Crayfish (not really a crayfish)

It’s Tuesday, September 18, 12.15pm as I begin writing this post. I was just down at the Crema hole-in-the-wall coffee shop opposite Machattie Park when I saw someone who looked a little like BMcT from behind. But that couldn’t be her: legs too thin. No, it was indeed her. BMcT is a local ecologist, a member of Greening Bathurst. As I waited for my coffee to be made she said she was sick of it, over it. I said I was too. She gets work doing this or that environmental consultancy but they’re all just depressing projects in thoroughly degraded landscapes. She was standing by a creek when a man approach her to ask if she was all right and she bit his head off. Then she wondered what had come over her. She realised she was sick of it, could not take doing this any more. She thought about being an activist. She could try to save sharks in Western Australia, something else in the Northern Territory – I forget what now – Stop Adani in Queensland …

“Mt Canobolas”, I added. They want to put over 60 kilometres of mountain bike trails through the State Conservation Area of Mt Canobolas. I’ve been making little campaign videos about it.

I, too, am thoroughly sick of it.

I have run out of some essential bit of steam.

I want to detail the car. After Bertie the black Labrador died, I left it a few weeks then cleaned out the car. The car was infused with Bertie’s hair, saliva, snot, smell. The car smelt badly of Dog. We didn’t notice it because we were used to it. But other people getting into the car could really smell it. And I could smell it if I’d been away for a week & then got in the car. I cleaned the inside a bit and bought new sheepskin seat covers and put them on. I washed the outside. The clear coat, aka Duco, was a complete mess. I started watching YouTube clips on how to look after your clear coat. I invented a process by which I used wax crayons in green and black to trace around the edges of the lifted bits of duco, where dust was gathering. The wax would protect it, stop things from getting worse. Maybe.

I found it so relaxing to detail the car. I realised it was a small job, a little more interesting than ordinary housework, and something that had nothing to do with the world at large. I was deeply sick of the world at large.

I feel like the Jewish villager who returned after traveling through Europe, saying that Jews were being thrown into mass graves, and everyone thought he was mad and went on with what they were doing. I feel my fellow human beings are willingly and wantonly destroying the planet, and with it the underpinnings of our own societies, such as they wretchedly and unfairly are. And yet when I try to say this I feel that the world is looking at me as though I’m mad, I’m the one with the problem. Part of my problem is my insistence on staying inside the main game. Writing the BCCAN column in the Advocate week in week out. Trying to be folksy, reasonable, talking from inside the mainstream paradigm. Not working. But then, nothing’s working.

So people start to drift off. SN, the BCCAN Secretary, is drifting off to study permaculture. Trying to talk to people directly about climate change is a mug’s game.

I paused in my writing of this piece to answer an email with a researcher from Sydney Uni who is holding interviews with people in Bathurst & the central west about community renewable energy initiatives. I’m going to meet her next Thursday. This is something I’m really sick of. Fuck working on renewable energy projects in one’s own time. Fuck off with that. As we get bogged down in government grants and governance, the state government goes on mining coal. Well, fuck off. I’m quite looking forward to saying this to the researcher. “Community renewable energy initiatives” sounds great but it distracts us all with busy work while they go on mining coal.

At the BCCAN AGM next month, I’ll be standing aside as president, although I’ve said I’m happy to stay on the committee. But I’ve come to a standstill. I’m not even sure about the committee. I might brighten up. Today I’d rather detail the car, or plant tomatoes. I’m not happy with anything. Nothing’s innocent, nothing’s untainted, non-vexed. Everywhere you look there’s something to be worried about. This can’t last. Nothing we’re doing is sustainable.

