Words for a New Beginning

I remember the grainy start of a day, the light rotating on the clouds from the bottom-lit night orange to the dirty pink tops and faces, arranged behind the city silhouette somewhere near the origin of Parramatta road: the most primeval of Australian ways, the first of our journeys. [http:…

Atheism for the incorrigibly religious

> “Throughout my career I’ve been in search of guidance… … I don’t believe the business of life is obvious…” – Alain De Botton Sydney Opera House, 23rd February 2012 Went to see De Botton last night, courtesy of a friend’s spare ticket and too busy wife. I try to…

Coffee and Freedom

Final Step Cafe, Melbourne. Murphy Street, Toorak. Double Ristretto. I only risk the double rist when great rewards are offered. Probably the best I’ve ever had – the real deal. It refused to be relegated to the background, to quietly shuffle to the corner of my consciousness behind the smells,…

On the Gradual Production of Thoughts Whilst Speaking

I was emailed this beautiful little essay by the convenor of a workshop I’m participating in next week. It’s on the value of discussing ideas with others rather than trying to work things out alone. The final paragraph on the foolishness of examinations is a particular highlight. Long-live…

Meditations on a Tackle Box

The plastic box contains a disjointed collection of fishing tackle: the aggregate of summer holidays, a tangle of failed temptations. Take out the plastic hand-lines and stack  to one side. The cork hand-line is more interesting. It can sit on its own. A small box full of lead. Hefty. Dense.…

The Philosopher at 90

PAUL RICOEUR: “You know, the different ages of life meet with different kinds of happiness and unhappiness, as well as with, how should I say, different traps. The two traps of old age are sadness and boredom. Sadness? “It is so sad that one must leave all this, that one…

The Bells

We used to live in a little cubical building, nave’s length from a bell tower. An aisle’s length, not quite, but every friday night it was a measured space, although not by paces; in concussions. From 6pm to 8pm the Ringers would gather – I imagine from curious little…