Sedition in the Dark

It is deeply unAustralian to dislike hot weather, be largely disinterested in sport and be underwhelmed by the idea of mowing in middle of the day, but nonetheless, here I am. Your personal representative of that irritating single digit demographic of population that insists on watching SBS, reading books without pictures and not eating meat. Frankly, under Howard the sedition laws were getting very close to netting us pale non-sporties and veggos. I don't think any of those "patriot act" style laws have been revoked, but I'm pretty confident they haven't continued to expand. (Of course, they may have. My deliberate ignorance of news means that I remain unaware of what new evils the blandly congenial face of our Current PM hides).

I used to find the idea of sedition very interesting. As I understand it (ie, vague guessing rather than any looking up of definitions, or actual research. I like to start off with a kind-of gestalt feel and spiral my way towards accuracy. Lends slightly more to poetry if there's any in the offing than just diving in to the dictionary. But I digress.) sedition is kinda like mutiny, but on land. Or the idea of mutiny. Of course learning about Pirates has shown me a few more things about mutiny too. Sometimes 'mutiny' was a fairly straightforward commercial decision where a strongly held difference in acquisitional strategies and philosophies of plunder led to simple (ie bloodless) partings where the pirates' fleet (yes, they often had small convoys and even fleets) would experience a re-distribution of crew and a ship or two would peel away and head to fresh horizons. Seems reasonable. In other times, most notably in the above-board commercial world and the navy, mutiny was the last line of defence against a Captain gone buttfuck crazy - wigging out all over the place and homicidal on an unsustainable trajectory. Of course, Captains get to write the Ship's Log, so later on it could be hard to get the dead to speak in one's defence if the Captain had a lucid moment with quill before the parting of ways.

So anyway, why might this be interesting? It seemed to me that crumbly empires get more concerned with what you might be thinking than what you're actually doing. Critical thought can become a crime. Frank conversation about how things could practically be different can become a crime. Not a misdemeanour, not a concern, not a 'no scones for you naughty thing!' but a crime.

A much greater thinker than I, George Orwell, has of course covered this ground superbly, in his seminal work of paranoia "1984". I recommend it to myself for a re-read and to you dear reader for your own edification (read it here for free).

I'm not up to Orwell. I'm just saying that for some reason a few years back, we started making it explicit that thinking was problematic to the Australian way of life. That was interesting because it seemed so quaintly old-school and utterly, utterly pointless. Then it wasn't interesting at all for a long time, just another example of how shitty life can be, and keeping that list is a really dull hobby. I let it go.

Then last weekend I watched "Death Race" and it set me to thinking (as incredibly brutal, masochistic, post-collapse action films often do) about what we like to think of as "fiction" and therefore entertaining, and who we think are suitable people to fill the roles of villains. Not many people saw Death Race, despite Jason Statham in the lead and Ian "Swearengen" McShane in support so let me break it down for you... and bear with me as the plot does not hang together in the film so this will not sound very cogent*.

An ex-con who happens to also be an ex-car racing guy's wife is brutally murdered and he is framed for it so that he can go to the commercially run jail where they RACE (a la Running Man) in a competition to THE DEATH to win their freedom. BTW the race of fortified and armed cars is telecast live and viewing is by subscription, thereby earning the prison mega-bucks.

Ok. Nothing new there. Literally (it is a remake of a '76 film). I won't distract our conversation by going into the gender stuff (other than to say it is tediously predictable - the wife is a corpse before she gets 2 full lines out, the uber-evil Warden is a post-menopausal corporate witch drone, and then there's 3 or 4 bootylicious and interchangable sets of tits and arses to dress the cars up. Sorry "navigators" from the women's prison.) That was a long set-up for a short pay-off. The fiction here (can you spot it?) that makes all of this allowable - is that "in the future, prisons will be run for (dramatic pause) profit!" (GASP OF SHOCK) Only in that kind of hideously peverted world would something so craven come about.

But of course this fiction is a fiction.

