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“[A] pocket-size firecracker of a magazine” – The Australian

We had a nice mention in ‘New views crucial to Australia’s literary culture’ by Christopher Bantick in The Australian, 21 April, alongside our indie publishing pals Island, Wet Ink and Kill Your Darlings.

Read the whole article here…

‘Rhapsody of Oura Oura’ by Senator Bob Brown

Beloved Greens leader and environmental activist Bob Brown has today resigned from parliament.

In appreciation of his tireless work for the wild things of this country, we’d like to share his contribution to Issue 4 – From the heart of the forest to the edge of the road (Spring 2011), about his early life at his property in the Liffey Valley, Tasmania, and his love of the wilderness.

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Rhapsody of Oura Oura
by Bob Brown

Bob Brown at Liffey, late 1980s. Photo courtesy of Bob Brown

 

Impossibility and certainty are together on Earth. The sheer immensity of the universe, with its billions of stars like our Sun, is beyond the comprehension of our humble human brains. Yet, evolved in the fertile little valleys of this tiny life-covered planet, our minds are attuned to the comfort of confined reality. We can draw certainty from our own locality and our own upbringing.

In 1973, I was tossed on the hopeless seas of cosmic limitlessness. I helplessly looked upon the Cold War in which some of the brightest young humans sat in missile silos ready to press the buttons of nuclear Armageddon; upon a Presbyterian upbringing at odds with the certainty of my own homosexuality; and upon the plainly unnecessary injustice of global poverty. So I set off one Saturday afternoon to drive from Launceston to the shelter of the ferny enclosure above Liffey Falls, at the top of the ‘remote upper Liffey Valley’ (as a contemporary Launceston Examiner story about a drug bust described it). While up there, I saw an old-fashioned white cottage tucked in under the towering dolerite cliffs of Dry’s Bluff. There, in the irresolution of my anxious existence, sat the hope of certainty.

A year earlier, having crossed by ferry from the mainland to Tasmania for a three-month job in a Launceston medical practice, I had sent a postcard to my parents back in New South Wales: ‘I am home.’ They seemed to absorb this news with relief rather than perplexity. Now, as I drove back from the falls, old Frank Page was putting his cows over the gravel road. I stopped, wound down the window, and asked if there were any properties for sale in the area. Frank had the weather-beaten face of country kindness. ‘Well, no,’ he said, adding, ‘though the white house up the road was for sale. I think it was sold this week.’ I had that feeling you get when the person you have suddenly fallen in love with turns and stares you gently in the eye and says, ‘I’m seeing someone else.’

Repressing waves of disappointment, I turned the car around and drove back up the valley. I walked across the rustic bridge over the swirling Liffey River and up the long-grass paddock to the white cottage. The owners, John and Stephanie Dean, again showing the essence of country kindness, confirmed the sale but added, ‘the buyer’s wife from Hobart is coming up to see the house on Tuesday.’ Late on Tuesday John phoned me with the news that the buyer’s wife had taken one look and said, ‘I’m not going to live in a dump like that.’ So, for four decades, my locality, my geographical certainty and my hedge against the impossibility of the universe, has been this little white cottage at Liffey.

Someone else’s dump was my delight. The cottage, along with 10 hectares of vibrant forest and meadow and a kilometre of riverbank, cost me $8000. The barred bandicoots, rare sweet-faced bettongs, ruby-eyed white goshawks and boobook owls were included, gratis. I called it Oura Oura (pronounced Oo-ra Oo-ra), after the Aboriginal girl who, it is said, took a red feather from a young French sailor on Tasmania’s southern shore two centuries ago. Oura Oura is Aboriginal for black cockatoo.

Liffey suddenly gave me an anchor in the drift. With a friend from my Sydney University medical school days, Fran Newman, I spent the 13th and 14th of December, 1973, at Oura Oura in a mood of infusing euphoria. None of the world’s worries went away, but here was a warm cocoon, an envelope of intense contentment. At Liffey, the windows on the wider world became opaque.

