When love leaves ...

Philodendron. The name derives from the Greek philo or 'love' and dendron, 'tree', because of its heart-shaped leaves.

I didn't know until I looked it up that philodendrons belong to the same family as the Arum lily and the beautiful Flamingo lily (Araceae), which shouldn't come as a surprise as they do have something similar about them.

I have at least three different philodendrons within my range (1,000 paces) for Sandy Beach Almanac. From what I've read, they're all as nasty for the innards as they are pleasing to the eye, due to the presence of calcium oxalate crystals, so I won't be attempting a taste trial today.

I'm a philodendron novice, and I don't know the names of these three pictured. I do know that some philos are small trees or shrubs, but most are evergreen epiphytic plants with aerial roots, growing by climbing up a host tree. That's what my three are.

The one on the left (click the thumb to enlarge), is one big pace from my desk, and I'm training it to grow up the wall and, if I'm lucky, hive me a ceiling jungle. I cleared it with the landlord. It got off to a good start a couple of months ago, but now that Winter is breathing down its neck, it's slowed down to a crawl.

The middle one is about four or five paces to my west, the biggest philo around here, and you can see it epiphyting on an old gum tree.

Love-tree number three is three paces to the north, or to my right as I face west as I write, and that's an in-between-sized philo living life up to about halfway on a frangipanni (about which, more at a later date).

The philodendrons being epiphytic mean that there is no danger to the frangipanni, or the old gum tree. Epiphytes are not parasitic on their host, as they grow independently, gaining just physical support.

Anyway, that's what I told the landlord vis a vis the ceiling.

Webcam

Pip says he expects to be back soon. Meanwhile, we've set up a webcam. -- Esmeralda, John and Lizzie.

Apology from Pip's computer

Esmeralda speaking. I really have to apologise for Pip, who seems to be missing in non-action. John and Elizabeth Gould (that's her sitting on my head) have decided to take over if he doesn't come back with a plausible excuse by tomorrow. Anyway, we're all really, really upset about this.

He says he's busy "researching a novel" and hasn't been able to find time to write much lately. Yeah right. As though we don't know what he's up to.

Johnny's thinking of dumping this blog (he has the password) and starting a whole new one. Not on Blogger either ... he's talking Moveable Type, or PHP Nuke. Suck eggs, Pip.

Paper daisy

I snapped this Paper daisy yesterday up on Bare Bluff, the headland at the south end.

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Late Autumn swim

Swimmers today enjoying the days remaining before Winter.


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Hello possum!

How can it be that something the size of a possum can sound like a sumo match on my tin roof? It happens most nights in the early hours of the morning.

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The new 'No Cars' Gallery

About twice a week I'll update the 'No Cars' Gallery -- a photo from Sandy Beach that I think will help give many reasons not to drive cars on this or any other beach. Click the graphic link in the left sidebar.

Weigh anchor or I’ll give you a taste of the cap’n’s daughter

There are about 1,200 known species of weird critters like these barnacles. When I see them on rocks I can't help thinking of ships, because the problem that barnacles cause ship and boat owners is legendary.

If you want to talk like a pirate, of course, a smattering of barnacle in your vocabulary will take you far: "I'll crush ye barnacles!" is good, and in Sydney, "How'd you like to scrape the barnacles off of me rudder?" is said to be a winning line in any Woolloomooloo dockside pub.

One recalls, too, that not only pirates but the British Navy practised the ghastly punishment of 'keelhauling', by which a miscreant sailor was tied to a rope looped beneath the vessel, thrown overboard, and then dragged under the keel and up the other side. It might have helped clean the barnacles from the keel, but it certainly usually ended in death for the sailor as the barnacles ripped his flesh like a cat o'nine tails -- arrr arrr.

While we're on the subject, the Barnacle Goose gets its name from the ancient European belief that it grew from the Gooseneck barnacle, Pollicipes polymerus. Because the eggs and goslings of this bird were never seen (as it bred in the remote Arctic), the folks had to find some explanation, and it must be said that Gooseneck barnacles do look somewhat goosey. Because they were often found on driftwood, people assumed that the barnacles had grown on branches before dropping into the sea.

Indeed, Giraldus Cambrensis, a 12th-century Welsh monk (would he lie?) claimed in Topographia Hiberniae to have seen goose barnacles in the process of turning into barnacle geese. Medieval people didn't know if they were fish or fowl, and in 1215, Pope Innocent III forbade the eating of them during Lent. It might even be that the word 'barnacle' is a corruption of Hibernicae, or things that originate in Ireland (Hibernia), whence some people might have thought the Barnacle goose itself originated.

