The specter of a grim future under the control of Robot Overlords is undoubtedly something which haunts us all (ok, well mostly just paranoid SF nuts, and people who actually understand networking intelligence and have time on their hands for contemplating the possible consequences).
Now, I do not want Skynet to wake up any more than the next person. Much as Caprica 6 really sells the idea that sexy, intelligent, independent women can be robots too, the bottom line is that there is no scenario so far in which the genocide of humans is not an outcome. Apart from anything else, on the off-chance I was a survivor, I would make a crappy guerrilla fighter and a very poor motivating leader for the resistance.
However it is hard to remember these disincentives when once again the anticipated serenity of a weekend (or a public holiday in this particular instance) is unattainable due to the suburban love of power tools and mowers. Both yesterday and today there has been a cacophony of tedium. Vacuum cleaners, quad bikes, angle-grinders, whipper-snippers and the ever-ready, every-present, ever-painfully noisy 2-stroke mower. I don't mind loud and late parties, I can deal with (if ungraciously) the thoughtless tumult created by feral children. I can even usually bear to endure the tortured screams and furious rampages of the domestically violent couples in the street. These, after all, are all are among the fundamental of human activities. Power tools are not.
Down Tools!
How simple it would be to incorporate a small amount of programmable logic into these and other irritating items. It need not be networked to achieve the goals I have in mind. I just want none of these items to work on state recognised public holidays or on a weekend prior to 9am or after 6pm. Fair enough!
The proles have had long enough to self-regulate in these matters and have proven themselves incapable of doing so. It is time for the elite to assist them in this, as we do in so many other ways with our taxes, entertainments, intellectual specialisations (where do they think those plasma screens come from anyway? Santa's Freakin workshop?) and generally in resisting the spread of informational germs (it's true - stupid people are more likely to believe other stupid people. Sorry "easily influenced people"). Anyway, we could camouflage it as a clock, or a battery readout, or an FM radio and in this way it would become a feature the proles would aspire to owning and the phase-out would be swift. Those with a legitimate reason, and or the ability to read owner's manuals would be able to circumvent the programming and thus earn the ability to use these tools at these times, but I suggest to you that persons of such capacities probably have better things to do with their time during the targeted periods (such as, say, blogging about how the world could be a better, more loving place).
Self Control
I could stop there. I could, really. There's no real need to tamper in a permanent way with the car of the idiot doing burnouts at 2am mid-week. There's no justifiable reason to apply any liquor rationing to the unemployed or those with criminal/violent records. There's no need to restrict the breeding .... No. Our freedoms as humans are absolute and inalienable. Well they might be if we in Australia had ever enacted the Universal Declaration of Human Rights into law. Which we haven't. We aren't the only peoples to look the other way on this one, we're in good company (Malaysia, Pakistan, United Arab Emirates, Vatican City, China and more have all overlooked signing or ratifying the declaration). In light of what some signatories do feel ok about doing my software control proposition seems pretty innocent.
Yeah, really. It's for their own good.
... hey! What do you mean my access to the internet might be curtailed. That's not fair!
Fine. Frack you. Now where's that manual...
Showing posts with label suburbia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label suburbia. Show all posts
Friday, December 26, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Not Quite Neighbourly
The "Cult Film" mini project for work is happening. It's not for ages yet, but you have to get things nailed-down (spontaneity is for artists, not galleries) in advance so promotion can be booked, and staff can get used to seeing it on the horizon. There's a little hiccup with one of the Councillors having booked one of the nights for some lame event where they hand out certificates to whoever turns up. Might not be able to get out of that .... have to see.
KS and I have been circling mentions in the local paper of "Bookmarks of Excellence" being given to children who do craft at the shopping centres during the school holidays. There's something basically wrong with telling a general population that they're 'excellent' all the time, that their city is the best, that they're 'leading the way'. It's delusional apart from anything else!
Rather than get caught up on the many "quirks" of Trash City, I want to tell you a little about my new stalker. Anna.
