Although I made it to the pub to catch up with “the usual place” and “the usual bunch” I didn’t stay all that long.
Still feeling a bit tired and sick – despite outwards appearances – I’ve come home reasonably early.
“Will and Grace” is on TV. Watching that is about as energetic as I think I’m gonna get.
I often tell younger colleagues that we’re lucky these days to get one scroll on a mobile phone, perhaps two. If you don’t communicate the core point in the first couple of sentences, the message is lost, because no one gets that far. Sounds pessimistic I know.
This concept of having only one scroll’s worth of attention is the direct digital descendant of the newspaper industry’s term: “Above/below the fold”.
The term originated with broadsheet newspapers, which were physically folded in half for display. The “fold” was the physical crease in the middle of the page. The top half, or “above the fold,” was the prime real estate reserved for the most sensational headlines, captivating images, and lead stories—the content designed to grab a passer-by’s attention and compel them to buy the paper. Anything placed on the lower half, or “below the fold,” was considered less critical and was at risk of being ignored.
On a computer screen or mobile phone, the “fold” is the line at the bottom of the screen. “Above the fold” is the content you see immediately when a page loads, and “below the fold” is the content you must scroll down to view.
A good example of this is the email header. I’ve taken to front-loading crucial details in the email subject or the very first line of the body—things like the time, date, venue, and subject matter of a meeting. Yet, I still inevitably receive replies asking: “When is it on? What’s it about?” IT’S IN THE FIRST FREAKING SENTENCE!!!
I’ve also noticed a significant increase in the sheer lack of acknowledgement. I’ve sent emails for both work and personal projects and received no reply at all, not even a delayed one. I don’t mean a detailed response, but simply an acknowledgement of receipt. This has happened quite a bit lately.
This effort/attention mismatch was brought into sharp focus when I was asked to review and make recommendations about a significant work project. I dedicated a large amount of time to this project, but when I handed in my final, detailed review, I knew immediately from the look on the requestor’s face that he never actually read it. He’s gone now.
When a platform like Microsoft Office offers a simple reaction tool (like a little ‘:-)?’ emoji), a basic one-line reply would be far more helpful: “Thanks for the information, I’ll look into it,” or “No, I can’t do that.” The silence suggests a reluctance to commit to anything, which is possibly a separate issue altogether.
This new dynamic stands in stark contrast to the way we learned to communicate formally. I was thinking the other day about learning to write letters as a child and mastering the difference between when to sign off with ‘Yours faithfully’ versus ‘Yours sincerely.’ We learned these conventions, but the urgency and addictive nature of modern connectivity have rendered them effectively obsolete.
To combat this, I now adopt a ‘scan-first’ approach. I write key information in bold text within the email body to make it immediately obvious and easy to scan. Ultimately, though, all I’m really looking for is a quick acknowledgement of receipt to confirm the message has landed, and read.
I contrast, I’ve taken to listening to longer podcasts, and people are bringing long-form TV shows. Maybe we’re entering a post-reading era?
As I approach my 60th birthday, have I simply become a grumpy old man?
It’s so funny meeting people who know people you know, but who not so many people know anymore. Below, you’ll see the black and white photograph of my mum and my granny I showed to an older, family member I met at yesterday’s Rixon-Goodwin Family Reunion at Windsor in Sydney’s West. Both mum and granny died back in the 1980s, and there aren’t too many people around now who remember them.
We’re both descended from William Rixon and Ann Hoare, and before that from James Rixon and Amelia Goodwin, and John Hoare and Elizabeth Love, who were all early European settlers in Australia, being a combination of free and convict settlers.
Amy’s mother, Ruby, and my granny, Bertha were sisters, in a rather complex family story involves stories of illegitimacy, intermarriage, and a fair amount of hiding the truth.
Though Amy’s life was in Sydney, and our life was in Lismore, it was terrific to chat with her about the common stories we both shared. “Oh yes, I heard about the two brothers who got all the money”, I told her. “Is that mum?”, she said, when I showed her the photograph. “Oh no, that’s Bertha”, we told her, though noting the physical similarity between the two sisters.
We’re all convinced there’s a lot more to the story of our common ancestor, Ellen Laing, and no doubt, someday, we’ll find out more about the truth of the matter. But in the meantime, it remains a wonderful mystery, a wonderful detective story.