In the following month, I climbed Dry’s Bluff. In the highest rock gully with its waterfall and remnant alpine rainforest, I came across the ropes used by the Deans to ascend the cliffs to the top. I was enraptured. From Bass Strait in the north to the southern ranges near Hobart, a vista of Tasmania’s wild heartland lay beneath. A wedge-tailed eagle flew across the treetops below me and the sun cast my shadow from this cliff-top lookout to the 200 metre-high cliff due west. I raised my camera to snap the scene, lost my balance and nearly fell: saved by drop-squatting and crab-crawling backwards over the rock plateau. On getting back down to Oura Oura, I sat a while on the old wooden bridge and, out of nowhere, a platypus surfaced beneath my feet. This little valley produced an endless flow of natural surprises, diluting my dismay at what British philosopher Bertrand Russell had called his deepest impression on life: the needless cruelty of human affairs.

As I settled into sleep that evening, my body ‘jumped’ – I was back on the cliff-edge and about to fall. But I woke with a smile, infused again with that contentment. A couple of winters later the same waking smile led me to write a poem called ‘Winter’s Night at Liffey’.

When sleep shuts off
the winter gale
with its freezing rain
and hail that clatters
on the iron
then silence wakes me
to a still
a softest quiet
I smile to myself
knowing through the night
it’s snowing.

Bob on the front porch at Liffey, 1979. Photo courtesy of Bob Brown

Now, like a painter’s first layer, I need to go back and fill in the above sketch of settling in at Liffey. But, as that might take weeks, I’ll give you the abridged version. A lot happened. There were practical problems: the occasional local shooters hell-bent on culling my possums and wallabies; the pipe which burst one frosty weekend in my absence, flooding the house and pitting the ceiling; the snake which took up residence in the rock wall at my back door, and the thieves who swept through while I was off bushwalking. Once, a couple of escaped prisoners took up residence in the back shed and, when hunted by the police, left a sawn-off shotgun under the bed. And, of course, there was much happiness. I took up daytime residence on the front verandah to write philosophy, even when winter afternoon temperatures lingered down in single-digit figures. I cooked on the open fire, saving the cooled vegetable juices for the next day’s lunch. On Fridays, I cycled the 50 kilometres to Launceston, keeping watch over the doctors’ patients until Monday morning and then, backpack full of groceries, rode back home for a week in Liffey’s enfolding comfort.

But this comfort proved too thin to keep out the real world. The penalty clause for ordinary intelligence is reflection and conscience. My denial mechanisms failed. So I patted the verandah post twice and left home, accepting that Liffey would be a refuge. The rest of my life would be out there where they are smashing down forests, building more A-bombs, exchanging human rights for oil and thieving resources from people who have never needed to read or write. I went to Hobart to help the Tasmanian Wilderness Society’s campaign against the damming of the wild and wondrous Franklin River.

Curiously, in this Australia where Christianity claims moral authority, it became clear that the human propensity for denial was never so great as in the accumulation of riches, despite the Biblical warning that a rich man has no better chance of getting to paradise than a camel does of climbing through the eye of a needle. I know some exceptionally humane and wonderful millionaires. But read a Business Review Weekly and you’ll see what I mean. Don’t expect to find there a dissertation on equality, frugality, compassion or even plain common sense. The denial of the unsustainability of the human herd’s current gluttony is a perversity of nature which comes out of our need to deny mortality. The zest for life does not flower if one’s mind lives open to the ineluctable reality of personal extinguishment. Of course, the enjoyment of riches is inversely proportional to our ability to deny the humility and suffering of poverty. And that ability is built-in. We all have it. But it collides with our own intellect. This sets tensions in train – as the mind-blocks evaporate so does our comfort. It’s not easy being Green.

The Liffey Valley is sensationally beautiful. I’ve walked the riverside and mountainside hundreds of times. I’ve felt the crunch of a midnight frost underfoot on the moonlit meadows, slept in the woods, strolled over frozen tarns on the bluff, watched snow falling across springtime daffodils, and seen platypuses foraging together in the pool beneath the bridge. Nature, which cradled Homo sapiens, also created an inseparable bond between us and it. We love nature. I love Liffey.

