Curiosity has a funny way of rewarding action sometimes. Normally people only mention the highlights of curiosity – the exploration, the quirky discoveries, the interesting facts gleaned from odd experiences and strange people met along the way.
What doesn’t get mentioned so much is how hard it can be to live with. One gets bored with an otherwise perfectly acceptable life if there is not at least a trickle of curiosity-worthy material. Being bored with one's life is a slow poison. It is an ally of depression and they are both distant cousins (in my case) to eating binges. Ah, potatoes.
But I digress.
The main difficulty I find in this yearning to know about things, is that although it is easy enough to find out, it is then very very hard to keep quiet about the picture eventually drawn by all these points of data. Generally other people are not interested or they would have already googled it for themselves. Take as an example the methane plumes in the Arctic that are in the news this month. That sounds interesting doesn't it? Sounds also a bit like bad news too - isn't methane a greenhouse gas? Yup, twenty times more so than carbon dioxide. Oh shitbags. What will that mean for sea levels and polar bears and weather weirding?? Well probably a lot but no-one has a guaranteed divination method for anything other than "maybe this, maybe that" (all of which are sobering enough). Still, at last we're having the conversation.
Oh no. Wait. We're not are we?
New Zealand might be.
Maybe it is because we live so far away. If we lived closer we would care.
Oh wait, the Earth is a globe, all that water up the top is connected to all our water down below....
See what happens? One question leads to another. And thence to another and so on until my mind if full and I spin out of my chair and trip over my feet falling into fevered-dream sleep. Perhaps I exaggerate that loop a little for narrative tension, but you get my point.
Lots of data. Lots of consequences. Not a lot of ideas about what to do with this knowledge or (one step further) what to do in response (well actually the established ideas all involve individuals using and consuming less, and no-one wants to be the first to blink). Instead our news is filled with predicable politically flavoured blandals (like scandals only really really bland) and circus gossip.
This isn't the first topic this little pattern has repeated itself on either. You'd think I would resist the urge to scratch the curiosity itch. I've tried. It doesn't work.
Curiosity killed the cat but a life unqueried is unlivable.
Showing posts with label bored. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bored. Show all posts
Monday, April 30, 2012
Friday, June 04, 2010
A Different Kind of Year
This message is the 365th.
A year's worth of messages - possibly making this blog one year old or maybe a decade old (in blog time). It is a cute milestone. Part of me thinks I should take a photo of it. What an atavistic impulse.
So many things are on autopilot now that I sometimes wonder if the ship gets as bored as I do. We're scheduled for a refueling and cargo transfer stop at the 711116 hub soon. I'm checking the mirror to make sure I'm presentable, but I can't remember if I'm meant to have hair or not. The transmission lag means it is not worth checking the feeds yet either.
Last time I got a case of the jitters and scurried back to the ship after about 4 hours. It was just too weird to be around people and eating food other than Stilton. Oh yeah, the mouse, a slow set of moves got it convinced that the ship was longer and wider than it really is, and using the only remaining advantage of opposable thumbs, I waited and waited and waited until it went into an airlock looking for the promised land, and I blew the hatch manually.
Likewise I then performed a hard start of the command systems, so at least I'm nominally back in control, but of course all of the tweaked settings and preferences and other niceties are missing. It just doesn't seem like home. It feels like my home was stolen and replaced with an exact replica, but all an inch to the left. I could just run a back-up, but now I'm looking out the window and wondering if I should just build them all up fresh. Maybe I'd like things to be different, but am just in the habit of *thinking* that I like them a certain way... like the hair thing, I'll wait and bit longer and see.
A year's worth of messages - possibly making this blog one year old or maybe a decade old (in blog time). It is a cute milestone. Part of me thinks I should take a photo of it. What an atavistic impulse.
So many things are on autopilot now that I sometimes wonder if the ship gets as bored as I do. We're scheduled for a refueling and cargo transfer stop at the 711116 hub soon. I'm checking the mirror to make sure I'm presentable, but I can't remember if I'm meant to have hair or not. The transmission lag means it is not worth checking the feeds yet either.
