This Corner Of The Earth.

The ribbon of bitumen that dresses the hilly countryside of my childhood stretches out before me as I traverse the back road, heading towards my destination.

It is green here. It always has been...for as long as I can remember. The pasture still looks as good as it always has - lush and vital. The climate remains favorable here. The soil is the kind that you would kneel down before and hold it in your hands, taste it on your tongue and draw the impeccable fertility from it. There is a sweetness to the air - it is moist and earthy. In the morning, the dew that settles on the grass locks in this sweetness and, as the sun rises over the hills, it's beams caress the earth, the dew vaporizes and releases it into the air.

Oh to be a cow...

Has it been this long?

James Taylor's "Fire & Rain" plays on the radio as I drive along and I find myself a little misty-eyed listening to it. It's funny - that song always seems to play on the radio whenever I travel here, to this place of my early childhood.

The bitumen that winds and meandered it's way along the gentle spur of the countryside straightens out now, and I see the outskirts of the town up ahead.

It is a small town. It seems much smaller now, in my adulthood, than it was years ago when I was a tear-away child, with not a care in the world. The rural hamlet held me in it's bosom. I went to school there, rode my bike in the bush on the outskirts, played cricket in the park with my brother and the local kids near my house.

We were a rambunctious bunch for sure.

There was my brother, the youngest but definitely the most energetic of us all. Despite the lymphoma that afflicted him at the tender age of just four, he possessed an indomitable drive that left his contemporaries in the dust.

There was Roger, who lived down the street. A funny kid who used to wet himself a lot and run home mortified but not before ensuring that he'd knocked up his century (in cricketing parlance). He also used to like to imitate characters from "Hey Hey It's Saturday" - an old school variety show on TV, that we all loved to watch. It used to be a kids show but it transitioned into a prime time show that liked to run the gauntlet of bad taste often.

There was Danny, who - I swear - had the best collection of Star Wars figurines and vehicles I ever saw and who guarded them with his life. His Mum, a teacher at the local school had a funny accent - but I was to realize much later that it was only because she was Irish. Much later, Danny got sick - really sick - with some sort of auto-immune illness that nearly killed him. He was never the same after that.

And there was Brendan - the human equivalent of the Warner Brothers cartoon character the Tasmanian Devil. He always looked as though he had been playing in the dirt. He was messy, unkempt, a little devious. But he was pretty handy with the bat.

Whether it was playing sport, pretending to be The Famous Five, riding our bikes on the old BMX track, down the old main road, we were a tight bunch then.

I have no idea where Roger, Danny and Brendan ended up.

The town is situated on a hillside that dips down into a valley of sorts, a continuation of the spur. Slowing considerably, I descend the hill into the town from it's western fringe and I can see not much has changed...it has just gotten older.

The old Scout Hall, which looked as though it was close to being condemned back in the day, still looks that way now - except someone has mown the grass surrounding it. It looks neat, tidy, incongruous in the shadow of the old hall. But it somehow fits.

The old butcher shop up ahead, on the left, causes me to flinch with shock and, with an almost automated response, I pull the car to a stop in front of the shop. It has been boarded up. The glass windows that I used to peer through and squint at the butchers plying their trade, tending the fresh carcasses on the hooks, kicking up the sawdust on the floor, presenting customers with beautifully presented meats and small goods in the refrigerated display cabinets...

Gone now, behind rusted metal panels and wooden palings that have been hastily tacked over the expansive shop window and door. The once proud signage that sat proudly up the verandah was gone too. Just a suggestive imprint is all that remains. The tell-tale of some sort of arson stains the shop front. It is dilapidated and rather pathetic and I am, inexplicably, overwhelmed by sadness.

Slowly I drive on, leaving the mortal remains of the butcher shop behind me.

My old home is still there, a few hundred yards away from the butcher shop. I have no idea who owns it now but it still looks the same. My mother's experiment with an elaborate cactus garden, complete with fish pond and patterned scoria beds is but a distant memory. I'm not sure how I ever felt about that garden. It was hard playing 'The A-Team' with my brother whilst constantly getting barbed by an enemy cactus plant.