Anna is my new neighbour (replacing Merv who Mowed), and has been transplanted from an Eastern Bris suburb - so she's a long way from her friends. She's moved to Trash City because her dutiful daughter is concerned for her safety (and the DD's response time should there be an emergency) now that Anna is in her winter years. So she has some time on her hands. And windows. Time to look out of windows. And a front porch as most of the houses in our suburb do. A front porch (rather than a back one) to add to that sense of 'community' - where everyone can 'watch out for each other'. Literally.
She has had a very interesting life - being raised in China in a Russian school (so although she's Australian, she has a heavy Russian accent). She and her husband started their family overseas and there were a few stories about trains and border crossings with babies and bags going missing, and no food and so on which made for an astonishing 45 minutes listening. She has two cats and a dog just like Riley ("only she is proper breed!") called Poppy. She's kind, friendly and always up for a chat. ALWAYS UP FOR A CHAT.
I realised last night as she sprung upon me out of the dusk as I darted from my car to the front door and started relating the activities of Rumi during the day, and how her two cats responded to this, and how great it was that one of my new shrubs was flowering, and how I had been at work a long time today and how I must be tired and she should be going, except that it would be best for me if I cooked a big meal on sundays and froze it in portions and then i wouldn't have to cook each night, just heat up my meal and it's much better that way, which is how she does it, in an enamel pot, they're the best kind and I nodded and tried to smile and it dawned on me. I am just not made for this suburban life. I am a crap neighbour. I have no interest in who is doing what to who over in number 13, or what number 15 thinks of it, and is trying not to say, nor why number 12 has so many people living there, or what they think they're doing with that great big boat, nor why Mrs Number 18 was in hospital recently, or if the people at number 11 are still the same ones who had the big drug bust or are there new people there now.
I DON'T CARE.
I say g'day, I offer to bring bins in if people are going away, I'll swap cuttings or dog-sit. That's kind of it for me. I've expanded that to being the loose-dog-pound-ringer and I'm done. I didn't realise that a yard would come with such a high cost. I also thought that fences would absorb more sound. There you go - wrong again.
KS and I have been circling mentions in the local paper of "Bookmarks of Excellence" being given to children who do craft at the shopping centres during the school holidays. There's something basically wrong with telling a general population that they're 'excellent' all the time, that their city is the best, that they're 'leading the way'. It's delusional apart from anything else!
Rather than get caught up on the many "quirks" of Trash City, I want to tell you a little about my new stalker. Anna.
Anna is my new neighbour (replacing Merv who Mowed), and has been transplanted from an Eastern Bris suburb - so she's a long way from her friends. She's moved to Trash City because her dutiful daughter is concerned for her safety (and the DD's response time should there be an emergency) now that Anna is in her winter years. So she has some time on her hands. And windows. Time to look out of windows. And a front porch as most of the houses in our suburb do. A front porch (rather than a back one) to add to that sense of 'community' - where everyone can 'watch out for each other'. Literally.
She has had a very interesting life - being raised in China in a Russian school (so although she's Australian, she has a heavy Russian accent). She and her husband started their family overseas and there were a few stories about trains and border crossings with babies and bags going missing, and no food and so on which made for an astonishing 45 minutes listening. She has two cats and a dog just like Riley ("only she is proper breed!") called Poppy. She's kind, friendly and always up for a chat. ALWAYS UP FOR A CHAT.
I realised last night as she sprung upon me out of the dusk as I darted from my car to the front door and started relating the activities of Rumi during the day, and how her two cats responded to this, and how great it was that one of my new shrubs was flowering, and how I had been at work a long time today and how I must be tired and she should be going, except that it would be best for me if I cooked a big meal on sundays and froze it in portions and then i wouldn't have to cook each night, just heat up my meal and it's much better that way, which is how she does it, in an enamel pot, they're the best kind and I nodded and tried to smile and it dawned on me. I am just not made for this suburban life. I am a crap neighbour. I have no interest in who is doing what to who over in number 13, or what number 15 thinks of it, and is trying not to say, nor why number 12 has so many people living there, or what they think they're doing with that great big boat, nor why Mrs Number 18 was in hospital recently, or if the people at number 11 are still the same ones who had the big drug bust or are there new people there now.
I DON'T CARE.