Liffey has been my respite and though I’ve been away most of these last thirty years, it has been with me everywhere. For years I carried a cameo reproduction of Val Whatley’s painting of Oura Oura in my wallet. One night as I walked with friends to the theatre in Hobart, I had an inexplicable urge to go home; I left them there and drove through the night to Liffey where a storm had torn sheets of iron off the roof. I spent the rest of the night hammering them back into the old rafters.

The walnut tree near the house has shaded Greens fundraising picnics, Wilderness Society forest blockade meetings, Judy Henderson’s help in Bush Heritage Australia’s birth as a national land-purchase organisation for saving ecologically valuable places, a marriage or two, my partner Paul Thomas and my commitment ceremony, children whooping on my father’s cartwheel swing and possums fighting over the autumn walnut crop (those left over after Paul’s Christmas raid for pickling). The events were all lit by Liffey’s beauty: its sheer loveliness, its turbulent weather and its incremental changes.

Oura Oura turned my wastrel soul into an organised force joining the many other enlivened people striving to make our common human tenure on Earth longer, safer, fairer and happier.

And now Oura Oura is in the safe hands of Bush Heritage itself. Dean’s Track up the Bluff is open to all comers as are those meadows by the Liffey River. I hope they give others – as many as may be for as long as may be – a little of the joy they have so freely given me.

Bob Brown and Paul Thomas at Liffey, 2011. Photo by Angela Wylie, Fairfax

 

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Bob Brown was the inaugural Parliamentary Leader of the Australian Greens and the first openly gay member of the Parliament of Australia. Brown practised medicine into the late 70s. He was on duty at St Mary Abbott’s in London when Jimi Hendrix was brought in to the emergency ward, already dead. In 1990 he founded Bush Heritage Australia, a non-profit organisation dedicated to purchasing and preserving Australian bushland. On 20 March, 2011, Brown gifted to the organisation a fourteen-hectare property in Liffey, Tasmania, that he had owned for thirty-eight years. Brown lives in Hobart with his long-time partner, Paul Thomas.

Shameless plug: you can buy this issue of Ampersand here.

Spotted! Issue 5 round and about


Alfie’s Store, Balmain


Blackbird Corner, Newcastle


Brunswick Street Bookstore, Fitzroy


Readings at the State Library of Victoria


Oscar & Friends, Surry Hills

First review – 4.5 stars (Artshub)

Read it here.

Us and Lillian O’Neil at MOP Gallery, Sydney

MOP Gallery
(Lil’s works are for sale!)

An open letter to the CEO of Australia Post

This blog was posted as an email to Australia Post CEO, Ahmad Fahour, through the somewhat oblique email address nccccustomerupdates@auspost.com.au  at 4.30pm on 29th February.

If you are a publisher that has experienced similar problems, we would be keen to hear from you. alice@ampersandmagazine.com.au.

Nationalistic propaganda from the Australia Post website.

An open letter to Ahmed Fahour, Chief Executive Officer of Australia Post

On the 16th of February, our mailing house (which we have decided not to name as it could compromise their relationship with your company) lodged 1500 copies of our new issue to Australia Post. That mail out comprised comp copies for our sponsors, subscribers’ copies, and our national trade distribution (galleries, bookshops and other small outlets – excluding newsagents). Twelve days later, we began to receive reports that they had started trickling in to letterboxes. Fourteen days later, and some have still not yet been received.

This is not the first time we have had problems with Australia Post. Our previous issue experienced around 100 lost parcels, most of which were subscriber copies. As it took a while to twig that it was a substantial problem and not simply a few strays, and we then had no way of knowing who had received them and who hadn’t, the result was an expensive administrative nightmare that left a bitter taste in the mouths of the people that support us.

