The Ties that Bind.             

              “Wanderer above a sea of fog.”

 Where I live.

I have opened a new blogger account specifically for this area where I live so as to promote stories and history placed in this locale.. for it is imperative to preserve what I call the “Historical watermark” that has been “impressed” upon a locale…it is such a thing that fixes and holds a place in time and allows the people living there to feel..and that is the correct emotion..”to feel” a part of that history and so identify with confidence to a place where they are living their lives…to destroy the in-situ history of a place is to debase one’s own life..It is why I feel a strange comfort whenever I descent off the higher land down into the Barossa Valley. it is because the old Germanic families and their Lutheran faith still hold control of the administration of the district and they are mostly containing any post-modern, ugliness that raises its developement head be it architectural or social, and the towns sited within that valley all have a deeply settled, rooted life of their own..You go into these towns and you can still read the Germanic names on the shops and businesses there….more power to those Germans!

The Murray Flats have a similar historical footprint, except here there is a solid mix of the original Anglo ancestry and development along the Murray River, with the Riverboat traffic and system in situ and the more Anglo-centric governance of the towns here, though the farming areas have the unmistakable influence of those hardy Germanic families still in remnant pockets….also, I have to make point of my own Italian connection to these Flats in that my Father, along with many other Italians coming earlier to the region than the post-war migration waves, were interned during the war years to cut / burn charcoal in the Blanchetown region to contribute to the war effort..and it was here that my father met my mother; of Anglo/Irish descent, a servant girl in both Punyelroo and Portee stations before/during the war…so I too have a solid connection and emotional tie to the history of the district..

As a consequence, I feel more at home here in the Murray Mallee than I did where I was born and grew up, THOSE locales now suffering from a dismantling of any recognisable cultural tie to both myself and those neighbours and friends I grew up with..the history has been lost..whereas here, there remains that emotional recognition of “where it all began” on both sides of the family..; the Italian and the Anglo heritage, plus the Aunties that married into the Germanic connections in the district…THAT is the “Historical watermark”..THAT is “the tie that binds”.

The Predictable Tragedy of Social Media.

Having been a contributor of articles and aesthetics to social media for many years, culminating in being “cancelled” from several sites, and now, “deactivated” from a Twitter account because of the ghastly banality and insanity of conversations there, I can give a pretty sound analysis of the contributing faults that have given social media such a bad name these days.

The simple equation that makes a social media site “successful” is contained in the same equation that makes a particular political party successful and the tragic reality of that equation was developed and drawn upon in the last decade to elevate certain social media platforms to the giddy heights of financial mega-extreme, along with elevating certain unworthy political personages to similar heights with the use of “Cambridge Analytica” manipulation of opinion to let the likes of certain disreputable characters gain office .

It has been long known that a certain percentage of the population will always “seek the oracle and worship the idol”….in the world of social media, this is known as clustering or cabal-ing..I use the more pejorative term of :”Hem-hugging” those who hide behind a metaphorical mother’s skirt to snipe out at those they disapprove of, whilst enjoying the security of being “covered” by a “mother’s wamth” the social media sense that being a person or persons of “authority” within the public perception or having a majority of approving “followers” that give one a touch of “cred’ by association”.

It is a cowardly, crawling method of making opinion upon those that cannot defend themselves from the onslaught of “piling-on” obsequiousness from the legion of followers crowding to also gain validation via is the classic example of a “bullying” philosophy.

It usually starts with the culprits cautiously making an observation on a particular subject under discussion, keeping within limits of visual approbation of other’s points of order, till they suss out the particular person on the platform or blog that has a certain higher level of authority and they will then gravitate in a very short period of time to echo that authority, all the while gaining confidence through a certain level of cluster anonymity (hem-hugging) to become more assertive and accusatory of the one person under attack.

I wrote of this marvel back in 2021 after the disastrous failure of Labor to gain office in the 2019 Federal (this was originally posted on one of those social media sites I was “cancelled” from);  …The use of “Identity politics” by both the Conservatives AND the Greens recruited enough swinging voters along with the gormless “woke” left to allow the incumbent, incompetent, corrupt govt’ of the day retake office and inflict another 3 years of disaster upon the most vulnerable..