Steve plonks the Lonely Planet guide to India on the table. It’s a beautiful thing. I have always wanted to see India. I think of the Coleman Barks/Rumi poem: As elephants remember India. For some reason I find that line so moving. But it’s carbon all the way. And when we get there, we’re monstrously rich people and everyone wants our money. It’s weird to go around the world as a monstrously rich person. I hate it. I hate feeling guilty, trying to manage people, trying to be nice. So even a holiday feels stressful. Being in India is not about elephants or memory; it’s about dealing with tourism in late capitalism. It’s about being a consumer.

I keep returning to fantasies about living out my days in Carnarvon, in a caravan park somewhere. I’d have a tin boat and potter around the mangroves. I brighten as I type this.

I’m knitting a crayfish, the thing we used to call a crayfish when we lived there in the 1970s, but which I now discover is a rock lobster and not a crayfish at all. I’m knitting the western rock lobster, the Panulirus Cygnus. I’ve been using four double pointed needles. I’ve used a pattern for a lobster, but as the western rock lobster doesn’t have pincers, I’m leaving those off. So it’s just a body with long antennae and a lot of legs and doesn’t really, at the moment, look like western rock lobster at all. I’m hoping some sewn-on embellishments (eyes, and some way of creating the look of forward-facing spines) will give it some verisimilitude.

It’s for the installation in the Carnarvon library that features marine creatures knitted by the local craft group with a model of the jetty created by the blokes at the Men’s Shed. I saw the pic on Facebook and immediately wanted to contribute. By the time mine arrives in Carnarvon the display is likely to have packed up and gone. But hopefully my western rock lobster can be thrown in the bag with the other woolly marine animals. I want to do it. I want to be part of it, even if the ladies in the craft group think I’m a weirdo.

Because I am, of course, a weirdo.

I’m tired of being a weirdo. It works for me but only up to a point. I’m tired, so tired, of swimming against the stream. (Maybe I should be knitting a spawning salmon.)


Okay, just remembered my conversation with AB yesterday afternoon, over tea and craft on the deck near her back door. She was embroidering the word “Let” on a patch that will eventually quote Bob Katter on letting one hundred flowers bloom, but he’s not going to spend much time on it because every three weeks someone is ripped to pieces by a crocodile. I was working on the knitted icords that will become the legs of my western rock lobster. I told AB about my ideas for partly crocheting my PhD thesis. I’m thinking about wool going in a long line, a trail, entrails (just thought of that now) between the Macquarie River and my house. And maybe a bit in Carnarvon (the Gascoyne River delta going out to the Indian Ocean) and the Brisbane River (going out into Moreton Bay/the Pacific). But maybe just the Macquarie and my house is enough, more than enough. I could have the full length of intestine. How long is the adult small intestine? Large intestine? Then there’s the square metres of mucosa, very large. Anyway, something to think about. Maybe small organs strung through the landscape between home and river, straight up William Street, across the middle of Centennial Park. I’d get a little team of people to help install. And then if people pinch the bits, well and good.



Feeling raggedy

I’m doing some colouring-in, which may or may not be related to my PhD. It could be a simple bit of consolation, something I’m doing to survive this time and feel a bit better about life; or it could be something more specifically connected to the literature. I’m thinking of Terror Management Theory, identity, what we cleave to when the boat of our identity keeps getting rocked, feels like it might capsize.

Well, speaking of boat, here’s one now. It’s a purple boat, coloured over the last couple of days with a purple pencil. Coloured pencils are calm, quiet things. They run quietly over paper. Anyone can pick up and use a coloured pencil. (Well, anyone with a modicum of health and eye-hand coordination. Not everyone is this fortunate. All right! Everything I say must be hedged about. I’m aware of people living without the gift of sight, without the ability to keep a hand reasonably steady over a page.)

We have a boat, a purple boat, coloured using a Cumblerland Derwent Artists pencil (no possessive apostrophe in the gold-stamped lettering down the pencil). There are three figures in the boat (I nearly said two). The figures are Raggedy Ann, Raggedy Andy and an orange and yellow fish (the third figure). The fish has just one eye visible. Its eye looks like Ann and Andy’s eyes. I keep glancing back at my colouring efforts as I type this.