Last time I got a case of the jitters and scurried back to the ship after about 4 hours. It was just too weird to be around people and eating food other than Stilton. Oh yeah, the mouse, a slow set of moves got it convinced that the ship was longer and wider than it really is, and using the only remaining advantage of opposable thumbs, I waited and waited and waited until it went into an airlock looking for the promised land, and I blew the hatch manually.
Likewise I then performed a hard start of the command systems, so at least I'm nominally back in control, but of course all of the tweaked settings and preferences and other niceties are missing. It just doesn't seem like home. It feels like my home was stolen and replaced with an exact replica, but all an inch to the left. I could just run a back-up, but now I'm looking out the window and wondering if I should just build them all up fresh. Maybe I'd like things to be different, but am just in the habit of *thinking* that I like them a certain way... like the hair thing, I'll wait and bit longer and see.
Monday, October 12, 2009
I don't like Mondays
For about eight or nine years I worked in the real world, where what you did and how you did it relly mattered in quite a direct way. That experience was far from cubicles and the monday-to-friday-9-to-5. As you probably know, in the real world, service industries (and like it or not Australia's domestic economy is largely service based) are 7 day operations. Well they are on the central planets. Out here on the rim there's not much that's open on a Sunday, or even a saturday arvo.
But I digress.
I had to make many changes when I took the colonisation shuttle here. The pamphlet said things would be a bit different, but I couldn't have guessed how hard it would be to crowbar myself back into the little box of punching the clock, trying to work on an interface centrally controlled and monitored in work processes based around political expediency and box-ticking rather than service, and with people who've grown up here and think (at best) of everywhere else as only a possible holiday destination (but why pass up a trip to the pleasure boats?). The one thing of all of these that is hardest to swallow is not the petty bitching over imaginary power bases, nor the endless chatter about the best fake tan lotions or speed bleaching of hair. It is the cold, terminal nature of Monday Mornings.
Back in the bustle and business of the central planets, Monday mornings and Friday nights are largely just like any other other moments in the purchasing/pleasuring continuum of modern life. Actual days off may vary. From the inside, Mondays and Fridays are the bi-polar manic days of emotional extremism highlighting the endless cycle of the rat-race and the pathetic occlusion of all that is organic and natural about living. Rigid, imposed and arbitary rules still are the guiding principles of bureaucratic structures, no matter their inefficiency, their pointless focus on attendence and process above output and quality, their heartbreaking monotony.
No sir, I do not like these type of Mondays at all.
But I digress.
I had to make many changes when I took the colonisation shuttle here. The pamphlet said things would be a bit different, but I couldn't have guessed how hard it would be to crowbar myself back into the little box of punching the clock, trying to work on an interface centrally controlled and monitored in work processes based around political expediency and box-ticking rather than service, and with people who've grown up here and think (at best) of everywhere else as only a possible holiday destination (but why pass up a trip to the pleasure boats?). The one thing of all of these that is hardest to swallow is not the petty bitching over imaginary power bases, nor the endless chatter about the best fake tan lotions or speed bleaching of hair. It is the cold, terminal nature of Monday Mornings.
Back in the bustle and business of the central planets, Monday mornings and Friday nights are largely just like any other other moments in the purchasing/pleasuring continuum of modern life. Actual days off may vary. From the inside, Mondays and Fridays are the bi-polar manic days of emotional extremism highlighting the endless cycle of the rat-race and the pathetic occlusion of all that is organic and natural about living. Rigid, imposed and arbitary rules still are the guiding principles of bureaucratic structures, no matter their inefficiency, their pointless focus on attendence and process above output and quality, their heartbreaking monotony.
No sir, I do not like these type of Mondays at all.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Too many Days
The 28TH of December poses a real and present danger to the capitalist way of life and should be dispensed with under the Keynesian Laws of Market Stimulus (1927).