This inherent weakness in the human condition has been drawn upon throughout history, but with the electronic age and the rise of social media as not only a tool for communication, but now a weaponised instrument for mass/mob judge, jury, executioner, to use in its favour..never has such a cowardly thing been made more mainstream..We have witnessed many times the brutal use of this cudgel to beat-down, bludgeon and crush opposition of whatever shade of opinion debated, until it is now become an “influencer” in its own right of perhaps even the judiciary itself…certainly the political arm of government and perhaps now the financial arm also…for what bureaucracy or business can stand in its way?..the irony being that the mob will not balk at crushing an individual standing in its way, but seems to go-to-water if called upon to instigate mass revolution to change an entire social way of life for the better…

Curiouser and curiouser…


(Adam Miller’s Emulation of Raphael)


Chapter one..

“The governance of the Julian House soon taught men

in a terrible form how far it was possible to hold fire and water in the same vessel..”


Time wrote the contract, in collusion with Nature,

It then co-signed with a mute hand,

Caring not a jot for action or consequence,

And Mother Nature..who was She to bother the loss of one specie,

When were legion of substitutes in the great spawning,

For could not a goldfish be as valued as man in such vast universe?

But WE…WE, the industrious plunderers of the world,

We cared..for the obvious consequences of such looting,

Is the loss of future opportunity to gather harvest.

But do we honour?….Do we honour when we have so readily transgressed,

Across so many moral boundaries that hold us in unity?

Did not those two original co-conspirators; Time and Nature,

Write the rules of engagement that confine all life?

Chapter two..

“Turning the pages of history, one sees the organic, habitual behaviour

of people today in similar, jealousy, greed alike”.


Social, natural, physical, mental, capable, actual, menial,

Not near satisfying enough for the inquisitive eye of humanity,

Always seeking the easy way out..the easy method,

Of making life easier..but did it, does it..make life easier?

Invention upon invention..laying one thing atop another,

Each one the object to reduce the burden of work,

Cunning being the modus operandi for achieved success,

Make US the supreme animal over all others,

Take some beasts from their natural environment,

Train them to work for us, make some pet creatures,

For our own amusement, for our own vanity..

Ah!..vanity…vanity..did we not discover THAT delight,

Sooner than most other useful aberrations,

Chapter three..

“History; she too is a bible, but cannot hinder the fool from

misunderstanding her or the Devil from misquoting her…”


Was it the admired reflection in a shallow pool of water,

Bestowed the name of beautiful, of handsome, on one,

To become a treasure, to be admired of the tribe?

Then came the hunger for wealth to match beauty,

For the unlucky and unfortunate were not to be denied,

In equal measure of value, perhaps more BUY beauty!

For wealth became an exchangeable commodity,

But would make the living of life so much harder,

For wealth need be based on the value of a rare commodity,

That would demand hard work to seek and gather.

Not for those who could weave from nature and time,

Enough to get by, enough to survive with an ease,

Allowing time enough on quiet days to make as one pleased.

Chapter four..

“The infinite depth of human compassion contends

with the infinite depth of human misery.”


The skills of hunting, of weaving, of making of things,

Old companions, old compatriots, old habits,

The clustering of the clan around these small wants and needs.

It was soon seen by those seeking power that such people,

Must needs be destroyed, debased, denied, false crimes contrived,

Till want, poverty, and loss of opportunity for freedom,

Herds them into the waiting trap of dependence.

It first started with taking advantage of reason,

To seek advantage rather than reason for restraint,

Want can never restrain an inquisitive eye,

That sees advantage in inventing..say; a trap that would ease,

Time in hunting the traditional way,

So more game could be gathered with less effort,

Chapter five..

“The giddier the height to which riches rose, the deeper

the abyss of poverty yawned..”


But in doing so lose such accrued skills of the hunt,

In doing so let one person control the taking of food,

That soon morphed into one person..AND those favoured,

Taking control of means of produce, then the tribe itself,

For who are we to deny ourselves a certain luxury,

Of doing as least as possible for as high as possible reward,

Is that not the measure of personal achievement?

From the control of a trap to the trap of control,

Was but a moment in time..and time has no consideration,

For consequence..nor does Nature bother on the loss,

Of one specie when there is the great spawning.

But Nature does have rules for engagement of all species,

She has laid the blueprint for the basic foundation only,

Chapter six..