I have to confess – with some shame, perhaps quite a bit of shame – that I went looking for the Raggedy Ann paint-by-number book online. The book was published in the United States in 1969 and somehow a few copies got to Fitzies Newsagency in Carnarvon. I’m assuming this is where Mum bought them, but it could have been somewhere else in town. Perhaps we were with her, urging her on; perhaps she bought them and surprised us with them. It could well have been 1969, which would have made me five years old, or perhaps it was 1970. Every picture in the book was in two versions of the same size: The first was numbered with numbers from one to eight, corresponding to the following colours: red, yellow, blue, green, brown, black, orange, purple. The second image had no numbers. I remember we interpreted this to mean that the first image was to be coloured according to suggestion while in the second you could create your own colour interpretation. But when I found it online, the first version was described as the instructions on how to fill out the “clean” (numberless) version. So there you go.

Dad was surprisingly – crushingly – negative about our colouring books. “Paint by number!” he sneered. He didn’t seem to mind colouring books in general, but paint-by-number was no good because you could not express your individuality. I remember him colouring a page in one of our books – not the Raggedy books – and deliberately running a blue line around the outside of an object – it might have been a car – on the page. He was making a point about not having to slavishly follow the rules. He was a bit like that.

But we loved our paint-by-number books. I never forgot the calm orderliness of colouring in; the calm orderliness of having a suggested colour. The beautiful obedience of it, but a self-chosen obedience. There was a guiding personality out there, somewhere, of the artist who drew the pictures and suggested the colours. I wanted to complete the work for her. It’s only as I wrote these sentences, just now, that I’m getting a feeling for some sort of social connection with the person who drew the pictures for me to colour in. Distant and yet companionable.

I don’t know how long this pleasure lasted. Who knows how many pictures we actually completed. Probably not that many. We probably moved on quickly. I certainly don’t remember a book full of carefully coloured pictures. But even if short-lived, it was an impression. Not a huge or important impression.

I’m thinking of this idea of the importance of “weak ties” and now getting a sense of their strength.

I just went to Wikipedia and had a look at weak ties. Might be the wrong concept entirely. So what do I mean, exactly?

There’s the big-ticket memories of childhood and life, the things that one would assume were important. They are the moments of heightened emotion or significance. I’m standing down near the road outside the little house on the highway and Dad says his father has died. My memory puts this as being after school, just getting home. I say, “Did you cry?” and he says nothing. That’s a significant, big-ticket item. I’ve just gone into to get the exact date. It would have been Friday, July 21, 1972. Dad’s father was 64 years old at death.

But a colouring book is not a big-ticket item. It is not important, not really, not in the scheme of things. And yet it’s this not important, not in the scheme of things that I desperately, ludicrously, want to reconnect with now. I want it so much that I’ll sift through Google images as if sifting for gold. And, bizarrely enough, there it is. A digital image of a book created almost 50 years ago, all in a day’s work for someone.

Which sent me off on another Google Odyssey. The illustrator was apparently Ruth Ruhman. She illustrated children’s books galore, back in the 1950s and 60s. My Raggedy Ann book came at the height of her powers, or perhaps towards the end of her long productive period. There are dozens of Google images devoted to the illustrations of Ruth Ruhman. They have that gloriously familiar mid-century feel. She was much more than a jobbing illustrator on a kids’ book in 1969. But there’s nothing about her, personally. Why do I need to know about her personally? I don’t know, but I kept trying to find some personal details. A Ruth Ruhman died in San Diego in 2011; whether this is the same person, it’s not clear.

I colour my boat with this nice strong artist-quality purple pencil. Back then, in primary school, I had a metal tin of Lakeland pencils that were slippery and pale on the page. I bought a small tin of Lakelands from eBay. These obsessions have been going for some time, now.