This problematic day creates a hiccup in the smooth flow of capital from the proletariat to the businesses of escape and should either be commercialised or excised. The major investment poured over the decades into creating a day of massive consumption (code name "Christmas") and the corresponding after party (Code name "Boxing Day" - both 'sales' and movie premiers) has been inordinately successful. The use of all subsequent days as lead-ups to New Year's Eve and the increasing commercialisation of this event is being undermined by the subversive elements within Dec28TH and this cannot be allowed to escalate and put at risk all that we have achieved.
Situation Report
Undercover agents have again reported unacceptable behaviours on this day such as the vague and somnambulistic questioning the value of ongoing consumption of disposable consumer items, public expressions of symptoms and sensations of boredom, even a desire to connect with other non-familial humans without the purchase of special clothes or equipment in order to do so, and most problematically, some were seen to take a long walk on this day and to read a non-fiction book when they returned. Obviously this is not yet a crisis, indeed may of these behaviours are part of the cultural legacy inherited by the system from the previous historical construct. They are weakening overall but the cabal feel that at this juncture of the dominance of global capital such outbursts constitute a warning sign. This undercurrent of unease could be used by the rebel forces to politicise and activate currently placid consumers. That risk is unacceptable.
The Decimal Option
A further investment of funds into a fresh event is always possible. However analysis suggests that both December and January are sufficiently subscribed to meet requirement. Many other months are desperately under-subscribed, entire quarters in some instances (August, September, October for example remain barren of all but the weakest events. Despite ongoing investment and marketing application, Father's Day remains sluggish against expectations). This presents an opportunity to instigate a radical re-visioning of the year as we know it in line with some other goals of the cabal. Let's be honest - 365 has always been an unwieldy number. Non-decimal, pagan, geo-centric it represents a psychologically uncontrollable random element to life and commerce. Frankly, it's just annoying. Twelve months is two too many. Seven days a week - WTF? - let's make it 5 or 10 and neaten up the whole calendar business. The year would be much more manageable at, say 200 or 250 days length. Each month would then have a perfect four or five weeks (at a 5 day length) and in the course of two comparative centuries, we would accrue an extra 92 Christmases (using the larger 250 day a year model, results are even more dramatic at the 200 day a year rate). Thus creating an increase in the rate of return on investment for cabal members that I'm sure will be persuasive in and of itself.
On the Front Foot
There's simply no downside to this option, and at this point in history we have the power, the reach, the will and the advertising budget to pull it off. So many of our niggling and accruing problems would be dealt with through this one rational measure. There are simply too many days in the year, and it is time we handled it. Time we created a tighter, pacier year that zips and flows from one major celebration to the next. It is time for this cabal to shine the digital decimal light of market forces onto the slapshod rambling world and really rip some returns for our shareholders. Analysis suggests that implementation costs would actually function as a market stimulus (much as we've recognised that the targeted and deliberate reduction in carbon emissions would). I urge the cabal to get on the front foot and do it now while they're on their knees from the 'credit crunch' (you've got to hand it to our marketing department and their snappy names) and then as a reward we can ease the reins a little. What we lose in control of the crunch will be nothing to what we gain in the big matrix.
This problematic day creates a hiccup in the smooth flow of capital from the proletariat to the businesses of escape and should either be commercialised or excised. The major investment poured over the decades into creating a day of massive consumption (code name "Christmas") and the corresponding after party (Code name "Boxing Day" - both 'sales' and movie premiers) has been inordinately successful. The use of all subsequent days as lead-ups to New Year's Eve and the increasing commercialisation of this event is being undermined by the subversive elements within Dec28TH and this cannot be allowed to escalate and put at risk all that we have achieved.
Situation Report
Undercover agents have again reported unacceptable behaviours on this day such as the vague and somnambulistic questioning the value of ongoing consumption of disposable consumer items, public expressions of symptoms and sensations of boredom, even a desire to connect with other non-familial humans without the purchase of special clothes or equipment in order to do so, and most problematically, some were seen to take a long walk on this day and to read a non-fiction book when they returned. Obviously this is not yet a crisis, indeed may of these behaviours are part of the cultural legacy inherited by the system from the previous historical construct. They are weakening overall but the cabal feel that at this juncture of the dominance of global capital such outbursts constitute a warning sign. This undercurrent of unease could be used by the rebel forces to politicise and activate currently placid consumers. That risk is unacceptable.