The young fop–as with smooth chin, delicate voice, and mincing gait…

Might well have a horror of the unnatural world,

in which the sexes seemed as though they wished to change parts.”


There was but one clause built into the contract of life;

Reproduce in like species, in male and female conjunction.

But here it has gone astray also, turning a delight,

Of man laying with woman into a twisted perversion,

And couldn’t stop with just that one..our inquisitive eye,

Sought so many other pleasures by which to block out boredom,

For though the many gadgets that had been created,

With an inventive mind relieving the labour and the tedium,

The beast within was still fierce and wanting to be fed.

Habits, moods, desires, revulsions must be satiated,

Above all else, know we are still that ancient barbarian!

Know we are still that ferocious hunter,

Except now it is not food we stalk, nor of quarry we talk,

Chapter seven..

“As rivers glisten in different colours,

But a common sewer everywhere looks like itself…”


Now it is secrets, dark, dark secrets…and regrets..

For the future it is not enough to make life easier,

For the future it is turned into a game of fortune to be chased,

And with each step toward heightened pleasure become more base,

The last species to the staging-post, each one at a time we seek to erase,

Until alone with only our conscience we will convince ourselves,

We…….have won the race.

WE have transgressed beyond the boundaries of good reason,

WE..have become the quarry hunted in Time’s own good season.

Watch it!

Watch it!

Watch it!

Are you watching it?….for it is all ending.


[All quotes are from Theodore Mommsen’s “History of Rome.”]

Echo from Love’s Old Song.

Echo from love’s old song.

‘Twas a random song on the radio,

From a time of long, long ago,

Did immediately remind me of a past love,

The song ‘twas Grahame Nash; “Our House” I believe,

And did immediately evoke sadness in me,

For I did marry that past love and did build,

A!..two..two houses I built for us to reside,

And with two children born within, there did abide.

For a time, one after t’other, until discontent,

Sullied our marriage, created bitter contempt.

Was her complete belief in the “New Age” cult,

Took a presence in our home, our lives, her soul,

Total control of that “philosophy” went full throttle,

And she came to worship their idols, seek the oracles,

My trade in building demanded a vision more practical,

Not for myself the chanting of folksy renditions,

Circle-dancing on the full-moon and “past-life” visions,

Nor the reliance on inane, quack patent medicines.

For the physical needs of my work demanded close attention,

And while her spirit sought the heights of aesthetic ascension,

Mine was the more practical enemy of gravitational descension.

And there was the trouble.. y’see..?

This is the modern measure, isn’t it? What’s in it for “thee”,

And where would such singular direction take “me”?

To compete between the irrational-disconnect,

Of what is too fantastical,

As against the logical, needed application,

Of what is the more likely probable.

This..was the rock on which our marriage was wrecked,

A philosophical difference with clash and wrack!

Until final measure saw divorce as an only-choice fact.

But it wasn’t just two adults ruined in that spat,

There were children, family unit, home, bank contract.

Years of build…for what makes a home is not only habitation,

Consider the mechanics of actual construction,

The physical labour, skills involved in producing,

All those comforts of life under shelter of skilled application.

Such also the evidence of ancient civilisations,

The physical remains of such applied construction.

But why they had fallen must demand our attention,

Because for most it was not conquest from enemy nation,

But rather the decay from internal desecration,

The like of being exampled in our modern relations.

Pick me a society where decay of morality,

Did not precede debasement of work-skills capacity,

Nature shows best example, but then will grant sway,

For even one slice from a cut loaf may be explained away.

Where once the detailed attention to construction wrought,

That gave sublime gravitas to philosophical thought,

Was then wasted away in corrupt, unethical, political sport.

Uniform social construct being the jointing cement,

Holding one person to another in common consent,

That with the depravity of a nation was socially rent,

Then all that work and labour, blind faith could explain,

Till there seemed little cause, no reason, the object to maintain,

So nothing was left of love’s old sweet world save the visible, crumbling remains.

Julius Kramm’s Dreamtime.

Julius Kramm’s dreamtime.

“We will travel to the country, you and I,

Leaving behind the morass of the city,

Leave the dead bury the dead, say I,

Take up land in the vast, open Mallee,

Mark out foundations for a home,

And there we will start a family.


How many seeds are sown to the wind,

From Mallee tree and flowering vine?

