... the fifth of November.
Gunpowder, Treason and Plot.
I see no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
November 5th, 1605. What happened? "Treason" writes the victors and Guy Fawkes was sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered for it. Imagine what that means for a second - and it was to be done in public (of the conspiritors sent to death that day, Fawkes was weakened by the torture he had been subjected to and using the last of his strength jumped in the noose and broke his neck thereby avoiding being drawn and quartered).
What would drive someone to such an act of (what would be named today as) terrorism?
He was Catholic and King James and most of the aristocracy were Protestant. Catholics were actively persecuted by the ruling Protestants at this time in English history. It was illegal to gather for mass. Ironically (to me) mass was of course in Latin, so many people were risking death or less serious punishments (such as lengthy imprisonment in unsanitary cells) to hear something that they did not understand. Such is the power of belief in ultimate truth!
Why that means parliament should have been blown up I've never been entirely clear, but I think it was a pragmatic rather than philosophical or symbolic decision - it was simply the place that the King and all the lords would be gathered when Parliament would open on the 6th. In the 17th century the European world was savagely fought over by competing christian churches in a way that to my modern eyes seems barbaric, wasteful and largely pointless. After all, they both have the same imaginary friend - right? But real wealth was at stake as the new worlds were discovered and then exploited. The power, drive and expertise to exploit those new sources of wealth came from the churches.
Our governmental system and laws are largely separated from the influence of any church now but at that time the idea of religious tolerance must have been as laughable and dangerous as the idea of hulling a ship with paper.
Guy Fawkes night was commemorated by government fiat to remind the underclasses that the King had survived, that the plot had been foiled and the conspirators given their just ends at the noose and sword. But. But. Had they consulted a magician, wise woman, or even just a low-level marketing hack, they would have been advised to change the name of the event. There's a simple but strong power in naming things.
Somewhere in that long line of burning nights from 1606, Guy Fawkes shifted from being a treasonous scoundrel to something of heroic figure. Indeed he must be magnificent or else why should he not be forgot?!
By the time I came across his story (in the late 80s or early 90s - I was slow to join the broader consciousness) the motivations were presented as political and very modern, he came with his own tagline: "The last man to enter Parliament with honourable intentions" and had been recast in the language of a freedom fighter, tackling tyranny for the justice and betterment of all. Such a stylish case of co opting a piece of history and an actual, historical person with quirks, flaws, joys, flatulence and awkward beliefs all of his own and turning him into a simplified symbol and then even more quickly into a marketing slogan and image for branding up parties and merchandising and acting as a shorthand for a whole bunch of modern concepts that our historical fellow would baulk or blanch at. He's in good company at least, I'm sure Jesus of Nazareth can empathise with that process. Ditto Einstein come to think of it.
It is from twisty turning stories like this that I have gained a sceptical respect for historians of all stripes. Even with primary sources and eyewitness statements or drawings, events must still be read and evaluated within layers of meaning. They happened in worlds so removed to ours as to be wholly alien. Entire, complex and detailed political and cultural structures existed then as invisible and obvious to those citizens as telecommunications and LOLcatz are to us. Shifting into a historical period involves letting go of some of oneself in order to make room for their values and needs. Yet we can't be completely objective, and we don't want to be. We read Shakespeare for our own meanings and pleasures, not to get a better handle on court influence or the emergent commerical structures of 17th centrury entertainments.
So for whatever reason you prefer, remember remember the 5th of November, the gunpowder, treason and plot. It really happened, it's a symbol. They were terrorists, they were fighting for what we take for granted - a separation of Church and State. They were killed as the lowest form of criminal, they live on immortalised in popular culture, more famous than the King who triumphed.
Showing posts with label Irony. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Irony. Show all posts
Friday, November 06, 2009
Thursday, September 03, 2009
The Sitzfleisch has an Agenda
There have been so many things to bluster about, to notice and to mourn in these past six or seven weeks (neighbours/heatwave/garden bounty and then death from aforementioned heatwave and Disney buying up Marvel to name but a few) but sadly none of my moments of lucidity have corresponded with any access to suitable/compatible/functioning tech and these have simply slid by, like tears in the rain (slumps: releases dove).
Some things, however, are timeless and can be shared somewhat after the fact without losing impact. I'm referring, in this instance, to my complex and fraught relationship with my physical body.
It's a funny thing, biology. We cannot be separated from it, it is the source of so very many pleasures and pastimes, it defines (or contributes greatly to) many of the profound emotional states we experience and yet it is coordinated through an almost impenetrable chemical (nay, alchemical) process that has another agenda.
Some Points
Point. A few years ago, keen to take responsibility for my health and well-being I reviewed my life and put myself on a diet, took on a new job and began cycling to work. I came down with Ulcerative Colitis. Hilarious. (the UC is still rocking along BTW. You can't shake that snake in the bowel!)
Point. Nine months later when I could be awake for more than 4 hours at a stretch I tried again - took a course to learn something new and joined a gym. Within 3 weeks, the gym burnt to the ground. The GYM! Concrete and steel. I mean - what was there to even burn? Stale sweat is just not that flammable! How utterly unprecedented is that?
Point. I move interstate and focus on other areas for a while. I get all housified and workified until that's running smoothly. Meanwhile, it is once again time to un-blimp. I get a program together, make a graph, start plotting and basically doing the right things and lo ....tear my calf muscle nearly in half (right at the bit where it starts to become the Achilles tendon. Yeah - nice choice) while playing with Riley in the yard. I am immobilised for weeks. Oh, and it hurts like you do not want to know*.
Do you see a pattern here?
A Script idea?
Maybe I should volunteer my services to the defence force.
Army type: "What exactly are you offering to do?"
Me: "Exercise. You know - lose some weight, get some core strength, whatever. Maybe do some pilates ..."
Army type: "... (goldfish mouth a little) and why exactly is that of benefit to the people of Afghanistan?
Me: (looks around, leans in, speaks in a conspiratorial whisper) "Because when I exercise, bad things happen!!"
