or
Public transport headphone madness
I know what you’re thinking. Yes, people listen to music on public transport. Nothing new there. We’ve landed on the moon. That’s old news. I never gave it much thought either.
Until recently.
In recent times, unencumbered by work worries or indeed worries of any other kind, I have thought in some depth about the question, what is with all these headphone wearing fatherfuckers on public transport? What are the implications, the ramifications, the tribulations?
I suspect that your average Emma has considered the issue, in a flickering subconscious kind of way, and if pressed (on the solar plexus) would advise of certain issues.
What is with people who play their music so loud that you can hear it? Aren’t they hurting their ear drums? That’s so rude.
Mmm, it’s nice not having to feel the impingement of all these other consciousnesses on my consciousness as we sit in this crowded moving box.
My music’s not on but fuck it, I ain’t taking the ear plugs out. People are leaving me a lone.
Bugger, my battery’s dead.
So I gathered some data. 12 bus rides, 10 train rides, several parkpath walks. My results are not statistically significant but for my purposes today that doesn’t bother any one one whit. Here are the figures:
Bus: 39% of all passengers wear headphones
Train: 46% of all passengers wear headphones
Park walkers: 25% of all pederasts, I mean pedestrians, wear headphones.
I have no doubt, these numbers are conservative. I voted for the shooter’s party at the last three local elections. ipOd and mp3 penetration will continue unfettered. Old non-listening folks will die off. The bus drivers will start wearing them. The percentages will climb.
We’re all stars, or perhaps supporting cast, in our own movies. The soundtrack floods our ears while we stroll down the street.
Except when we're victims of the new ipOd-Invade, which can broadcast your music for 30m in all directions, parasitising existing headphones.
People are living very, very different commuter lives these days. No one talks – unless it’s on the phone to someone somewhere else. Do they think? In the way they might think in other situations? (as a card carrying over thinker, with scant little to show for it, I’m loathe to ascribe judgement to this). And I’m afraid that probably not many of them listen either. At least not the way good music deserves to be listened to. This is tv on to keep you company, headphones on to block out the others, your thoughts, your pain. Hey, these are valid purposes.
But like TV, we receive. As others have said, we live in a strange world nowaday. There is so much information, so much broadcast, so much noise with seeming meaning in it – but with very limited opportunities for a meaningful reply. We can but do naught in its face. There is no appropriate response, but to receive. The relationship between information and action has changed, has been disturbed.
Maybe if I thought about it some more I’d figure out what it all means. These public transport headphones. Or I might find out it means nothing. Nothing but fodder for me, silly me.
Friday, November 14, 2008
The First Ever Z Generation Concert
Now that a few weeks have passed and the dust motes are in their last throes of settlement, there are a few lessons I think can be drawn from the event.
For those who’ve been living on Jupiter this last month, here’s a précis of what happened at Pod People in the Park (also known as the Sugarloaf Shuffle). A truly cross-genre concert was held in a big park by the name of Sugarloaf in California on October 24. Rock, reggae, world music, any genre you might care to name. This was a big event, a long day, and a long night. Some big big names, but also a broad, broad smattering of lesser known musicians. A common theme: one hit wonders. As with many festivals these days, there was also a personal, or spiritual, or psychological, or self-help aspect. There were even language lessons.
It was an all-ages concert, and of course it was the younger ones who fully mastered the technology. Some genius figured out a way to create a distributed electronic transmitting device, handed out to concertgoers, whose thousands upon thousands of inputs would be summed, at intervals as regular as you please, into a single, simple output.
The first few acts were massive. They only played a couple of songs each, but that seems to be the trend at festivals these days. The crowd was right into it. I won’t go into the names, but these were your top ten, grammy award winning, rolling stone magazine covering kinds of acts. The next act was just as big, but they only played one song. Go figure. The crowd seemed to like this.
The next five songs were all played by different acts, and not one of them finished their song. Weirdly, some of them went straight into the chorus, then finished. Even weirder – some of them went straight into the catchiest part of their song, even if it wasn’t the chorus, and played that, and then stopped. A few poor bands were cut off after playing the first bar – a fate that was strangely spared for songs that had a slow build up. Some bands that had already played came back and played again. The stage was a whir of roadies, instruments changed, drum kits frantically assembled and reassembled. The roadies were friggin incredible, they must have all lost 35 pounds by the end of the day.
Embarrassingly, at one point in the day a really long, and rather boring song went on for what seemed like an hour, but was probably only 10 minutes – the crowd was temporarily distracted by an event on the other side of the field and didn’t seem to mind anyway.
Well, the concert went on, and followed this same strange trend. Very frequent band changes, songs often stopped in their middle, old bands reappearing. And by the end of the night, things hadn’t changed – if anything it had gotten a bit worse. Rather than saving up the best names for the end, it was just more of the same, except perhaps their fifth or sixth best songs.
To me, the whole thing was a shambles. Yes, there was an air of expectation associated with trying something new. But in the end there was no atmosphere, no musical build up and release of tension, no anticipation. This is not what concerts are about. If this is what happens with big, bold ideas, give me small and meek ones for chrissakes.
Thing is, the crowd didn’t really seem phased – they were happy to be there, happy for their celebrity musical idols to be there, happy to be taking drugs and chasing members of the opposite or same sex, as the case may have been. I heard the organisers claiming a success and promising a bigger and better P3 next year, but I won’t be there. I’ve spoken to a few people about this and the smart ones agree, the mindless application of technology to our cultural activities is, well, mindless. These people just don’t understand the human condition. Course, seeing as I and a few smart friends are the only ones disagreeing, it could be us that don’t understand. But I don’t think so.