Someone else’s little hands also picked out a purple pencil, or crayon, or got out the poster paints and tried to colour between what are often quite narrow lines. Those little stripy red socks. The tiny strokes for the eyelashes underneath the eyes. I take my black pencil and make those tiny strokes for eyelashes under the eyes, and action replicated around the world at a particular time and then the world moves on.

And now, strange. I can Google and recapture that inconsequential moment, and do it again.

S is for solar, social media and STOP

IMG_3987I’m in a long and weary Facebook battle with the good people of Brewongle, just out of town, who are furiously opposing a solar farm on a neighbouring property. I keep swearing off, only to head back again to see if there have been any replies. I really need to swear off. It is miserable. Neither side will convince the other. I find myself locked down, now, defending my position, making me just as intransigent as my opponents. I feel I’m on the right side of history. I have the welfare of the whole planet on my side. They have only property values and a distaste for seeing visible evidence of renewable energy projects in their line of sight.

Via email, I appeal to academics I know who support the science of climate change and the need to switch from fossil fuels to renewables. They reply saying they can’t be seen to be “political”. One told me he preferred to work at a “higher” level. I go into a rage spiral, feeling I live in a Stalinist state. Nobody’s free to tell the truth because everybody is locked down, seduced into the system by nice plump salaries. I feel on higher moral ground, more free to be open to the truth, because I have nothing to lose but my precarious session-to-session teaching contracts (all have just expired; I may never teach again), a mortgaged suburban house in a regional town, a 1999 Subaru Outback and a laughable superannuation fund (all of which is a lot more than most people on earth, but a lot less than said tenured academics). But I’m perhaps not free to be open to the truth because I’m on a campaign to be right. They are wrong. They are nothing but Nimbys dressing up their outrage with some theories about solar panels damaging prime agricultural land. Supported by a pet agronomist.

I need to get back to yarning. I’m hanging out for the River Yarners meeting tomorrow at Rahamim, where I will stitch and bitch.

I need to step away from social media.

Immediately after writing that last sentence, I went back. I went back to copy and paste some of the Facebook comments into this post, but got stuck there, forgot what I was doing. I wrote a long and complicated reply and then deleted it. I will go back there now and attempt to copy and paste without writing any replies.

Be right back.

Okay, here’s the link to the post and discussion:

And here are some excerpts from the discussion under the post:


Tracy Sorensen – Me (and president of Bathurst Community Climate Action Network)

Margie Locke – Brewongle farmer who owns a property near the proposed solar farm

Sandy Bathgate – Brewongle resident who has been involved in heritage campaigns around Bathurst.

Andrew Bray – former employee of The Wind Alliance, who strolled into the discussion from his home in Victoria.

EXCERPTS FROM COMMENTS (7-8 November, 2017):

Tracy Sorensen The ideal solution exists somewhere out in the ether, not here on earth. We have to work with what’s possible and what we’ve got. It might not be ideal, but compared to open cut coal mining, this is a much better idea. Unlike open cut coal mining, the land used for wind and solar is easily converted back to agriculture if needs change in the future. Let’s be clear about what this is all about: the transition from fossil fuels to renewables in order to stave off catastrophic global warming. As we make the necessary changes, the world is going to look different. If we say no to this different world because we don’t like the look of it, we’re in deep trouble. It’s not okay to say some other people somewhere else need to tackle this. Every town, every region, can play its part. Bathurst can be known as a region that has embraced the challenge. That can actually be very attractive to tourists and residents alike.

