Belgrave aka 'End of the line'

Owing to my hectic weekly schedule – nothing special, just work and ferrying the monkeys around – I try and spend my weekends local. Need to find me? Try the the back garden or pushing the pram around the 'hood. But in a break from routine I headed for the hills, the Yarra Ranges to be precise, to attend the End of the Line Music Festival at Belgrave. The event promised 70 bands, a makers market, workshops and art exhibits over one massive day.

Aside from an excursion to Puffing Billy in my youth and a few weekends in Upwey as a teenager riding my skateboard on the ageing basketball court at the local high school, I have not been a regular visitor to these parts. Driving into the town, I felt immediately charmed. It wasn't just the steep, bushy walkways though they were lovely, or the puffs of chimney smoke drifting lazily over the town. The Cameo Cinema sits on the main drag like a stately monolith, a dark cave of visceral excitements and solitary pleasures. Everyone has a touchstone for what constitutes civilisation. For some that's a public library, in my case, it's a cinema.

We didn't have a plan, other than to hear some music and head home when we tired. Sometimes being on foot with the pram is not too different to a mobile shanty town: drinks, snacks, warm clothes, toys. Heading into town with my pre-schooler and pre-teen in tow I was hoping we could make the day work. When they started asking if we could go home in the first half hour I began to have my doubts. But kids are not that different from grown-ups. Faced with a new environment their instincts is to get back to familiar turf. I was having none of it. Guys, I reminded them, we are here to hear music. Let's go find it.

What did we hear first? The pounding of drums. Turning the corner in the the Station we happened upon a dozen local kids channeling Africa. Is anyone doing Aussie bush ballads on that vast continent?

We got a kick out of seeing the garbage bins pasted over with artwork – what a good idea. And toodled along the train track stopping every now and again to watch the graffiti artists shake their cans between drags of cigarettes. At TBC stage, where a few turned over milk crates made for seats, Harmony Byrne sang a sweet set. She had the small crowd enthralled with her strong voice in perfect pitch. I felt moved in equal measure by the vulnerability and courage of her performance and the fortitude it takes to stand alone on a stage.

We pushed on through the excellent maker's market where we found ourselves in tie-dye heaven. In a stall that might have been made by elves, the kids picked up a necklace each: a sparkling unicorn's horn and multi-coloured mushroom. With these talismans around their necks the monkeys seemed re-energised.

At the very end we reached the Green. Here we settled on the lawn on soft cushions under a billowing silk canopy to watch the belly dancers, chow down some bliss balls and have our faces painted. I had the opportunity to do some people watching. It was a colourful parade. There were some good Alt Country outfits, a family of medievalists. But the day belonged to the Rakia Gypsy dancers. With their fingerless gloves, silver jewellery and felt hats, those ladies brought Frida Kahlo flair to the occasion.

On Sunday over brunch at my local cafe – wedged between chino and sports wear brigade – I thought: I have to get out more.

Lawrence Weschler at The Wheeler Centre

So last week I heard the venerable Lawrence Weschler deliver a lecture titled Towards a Taxonomy of Convergences. What do you think when you read this title? 'Interesting' or 'Oh no, a faux intellectual?'  Before I get to the content, let me back track a moment. I often feel like my expectations of an event are in proportion to the effort required to get there. In this case a city rendevous on a weekday at 6.15pm  necessitated a number of phone calls and emails involving both my parents and my husband in an orchestrated combination of drop-offs and pick-ups at two separate locations so that I could get out of the house on time in order to drive and park my car to catch a train in to the city. In the rain.

You are probably thinking, wow, she must be a real fan to make that effort. No. I was not even familiar with his work, not one of his several books on visual culture and museums, or any number of  essays on political upheaval in Poland and the former Yugoslavia. Hadn't read a single one. But occasionally,  I get invited along to things. When that invitation intersects with suburban family life closing in on me I deploy the troops.

Mr Weschler was not aware of my efforts that night. He sat on the stage looking like a well oiled academic, glass of water in one hand and MacBook Pro in the other preparing his 'slides'. I'd picked up a leaflet at the door. It listed the following terms: Apohenia (Projection, Paranoia), Accident, or Coincidence (Chance and the Shuffle of Things, Separated at Birth, Transbstanitated at Death), Affinity, Co-Causation (Fractilization, Simltanaity, Identity, Zeitgeist and Meme) and on and on.

McSweneey's had been publishing Weschler's thoughts on visual culture regularly and this lecture was that material grouped together much like a visual dictionary. There was no doubt that Weschler and the master of ceremonies arts writer Penny Modra, were both delighted. Weschler with himself. Modra with her guest. Between them there was  no one to speak for the sceptics in the room. It's not that it wasn't entertaining. It was amusing. I thought: here is a well-educated entertainer.  I am sure had I been in my twenties (like many in the back rows) I would have been right on side, even secretly impressed with that sassy and neurotic New Yorker and his schtick. At question time someone actually asked "Mr Weschler, what are your thoughts on de-ja-vu?".  It was a question posed in earnest.

On the way back home my thoughts went in two directions: composing a list of family-related tasks and towards John Berger, Weschler's self-described hero. I haven't re-read my Berger books in years. I promised myself I would, and start with To the Wedding, my favourite.