The iPod, and especially the iPod shuffle, are no ways to organise a concert.
For those who’ve been living on Jupiter this last month, here’s a précis of what happened at Pod People in the Park (also known as the Sugarloaf Shuffle). A truly cross-genre concert was held in a big park by the name of Sugarloaf in California on October 24. Rock, reggae, world music, any genre you might care to name. This was a big event, a long day, and a long night. Some big big names, but also a broad, broad smattering of lesser known musicians. A common theme: one hit wonders. As with many festivals these days, there was also a personal, or spiritual, or psychological, or self-help aspect. There were even language lessons.
It was an all-ages concert, and of course it was the younger ones who fully mastered the technology. Some genius figured out a way to create a distributed electronic transmitting device, handed out to concertgoers, whose thousands upon thousands of inputs would be summed, at intervals as regular as you please, into a single, simple output.
The first few acts were massive. They only played a couple of songs each, but that seems to be the trend at festivals these days. The crowd was right into it. I won’t go into the names, but these were your top ten, grammy award winning, rolling stone magazine covering kinds of acts. The next act was just as big, but they only played one song. Go figure. The crowd seemed to like this.
The next five songs were all played by different acts, and not one of them finished their song. Weirdly, some of them went straight into the chorus, then finished. Even weirder – some of them went straight into the catchiest part of their song, even if it wasn’t the chorus, and played that, and then stopped. A few poor bands were cut off after playing the first bar – a fate that was strangely spared for songs that had a slow build up. Some bands that had already played came back and played again. The stage was a whir of roadies, instruments changed, drum kits frantically assembled and reassembled. The roadies were friggin incredible, they must have all lost 35 pounds by the end of the day.
Embarrassingly, at one point in the day a really long, and rather boring song went on for what seemed like an hour, but was probably only 10 minutes – the crowd was temporarily distracted by an event on the other side of the field and didn’t seem to mind anyway.
Well, the concert went on, and followed this same strange trend. Very frequent band changes, songs often stopped in their middle, old bands reappearing. And by the end of the night, things hadn’t changed – if anything it had gotten a bit worse. Rather than saving up the best names for the end, it was just more of the same, except perhaps their fifth or sixth best songs.
To me, the whole thing was a shambles. Yes, there was an air of expectation associated with trying something new. But in the end there was no atmosphere, no musical build up and release of tension, no anticipation. This is not what concerts are about. If this is what happens with big, bold ideas, give me small and meek ones for chrissakes.
Thing is, the crowd didn’t really seem phased – they were happy to be there, happy for their celebrity musical idols to be there, happy to be taking drugs and chasing members of the opposite or same sex, as the case may have been. I heard the organisers claiming a success and promising a bigger and better P3 next year, but I won’t be there. I’ve spoken to a few people about this and the smart ones agree, the mindless application of technology to our cultural activities is, well, mindless. These people just don’t understand the human condition. Course, seeing as I and a few smart friends are the only ones disagreeing, it could be us that don’t understand. But I don’t think so.
The iPod, and especially the iPod shuffle, are no ways to organise a concert.
From the strangest of roots
Did you hear how Joan Ass Policewoman wrote To Be Lonely?
It’d been a good day at work – productive, but not overly. Lunch was good, but it hadn’t filled all corners of her stomach. Time to go home, but too much time before dinner. Will I do it, yes I will, I’ma heading for the vending machine downstairs in the lobby. So many choices. So many damned choices. Twisties, salt and vinegar chips. A cookie. Chocolate bar. What the – mint Aero?! Nod of the head. This is the one, that I will try. And of course the song flowed from there, and ended up being quite unrecognisable from its snack-based roots.
It’d been a good day at work – productive, but not overly. Lunch was good, but it hadn’t filled all corners of her stomach. Time to go home, but too much time before dinner. Will I do it, yes I will, I’ma heading for the vending machine downstairs in the lobby. So many choices. So many damned choices. Twisties, salt and vinegar chips. A cookie. Chocolate bar. What the – mint Aero?! Nod of the head. This is the one, that I will try. And of course the song flowed from there, and ended up being quite unrecognisable from its snack-based roots.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Artful Science dies on
Withdrawal symptoms. They're enough to make even the most professional of addicts quake in their doc martens. There seems to be a common theme at play in yonder withdrawing brain and it's all to do with what the drug normally does. All drugs are fun, and turn on fun buttons in the brain. (The brain can get used to this, turning down the natural fun machinery because it's rendered superfluous by the drug, and necessitating increased dosage with some drugs for the same fun effect.) In withdrawal, not only are there no drugs around to push the fun buttons, but the brain is so helplessly dependent on artifice for fun, that you feel the exact opposite of fun. My idea is a drug whose effects are so unpleasant and lame, that withdrawal would be an elation-soaked walk in the park. In fact, some addicts may do permanent damage to their brains, damage that would see them unable to experience lows ever gain.
On an unrelated note, every time excitement machine Billy Slater (or Bill Slater, as Rabs Warren calls him - have you noticed how Raymond does that occasionally with players' names?) gets the ball, the whole crowd experiences a collective relaxation of the pelvic floor.
On a related note, Slater's life partner recently had a baby which they named Tyla and amazingly, she has already been promised in marriage to Shannon Noll's firstborn.
