the secret to happiness

September 16th 

Thank God for Michael Leunig. I got a book of his out of the library called ‘The Lot’. It’s words - articles and essays - not cartoons. A lot of ‘The Lot’ is about how  f***ked-up contemporary consumer culture/politics/art/media is. How corrupt and hypocritical and dull and tragic so much of human life has become. His observations are as bracing a blast of fresh cool air in a room stuffy with too much hot air. ( I picture a room full of men in suits...) 

A lot of what  Leunig reflects  upon is profoundly depressing. Yet I feel exhilarated reading it. I think it is the power of truth-telling. His personal truth. He’s not trying to impress anyone, sell anything, or make you think he’s a nice guy. 

I loved the very depressing movie Sampson and Delilah for the same reason.  It tells it like it is - neither sensationalises, nor sentimentalises, just calmly tells the truth.  

( Though I  saw  described somewhere as ‘black comedy’...Huh?) 

I will say no more about the Gardener, the garden, the endearing 'alternativeness' of the  Rainbow Region etc.  Except that the workers have gone and I am very relieved. The job, however is not quite  finished. As a parting gesture, thick brown soil (“topdressing’) was spread all over the lawn, which makes it impossible to walk from house to car without collecting mud all over your shoes. 

I can’t resist adding that after what turned out to be the final blow-out (How come you are concreting that path when I never said I wanted it concreted?), one of his sweet offsiders offered me a hug and then inquired ‘ Are you a Virgo by any chance, because you know he’s a Pisces and....”

I  am not a Virgo. And I prefer to diplomatically call it an old fashioned ‘personality conflict’  I have to say truthfully that the whole thing has laid me very low. I hate conflict and generally manage to avoid it.  This one came from such an unexpected  direction. 

Absolutely enough about this whole sorry scenario. I am going to return to Books, which is where I hide, if possible, when real life is feeling too hard. I get some of my best reading done when I am feeling miserable. It’s my guilty addiction. I reach for books  like other people reach for the bottle.  

I’m about two thirds through the Hardy book. Enjoying visiting  the long ago English country side. I’m  hooked in. Now Bathsheba has married the dastardly Sergeant Troy and we can see that things are  going to  end badly.  It is a bit of a soap opera really. I read in the intro that it was originally published in magazine instalments. Every so often I read a really excellent sentence and that keeps me going. I’m also interested and annoyed simultaneously by the authoritative way in which he tells us just exactly what sort of person each of his characters is. ( Forget ‘show don’t tell’)

I woke up at 3 a.m.. last night, worrying about the garden, the mud, and the preserves I’m meant to produce for the school fete next weekend. I know, it’s hardly life-threatening is it?  Amazing what we can find to feed our sense of suffering, in the absence of actual pain, poverty, disease, homelessness or starvation etc.

Both Leunig and Hardy got a look-in, in the wee small hours.

What’s great about Leunig is that he’s also so open and alert to to beauty & simplicity anywhere he happens to find it in among all the crap. 

Today, among the greyness:

- a flock of little birds (Scarlet Honey Eaters?) that suddenly appeared in the bushes next to the verandah flashing red and twittering and flittering then disappearing. 

- masses of pink azaleas

- a grey egret strutting across the driveway

And a woman in purple hippy-chic clothes, including a hat with flowers on it. She smiled at me at the school bus stop this arvo as I was waiting for F, and said ‘I love your colours’ and I said ‘And I love yours!’

( Is this all just too Pollyanna?, always finding 'something to be glad about'? No, I think it may be the secret of happiness...)

Late arvo I used some of the left over flagstones to make stepping stones across the muddy lawn. They look rather good. 

My new friend came over for dinner with her 10 year old daughter. We drank some red wine and talked about Gestalt therapy and Central Australia, and death, and relatives; and  the kids went off and played Monopoly, and somehow by the time I went to bed the ripped-apart feeling was healed up again. The scenic railway ride continues.