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Anth 72 Saturday 1st Edition

Anth 72 Saturday 1st Edition

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Published by John Arunas Zizys

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Published by: John Arunas Zizys on Jul 05, 2010
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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a half-translated adoption of 
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].The seventh day
of the week.
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(no 53)
Reserve for the night. H has a fire going.Hamburger in Charlton. I think both of us would have spent a good bit of our thinking time wondering(27/1/05. still r (3/11/09. stl r)) about Dan’s debut in the model game and his prospects for the future(27/1/05. hez in NZ doin a kupl of showz. So poor he smokes rollies but hez wearin a $US700 jaktsent → him ← New York). Just as we were leaving Melbourne in the morning, still in Locksley rd, wemade the ultimate bird find – a rainbow lorrikeet. Unfortunately it had been run over and was messyso we could only get some of the brilliant feathers (27/1/05. in rtrspkt th hobby seems gruesm) from it.Its only the 2
parrot we have found, the other being the female Mulga parrot I got on the LakeGairdner trip.
Port Germein
(no 58)
Well the sunset was a fizzer – not enough clouds tocolour up, and sunrise was also pretty ordinary, though it was nice to be still around to see it, so I’m notcomplaining. After breakfast we had a pleasant walk in a large patch of mallee and then headed off towards Wirrabara where the Old Bakery makes the best pies Ive ever tasted (including my mums whichwere pretty good), via Whyte Yarcowie (smaller than Terowie, but happier looking) and Jamestown (verycivilized with a comfortable-looking main street, and a creek through the middle). Consumed 2 pies atWirrabara accompanied by nice plunger coffee – very tasty and also heart-burn inducing, as the pastry isdeliciously flaky and the steak & kidney in big chunks in a thick gravy – definitely cholesterol country. Thebaker has a big paunch and was walking with a stick – hope his days arent numbered by consuming toomany of his own freshly baked delights, as, from a purely selfish point of view, his artistry would be sorelymissed when we come this way again. After the pig out, we went back the way we‘d come (almost) toinvestigate Appila Springs picnic area, Tarcowie, Boolooroo Centre and then on to Melrose, through whatmust be some of the loveliest rural areas in SA – rolling hills with long views of yellow canola, green wheat& purple Salvation Jane (Pattersons Curse in Victoria) which were beautiful to the eye and calming to thespirit. The land here is not so alien to human occupation as the dry country beyond Goyders Line. Then onto Port Germein through a ‘mini Flinders Ranges’ gorge with red rocks above, gums in the creek bed,callitris pines on the sides. Port Germein feels so familiar, though Im sure I havent been here more thanabout 4 times – its ‘sleepy hollow’ feel is very welcoming and comfortable. The tide is out, so the ‘beach’ ishundreds of yards wide & the water quite a long way away. The jetty will no doubt be our boulevarde thisevening. Neither of us feels hungry despite the fact that lunch was early – the pies are still with us.(21/5/05. Indeed they are! The Magpies (bottom of the ladder) have just beaten West Coast Eagles (top of the ladder) for only the 2
win of the season).
(no 8)
St Clare of Assisi (Abbess Virgin 1194-1253). When St Francis preached the Lenten sermons in the church of St George at Assisi in 1212 he so inspired Chiara, the 18 year-olddaughter of Count Scifi, that she determined to follow the Poverello in his life of Christian poverty. Upon hisadvice she secretly slipped out of the parental castle on the night of Palm Sunday and, accompanied by her auntBianca and another companion, made her way through the forest to the little chapel of Portiuncula in the valley,where St Francis and his brethren awaited her with torches at midnight. Here she exchanged her rich clothingfor a coarse tunic and veil, had her long, golden hair cut off, and vowed herself to Christ’s service in utter  poverty. Her father, who had planned a splendid marriage for her, was furious and attempted to carry her off byforce from the Benedictine convent where she was temporarily placed. Before long, a simple dwelling wasfitted up as a convent adjacent to the poor chapel of St Damiano, which St Francis had personally repaired.Here, within a fortnight, St Clare was joined by her younger sister St Agnes. The young order of “Poor Clares” began to grow rapidly in membership and during the next few years Clare’s own mother, Blessed Ortolana,another sister, Beatrice, and her aunt Bianca also placed themselves under her direction. Foundations wereestablished in many countries of Europe during her 40-year tenure of office, mainly for the care and educationof poor girls. At first the community lived without a written Rule, guided only by a short “formula of life”composed by St Francis, and under the latter’s devoted personal guidance. But Cardinal Ugolini, the newOrder’s protector, drew up a Rule in 1219, based on the Benedictine one and forbidding communal poverty.This he tried unsuccessfully for nine years to have St Clare accept, but her firm insistence on St Francis’ idealof absolute poverty and complete dependence on alms, finally won from him (later Pope Gregory IX) his
