Sunday too far away

 

 

In this Australian classic, Jack Thompson is Foley, the best shearer on every station for miles around. "Sunday Too Far Away" is Foley's story of sweat-soaked days and rum-soaked nights, of bloody two-fisted punch ups ... of scab labour brought in during the shearers strike of '56 and of the poor old bastard who runs the place: the cocky (farmer) who is terrified that one slip of the shears will render his prize ram good for nothing but mint sauce.

 

 

The full-length movie is not available on YouTube. Buy it on ebay. It's worth every cent and the “rissole” story put me off rissoles for life!

 

 

Anyway, today being Saturday and Sunday not far away, this may be a good time to watch it again.

 

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When the t-shirt fits, wear it

 

 

I won't give you that smug feeling of having aged better than me by showing you the upper portion of this cropped photo; suffice it to say that neither the description 'I'm so cute' nor the size still fit.

It's going to be another very hot day and a very dismal day on the stock market, with BHP down more than 2%, or more than a dollar, in early trading ( in contrast, RIO is up by almost 2%, or $2.70, on the news that it will no longer pursue a merger with those Swiss gnomes Glencore). I'll never be a trader but only a collector of fully-franked dividends, so I might as well avert my eyes from the sea of red and look out to the river of blue while I sit on the sunlit verandah and listen to the radio.

 

 

Or perhaps I could just read Charles Bukowski's book "Ham on Rye":

 

[Chapter 44] "I could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didn't particularly want money. I didn't know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn't have to do anything. The thought of being something didn't only appall me, it sickened me. The thought of being a lawyer or a councilman or an engineer, anything like that, seemed impossible to me. To get married, to have children, to get trapped in the family structure. To go someplace to work every day and to return. It was impossible. To do things, simple things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor, Mother's Day . . . was a man born just to endure those things and then die? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep."

 

For more Bukowski audiobooks, click here

 

Or I could just close my eyes and listen to the audiobook.

 

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P.S. A friend was caught driving without a seatbelt and was fined $420. I told him, "Why not paint one across your t-shirt just in case you forget again?", and felt pretty good about having had the idea. Then I googled to see if someone had beaten me to it — and there it was: click here.

 

 

"What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun."    Ecclesiastes 1:9

 

Walk, don't run - Part II

 

 

In response to my "Walk, don't run" post, a reader sent me the above clip of a group called "The Ventures" playing a tune called "Walk, don't run". I'd never heard of either but listening to the tune I realised I had heard it many times before, just after I had come to Australia in 1965 and just after I had begun to discover the opposite sex in Australia. Watching the clip all the way to the end, I even came across what looked like me:

 

 

It prompted me to go looking for some old photos from those days which I'm allowed to publish now without running the risk of some back-dated claims for child maintenance. Luckily, back in those days my shy personality and nerdy looks were all the contraceptives I needed.

 

 

For starters, I have no recollection of who those people are or what their names were, although the one in the picture above may have been called Mary - I mean, she had that Mary-Hopkin look, right down to that mole on her right upper chin, don't you think?

 

 

Ditto with this lot but I recall that the party was held at Canberra's Deakin Inn sometime in 1966 by which time my English was already good enough for me to mumble, "Yes, please; I'll have another one!"

 

 

And I've no idea why this girl - whoever she was - singled me out. Maybe she needed someone to lean on. It certainly wasn't the grey flannel suit I'd been wearing since my articled years in Germany.

 

 

Drinks of choice in those days were jugs of beer for the boys and Barossa Pearl for the girls who clutched imitation gold lamé bags while the boys clutched at straws trying to look like Ringo Starr. Those were the days, my friend. We thought they'd never end. We'd sing and dance forever and a day. We'd live the life we choose. We'd fight and never lose. For we were young and sure to have our way.

 

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It's been a long day ...

 

 

Every morning except on Thursdays, the warm-water pool is standing room only, as a whole bunch of geriatrics do their aquarobics until lunchtime, and I don't know anyone who can hold on for that long when up to the neck in warm water.

Thursday morning being a "safe" day and having the pool almost to ourselves, we made an early start and followed it up with lunch with friends at the Batemans Bay Soldiers Club, and my usual visit to Vinnies to look for some more interesting books (not that I haven't already a whole library full of them!) I picked up "Trading in the Zone" by a Mark Douglas, which clearly hadn't made anyone a fortune yet as it was still in its shrink-wrap, and then a little lower on the same shelf, I found a completely unread "Ham on Rye"! Who in the Bay reads Charles Bukowski? No one, judging by the pristine condition of the book.

 

 

I also picked up "The Unknown Nation - Australia after Empire" and "There goes the Neighbourhood - Australia and the Rise of Asia", both published around 2010 and therefore already superseded by events.

 

BHP on Thursday, going back to Tuesday

 

Anyway, I might as well start on "Trading in the Zone" because I am not (yet) a trader. If I were, I would have sold all my BHP shares yesterday after they had jumped from $50.13 to $52.40, because today they've given up everything they had gained yesterday, and closed at $50.36.

 

 

There's even an online audiobook of "Trading in the Zone", so there's no excuse for you not to have the same sleepless nights as I have. Go for it! After seven hours of listening, you may still be just as bad at it as I am.

 

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Don't judge a book by its movie

 

 

Somerset Maugham’s work is still in print, but this once-popular writer is no longer fashionable or much read. He is thought to be too middle-class, too in thrall to empire, too British. He is all these things, but he’s so much more. His many books merit their two metre of shelf in my library.

He is a consummate storyteller, whether in short or long form, and his notebooks and The Summing Up (1938) are essential reading for all writers. "Of Human Bondage" (1915) is perhaps the best novel of obsessive love ever written. "Cakes and Ale" (1930), with its insider’s portrayal of literary fame and envy, is a gem.

"The Razor’s Edge" (1944) is a subtle yet complex story of a privileged young man in search of spiritual meaning. It is a thought-provoking and introspective work that explores the quest for meaning and purpose in life. The story revolves around Larry Darrell, a young American aviator who has recently returned from the war. However, instead of embracing the conventional path of material success and security, Larry embarks on a journey to discover the true meaning of life.

It is a timeless work that continues to captivate readers with its profound exploration of the search for meaning, the pursuit of personal freedom, and the eternal quest for Truth. Maugham's vivid storytelling and deep insights into the complexities of human nature make this book a compelling and thought-provoking read.

 

 

Neither its 1984 film adaptation nor the earlier 1946 version do the book justice. Many of his short stories were made into fims, such as the anthologies "Trio" and "Quartet", but the only film adaptation of any of his novels which did the book any justice was "The Painted Veil".

I'm no longer searching for the meaning of life. I mean, we're all going to die, all of us. That alone should make us go easy on ourselves. Instead, we're terrorised by trivialities and eaten up by nothing.

 

 

Why not instead read about other people's search for the true meaning of life? Why not read "The Razor's Edge" one more time? - click here.

 

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