On an unrelated note, every time excitement machine Billy Slater (or Bill Slater, as Rabs Warren calls him - have you noticed how Raymond does that occasionally with players' names?) gets the ball, the whole crowd experiences a collective relaxation of the pelvic floor.
On a related note, Slater's life partner recently had a baby which they named Tyla and amazingly, she has already been promised in marriage to Shannon Noll's firstborn.
Bibularity Dipson
John Birmingham has stolen my (Hofstadter’s?) idea for a novel. Question is – is that done now? After one creates something novel, can others follow and be great? Yes, undoubtedly yes I think.
So the idea, as cutted and paste from my previous incarnation (Clarke, 2008*), is follow as,
Wiping a country off a map (physically). Survivors determine how country lives on. Explore certain themes or do a plain what if scenario. US? Hundreds of thousands of troops, diplomats, cultural exports, expats, etc.
True – I haven’t written the book. But it resides in me like a colossus hidden by six walls of marble. Birmingham’s book was spied by me in the airport bookshop, harold be thy name. On the cover was the title Without Warning^ and beneath it the subtitle, or perhaps nonsubtitular explanatory remark America is gone. I picked not the book up, I perused not its contents. But it naturally recollected my original thought and thoughts about my book idea.
I tried to flesh out the idea some more, to put some more meat on it, to breathe life into it, to feed it nutrients so that its dna and proteins could do their tasks etc. But I was interrupted.
I figured you’d need a setup, explaining how the country is erased. The story would then take place afterwards (maybe straight after, maybe a year, maybe longer). as I’ve not yet written a long story, I’m not sure what the main event would be, but it does seem to me to be endearingly ripe with potential.
* Clarke H, 2008, From A5 notebook, Unpublished Manuscript.
^ I semiforgot the title when writing this, and came up with 'Suddenly'. As I was writing a footnote to explain that this is not the title, I remembered the title – I had the impression that my memory was true`.
` The impression of something being true; the feeling of something being significant, meaningful, profoundly deep – I don’t hear people talking about the importance (scientific, everyday...) of these brain reflexes. Imagine you could take a pill to engender that feeling!
So the idea, as cutted and paste from my previous incarnation (Clarke, 2008*), is follow as,
Wiping a country off a map (physically). Survivors determine how country lives on. Explore certain themes or do a plain what if scenario. US? Hundreds of thousands of troops, diplomats, cultural exports, expats, etc.
True – I haven’t written the book. But it resides in me like a colossus hidden by six walls of marble. Birmingham’s book was spied by me in the airport bookshop, harold be thy name. On the cover was the title Without Warning^ and beneath it the subtitle, or perhaps nonsubtitular explanatory remark America is gone. I picked not the book up, I perused not its contents. But it naturally recollected my original thought and thoughts about my book idea.
I tried to flesh out the idea some more, to put some more meat on it, to breathe life into it, to feed it nutrients so that its dna and proteins could do their tasks etc. But I was interrupted.
I figured you’d need a setup, explaining how the country is erased. The story would then take place afterwards (maybe straight after, maybe a year, maybe longer). as I’ve not yet written a long story, I’m not sure what the main event would be, but it does seem to me to be endearingly ripe with potential.
* Clarke H, 2008, From A5 notebook, Unpublished Manuscript.
^ I semiforgot the title when writing this, and came up with 'Suddenly'. As I was writing a footnote to explain that this is not the title, I remembered the title – I had the impression that my memory was true`.
` The impression of something being true; the feeling of something being significant, meaningful, profoundly deep – I don’t hear people talking about the importance (scientific, everyday...) of these brain reflexes. Imagine you could take a pill to engender that feeling!
Monday, October 20, 2008
Chicken and pie
Chiekn and pieeee
Chicekn and pie
Mushroom and fennel and
carrots and peas
chicken and pieeeee
On my way home from work this morning, a strange woman sat beside me on the bus. When the driver asked her to sit down, she threatened to withdraw my funding - although I have no funding from her. I asked her for her credentials, but she refused. Slighted, I got off the bus and haven't given it a further thought since. It's things like this that make me think - what am I doing in Sydney? It has so much to offer, yet at the end of the day you're just another number.
Chicekn and pie
Mushroom and fennel and
carrots and peas
chicken and pieeeee
On my way home from work this morning, a strange woman sat beside me on the bus. When the driver asked her to sit down, she threatened to withdraw my funding - although I have no funding from her. I asked her for her credentials, but she refused. Slighted, I got off the bus and haven't given it a further thought since. It's things like this that make me think - what am I doing in Sydney? It has so much to offer, yet at the end of the day you're just another number.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
An unaimed bolas always hits its target
So Colin Powell has endorsed Barack Obama's semi-presidential campaign. His words were as follows: "Senator Obama is a transformational character. I once saw him change into an armadillo, right before my eyes. I couldn't believe it. That's the guy I want in the White House, pulling the shots."
Meanwhile John McCain's team is lurching from one crisis to the next. One suspects the only thing that could rescue him would be a victory on election day. Even that mightn't be enough to save his skin. Have you heard that he's proposed a $3 million investment in the National Institute for Biofouling? What the hell is that?
My life as an unaimed bolas
A friend of mine told me today that a wise person once said 'an unaimed arrow always hits its target.' I am an unaimed bolas, my balls they do swing and rock and tug the twine and do the bizness and that's aaaaaalllllright.