Margie Locke Tracy where does food security fit into your point of view? For food security and clean energy to support and sustain future generations we need a WIN WIN . We can get the WIN WIN by placing BIG Solar on marginal land .You can’t produce any more PRIME Agricultural Land. It is a rich national resource. BIG Solar needs sun NOT productive agricultural soils. People need rich soil to produce food . We need farmers 3 times a day and we eat food NOT power. Add to the mix the massive Govt subsidies being used to attract foreign investors to build BIG Solar . What do we get from that ? Massive costs added to our consumer electricity prices to pay for the massive subsidies. As well we would have to buy the power back sent from our community to the grid. Is that cost effective for the consumer? Meanwhile the foreign companies take their profits offshore and leave their losses here. We pay again . Massive tracts of agricultural land given over to foreign ownership and now BIG Solar . It isn’t sustainable for future generations. Look globally at the massive solar plants built in desert areas eg: Morocco and the Mojave Desert in California. We need Govts to think creatively instead of scurrying to meet energy targets as they are. We have vast tracts of marginal land in this BIG country.

Tracy Sorensen I believe in local food security as well. We can do both in the Bathurst region.

Sandy Bathgate Tracy, let’s get it right. We don’t need to ruin people’s ;lives in the process. There’s plenty of marginal land this can go on. Nobody, even you, wants this next to them – it is completely unnecessary. Perhaps more strategic thinking is needed here.

Margie Locke Tracy Sorensen Then let’s see you offer support to the concerns of this community impacted. Where does conservation fit in under your banner? We are 5th generation farmers and are “green” – living and working on a ” green asset” ; caring for and nurturing the land in our stewardship of it; toiling on the land to contribute to the food security of our nation; planting trees to support our ” green ” environment and the influences of climate changes. Prime agricultural land supports Carbon in this discussion . You haven’t answered what you think about placing Big solar on marginal unproductive agricultural land ??? Please do . There is a BIG picture to all of this ….:

Tracy Sorensen Conservation is at the heart of everything we do. Honestly. Climate change is threatening all of the life-processes humanity has relied upon for millennia. I’m all for big solar on marginal land. To shift decisively away from fossil fuels we’re going to have a lot more of it. I can’t see why you can’t continue to work your own the land in the way you describe alongside a neighbouring property that has solar panels on it. Solar panels do not permanently disable agricultural land.

Andrew Bray Sandy Bathgate how do you see a project like this “ruins people’s lives”?

Margie Locke Tracy Sorensen if you are all for Big Solar on marginal agricultural land can I put this to you: Would your Action Group be prepared to work with Bathurst Regional Council , Town Planners and our impacted community to find an alternative site in the Bathurst region on Marginal agricultural land ?? There should be a criteria to work with.( having said that: -probably NOT -according to PHOTON they selected the site from behind a desk!!!! ) Big Solar is a new phenomenon of which research hasn’t kept abreast of the ” run away train” . We have credible reports from agronomists that support deterioration of soil over the life of a solar plant – compacted soils ; influences on carbon ; some credible research is just starting to come out of the UK who were well ahead of us with Solar and who are now moving more to nuclear!!! Placing Big Solar on Prime land is going to have consequences for future generations with food security- Prime land is being sold off to foreign investors at a rate of knots. When do we say as a nation: WE MUST preserve and protect our richest NATIONAL “green” asset – PRIME land. Communities have to become the VOICE.


I’m making a second knitted platypus. That helps. And a couple of days ago, just as I was descending into this pointless argument, I was in Macchattie Park catching Pokemon and happened to look at the ducks (not a Psyduck, a real Pacific black duck). I looked at the face of one of the ducks, calm and present. I need animals. Plants and animals and those little in-betweeners like lichen. There be consolation.


P is for poo

P_is_for_pooHaving just got off the Skype session with my thinking-partners (today it was Alice and Laura, but in the past it was Laura and Sandra and in the future it might be Alice and Laura and Sandra)* I’ve decided to “write madly, write now”. If I put it off until later, it’s not going to happen. This isn’t a report on what we discussed, so much as a report on what and how I’m thinking after our discussion. (Three people – three different versions!)