I say g'day, I offer to bring bins in if people are going away, I'll swap cuttings or dog-sit. That's kind of it for me. I've expanded that to being the loose-dog-pound-ringer and I'm done. I didn't realise that a yard would come with such a high cost. I also thought that fences would absorb more sound. There you go - wrong again.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Hollow Promises
This afternoon I found myself looking forward to grocery shopping. I had decided to go to the bigger store over the river which is set in a big complex thing rather than the normal strip of shops type place. You know the kind of place I mean, it's large enough to have 3 or 4 major traders and then a B-list string of food franchises and XXX "Specialty Stores". Lots of white lights rather than 'warm' lights. Why was I looking forward to it?
I don't know.
I hate the place.
The larger store stocks items I don't need very often and can't get at the normal store. It has a wider range of vegetables and cheeses, but is the same in every other regard - except for the tempting idea of neighbouring "specialty stores".
This is the pattern. I go, and wander for nearly an hour getting sore feet and a headache, not finding anything of a special nature. Instead I am shocked and awed by the physical and emotional parade of my fellow shoppers, I am numbed by the blandness on offer. This is not a particular insult to this town. I think it's fair to say that most if not all suburban shopping centers are like this. Middle-ness in essence.
The logic is that folk want roughly 20% of stuff 80% of the time. Think about groceries - bread and milk and potatoes every shop, but all those other 10 aisles .... well we pick and choose. I skip about a third of aisles every visit and probably you do too. Anyway, of that 20% ... most folk then have only one or two preferences.
Ice cream? "Sure!" Says most folks, then they split between Chocolate and Vanilla. There's the odd statistical anomaly who wants Strawberry, and then there's all those "special occasion" ice-creams, but for the bog-standard 4litre Ice Cream purchase (yes, I said 4L!) it's choc or vanilla. So extrapolate that out, and let the logic run for a while. No wonder there are people who just don't realise that you can get pistachio ice-cream, because even in an internationally award-winning mid-sized city with XXX specialty stores, there's not a one selling anything too far different from everything else everyone already has. They're offering hollow promises,
So to come back to where I started, I grocery shopped tonight with speed, precision and organisation (possibly the only realm of my life where I can muster all three skills in one place) and was in and out of there in 50 minutes (almost a personal best!). I looked in the windows of the stores as I walked briskly past them, and confirmed that I don't need any of that shit. I was grateful to be able to get the stuff I did need, but came home as quickly as possible to enjoy my time and thoughts (and maybe a little bit of ebay activity, where the 80/20 rule does not hold sway and the erratic and irrational have their power returned).
It was good to get out unscathed, but I am am not always this calm and controlled. I resent the foggy numbness that sometimes comes over me. I don't even have to be in the endless mall/centre for it to happen (so I can't blame the lights or the mirrors or that insidious fake-food smell that Subway pumps out) but when it does I become a wandering, impulse-shopping zombie. Something that works to snap me out of it, if I have any intelligence left flickering in my cranium, is to imagine the stare of withering derision that Henry Rollins would give me if he caught me doing this, and that sorts me out quick smart. Of course, Hank wouldn't know me from a baboon, but in some Jungian way I have taken all that I admire from him and Batman that possibly has a faint echo in myself and given it his face (the cowl was too hidden in the end for my own already hidden corners) so I can accord it some respect. Having said that if the chance to actually differentiate myself from a baboon in Henry Rollins' consciousness ever did present itself I would jump on him. I mean it, jump on it. The opportunity, I'd be all over it, not Henry. He's too big. Not that I'd try, you know, to literally *jump* on him, but, oh forget it. This is going from bad to worse.
I am so uncool. I'll just stop there.
I don't know.
I hate the place.
The larger store stocks items I don't need very often and can't get at the normal store. It has a wider range of vegetables and cheeses, but is the same in every other regard - except for the tempting idea of neighbouring "specialty stores".
This is the pattern. I go, and wander for nearly an hour getting sore feet and a headache, not finding anything of a special nature. Instead I am shocked and awed by the physical and emotional parade of my fellow shoppers, I am numbed by the blandness on offer. This is not a particular insult to this town. I think it's fair to say that most if not all suburban shopping centers are like this. Middle-ness in essence.