Meanwhile John McCain's team is lurching from one crisis to the next. One suspects the only thing that could rescue him would be a victory on election day. Even that mightn't be enough to save his skin. Have you heard that he's proposed a $3 million investment in the National Institute for Biofouling? What the hell is that?
My life as an unaimed bolas
A friend of mine told me today that a wise person once said 'an unaimed arrow always hits its target.' I am an unaimed bolas, my balls they do swing and rock and tug the twine and do the bizness and that's aaaaaalllllright.
Black Swan Eggs with Anchovies
So I'm reading the Black Swan, by Nassim 'Poledancer' Taleb. It fits nicely into the category of 'idea books' I often go searching for. The idea is this: certain events are rare, completely unpredictable and highly consequential - so consequential that they dominate personal, social and political history. But we never take this knowledge into account. He also says that basically a lot more is random and non-narrative than we tell ourselves (in our narratives). I'm up to page 71 and am enjoying it. However, I recently read an 'essay' by Taleb called the Fourth Quadrant at edge.org, which purports to talk about the economic horror meltdown disaster crisis. It's really poorly written, unlike the book.
And today I finally made, at my life partner's urging, the egg salad from jamie oliver's cookbook. It's hard boiled eggs, lemony mayo, anchovies and alfalfa and it rocks. Simple and surprising, I'll definitely do it again.
Bob Dylan was such a genius, oh shit I don't know how he could take it.
Aber als die Praktikanten eintreten...
Joan As Policewoman. Gotta hand it to her for the out there band title, it's right up my alley. Though I would have preferred Joan Policewoman As. Would you believe she's highly reminiscent of Phoebe Snow. I won't google that, but I bet I'm not the first to think it. Does the JAP-->Phoebe Snow thought in my head look the same as in other people's heads? Reminds me of listening to Snow on my dad's old LP player, Either or Both, Poetry Man. Just real sweet, laid back, a little lovelorn. Those songs, that you know so well, that evoke those memories, even though you never come back to or buy them for yourself, form their own little class.
And today I finally made, at my life partner's urging, the egg salad from jamie oliver's cookbook. It's hard boiled eggs, lemony mayo, anchovies and alfalfa and it rocks. Simple and surprising, I'll definitely do it again.
Bob Dylan was such a genius, oh shit I don't know how he could take it.
Aber als die Praktikanten eintreten...
Joan As Policewoman. Gotta hand it to her for the out there band title, it's right up my alley. Though I would have preferred Joan Policewoman As. Would you believe she's highly reminiscent of Phoebe Snow. I won't google that, but I bet I'm not the first to think it. Does the JAP-->Phoebe Snow thought in my head look the same as in other people's heads? Reminds me of listening to Snow on my dad's old LP player, Either or Both, Poetry Man. Just real sweet, laid back, a little lovelorn. Those songs, that you know so well, that evoke those memories, even though you never come back to or buy them for yourself, form their own little class.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
While their Qatar gently weeps
The Footballroos beat Qatar 4-0 in the wOrld cUp qualifier in Brisbane last night. Australia's looking good to finish top two in the group, but there's still a long way to go. I would be personally humbled and ecstatic if we were to qualify. But i'd like to draw your attention to another matter.
I saw this picture in the paper, Tim Cahill slotting home against Qatar stand-in goalkeeper Abdul Aziz (from SMH, Photo: Getty Images). The whole thing just makes me really sad. That look on Aziz' face. The knowledge of imminent failure. I must have some sort of minor empathy pathology - I don't empathise with the Aussie victorious striker, but the soon to be vanquished - and three more times - foreign goalie. This reminds me of two distinct occasions in my schooling, where witnessing the suffering of another student brought upon me a visceral sadness.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Semi-detached
it would be criminal if you were killing me
equally awful of you to be kidding me
one day they'll catch you and lock you away for it
sooner or later you'll definitely pay for it
this is the start of an impressive little song called straight talk by split enz, off the rootin tootin luton tapes. it's catchy, without relying on a guitar or piano/keyboard, and it really showcases tim finn at his singlical best - singing well and strangely. basically he sings the entire verse in one breath, and keeps this up for the whole song. i wonder if he ever did that live.
Sergio's a dancer
knows each dramatic pose
his future's in his toes
split enz wrote some great tunes. they had such zest, such vibrancy. they really were a creative band. oh geez, this is definitely not my split enz review post - that'll be much better. i just want to put it out there now that you could do worse than discover them. like me you probably know their biggest hits: 6 months in a leaky boat, i got you, one step ahead. but once you get into their back catalogue, there's a stack of gems to discover, and their first album is *so* different to their last.
equally awful of you to be kidding me
one day they'll catch you and lock you away for it
sooner or later you'll definitely pay for it
this is the start of an impressive little song called straight talk by split enz, off the rootin tootin luton tapes. it's catchy, without relying on a guitar or piano/keyboard, and it really showcases tim finn at his singlical best - singing well and strangely. basically he sings the entire verse in one breath, and keeps this up for the whole song. i wonder if he ever did that live.
Sergio's a dancer
knows each dramatic pose
his future's in his toes
split enz wrote some great tunes. they had such zest, such vibrancy. they really were a creative band. oh geez, this is definitely not my split enz review post - that'll be much better. i just want to put it out there now that you could do worse than discover them. like me you probably know their biggest hits: 6 months in a leaky boat, i got you, one step ahead. but once you get into their back catalogue, there's a stack of gems to discover, and their first album is *so* different to their last.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
It's as though someone hit a big pause button in my life
I long to see the other side of things.