So many memories...

Dad got up one night, ran a bath and went back to bed, back to sleep and flooded the hallway. It would have been a disaster I guess, but Mum got new carpets out of it, so it wasn't as bad as it could have been.

We saw our first video cassette here in this house and that one momentous event touched off many a Saturday night 'movie night' which became legendary.

We grew here...my brother and I.

The town's singular Pub - The Rossmore - stands in the nominal center of the township. The red brick and tiled roof still stand proudly if a little drably. There was a time when this Pub was renowned for it's bistro meals and people came from far and wide to drink here and dine here.

There's an old local legend that my grandfather held a record - that still stands apparently - for eating the most sausage rolls in one sitting at this Pub. A questionable achievement perhaps but one that I still chuckle about.

The Pub is quiet now. I'm told they don't serve meals anymore and now the nearby power station doesn't employ the way they used to, the front bar doesn't get as many workers drinking there after their shifts anymore.

Further on, past the houses with their aging but still neat front gardens, the Church on the corner that looks across to yet more rolling hills and green pastures, the main road dips down once more and I slow - looking for one more landmark that I often call upon in my visits back here.

The little house stands, unassuming, neat, quaint even amongst it's younger neighbors. It is one of the oldest houses in the township and can be seen in some of the earliest photographs of the townships - dating back to pre-WW1.

It is a single fronted cottage nestled on great timber stilts which have been concealed cleverly by lattice and garden beds. Over the years it has been clad in a variety of materials, first timber, then a kind of faux brick work - which is how I first remembered it. It stands now, looking tired but somehow still noble.

This was the house of my maternal grandparents.

Nana's garden was her pride an joy and was indeed the envy of many with it's pretty rose bushes that routinely burst into color at the right time, the camellia bushes which were also stunning, any number and variety of ferns which dotted the garden. The seemingly endless variety of fuscias were irresistible for us children who took great joy in popping the buds whenever we could - much to Nana's chagrin. There was so much more that adorned her garden beds on the hillside of her property but I can't remember all of them. What I can remember is that you could easily get lost in there.

There were chickens that produced eggs for Nana. I remember my grandfather plucking the feathers of a freshly killed bird when I was very young - one of the few things I can remember of him before the stroke that robbed him of his faculties.

The old Vauxhall sedan that sat parked in the drive way, dormant for years after Poppy ceased driving it, is gone now. But I still have a November '79 "Herald" newspaper that I found in there once when my curiosity got the better of my Nana's warnings not to go near it.

Nana's cooking prowess was legendary back then. I was forever amazed that she could still cook like a machine whenever there was a power failure (I'll let you think on that one). Her Cornish pasties seemed to be the size house bricks and tasted indescribably wonderful.

So many memories...

The house was sold off years ago when it became apparent that it was too much for Nana to handle on her own. It was sad in one way but I'm sure it was a relief for her. So many memories were tied up in that old house...and not all of them good.

There was damage there...

I turn away from the house and slowly drive back the way I came, turning left up by the Uniting Church on the corner, passing by the old Hall - the site of many a school concert or 18th or 21st birthday party or any other manner of community function. I turn right past the kindergarten I attended - a life time ago, it feels like - left again past the fire station - where the ladies auxiliary bingo mornings were legendary for their ruthless competitiveness...

My destination is a small, detached unit at the end of the street that runs off to no-where. Though the house is different altogether from the one I have just come from - the bountiful garden is unmistakable. Even though she is well into her 80's, Nana's enthusiasm for her garden is no less now than it was when she was a young bride. Her knowledge is encyclopedic.

She is waiting for me on the porch as I pull up and step out. She seems tinier every time I visit but I know that is just a trick of my mind. If anything, her hair is just a little grayer - but that indomitable Maltese spirit burns just as brightly now as it ever did.

