farmdoc's blog post number 41

Sharon Stone, apparently a well-known actress, has opined that the recent major earthquake in China was bad karma after Beijing’s policy in Tibet. While anyone is entitled to an opinion, I am amazed Ms Stone’s pap has been so widely publicised. As if her being famous in some way gains her insight into, or privileged access to, the truth. ‘Get real, farmdoc,’ you may respond, ‘we live in an age of celebrity’. I see that, but I also see people who are famous for being famous accreting untold wealth and conspicuously flaunting it. These people – A-listers, eh – are attention seekers. But are they role models, or objects of morbid curiosity, or both? Perhaps as role models they are harmless because their material wealth – and maybe also their appearance, carefully manufactured by publicly invisible retinues – is well beyond the reach of everyman. But it’s their opinions that worry me. Mel Gibson’s anti-semitism, for instance, attributed by him to alcohol (which to my knowledge is a disinhibiter and not a changer of cognition). Celebrities have ready if not unlimited access to the media. And the primary objective of the media is to sell advertising which, they have manifestly decided, they can help achieve by reporting celebrities’ opinions however bizarre they are. Indeed the more bizarre, the better. Is the end of this madness imminent? No.

farmdoc's blog post number 40

I have never taken kindly to authority figures. And I often wonder why. Until age 13 I lived in a household with my maternal grandparents, my parents and my sister. I remember my grandfather as a stern man with rigid principles and routines; and my grandmother and parents as gentle and, I suspect, repressed and compliant. Because my grandfather dominated the household, I could blame him for my authority figure aversion. But he adored me as his first grandson, or so I felt. And I loved him back, difficult as this was because he was verbally and physically undemonstrative. Perhaps I rebelled against his authority because he suppressed my parents. I doubt I’ll ever know, because I don’t intend to undergo psychotherapy or psychoanalysis. Anyway I detested the police in Albert Park especially when they removed their name badges before arresting my friends and me; I object to judges in court pontificating on medical matters and often dismissing expert medical evidence; and I have been much happier since I became self employed in 1987. Then last Monday the newly appointed manager of my local bank branch questioned my perfectly legal power of attorney document. Impressed I was not. Yet despite all this, in my work I am an authority figure. You have my authority to figure all this out. Because I cannot.

farmdoc's blog post number 39

In my 29 April 2008 blog post I wrote that Emily sold her carpet. When she was helping to carry the carpet to the buyer’s truck, Emily injured her neck – because she is petite and the carpet was heavy. Since then her injury has settled, I’m relieved to report. Then last Thursday I received from the Medical Council of Tasmania, a large envelope containing a complaint about me submitted by a person I medically assessed last year, supporting documents, and a letter from the Council inviting my response. In my line of work I am a target for disgruntled people who see me as a medium for exacting revenge on a system they believe has not treated them justly. I receive a complaint every few years. (The penultimate one was four years ago.) Previous complaints have never amounted to anything because they were ill-founded and therefore I had no problem rebutting them. And I expect the present one will have the same outcome. But this is not to suggest that receiving and responding to a complaint is not an unpleasant and nerve-wracking process. Because it certainly is. Indeed in the week since I received the current one, my neck muscles have been tight, stiff and sore. Yes, folks: Emily’s sore neck came from hauling carpet, and mine came from being hauled over the carpet.

farmdoc's blog post number 38

It may not happen in your life, but it certainly does in mine. Everything is going smoothly, my spirits are buoyant, and then – bang – something unexpected wrecks everything. About 3 a.m. last Wednesday I was sleeping soundly and, I think, dreaming about something delightful. I can’t recall what – maybe baking the perfect sourdough loaf, or bicycling up a steep hill without puffing, or blocking up a big log without my chainsaw getting stuck. Anyway you get my drift. Then, suddenly, a piercing short screech. In my dream or in the real world? Then another, and another. Every 48 seconds. Precisely. Fully awake, I realised the battery in my bedroom’s smoke detector was dying. All the smoke detectors in this Mole Creek house are wired into the electrical circuit which never has outages because it is a stand alone power system. But the detectors need batteries in them nonetheless. Like wearing a belt and braces. I didn’t have a spare battery, and removing the dying battery doesn’t stop the screeching. I tossed and turned and pulled the doona over my head, but sleep wouldn’t return. That afternoon I bought and installed a new battery, and glorious silence resumed. I hope that’s the last time I hear from a smoke detector for a while. Probably not though, because I have a habit of burning my toast.

