions govern your future.

If anything, we are Blood Brothers, just like the ones in the play. You know, the twins who end up killing each other. We are our own and each other’s destinies.

That's all I need to say to you. You deserve much less.

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