Prisons the world over, and here in Australia, are run by contractors to lesser or greater degrees already. Some in the States are already "purpose built facilities" completely funded by commercial interests. Running a prison is like removing garbage - one of those services that the community expects gets handled, but actually as long as the name and the signage is ok, really don't care who exactly is taking care of that business, and it's a growth industry. It's the Indian call-centre approach to staffing and funding. A hollow-core world, and, most importantly to this discussion, it is old hat. Maybe in 76 it seemed a wild idea, great for some future world (Mad Max-esque - if you will. Actually Mad Max came out in 79 - but you get my drift.) and certainly when Ghosts ... of the Civil Dead came out in 88 it was a chilling commentary on a system running loose and note - even the title tied it in to the concepts that prisoners were people, with rights (BTW Nick Cave co-wrote this, and had an acting role in it. Keyword: BLEAK. It is not a popcorn and beer type film - unlike Death Race which is clearly made to be consumed as Entertainment "Ghosts..." feels like a nightmare documentary ). But I digress.

To bring this back to sedition, it seems we have eaten our own tail. If sedition is a crime of thought in which criticism of the ruling system is entertained, what is it called when telling the truth about the ruling system is seen as distasteful or undesirable enough that we maintain a consensus reality that these unpalatable truths remain fictions?

How close are we to a situation where, on the books at least, speaking aloud a truth becomes a crime?

Close enough, I'd say, that someone will be able to furnish an example in Australia of where this is already the case. Or proposed to be the case. Probably in that that bundle of ridiculous on-line measures. Anyway. There it is. I don't really know what to do with that line of thought. It begs for action of some kind. But what?

In a hollow-core world where do you toss the molotov?

* WARNING - PLOT SPOILER. You and I know that it is unlikly that you're going to:
a. Watch this film, eva.
b. Not see this twist coming, and
c. Have the pleasure of watching massively overclocked cars race around almost endlessly brutally killing 'people' ruined by this brief synopsis. Basically this is a film that delivers on the core promise of the title. "Death Race" That's what they were selling and that's what they made. No nancy-pantsing around.

Ramble from Singlets to Kashmir

Another "you know you're a Queenslander when" moment over the long weekend - I packed for 2 days/nights away and arrived to discover the following:

* Shirts = 3 x Bonds singlets (albeit different colours)
* Shorts = cut off trackies
* Shoes = thongs only
and although it was rainy when I packed ....
* Sunscreen, hat and sunglasses - but no umbrella.

Hi-Larious.

So here we are in April (bloody-near over actually) and there's nothing to explain the thundering lack of output/blogging/writing/inspired living from me.

I've been thinking a lot, but that doesn't really translate well to paper when I put it like that. The stuff I've been thinking about has lead to the odd catchy little brain-burp, but I'm quite keen at putting something a little more substantive than a burp together. Of course, that leads to the cycle of producing nothing at all. *sigh* But I will prevail! Even if I do so in a singlet top and cut-off tracky daks. You love me for my wit and vim (thankfully. If you love me at all of course) and not for my sartorial tastes which were never strong have waned and died a wilted death here in sub-tropical land.

Today I wrote a post card to Aunt in NZ and talked to a man who is passionate about building a bakery in an African village. I have been curious about this "let's help the Africans" approach to helping people and I feel a bit uncomfortable that we prefer to help those who are far away, and possibly a lot easier to patronise. So I asked Renee, who is both a church person and an African helper, and she said that her church goes to Africa to build orphanages and wells and so on because people to help are easier to find and accept the help. Huh. I hadn't thought of that part. Apparently the food baskets for poor folk were rejected by local persons of need simply because they came from a Church group (she's some kind of Uniting Church type denomination- not a weirdo/full-on-cult. Although I know that for some readers *any* Christian is cult-y enough). So folks, if you're wondering which charity to support here in Australia - go with the Smith Family - we're much more of a secular country than the media and pollies like to admit.