The logic is that folk want roughly 20% of stuff 80% of the time. Think about groceries - bread and milk and potatoes every shop, but all those other 10 aisles .... well we pick and choose. I skip about a third of aisles every visit and probably you do too. Anyway, of that 20% ... most folk then have only one or two preferences.
Ice cream? "Sure!" Says most folks, then they split between Chocolate and Vanilla. There's the odd statistical anomaly who wants Strawberry, and then there's all those "special occasion" ice-creams, but for the bog-standard 4litre Ice Cream purchase (yes, I said 4L!) it's choc or vanilla. So extrapolate that out, and let the logic run for a while. No wonder there are people who just don't realise that you can get pistachio ice-cream, because even in an internationally award-winning mid-sized city with XXX specialty stores, there's not a one selling anything too far different from everything else everyone already has. They're offering hollow promises,
So to come back to where I started, I grocery shopped tonight with speed, precision and organisation (possibly the only realm of my life where I can muster all three skills in one place) and was in and out of there in 50 minutes (almost a personal best!). I looked in the windows of the stores as I walked briskly past them, and confirmed that I don't need any of that shit. I was grateful to be able to get the stuff I did need, but came home as quickly as possible to enjoy my time and thoughts (and maybe a little bit of ebay activity, where the 80/20 rule does not hold sway and the erratic and irrational have their power returned).
It was good to get out unscathed, but I am am not always this calm and controlled. I resent the foggy numbness that sometimes comes over me. I don't even have to be in the endless mall/centre for it to happen (so I can't blame the lights or the mirrors or that insidious fake-food smell that Subway pumps out) but when it does I become a wandering, impulse-shopping zombie. Something that works to snap me out of it, if I have any intelligence left flickering in my cranium, is to imagine the stare of withering derision that Henry Rollins would give me if he caught me doing this, and that sorts me out quick smart. Of course, Hank wouldn't know me from a baboon, but in some Jungian way I have taken all that I admire from him and Batman that possibly has a faint echo in myself and given it his face (the cowl was too hidden in the end for my own already hidden corners) so I can accord it some respect. Having said that if the chance to actually differentiate myself from a baboon in Henry Rollins' consciousness ever did present itself I would jump on him. I mean it, jump on it. The opportunity, I'd be all over it, not Henry. He's too big. Not that I'd try, you know, to literally *jump* on him, but, oh forget it. This is going from bad to worse.
I am so uncool. I'll just stop there.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Great Cull
Having set a date (no matter how randomly) for delivering a project, one's energy seems to magically align to making that happen. Why don't I use this power for good more often?
Finally I am able to face the 3 or 4 (I don't even really know how many there are!) folders of notes, drafts, versions (at least 3 distinct versions, not including the original sci-fi dystopia version!) and scribbles, hopes and fakes that make up the "file" of this work in progress. I have been kidding myself that it's "pretty much all there" for quite some time now, allowing hope and denial to take the place of clear-eyed editing. Having spent Monday night critically appraising the existing computer files (ack! so make that 5! folders of stuff) I realise that there is a lot of work ahead of me. Proper work, not collating or finessing or polishing, or the other hand-waving that I will try and get away with before I do anything requiring mental horsepower. I think, with my Realistic Hat on that I will be keeping less than 10% of the guff that I have, and that I am at First Draft stage rather than the hopeful Second Draft I posited earlier this week.
Rather than being depressed by this (as I have been in the past when the hand-waving hasn't worked) I feel invigorated. Scared of still producing nothing but crap come August, but keen to give it a go. There's nothing to lose.
Finally I understand that there's nothing to lose in trying to make this thing. Oh. Oh wow.
No really, wow. I can only get better (!), I can only make myself happier by working on this thing. There are very few things I would rather do with my time, and (call me crazy) it might all go well and be good. Woah!