The Decimal Option
A further investment of funds into a fresh event is always possible. However analysis suggests that both December and January are sufficiently subscribed to meet requirement. Many other months are desperately under-subscribed, entire quarters in some instances (August, September, October for example remain barren of all but the weakest events. Despite ongoing investment and marketing application, Father's Day remains sluggish against expectations). This presents an opportunity to instigate a radical re-visioning of the year as we know it in line with some other goals of the cabal. Let's be honest - 365 has always been an unwieldy number. Non-decimal, pagan, geo-centric it represents a psychologically uncontrollable random element to life and commerce. Frankly, it's just annoying. Twelve months is two too many. Seven days a week - WTF? - let's make it 5 or 10 and neaten up the whole calendar business. The year would be much more manageable at, say 200 or 250 days length. Each month would then have a perfect four or five weeks (at a 5 day length) and in the course of two comparative centuries, we would accrue an extra 92 Christmases (using the larger 250 day a year model, results are even more dramatic at the 200 day a year rate). Thus creating an increase in the rate of return on investment for cabal members that I'm sure will be persuasive in and of itself.
On the Front Foot
There's simply no downside to this option, and at this point in history we have the power, the reach, the will and the advertising budget to pull it off. So many of our niggling and accruing problems would be dealt with through this one rational measure. There are simply too many days in the year, and it is time we handled it. Time we created a tighter, pacier year that zips and flows from one major celebration to the next. It is time for this cabal to shine the digital decimal light of market forces onto the slapshod rambling world and really rip some returns for our shareholders. Analysis suggests that implementation costs would actually function as a market stimulus (much as we've recognised that the targeted and deliberate reduction in carbon emissions would). I urge the cabal to get on the front foot and do it now while they're on their knees from the 'credit crunch' (you've got to hand it to our marketing department and their snappy names) and then as a reward we can ease the reins a little. What we lose in control of the crunch will be nothing to what we gain in the big matrix.
Friday, November 14, 2008
A Failure of Fun
I hit a wall this week. Ah, no - not in the car or anything. Emotionally. Is there a better way to say it? Plateau? No, it wasn't a levelling out. There's something that happens when tension builds up and frustration build up - and after a while you can't just keep working through it.
This week I had a nasty plot hump with the story, a bit of writer's block and "why am I doing this" and not reading, ok, well I'm sneaking some reading in, but no novels! Very little TV too and so it's just me and the blank page and the broken brain.
The word count has stalled at about 7300 (nearly my previous best of about 8/8500) it's hard not to wonder - am I choking? Do I really just not have this in me? Is this the best I can do?
Last night midnight saw me walking backwards and forwards throwing handfulls of papers into the recycling and asking Riley how nearly a whole nother year could have passed. He had no answers. How zen dogs can be. He's right of course, there are no answers, only choices and further questions.
Many other Nanowimo participants are already finished! Finished!! WTF?! Should I have chosen a different story? Should I too be transcribing song lyrics into my story or have a character count to a thousand? You think I'm joking, oh I assure you, these are but two of the fiendish tricks employed to plump one's word count.
Everything is taking so long to get out of my stupid head! But the time ranting and pacing last night was not completely lost. I had a little realisation. I'm missing the point. I've been clinging to my story and to my idea of what's ok. I'm at a writing version of Mardi gras with my metaphorical legs crossed and mouth closed. What a noob!
So rather than staying stuck on how to move Robin around Antrim, or what approach Soames will take to Eddie's abduction, I'm going to get back into it again and move through this invisible wall with my mouth open and my legs akimbo and get back to having a rip-sorting time.
And maybe just a few song lyrics.