As many as stars in nightime skies,

Reflecting in the river billabongs stilled,

As many as dreams in my sleeping eyes..

As many as notes from a fiddle played.


What dull measure is an empty life,

Devoid of any flowering children,

What be the point of working hard,

When leaving nothing but trinkets to show,

Trashy jewels can be gained by any means,

Whilst children of one’s bloodline be pure gold!


So let us travel together, you and I,

To take up land beyond the riverside,

Within the mallee bush we’ll abide,

There, with carpenter adze, pick and shovel,

Will we frame the structure of a house,

With pine and pug, a home we shall model.


It won’t be a palace, not even much,

Pug, native pine with a roof of thatch,

But it will be ours and an even match,

For the grandest residence of Kings,

Even bigger, for our court, vast forest be,

Shared with but nature’s creatures, thee, and me.


There, under the shelter of daeh and faeh,

Will our children be birthed, raised,

Under the shelter of the mallee canopy,

We will farm the soil to provide us plenty,

Grains and greens and pumpkins many,

Though our purse be thin, our self be healthy.


For my lover;

How many seeds are sown to the wind,

From Mallee tree and flowering vine?

As many as stars in night time skies,

Reflecting the produce in a garden filled,

As many as dreams in thou’s sleeping eyes..

As many as notes from a fiddle played.


Hymns we will sing to the glory of ages,

Songs from our lips writ by wise sages,

That beseech God of feast and famine,

Spare their humble servants glare of mammon,

Grant instead good health, long life,

Equal exchange for disdain of pelf?”


This was the hope, ‘twas the dream,

Writ in the hand of Julius Kramm,

Writ on the pages of a personal letter,

Found by me..his last surviving son,

All the rest, including children, dead, buried,

A whole line of them in graveyard serried.


I don’t think I need tell of their story,

Enough has been writ of pioneer history,

Not for nothing is this named ”Breakheart country”,

Backs, hearts, limbs and bank balances,

Still they persevered with their conviction,

Matched their draught-horses in strength and action.


For myself, I witnessed first-hand the grief,

When a thirteen year old boy, I played midwife,

To my mother, of my own sister, died at birth ,

Only me and my mother in house that day,

The others in the fields stooking hay,

The sudden birth making for a desperate play.


No, no..I’d rather not dwell if you please,

On that day, that moment ‘twill bring me to my knees,

Such a sight, for a young boy is not ready to see,

The mad panic, the fumbling, the screaming agony,

I had not the slightest idea the weight on me,

Would bear so heavy..heavy, until eternity…..


So, yes indeed:

How many seeds are sown to the wind,

From Mallee tree and flowering vine?

As many as stars in night time skies,

Reflecting in the river billabongs stilled,

As many as dreams in my sleeping eyes..

As many as notes from a fiddle played.


But not for me the sowing of a family,

For I have remained steadfastly unmarried,

The trauma of that day still too familiarly

Stinging, burning, the look of fear, then death,

‘Twould be no benefit to my health,

Nor the best for any proposed spouse.


Prefer to farm alone, my many acres of the Mallee,

It being the only company I trust, my family,

Under sharp skies and with astute eye,

I work the seasons and barren Earth,

Not for me the unsettling cautions of birth,

Not for me the emptiness of love lost.


So yes indeed:

How many seeds ARE sown to the wind,

From Mallee tree and flowering vine?

As many perchance, as the stars in nightime skies,

Reflected in lonely billabongs stilled,

As many as tears in my recollecting eyes..

As many as pious, hymn’d words at funerals played.

Passing of a Summer Love.

The passing of a Summer love.

Saw her there in the mall, me on this side her the other,

I was sitting, watching the crowd, waiting for my brother,

Saw her, but not her me..and that’s best it stay,

For it ended years ago in enmity, best let it lay.

Not that we quarrelled openly, hurtfully,

But rather, the animosity grew, a tumour on friendship.

Until it died a quiet death, did that relationship,

No dramatic outburst, more a withering on the vine,

As leaves gently fade to primrose come Autumn,

Soft falling as Vesper prayers whisp’d from a nun’s lips,

In the stulled, mulling air of cloister and dark sacrist’,

Best leave it there..

Not that I didn’t suffer a little from guilt of care,

For each of us exchanged secrets, held in trust,

That could, with careless concern, burn both of us,

But some things lost are best accepted as traded fair.