I'm naturally an inquisitive, optimistic, active, funny and funny loving person. I have the odd downtrodden moment, but no more than other people I suspect. The thing is, lately I haven't been myself.
I'm on the cliff, in search of something big.
The other day I thought, if you're always searching for something, just maybe it's not there, and it's ok to call the search off for now. I thought I'd solved a problem, but then I forgot all this when I kind of lost myself.
I've been swept away in a routine I don't really care for. I'm only rolling down a 15 degree incline, but I'll be damned if I can't seem to stop regardless. I've toyed with the idea of alighting but opted against it for now. Main thing is, I've got plenty of room in my V-hickle, yet I haven't put a dang thing in there.
I can't look down. I can only retreat.
When I stop and speculate as to the causes, or the cures, half the time I'm on the money, the other half I have outlandish, scary, or muffled thoughts. I just wish I could tell which were which. Will I crack a code, will I dissolve back into past and future normalcy? I 'm going to have to do some things.
There's a theory that says more than we'd like to admit of our reasons are little more than post-hoc rationalisations. It's not 'I considered Y and did X because of Y.' It's 'I did X and invoked Y afterwards.'
Who knows? One day I'll dive into the sea.
Here we all are, sitting like fools. Stuck by the rules of fate. Is what we are what we've come to believe? Better the devil you know.
There's a sentence I remember from my beloved Spanische Grammatik book: !Id os y dejadme en paz, so cretinos! It really summarises the fact that when you're learning another language, vocabulary isn't enough.
Und so, einen Ziel zu erfinden. Wohin? Lass mich es uberlegen. It certainly won't be anything like Was ich schon immer erreichen wollte. But I'm optimistic that it'll steer me back towards my optimism. (Self indulgent fool!)
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Dear Diary
Constipated again. Why is this happening to me? I don't deserve this! I am too good for this.
Remember that ad for Metamucil or Anusol, with the young woman lamenting to her diary about being constipated (from the latin anusfringium - disused rectum)? We need the diary form in adverts now more than ever. Dear Diary, I bought a ute today. My wife left me. Oh, woe is me. Or: Dear Diary, don't forget to watch Dancing With The Stars, my favourite celebrity is appearing.
You know what I realised today? I love thinking about what I'd like to with my life. I love looking and thinking and wondering and hoping. And reading. So much potential. So much promise. Some would say my own head's so far up my arse that in fact my arse is up my arse too. Fair point. My genius is Labouring Over Details.
I have come up with what I call the three-tined approach. Tine one: relieve crushing despair through visions of a happier, more satisfied future. Tine two: avail myself of various techniques to improve current enjoyment of job, such as worrying less and doing more, taking time to do the important but not urgent things, and making defamatory statements about my colleagues and superiors. Tine three: improve the out of work life, so that even if work is a huge pile of horseshit, there's so much other loveliness going on I can take it in my stride, like an Olympic walker being made love to in the middle of a long and arduous race. I did some lovely socialising this last days, and came to an important understanding about the future of homes, I ate Franks Pizza and Clem's Chicken, I went for a swim and did a personal bessed 11 laps!
Les Biles
Feel the stone face in your head
Feel the pain from building a shed
And I wait
For you
Slight of hand and twist of fate
On a sealy posturepedic you make me wait
And I wait
For you
With or without you
With or without you oh oh
Ike Cunliffe
With or without you
And you give Yusuf some hay
And you give Yusuf some clay
And you give
And you give
And you give Yusuf a dre-
del
Remember that ad for Metamucil or Anusol, with the young woman lamenting to her diary about being constipated (from the latin anusfringium - disused rectum)? We need the diary form in adverts now more than ever. Dear Diary, I bought a ute today. My wife left me. Oh, woe is me. Or: Dear Diary, don't forget to watch Dancing With The Stars, my favourite celebrity is appearing.
You know what I realised today? I love thinking about what I'd like to with my life. I love looking and thinking and wondering and hoping. And reading. So much potential. So much promise. Some would say my own head's so far up my arse that in fact my arse is up my arse too. Fair point. My genius is Labouring Over Details.
I have come up with what I call the three-tined approach. Tine one: relieve crushing despair through visions of a happier, more satisfied future. Tine two: avail myself of various techniques to improve current enjoyment of job, such as worrying less and doing more, taking time to do the important but not urgent things, and making defamatory statements about my colleagues and superiors. Tine three: improve the out of work life, so that even if work is a huge pile of horseshit, there's so much other loveliness going on I can take it in my stride, like an Olympic walker being made love to in the middle of a long and arduous race. I did some lovely socialising this last days, and came to an important understanding about the future of homes, I ate Franks Pizza and Clem's Chicken, I went for a swim and did a personal bessed 11 laps!
Les Biles
Feel the stone face in your head
Feel the pain from building a shed
And I wait
For you
Slight of hand and twist of fate
On a sealy posturepedic you make me wait
And I wait
For you
With or without you
With or without you oh oh
Ike Cunliffe
With or without you
And you give Yusuf some hay
And you give Yusuf some clay
And you give
And you give
And you give Yusuf a dre-
del
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
How I learned to stop worrying eggs
I must, I must, I must increase my Busey for he's a jolly good Pharaoh
You are a worrier prince. I was in the school the other evening, and the sky was a deep blue and I was playing basketball. The moon was full and huge and I was happy.