That, and catching up with my distant cousin, Barry (Gus) O’Brien who has done a tremendous amount of work tracing one of the many other sides of my own complex identity.
“Have you done the DNA test?”, both Barry, and another relative, Kerrie, asked me. “No I haven’t”, I told them, adding that it has been sitting on my desk at work for a few months. “I’m definitely going to do the test and submit it this week”, I told them, though noting it could possibly identify more questions than answers.
SLIDESHOW PRESENTATION FROM REUNION DAY
Duration 16 minutes
Right-click and download the Power Point file (189 megabyes).James Rixon and Amelia Goodwin
Right-click and download the video file (medium resolution 196 megabyes).James Rixon and Amelia Goodwin
Right-click and download the video file (high resolution 387 megabyes).James Rixon and Amelia Goodwin
PHOTOGRAPHS FROM THE DAY
I’ve always been fascinated by discarded items, items left in the street for rubbish collection or for someone else to pick up and take home. This is especially the case with very personal items, such as suitcases. The suitcase I saw discarded on Wiltshire Lane, Surry Hills this afternoon, was a very old fashioned one.
In the era of backpacks and sturdier construction, this kind of suitcase is hardly ever seen in public anymore, especially not at airports. You might see them at the Country Platform, but never at Sydney Airport. It’s the kind of suitcase my mum used to store my sister’s wedding dresses. It’s the kind of suitcase that was often recycled from generation to generation, as a child moved out of home to get married, or moved away for travel or work.
It’s the grown up version of the “Globite Port” that I first took to school in the early 1970s. I wonder why they’ve thrown it out?
Last week, I had the absolute privilege of interviewing Chris Blowes for an upcoming episode of The Limb Shift.
Chris’s story is one of the most harrowing yet resilient accounts I’ve encountered—a journey from the jaws of a five-metre great white shark to the world stage of adaptive surfing.
Hearing him recount the details in person was truly profound, especially as he described the incident on Anzac Day 2015. It was his first surf back after a minor knee injury, and while paddling back out, he was hit with immense force.
Chris told me, “It grabbed me so hard and it was going at so much pace. When it hit me, it sort of launched me out of the water… it popped up again behind me and, you know, pulled me underwater for the second time”.
The attack was brutal; he was opened up along his left side and ultimately had his leg amputated above the knee while still underwater. His mates, Nick and Brock, played a critical role in his survival, getting a tourniquet around his leg at the water’s edge—a move that likely saved him from bleeding to death.
Chris’s survival was nothing short of miraculous, as he clinically died in the back of a Landcruiser eleven kilometres down the road. He received CPR for over an hour at Port Lincoln Hospital.
Recalling the scene in the trauma room, Chris said, “I had eight units of blood and twelve units of plasma, which was the whole unmatched bloodstock in the Port Lincoln Hospital… They’d been going for so long and they’re like, ‘We probably need to stop, you know, he’s going to be brain dead.’ And I went to go pull the breathing tube that was in my throat out, and the whole room went silent”.
After ten days in an induced coma and eight weeks in hospital, his recovery was further complicated by complete renal failure. He described the dialysis process as a “world of pain” because it would flush out his pain medication, leaving him in “ten out of ten pain”.
Initially, Chris lost interest in surfing, the sport that had once been his “addiction”. It took two years and some prompting from his mates to get back into the water. He reflected, “I think when I lost surfing, I almost lost a part of me in a way… getting up and going for a surf is probably my go-to when I’m having a bad day now”.
Standing up as an above-knee amputee presented unique challenges, but Chris adapted, starting on a longboard to avoid catching his foot on the tail. His passion eventually led him to win the Australian adaptive surfing title and compete in the world para surfing titles in America.
Today, Chris is living a full life, working in the construction industry, performing corporate speaking, and raising two children. He continues to manage the physical and mental recovery, including phantom pain that feels like “electric shocks every 30s”. His advice for others in similar positions is simple: “Just stick at it. Be patient because it takes time to get back to that, you know, feeling good again… there’s normally more good days than hard days”.
How frustrating must it be to be a flight attendant? In the front row of six, there were only two of us paying any attention to the flight attendant’s instructions for the emergency row. The woman to my right was engrossed in her book, the man next to her was going through photographs on his mobile phone. And to the left, there were two with their eyes closed, while only one other person was paying attention. In the event of an emergency, I guess it was just me and one other who would be saving the lives of others.
I was on a flight back to Sydney, having spent the last ten days in Lismore.