We can leave that there. Sadly, most of the time, bad things happen to me, which sucks and seems to be pretty much the exact opposite of the intention of the exercising.
Huh.
Bad Juju
I'm no ubermensch but even i can tell (eventually) when I'm swimming against the tide. Whilst in the initial phase of recovery from this latest insult, I read some books on exercise, and none of them covered "Handling Bad Juju" or even "Unconscious Self-Sabotage". I have learnt how to translate calories and kilojoules but not how to unravel the chaotic and vastly vague intuitive associations of the mind/body relationship (and yes I checked the index!). The doctor has not been much help and I don't have any answers. But I do have an idea.
Fire With Fire
It was Einstein who said "as far as I'm concerned, I prefer silent vice to ostentatious virtue." Which is a freakin awesome philosophy of no direct relevance to this line of thought at all, but so so worth throwing into the mix. More prosaically, he said "No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it." Oh yeah - there it is.
As I am unconscious of what is causing this problem, I need to rise up to consciousness! If it is mystery/magic/alchemy playing these tricks - then this is the field I need to enter to solve this puzzle! Simple eh!
On the other hand, Einstein also said "It should be possible to explain the laws of physics to a barmaid" and cunningly neglected to incorporate a measure or her understanding or grasp of the conversation as being an important component of the conversation. Double clever or just arrogant?
So I shall become both the physicist and the barmaid, I shall embrace the lead and the gold, I shall be both the promise and the prestige .. and either go totally nutso or integrate in some marvellous (possibly mystical way) and become the dove - flying upward through the rain and into eternity.
* I acknowledge that as I have not gone through childbirth I don't have the Gold Standard of Pain for comparison available to me. I have made every effort to substantiate my subjective claim to pain, and many others (some of whom have birthed) have advised that they too feel this injury objectively earns the "painful" label. I'm not just exaggerating this. I do presume that everyone reading this blogs assumes most things are exaggerated. I do that. It's a hobby, telling tales. I'm not subtle, I know it. I'm sorry, that's how it is. But in this case you can take it as read. It hurts like someone has stuck a 12 inch hunting knife into your fucking leg, looked you in the eye and fucking twisted it. Then they pulled it out and you heard your own bone scrape. Yeah.
Some things, however, are timeless and can be shared somewhat after the fact without losing impact. I'm referring, in this instance, to my complex and fraught relationship with my physical body.
It's a funny thing, biology. We cannot be separated from it, it is the source of so very many pleasures and pastimes, it defines (or contributes greatly to) many of the profound emotional states we experience and yet it is coordinated through an almost impenetrable chemical (nay, alchemical) process that has another agenda.
Some Points
Point. A few years ago, keen to take responsibility for my health and well-being I reviewed my life and put myself on a diet, took on a new job and began cycling to work. I came down with Ulcerative Colitis. Hilarious. (the UC is still rocking along BTW. You can't shake that snake in the bowel!)
Point. Nine months later when I could be awake for more than 4 hours at a stretch I tried again - took a course to learn something new and joined a gym. Within 3 weeks, the gym burnt to the ground. The GYM! Concrete and steel. I mean - what was there to even burn? Stale sweat is just not that flammable! How utterly unprecedented is that?
Point. I move interstate and focus on other areas for a while. I get all housified and workified until that's running smoothly. Meanwhile, it is once again time to un-blimp. I get a program together, make a graph, start plotting and basically doing the right things and lo ....tear my calf muscle nearly in half (right at the bit where it starts to become the Achilles tendon. Yeah - nice choice) while playing with Riley in the yard. I am immobilised for weeks. Oh, and it hurts like you do not want to know*.
Do you see a pattern here?
A Script idea?
Maybe I should volunteer my services to the defence force.
Army type: "What exactly are you offering to do?"
Me: "Exercise. You know - lose some weight, get some core strength, whatever. Maybe do some pilates ..."
Army type: "... (goldfish mouth a little) and why exactly is that of benefit to the people of Afghanistan?
Me: (looks around, leans in, speaks in a conspiratorial whisper) "Because when I exercise, bad things happen!!"
We can leave that there. Sadly, most of the time, bad things happen to me, which sucks and seems to be pretty much the exact opposite of the intention of the exercising.
Huh.
Bad Juju
I'm no ubermensch but even i can tell (eventually) when I'm swimming against the tide. Whilst in the initial phase of recovery from this latest insult, I read some books on exercise, and none of them covered "Handling Bad Juju" or even "Unconscious Self-Sabotage". I have learnt how to translate calories and kilojoules but not how to unravel the chaotic and vastly vague intuitive associations of the mind/body relationship (and yes I checked the index!). The doctor has not been much help and I don't have any answers. But I do have an idea.
Fire With Fire
It was Einstein who said "as far as I'm concerned, I prefer silent vice to ostentatious virtue." Which is a freakin awesome philosophy of no direct relevance to this line of thought at all, but so so worth throwing into the mix. More prosaically, he said "No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it." Oh yeah - there it is.
As I am unconscious of what is causing this problem, I need to rise up to consciousness! If it is mystery/magic/alchemy playing these tricks - then this is the field I need to enter to solve this puzzle! Simple eh!
On the other hand, Einstein also said "It should be possible to explain the laws of physics to a barmaid" and cunningly neglected to incorporate a measure or her understanding or grasp of the conversation as being an important component of the conversation. Double clever or just arrogant?
So I shall become both the physicist and the barmaid, I shall embrace the lead and the gold, I shall be both the promise and the prestige .. and either go totally nutso or integrate in some marvellous (possibly mystical way) and become the dove - flying upward through the rain and into eternity.
* I acknowledge that as I have not gone through childbirth I don't have the Gold Standard of Pain for comparison available to me. I have made every effort to substantiate my subjective claim to pain, and many others (some of whom have birthed) have advised that they too feel this injury objectively earns the "painful" label. I'm not just exaggerating this. I do presume that everyone reading this blogs assumes most things are exaggerated. I do that. It's a hobby, telling tales. I'm not subtle, I know it. I'm sorry, that's how it is. But in this case you can take it as read. It hurts like someone has stuck a 12 inch hunting knife into your fucking leg, looked you in the eye and fucking twisted it. Then they pulled it out and you heard your own bone scrape. Yeah.