farmdoc's blog post number 37

Tasmanian Country – the local rag for Tasmanian farmers – arrives gratis in my mailbox each Friday. Weekly I do its crossword and then scan the classified advertisements. Then I read the few articles catching my eye. Last Friday two did: The first announced, ‘About one fifth of the world’s cropland is considered degraded, according to a Word Resources Institute study. Scientists say improving the world’s soils is part of the solution to feeding the poor…the degradation of the world’s soil is a disaster in slow motion…even the quick, short-term fix of fertilisers is unaffordable for many farmers…’. The second article, titled ‘Fertiliser a growing pain’, bemoaned, ‘Prices for some fertilisers have increased by 300 per cent in the past year and soaring prices are expected to continue…strong demand across the globe was putting upward pressure on prices…’ Even I – a novice farmer – know that the effectiveness of chemical fertiliser diminishes year by year, so each year more must be applied for the same result. And even then, chemical fertiliser doesn’t improve the soil holistically. Applying more, and more expensive, fertiliser to produce only a partial fix is madness. But to almost all broad acre farmers, chemical fertiliser use is like an addiction. I agree with those prophets who see the food-growing future as smallholding and backyard organics. But will the penny drop too late?

farmdoc's blog post number 36

I remember the first moment I rode a bicycle. The bike, street, weather, onlookers. I recall the lot. I was exultant. It changed my life forever. In 1993 Meg – the second of Vivienne and farmdoc’s four beautiful daughters – did a university project called Objects. She asked people to write a paragraph about an object they chose, then she photographed each person with their object. I wrote: Freedom. Fitness. Environmental responsibility. Simplicity. Congruity of form and function. Hassle free parking.. Traffic jam irrelevance. Travel savings. These are the main reasons I ride a bicycle – for about 100 km per week. And of my six bicycles the Cannondale in the photograph is my favourite – dare I offend the other five – because of the beautiful aluminium frame, its Shimano 600 parts, and the wonderful memories it evokes of several long touring trips. I am a bicycle person and this is my bicycle. Nowadays, I’m not proud to say, I ride less; sometimes not for weeks. But the good news is that Indigo – the oldest of Vivienne and farmdoc’s three beautiful granddaughters – has the bug. She is hooked on riding her bike. Is it genetic? Her mum Kate rode a whole Great Victorian Bike Ride without changing gears once. Anyway Indigo is a natural. And I am exultant. What goes around comes around. Just like a bicycle wheel.

farmdoc's blog post number 35

Because in the 19th century there were no MRI scanners, reaching diagnoses relied more on interview and physical examination findings than is so today. Joseph Bell (1837-1911), a Scottish surgeon and Edinburgh University lecturer, prided himself on using all his senses to diagnose the seemingly undiagnosable. In 1878 Bell’s clerk was a medical student then named Arthur Doyle (the Conan came later) whom Bell selected as his assistant. Doyle, after presenting his case findings to Bell, was astounded by Bell’s deductions even before Bell had questioned or examined the patient. And so, history records, Bell was the inspiration for the most famous detective ever – Sherlock Holmes – who first appeared in 1887 in A Study in Scarlet. Since I can’t remember when, I have been a Holmes devotee. I am the proud owner of a modest collection of Sherlockiana comprising books, a deerstalker hat, and an authentic brick from 221B Baker Street which was demolished in 1980. And for a time I was a member of the Sherlock Holmes Society of London. Since 1987 my doctoring work has had forensic undertones. Though no medical genius, I am methodical and obsessional. I adhere to the aphorism that in medicine more is missed by not looking than not knowing. Therefore I look. Holmes, Doyle and Bell have taught me well.