I know I'm talking it all up more than showing you the goods this week. It's not that I don't want to share with you, it's that there's masses of culling going on and not yet enough (read: any)new stuff. Tonight will be new stuff time (I will alternate culling and writing so that there's some chance for the old stuff to grow and the new stuff to not be too swamped). Even this degree of deliberate focus is very very new for me, and intimidating. I write on-demand at work, but that is very functional and practical material. This experiment tonight may be wobbly-time. Anyway, if all goes to the Optimistic Plan can expect to see some samples here in June/July.
The once-deserted fairly landscape down in the new estate is overrun with building goblins now. Men in high-vis yellow and orange or high-risk tans swarm over the mess of concrete slabs. Wooden skeletons of rooms and roofs are massing themselves and sitting over the top of the oddly truncated plastic tubes that stick out of the slabs like the severed arteries of ossified giants. It's a cacophony of nail guns, oaths and earth-moving equipment. I find it a bit much for my 7am, but Riley is intoxicated with the variety of smells and activities. We compromise and go there every 2 or 3 days for the morning walks, and I try and keep my gaze averted to the trees over the gorge, rather than risk accidentally seeing a workman piss against his own truck again.
Finally I am able to face the 3 or 4 (I don't even really know how many there are!) folders of notes, drafts, versions (at least 3 distinct versions, not including the original sci-fi dystopia version!) and scribbles, hopes and fakes that make up the "file" of this work in progress. I have been kidding myself that it's "pretty much all there" for quite some time now, allowing hope and denial to take the place of clear-eyed editing. Having spent Monday night critically appraising the existing computer files (ack! so make that 5! folders of stuff) I realise that there is a lot of work ahead of me. Proper work, not collating or finessing or polishing, or the other hand-waving that I will try and get away with before I do anything requiring mental horsepower. I think, with my Realistic Hat on that I will be keeping less than 10% of the guff that I have, and that I am at First Draft stage rather than the hopeful Second Draft I posited earlier this week.
Rather than being depressed by this (as I have been in the past when the hand-waving hasn't worked) I feel invigorated. Scared of still producing nothing but crap come August, but keen to give it a go. There's nothing to lose.
Finally I understand that there's nothing to lose in trying to make this thing. Oh. Oh wow.
No really, wow. I can only get better (!), I can only make myself happier by working on this thing. There are very few things I would rather do with my time, and (call me crazy) it might all go well and be good. Woah!
I know I'm talking it all up more than showing you the goods this week. It's not that I don't want to share with you, it's that there's masses of culling going on and not yet enough (read: any)new stuff. Tonight will be new stuff time (I will alternate culling and writing so that there's some chance for the old stuff to grow and the new stuff to not be too swamped). Even this degree of deliberate focus is very very new for me, and intimidating. I write on-demand at work, but that is very functional and practical material. This experiment tonight may be wobbly-time. Anyway, if all goes to the Optimistic Plan can expect to see some samples here in June/July.
The once-deserted fairly landscape down in the new estate is overrun with building goblins now. Men in high-vis yellow and orange or high-risk tans swarm over the mess of concrete slabs. Wooden skeletons of rooms and roofs are massing themselves and sitting over the top of the oddly truncated plastic tubes that stick out of the slabs like the severed arteries of ossified giants. It's a cacophony of nail guns, oaths and earth-moving equipment. I find it a bit much for my 7am, but Riley is intoxicated with the variety of smells and activities. We compromise and go there every 2 or 3 days for the morning walks, and I try and keep my gaze averted to the trees over the gorge, rather than risk accidentally seeing a workman piss against his own truck again.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Politics anyone? (Rated: MA)
Are you interested in politics? Well now, let me see if we agree what we're talking about here (English - such a sloppy language).
If we're talking about the bastard child of vigilante justice and corrupt management masquerading as leadership and patriotic paternalism, then yeah, we're probably on the same page, and my quick, accurate and honest answer is "no way". Am I addicted to it in the way of cheezy soaps and sleazy lying two-timing boyfriends - "way!".