And anyway..

It was a time she suffered no greying and I..hah!..I had thicker hair.

Mouse in the Hay.

The mouse in the hay.

‘Twas one of those mysteries scant resolve,

Can’t quite get how it evolved..

Was down the feed shed getting hay,

When saw near my boot the tiniest mouse,


The tiniest mouse, a rodent there, next my boot,

Its body the size of my thumbnail.. aw, shoot!

Like it had not a for its tiny life,

That I could have snuffed out with little strife,

Just the shift of my boot to crush it there,

One less rodent in the feed shed…what to care?

But the sight of that easy, sitting target,

That I could just kill with no repercuss’,

The smallest of life, so simple to snuff,

Brought a thought sprung clear to my mind,

One of those moments, subconscious, sublime,

: What if I did the same to the smallest of sunshine,

Did snuff out the sunlight on one tiny spot,

Upon the very spot where a seed was sown,

And that snuffing of sunlight stopped the seed to grow.

What if a multitude of such did follow,

One tiniest spot multiplied by many on the ‘morrow,

Till the whole Earth become barren and fallow,

From that one small act so brutally callow?

Does not the wave from a pebble dropped in a pond,

The thrust of air from the butterfly’s wing,

Reverberate to reach far boundaries beyond?

So to kill this tiniest of mice could end all existence,

A fantasy, surely..worthy of mocking derision..

But then, what right make such bold decision?

So yes..yes, I let that tiniest rodent go its way,

Tho’ I suspect I will give regret come someday,

When I see it flee from a bale of rodent, ravished hay,

But then..I DID spare the Earth from its “end of days”.


A Gap In The Line.

A Gap in the Line.

He touched the medals tenderly, the ribbon colours sublime,

The case of burnished velvet, the soft attractive shine,

He touched the medals tenderly, an Uncle’s Great War “shrine”,

Posthumously given for courage, in “closing a gap in the line”.

In closing a gap in the line he died, in mud, gore and slime,

It was for these tokens of honour, he marched, to fill a gap in the line,

With Union men, many of them with those medals he’d proudly stride,

Union men, many of them and a title his Uncle wore with pride,

Himself, a Wharfie, born and bred, right down the family line,

His Uncle too, t’was always said, could lump a hundred-weight a time,

Bagged sugar, sticky with sweat, soaking wet, at eighty tons an hour,

The men would lug from those cargo holds with no break for tucker.

In the Summer strike of ’98  they marched for conditions fair,

When “Patrick” crawled to Howard’s Government to send the coppers there,

Along with the Farmer mercenaries trained by the covert ; “Sandline,”

They sought to break the strikers…to break through a gap in the line,

In the middle of the night they sent in the thugs, the scabs and the dogs,

It was hard to tell which was which among the slavering, crawling hogs,

And deals were made and rights were trade between the ruling class,

That left the strikers on their own to hold the line tight to the last,

Howard set the dogs on the men and the women and children in kind,

Reith, the crawling bastard, banked the scabs through a mercenary company; “Sandline”,

And the Journalist sucks and the Murdoch hacks lent their honour to that shameful crew,

And wrote of “overpaid wharfie bludgers” when of sweat and blood they NEVER knew.

And he saw the look in the breaker’s eyes, he saw the hate confined,

So clasping tight, holding the next striker’s arms with all his might,

He called and bellowed fit to wake in fright..:”Hold boys, Hold!”

“ Hold my bastard boys!…we’ll not let them force a gap in the line!”

There comes a time in everyone’s heart, where honour and justice combine,

We must choose which side we’re marching on..what a sense of honour defines,

Would his Uncle have him march for nought, but just a place in a line,

Or should he honour best his Uncle’s pride with his class aligned,

Today he touches those medals tenderly, with a habit long refined,

But he’ll not march on Anzac Day…not while those Tory scabs declaim,

No..there’ll be a space where he held his place with the others marching time,

And owed in respect to his Uncle’s indebt’..they’ll now see clearly outlined,

That in the place of his marching space…there’ll be a gap in the line,

There’ll be a gap in the line my fellows…there’ll be a gap in the line,

Owed in respect to an Uncle’s indebt’…Today there’s a gap in the line.

The Invisible Men.