Friday, June 12, 2009
The Winter Refrain
Overheard in the mall on my way to work (and you'll have to imagine the nasal bogan whine that this is said in):
"Gee it's cold. I can't believe how cold it is!"
So I surreptitiously glance behind me in order to appraise this captain of the obvious and spot a cluster of idiots who are in thongs, shorts and T-shirts and one of them, in concession to the change in seasons, has thrown on a cotton hoodie. They are all hunched over and attempting to gain warmth from lit cigarettes.
It was minus 3oC overnight. Winter, albeit a late (and probably brief one) has arrived. I do not understand the stubborn reticence of locals against putting on warm clothes. This cold weather happens every year. Surely it is not beyond any one's means to have one woolen jumper and a pair of socks bundled into the back of a drawer? That's all it takes, and you can get a decent jumper these days for what it costs to buy two packs of smokes. Then by 9 or 10 in the morning it is back up to a sunny and warm 18oC or so, and then people, you can take the jumper off! A simple, but effective, system that has been serving humans for millenia called "clothing". I recommend it.
Also worth mentioning this week is that the World Health Organisation has officially declared Swine Flu (H1N1) to be a pandemic. Congrats Swiney on your new status. I'm sure no readers of this blog need any delineation made between pandemic and epidemic, but you will appreciate the irony in this being the week that on one hand the Sheltered Workshop has made buckets and buckets of hand sanitiser available to curb to possible spread of Swiney, and on the other (perhaps inevitable and very very bureaucratic) hand, decided that far far too many dollars are spent on tissues and so has cut off their supply. No worries, sneeze into your hand - there's plenty of hand sanitiser!
*shakes head*
"Gee it's cold. I can't believe how cold it is!"
So I surreptitiously glance behind me in order to appraise this captain of the obvious and spot a cluster of idiots who are in thongs, shorts and T-shirts and one of them, in concession to the change in seasons, has thrown on a cotton hoodie. They are all hunched over and attempting to gain warmth from lit cigarettes.
It was minus 3oC overnight. Winter, albeit a late (and probably brief one) has arrived. I do not understand the stubborn reticence of locals against putting on warm clothes. This cold weather happens every year. Surely it is not beyond any one's means to have one woolen jumper and a pair of socks bundled into the back of a drawer? That's all it takes, and you can get a decent jumper these days for what it costs to buy two packs of smokes. Then by 9 or 10 in the morning it is back up to a sunny and warm 18oC or so, and then people, you can take the jumper off! A simple, but effective, system that has been serving humans for millenia called "clothing". I recommend it.
Also worth mentioning this week is that the World Health Organisation has officially declared Swine Flu (H1N1) to be a pandemic. Congrats Swiney on your new status. I'm sure no readers of this blog need any delineation made between pandemic and epidemic, but you will appreciate the irony in this being the week that on one hand the Sheltered Workshop has made buckets and buckets of hand sanitiser available to curb to possible spread of Swiney, and on the other (perhaps inevitable and very very bureaucratic) hand, decided that far far too many dollars are spent on tissues and so has cut off their supply. No worries, sneeze into your hand - there's plenty of hand sanitiser!
*shakes head*
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Generation Kill
There's always someone worse off.
It's not meant to be a cheering thought, but it is. As a fat, white, middle-class-ish Australian, roughly 92% of the world is worse off than I am, but of course I don't usually see them and so, every now and then, I just completely forget.
This week I've been reminded of this fact by watching the HBO mini series "Generation Kill".
There are many levels on which this mini-series is fascinating. Before I get into any rave or meandering, I'll own up immediately to the following points:
1. It is based on a book (Generation Kill by Evan Wright. There's quite a good review with excerpts at the New Statesman). I haven't read it but my brother-in-law is reading it and tells me that the two versions are very close.
2. I read (and "enjoyed") Jarhead.
3. I couldn't finish 'Catch 22' (but intend to give it another go now that I have some more 'water under the bridge').
4. I loved 'Waiting for Godot'.
5. I work in a (local) government body.
I'm not sure where to start. It's not so much about American politics (or even so much even about the war) as about bizarre reality. This is not a 'story' but neither is it a contrived 'reality' show or documentary or mock-u-mentary. A long time ago we might have used the term cinema-verite to describe something like this - but actually I think this is a new flavour, a new style. A very modern, unsentimental, "unpurposed" approach to this kind of subject matter.
As the first credits came up, I thought "Why am I exposing myself to yet more American culture and *another* take on Iraq?" - not the thoughts of a ready-to-cheer fan, but what drew me into the world of this group of men was the understated treatment of a hysterical, terrifying, aggro subject in a neutral, intelligent way. Nothing about the marines' behaviours, thoughts, language, politics or concerns are explained, diminished, justified or homogenised. Some of them are very thoughtful brave men, and lots aren't.
How does anyone stay sane in this environment of continual flip-flopping of command, the petty focus on 'grooming standards' above issues of resupply (of rations and ammunition - "you want logistics, join the army. Marines make do."), the constant 'bad comms' and blackmarket for essentials like batteries (what good are night vision goggles without power?), friendly fire, rotting feet and superstitions?
They don't.
These men are warriors. They're also opportunists, psychos, working Joes and reporters. They aren't philosophers or diplomats or politicians. They're warriors, trained to kill and cultured to win. They're largely fuelled by video games, sugar and caffeine. I am unsettled by how easily I can relate to them and their bickering and sing-songing on what must have been interminable drives , their dark, wry humour and the restlessness and frustration they experience of being deployed into tasks and positions they were not trained for and unused for exactly the missions they were.