famous “Privilegium Paupertatis”, the first one of its kind ever to be issued. Succeeding Popes also sought tomitigate the great austerity of the Poor Clares. Finally, two days before St Clare’s death, Pope Innocent IVsolemnly confirmed the definitive Rule. He also came in person to visit the dying Saint, who had been tried bysickness and infirmity for many years. Three of St Francis’ early companions read aloud the Passion accordingto St John, just as they had done 27 years before at the Poverello’s death in Portiuncula, while “the LittleFlower of St Francis”, the living impersonation of Lady Poverty, passed peacefully to her reward at the age of 59. St Clare’s funeral was attended by the Pope and his entire court, and two years later the holy foundress wassolemnly canonized. Her body, which was for safety’s sake buried deep below the high altar of the new churchwhich was erected at Assisi in her honour in 1260, was not rediscovered until 1850. It now lies enshrined in aspecial crypt chapel where it is visited and revered by countless pilgrims. St Clare, the greatest woman Saint of the Franciscans is represented in art as holding a ciborium in memory of the night in 1224, when she put theattacking Saracens of Frederick II to precipitous flight by raising it on high before them. She had a specialdevotion to our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament, and had learned St Francis’ Office of the Passion by heart. Itwas in the small olive grove adjoining her convent, incidentally, that St Francis composed his beautiful“Canticle to the Sun”. Reflection: “Dispose of me as you please; I am yours by having consecrated my will toGod. It is no longer my own.” (St Clare).Thats that. I’ve had breakfast, the sky is clear, its 9.40am and I’m off to Mahanewo. I was kidding youabout the footy last night. I only listened to 5 minutes of it; when Collingwood isnt playing I’m not interested.I’m about to brush my teeth seeing as water is no longer an issue … I’m at Lake Gairdner parked on top of arise overlooking the lake. I can see across it to the Gawler Range but north and south it is endless. Eastwardsthe plain rolls away uninterrupted. The bed of the lake is brown dirt which feels slightly springy underfoot.Walking directly west it becomes too soft to support your weight after about 40 minutes and you can see acovering of water a few hundred yards further out. Its not nearly as spectacular here as the white salt of thesouthern section and the shoreline stretches away evenly to the north and south. I doubt if I’ll spend more thantwo days here, one to walk north and the other south. I am totally exposed to sun and wind but I want to stay inthis spot because of the vista over the lake. I am 200 kilometers away from the start of supermarket culture atPort Augusta, 70 away from the tourists driving north on the highway, and 25 from Mahanewo (pronouncedMahrew) homestead which serves as my protective outpost, guarantor of privacy. I said I’d leave a note under the door when I’m leaving so they dont have to wonder whether I’m stuck here. Paul Manning who with wifeConny are the owners said he’d check in a weeks time if its not there. Their kids study, apparently well, withthe help of the School of the Air. She made a cup of tea while I talked to Paul. I bought 20 litres of petrol for which he would only accept $15 even though I’ve been paying over $1/litre at the bowser. He runs the station by himself except for some occasional hired help. The contract musterer I talked to yesterday had been here for a week and lives well south of Port Augusta. Apparently they usually dont accept less than a weeks work at atime.Suddenly the intensity has gone out of my reactions to 1941. The ghosts are laid. Perhaps its the writingthat has done it, or the landscape, or the rhythm I’ve got into after a week on the road. Perhaps they demand to be mourned only by the survivors who are the only ones who can properly know their plight. What I am leftwith are abstractions, questions, challenges to my understanding. The main one is how can it be that my perception of the events surrounding my birth had such a gaping hole in it. And if there is one that I’ve locatedwhy couldnt there be more even larger ones. The way I perceive the world around me has a seamless quality asif I’m at the centre of a sphere whose shell constitutes my intellectual environment. I’ve surrounded myself with this envelope over a lifetime of considerable efforts of conceptualising and an inheritance of the views andopinions I’ve trusted to accept from people I’ve known and read. Could it be that this apparently seamlessreality of mine has more holes than substance, is fractured by chasms? Moreover if it can be for me why not for others? Why not for everyone? William Blake says that if the windows of perception were opened we wouldsee the world as it really is – infinite. I think that the windows of my perception have been set ajar and I amseeing gaps and voids: gaps in perception between groups, even neighbours; voids where once I thought I hadsome understanding.
Port Germein
(no 58) &
(no 8)
As I write the sun has risen over theFlinders ranges on my right. On the left is the perfectly still water of the Spencer Gulf backed by a low range behind which it set yesterday. There is not a cloud in the sky. I can hear the roar of trucks in the distance acrossthe samphire plain amplified by the ranges on the other side. Nearly every truck that leaves Victoria and SouthAustralia for the Northern Territory, Perth and the Eyre Peninsula has to travel this section of highway to PortAugusta to get around the Spencer Gulf which juts like a knife, with Port Augusta at its tip, into the belly of australia. Its my birthday. Last year too I was in the vicinity several hundred kilometres to the north near Leigh

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