Pliny the Elder raised an eyebrow.
What's this about the irrelevance of patterns? he asked.
Oh you noticed! I said.
Of course I noticed, he replied. I noticed you didn't explain it very well.
I can't explain it very well, I said. It's either nonsense or something very important. Do you want me to try again?
You may as well, he said.
Alright then. We humans are programmed to look for patterns, do you agree?
No.
Well, that's that then, I said, crossly.
No go on, for the sake of argument, said Pliny.
And yet the pattern has no meaning in itself. It's just the irrelevant trace of a process, I continued.
I assume you are thinking about ripple patterns in the sand, said Pliny.
Yes. The patterns are formed by the, um, well, whatever sand patterns are formed by.
The sea, said Pliny kindly, and the wind, and the tides, and occasionally eels.
Eels! Pliny, now I've lost my thread.
The patterns are formed by natural processes, prompted Pliny.
Yes. And when we see the patterns, we wonder how they were made.
In that case they are not irrelevant, said Pliny, gravely.
I'm just saying, I said, that the important things are the sea and the tides and the winds and the eels, and it wouldn't matter at all whether their actions made a pattern or not. Everything would still be exactly the same.
Except for the pattern, said Pliny. But I thought you liked patterns. Why are you trying to negate them?
I'm not. I'm just trying to see them for what they really are.
I don't think you have, said Pliny.
Showing posts with label wind. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wind. Show all posts
Monday, February 15, 2010
Monday, June 29, 2009
The Minda Dune
Yesterday we had a challenging walk. It was my mum. She said, let's go this way for a change, when we got to the esplanade, so the three of us headed off into the teeth of the wind.
It was alright for her, she had a scarf.
The entire bay was empty, except for one little yacht. The horizon was shipfree. The sea was a deceptive shade of brown. The sort of brown that nips up into spiky jabbing black and green jaws at the corner of your eye, which disappear at once when you confront them.
Eight seagulls flying north. A squishy frothy patch a few metres out from the rocks, near the Minda Dune.
See that dune, says my mum. It's supposed to be a fragile environment. It doesn't look too fragile to me. It's just a mess.
She decides to go back and find a seat to sit on. We two continue into the wind for the sake of good form.
We turn back after five minutes, re-passing the Minda Dune. We look at the sign, which says Fragile Environment. The dune is fifty metres long and is only there by accident. The accident of belonging to Minda Home. Everywhere else has been cleared and built on. It is probably too small to be sustainable
There is a photograph of the types of flowers to be found in the hollows of the dune. They are tiny delicate pink yellow and white. There are no actual flowers anywhere to be seen. Only stunted windswept bushes, gnarled roots and long strings of half dead grasses sticking out at unsustainable angles from the sand.
I stare at it until it becomes beautiful.
It was alright for her, she had a scarf.
The entire bay was empty, except for one little yacht. The horizon was shipfree. The sea was a deceptive shade of brown. The sort of brown that nips up into spiky jabbing black and green jaws at the corner of your eye, which disappear at once when you confront them.
Eight seagulls flying north. A squishy frothy patch a few metres out from the rocks, near the Minda Dune.
See that dune, says my mum. It's supposed to be a fragile environment. It doesn't look too fragile to me. It's just a mess.
She decides to go back and find a seat to sit on. We two continue into the wind for the sake of good form.
We turn back after five minutes, re-passing the Minda Dune. We look at the sign, which says Fragile Environment. The dune is fifty metres long and is only there by accident. The accident of belonging to Minda Home. Everywhere else has been cleared and built on. It is probably too small to be sustainable
There is a photograph of the types of flowers to be found in the hollows of the dune. They are tiny delicate pink yellow and white. There are no actual flowers anywhere to be seen. Only stunted windswept bushes, gnarled roots and long strings of half dead grasses sticking out at unsustainable angles from the sand.
I stare at it until it becomes beautiful.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Under the Stars
Last night we went to see Chris Isaak playing at Barossa Under the Stars. This was because we had free tickets. We went on a coach. It was nearly a 2 hour drive out to the Barossa, once we left the city it was all dust and straw. But the Barossa was a little greener, we saw vines and peach trees and even some grass.
Barossa Under the Stars was held in a huge field surrounded by wind-tossed trees. They were wind-tossed because it was very windy. In front of the trees in a semicircle were food and wine tents. In front of the food and wine tents there were chairs and tables and people sitting at them.
Everyone there was kind of old. It was not something to be depressed about if you were the same. Everyone had brought comfortable folding chairs. Everyone was drinking 5 dollar wine out of 5 dollar glasses, and eating hamper food, oysters, burgers or curry.
It was already none too warm when the warmup band started playing at half past 5. It was too windy to catch it all. When Tina Arena came on at 7 the sun was coming in low under the clouds blinding her. She kept her sunnies on and sang The Look of Love.
By the time Chris Isaak started playing it was dark. The wind had dropped but it was very cold. I had two jackets on and a scarf and was thinking of getting out the fleecy blanket, geriatric as it might make me seem; at least it was dark.
Let me describe. In front of us were about 200 rows of darkened people. Beyond them, the stage, lit up yellow pink and blue, bristling with light boxes, equipment, instruments, the Silvertones, and Chris Isaak playing in the middle in a red suit. He looked a little like Tintin if Tintin had a longer face. To the right of the stage was a screen on which you could see Chris Isaak if you couldn't see him very well in reality, an existential thing this is, to think about. To the right of the screen and some way behind, is a row of pine trees. Above the pine trees, a sky of darkest blue with black clouds edged with frothy coffee. Rising between two pines is the moon. The moon is 88 percent of full. Pine trees are pointy. Therefore the moon appeared to be rising obliquely between the pines. All the more amazing as, the moon being closer to the right hand tree, the missing 12% of the moon, which was ( or rather wasn't) on the left, might well have been expected to compensate for this.