I don't know how I got onto a religious thing... oh yeah, Easter and crucifixion (My 13 year old Niece said "What's crucifixion?" wish I'd been able to get to that age without knowing that!) so Compass had the British theologian Robert Beckford on (in the last of the 2 part doco called "The Hidden Story of Jesus") following many things including the trail of the (heretical!) Gospels of Thomas and the just-so-crazy-it-might-work story (that pisses everybody off) that the big J didn't die on the cross but scarpered to Kashmir where he preached on, married and had a family and eventually was buried. Hi-Larious! I love that. Particularly the tiny little old guy with a bazillion pieces of paper and clues that point to it being true, but neither church wants it to be true, so very inconvenient!
Turns out I really like British theologian Robert Beckford. (Not to be confused with Michael Beckwith. Who, you-know, is also ok, but slightly too Hollywood for my tastes) He's not afraid to keep it all mixed up. More chaos, that's what we need, more chaos in good ways, and the thing with chaos is that it is very likely that you can't tell what's good and what's not for a long time after.

Except for Alan Moore, he's good right now.

A short tour of Hell via Thai Hospitality

Yesterday KA and I went to a Thai Spa in a far corner of the Ipswich Kingdom and had a massage.
I love the way they have planted a forest in the foyer and made the ceiling out of giant louvers so that when it rains, they roof can open to let it in. Fabulous! Of course, I don't really like to think of what this means in terms of the whole ecosystem of insects and all the things that eat insects so it is not something you might really want to incorporate anywhere you actually sleep, but in a ritzy spa, it is pretty cool.
Anyway, our session started with a steam room treatment, and neither of us has experienced that before. I don't know why the hell I agreed to it, given how much I detest being hot and sweaty, but somehow I was a bit intimidated by the tiny women who effortlessly shepherded us into the room. We were left alone to get out of our very un-ritzy clothes and into a kimono style robe and soak our feet in bowls of warm water with slices of lime floating in them. We were soaking in the warm water and agreeing "Gee this is pretty nice", and I could see a little towl next to the bowl and I just thought we would towl oursleves off in a minute, but then a stranger kneeled in front of me and in a flash a vice-like grip has speared right into the vulnerable flesh of my stress-knotted and ticklish-tender feet, which startled the crap out of me and I yelped.
"Just breathe", she said, smiling, and squeezed again. I don't think she meant to be evil, but I quailed. It felt more personal than I was ready for. They washed our feet! I did live through it, but I was culturally, politically and physically uncomfortable with the process.

The opening gambit out of the way, we were herded into the steam room. It looked innocuous enough - like the steam that hangs around after a really hot shower (but with a wooden bench seat added to the cubicle). Knowing it would only be for about 10 or 15 minutes we both acted brave. This lasted through a few jokes, one or two snippits of gossip and basically until the thermostat realised the temp was a long way from the requiste 45degrees and ramped things up.
I now have a fair indication of what the waiting room for hell might be like.

The rationale is that the heat relaxes one's muscles and makes the overall effect of the massage greater. The outcome was that both of us began gasping for breath and flailing around a little in shock. Once again there was a large gap between knowing it would be "wetter" than a sauna and the horrific shock of the experience and my over-active imagination seeing my dead body on the searing hot tiles drained of all fluid through my skin.
"I have to get out for a second!" I shouted over the silent whirlwind of steam.
"Don't yell, you'll use up all the air!" said Kerryn pretty calmly really.
So I staggered to the door and started trying to slide it open. IT. WOULD. NOT. BUDGE.
The more I try and slide it the weaker I feel and everything's wet and the sweat is stinging my eyes and my lips have gone a bit rubbery and I'M REALLY BEGINNING TO FREAK OUT and i'm calling to Kerryn to help me (we're in a 2m square cubicle) and finally I realise that she's been yelling and laughing over me
"JUST PUSH! Push! Push the door!"
oh.
I push and escape. We'd been in there 4 minutes.

Kerryn is laughing heartily (ie she can barely breathe) by now and after i splash a little cool water onto my face and have a bit of a sip I was able to admit that maybe I'd over-reacted a little and possibly I was a bit stressed and could do with sitting still for another 10 minutes. If anyone outside heard me screaming, no one came to check on us. Probably they just noted it on my file "utter coward".