We were gathered to pay some respects to Gregory Bateson, author of  Steps To An Ecology Of Mind – Collected Essays In Anthropology, Psychiatry, Evolution, and Epistemology (1972). It would be nice to say I’d read the whole book, but what I’d actually read was the first part of the chapter titled “Conscious Purpose versus Nature”. And loved it. I copied and pasted slabs of it for future reference. It was a beautiful antidote to Clive Hamilton’s Defiant Earth (2017) which I’d read and reviewed recently (a ridiculously tactful and tactical review, but more of this another time, perhaps). Anyway, I loved Bateson’s simple set up, which was to start with the revolution in western thought that came when Lamarck traced taxonomy upwards from the “crudest” of living organisms to the most complex (guess who) instead of downwards from the “highest” to the lowest. At each point on the way “up”, organisms get more organs. Bacteria can’t do mathematical equations because they don’t have the organs to support such an activity. Bateson’s ecology of mind grows out of this simple inversion. Clive Hamilton, unlike Bateson, maintains a thoroughgoing and unapologetic spot on the top of the tree for Man with a capital M. In Defiant Earth, he makes a case for the New Anthropocentrism to hold against the rising tide of the deeper green eco thinkers.

I particularly love these two sentences from Bateson:

What is true of the species that live together in a wood is also

true of the groupings and sorts of people in a society, who are

similarly in an uneasy balance of dependency and competition. And

the same truth holds right inside you, where there is an uneasy

physiological competition and mutual dependency among the

organs, tissues, cells, and so on. (p.438)

The word “uneasy” is particularly striking. The uneasiness is there in the system all the time; it’s not as though it reaches any final point here or there, one way or the other. It’s always uneasy, and this uneasiness is a productive space, perhaps the productive space. The reference in the second sentence to organs, tissues and cells makes me think of my tumours, my two big meaty cancer tumours, one eleven centimetres wide, the other 5 centimetres wide (yes, I’m oddly proud of them and like to repeat their vital statistics). The tumours lived and grew inside me, in uneasy tension with other aspects of the system; they were vigorous and successful. They were beaten back a little by chemotherapy but overall they remained pretty lively until surgical removal.

In our Skype discussion, we admired the way the word “uneasy” carries with it a sense of struggle, of difficulty. Laura said she’d been to the launch of a new book on extinction studies at Gleebooks and heard a filmmaker refer to the “flourishing” of nature. She’d been uneasy with the idea of “flourishing”, with its overtones of goodness or positiveness. When really nature is in a state of unease. There is so much unease.

If we accept the unease, that this is what life is, then perhaps we will find life easier to cope with. We are no longer trying to stand against the waves (after Ingold); we are going with the grain of life. It makes life more bearable because to surrender to unease is to cease to struggle against the struggle. That takes away at least one layer of struggle. Those attracted to “solutions” (like me) go mad trying to bring the solutions into being on earth despite the fact of recalcitrant human beings who don’t get it. At the extreme end this makes you a terrorist running into pedestrians on London Bridge. The Perfection of death is preferable to this miserable world. Better to go with a more ecological frame of mind, in which one accepts that there is always more in the system than one can know, and this is all right.

Laura said that Deborah Bird Rose had said, at the book launch at Gleebooks, something like: What the world needs is spaces for the things we can’t and will never understand.

On top of the madness of trying to capture and account for “everything”, there is the madness of also trying to be good.

If one accepts that life is uneasy, one might accept that it is not possible to be good. As Donna Haraway (2016) says: No-one is innocent.

Love is not about goodness, we said. It’s about response-ability. And sometimes our responsibilities – our cares – mean that we can’t be good (ie a type of good that contains shades of perfection, an absence of hypocrisy). There is humility in this and also, to me, a doability that is absent from the giant task of winning – mind to mind – an ethical argument à la Hamilton.

We discussed Isabelle Stengers (2015) and her concept of the pharmakon. There’s always this drive to look for the good solution. But that’s not the craft of being alive. Lives are experimental; it’s not about applying a cure.