As for the current issue’s delays, we have had complaints from retailers and subscribers alike on our Facebook page and on email. Our marketing schedule has been thrown out of whack and we have lost media coverage. We are embarrassed that anyone who had seen the press that did make it out and went looking for the magazine couldn’t find it. We’ve also lost favour with advertisers who expect timely delivery. As newsagents managed to deliver their stock on time, subscribers have seen the issue in their local paper store and are understandably upset that their subscription does not proffer remit before the rest of the world.

So effectively, some subscribers have not received anything. One Facebook complaint read: “I paid last year for a subscription and received issue 3 in the mail. Nothing else since then.” You have not done the job I paid you to do with issues 4 and 5, and I look like a jerk.

I’m confused about all of this, Mr Fahour, because when I send a letter or parcel myself, it generally arrives the next day. And your website states, “We aim to deliver your parcel within 1-5 working days of you lodging it.” So why is it that when a small business like mine has to go through a mailing house due to the volume of parcels, that they arrive so very late, to untenable results that damage corporate and individual relationships as well as our reputation? You state on your site: “Our mission is consistent, on-time delivery”, and you proudly assert your “long history of generously supporting communities.” You’ve failed there, and you’ve failed there too.

Why have we continued to utilise your corporation’s services? Because there is simply no other option. Our mailing house laments that they must use you. “To employ a courier would be ridiculously expensive, and to use Aus Post’s tracking service would be ridiculously expensive,” they tell me. And you have a monopoly, so there is no-one else.

I am not the first publisher to complain – in fact looking back to last December there was an article on the Publishers Australia website addressing the same concerns. Back then, Australia Post was contacted by the association.

“Australia Post spokesperson Melanie Ward acknowledged they had experienced some delays processing magazine lodgements due to technical issues at one of their mail processing facilities. Nevertheless she added: ‘We are confident we have now corrected these issues and do not expect any further delays with magazine lodgements. Australia Post has taken additional steps to ensure this does not occur again and we will continue to closely monitor all lodgements.’”

So why is this still happening?

Distribution is without a doubt the bane of a small publisher’s life. It is one of the hardest and most costly things to do, and involves manifold minutiae and the patience of a Buddhist monk. I have built my distribution base from the ground up, and these hard-won relationships with retailers and subscribers are paramount to Ampersand’s existence.

As you have not provided the services that I paid you for, I would like to be recompensed for the lost copies, the price of re-posting, loss of goodwill and potential profit. And I would like your reply to explain the ongoing delays, and how you plan to support small Australian businesses and publishers in particular, to whom your services are their lifeline.

Sincerely yours,
Alice Gage
Editor, Ampersand Magazine

Infuriating wait on distribution

We are super sorry but for some mysterious reason the delivery of Issue 5 has been delayed. They were sent out last week, but just haven’t shown up. Hopefully they will tomorrow.

In the meantime, our apologies, particularly to subscribers whose copies are in the same mail out.

An absolutely infuriating turn of events.

Eleventh Hour – the movie

Out Feb 13th. Pre-order here.

Issue 5 in stores 13th Feb – that’s next Monday by my calculations

Christallmighty!

Issue 5 is an absolute beauty – we are immensely proud of it.

Pre-order here and have delivered to your porch or perhaps your common mailbox area for you inner-city apartment dwellers – either way the lazy and intelligent option for any contemporary thinker.


Featuring Dan Kelly, John Birmingham, Sebastian Meyer, Thomas Henning, Eric Hanson, soda_jerk, Toby Schmitz, Michael Bracewell, Ralph Myers, Jenny Kee, Lillian O’Neil, Amelia Stein, Prudence Murphy, James Harney, Bonny Cassidy, Ben Ezra, Jess Cook, Rosita Holmes, Camilla Tadich, Øivin Horvei, Joseph Bowman, Deborah May Birch, Camilla Palmer, Mark Sutton and Hugh Nichols.

Oh lord – the draft covers of issue 1 (2008)

The covers that look professional were designed by Eirian Chapman.

The artwork is Civilians United by Tom Civil.

Ah the good old days.