We went on to be pummelled and cracked and massaged down to squidgy pulps over the course of an hour. KA didn't realise that the masseuses would climb up onto the table and straddle our (considerable) girths in order to pierce through our shoulder blades with their thumbs, but she took it in her stride and merely congratulated them later to me for the flexibility of their hips.

It was, all in all, a marvellous adventure. The beautiful decore was calming and luxurious> our hosts had gorgeous smiles and talons of steel and at the end of it, my smile had returned. I *love* flex days.

Weather

Anyway, how shit has this summer been?
February is that month where summer really puts the boot to the throat and demands complete surrender. It tied me up and gagged me until I begged to die this year. I thought it might end badly, but Summer has become bored and is finally moving on towards the equator, leaving me to drag myself into March. Come on March! Meet me half way.

Pondering this rancid weather

Sometimes rain is not so much a distinct meteorological event, as simply sweat congealing from the sky.

Disgusting.

An aside about the weather

You know it is really hot when you overhear this from a gecko,
"I don't mind the heat, but this humidity is just impossible..."

A year in Review. Ish.

It's the last day of the year. OMG so many things that just didn't get done, and the house is a sty and the family are descending in T minus 85 minutes and it is 40 degrees. I've sloshed out of the tub of cold water I was quelling the heat induced nausea in, and reeled around the house wondering if I should put my mobile in the fridge (do you think when it is so hot that all the interior surfaces of the house are at greater than blood heat it's a good idea to put important pieces of tech into a cool place?).

But I digress.
So what exactly did get done in 2008? Well, there was 52 weekly paycheques collected. Pass Go! Thank you very much Sheltered Workshop. 59 books read (Percentage trash approx 80%) which is not great, but not really despicable either. 14 hours spent doing yoga - that's pathetic. Really pathetic. Weight lost - unknown. Gave up tracking that in August. There's a lesson in that, if only I could understand it. 10 films seen at the cinema (it feels like less, but at least I made it into double digits - enough to stay moderately in touch with popular culture). All bills paid, all contracts fulfilled, all obligations met.

87 blog posts, 18 ooo words for Nano and enough emails to paper the moon.

Best experience was seeing Neil Gaiman in May (thanks everyone who made that special treat happen) at Kinokuniya and Kev saying Sorry.

Look it's not much of a review, I know that. I'm grateful for all the good things that happened and that my house is flood-proof and the widow-maker has only crippled the clothesline. Not bad for a year of natural catastrophes. Everyone in the family still has their limbs and air travel is still possible. Frankly I'm stoked.

May 2009 bring everybody more nice moments (I'd like more hugs this year) and less crappy shit. Yes, that is a tautology, sorry.
May your sovereign state stay solvent.

You Might be a Qlder If....

Next Sunday will mark the two year date for my move to Queensland. Two Years. 731 days. It feels like a lot longer than that.

I remember thinking through the plan in lots of years, One year for this and this, two years for this, and maybe five in total, max and thinking, "yeah, that's do-able. How hard can it be?! A few years of inconvenience is not such a big price to pay."

That was the voice of inexperience. That was the voice of someone who has played strategic games often enough to grasp the need for room/time to maneuver, but who has had all experiences of social and cultural deprivation fade into softness from the passage of time. Going without by choice in Sydney for a month is very different to going without for two years because even if you try and hunt it down there's nothing to be had locally.

This has not been my only learning. I have had a while now to observe the locals from my camouflaged blind and based on actual events and overheard conversations, I can now present to you the top 10 possibilitites that you're a Queenslander...