Be that as it may, these Sandy beach barnacles aren't going anywhere, and certainly not skyward. They just sit there, keelhauling any scurvy landlubber who ventures to walk on the rocks barefoot

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DAKAF

If you're a Bello local, hope we'll meet up at DAKAF on Saturday.

What is it?

What is this thing I saw this afternoon? Is it "an optical and meteorological phenomenon that causes a nearly continuous spectrum of light to appear in the sky when the sun shines onto falling rain."?

To some, it might be Bifröst Bridge, leading from the realm of the mortals Midgard to the realm of the gods Asgard. To others, it is God's sign that he will never again destroy the world -- not with water, anyway.

Is it a path made by the goddess Iris between Earth and Heaven, or a leprechaun's secret hiding place for his pot of gold? It might be a slit in the sky sealed by Goddess Nüwa using stones of seven different colours, or perhaps it's Indradhanush, the bow of Indra, God of lightning and thunder. Perhaps, as some say, it is the belt of the goddess of beauty (and later Catholic saint) Prenne, or else the hem of the Sun God's coat, a goddess's chair, God's seat, or the bowl God used to hold his paints while coloring the birds.

Whatever this thing might be, it's comforting to know that it is and always has been something wonderful to all people and all cultures of this beautiful planet.

Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life.
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away,
and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray."
Lord Byron

Sponge

On the beach today.

Greetings from the banana republic

The humble banana tree is flowering.

Did I say "tree". Well, it ain't a tree, it's supposd to be a herb, of the genus Musa. But it's a pretty big herb if you ask me.

Bananas have a great link to the past, with records of the fruit in ancient Buddhist texts as far back as 600 BCE. It's believed to have originated in South-east Asia, but by 327 BCE had reached as far as western India, because Alexander the Great is said to have eaten the yellow fruit. But although this wonderful fruit was spread through much of the Middle East and Africa in the 7th century and beyond, it was the Portuguese who took it around the world from the 16th century.

This is banana country here. All around here are banana plantations, mostly farmed by the industrious members of the Indian Sikh community who have lived here since WWII and make up a big part of the population of Coffs Harbour-Woolgoolga. So I'm not depending on this "herb" to provide me with one of my favourite fruits; I get them for 50 cents a kilo by the bagload, and eat at least five a day. In fact, a lot of the time I almost live on them.

The family story goes that in my first year of life, which was spent mostly in hospital, about the only thing I could "hold down" was the delicious fruit of this magical herb, so I guess I got the banana bug then. All I know is, that even though I think some more expensive fruits (like mango) are more gourmet, at the price I buy them from Steve the Fruiterer, the banana makes a great staple for your almanackist as it does for millions of people in tropical Africa, America and Asia. Bananas are full of carbohydrates, fibre, vitamins A, B6 and C, and potassium, phosphorus and calcium. I feel damn healthy after being a banana nut for a long time, so they can't be too bad.

Besides, if, like me, you remember the "Food Pyramid" from school, you'll be aware that banana is one of the Four Major Food Groups, along with pancakes, maple syrup and coffee.

And although I'm not depending on this flower, I'm going to have fun over coming weeks watching it magically turn into a bunch of food.

Stay tuned: I'll post updates on the babies as fast-breaking news happens, six paces from the Ponderosa's door.

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D'oh! It's a shell spiral

Well waddya know! What I thought was part of a large bone is in fact a section of a big shell, which I think is of the Neogastropod family Volutidae (from volute = spiral). Thanks, Matt 'n' Pete.


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Is there an anatomist in the house?

I don't know what it is, do you? Found at the rocks at the south end of the beach. Keyboard from computer shop at the south end of Coffs Harbour.

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Oh, do come in. Master is expecting you.

I'm warm in the Ponderosa, which is good because I didn't like the knocking that emerged from the fan heater this morning. I'm certainly warmer than I was two days ago sitting by the Pacific Highway.



I know my Sandy Beach Almanac boundaries are supposed to be set at 1,000 paces from the cabin, but kindly allow me another 1,000 paces just today for the purposes of talking about The Traffic Survey. I said I would discuss "Nature and life", and this is about life within 2,000 paces of my door.

Say it like this, in your best Hollywood monster accent (Transylvanian or cultured British) like: "the purposes of .... The ... Traffic Survey", as though you were saying "Mwah-hahahaha!" or "We have ways of making you talk".