It's my dirty secret, I don't think I'm worth a good life any more than the next sad, overweight, brain dead tv-addled moron. And I'm right. I get what I deserve, and I'm getting a lot of politics. And a new season of Biggest Looser - 6 nights a week. Alternated with "Big Brother". Right there in the juxtaposition of those two titles tells you all you need to know about the state of our country and it's info-tainment mindset. It's ok, you don't need to ask - yes I do feel dirty and hate myself for it. But that's the beauty of self-hatred, it's a perfect cycle, leading directly to self harm, self sabotage and indulgence in reckless behaviour - like reading the newspaper, watching the TV or just believing any guy when he says he'll call you.
I'm not even feeling especially bitter today, just bored with being bland, and sick up to the back pass with living in the suburbs. What fucking shit-holes we make for ourselves, and then squabble over the price of buying into them like sarky ill-mannered little rats. Ignorant, angry rats, gagging to hole-up somewhere and gnaw away at the wiring and stray dog kibble. Breeding as fast as we can so it's our bigoted, bored offspring tunneling away into the next natural area of our dwindling stockpile and roaming the streets bored and jacked up on cheap drugs and subsidised petrol looking for a new abuse to amuse for a few minutes. As long as it's not those icky fuckin rats from over the water. In the immortal words of Ms J: Fuck that shit.
Ex-xactly.
So, here I am. Sending out to you from the impacted colon of the arse of Australia. Since the Roman senate, politics has been about paying off the noisiest interests and distracting the dimmest or least powerful interests. The only fracture in this process at the moment - sport disappearing off the free-to-air. Bring back our circus! Riiiiiight. Not the creeping corporatisation of our public services, not the preventable diseases and deaths from reckless driving or the huge amount of money we as a country piss away in corrupt defence contracts or "lost" armaments, or the fact that our literacy levels are heading towards the same levels as Nelson's approval rating. No, we're pleasantly distracted by Guillard's haircut (or lack thereof) and the liberal party failing to grow a new head.
Well I don't have any answers. I'm part of the problem and I know it. I am disillusioned, cynical and fed-up. I've got more than half of my life in front of me - almost enough time to make sure that if I work 'hard enough' I can "self-fund" my decrepitude. Gee, thanks. It's not like I can even plan to do the reasonable thing and top myself when the time comes. That's been outlawed. Good thinking guys. And can anyone give a real reason for the criminalisation of self-responsibility in one's end days that isn't soft wet hand-wringing? No? I didn't think so.
I'm no more interested in politics than I am interested in the practise trepanning to relieve back-ache.
If we're talking about the bastard child of vigilante justice and corrupt management masquerading as leadership and patriotic paternalism, then yeah, we're probably on the same page, and my quick, accurate and honest answer is "no way". Am I addicted to it in the way of cheezy soaps and sleazy lying two-timing boyfriends - "way!".
It's my dirty secret, I don't think I'm worth a good life any more than the next sad, overweight, brain dead tv-addled moron. And I'm right. I get what I deserve, and I'm getting a lot of politics. And a new season of Biggest Looser - 6 nights a week. Alternated with "Big Brother". Right there in the juxtaposition of those two titles tells you all you need to know about the state of our country and it's info-tainment mindset. It's ok, you don't need to ask - yes I do feel dirty and hate myself for it. But that's the beauty of self-hatred, it's a perfect cycle, leading directly to self harm, self sabotage and indulgence in reckless behaviour - like reading the newspaper, watching the TV or just believing any guy when he says he'll call you.
I'm not even feeling especially bitter today, just bored with being bland, and sick up to the back pass with living in the suburbs. What fucking shit-holes we make for ourselves, and then squabble over the price of buying into them like sarky ill-mannered little rats. Ignorant, angry rats, gagging to hole-up somewhere and gnaw away at the wiring and stray dog kibble. Breeding as fast as we can so it's our bigoted, bored offspring tunneling away into the next natural area of our dwindling stockpile and roaming the streets bored and jacked up on cheap drugs and subsidised petrol looking for a new abuse to amuse for a few minutes. As long as it's not those icky fuckin rats from over the water. In the immortal words of Ms J: Fuck that shit.
Ex-xactly.