You Might be a Queenslander If:

10. You can have a normal shower in under 3 minutes with or without a timer. You would use the full 3 minutes if you needed to wash your hair.
9. You don't own a winter coat and wonder why people do (surely a pullover is enough?).
8. You think Brisbane is all grown-up now.
7. You have 'good' thongs for going out in (for when you really think you should probably wear shoes).
6. You've considered wearing formal beachwear to your court hearing.
5. You went to Sydney once (for a weekend) but didn't like it.
4. You think it is perfectly natural to operate your whippersnipper/mower/chainsaw/anglegrinder whilst wearing thongs or even just bare feet.
3. You exclusively drink Fourex beer, and consider all southern beers (such as, say VB) to be "gay."
=2. During a 42 degree day you've thought it would be a good idea to get some mowing done (and been surprised that you died of heat stroke/coronary attack).
=2. After a wild storm you've thought it would be a good idea to help the SES by 'tidying up' those fallen power lines.
1. You decorate with maroon.

Oh yes. My time here has been well spent.

Back to work work.

Welcome to the first day of summer.
December already. Why is it that February always drags but November goes so quickly?!
Nanowrimo has finished for another year. I didn't win. Which is to say my story didn't make it to my goal of 25 000 words and has no ending. Jeeze, it didn't even get to the middle. I got pretty demoralised by my immanent failure mid last week and cracked open a bottle of vodka. and just gave up. I don't like that about me, but there it is. I really feel like I owe it to Edwina to keep going, but some of the magic has dissipated. Actually, I want to finish it. That's the real point of Nanowrimo, to complete something outrageous.

Things I've learnt from doing Nanowrimo in 08:
* Write more. Write everyday. Write and write and write until the right elbow gives out and then go for it with the left.
* Have fun and go nuts with anything and everything in the story. I saw from a new perspective how buttoned down I am about things and that's making my writing boring. Next year I vow to play dirty and have characters singing endless songs or reading aloud from Tolkien, anything to get to 50k. I said I was going to do this in 08, and something in me baulked. Why?! So 09 it is!Really, on my heart, hope to die.
* Remember the rules are just word count and a beginning middle and end. That is all.
* Do not agree to do anything for anyone if it's in November. There's eleven other freaking months of the year to fill up, this is my month, sod off. I talk big, but I failed to say no to a single request this year - and then paid for it - with a slow word count and constant guilty/resentful feelings. Completely my own fault.
* Taking a month off from tv, reading and newspapers is awesome. I dabbled here and there, and noticed the difference when I did. This is not something suggested by Nano, it was an urge, I recommend it to you.
* Go to the write-ins. No one in my immediate family or surroundings gives flying pig about this stuff, so contact with others will really help with the stages of madness (and the boards and pep talk emails do kinda help, but it's better to be with people. I went to some write-ins in 06 and it was great. Even tho they were way-nerdy guys running them ... even I found them nerdy. That's out of hand).

I think that's the lot for now. I feel a bit sad and grumpy today, and there's work needs doing, and it's bloody hot again, and there's no food in the fridge, well, no food that isn't off anyway and the real world is impinging on my dreams.
I hate it when it does that.

Meet Edwina

As usual the decision to write today made me strangely motivated and productive in doing all sorts of household chores that I would normally be happy to allow to go begging for months on end. However I have managed so far to have two sessions (utilising the best writing tool ever - the egg timer) of half hour and one hour and produced about a 1000 words. It's a humble start, but a start nonetheless. I say "about" because I've started longhand and so the word count is manual. I am going to find someone to type it up for me... perhaps I can pay piece wages to my niece who always needs cash now to support her SMS habit. Addicts are so easy to exploit!

The weather is not co-operating either. It was 35degrees today. Days like this I think what a good idea it would be to put a big shade sail above my entire house. I've checked that Sis will be home tomorrow, I'm not risking another day like that without being near a pool! That's the good thing about taking the project longhand, I could write anywhere. Note the use of 'could'. We shall see. I am looking forward to getting to know my character more. I think she may turn out to be a bit of a spunk. Can we still say that and be understood? Edwina, Lady Kenthurst is pretty spunky in a librarian-meets-Lara-Croft-mid 1800s kind of way, but right now she's stuck on a train with two horrible bores and I need to get her to safety.
Pip pip!