This week I had a nasty plot hump with the story, a bit of writer's block and "why am I doing this" and not reading, ok, well I'm sneaking some reading in, but no novels! Very little TV too and so it's just me and the blank page and the broken brain.
The word count has stalled at about 7300 (nearly my previous best of about 8/8500) it's hard not to wonder - am I choking? Do I really just not have this in me? Is this the best I can do?
Last night midnight saw me walking backwards and forwards throwing handfulls of papers into the recycling and asking Riley how nearly a whole nother year could have passed. He had no answers. How zen dogs can be. He's right of course, there are no answers, only choices and further questions.
Many other Nanowimo participants are already finished! Finished!! WTF?! Should I have chosen a different story? Should I too be transcribing song lyrics into my story or have a character count to a thousand? You think I'm joking, oh I assure you, these are but two of the fiendish tricks employed to plump one's word count.
Everything is taking so long to get out of my stupid head! But the time ranting and pacing last night was not completely lost. I had a little realisation. I'm missing the point. I've been clinging to my story and to my idea of what's ok. I'm at a writing version of Mardi gras with my metaphorical legs crossed and mouth closed. What a noob!
So rather than staying stuck on how to move Robin around Antrim, or what approach Soames will take to Eddie's abduction, I'm going to get back into it again and move through this invisible wall with my mouth open and my legs akimbo and get back to having a rip-sorting time.
And maybe just a few song lyrics.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Tunnel Vision
Riley and I were walking down the street this morning and it seemed like we'd been walking down the one street for a long time. Over and over again. There was the slightest sensation for a moment of being in a tunnel that has it's other end now joined to the entrance. Looping now and passing signs for turnoffs you'll never get to.
But actually I know that this morning is different to yesterday morning in a myriad of tiny ways and even though when we walk out the door we can only turn left or turn right - and that often feels very limited - well that's the same at every corner we come to on our walks and we end up seeing different things. This tree is blooming, that bird is odd, how weird are the clouds, the path has been brushed. LIttle things, but different enough.
It's at times like this when there is so little to take in, that I realise all over again how much I do take in. How much of this morning's walk I can remember (not reconstruct) and how much I am constantly learning about my neighbourhood just by walking around it. Then, being me, I turn this observation into a worry "I'm not stimulating my brain enough and I'll get wobbly and dim. Look how much it's noticing - my brain could be filling up on pointless information about yards and bins and cars!!"
What a drongo.
So I'm going to read more SciFi and fill my brain up with imaginary things instead!
A much better idea than watching the news I think!
But actually I know that this morning is different to yesterday morning in a myriad of tiny ways and even though when we walk out the door we can only turn left or turn right - and that often feels very limited - well that's the same at every corner we come to on our walks and we end up seeing different things. This tree is blooming, that bird is odd, how weird are the clouds, the path has been brushed. LIttle things, but different enough.
It's at times like this when there is so little to take in, that I realise all over again how much I do take in. How much of this morning's walk I can remember (not reconstruct) and how much I am constantly learning about my neighbourhood just by walking around it. Then, being me, I turn this observation into a worry "I'm not stimulating my brain enough and I'll get wobbly and dim. Look how much it's noticing - my brain could be filling up on pointless information about yards and bins and cars!!"
What a drongo.
So I'm going to read more SciFi and fill my brain up with imaginary things instead!
A much better idea than watching the news I think!
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Because it's on
I'd had such hopes for the "antiques and collectibles fair day" that I was ready to be faced with many choices and competing desires. I was armed up with a little bit of cash, and ready to have to do some appraising and make a difficult decision of how best to deploy it for overall pleasure on the day.