I bless Ra the fierce sun burning bright
I bless Isis Luna in the night
I bless the air the Horus hawk
I bless the earth on which I walk
I bless the air through which I fly
guided by full moon's night sky
to the ring with globe in hand
and moments later back to land
I need to speak to the Earl. Can you give me his number?
The first one was like one of those sticker removing tools. Chipping away at the edge, but a bit of a mess left behind. The second one clean washed away the rest and I was happy. I'm back on level footing but must keep my wits about me. Am I conscious right now? Am I present?
You are a worrier prince. I was in the school the other evening, and the sky was a deep blue and I was playing basketball. The moon was full and huge and I was happy.
I bless Ra the fierce sun burning bright
I bless Isis Luna in the night
I bless the air the Horus hawk
I bless the earth on which I walk
I bless the air through which I fly
guided by full moon's night sky
to the ring with globe in hand
and moments later back to land
I need to speak to the Earl. Can you give me his number?
The first one was like one of those sticker removing tools. Chipping away at the edge, but a bit of a mess left behind. The second one clean washed away the rest and I was happy. I'm back on level footing but must keep my wits about me. Am I conscious right now? Am I present?
Thursday, September 04, 2008
The Joy of Full Time work
I'm trying to get used to being a full time worker bee. Essentially, at its core, it f*cking sucks. Part of the problem is my workload lately - it's been a bit high, meaning I don't have time for the good parts of work - reading up on policy developments, thinking properly about how I'd like to do things, the ability to execute in a top class fashion that comes with the poise that comes with not being rushed off one's feet. It's true, and a relief, that I appear to be learning how to deal with some of these stresses. A marker perhaps, of my gradual transition to a competent worker. But does it change anything fundamental? These days I have less time and even less energy or ability to do the things I'd like to, or I used to, outside of work. I feel less like myself. A few opportunities have recently shown their face, and the prospect is there that I might be more satisfied. Having a more stimulating job - something that actually really truly grabs my attention - is one way I can see to improve my life, workwise. Another way might be to have a job that leaves me so much mental space and physical energy that I can achieve anything I want to outside work. I've been in this situation before with part time jobs, but I believe once embedded in a non-demanding but non-interesting full time job, that too would suck. So is that really all the hope there is of making something out of the majority of my waking life that work constitutes? Finding something a bit more intellectually and spiritually energising? It's a bloody good start but I put it to you, dear reader, that any human being that ends up pouring their heart and soul into a job for forty years or more does themselves, their souls and their society a disservice. (A fortunate few escape this because of a truly rare match between job, person and world. A great many more, I hazard to guess, tell themselves that it's not so bad, plus anyway this is as good as it gets. I disagree.) The reason is in order to be a proper human, a proper living thing, a proper member of society, you need to do much more than deposit yourself into a workbox from 9 to 5 for your adult life. I don't deny the many benefits us humans can gain during our working life. I only say that this is far, far below what could be and what should be, dammit! 'Course, I could be wrong. These could be the death leg wriggles of a cocky about to reincarnate into a fully fledged faithful worker bee. Well if they are, I might as well enjoy them.
F*ck work coz it's really, really f*cked.
F*ck work coz it's really, really f*cked.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
newsradio
Maribus Bender: Brendan Nelson, you've been quoted as saying 'no comment', is there anything else you'd like to add?
Brendan Nelson: Simply this - tomato sauce. Supersize me!
MB: Yes, but surely you'd have to concede, your approval rating is pitiful to the max.
BN: Look, I don't comment on the numbers. Suffice it to say, the set of all natural numbers includes both irrational and rational numbers.
MB: Very well. Can I just ask you about your treasurer, Malcolm Turnbull?
BN: Very much so.
MB: Yes, is that right?
BN: Yen. I have a deep hole in my yard. It's a well.
MB: Brendan Nelson, thankyou very much.
Brendan Nelson: Simply this - tomato sauce. Supersize me!
MB: Yes, but surely you'd have to concede, your approval rating is pitiful to the max.
BN: Look, I don't comment on the numbers. Suffice it to say, the set of all natural numbers includes both irrational and rational numbers.
MB: Very well. Can I just ask you about your treasurer, Malcolm Turnbull?
BN: Very much so.
MB: Yes, is that right?
BN: Yen. I have a deep hole in my yard. It's a well.
MB: Brendan Nelson, thankyou very much.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Purpoise
Koogy: It's an open and shut case Bob McAdoo.
Wiluggbai: Tell me something I don't know.
K: Water falls, stars shoot, options call, bread makes me poop.
W: Enough. Let's go and get a coffee.
K: Smooth, real smooth. I oughtta smack in you face.
W: Hey, hey! Hey.... calm down. Now's not the time for games.
K: How's your sister?
W: Troubled. She's been trying for weeks to solve her Rubik's cube, but she can't get it out of the packet.
K: You ever cried out of anger?
W: Always. It's when I feel most alive.
K: Tell me more.
W: Communication is only possible between equals.
K: You been riding around on the horse as fast as you can, looking for the horse.
W: Are not.
K: Willugbai, show me your nuts.
W: I keep them in tupperware, but matching lids is always a problem. There's cashews, almonds and pistachio disguisey.
K: Do you think it's a problem that people are largely ignorant of biochemistry and neuroscience?
W: Hardly, Koogy. I don't know how I'd perceive the world without evolution and the amazing scientific details, but it doesn't stop some people from being great.
K: And it stops you from being a modesto. Recite some poetry for me.
