As the world seems to spiral into disarray it resembles, more and more, a jungle of selfishness and terror. There seems to be no still point in the turning world, no centre capable of holding. We fall back on earliest memories as we try to find meaning in family, childhood and our original sense of belonging.
That's what this site is about - a mix of personal and professional ideas, a record of some things that seem to have worked, and some images of a world that can exist. The influences are diverse and include William Blake, Harold Cazneaux and Ursula K. LeGuin, as well as intellectual movements ranging from radical constructivism to the new ideas on emergent networks.
Tigerulze is maintained by JD as a personal project: read more here
As a kid, my horizon was marked by two factories and a church. The massive Pelaco shirt factory, the Skipping Girl vinegar sign, flashing all night, and St Ignatius spire, high on the hill.
This was working class Richmond just after the Second World War, inner suburban Melbourne before Australia knew television or even rock'n roll. Bluestone lanes. Narrow houses. Breweries and Irish catholics.
The local football team, the Tigers, had won the '43 Premiership and were runners-up in '42 and '44. They had players with names like Dyer, Ryan and O'Rourke. A bit later they had Guinane, Hafey and Sheedy. Dad told me he barracked for the Tiges but he never went to the footy. We weren't Irish and were only nominally catholic - I can't remember dad going to church either. What's more the family owned a cake shop!
But we were Tigers born and bred. Richmond was once known as "Struggletown" and looked across the river to Toorak where captains of industry lived on leafy estates. Their factories were - as some still are - on the northern bank.
Richmond stands for that dirty, gritty fight of the underdog. Occasional glorious victories against the highly fancied, but mainly a never-ending struggle against the odds. Sometimes beaten but never defeated.
And now I visit my mother in her green suburban home where we once lived together as young people, where the dogs barked and the girls giggled on the front porch, and I remember how this land was paddocks and blossoms with a creek running down the foot of the hill. Now there's mini McMansions on every second block and not a kid in sight. So things change, over time and across the landscape, but human intent remains constant.