What is best about this series is the attention to remaining complex. In one scene, the motorcade is passing a body. The body is vivid, bloody, personal. The camera tracks a number of responses in the marines (interest, sadness, revulsion) the reporter is shocked, and his immediate response is to raise his camera and take a picture. One of the marines confronts him "that's exploitation man" and he is shamed. The Reporter - our everyman for the viewer, our representative of the media - is the one who could least handle the moment but did so by turning it into an image, something that could be documented and filed. Distancing himself from it in one of the ways that we all do. Otherwise, what would he do with that experience of seeing and smelling that death of an innocent? What action, what sense is there for him? What is there for us? We saw these deaths too, despite the control over what images went out, we saw civilians hurt and murdered.
I am finding this series to be complex, confronting, valuable. I'm not sure it should be called entertainment. I don't know what to think. More importantly, I don't know what to do.
Still not cheering, but definitely a fan.
It's not meant to be a cheering thought, but it is. As a fat, white, middle-class-ish Australian, roughly 92% of the world is worse off than I am, but of course I don't usually see them and so, every now and then, I just completely forget.
This week I've been reminded of this fact by watching the HBO mini series "Generation Kill".
There are many levels on which this mini-series is fascinating. Before I get into any rave or meandering, I'll own up immediately to the following points:
1. It is based on a book (Generation Kill by Evan Wright. There's quite a good review with excerpts at the New Statesman). I haven't read it but my brother-in-law is reading it and tells me that the two versions are very close.
2. I read (and "enjoyed") Jarhead.
3. I couldn't finish 'Catch 22' (but intend to give it another go now that I have some more 'water under the bridge').
4. I loved 'Waiting for Godot'.
5. I work in a (local) government body.
I'm not sure where to start. It's not so much about American politics (or even so much even about the war) as about bizarre reality. This is not a 'story' but neither is it a contrived 'reality' show or documentary or mock-u-mentary. A long time ago we might have used the term cinema-verite to describe something like this - but actually I think this is a new flavour, a new style. A very modern, unsentimental, "unpurposed" approach to this kind of subject matter.
As the first credits came up, I thought "Why am I exposing myself to yet more American culture and *another* take on Iraq?" - not the thoughts of a ready-to-cheer fan, but what drew me into the world of this group of men was the understated treatment of a hysterical, terrifying, aggro subject in a neutral, intelligent way. Nothing about the marines' behaviours, thoughts, language, politics or concerns are explained, diminished, justified or homogenised. Some of them are very thoughtful brave men, and lots aren't.
How does anyone stay sane in this environment of continual flip-flopping of command, the petty focus on 'grooming standards' above issues of resupply (of rations and ammunition - "you want logistics, join the army. Marines make do."), the constant 'bad comms' and blackmarket for essentials like batteries (what good are night vision goggles without power?), friendly fire, rotting feet and superstitions?
They don't.
These men are warriors. They're also opportunists, psychos, working Joes and reporters. They aren't philosophers or diplomats or politicians. They're warriors, trained to kill and cultured to win. They're largely fuelled by video games, sugar and caffeine. I am unsettled by how easily I can relate to them and their bickering and sing-songing on what must have been interminable drives , their dark, wry humour and the restlessness and frustration they experience of being deployed into tasks and positions they were not trained for and unused for exactly the missions they were.
What is best about this series is the attention to remaining complex. In one scene, the motorcade is passing a body. The body is vivid, bloody, personal. The camera tracks a number of responses in the marines (interest, sadness, revulsion) the reporter is shocked, and his immediate response is to raise his camera and take a picture. One of the marines confronts him "that's exploitation man" and he is shamed. The Reporter - our everyman for the viewer, our representative of the media - is the one who could least handle the moment but did so by turning it into an image, something that could be documented and filed. Distancing himself from it in one of the ways that we all do. Otherwise, what would he do with that experience of seeing and smelling that death of an innocent? What action, what sense is there for him? What is there for us? We saw these deaths too, despite the control over what images went out, we saw civilians hurt and murdered.
I am finding this series to be complex, confronting, valuable. I'm not sure it should be called entertainment. I don't know what to think. More importantly, I don't know what to do.
Still not cheering, but definitely a fan.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Pope Calls on Potter Fans
Recent permission for Catholics to revert to holding their mass in Latin has revealed a minor snag - very few priests can read or remember how to recite the Latin mass. Pope Benedict considers turning to the worldwide legions of Harry Potter fans "At least those kids can get their mouths around it. This is our chance to show them that Catholicism can be cool too - after all, we had Latin first!"
The Vatican has remained silent on possible podcast options or movie tie-ins.
The Vatican has remained silent on possible podcast options or movie tie-ins.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Sleepwalking
ooooh Shiver me timbers!
It's been cold enough to freeze the balls from a brass monkey.
We are so very far from water here that I remain enamoured of the faux nautical/piratical terminology in everyday use for reasons of high irony and shall continue to use them no matter how out of step I remain/become.
I digress.
It has been jolly cold - with many a morning spiking down below zero, and a week of weather in the more-than-5-degrees-below-normal type range, and yet dry dry dry. This makes sleeping fully enclosed within the doona-cocoon the best option. I am thinking of finding my snorkel, or perhaps modifying one of Pa's safety masks to bring in the trickle of fresh air that I need, which the dog seems to do fine without.
Today has been the first day all week, that I don't feel that I'm sleepwalking through the day, waiting to thaw before my brain can wake. I am putting this down to having a double breakfast and a 4 minute Scorching Shower before setting off in Audrey for work. And now another coffee.
Being sick at the moment with the Great Bowel Serpent (GBS)... saying ulcerative colitis all the time just sounds like I'm some pathetic Harry Potter wannabe with a spell that doesn't work... coffee isn't really the right thing to be turning to.
On the other hand, I'm looking at it more like Thunderdome - you want to send another combatant in or it's just no fun at all! Oh hahahahahaa. How I do entertain myself!
It's been cold enough to freeze the balls from a brass monkey.