As we embrace, I see she has left her bloody hearing aids out again and I laugh in spite of myself. They're too finicky to handle - she'll argue. Somehow - we'll muddle through. We usually do. The kettle is on and Nana has already cut some cake and arranged it neatly on a fine china plate.

The visit is always too brief but it will sustain me until I travel back this way again...

DFA.

The State Of I.

I sit in the middle another early hour - somewhere in the region of 2am to be exact.

Sleep studies lab tonight... watching over a seven month old with some mysterious poor feeding/poor weight gain/poor developmental issues that are a real question mark right now. It's the kind of thing that would have Gregory House and his team salivating with a clinical/dramatic desire to solve this mystery ala Murder She Wrote. But if I throw in another TV Reference here right now - I'd probably vomit.

The old Bakelite telephone I have in my office at home has probably received more of a workout in the past month or so than at any other time in it's nearly one hundred year life span. It is seriously old - like pre WW1 old.

I purchased it from an antique store in a place called Tyabb in rural Victoria - it must have been a good 6 or 7 years ago. At the time of purchase, the shop-lady showed it to be in good working order, however the journey from there back to my home in Adelaide must have done something to it because I couldn't get the damned thing to work on my phone line in my Adelaide house. A call to the phone company revealed that it was indeed registering a fault on the network so, after a quick search, I found a guy who was a whiz went it came to these old contraptions. He found the original dialer to be so badly corroded that the only option was to replace it.

A Bakelite Telephone - not mine, but very similar to mine.

Good as new.

The black Bakelite telephone has served me beautifully ever since and has proudly sat on my desk next to my laptop, cell phone and PDA. A granddaddy communications device punching ably above it's weight in the digital age.

I have always been a lover of technology - a geek if you will - and I have an appreciation for the technology of yesterday as much as I appreciate the technology of now.

Anyway - another Monday went by yesterday and I spent most of it placing calls on the old Bakelite, following up with people who are (potentially) interested in my novel and keeping the squeaky wheel thing happening. I'm discovering that nothing happens quickly insofar as marketing.

In the case of one major book retailer here in Adelaide, who I've been talking with now for nearly six weeks, the progress has been maddeningly slow. They've expressed a keen interest in doing an event with me (supporting a local author and all that) but I'm finding that I'm doing a lot of chasing. Calling, leaving messages, emailing, requesting return receipts, getting none. As recently as today - after three attempts at speaking to the contact - leaving messages - I finally touched base with the person only to be told 'we're still waiting for the go ahead from head office'.

See - what happens is - the book store has a program supporting local authors - they help in organizing and hosting an event (i.e. a book signing/meet the author) and they secure funding from HQ to submit a purchase order to my publisher for stock. But it all happens fairly slowly and patience has never been one of my stronger virtues. I'm still being told that this all will happen...but part of me is having doubts.

I spoke again to a local FM station here in Adelaide who expressed interest in talking to me about my book and I have supplied them with a copy to review. There is one catch though, that is knocking my confidence off kilter. The station is a Christian focused one, which in itself isn't a concern for me. However the novel is quite dark in the beginning, contains a fairly graphic sex scene and also has some fairly strong language. I fear that these may work against me in terms of the station's philosophy. The novel does have a strong spiritual thematic string as well though and, as a good friend of mine - who herself identifies as a Christian - said to me today, most modern Christians are fairly progressive in their thinking and are broad minded (she, btw, loved the novel).

So I dunno...I furnished them with a copy from my own batch which I paid for...so I'm taking a leap of faith here. Time will tell.

After what I regarded as a completely bloody shambles - that being last Monday, I consider today...well now yesterday actually...to have been a much better say.

A couple of unexpected things happened today that made me smile. Two libraries - one here in Adelaide and one across in Melbourne are intending to purchase the book for their collections. This kinda spun me out because, thus far, I hadn't given much thought to libraries. But I'm told there are opportunities to do events with them as well so I'm going to consider this as another option for getting the word out.