farmdoc's blog post number 34

Last Thursday morning. I woke up. Very cold. Outdoor temperature -3.2° Celsius. All white outside. Frost. Lots of frost. Jack Frost: English folklore elfish creature; personifies crisp cold weather; maybe variant of Father Winter; perhaps not English; rather Viking; leaves crystal patterns on windows on cold mornings. More frosts? Sure thing. No worries. Robert Frost: American; The Road Not Taken man; won Pulitzer Prize four times; spoke at JFK’s 1961 inauguration; died aged 88 years; in 1963; ten months before JFK. David Frost: English emphatically; not Viking definitely; Sir David actually; TV star mainly; interviewer especially; married serially; to Peter Sellers’ widow temporarily; now 69 years old; truly. Phyllis Frost: Australian; Dame; philanthropist; welfare worker too; helped women prisoners; Melbourne women’s prison called Dame Phyllis Frost Centre; what a mouthful; founded Keep Australia Beautiful campaign; died in 2004; aged 87 years. Patricia Frost: Australian; Meander Valley Councillor (Tasmania); elected in 2000; don’t know much about her; don’t want to; pro-logging; in helicopter crash years ago. Lionel Bowen: Australian; politician; minister in Whitlam and Hawke cabinets; deputy prime minister 1983-1990; Frost?; yep; Lionel Frost Bowen; gotcha; now 85 years old. Jack Frost: again; not English; not Viking; American; very; music CD producer; Bob Dylan's pseudonym; 2006 Modern Times album; superb CD; highly recommended; 67 years old; today; happy birthday Jack Frost. Cool.

farmdoc's blog post number 33

In December 2003, at age 42, Mark Latham became the youngest leader of the federal Australian Labor Party in over a century. He remained opposition leader for 13 months, losing the October 2004 election, and then in January 2005 resigning his parliamentary seat and so his leadership, ending the shortest tenure as Labor leader since 1916. Much published, as a parliamentarian he was intellectually gifted – perceptive, creative – and honest. But it was, I think, his fearless criticism of the machinations of his party, and his directness toward and impatience with the media, that brought about his political downfall and robbed our nation of a potentially great prime minister. Australia’s complex problems require creative policy and legislative responses which Latham could have provided. But look who we have now: Kevin Rudd – an ex-diplomat for goodness sake; a hard-working politician yes, but bland and workmanlike with nowhere near Latham’s perceptiveness, independence and forthrightness. The cliché is that we get the politicians we deserve. But the truth is that we get the politicians the media decide we deserve – because the media, who are not objective and disinterested in this, are pivotal in creating public opinion. Last Tuesday an Age/Nielsen poll put Mr Rudd’s public approval at 69% making him the most popular prime minister since Bob Hawke in 1984. I despair.

farmdoc's blog post number 32

Around this time each year, as the evenings draw in and the soil cools, I get introspective. Last Tuesday my introspection had ample time to surface because I spent over an hour waiting on telephone enquiry lines (to utility company then hospital accounts office then tax department). During the forgettable music (thankfully not Vivaldi’s Four Seasons) and incessant assurances I was moving up the queue, suddenly a metaphor popped into my consciousness: ‘The fabric of our society is fraying’. Our laws, regulations, rules, policies and procedures are so complex that to the ordinary man they are unintelligible, unnavigable and sometimes self-contradictory. And in response we need to spend more time waiting on more help lines and/or on internet FAQ pages. Taken to its extreme, we will eventually spend all our time doing this, leaving no time for anything else. At that moment the politicians, bureaucrats and corporate managerialists will have won, and everyman (that is, you and me) will have lost. I know I am a pessimist and I need to be optimistic for the sake of my children and grandchildren. The Talmud, long before the music group REM, said that living well is the best revenge. I’m trying to live well. And I’m abstaining from telephone enquiry lines until the spring – when the days lengthen and the soil warms.

farmdoc's blog post number 31

Moribund. My dictionary defines it as ‘not growing or changing; without force or vitality; on the point of death’. For many years I have been a member of a moribund organisation. It is a local environment group founded some 18 years ago, it has never had more than about 50 members and its current membership is much smaller than that and dwindling, it has less than a handful of active workers, the same few people have served as office bearers for years, it is impecunious and facing a large costs award after losing a recent tribunal appeal hearing, and it is not thought of well by the local community. Additionally it almost goes without saying that the main office bearers (who, no surprise, are the founders) have indefatigably –and successfully – resisted all attempts to change, initiated by others including me. This is a sad and poignant state of affairs because the people concerned are concerned people, they do good work, and dear me that work is needed. Calvin Coolidge said that ‘Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence…Talent will not…Genius will not...Education will not…Persistence and determination are omnipotent’. Maybe so, Mr President, but as I heard said on the radio last week, some people need to add Viagra to their eye-drops and take a long hard look at themselves.