We are so very far from water here that I remain enamoured of the faux nautical/piratical terminology in everyday use for reasons of high irony and shall continue to use them no matter how out of step I remain/become.
I digress.
It has been jolly cold - with many a morning spiking down below zero, and a week of weather in the more-than-5-degrees-below-normal type range, and yet dry dry dry. This makes sleeping fully enclosed within the doona-cocoon the best option. I am thinking of finding my snorkel, or perhaps modifying one of Pa's safety masks to bring in the trickle of fresh air that I need, which the dog seems to do fine without.
Today has been the first day all week, that I don't feel that I'm sleepwalking through the day, waiting to thaw before my brain can wake. I am putting this down to having a double breakfast and a 4 minute Scorching Shower before setting off in Audrey for work. And now another coffee.
Being sick at the moment with the Great Bowel Serpent (GBS)... saying ulcerative colitis all the time just sounds like I'm some pathetic Harry Potter wannabe with a spell that doesn't work... coffee isn't really the right thing to be turning to.
On the other hand, I'm looking at it more like Thunderdome - you want to send another combatant in or it's just no fun at all! Oh hahahahahaa. How I do entertain myself!
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Waiting in Ipswich
On my way to work this morning I was reflecting on the easy pace of life in regional Qld. Thongs. Warm winters (24 today!). School holidays. Low expectations. Shorts.
Walking up the mall, I noticed people waiting outside of the phone shop ... just waiting for it to open. Thursday - it's always the bank... pension day is an event here. I'm never here early enough - but apparently there's always folk waiting to get into the newsagents as well. Same thing at the Gallery all the time - people waiting for the doors to open at 10.
"Gotta get me another look at that d'Arcy Doyle."
Gagging to get in they are - particularly during the school holidays. That's a real measure of how much of "nothing else on" there is. No traffic to contend with - absolutely nothing else in your way. Get up and start the day. I'm not talking about queueing here - just waiting. Having a durrie. Watching the traffic. Sunning. Bogan Lizards.
I walked a different way this morning, and had to laugh. There's a clutch of kids waiting for "Netgames" to open and whiling away the time with a joint. How sweet youth is. Not a bad strategy either if I can step out of my "can't believe I have to go to work" jealousy of them - coz we all know that the police never walk up this way - they're concentrated one block back towards the station at the courthouse. I had to go past the courthouse too, and whaddya know - but there's the channel 9 news cameraman sitting and waiting. Both ends of the activity spectrum and consequences. There's a lot of waiting in this town. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting until you get moved along, waiting for the next payment. Waiting for some attention or interest. Maybe wondering if it'll be you who blows this time from the boredom.
Or you could be one of the button-ups waiting outside the library and circumventing the process with a different form of escapism. Go the nerd approach!
And then I stopped laughing and stopped looking at my phone for a moment because I realised that I am always waiting now too - for a new message to respond to, for someone to show me some attention, for something interesting to happen, because I cannot provide this for myself at the moment.
Is there something in the water here?
Goaded by this moment of clarity, I've bought another timer, so I can make the loud tick-tick noise at my desk that seems to be such a primal motivator for me to get things done. The tick-tick-tick that is unstoppable says to me "GO NOW!" even a single incandescent 5 minutes in this day turns it back into life and away from the numbness of waiting.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick
Walking up the mall, I noticed people waiting outside of the phone shop ... just waiting for it to open. Thursday - it's always the bank... pension day is an event here. I'm never here early enough - but apparently there's always folk waiting to get into the newsagents as well. Same thing at the Gallery all the time - people waiting for the doors to open at 10.
"Gotta get me another look at that d'Arcy Doyle."
Gagging to get in they are - particularly during the school holidays. That's a real measure of how much of "nothing else on" there is. No traffic to contend with - absolutely nothing else in your way. Get up and start the day. I'm not talking about queueing here - just waiting. Having a durrie. Watching the traffic. Sunning. Bogan Lizards.
I walked a different way this morning, and had to laugh. There's a clutch of kids waiting for "Netgames" to open and whiling away the time with a joint. How sweet youth is. Not a bad strategy either if I can step out of my "can't believe I have to go to work" jealousy of them - coz we all know that the police never walk up this way - they're concentrated one block back towards the station at the courthouse. I had to go past the courthouse too, and whaddya know - but there's the channel 9 news cameraman sitting and waiting. Both ends of the activity spectrum and consequences. There's a lot of waiting in this town. Waiting for something to happen. Waiting until you get moved along, waiting for the next payment. Waiting for some attention or interest. Maybe wondering if it'll be you who blows this time from the boredom.
Or you could be one of the button-ups waiting outside the library and circumventing the process with a different form of escapism. Go the nerd approach!
And then I stopped laughing and stopped looking at my phone for a moment because I realised that I am always waiting now too - for a new message to respond to, for someone to show me some attention, for something interesting to happen, because I cannot provide this for myself at the moment.
Is there something in the water here?
Goaded by this moment of clarity, I've bought another timer, so I can make the loud tick-tick noise at my desk that seems to be such a primal motivator for me to get things done. The tick-tick-tick that is unstoppable says to me "GO NOW!" even a single incandescent 5 minutes in this day turns it back into life and away from the numbness of waiting.
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Dogs Bring People Together
Neil Gaiman blogged today about walking his dog:
You know, the best bit of having wound up with a dog, apart from the dog of course, is the walking. There are whole worlds out there I hadn't known about until I started walking them..."
and it reminded me of an incident from this morning. Sitting at my desk I could hear a dog howling and out the window there are these two beautiful hounds, wrapped around a pole with a bit of baling twine in the cold. Shivering and howling. Well what could I do but go out there to comfort them and see if I could possibly see who would leave them stranded like this (my window looks out onto the main street of the town).
Head sideways out from the door of the postoffice a straggly man watches me.
"Hey! These your dogs?"
"Yeah."
"You gonna be real long?"
"Nah" he walks towards me and he's dirt poor this guy, and nervous looking. "I'm looking for a stanthorpe phone book." (this is like saying - I'm hoping all my needs in the world are handed to me wrapped in silk)
"oh yeah, you findin one?"