We discussed Annemarie Mol (2002) on the body, the logic of care; about having diabetes. For Mol, “doctoring” means accepting the reality that you can’t just apply a cure and that’s the end of it. With diabetes, you are endlessly rejigging your insulin levels. It’s an ongoing experiement in which you (or the patient) can’t be sacrificed.

I spoke about living with colostomy bags. My bags are made from non-biodegradable plastic and excellent adhesives that create a perfect seal ensuring a hygienic and hopefully odorless experience for all concerned. Without these advances my life would become pretty miserable very quickly. If you have periods, you can go for “greener” alternatives like sea sponges or washable pads. But with a colostomy bag, there are no socially acceptable green alternatives. To be a colostomate is, at this point in history, to create a giant pile of noxious, long-lasting, methane-producing landfill. As long as I live, I can never again entertain an illusion of myself stepping lightly on the earth like a dunnart leading its skittering little life. There is a gentle thud at least once a day as my bruise-coloured, tightly tied-off plastic bag is thrown into the wheelie bin.

Tim Morton, Laura says, is big on shit. Something to look forward to.

Alice had a story about the logic of care relating to her fronds. Her little experiment – she’s writing an essay based on this experiment – is to carry her precious little seedlings with her wherever she goes, a little like the high school girls who carry dolls to explore the 24/7 duties of motherhood. The logic of care of these seedlings means that she is not obeying the rules of her own experiment. She has decided not to take them with her on, for example, the anti-Adani action at the Commonwealth Bank on Thursday, because they might not survive the rough-and-tumble of it.

But does such acceptance – the letting of oneself off the hook – lead to to quietism? Hamilton worries that the Harawayites (my term) are leading “people who should know better” (his phrase) into the sort of acceptance that makes one sit on a rock contemplating a tree rather than taking an active role in politics.

Laura quoted Tim Morton: “Don’t just do something! Sit there!”

That’s funny, but there’s something in it. There’s an uneasy tension between activism and the human need for rest, replenishment, joy and obliviousness.

Let us embrace our hypocrisy, dispense with the tension of pretending it doesn’t exist or trying to entirely overcome it. And by embracing it, there might be more energy for some considered action in the world. Let go of Hegel’s “beautiful soul” (“as cultivated by Moravians”).

On my toilet wall there’s a fading Leunig cartoon. Vasco Pajama is on the sea in a little boat with a duck, reading a letter. The letter says: You must rest, Vasco, otherwise you will become restless.

I wander back to the couch. There I find red and white wool. I’m crocheting the word “STOP” by sewing together lots of little red and white granny squares. Originally I was going to add “Adani” but I will not get there for this Thursday. I’ll be lucky to finish Stop.

You can see the work in progress P of it in the image at the top of this post. P is the last letter in Stop. It is the first letter in Poo.


Bateson, G. (1972). Steps to an ecology of mind: Collected essays in anthropology, psychiatry, evolution, and epistemology. University of Chicago Press.

Hamilton, C. (2017). Defiant earth: the fate of humans in the Anthropocene. Allen & Unwin, Sydney.

Haraway, D. J. (2016). Staying with the trouble: Making kin in the Chthulucene. Duke University Press.

Mol, A. (2002). The body multiple: Ontology in medical practice. Duke University Press.

Morton, T. (2013). Hyperobjects: Philosophy and Ecology after the End of the World. University of Minnesota Press.

Stengers, I. (2015). In catastrophic times: Resisting the coming barbarism (p. 156). Open Humanities Press.

Wolfe, C. (2017). Extinction Studies: Stories of Time, Death, and Generations. Columbia University Press.

* I have other thinking partners of course, including my supervisors Bruce Fell and Margaret Woodward.

C is for coal

IMG_2524Last night I did the thing I’ve been doing for decades: I put boxes of things in the back of the car, took them to a community hall, struggled through doors. This is the activist’s life. Billy Bragg: Jumble sales are organised and pamphlets have been posted. In the Sisters of Mercy corridor, a young woman with dreadlocks – very young, perhaps only mid teens – is standing there looking at her phone. “Are you coming to the film night?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “I’m here for the kangaroos.”