I sat back in my chair after I had done as much as I could do by late in the afternoon and considered my old Bakelite telephone. What conversations had that phone facilitated over the years? What news had it been a silent witness to? What momentous occasions, haunting tragedy, trials and tribulations had it transported down it's wires over the many decades of dedicated service it has performed? It has accumulated nearly a century of communication mileage...

And what the hell is Bakelite anyhow?

DFA.

Randomosity (Delta).

Another lull in proceedings.

3AM, quiet, patient is under control and this is the first opportunity I've had to sit down with a cup of good ol' Caterer's Blend and breathe. I was just thinking to myself that if I put a teaspoon of pepper into this drink AFTER the three sugars I garnished it with - it would still aproximately chemical waste without the class. But it's drinkable so...I shouldn't complain.

If you're ever feeling so inclined I invite you to look up Tufting's Enteropathy on the web. Then imagine what a 13 month would be like with it. In a word - heartbreaking. I have been doing all I can to settle the little tyke down to sleep but in between the rampant diarrhoea and the vomiting, it's been next to impossible. The babe sleeps now though, thank heavens for small mercies.

It seems I have stumbled across a rich seam of gold (calloquially speaking) in the past 24 hours. In the blog-sphere there are literally millions upon millions of blogs that pertain to writing, to reading and to book reviews. So it is to here that I have turned my attentions in order to drive the marketing of The Hambledown Dream. was unaware before now - just how many blogs out there specialize in the reading of and reviewing of books. Each of them have their own audience so they each represent a potential.

The email count up until now is somewhere close to 100 - all individualized so as to appeal to each addressee in a personal fashion. Mind you I think I stuffed up royally last night when sending out the emails because I was doing it on my smartphone and I discovered that half of the email text was getting cut off in the sending. So I can imagine how my doucheyness would have looked at the other end when the recipient is reading my introduction only for it to be cut off before I have even illuminated them to the reason for my contacting them. I rectified the problem since but I still feel like an idiot.

Note for future reference - make sure you have the bloody addressee's name right too (Arrghh I could punch myself in the nose seriously).

...I have to ask this question - what is going on with the Jackson's these days. We're getting this program on pay tv at the moment called The Jacksons - A Family Dynasty. I caught a little of it the other night before work. I say a little of it because after about 3 minutes I wanted to throw my f***ing shoe at the TV. Michael's plastic nose hasn't been in the ground a year and these parasites are riding the coat tails of his death in a morbid attempt to suck as much profit from the Jackson name as they can.

Yeah, yeah I know - I could simply turn the TV off - but I'm a voyueristic pig sometimes...I just can't look away.

TV seems to be sucking more and more these days.

DFA.

Randomosity (Cappa...???)

I just had to relate this to you while the thoughts remain fresh in my mind.

My three point five year old son and I have this little thing we do where we'll start singing a song together that will become sort of our theme tune for the moment.

It's a small, silly, insignificant thing really, but it's one thing that I can say I truly teach my son - so I call it a waaaaay cool teaching...thingy.

Right now, for some reason that I can't explain, we've struck upon the old Masters Apprentices classic "Because I Love You". It's taken us no time at all to master the lyrics. It's great because for years, I was never truly sure of the lyrics to the song myself. It was one of those situations where, I always thought the lyrics went a particular way...and they were completely different to what I thought they were. It just reminded me of a doctor colleague of mine who has now returned to England. She revealed to me just before Christmas, two of those yuletides ago, that she always thought that the words to "Feed the World (Do They Know It's Christmas?) were ... get this ... "Fever - Who-oaa!" (Sorry Fi - I couldn't resist).

So, yeah, my son and I are reciting "Because I Love You" every chance we get now - much to the teeth grinding aggravation of his mother. A few months ago it was the theme to Rocky "Gonna Fly Now" which he still avidly requests as part of the in car playlist on the way home from day care. I think the day care worker was genuinely shocked when she heard those victorious trumpets issue forth from my car's stereo system once when I pulled away from the curb outside the child care center.