farmdoc's blog post number 30

She calls me ‘poo head’, ‘poo face’ or ‘poo bum’. But I don’t mind, because these are salutations of endearment. Jarrah, or Jazzy as she is mostly called – the second of Vivienne and farmdoc’s three beautiful granddaughters – is aged four, and currently resolutely faecal in orientation. Her mother Kate says it’s just a stage. Maybe, but I’m many times older, and I’m with Jazzy, all the way. Consider wombat poo (pictured): Though I can’t I fathom how wombats produce cube shaped poo, in the three weeks since Kai Kai and I met, her poo has been cubic and firm, so I know our relationship has not stressed her. And because wombats are fastidiously clean, daily I collect her poo, place it in a galvanised bin, and add water producing a rich manure tea that fertilises our vegetables, fruit and berries. The copious poo from our sheep and goats improves our paddock soil and therefore the quality of their pasture. Incidentally, because goats’ stomach juices inactivate seeds, goat poo is weed seed free. Amazing. Regarding human poo, I am keenly interested in the frequency, quantity and consistency of mine, and also whether it floats (good) or sinks (less good). So in future, whenever Jazzy calls me a noun preceded by ‘poo’, I will smile, think how perspicacious she is for one so young, and kiss her tenderly.

farmdoc's blog post number 29

One reason I came to live in Tasmania was to ride my bike in what I believed was cycling heaven. But I haven’t ridden much at all. The reason? Log trucks. Most country roads here are infested with these monsters. They are tall, and their high loads make them inherently unstable. They are wide, and so they often overlie the centre line. They speed, because to their drivers time is money. This time pressure may explain why they are driven with intimidating hostility towards other road users – cars, other trucks even, and therefore of course bicycles. It is not one of life’s pleasures, I assure you, to be pedalling away at a brisk 30km/hour when a log truck roars up behind, slams on its exhaust brakes, and with a threatening growl drops down into a low gear. And their drivers, of whom I have seen several in my consulting room over the years, tend to be uneducated aggressive men with chips on their shoulders (pun intended). Yet despite all this, my local municipal authority, the Meander Valley Council, recently announced plans to become a world mecca for touring cyclists, with signage, podcasted touring routes, the works. I wish this initiative well, but it seems doomed to failure unless something is done to remove the log truck scourge.

farmdoc's blog post number 28

It is still autumn; and autumn is still – at least here in Mole Creek it is. The last time any wind bothered my anemometer was over a week ago. This still autumn weather brings fog. And foggy it was last Wednesday at 8:30 a.m. On my way to work, standing on the bridge shutting the front gate, I peered down through the mist and saw in the creek a sleek platypus, frolicking, splashing, diving. Savouring the moment I stood there, entranced, feeling privileged to be witnessing this show, to be the only audience member. Ah, the rural life. I drove on to work elated. Not deflated as I felt later the same day when inspecting the excavations perpetrated on the earth bank in front of our house. Ten or twelve holes, shallow but unsightly. At first I thought the culprit was a bandicoot, but then I espied rabbit droppings. Gotcha. I stood there feeling miffed, insulted even. But then I realised that this rabbit was just going about its business, doing what a rabbit does. Just as that platypus was doing what a platypus does. When I came to live on this land I invaded their habitat; they didn’t invade mine. So why did the platypus elate me and the rabbit deflate me? I haven’t the foggiest.

farmdoc's blog post number 27

Last week Meg – the second of Vivienne and farmdoc’s four beautiful daughters – and her partner Patrick went to Ballarat seeking a gas heater for their new Daylesford home. I don’t know how much research they did beforehand. But after a discussion with a salesman, they ordered a heater. It seems to me that we are often at the mercy of salesmen. Unless we have clear buying criteria – like the time when Vivienne and I, looking for a digital camera, listed six features that were all found in only one model – then there is a choice. And when there is a choice, we don’t know the salesman’s agenda. He could deliberately aim to sell us an item that doesn’t suit our needs, but suits his. The item he promotes may be the one with the fattest profit margin, or the one whose supplier bought him an expensive dinner the week before. We just don’t know. And he won’t tell us. Another thing: how much technical knowledge do salesmen have anyway? My guess is, with rare exceptions, not much. And even those possessing it may not use it in an objective and unbiased way. So I have never had much respect for salesmen. Anyway Meg and Patrick’s heater is still on order. I hope it’ll keep them toasty for many years.