So, here I am. Sending out to you from the impacted colon of the arse of Australia. Since the Roman senate, politics has been about paying off the noisiest interests and distracting the dimmest or least powerful interests. The only fracture in this process at the moment - sport disappearing off the free-to-air. Bring back our circus! Riiiiiight. Not the creeping corporatisation of our public services, not the preventable diseases and deaths from reckless driving or the huge amount of money we as a country piss away in corrupt defence contracts or "lost" armaments, or the fact that our literacy levels are heading towards the same levels as Nelson's approval rating. No, we're pleasantly distracted by Guillard's haircut (or lack thereof) and the liberal party failing to grow a new head.
Well I don't have any answers. I'm part of the problem and I know it. I am disillusioned, cynical and fed-up. I've got more than half of my life in front of me - almost enough time to make sure that if I work 'hard enough' I can "self-fund" my decrepitude. Gee, thanks. It's not like I can even plan to do the reasonable thing and top myself when the time comes. That's been outlawed. Good thinking guys. And can anyone give a real reason for the criminalisation of self-responsibility in one's end days that isn't soft wet hand-wringing? No? I didn't think so.
I'm no more interested in politics than I am interested in the practise trepanning to relieve back-ache.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Fungus Estate
Riley and I went for a walk this morning down to an unpopulated estate. It has new roads, lights, footpaths, signposts, everything except houses. No houses. It backs onto one of the reserves, the Bremer, and a picturesque (but way too noisy) railway bridge. There's always plenty of birds in the trees, and as it's on a good rise, a great view of the swollen dirty river broiling it's way towards Brisbane.
I like walking that way because it's a walk that has decent paths and if the mood and the weather are right, we can do it a long way and take an hour, or the practical way and do it in 30 minutes. Riley likes it because it has plenty of sniffing and peeing, and some good stretches where he can have a good run.
The thing I noticed again today, is after all of the rain we've been having how many fungi grow wild. Such a huge variety of toadstools and weird things that look like something a giant animal coughed up out of it's throat. The colours range from softest ivory through to orange leather, and the structures too are amazing. Classic toadstools, and fake mushrooms, then the sides of leather, the blobby ones, the ridgy ones, tiny flimsy looking things just sketched lightly and really pointy ones, caricaturing themselves.
So we were walking through this estate, almost eerie in being completely empty of the houses it was designed for, but walking past a lush and continuous display of fungi. It was an odd juxtaposition, and really set the scene for us to be kidnapped by faeries or fall into a parallel world.
I don't think that happened, unless I've just been dreaming that I'm at work.
I will be a bit disappointed when people finally start building here, even though it is crazy to do all this expensive development and not use it. I wonder what the hold-up is? There aren't even any "For Sale" signs up. It feels so private at the moment, but we'll have to share it eventually. Until that time, Riley and I can sneak down there and dream our separate dreams.
I like walking that way because it's a walk that has decent paths and if the mood and the weather are right, we can do it a long way and take an hour, or the practical way and do it in 30 minutes. Riley likes it because it has plenty of sniffing and peeing, and some good stretches where he can have a good run.
The thing I noticed again today, is after all of the rain we've been having how many fungi grow wild. Such a huge variety of toadstools and weird things that look like something a giant animal coughed up out of it's throat. The colours range from softest ivory through to orange leather, and the structures too are amazing. Classic toadstools, and fake mushrooms, then the sides of leather, the blobby ones, the ridgy ones, tiny flimsy looking things just sketched lightly and really pointy ones, caricaturing themselves.
So we were walking through this estate, almost eerie in being completely empty of the houses it was designed for, but walking past a lush and continuous display of fungi. It was an odd juxtaposition, and really set the scene for us to be kidnapped by faeries or fall into a parallel world.
I don't think that happened, unless I've just been dreaming that I'm at work.
I will be a bit disappointed when people finally start building here, even though it is crazy to do all this expensive development and not use it. I wonder what the hold-up is? There aren't even any "For Sale" signs up. It feels so private at the moment, but we'll have to share it eventually. Until that time, Riley and I can sneak down there and dream our separate dreams.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Suburban Rituals: Mowing
Over the weekend, I attempted to mow my yard.
Note "attempted".
There are many things I struggle with in life, far too many really, and sadly, this list is only being expanded by my half-hearted first foray into home ownership.