I was one of the invisible men,

A tradesman in the building industry,

Would slip out of the marriage bed quietly,

In the dark, early..very early hours of the morn’,

Many times before the rooster crowed the dawn,

Before the first light of day broached the crest,

And threw cold light on where the red hen would nest.


I was one of the invisible men,

Worked every day to support our family and kids,

Like so many other tradesmen I met on the digs,

Brickies, tilers, plumbers, any number of invisible men.

Would likewise silently creep from their warm dens,

So as not to wake and disturb the kids from their dreams.

Let the wife rest a little longer before her work begins.


We are the invisible men,

Go to work, earn our bread, come home beat,

Help with the shopping, cook a meal or two, bbq the meat,

Take the kids hiking, fishing, to visit nanna again.

Build the very home the family lives in,

After work, after hours, on weekends to save the pence,

Well spent on family needs, holidays, special events.


This is the other story of the invisible men.

Not the one of drunkenness, violence, useless and gross,

Yet if believed, we are thrown in with that general dross,

Our male idiosyncrasies denied their rightful place,

Scorned, mocked by unmarried, childless poltroons,

That have a generalised image of feral male “hoons”,

Now demand we remake ourselves as “unisex drones”.


We will no longer remain the invisible men,

We embrace a more healthy ideal of what we become,

Not some stooge of “woke, progressive middle-class bums”,

We join our woman partners as “husband and wife”,

We have our kids, our own homes..our own productive lives,

So take your exaggerated tales of “every-man-bastards”,

And shove your frustrated anger up your collective…well, just ask us!

Where to From Here?

“Middle-class feminism has a blind spot over female cleaners”: Eve Livingston.

What chance our lot;

When one woman with an apple could destroy God’s little paradise?

But it’s a metaphor, isn’t it : God, the garden and Utopia likewise,

When it’s really about The Corporation and the lesser population?

Because it was neither the apple, nor the woman,

That so tempted us that we threw our lot in with that Demon.

It was the goading of a “God” with his temptation of mammon,

That “Tree of Knowledge”…for knowledge is wealth,

The apple became the symbolic, tradable commodity,

But with a rider attached as an enticing oddity,

Eve’s sexuality; the “sales pitch” selling promise of that wealth.


Cut to here and now, and we see just the same pitch, same how,

And why we have bought into the greatest swindle, cunning stealth,

Since Adam was conned into biting into that apple.

But this time it wasn’t a man who was targeted,

He was recovering from wars, long hours worked and low wages,

The Man was already burned out and milked in all those stages.

This time the Devils set their sights on working-class women,

Here was an untapped cheap-labour force there for the taking,

“Divide and rule” as old as time itself, reborn now in the making,

If only they followed the advice of their “finishing-school sisters”,

Became storm-troopers, cannon fodder so those same hucksters,

Could break THEIR “glass ceiling” and rise alongside their male “brothers”,

Using power and persuasion of numbers magnified by these “others”.

There was mention of “career” and “independence” for working-class women,

All one had to do was to forsake their natural inclinations,

Drop any idea of marriage, children..forget; “husband and wife”,

Reject family structure and lose that man in your life,

(What was he but a burden to your career enhancement!),

For he represented “The Patriarchy” that restricted such advancement,

Never mind that he was lower on the rung of “saleable commodities”,

For the middle-class promise of “Healthy, Wealthy and Happy”,

Pivoted centrally on the prostitution of female sexuality,

Third-world surrogate mothers bearing children for homosexual lovers,

Donated sperm “copulation” for lesbian couples via artificial insemination,

Womanhood debased by caricatured gender-alignment, drag-queen trannies,

Single gender parenting “normalised” as “Two blokes and a cocker-spannie’ “,

But if such is “normal”, then society is gone insane since the age of our Grannies!

So tell me, you working-class that you have gained so much “liberty”..

How’re those low wages going for you..Still waiting there patiently?

Like the rest of the working-class…still busking for “Ko-fi” at that station,

Trusting the middle-class to fix the problem of their own creation…

Well…you’ll be waiting forever, like that promise of wealth satiated.

We’ve ALL been sold a ‘pup’ by the upper middle-class bastards,

Now we’re left here broke, “Woke” and homeless on the bones of our arses!

Working people:

Know your’s NOT gender so much as those from the upper-middle-classes.