W: Flow, flow, float your boat, gently cross the stream, utterly utterly utterly utterly life is butter dream.
K: All's well that ends swell. I got a permanent semi.
W: Enough! Coffee. So long to wait, but it's good to have to wait. Makes you appreciate it some.
K: True dat. But then at the end you never know if you're gonna be served a bad beveridge.
W: There was a strong visual pattern on the stage tonight. It soaked my retina and felt nice. It was still a shallow emotional experience.
K: If all your clocks are showing the wrong time.
W: There is no clock. There is only movement. Take away movement you take away time. Clock is the stars and what if the stars stopped moving? What if they weren't there?
K: Hellish knowledge.
W: To know whether your struggle against the flow is a motor or a drown starting.
K: You never struggle, you never change.
W: Bullshit. Reasonable woman don't change the world, ergot all change from the unreasonable woman. Load of crap.
K: Aim for the fulfilling experience.
W: Don't aim. Do what thou willst.
K: Warm, warm, stretch satisfied. Sleep sleep smile deep sleep.
W: [nods]
Wiluggbai: Tell me something I don't know.
K: Water falls, stars shoot, options call, bread makes me poop.
W: Enough. Let's go and get a coffee.
K: Smooth, real smooth. I oughtta smack in you face.
W: Hey, hey! Hey.... calm down. Now's not the time for games.
K: How's your sister?
W: Troubled. She's been trying for weeks to solve her Rubik's cube, but she can't get it out of the packet.
K: You ever cried out of anger?
W: Always. It's when I feel most alive.
K: Tell me more.
W: Communication is only possible between equals.
K: You been riding around on the horse as fast as you can, looking for the horse.
W: Are not.
K: Willugbai, show me your nuts.
W: I keep them in tupperware, but matching lids is always a problem. There's cashews, almonds and pistachio disguisey.
K: Do you think it's a problem that people are largely ignorant of biochemistry and neuroscience?
W: Hardly, Koogy. I don't know how I'd perceive the world without evolution and the amazing scientific details, but it doesn't stop some people from being great.
K: And it stops you from being a modesto. Recite some poetry for me.
W: Flow, flow, float your boat, gently cross the stream, utterly utterly utterly utterly life is butter dream.
K: All's well that ends swell. I got a permanent semi.
W: Enough! Coffee. So long to wait, but it's good to have to wait. Makes you appreciate it some.
K: True dat. But then at the end you never know if you're gonna be served a bad beveridge.
W: There was a strong visual pattern on the stage tonight. It soaked my retina and felt nice. It was still a shallow emotional experience.
K: If all your clocks are showing the wrong time.
W: There is no clock. There is only movement. Take away movement you take away time. Clock is the stars and what if the stars stopped moving? What if they weren't there?
K: Hellish knowledge.
W: To know whether your struggle against the flow is a motor or a drown starting.
K: You never struggle, you never change.
W: Bullshit. Reasonable woman don't change the world, ergot all change from the unreasonable woman. Load of crap.
K: Aim for the fulfilling experience.
W: Don't aim. Do what thou willst.
K: Warm, warm, stretch satisfied. Sleep sleep smile deep sleep.
W: [nods]
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Wince memory
What are your wince memories? You must have one or two that stand out. I better not go into the details of mine. We've all done stupid things, and we'll all do many more. Some of them are stupid enough that when we recollect them we wince. The wince is all about preventing pain. The pain of embarrassment, stupidity and pain. When we wince, it's like the shaking the mind's etch a sketch and trying to forget the wince memory. A little GO BACK WRONG WAY sign in the minds pathways. Wincing acknowledges that something very awkward or humiliating happened. It's possible to get over wince memories, I reckon. On closer inspection, we might not get over them, just smooth over them. If we are forced to revisit in fine detail the thing, the wince may well return.
~~~
I've mentioned this before, perhaps, but Foreign Correspondent has indeed a really lame theme song. This song belongs on a kids educational programe, not one of TV's premier world current affairs shows.
~~~
The once proud once Belmore club.
~~~
Involuntary subjunctive replays. This is a topic worthy of far more detail than I can give it now. I just wanted to draw your attention to it. This is a universal human trait, which isn't to say that all people have it, just that it's part of the human cognitive repertoire. It may well be connected to one of your wince memories. Here's how it works. Something happens. Something goes wrong, and it's very significant those ramifications. It could have gone the other way (couldn't it have?). So nearly might have. Sport is the obvious example that comes to mind, but would form but a small part of the human catalogue of subjunctive replays. Bulldogs up 20-6 at half time in the grand final qualifier against Brisbane in 2006. They go on to lose the match 37-20 and the mind afterwards is populated with what if thoughts. What if Hodges hadn't busted that tackle and made that inspirational break that lead to the first comeback try? What if Luke Patten had scored in the corner just before half time, stretching the lead out to 26 points to 6? I can't remember the other ones, but the essential features are
- bad, significant outcome
- it's plausible that things could have gone the other way
- your mind replays the events over and over
- it's involuntary
- there's a strong what if element - your stupid mind almost thinks it can change reality if it tries hard enough.
I once wrote to a scientist in the UK asking them about the possibility of studying involuntary subjunctive replays, and they replied that they were interested in collaborating with me. I was flattered, being an honours student and all, but never pursued it. I sent out a lot of emails like that during my study days, and had some really nice exchanges. Gee, academics are nice.
~~~
I've mentioned this before, perhaps, but Foreign Correspondent has indeed a really lame theme song. This song belongs on a kids educational programe, not one of TV's premier world current affairs shows.