She has a European accent of some sort. A backpacker. A little older than I first thought.

The kangaroos of Mount Panorama are being shifted, six by six, to a new home out of town, to keep them out of the way of the car races.  The girl was getting ready to spend some cold hours on the mountain helping to spot and dart kangaroos, lay them out on the cement floor of an old apple shed on old towels and blankets, number them, weigh them, heave their bodies into a big vehicle for the midnight run to Elsewhere.

“Oh, lovely,” I say, and keep going.

I struggle downstairs with my things, dump them. There’s Alice from Bathurst Community Climate Action Network, the organiser of this event, but as I’m the President, and a person given to over-functioning, I’m here, too. The projector works when connected to the laptop but it’s pink, the image is totally pink. Technofiddle.

“I’m glad we got here early,” says Alice.

I decide to hit the “reset” button. Now the image is not only pink but upside down. I want to cry. I’m sick of being an activist. Nobody else cares. Why should I care? I waggle the cord and it goes not-pink. Whew. We arrange a big heavy stack of Stop Adani flyers on the cord to keep it in the right position. On her smartphone, Alice Googles “Epson projector image upside down” and talks me through the solution. The image rights itself. Sound is working fine.

There’s tea and coffee but no milk, no biscuits. Phone calls and texts. Others will come forth with these things.

Not many people turn up. We’ve put out too many chairs. Alice’s Dad comes, with his walking stick. He has cancer. Stephanie, Bev and Bruce turn up, Stephanie with packets of biscuits. She will need paying back out of petty cash. We will need to do this bit of admin. It’s the sort of thing that gets forgotten and then people end up paying for biscuits out of their own money and afterwards deciding to consider it a contribution to the cause because that’s easier than remembering to find the receipt. Stephanie, Bev and Bruce have recently been arrested at the Wilpinjong coal mine protest. They sat on the road with a banner and didn’t move on when warned by the police. And got bundled into the paddy wagon and charged with “interfere with a mine” under the Crimes Act. Maximum penalty seven years jail.

I’m buzzy, unfocused, finding it hard to concentrate or speak to anyone properly. I find events stressful. I’m an introvert. I’m only doing all this stuff because I feel I should. I go out the front, welcome everyone to the night and make them watch a photo-montage of ten years of BCCAN history set to music. Two minutes in, I realise that this is quite long and boring. I hand over to Alice, sit down, and starting crocheting like mad. I listen to the film, mostly, only glancing up every now and then to take in the vistas of land and waterways to be destroyed; the hell-holes of giant open cut coal mines. I’m crocheting yellow and black granny squares to make into the letter C for COAL. I want to finish my crocheted banner – STOP COAL – by next Wednesday May 17, court day for Steph, Bev and Bruce.

After the film, Alice asks everyone to “turn to the person next to you” to discuss the film. I wasn’t expecting her to do this. We normally just have people address the room as a whole. Not this touchy-feely stuff. But maybe it’s good, because more people will be talking, in total. I stress over whether we’re “supporting” Bev, Steph and Bruce enough. They’re at the back of the room and nobody has made a big enough fuss of them. Does everyone know they’ve been arrested? I stand up and gabble about this, but later I worry that I’ve been overly bossy and controlling; that I should have just let Alice and Steph and Bev and Bruce make their own way with it all.

This was my private, personal experience. From the outside, it was just a film night and discussion.

Alice and I stacked up the chairs at the end. I begged off an adjournment to Steph’s for a cup of tea afterwards.

I couldn’t get to sleep. I had my phone playing soothing YouTube clips in my ears but this was not working. I’d wake up and check Facebook. Why? Check Twitter. Why? Buzzing, buzzing. Can’t come down. Worrying about being controlling and over-functioning.

Today: I’ve nearly finished the letter C.