farmdoc's blog post number 26

When I was half my present age, I was a junior staff member of Melbourne University’s medical faculty. The juniors were saddled with the work nobody else wanted, and so it became my lot to give lectures on medical statistics, of all things, to 200 first-year medical students. After the panic attacks subsided, I saw I wasn’t going to be able to offload this burden. What would I do? Well I decided to make a list of topics – a long list so I wouldn’t have to know much about each one or talk about it for very long. That approach has worked for me time and again in the decades since then. Whenever I face a task which seems overwhelming, I break it down into small pieces, and immediately it becomes less daunting. A by-product is the automatic production of a list whose items I can cross off when done. Just about every morning I make a list which I prioritise and sequence, then allocate to each item an estimated duration. Doing this increases my productivity and reduces the number of tasks I forget to do. And it feels oh so good to cross off that final item. I don’t look back on my lecturing days fondly, but without them I may never have become a list-man.

farmdoc's blog post number 25

Throughout my childhood and adolescence, and even well into adulthood, I didn’t have a well developed sense of self. Rather I formed my perception of who I was, by how others in my life behaved towards me and reacted to what I said and did. Maybe that’s why I was a mischievous and impudent little lad. Nowadays my sense of self is better developed. About twenty years ago I started to see myself more clearly, and this process accelerated about twelve years ago after I was orphaned. But the interesting and perhaps paradoxical thing is that even though currently my sense of self is the clearest it’s ever been, I still sometimes feel the need to measure myself against externalities. For example I keep a close eye on the types of men my daughters are attracted to. (And I must say: so far, so good.) Then last Tuesday my Canadian friends telephoned seeking my thoughts on an Ottawan real estate dilemma they were agonising over. After our half-hour discussion, they told me I was dispassionate, logical and helpful; they were much closer to a decision; and they were grateful. I was pleased – because apparently I had helped dear friends, and they could have called anyone but they called me.

farmdoc's blog post number 24

In the 8 May 2008 issue of the New England Journal of Medicine is an article titled ‘Etiquette-Based Medicine’. These days I only read journal articles that relate to my work, or that otherwise interest me. This one is clearly in the second category. Its author talks about dress, manners, body language and eye contact as expressions of compassion, empathy, respect, attentiveness and overall professionalism. Right on, sir. We live in a crowded, busy, noisy, impatient, angry society. And I doubt that any of us likes to. Change is necessary, but we shouldn’t wait for the arrival of some massive tipping point in societal behaviour, because it’s very unlikely one will come any time soon. As individuals we can’t change some things such as overpopulation. But we should change what we can, especially by many small acts: thanking people for doing things for us, treating young people and children courteously, considering other people’s feelings and self esteem, maintaining eye contact, not littering. This list can go on and on, but hopefully you understand my message. If each of us did a couple of etiquette-based things every day, the world would be a better place. I have a cherished cartoon – of a massive crowd. And above every single head there’s a speech bubble saying ‘What can one person do?’

farmdoc's blog post number 23

Why don’t they just go away, these people? They’ve had their day. And that day is gone. Long gone. Last week saw Paul Keating bleating about why the NSW electricity system should be privatised. And Malcolm Fraser, that Hamas praiser, bleeding-heartedly yabbering on about why Australia’s Middle East policy should be even-handed. Then frequently there’s a squawk from Hawke. Nary a week goes by without some ex-politician being quoted saying something or other. And what they say is mostly forgettable. Don’t get me wrong; I think public debate is important and the opportunities for it should be maximised. But these has-beens, whom the public elected way back when but would not elect if they stood for office now, should be allowed a public voice no louder than that of any other citizen. I don’t know why some politicians cannot assume a low, or zero, public profile after they leave parliament. Most do, so why not all? Perhaps for these few it is a power thing, or a need to be needed. Or maybe the media chase them. John Howard, for all of his shortcomings, and there are plenty, has disappeared from public view. Good on him for that. But these others? All I can say is that I wish they’d disappear. And soon. And for good.