Since I moved in two months ago, every weekend has been pierced at various (read: early) hours of the day by the cacophonous mating call of the lesser two-stroke mower. A popular Queensland variant of this creature features an unusual symbiont - a weedy thin human male clad only in short short stubbies and the old style thin things. Hat/sunglasses are optional, as is a half-smoked durrie and blurry blue old tatts down the forearms, but accessories do make the man. Lawns are as close as Suburban Queensland seems to have to a soul. Gardens are nice, but you really just need a lawn. The "inifinity" lawn look is popular too - from the edge of your house to the kerb in one smooth unbroken golf-green.
Well, since it rained, I have been pleased to watch a variety of green things sprout and thrust their way competitively into the sunlight in my yard. Some resulted in yellow swaying flowers, some in tiny blue ones - leaving a very pretty haze of almost lilac blue, some just in giant woody tendril structures keen to make a bid for control of the house. I like the idea of a garden, eventually, but it has been a long way down the energy-consumption-priority list lately and I was happy just for it to be green.
When I lost Riley in the yard and had a minor freakout that the thing that lives in the bowels of the Deathstar had grabbed him, I realised it was time to mow. I borrowed the mower from Ma & Pa, got long pants, boots, hat, leather gloves, ear plugs on, over and in. Fired her up and commenced battle.
What an ordeal.
Painful, noisy, uncontrollable, rough, endless.
When the machine over heated after 20 minutes having done about one twelfth of the entire yard I was in complete concurrence.
This is going to take more planning. If I can only do a twelfth at a time, and the grass continues to grow at the current rate, then my initial computations suggest that I will be mowing this lawn for... roughly the REST OF MY NATURAL BORN LIFE.
So there's got to be some other options. Today I am trying to figure out what second job I can get so I can afford to pay to have the whole thing paved, or turned into the set of Narnia, or adding decking to every side of the house over the damn thing, or dug up and put to useful cultivation...
But I don't really have the energy for that either. It's all a bit much. Time for a cup of tea and a crack at the crossword.
Note "attempted".
There are many things I struggle with in life, far too many really, and sadly, this list is only being expanded by my half-hearted first foray into home ownership.
Since I moved in two months ago, every weekend has been pierced at various (read: early) hours of the day by the cacophonous mating call of the lesser two-stroke mower. A popular Queensland variant of this creature features an unusual symbiont - a weedy thin human male clad only in short short stubbies and the old style thin things. Hat/sunglasses are optional, as is a half-smoked durrie and blurry blue old tatts down the forearms, but accessories do make the man. Lawns are as close as Suburban Queensland seems to have to a soul. Gardens are nice, but you really just need a lawn. The "inifinity" lawn look is popular too - from the edge of your house to the kerb in one smooth unbroken golf-green.
Well, since it rained, I have been pleased to watch a variety of green things sprout and thrust their way competitively into the sunlight in my yard. Some resulted in yellow swaying flowers, some in tiny blue ones - leaving a very pretty haze of almost lilac blue, some just in giant woody tendril structures keen to make a bid for control of the house. I like the idea of a garden, eventually, but it has been a long way down the energy-consumption-priority list lately and I was happy just for it to be green.
When I lost Riley in the yard and had a minor freakout that the thing that lives in the bowels of the Deathstar had grabbed him, I realised it was time to mow. I borrowed the mower from Ma & Pa, got long pants, boots, hat, leather gloves, ear plugs on, over and in. Fired her up and commenced battle.
What an ordeal.
Painful, noisy, uncontrollable, rough, endless.
When the machine over heated after 20 minutes having done about one twelfth of the entire yard I was in complete concurrence.
This is going to take more planning. If I can only do a twelfth at a time, and the grass continues to grow at the current rate, then my initial computations suggest that I will be mowing this lawn for... roughly the REST OF MY NATURAL BORN LIFE.
So there's got to be some other options. Today I am trying to figure out what second job I can get so I can afford to pay to have the whole thing paved, or turned into the set of Narnia, or adding decking to every side of the house over the damn thing, or dug up and put to useful cultivation...
But I don't really have the energy for that either. It's all a bit much. Time for a cup of tea and a crack at the crossword.
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