Dreams to end a total bastard of a year with a glimmer of some vital ethical intellectual revival
by PHILIP WHITE
Having woken to the news that Marcia Langton and Dave Graney were the new chairholder and managing director installed to save and restore what had degraded to become The Australian's Bogan Commission and that all the refugees tortured in our Gulags were coming to live here, with love, pronto, I would bung on some Thomas Bloch playing Benjamin Franklin's glass armonica: music as magical and ice-pure as the snow in the Exmess myth.
Dave Graney, from his blog
I'd start with Bloch, or even better, William Zeitler playing his arrangement of Tchaikowsky's Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy on the glasses with a bass clarinet and a harp massaging the silences: it eases its dainty calm into the mind like a real slow sunrise.
In the fridge would be the big bowl of ripe clingstone peaches I'd peeled and sliced the night before and left to soak in a whole bottle of Oakridge Blanc de Blanc 2012 fizz with half a cup of kirsch. I would take from the freezer the sorbet I'd made from Jansz methode Tasmanoise Rosé and put a goodly scoop of that atop a serve of said peaches and deliver them back to Sheba still a-slumber in the royal cot with a bloody great tumbler of Krug Clos Du Mesnil Blanc de Blancs 2003.
All the caffeine required would be an espresso castrato - smaller and even more concentrated than a ristretto: all you get is the squeak.
Then I'd nuzzle in there and have another wee snooze until that soupçon of coffee kicked in.
Before we moved to some Vivaldi Glorias in the sonic division I'd bang on a dash of news on the new ABC to hear that the Abturn Bullbott mob has resigned and Pat Dodson is the Governor-general of the new republic.
They will have dumped the dumb old bully-boy two party adversarial system in favour of a place where there's no goddam fence to keep us out and people actually discuss and debate the tricky issues at hand.
Speaking of joints, I'd roll a racehorse special and share it with Her Maj somewhere out the back. Then lunch would be cool crudites and some cold smoked leveret and a glass of my landlord's Yangarra Roussanne, after which the kids would peel open their gifts: a ukelele with a Snark tuner, a Lee Oskar blues harp and a good book for each of em.
As the arvo creeps across it'd be thin slices of pink steak and horseradish with a '71 St Henri from a magnum so there's enough for all the peerie bairns to have a wee educative sip and a nice lie down.
photo Doug Govan
Tony Brady at the door of the meditation/retreat/slumber chamber in the new toilet block he built at Wendouree ... photo Philip White
I'm sure we can do it. We must do it.
Mars will deal with them in his own sweet way.
from our book Evidence of Vineyards on Mars
So have a very merry thing youse lovelies. You are my brethren. Folks who can read your actual language are a precious and increasingly scarce treasure.
Thankyou for the gift of your attention for another troubled twelvemonth.
A year of exceptionally lucky encounters and friendships, standing in sharp and awful contrast to what's happening everywhere else.