"Nah".
"Right... you need a phone number?"
"Yeah."
"Well these dogs can't stay in the cold, I can look 'em up for you."
Eventually he comes in and perches on my visitor chair and we plug a few names into the whitepages online. He asks me how to spell Michelle. Lots of the people have the same surname.
"Plenty of these Clancy people."
"Yeah, we're a family of ten."
"Try Sonya" he says.
"S. Clancey," I type "where does she live?"
"Sydney" he says so I enter NSW
"Which Suburb?"
He looks right at me and just says "Sydney"
"It's a real big town" I say, "you're gonna need a suburb." But he doesn't know.
Here we are : I help him so his dogs aren't cold, and he's trying to find the phone numbers of some of his brothers and sisters whose names he can't spell for certain and who live god only knows where. He got 5 or 6 tho, and went on his way, and I'm still not sure that he was glad for the help for the truth it cost us both.
By the way Neil - congratulations on picking up the Locus awards for best short story & best collection. You so rock. And you have a cool dog.
You know, the best bit of having wound up with a dog, apart from the dog of course, is the walking. There are whole worlds out there I hadn't known about until I started walking them..."
and it reminded me of an incident from this morning. Sitting at my desk I could hear a dog howling and out the window there are these two beautiful hounds, wrapped around a pole with a bit of baling twine in the cold. Shivering and howling. Well what could I do but go out there to comfort them and see if I could possibly see who would leave them stranded like this (my window looks out onto the main street of the town).
Head sideways out from the door of the postoffice a straggly man watches me.
"Hey! These your dogs?"
"Yeah."
"You gonna be real long?"
"Nah" he walks towards me and he's dirt poor this guy, and nervous looking. "I'm looking for a stanthorpe phone book." (this is like saying - I'm hoping all my needs in the world are handed to me wrapped in silk)
"oh yeah, you findin one?"
"Nah".
"Right... you need a phone number?"
"Yeah."
"Well these dogs can't stay in the cold, I can look 'em up for you."
Eventually he comes in and perches on my visitor chair and we plug a few names into the whitepages online. He asks me how to spell Michelle. Lots of the people have the same surname.
"Plenty of these Clancy people."
"Yeah, we're a family of ten."
"Try Sonya" he says.
"S. Clancey," I type "where does she live?"
"Sydney" he says so I enter NSW
"Which Suburb?"
He looks right at me and just says "Sydney"
"It's a real big town" I say, "you're gonna need a suburb." But he doesn't know.
Here we are : I help him so his dogs aren't cold, and he's trying to find the phone numbers of some of his brothers and sisters whose names he can't spell for certain and who live god only knows where. He got 5 or 6 tho, and went on his way, and I'm still not sure that he was glad for the help for the truth it cost us both.
By the way Neil - congratulations on picking up the Locus awards for best short story & best collection. You so rock. And you have a cool dog.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Honeymoon is Over
Hi,
I'm back from the Honeymoon. I really thought it would last longer - maybe even a whole month - but looks like I'm too old now to stay starry-eyed for long. Not that things have taken a bad, downward turn, just that there's hope, and then there's reality. I find it easier to deal with the reality and push it forcibly(*) towards the memory of hope, rather than get knocked about and continually hurt that the hope isn't being fulfilled.
It has also been somewhat sobering to realise that one of the main skills I have learnt in my working life is how to survive in a Machiavellian environment. Hence the * above - because of course one chooses very carefully those barrows one will push, and where. I don't mean to intimate that I am a Machiavellian player/operator/sympathiser - rather that I learnt early on to *know*thy*enemy* and strangely enough their textbook is widely available. Go on - read The Prince. You can get it in bookstores, you can download it from the internet. I can't believe it's just laying around in libraries. It makes it a lot easier to spot the dilettantes, and stay out of the way of the real players.
Anyway, enough pillow talk.
How have you been?
What have you been up to?
I was going to make June "Good News" month - loads of feel-good updates from the world of grown-ups and corduroy where science and art and music and culture all contribute to making the human race seem like a good idea. It got to the 15th and I hadn't found any, and now I've kinda shelved that idea for the time being. Even just reading the Arts pages can bring me down - on only one day last week David Hockney had a hissy over *ipods* ruining the visual arts, a painting got nicked from the AGNSW!, and Brett Whiteley's drug addled eroticised landscape of the Olgas became the most expensive Australian painting - selling at auction for $3.8m.
Clearly, the world has gone mad and is in no need of my help on this matter.
I did what any self-respecting bogan looser would do, and blew $4 of the grocery money in the op-shop on a VHS copy of Ronin. And it was good. Yes, I escaped into a world where violence and the destruction of beautiful eurpoean cafes is only used to heighten dramatic tension. A world where the deadliest killers (who will shoot a little girl just to prove the point that they're meanies) really are the horrible ex-kgb, and anyone who says they're ex-CIA is really only in deep cover. It all made such good sense for about an hour and a half.
Where did I leave that case of ammo?...
I'm back from the Honeymoon. I really thought it would last longer - maybe even a whole month - but looks like I'm too old now to stay starry-eyed for long. Not that things have taken a bad, downward turn, just that there's hope, and then there's reality. I find it easier to deal with the reality and push it forcibly(*) towards the memory of hope, rather than get knocked about and continually hurt that the hope isn't being fulfilled.
It has also been somewhat sobering to realise that one of the main skills I have learnt in my working life is how to survive in a Machiavellian environment. Hence the * above - because of course one chooses very carefully those barrows one will push, and where. I don't mean to intimate that I am a Machiavellian player/operator/sympathiser - rather that I learnt early on to *know*thy*enemy* and strangely enough their textbook is widely available. Go on - read The Prince. You can get it in bookstores, you can download it from the internet. I can't believe it's just laying around in libraries. It makes it a lot easier to spot the dilettantes, and stay out of the way of the real players.