This would certainly be easier to describe to you if I had a pencil.
Barossa Under the Stars was held in a huge field surrounded by wind-tossed trees. They were wind-tossed because it was very windy. In front of the trees in a semicircle were food and wine tents. In front of the food and wine tents there were chairs and tables and people sitting at them.
Everyone there was kind of old. It was not something to be depressed about if you were the same. Everyone had brought comfortable folding chairs. Everyone was drinking 5 dollar wine out of 5 dollar glasses, and eating hamper food, oysters, burgers or curry.
It was already none too warm when the warmup band started playing at half past 5. It was too windy to catch it all. When Tina Arena came on at 7 the sun was coming in low under the clouds blinding her. She kept her sunnies on and sang The Look of Love.
By the time Chris Isaak started playing it was dark. The wind had dropped but it was very cold. I had two jackets on and a scarf and was thinking of getting out the fleecy blanket, geriatric as it might make me seem; at least it was dark.
Let me describe. In front of us were about 200 rows of darkened people. Beyond them, the stage, lit up yellow pink and blue, bristling with light boxes, equipment, instruments, the Silvertones, and Chris Isaak playing in the middle in a red suit. He looked a little like Tintin if Tintin had a longer face. To the right of the stage was a screen on which you could see Chris Isaak if you couldn't see him very well in reality, an existential thing this is, to think about. To the right of the screen and some way behind, is a row of pine trees. Above the pine trees, a sky of darkest blue with black clouds edged with frothy coffee. Rising between two pines is the moon. The moon is 88 percent of full. Pine trees are pointy. Therefore the moon appeared to be rising obliquely between the pines. All the more amazing as, the moon being closer to the right hand tree, the missing 12% of the moon, which was ( or rather wasn't) on the left, might well have been expected to compensate for this.
This would certainly be easier to describe to you if I had a pencil.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Recumbent Fold
It was windy the first day at Carrickalinga, and not very hot, so Pliny and Nostradamus decided to go to Second Valley where the geology is spectacular.
They wound down through the round yellow hills and stopped at the carpark under the pines beside the ancient caravan park. Pine cones dropped dangerously around them. They walked the short distance to the lower carpark, where a busload of schoolchildren were getting into wetsuits ready to go canoeing in the sea.
Pliny and Nostradamus have been to Second Valley many times before. They know where to go to see the recumbent fold. Along a cemented path under the cliff, on the left, where once long ago the earth moved, the rocks are folded like a tablecloth or a ribbon of paper, and have turned over on themselves so that some of them are upside down. Remarkably this looks like the rings of a petrified tree, and the colours are of caramel, licorice and chocolate.
As you follow the path around the base of the cliff you emerge onto a rocky platform with multitudinous multicoloured rocks of all sizes everywhere. Most of the big ones are tilted at an angle of 45 degrees from the horizontal ( and the vertical ). The teeteringly steep cliff is behind you. If you turn and look up at it you will fall back dizzily with the illusion it is tumbling towards you. This is because the white clouds are rapidly moving over the top in the blue sky. If you were to fall backwards it would be into a rock pool of deep sea water and invisible dangers. It is advisable therefore to turn around again, and sit down.
An eerie clanging sound punctuates the wind. It is a couple of pieces of corrugated iron all but detached from the roof of one of the dozen disused boatsheds that are decomposing on the promontory several metres to your right. Totally surreal, they have been fenced off from the general public by a metal gate and a string of orange flags.
Pliny is looking at the water, but she can't see in. She pulls her hood tightly over her cap so the cap won't blow off. Nostradamus is climbing over some nearby rocks to get a better look at something. He comes back. It's time to go. On the way back along the cement path the wind drops and they see the children splashing and trying to tip one another out of their coloured canoes.
They wound down through the round yellow hills and stopped at the carpark under the pines beside the ancient caravan park. Pine cones dropped dangerously around them. They walked the short distance to the lower carpark, where a busload of schoolchildren were getting into wetsuits ready to go canoeing in the sea.
Pliny and Nostradamus have been to Second Valley many times before. They know where to go to see the recumbent fold. Along a cemented path under the cliff, on the left, where once long ago the earth moved, the rocks are folded like a tablecloth or a ribbon of paper, and have turned over on themselves so that some of them are upside down. Remarkably this looks like the rings of a petrified tree, and the colours are of caramel, licorice and chocolate.
As you follow the path around the base of the cliff you emerge onto a rocky platform with multitudinous multicoloured rocks of all sizes everywhere. Most of the big ones are tilted at an angle of 45 degrees from the horizontal ( and the vertical ). The teeteringly steep cliff is behind you. If you turn and look up at it you will fall back dizzily with the illusion it is tumbling towards you. This is because the white clouds are rapidly moving over the top in the blue sky. If you were to fall backwards it would be into a rock pool of deep sea water and invisible dangers. It is advisable therefore to turn around again, and sit down.
An eerie clanging sound punctuates the wind. It is a couple of pieces of corrugated iron all but detached from the roof of one of the dozen disused boatsheds that are decomposing on the promontory several metres to your right. Totally surreal, they have been fenced off from the general public by a metal gate and a string of orange flags.
Pliny is looking at the water, but she can't see in. She pulls her hood tightly over her cap so the cap won't blow off. Nostradamus is climbing over some nearby rocks to get a better look at something. He comes back. It's time to go. On the way back along the cement path the wind drops and they see the children splashing and trying to tip one another out of their coloured canoes.
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