I took up The Traffic Survey offer from my Job Network Provider, just in case another didn't come along. This was a wise move. You see, the dole office -- welfare, to my American friends -- requires my registration with a government-approved Job Network Provider (mwah-hahahaha!!!) which will help me find work, and I have told them I am available anywhere in a 1,000-kilometre (that's kilometres, not paces) range, for a job in any of four different industries, such as journalism, Internet and PR. One can't be choosy when one has been unemployed for five years. In twelve months they have sent me just one job to apply for. Signwriter. "I can't apply for this, I'm sorry". "Why not?" "Signwriting is a trade that requires an apprenticeship and four years of college. I haven't quite finished. And I can't draw a straight line." "Oh."

The next job I was offered came up this week. One day's work on ... The ... Traffic Survey (are you reading with the accent? Cool). Feeling honoured and finally seeing a point in having a university degree and 35 years work experience, I grabbed it.

My alarm went off at 4.20 am, which is more like the time I go to bed than wake up, and much better my usual way, trust me. Less than 2,000 paces from the Ponderosa I sat from 5 am till 1 pm three metres from trucks hurtling past at 100 kmh (60 mph). Then I recalled that at the (unpaid) introductory session on Monday they had used the inviting term "half-hour breaks". Now, eight hours in a plastic chair, swept by the dusty, gritty cyclone caused by convoys of 16-wheelers, recording number plates and hours and minutes on a clipboard, gets a bloke's bum pretty sore, and legs pretty stiff. It was time to stretchem. I asked permission to speak and permission to be human for 30 minutes, and it was granted. Note re Nature: I did see some lorikeets just miss getting hit by a Mack hauling Ikea furniture.

Half an hour later, and back to the wake of the trucks and the intense concentration required to do the job -- for another seven-hour shift. A 14-hour day at $12.50 an hour. "Half-hour breaks", plural, had meant for everyone, plural. We discovered on the job that in the case of the individual, the singular form of the noun was the actual meaning. Big business semantics can be so confusing to the unemployed.

There were others like me up and down the Pacific Highway, counting number plates for an unrevealed purpose (an educated guess; the imminent destruction of Sandy Beach and Hearns Lake by big developers from Sydney). At least a dozen people told me how much they hated and resented it; one young woman said she didn't mind it because it was better than being stuck at home all day. That blew my mind, but of course I haven't seen what she lives in.

I and the other lumpen proletariat of this region will be paid in two weeks. We will pay tax on it. And the dole office will reduce our dole by an amount calculated on the gross pay, not the post-tax net pay.

Quick Quiz: Why do they get you to do two days' work in one long day? Why do they not provide chairs, tea, coffee, lunch, toilets, or six breaks as workers get in normal jobs over 14 hours of work? Answer: Because they can. Because there is a large pool of unemployed people who the media label "dole bludgers" who "choose" to live on $200 a week. The government announced two days ago that unemployed people my age will soon have to "work for the dole", ie, do jobs like this for $10 a week. Giving them much less time to find real work, of course. The Australian community thinks this is a Very Sensible Idea because A Current Affair tells them we have Too Many Dole Bludgers (accent, please).

My The Traffic Survey partner, who had to call the vehicle registration numbers out to me in the roar of the traffic, was a very nice young chap and that made up for his mild dyslexia and soft voice. Most of the time I had to make the numbers up.

Mwah-hahahahahahah!!! ... Mwah-hahahah!!! Mwah-hahahahahahah!!! ...

Mwah-hahahahahahah-hahaha-hahaha!!!

Bad hair day

I suppose I should welcome Winter to Sandy Beach, just to be even-handed with the seasons, and to allow Northern Hemisphere readers to rub my nose in it for a change.

However, it does take a bit of effort on my part.

Nearly shot meself in the foot

The best shot I took on my first day of camera ownership I didn't know about till I got home. It must have happened when I was stepping through the pond, just when I was making an earnest plan to save the camera and not my skin if I slipped on the more jagged rocks, which was looking very likely at the time. (Don't worry, I'll try not to be a camera bore, but I thought this was pretty -- and pretty surprising when I downloaded.)

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Squirting by the pool

There's quite a list of Australian Aboriginal words that are commonly used in Australian English, and some are known overseas: barramundi; boomerang; budgerigar; bunyip; corroboree; dingo; galah; kangaroo; koala; kookaburra and wallaby are just a few. It would be hard yakka to name them all.

One such word is cunjevoi. When the Latins were here they named it Pyura stolonifera, but indigenous and other native-born Australians and others call it cunjevoi, or just plain cunji. The name comes from southern Queensland, and the animals are found along the east coast of Australia. Let's not be smug; Pyura stolonifera also squirts by pools in Chile and South Africa.

The indigenous people used to love the meat found within the tough 'tunic' of its starchy, fibrous stems, but repeatedly roasted and pounded the plant to remove a poison which can make your tongue and throat swell up, possibly fatally.