Anyway, enough pillow talk.
How have you been?
What have you been up to?
I was going to make June "Good News" month - loads of feel-good updates from the world of grown-ups and corduroy where science and art and music and culture all contribute to making the human race seem like a good idea. It got to the 15th and I hadn't found any, and now I've kinda shelved that idea for the time being. Even just reading the Arts pages can bring me down - on only one day last week David Hockney had a hissy over *ipods* ruining the visual arts, a painting got nicked from the AGNSW!, and Brett Whiteley's drug addled eroticised landscape of the Olgas became the most expensive Australian painting - selling at auction for $3.8m.
Clearly, the world has gone mad and is in no need of my help on this matter.
I did what any self-respecting bogan looser would do, and blew $4 of the grocery money in the op-shop on a VHS copy of Ronin. And it was good. Yes, I escaped into a world where violence and the destruction of beautiful eurpoean cafes is only used to heighten dramatic tension. A world where the deadliest killers (who will shoot a little girl just to prove the point that they're meanies) really are the horrible ex-kgb, and anyone who says they're ex-CIA is really only in deep cover. It all made such good sense for about an hour and a half.
Where did I leave that case of ammo?...
Friday, March 23, 2007
OMG "Camo" wool in Big Dub
Having recently finished the Giant Nana Rug (see previous week) I was vulnerable to the idea that I was project-free. (You know this to be a lie - by the nature of craft-nerd, this is *always* a lie. But I digress).
A note in the lunchroom caught my eye - poor tiny AIDS babies in war-torn Africa need our help - they go home wrapped in newspapers for warmth - little teeny blankies are needed for them. Some good soul in the Trash City Sheltered Workshop has started up a knitting circle, and here's a one page sheet of instructions and please make one or donate wool or whatever charity you can spare.
"That sounds pretty feel-good", I thought to myself. "I can use the left-over wool from the rug."
Yeah. Right.
I would have sworn on my first editions that I was going to use left-overs - honestly!! Really & Truly!! But then I started thinking about the other wool I had, and that reminded me of how many things were still stuck on needles, and then how, you know - it's meant to be autumn now - there should be new wool in the stores, and I just *happened* to be walking past the craft store and so on and so on. You know the pitiful addict's mantra of circumstance all too well.
Suffice it to say that I have bought a new ball of wool.
But I HAD to.
No, Really, *had* to.
"Camouflage Wool" it promises on the label - yes you can now knit cams (stay tuned for a photo - this has to be seen to be believed). We've all seen varigated wool in olive and brown tones - but this is something else altogether! Where is this going? Craft while on active duty? "Make it yourself" creative outlet for troops on R&R!? Suddenly I have the irony equivalent of vertigo - I *want* this wool, but the official next project is a little bunny rug for an AIDS baby from war-torn Africa. It is, would be, and always will be just *wrong* to undertake this project using Camo wool. Surely the world does not need this product. Yet it is so post-modern that everyone wants it. All other balls of wool - funky purples and groovy blues were chockas - I snaffled one of the last 5 or 6!!
Looks like I'll be using left over wool anyway for the little babies - I gotta knit me a new beanie!!
A note in the lunchroom caught my eye - poor tiny AIDS babies in war-torn Africa need our help - they go home wrapped in newspapers for warmth - little teeny blankies are needed for them. Some good soul in the Trash City Sheltered Workshop has started up a knitting circle, and here's a one page sheet of instructions and please make one or donate wool or whatever charity you can spare.
"That sounds pretty feel-good", I thought to myself. "I can use the left-over wool from the rug."
Yeah. Right.
I would have sworn on my first editions that I was going to use left-overs - honestly!! Really & Truly!! But then I started thinking about the other wool I had, and that reminded me of how many things were still stuck on needles, and then how, you know - it's meant to be autumn now - there should be new wool in the stores, and I just *happened* to be walking past the craft store and so on and so on. You know the pitiful addict's mantra of circumstance all too well.
Suffice it to say that I have bought a new ball of wool.
But I HAD to.
No, Really, *had* to.
"Camouflage Wool" it promises on the label - yes you can now knit cams (stay tuned for a photo - this has to be seen to be believed). We've all seen varigated wool in olive and brown tones - but this is something else altogether! Where is this going? Craft while on active duty? "Make it yourself" creative outlet for troops on R&R!? Suddenly I have the irony equivalent of vertigo - I *want* this wool, but the official next project is a little bunny rug for an AIDS baby from war-torn Africa. It is, would be, and always will be just *wrong* to undertake this project using Camo wool. Surely the world does not need this product. Yet it is so post-modern that everyone wants it. All other balls of wool - funky purples and groovy blues were chockas - I snaffled one of the last 5 or 6!!
Looks like I'll be using left over wool anyway for the little babies - I gotta knit me a new beanie!!
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Fundraisers
So a guy at work brings in his fundraiser for his kids' school. They're going to buy some more playground equipment - do some awareness raising about health and fitness activities. You know, the whole child obesity thing. Fair enough.
There's a lot of fundraising goes on in offices like this. There's the chocolate bars in the fridge for a dollar that goes towards the Christmas feast, there's the books in the staff room that go to a playgroup, there's the guy going to shave off his quiff (Elvis impersonator) for leukemia, there's the teddy bears, pens and bracelets for every special day you can think of, and a pie and lamington drive for Mission Australia.
So here we are buying stuff to raise money to get kids active, and what are we buying? DVDs. Yep, don't sell the couch off just yet! Of the 3-page-long list, one and a half pages are kids films. There's no exercise ones either (in case you think I'm being a smart arse), not even Pumping Iron, let alone, you know, "Bollywood Pilates" or something like that.
Love it.
Oh yeah, I'll be putting my order in ....
There's a lot of fundraising goes on in offices like this. There's the chocolate bars in the fridge for a dollar that goes towards the Christmas feast, there's the books in the staff room that go to a playgroup, there's the guy going to shave off his quiff (Elvis impersonator) for leukemia, there's the teddy bears, pens and bracelets for every special day you can think of, and a pie and lamington drive for Mission Australia.