Six weeks on from the “biggest flood”, followed by another “big flood” Lismore remains in a desperate state. Though many would like to believe a flood can be easily cleaned up with a mop and bucket, the events that have occurred are beyond that of a flood. Locally, people are describing it not so much as a flood, but as a cyclone or a tsunami.
I went for a walk around the “main block” yesterday and there’s only a handful of shops that have resumed business. In the main CBD, there are only two clothing stores that are open (selling limited items), a couple of coffee shops, and a couple of bottle shops. The bottle shops are selling some beer that went through the flood. Not so much of an issue, but we made a purchase a few days which had residual mud under the ring pull. I don’t mind so much, though you might imagine others might feel quite strongly. In case you’re wondering, they refer to it upfront as “flood beer”.
I also went for a walk down by the riverside. Last year, while staying in Lismore, you might recall I would often go down by the riverside for some exercise/relaxation. Though you would often see people walking their dogs, there were very few people there yesterday. A couple of kids on their bikes stopped and said hello, along with a couple of women. Twelve months ago, they might not have said hello, but yesterday they were keen for a chat. Along the riverbank, the soil remains sodden, and the devastation of fast-moving river currents remains evident in the grasslands.
Nearby, the old RSL Club (more recently a childcare centre) was being demolished. The water in the nearby swimming pool was still brown. And the city bowling club remained a mess. I read the other day they’ve decided to close down the club and distribute funds amongst members.
On the radio this morning, I heard an academic from Southern Cross University talk about recommendations to relocate the “main functions” of the CBD to the land currently occupied by the East Lismore Golf Course. The land is above a 15-metre flood (the recent flood made it to 14 metres).
On the surface, that makes a lot of sense, though it’s going to take a lot of commitment (and dollars!) for that to occur. Too many “experts,” think it’s a simple case of moving the businesses and shops to a higher location, without thinking through who is going to pay for it to happen.
In locations like North and South Lismore, there are elderly residents on low incomes who either own or rent and who simply can’t afford to move.
And then there’s the “Vicar Of Dibley” factor. There was an episode of that wonderful British TV series, where the people of Dibley were offered incentives to move to a new location, in the midst of a proposal to flood Dibley. Despite the offerings, they decided Dibley was their home, and the connections were more important than a new house.
As I wrote about last year during the months I lived back in South Lismore, there’s a strong community connection too. Even though I knew South Lismore could flood, there’s part of me that’s still so strongly connected to this community, that makes me think I could possibly still buy a house and live there. But, of course, I’m dreamin’.
Nonetheless, Pat and Jack want to move home. Their house is uninhabitable right now, but they still feel more comfortable in a flood-impacted house in the middle of town than living on the outskirts of a Lismore suburb.
My niece and nephew (not a couple) have already moved back home. Their existence is more like “camping” than living, with limited power. They’re not the only ones who’ve done this. When the second flood came through, it’s estimated that 25% of people who lived through the first flood, were already back home.
It doesn’t make sense to anyone from anywhere else. “The town has got to move”, friends and colleagues from elsewhere have said to me. In reply, I’ve told them it’s not that simple. If like me and many others you’ve lived through previous floods, and you have a house on stilts (built above the 1973 flood level), you still have a feeling you can survive again.
During the 2017 flood, Nancy was insistent that she stayed at home in South Lismore. “I’ve lived through 54, 74 and others, and there’s no need to move out this time”, she said. We reminded her she was much younger then, and couldn’t afford the same luxuries in her 70s as she enjoyed in her 40s.
That’s likely something I’ll need to consider also. East Lismore has always been on my list of possible places to live in Lismore, and if that’s where the CBD moves to, maybe that will make sense for me too.
“Just keep walking, it’s a scam”, I shouted to the young tourist couple, hoping they understood my English. I knew something was awry when on the approach to the Eiffel Tower, I saw a young girl approach them, pretending to have found a gold ring in the sand and asking if it was theirs.
Just a minute or so earlier, an identically dressed young girl had done the same thing to me. As she bent down, “discovered” the ring and came towards me, I knew something wasn’t quite right. With one hand raised I ignored her approach, and with the other held tightly to my bag. Looking around to the right, I saw a young man who looked quite similar (an older brother I assumed by his appearance) who was closely observing the situation. I glared at him, and he looked back at me, recognising that I wasn’t about to be caught by their scam.