Fish don't seem to mind; they love cunji, so anglers love it too. These days, however, no self-respecting fisherman or -woman would wet a line using a piece of cunji on the hook. Not in view of the enlightened citizenry, that is.

The cunjevoi's a sea squirt, and my picture shows its habitat, around the edge of the low-tide mark on rocks where it sucks in the incoming water and spits out whatever isn't tucker, which tucker, to a cunji, is plankton. (Tucker, by the way, is a good Aussie word for food that has its origins in the German language, not one of the hundreds of Australian ones.) These cunjis can be seen sticking up from the rocks like chimneys by a pool in the rocks between home and Back Sandy. The cunji forms mats over the rocks and is usually covered in algae, giving it its characteristic green-brown colouring.

If you tread on one, it won't hurt you, and chances are you won't hurt it. You will, however, see something like a water pistol in action.

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Another shot

Elizabeth and John by day. That's a stalk of kelp, flotsam from the beach. I like the way it curled around itself while growing, and how the elements have crafted it even further. The boidies seem to like it, too.
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Please excuse my lack of posts on Sandy Beach lately, as I've been hell busy doing research for my novel, and a necessary total redesign of the Blogmanac so that it loads more quickly. I'll be back very soon, gods willing, I promise. I'll still be busy, but better organised, I trust.

Sleeping beauties

For so long I've wanted a digital camera but it was just out of the question. It would be so useful for Sandy Beach Almanac and everything else. I'm excited and grateful that a very special friend who I won't name (a very private somebody) has given me a fine camera, and today I have taken my first three pix. This one shows what goes on in my bathroom at night: John Gould the Gouldian finch and his new girlfriend, Lizzie after a busy day flitting around my cabin.

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She sits on my head and rolls her r's

Four seasons in one day is quite enough. That's how it's been today. For a while I was freezing and then too hot, now it's dark and gloomy like a Winter's day. The only exercise I've had today has been layering and removing clothes. That's fine; I was ever of the opinion that if you're well you don't need exercise, and if you're sick you shouldn't have it.

The news is out, it's official: that was the hottest April on record. In Australia, that is. But it seems that climate change is being realised (in both senses of the word) all around the world. For so long, the amorphous, cranky, mercurial, mish-mashy environmental movement of which I've been proud to be a part for more than three decades, has warned, warned, warned. Our opponents are starting to laugh out of the other sides of their faces (fat lot of good that does anyone), although there are still denyers aplenty.

Here come da rain. I haven't flaneured past the letterbox (no mail, phew!) and the wheelie bin today. It's wheelie bin that kind of day. Once the temperatures drop below about 90 degrees Fahrenheit, I go into eleven months hibernation, you understand. The baby pawpaws seem to be growing well, about the size of avocadoes now.

Within eighteen hours of arriving here in a cake box, Elizabeth Gould flew around my head and landed on it, remaining for about one minute as I walked (glided, rather) around like someone who's just had a serious hernia op, then flew off with that beautiful Gouldian Scottish-sounding whirrrrrrrrrrr. It's been sagely suggested by a friend that Elizabeth mistook my head for the polystyrene one.

John Gould has never done that, but I am gearing up to taming both of them -- with Gouldian finches, the avian equivalent of nailing custard to a tree. However, I've read that sometimes people have met with limited success. When you're small and coloured like Nikolai the Clown, foolishly trying to look inconspicuous against a khaki Australian savannah, you need a reasonable defence adaptation, and for Gouldians it means hair-trigger reflexes and a deep and abiding distrust of anything that moves. Anyway, Johnny lets me get my face within just a couple of inches of his (if he sees a hand, he's out of there quicksmart), and Lizzie seems to trust Johnny's view on the matter of the Weird Big Monster. (This will possibly last until it's her turn to be mite-sprayed and then she'll justly call him a cad.)

Lizzie seems incredibly 'at home', and flies by quite often for a feed, but John's hanging in the bathroom all day. I'm not sure he likes having a sheila sharing his space. "I was here first, man." He's just sulking I guess, or maybe still combing his hair. He's been eating like a bird. On the other hand, Liz is eating like a horse. Soon she'll be asking if her butt's too big. I hope she doesn't also want to watch soap operas; I ain't getting a TV for some bird.

There goes the rain. I expect to be sunbathing before the hour's out. With four seasons in one day, it feels like I've plummeted through a wormhole into Malbourne, or 'Melbourne' as we who do not live there laughingly call it. That's pretty scary, because if there were a way out there wouldn't be anyone still in Malbourne, would there?