So here we are buying stuff to raise money to get kids active, and what are we buying? DVDs. Yep, don't sell the couch off just yet! Of the 3-page-long list, one and a half pages are kids films. There's no exercise ones either (in case you think I'm being a smart arse), not even Pumping Iron, let alone, you know, "Bollywood Pilates" or something like that.
Love it.
Oh yeah, I'll be putting my order in ....
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Caricatures & Stereotypes
It's one of the great ironies that every now and then one comes across a person who reminds one of where a stereotype of a personality originates. When this happens, it is so very hard to treat that person with respect, with compassion, with even a straight face. In fact, I find it downright hard not to stare at them in a horrified/appalled/intrigued trance, wondering what utterly predictable thing they'll do next, forgetting that they are in fact a sentient creature, not some lab rat. A creature who can respond, maybe slap one in the face. That kind of thing.
This then was very nearly my undoing in the midst of my first triumph in Trash City. A chance to show my chops in the workplace, take on some responsibility, send some unproof-read faxes, lick a few envelopes off my own initiative. You know what I mean - put it out there. And it was all going just fine until The Mayor turned up.
Imagine The Mayor of a small time town, an E.B Farnum if you will, a local boy made good. Someone with a touch of the TV smiles about him, someone to whom no vote might be too small to chase, no photo op too demeaning to consider NAY demand! Imagine that here in Trash City he likes to know that his name is gold, that he's the man, he's your *mate*. And he is, for he is The Mayor. It's a blue-singlet town, an old style safe Labor seat (with a white flush of Pauline Hanson washing through it every few years) and it's grass-roots party politics all the way. The doctrine of the separation of powers is really only considered a suggestion in Queensland. Really, every pollie seems to consider themselves a benevolent *father* (dictator sounds so harsh) who doesn't need to be encumbered by all those useless rules that lesser mortals must swelter under.
Forgetting all that I had learned in life, in politics and in corporate survival, I made a mistake. I barred the entry of a minor to a licensed premise. Sorry, let me rephrase that: I momentarily interrupted the consumption and enjoyment of a future voter, and a person of influence in the life of an existing voter. Fool. Fool that I am I made it worse when questioned by TM - I said it was the law.
Well.
There is no other law than HIS whim - clearly my wits had fled. I was caught in a dance, not quite as old as time, but certainly not too much younger: it was a predictable crash in slow motion. Floating above my stupid, possibly pointless body, my soul watched and could not stop watching as this simple scene unfolded.
1. Happy People
2. Future Voter given boundaries for behaviour
3. [no complaint WHATSOEVER made by anybody]
4. Storm cloud over brow of TM
5. Question
6. Statement
7. FURY
8. Deferment to senior officers
9. FURY PLOTS REVENGE
10. Staff continues to run event and go on to bump out 2 hours after TM's departure
Epilogue:
1. He calls for my dismissal
2. Senior officers protect me on the grounds I am *still*useful*
3. Grudging acceptance
End of Scene: Applause
Have you every met a petty tyrant? It's fascinating to see how they manipulate, threaten, sulk, bully and fake their way through life. It's not pleasant at all to physically be near, or indeed to experience working with the kind of people who can survive it. It's also constantly intriguing that someone can be such a stereotypical [expletive] and not seem to have any self-conciousness about that at all.
Another day - another facet revealed of this mysterious gem: the Sheltered Workshop of Trash City.
This then was very nearly my undoing in the midst of my first triumph in Trash City. A chance to show my chops in the workplace, take on some responsibility, send some unproof-read faxes, lick a few envelopes off my own initiative. You know what I mean - put it out there. And it was all going just fine until The Mayor turned up.
Imagine The Mayor of a small time town, an E.B Farnum if you will, a local boy made good. Someone with a touch of the TV smiles about him, someone to whom no vote might be too small to chase, no photo op too demeaning to consider NAY demand! Imagine that here in Trash City he likes to know that his name is gold, that he's the man, he's your *mate*. And he is, for he is The Mayor. It's a blue-singlet town, an old style safe Labor seat (with a white flush of Pauline Hanson washing through it every few years) and it's grass-roots party politics all the way. The doctrine of the separation of powers is really only considered a suggestion in Queensland. Really, every pollie seems to consider themselves a benevolent *father* (dictator sounds so harsh) who doesn't need to be encumbered by all those useless rules that lesser mortals must swelter under.
Forgetting all that I had learned in life, in politics and in corporate survival, I made a mistake. I barred the entry of a minor to a licensed premise. Sorry, let me rephrase that: I momentarily interrupted the consumption and enjoyment of a future voter, and a person of influence in the life of an existing voter. Fool. Fool that I am I made it worse when questioned by TM - I said it was the law.
Well.
There is no other law than HIS whim - clearly my wits had fled. I was caught in a dance, not quite as old as time, but certainly not too much younger: it was a predictable crash in slow motion. Floating above my stupid, possibly pointless body, my soul watched and could not stop watching as this simple scene unfolded.
1. Happy People
2. Future Voter given boundaries for behaviour
3. [no complaint WHATSOEVER made by anybody]
4. Storm cloud over brow of TM
5. Question
6. Statement
7. FURY
8. Deferment to senior officers
9. FURY PLOTS REVENGE
10. Staff continues to run event and go on to bump out 2 hours after TM's departure
Epilogue:
1. He calls for my dismissal
2. Senior officers protect me on the grounds I am *still*useful*
3. Grudging acceptance
End of Scene: Applause
Have you every met a petty tyrant? It's fascinating to see how they manipulate, threaten, sulk, bully and fake their way through life. It's not pleasant at all to physically be near, or indeed to experience working with the kind of people who can survive it. It's also constantly intriguing that someone can be such a stereotypical [expletive] and not seem to have any self-conciousness about that at all.
Another day - another facet revealed of this mysterious gem: the Sheltered Workshop of Trash City.
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