farmdoc's blog post number 22

It’s natural, I reckon, for people to have heroes. I sure did. My role models included sportsmen (Bob Rose, Rod Laver, Ken Rosewall), folk singers (Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, Tom Paxton), doctors (Ignaz Semmelweis, John Snow, Arthur Conan Doyle), environmentalists (Gustav Weindorfer, Bob Brown) and civil disobedients (Henry David Thoreau, Mahatma Gandhi). Also actors: I used to mull over the crucial question of who would play me in a film of my life. And the sequence probably reflects my life’s evolution: Clint Eastwood, Harrison Ford, Woody Harrelson, Tim Robbins, Bruce Willis. Why Bruce? Well there’s the (lack of) hair; and the delicious fact that this archetypal tough guy was too petrified to fly for months after 9/11. In recent years my list of heroes has gradually dwindled – to zero. I don’t have heroes now. I don’t need them. I am who I am – and who I always will be. More or less. Oh there will be changes, but not major ones, and not at all due to any heroes. I am content with who I am. If I was told I had only a short time to live, I would want to be physically closer to my darling family, but I wouldn’t do anything else different. My heroes have played a big role in forming the present me. Thanks, guys. Including you, Bruce.

farmdoc's blog post number 21

A decade ago, in the passionate heat of the protest against motor racing in a Melbourne park, my sweetheart Vivienne and I attended training in non-violent direct action. Included was roleplaying – with activist roleplayers pitted against bad guy roleplayers. At its end, the facilitators directed those playing the activists to be physically patted down to eradicate the contamination from the bad guys. Last Thursday I sent what I thought was a firm but assertive and constructive email to my accountant whose responding email was discourteous, disrespectful, and dismissive. During the years I had been a client of this man’s, I thought I had come to know him. But my email clearly triggered something, and his reaction was unexpected. So much for my confidence in my ability to know people, and my unswerving belief in Gestalt psychology. Though episodes like this are opportunities for personal growth, and though accountants are a dime a dozen (excluding inflation and GST), on Thursday night I felt awful and I slept badly. But Vivienne patted me down on Friday since when I have felt much better. It works. I’m unable to live my life quarantined from difficult people and unpleasant situations. However I’m blessed to be married to a wise, wonderful woman who is always there for me when things get tough.

farmdoc's blog post number 20

In Mole Creek winter is nigh. Almost all the leaves have fallen from our deciduous trees – mainly sycamores, some fruit trees. The orchard’s fruit trees are young and so not fully productive. But no matter, because around here there are many established fruit trees – mainly apples, some plums – on public land, so their fruit is available to all. This year their yield was especially bountiful and scrumptious – which pleased me, and also our goats and a couple of neighbourhood horses whom I treated with windfall apples. Our goats have all but eradicated blackberry from our land. But the roadside blackberry brambles were prolific this year. Just because ‘The best things in life are free’ (the title of a 1927 song) is a cliché doesn’t mean it’s not true. My family know me as careful with money if not downright parsimonious, so they would expect me to be delighted with free fruit from public trees. And I am. I savour the concept of something sold in a shop, being available gratis a few hundred metres from that shop. So when I pick fruit from public trees, I am thumbing my nose at a world in which everything that can be commodified and monetarised, has been. Almost. This ‘almost’ makes me warm inside, as winter is nigh.

farmdoc's blog post number 19

Robert Pirsig. Have you heard of him? He is a 79-year-old American writer and philosopher. I was reminded of him a month ago when I wanted to buy two webcams – so my sweetheart Vivienne and I could see each other when we are apart and we talk on Skype. When online I found a webcam price range of A$15-110, I quickly realised I had a decision to make. And at that exact moment my mind jumped to Pirsig’s 1974 book Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values. In it Pirsig explores the metaphysics of quality via discussions between motorcyclists during a journey across the USA. Wikipedia tells me it sold millions of copies in 27 languages, and has been called the most widely read philosophy book ever (after first being rejected by 121 publishers, more than any other bestselling book, according to Guinness World Records). I know nothing about Zen or Motorcycle Maintenance, but this is one of the most useful books I have read – which I did over 30 years ago, so I have little recall of its content. But the message it gave me is that quality – which Pirsig deemed undefinable – is paramount. So I bought two high-end webcams – Logitech QuickCam Pro 9000, for the record. And they are top quality and wonderful – as is Pirsig’s book.

