Canberrans, if you've found recent wild gales and electric storms strangely titillating, and if you are keeping those ecstasies to yourself (lest people think you're a weirdo) then I am here to let you out of your closet.

One recent electric storm in particular seemed to do me a power of exhilarating good (rescuing me from a depression brought on by bogans defiling Uluru).

To fully enjoy the midnight storm I posed on my upstairs balcony (subconsciously imitating sweet Juliet in Shakespeare's play) and rejoiced at the sounds of the musicks of the storm.

Thunder guffawed. Rain gurgled melodically down into my thirsty rainwater tanks. I was overcome with a strange bliss.

But as it happened I was in a position to explain my otherwise inexplicable bliss because a few days before I had read Sarah Scoles' The Strange Blissfulness of Storms in the online Nautilus magazine of science and ideas.

Scoles, marvelling at why her experience of a hurricane had given her such an uplifting buzz (it made her "awakened, alive, engaged") went looking for any explanations for such a wonderbuzz.

She found that there is a busy field of research, biometeorology, which investigates and attempts to explain the impacts of atmospheric processes on organisms and ecosystems.

"Biometeorologists study," Scoles chirrups, "among other topics ... how charged particles in the air, called ions, might alter our psyches as they wing in on the wind."

Scoles bustles among the research, at great (but highly readable) length, and I commend her piece to thinking readers.

"Breaking ocean waves and falling water - dropping from the sky or flowing over a rock ledge - release a rash of negatives into the air. So do bolts of lightning," she enthuses.

In this tiny space of my petite column I can't do the science she explains proper justice, but just wanted to share with readers the exciting likelihood that when we experience a strange blissfulness during dramatic weather there is probably something more to our bliss than just delusionary biorhythms and imagined magic.

Still on strange bliss, for sensitive Australians a strange bliss fell upon us when recently, at last, Uluru was closed to irreverent bogans.

As the last clambering bogan was ushered off Uluru, a local Aboriginal custodian rejoiced to ABC radio that now at last Uluru would get "a rest".

His touching and insightful sense that so-called "inanimate" places and things can become exhausted and weary was beautifully put and was as apt as apt can be.

My mind leapt to other places and objects that are deserving of rests.

As it happens, the sweet concept is already up and happening in the world of the curation of works of art. Most of the great art museums of the world only ever display a fraction of their holdings, allowing zillions of works to zzzzz (perchance to dream) and to safely graze in cool, dimly lit, storage dormitories.

Similarly the Lascaux Caves in France, decorated with prehistoric wall paintings, are "resting" now, the great unwashed public having been locked out of them since 1963.

The happy caves, and the thousands of animals of the caves' 600 paintings, have had restored to them the serene privacy they had enjoyed for approximately 17,000 years until 1940. In that year a teenage boy was out walking his dog, Robot, and Robot fell with a yelp of alarm into a deep hole. Rescuing Robot led the teenager and his chums into the caves.

Between 1948 and 1963, tourists' bad breath (creating a kind of fungus) and bad manners disturbed the peace of the caves. I like to think that there is a kind of supernatural camaraderie between Uluru and the Lascaux Caves, both of them sacred places of inexpressible cultural importance now delivered from the evil of tourism.

And the obnoxiously rich Clive Palmer, famously keen to build replicas of giant things, including and especially a replica of the Titanic, will prick up his ears as I report that the prime tourist magnet of an exact replica of the Lascaux Caves, Lascaux II, has been open in France since the 1980s.

Why not, Mr Palmer, now that the first Uluru has been so disappointingly closed, build the nation an exact replica of Uluru, of course from some 21st century building material more manageable than the true Uluru's clunky sandstone?

Your Uluru II, blissfully beyond the jurisdictions of meddling Aboriginals, could be clambered over by as many paying bogans as roll up. If hollow (perhaps it might be inflatable?) it could be illuminated from within and at night would glow tastefully (its colours changing, now a fluorescent lilac, now a throbbing orange, now a vivid Raiders' green, etc.) in the necessarily vast place it illuminates. At night it would be spectacularly visible from outer space.

Where will you erect it? This columnist, for decades pleading for some grand-scale vulgarity to break up the federal capital's oppressive tastefulness, dares to dream that you might plonk Uluru II somewhere in Canberra.

Our present tightly corseted, Labor-Greens-Amish government is unlikely to give you permission to install this wonder. But we have an eagerly anticipated Assembly election next year, at which the Liberals, people who think like you, are expected to be swept to power.

I believe an ACT Liberal government would leap at your Uluru II for the jobs it would create, for the fabulous tourism revenue it would generate and for the way in which it would (to their minds) aesthetically enhance our city's hitherto drab and unexciting appearance. Our eager city waits to hear from you.