What was actually available was ... lacklustre. A bit dull, very nana. Not much chop. Well, in the end I picked up another typewriter (a funky two-tone Remington 315 'portable') bringing it to just 2 Remington's an Olivetti and an Underwood (still pretty modest and I am *not* calling it a collection, I just like typewriters, and yes, nearly all of them work, but the ribbons are pretty faded) and an owl clicker. A clicker - you remember those pressed metal toys, where there was a body and then a little stub of metal on the back that you'd depress and let go, depress and let go and it would go "KL-ICK!, KL-ICK!" yes? Well, I paid an OUTRAGEOUS sum for one of those. I don't think it was outrageous, but Mellie (who is visiting with her dog-nephew Jinx) *screamed* when I said $8. Jeeze. Yes, we all had them when we were kids, but they got destroyed, chucked out, lost. Anyway, given that the only other thing I was interested in there was $255 (and incomplete! The lady let me take a photo of it which she seemed confused about) I think I got out very lightly and it was still cheaper than a film and a choc-top.
Once again confirming my theory that things in Ippy are generally well attended not out of the oft touted "community spirit" nor out of any particular interest, but simply *because*they're*on*. We'll go to anything around here just to have a look. That's right. Just because there's nothing better to do and we're all a tiny bit sick of the inside of our own houses.
I'm not complaining, I'm just saying how it is. Same thing today - Million Paws Walk. Can easily give the RSPCA money any day, but went along for the social outing. Riley doesn't even like other dogs. He certainly does not like being around hundreds of dogs he hasn't personally approved to attend, many of whom may bark without his express permission. None the less, off we went into the howling wind and sat around getting red ruddy cheeks, knocked around by massive bodies on short leashes, enduring ridiculous commentary of the Frisbee Dogs team (?! I kid you not) and getting sick on horrid, expensive coffee. Euch. But there you go. That's two events I've been looking forward too. Ah. [shakes head]
So here we are. It's early Sunday afternoon. I'm going to have a nap. Possibly for hours. Then I'm going to write (or at least type up some of the masses of notes I have, there's always editing time later!), and for dinner I shall have toast. Wonderful. See - no need to go out again for weeks, possibly months now.
What was actually available was ... lacklustre. A bit dull, very nana. Not much chop. Well, in the end I picked up another typewriter (a funky two-tone Remington 315 'portable') bringing it to just 2 Remington's an Olivetti and an Underwood (still pretty modest and I am *not* calling it a collection, I just like typewriters, and yes, nearly all of them work, but the ribbons are pretty faded) and an owl clicker. A clicker - you remember those pressed metal toys, where there was a body and then a little stub of metal on the back that you'd depress and let go, depress and let go and it would go "KL-ICK!, KL-ICK!" yes? Well, I paid an OUTRAGEOUS sum for one of those. I don't think it was outrageous, but Mellie (who is visiting with her dog-nephew Jinx) *screamed* when I said $8. Jeeze. Yes, we all had them when we were kids, but they got destroyed, chucked out, lost. Anyway, given that the only other thing I was interested in there was $255 (and incomplete! The lady let me take a photo of it which she seemed confused about) I think I got out very lightly and it was still cheaper than a film and a choc-top.
Once again confirming my theory that things in Ippy are generally well attended not out of the oft touted "community spirit" nor out of any particular interest, but simply *because*they're*on*. We'll go to anything around here just to have a look. That's right. Just because there's nothing better to do and we're all a tiny bit sick of the inside of our own houses.
I'm not complaining, I'm just saying how it is. Same thing today - Million Paws Walk. Can easily give the RSPCA money any day, but went along for the social outing. Riley doesn't even like other dogs. He certainly does not like being around hundreds of dogs he hasn't personally approved to attend, many of whom may bark without his express permission. None the less, off we went into the howling wind and sat around getting red ruddy cheeks, knocked around by massive bodies on short leashes, enduring ridiculous commentary of the Frisbee Dogs team (?! I kid you not) and getting sick on horrid, expensive coffee. Euch. But there you go. That's two events I've been looking forward too. Ah. [shakes head]
So here we are. It's early Sunday afternoon. I'm going to have a nap. Possibly for hours. Then I'm going to write (or at least type up some of the masses of notes I have, there's always editing time later!), and for dinner I shall have toast. Wonderful. See - no need to go out again for weeks, possibly months now.
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.
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