Makes me wonder now what my 3 month old daughter and I will end up singing once she develops a voice of her own.

DFA.

(nb - this post was written at 0500 hours in the morning after a period of sleep deprivation totalling T-minus 23 hours. Thus the lucidity of the author cannot be garanteed).

Randomosity (Alpha).

Forgive me if I seem a little screwy...

It's a little after three in the morning. I'm at work, in the middle of my forth night duty shift this week and I'm tired - I am oh so tired. I set myself a punishing schedule this week. Not only was there the big first interview for my novel - which was pretty much central to my week - there were a number of other appointments I had to keep during the day time, which interrupted my pattern of sleep so badly that I have been functioning on a less than optimal amount when it comes time for work. 10 hour night duty shifts at the hospital are demanding mentally even if they are not particularly demanding physically. One operates on a different level than they would if it were day time. In a funny sort of way, time tends to go into a flux state...I imagine it's kind of the same sensation that my patients feel while they are sedated and paralyzed on the ventilator. Time blurs...

I've spent the past couple of days fretting over that first radio interview. It's because I'm tired I know but I keep going over all the perceived mistakes I made in it rather than appreciate the positive aspects of it. The worst thing I've been obsessing over is that I'm sure I got my publisher's name wrong when I was telling the interviewer about iReadiWrite Publishing. I'm waiting in the hope that the interviewer will come through with a CD of the interview because I know that I won't be able to let my mind rest until I listen back to it. If I did get Michelle's name wrong - I am going to find a brick wall and butt my head against it a few time. And the "umms and the ahhhs - my god! I am sure I sounded worse than Molly Meldrum (note to overseas readers - this guy made a freaking artform out of saying the umms and the ahhs when speaking publicly).

I tweeted a rather cryptic thing earlier this evening - something along the lines of "it's a desolate feeling when the one's who you hope support you the most support you the least". My publisher did advise me to be aware that support for your novel will actually come from the places where you least expect it and not to be too disappointed if those you expected to support it aren't as enthusiastic as you thought - or something like that - again I am going by memory here. Without identifying anyone specifically - I have to admit that there have been a number of people - important people - in my life who have been "ambivalent" towards the novel.

I would even go as far as to say that they have resented it even.

And it has been a disappointment - I won't hide it. Because it is something that I poured all of myself into. Every spare moment I could scrape together went into the process of writing it and it just seems that acknowledgement and/or encouragement has been hard to come by. And I know I shouldn't expect it...I don't think that is what I am trying to say. But Jesus, you know...

It's a pretty good thing.

Isn't it...

I'm reading "The Guernsey Literary & Potato Peel Pie Society" by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows right now. It's a lovely story - told through the exchange of letters between a young woman - an author - in post WW2 London and an eclectic group of people from the island of Guernsey. It's a whimsical read and a lovely piece of escapism right now...It's good at three in the morning anyway. I think my tastes are evolving. I'm gravitating towards literature whereas before I was a sucker for biographies and current events analysis. In the aftermath of 9/11 I absorbed reams and reams of words on the FBI, anti terrorism units, the governments response to terror. But I hit a kind of wall at some point and got well fed up with it all. I picked up a copy of "The Shipping News" a few years ago and I think that was the point at which I began to look for more human stories, rather than get swept up in the politics of today. I loved "The Shipping News" actually. I love stories about small towns and their people. I guess it's because I come from a small town. It's elementary really.

I really need to sleep for about 48 hours solidly - with no interruptions. Then I think I'll feel more positive. That's what it is...the lack of sleep. After a while it messes with your head. Negative thoughts bubble to the surface and they f*** with you. A man once taught me a way of stepping outside of your thoughts - it was an exercise where you kind of place your thought stream out in front of you and watch them go by dispassionately until they kind of dissipate. I got close but I don't think I ever really mastered the art of this exercise. I've been told I'm not very good at embracing new things. But it's funny that...

...because I'm constantly out there trying them.

DFA.