Compost

 

Looking up intermittently from their internet, nerds notice through an actual window nearby how nature is twirling through the air outside towards a dank death. It might be the closest some of them get to International Compost Awareness Week (ICAW), which is settling down nicely between the 2^nd and 7^th of May. One of the admirable women on Gardening Australia once said you can chuck anything into the compost. Pondering this position over the years I have come to the conclusion hers is a minority opinion. She must have a bottomless pit at her place. Citrus, I was always told, is a main offender. Those lemon and orange rinds, end products of juicing at start of day, rot a lot slower than other rinds, a wealth of acid and anathema to worms. Boffins of the blogosphere will agree that organic matter deteriorates at different speeds, and what did she mean by ‘anything’, anyway? Even professionals can be known to give way to enthusiasm. The international online reading audience will be delighted to learn that we use a stainless-steel champagne bucket for collection of kitchen scraps. It is the most overused champagne bucket outside of the Ritz. Potato peelings, shredded corn cobs, apple cores, parsley stalks, everything is plopped into the bucket, for transport to the currently active compost bin. We have three bins, which we circulate through the seasons. As e-types are occasionally aware, autumn is about the main season for compost, with cooler temperatures allaying concerns the sun will fry the bin. Layers of yellow leaves and grass clippings and vagrant weeds rise to the brim, to start their rapid descent to the level playing field again. Synonym Search calls this humus. Web surfers will be interested to know that we employ tiger worms in our bins, payment being all the food they can eat. They hang around in clumps, turning mouldy rubbish into pure gold for the garden. My one concern is the sun, as I may have mentioned, which last summer was a blast furnace at times. Bins must be located by shaded fences. In halcyon days I trialled open compost troughs, but alas results were less than halcyon. Despite the promises of wistful decomposition on a large scale, the high maintenance time frame and risk of theft by bird and rodent defeated the desired aim. High turnover was an impediment to progress. Impressive troughs of Gardening Australia’s haughty composters shared no resemblance to my heaps of weeds and carrot tops. Bins are easier, the results the same. Slumped with their mouse, geeks need consciousness raising about the satisfactions of keeping the cycle going, shovelling rich granular mixture into wheelbarrows, scattering seedbeds, spooning textures into flowerpots, and generally turning castings into enriching agent everywhere.

Mahagonny

 

Incipient dread is the invitation as we walk the golden mile of Collins Street towards the opera. Songs of gold, the solid gold hits that built this city. The mighty City of Melbagony, once and future richest city of the world. The sleepy seaside City of Mulgabillionaires, risen from mangrove and basalt in the twinkling of a nugget in their tinpan. We pass ornate whisky bars, their patrons yearning for the days before long virus, a little corner that was forever England. When Californian goodtime ladies sang about losing their mothers, not asking why. When soldiers returned from the Alaska of the Western Front, their shared secret, no don’t ask why. When rapscallions and self-styled bushrangers set up shop down interminable shopping strips, a city of nets, a city of what next. A mood cabaret, an opera of the absurd teetering on incoherence, pulled back from the abyss by sheer desire for survival. Entertainment in a world where even the news is entertainment. What if nothing happens, no profits to be made with nothing to spend, except then boredom from the boardroom to the bordello. Circumstantially, nature intervenes in the form of once-in-a-thousand-year bushfires and Pacific rainbombs. These seasonal variations are not the job for moonlighters, they do not carry a hose, oh don’t ask why. Yet miracles happen and excuses are found to get back to normal, very normal normal. In the mighty illusory City of Megabyties you can get anything you want at Online’s Restaurant. Safely on the other side all is allowed, curt vile words fly at breakneck clicks, you may eat yourself to death and set a new world record, discover for yourself how sex never ends but form an orderly queue and pay at the door, receive huge acclaim and a fool’s gold trophy for punching out the other guy in plain sight. A longing too, it seems, for an America of dreams, welcome to New York, rainy night in Georgia, laying on Arkansas grass, even if longing transpires to be merely a bridge over troubled waters, everyone’s a winner baby that’s no lie, and buddy can you spare a dime. A man without a dime is a man who commits a crime, true though he can sing in time. No one wants to know you when you’ve got filmstar fatigue. Incipient dread is a court hearing, for assuredly judgement is coming. For the seduction of the lovely lady, your voting rights are withheld. It was your choice. For singing a happy song about climate change, you must spend time in the clink. Sing clunky songs there, it’s your choice. For being accessory to the death of your old comrade-in-arms, hard labour. But for the crime of not having a dime, you are sentenced to death. Time’s up. Help is suddenly in short supply in the City of Hahagagablahblah, but not if you are applauding the performers and exiting for first night champagne in the foyer. Collins Street is all glittery outside.