all roads lead to Darwin?
I’ve been reading a few books lately that seem to have tendrils and threads woven effortlessly into their texts. One name that keeps cropping up is Darwin.
I am not, you may have guessed, reading books on the Evolution of the Species. That would not exactly be worthy of note. Reading about Darwinism, you say? And Darwin keeps popping up? You don’t say.
It all started with a science book. Well, not the last one. The one before it. Or was it the one before that?
Let’s start at the start, shall we?
At the start of the year I read Oliver Sacks’ Uncle Tungsten. I’m not sure how this led me to the next science book, but there was a lot of adventure and chemistry. He may even have mentioned Darwin. There were many science heroes delivered here, so you never know.
The next book was The Philosophical Breakfast Club, by Laura J. Snyder. There are many, many tales for me to tell from this book. The main thing to say is: read it. It’s leading me in all sorts of wonderful directions. So many amazing men and women of science. I can’t think where to start, so I shan’t. Just go away. Don’t read the rest of what I have to say. Get that book and read it.
In the ‘Breakfast Club’ there is mention of Charles Babbage’s likely influence on Charles Darwin. Darwin is mentioned a few times in this book and it is difficult not to want to read more of him and his works.
I found myself an online copy of Darwin’s Red Notebook and, while I’m looking forward to reading it, I’m first resting up with a little non-science reading. I can’t wait to read his work though. He’s such an eloquent and insightful writer.
So, now I find myself reading a book about writing. The Little Red Writing Book by Mark Treddinick is not a quick read, but it is a hugely satisfying one. It’s not quick, because it asks things of you. I am finding myself with little exercises on every second page. And I’m loving it.
But what else do I find? Charles Darwin. Not for his scientific prowess is he hiding in this book. No, he’s here for his writing style. For his ability to state the complex simply. To make the most difficult ideas understandable and to say it well.
Well, well. Mister Darwin, it appears you wish me to read you.
Who am I to resist?
gritty
His eyes were sandpaper.
Not like sandpaper. They were paper balls, covered with a fine layer of sand.
His face was wooden.
Not, as you will have guessed, emotionless and still, but wood. Knotholes and all.
He was an analogy and an anachronism.
He feared sleep. He feared fire.
He lived his whole life trying to avoid rubbing anyone the wrong way, but especially himself.
And hay-fever season was hell.
glorious
The woman stopped in mid-stroke suddenly. She looked at the swimming pool, glistening wavelets rocking her slightly. She scratched her plastic-coated head.
She turned to begin another lap and paused again. She was a woman of habit. A swim each day. Her hair in its tight plastic cap. The same red bathers. The same stroke. The same, the same, the same.
She peeled her much loathed bathing cap from her head and flung it to the side of the pool. And she swam.
As she swam, her gloriously long, curly hair straightened out down along her sides. It swayed and enveloped her. It was incredible. It was a rivulet of senses running down her back. It was years since she had done this. It was a thing of silken beauty. It was a sensory overload. It was, it was, it was….
It was glorious.
sensible
There is something about being a responsible person for most your life that makes you crave things that, when you examine them honestly, you don’t even want.
It isn’t the tales of wild times and barely-escaped adventures. It’s the insouciance. The completely carefree, nearly selfish approach to everything. See these people needing help? I don’t know how to write the sentence that describes what goes through a person’s head as they walk by, carefree and unconcerned. This is not my problem. They need help, but it doesn’t need to be me. See this group of people - they need to be away on time. Who can they rely on? Not me, we all know that. Not reliable, so we won’t even ask. See this task? It isn’t creative, but it needs to be done. Who can they ask? Not me, I’m creative and it isn’t my thing.
And it isn’t just the caring, responsible thing. It’s something more than that. I don’t wish to be untrustworthy, unreliable, and, sure as hell not uncaring. And, I know, I know, people who are unreliable are not the same as uncaring. Not in anyway. I’m not to be relied upon for remembering dates. Don’t expect the keys, phone or important document to turn up. I’m as a good a bet as anyone else to forget it. But it’s not because I’m not trying.
I think that might be it. I’d like to be (except that I wouldn’t) the person who doesn’t make the connection of the consequences. A person who tries to be responsible, but isn’t able to connect it to so many damn things. A little smaller dose of the conscientious if you would be so kind.
If you would be so kind…
And with that phrase, we’re back to where I started. I don’t wish for this. I don’t want to be so cool that I don’t care. I never remember being like that and, unless I fundamentally become another person, I recall that I never will. Paint me a picture of Little Ms Sensible and leave it at that.
But, be sure to draw her with boots on.
returning to the scene of the crime
(the origins of boot)
Let me tell you a tale. A tale of long ago.
There was once a young woman, barely 18, as memory has it, who longed to travel. To see the world. She had very little money, so she thought to begin seeing the world from home.
The young woman, of course, was young boot. Supple of skin and trusting of heart.
Young Boot Takes to Her Heels
I can’t be sure, but I think it was close to 25 years ago, I decided I wanted travel somewhere. On my own. Unfortunately, I had very little money and couldn’t drive. So, I looked at maps of the country and picked out interesting looking locations and then found out what buses would take me where. It’s astonishing where the old Greyhounds would go. And back then they were far cheaper than an airflight. One of the places they took me was the Flinders Ranges.
I bought a tent, a backpack and some rudimentary cooking gear. I bought a ticket and that’s about it. No hiking boots. No wetgear. No maps for hikers. Wonderful! The roadtrip for the licenseless.
At one point, hiking around on my own, I stopped, literally breathless (it’s a long way up!) to admire the view. It was then I realised that I had no proof I’d been there. I’d been taking photos all around the ranges, but only of the scenery. So, at Wilpena Pound, hanging precariously over a cliff, I took a photo of my foot. Ever since then, my foot, with or without boot, has been in almost every holiday photo set I’ve taken.
On the same trip, I met a lovely guy from Switzerland. He turned up in the ranges even less well prepared than me. It was pouring with rain and he had a mat to sleep on. And that was all. So, I invited him to share my tent, the poor wet soul. His name was Gunther and we shared tins of food and that’s all. Sometimes trust leads you nowhere but good.
The next day I went walking around these mountainous ranges with Gunther. Here’s a tip for you: first time up a high place, don’t go with a man who has grown up clambering up the Swiss Alps.
I still have a letter from Gunther and a photo of us together. The trip was part of the making of me and I’m still a little surprised at my own audacity at the time. He’ll always be a part of that. … As will the boot
Polishing the Boot
Of course, after this long, this photo was not in a good way, the negative was scratched and had been poorly taped by whoever had procesed them originally. If you’re curious, you can see the untouched, or ‘unplugged’ version.
Returning to The Scene of The Crime
A couple of weeks ago, a few of us declared roadtrip and took off to the Flinders Ranges for a couple of days. Happily, once we’d gotten up somewhere nice and high, my husband remembered that this was where (or thereabouts) I’d taken the first boot photo. So, here we are again. Fancier walking boots. Fancier camera. Same magnificent scenery. Same young woman, at heart.
There aren’t enough words to say how much I enjoyed both of these trips. The two trips span 25 years of growth, but the love of this place has not diminished. Nor has the rugged love for the roadtrip itself.
Been a long time for you? What are you waiting for?
go.