farmdoc's blog post number 18

Decade by decade in my life, music has become more important to me. How could it not: I am the father, and self-proclaimed number one fan, of Emily Ulman. Every now and again I come across some music that spellbinds me. A year or two ago it was The Folkways Collection – a series of 24 podcast programs sampling the unique collection of music, spoken word, and sound on Smithsonian Folkways Recordings. And last week I found a radio series – titled Theme Time Radio Hour – hosted by my hero Bob Dylan in his new role as disc jockey. Predictably given the series’ title, each programme is devoted to a different theme including weather, baseball, coffee, divorce, trains, even doctors. Nowadays Dylan – born Robert Zimmerman in May 1941 – has almost no speaking voice let alone singing voice. Yet his raspy delivery is somehow perfect for the monologues linking the music tracks. The series is on a paid satellite radio service; also it’s free on the BBC but only if you’re in the UK. However in the iconoclastic spirit of the internet, one aficionado has it on free download. Each 1-hour episode, though about 80 megabytes, is a gem. My life is richer for this discovery. Keep up the great work, Bobby. You’re a dazzler.

farmdoc's blog post number 17

I can’t find my favourite mechanical pencil. It’s a Bic, it’s turquoise, and it cost me a dollar. I put it down somewhere – I can’t recall where – and my searching has been fruitless. It’s not really the loss of the pencil that bothers me, but that I think my inability to find things is an early sign of dementia or some other brain disease. I care about my brain. I drink minimal alcohol, maybe even less than a healthy brain needs; I don’t do drugs, either psychotropic or illegal ones; and I take fish-oil and vitamin C, which may help and don’t harm my brain’s function. But the non-brain part of my body? That’s a different story. A week ago I lifted a recycling box full of very damp soil, from the ground on to the trailer that my ATV tows. I didn’t pay attention to the way I lifted it, so I probably bent my back instead of my legs. Stupid me! So now I have back pain. But no leg symptoms, I’m happy to tell you, and so no nerve impingement. In the week since then it has improved 80%. But it still bothers me – not only when I’m chainsawing, stacking firewood, repairing fences, and collecting wombat poo; but also when I’m searching for my mislaid mechanical pencil.

farmdoc's blog post number 16

I’ve been trying for years now, and I just can’t make it. I read the books, I obsess about the ingredients, I try my hardest. But still it doesn’t work. I’m talking compost here. Right now my compost bin is 75% full of fantastic stuff – moist, rich, luscious, earthy – but I thank the myriad earthworms in there for that. In other words, what’s going on in my bin is worm farming (which is a cool process) and not composting (which is a warm one). Because the end result is similar, maybe I shouldn’t care. But I do. Especially because this is International Composting Awareness Week – which runs from Sunday 4th to Saturday 10th May. Now there are international days and weeks and months for this and that – mostly important social or environmental matters whose profiles need raising. But compost is different. It is seminal, primal, overarching. In Genesis we read, ‘From dust we come, to dust we return’. So no wonder that wag – I can’t recall who – when asked to state the meaning of life in one word, shouted back ‘Compost!’ Me? I’ll keep trying, carefully checking the temperature of the bin and attending to my carbon to nitrogen ratio. But increasingly I’m thinking that the best compost I’ll ever make will be after I’m gone.

farmdoc's blog post number 15

On a recent Australian rules football TV programme, a 62-year-old ex-footballer and current media personality fondled a mannequin with a picture of a Melbourne newspaper’s chief football writer – who is a woman - stapled to its head. Well as a man who adores my wife, four daughters and three granddaughters, I consider this man a misogynist and his behaviour obscene. My dictionary defines obscene as repulsive, repugnant, detestable and abhorrent. This man’s stunt is all of these, and so is the lack of public censure by the TV station. Within the rubric of obscenity I also include the Westpac Bank’s A$1.84 billion profit in the last six months – a 10% rise despite the doubling of loan losses and provisions – because Westpac arguably couldn’t and didn’t give a damn about the effect on its customers of its business decisions. I also read recently that Kylie Minogue’s personal fortune is A$84.5 million – which to me is not obscene because though sub-talented, our Kylie has ostensibly hurt no-one when amassing her monetary riches. Contrast Bernie Ecclestone whose financial worth in the last 12 months increased by A$340 million of which almost 10% was donated to him by the Victorian government in return for not much. Which brings me full circle, because Ecclestone’s Formula One circus is as misogynistic as the 62-year-old TV buffoon.