And then I saw the same scenario being played out again just a few metres up the track, I knew for sure my initial feelings were right, and that’s when I yelled out to warn the young couple.
In fact, it was just the scenario M-H had described in blog comments a couple of days ago, where the tourist is distracted by one person, while another comes along and takes their bag. I hope the young couple took my advice, though I didn’t stay around long enough to see if they did, concerned for my own personal safety. And besides, I was in a hurry to get to the Number 1 tourist destination in Paris: The Eiffel Tower.
Not only is it a hell of a lot cheaper to walk the tower stairs rather than catch the lift (4 euros, as opposed to 11 – though I was also only charged 3 for some reason), but it was also a really great experience to do so. Similar to climbing the Sydney Harbour Bridge, in that you really get to see the tower’s construction as well as the magnificent views.
Even being a slightly overweight forty-year-old, I didn’t find the walk too much. Maybe because I was so excited I literally bounded up the stairs. And I didn’t envy the people who’d paid a lot of money to be tightly squeezed into the elevator. Coming down, needless to say, was a breeze. In fact, a couple of young blokes had a race to see who could get to the bottom first.
In all, I guess I spent one-and-a-half, maybe two hours wandering around two different levels of the tower. I was extremely lucky too since both the weather and the views today were spectacular. It was also great just to sit and watch people have a truly wonderful experience. Young families with kids. Couples in love. All having the times of their lives. And for a few of them, I was the “official photographer” of their wonderful moment.
The views were even better than those I’d had earlier in the day at Sacre Couer, the church not far from where I’m staying. There’s a lift there too, though it’s something I didn’t know about, and couldn’t take advantage of, since I was coming from the other direction. The view, though, is definitely the first thing you notice when you reach the top of the stairs.
And then you notice the beautiful church itself. And, since it’s a “working church”, a lot of people (including myself) took the opportunity for some quiet prayer in the midst of the tourist jam.
Outside on the stairs, it’s both peaceful and noisy. I first took a seat on the stairs near an American bloke playing classics such as “What A Wonderful World” and “American Pie”. And when that became too much (after about two minutes), I found myself another spot near a bloke playing the harp. He was good. Really good. And the harp also seemed to suit the scene a little more too.
I must have sat there for about thirty minutes (maybe longer) enjoying the peace, the solitude (well, kinda), and the views. And then a woman asked me if I would mind moving slightly so she could hold the railing to walk down the stairs. As I instantly recognised her French was as bad as mine, I replied, “No worries”. “Oh it’s so nice to hear an English voice”, she said to me. And when I replied telling her I was Australian not English, she told me that was just as good, and that her son was an Australian.
In some ways, it’s been a day of ticking off the tourist boxes of Paris, since I also paid a visit to Notre Dame. It’s just as touristy as everywhere else I’ve visited. And no wonder, since it’s a very beautiful church. Quite remarkable.
On the way there, however, I also discovered the great little “island” in the middle of the river. Well, discovered isn’t so much the word, as the island was full of people sitting enjoying the sun, reading, eating and drinking champagne.
And of course, there was some romance too. There were some teenagers tentatively holding hands. There were a couple of gay boys with their legs gently touching each other. And there was a lovely middle-aged couple holding hands too. I thought it was great to see a couple who might have been together for maybe twenty years or so quite happily showing affection in public.
Well, that’s what I thought until they decided this beautiful spot was also the ideal place to go for the “big pash”. And by that, I don’t mean, a tender, passionate, romantic kiss. Hours later, the sight of tongues and hands going places they shouldn’t go in a public place still haunts me.
Not only has this one single event absolutely confirmed my homosexuality, but I think it’s also put me off sex for life. “If that’s what I look like when I’m doin’ it, then I’m never doin’ it again”, I thought to myself. I hope I’m not sounding too much like a fourteen-year-old teenage girl if I say, “Ooooh gross!”.
Anyway, that’s not gonna be an issue is it, since I’m staying in a youth hostel? I have, however, been lucky again tonight. Once again, I’m in a four-bed dormitory on the top floor all by myself. I’ve nicked the pillows off the other beds, so I hope no one turns up at midnight. I’ve got the window open. There’s a gentle breeze. The sounds of Paris traffic can be heard gently in the background. Could life get any better?
Post Script: I wrote too soon. Three other people arrived to share my room at about ten thirty. Shit. Shit. Shit.
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