farmdoc's blog post number 14

When my first cousin Phillip and I were kids, we had a ritual: One of us would ask: ‘Where does the sun go at night?’, and the other would retort: ‘It doesn’t go anywhere, just out of sight’. That’s obvious. But have you ever asked yourself why some emails arrive seconds after being sent, and others take hours and sometimes days to come. And where those delayed ones are in the meantime? Or where money that leaves your bank account one day and reaches your payee’s account the next day, sleeps overnight? And who gets the interest on it when it’s snoring? Well I ask myself, and I don’t know the answers. You’d think that the older you get, the more you’d know. But it seems that the older I get, the less I know. Or maybe the older I get, the more I don’t know. I can live with that. I don’t need to know everything. And even if I wanted to, I can’t know everything. No-one can. But that doesn’t stop some people thinking and acting as if they know it all. They have an opinion on everything. And I find that the more people think they know, the less they actually do know. Anyway, enough. It’s night, and I’m going outside to see where the sun’s gone.

farmdoc's blog post number 13

I can hardly grasp the concept of six million people. Over 25% of Australia’s population. Sixty MCGs full. It’s a huge number of people. To be killed. To be murdered in cold blood, actually, for no other reason than they were Jewish. And to be remembered. But remembered they were – every single one – yesterday, which was the annual Holocaust Remembrance Day; in Hebrew Yom Ha'shoah. Yesterday was a day not only to remember and honour the slaughtered millions, but also a day of rededication to the prevention of all future genocide. It is no coincidence that the Holocaust deniers – you and I know who they are, the President of Iran is number one on the list – are the same lunatic racist megalomaniacs who rant on about obliterating Israel from the map. Israel! That tiny nation born a couple of years after the Holocaust, is the new element in the equation, and she is under no illusion that when push comes to shove, as increasingly it looks like doing, her sons and daughters will be responsible for their own destiny. Whereas the yellow stars that the Nazis forced the Jews to wear signified powerlessness, the blue Star of David is a symbol of freedom, democracy, pride and power – which is perhaps the most meaningful way of all to remember and honour the six million.

farmdoc's blog post number 12

At midnight last Monday Telstra shut down its CDMA mobile phone network because, it said, it was outdated. Since 1999 CDMA had been the core of mobile phone services in rural and regional Australia. It covered 98% of the population. The other 2% includes Mole Creekians, even though a few years ago a petition was reportedly signed by 100% of us. The CDMA network was duly replaced by a new 3G network, later named Next G. And the fact is the coverage of Next G is no greater than CDMA. Well what did you expect from a privatised Telstra, eh? That they would spend millions on infrastructure to extend Next G to the outlying 2%? Oh no. The microsecond Telstra turned private, its shareholders became its most important stakeholder, and be damned the Australian public. Shame on successive governments – ALP and Coalition, Federal and State – who have privatised public utilities. I wish their arrogant negligence would haunt these privatisers for the rest of their days. But it won’t happen, because despite their media bleating they don’t have consciences, and they probably own shares in the very companies that have devoured the public bounty at bargain basement prices. Now Telstra is advising farmers who are still experiencing Next G problems to call the 1800 888 888 hotline and lodge their concerns with Telstra. Big bloody whoopy do!

farmdoc's blog post number 11

Earlier this week I looked through my wallet and found a MasterCard, Amex card, Bendigo Bank Cashcard, Woolworths Frequent Shopper Card, FlyBuys card, Drivers Licence, AMA membership card, Qantas Club card, Amcal card, Seniors Card, Virgin Blue Velocity card, St Lukes Heath Fund card, Medicare card, Bendigo Bank Community Saver card and Avant medical indemnity membership card. And I thought I was living a simple life, or at least I was aspiring to one. Since 1997 I’ve owned the book that started it all: Duane Elgin’s Voluntary Simplicity - Toward a way of life that is outwardly simple, inwardly rich; and I have re-read it – especially the parts I have underlined – each year or two since. Its many helpful quotes include: ‘He who knows he has enough is rich’ and ‘An awareness of death is an ally for infusing our lives with a sense of immediacy, perspective and proportion’. In my quest I am, I think, doing not as well as I would like, but better than most. Neither Elgin nor anyone else ever said it’s easy to live a simple life in a complex society. So maybe I shouldn’t judge my life by the cards in my wallet, for as Mahatma Gandhi said: ‘As long as you derive inner help and comfort from anything, you should keep it’. At least I don’t own a television or a mobile phone.