~~~
The once proud once Belmore club.
~~~
Involuntary subjunctive replays. This is a topic worthy of far more detail than I can give it now. I just wanted to draw your attention to it. This is a universal human trait, which isn't to say that all people have it, just that it's part of the human cognitive repertoire. It may well be connected to one of your wince memories. Here's how it works. Something happens. Something goes wrong, and it's very significant those ramifications. It could have gone the other way (couldn't it have?). So nearly might have. Sport is the obvious example that comes to mind, but would form but a small part of the human catalogue of subjunctive replays. Bulldogs up 20-6 at half time in the grand final qualifier against Brisbane in 2006. They go on to lose the match 37-20 and the mind afterwards is populated with what if thoughts. What if Hodges hadn't busted that tackle and made that inspirational break that lead to the first comeback try? What if Luke Patten had scored in the corner just before half time, stretching the lead out to 26 points to 6? I can't remember the other ones, but the essential features are
- bad, significant outcome
- it's plausible that things could have gone the other way
- your mind replays the events over and over
- it's involuntary
- there's a strong what if element - your stupid mind almost thinks it can change reality if it tries hard enough.
I once wrote to a scientist in the UK asking them about the possibility of studying involuntary subjunctive replays, and they replied that they were interested in collaborating with me. I was flattered, being an honours student and all, but never pursued it. I sent out a lot of emails like that during my study days, and had some really nice exchanges. Gee, academics are nice.
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Games of the 29th Olympics
when you’re a sports commentator, it’s a real benefit when you can call your event by multiple names. football is also the world game, the beautiful game. Racing is also the sport of kings. well, the olympics are not just the olympics, or the biggest and most watched sporting event in the world, the best of the best, the olympic spirit yada yada yada – they’re also the games of the twenty ninth* olympiad. This is great. It’s such an unusual construction. You can’t say ‘7even is proud to broadcast the Olympiad’, it doesn’t work like that. It’s the games of the olympiad. What is an olympiad? And I will have no wikipeding or googling here. We must reason this out. Is an olympiad some kind of quadrennial festival, not limited to games? If it were limited to games, then saying they’re the games of the olympiad would be a tautology. Is there anything else of the olympiad? And has anyone ever used the word olympiad without preceding it with ‘games of the [insert ordinal possessive]’?
Can we coin some other –iads? How silly would it be if we referred to pollies as members of the XXIV Parliamentariad? (Forgetting for a moment politics would never qualify for RN status).
For the games, I prefer Olympiac anyway. Stay tuned, for more of the Games of the 29th Olympiac!
More importantly, Olympiad could be the first name in the history of all names in which a man’s name is derived from a woman’s. This is a landmark event in the anti-sexism in language movement. Olympia is a nice name, although somewhat spoiled by Olympia Dukakis. Olympiad is strong, athletic, great.
And while we’re on diving, what an incredible sport. A couple of things here. Firstly, as far as I can tell, there is no greater sign of skill in diving than making the least possible impression on the water as you enter it. That’s a little perverse, isn’t it? Like running as hard as you can into a brick wall and then walking away serenely as though nothing had happened. Alright it’s not really like that, but it’s like something I can’t put my finger on but the point is the same it’s odd. Secondly, surely the judges shouldn’t be so myopic as to limit their judging to what happens in the air and then the initial entry mark – they should follow divers all the way through as they descend to the pool’s well-lit depths, and possibly even as they rise to the steps. Divers should have to make their way to the steps while making as little impression on the water as possible. Thirdly, in the synchronised diving, if one person’s landing is piss poor but the other person matches it exactly, they should be rewarded, not penalled. Finally, there should be more scope for playfulness in synchronised diving. They could bow to each other mid-air, shake hands, embrace, or have one person acting out attempting to win the other’s attention for purposes of seduction, while the other acts out cooly ignoring them.
Matthew White just informed us that Olympic fever is spreading fast and the only cure is gold. Well, I’ve just inhaled 30 migs of gold filings and my sinuses are worse, not better. Matthew, you’ve just secured yourself a malpractice suit.
* in this case, aka XXIX. Note thus that the olympics qualify for roman numeral (RN) status, a mark of history, dignity and esteem. Curiously, Wrestlemania and the NFL - but not rugby league - have attained RN status.
Can we coin some other –iads? How silly would it be if we referred to pollies as members of the XXIV Parliamentariad? (Forgetting for a moment politics would never qualify for RN status).
For the games, I prefer Olympiac anyway. Stay tuned, for more of the Games of the 29th Olympiac!
More importantly, Olympiad could be the first name in the history of all names in which a man’s name is derived from a woman’s. This is a landmark event in the anti-sexism in language movement. Olympia is a nice name, although somewhat spoiled by Olympia Dukakis. Olympiad is strong, athletic, great.
And while we’re on diving, what an incredible sport. A couple of things here. Firstly, as far as I can tell, there is no greater sign of skill in diving than making the least possible impression on the water as you enter it. That’s a little perverse, isn’t it? Like running as hard as you can into a brick wall and then walking away serenely as though nothing had happened. Alright it’s not really like that, but it’s like something I can’t put my finger on but the point is the same it’s odd. Secondly, surely the judges shouldn’t be so myopic as to limit their judging to what happens in the air and then the initial entry mark – they should follow divers all the way through as they descend to the pool’s well-lit depths, and possibly even as they rise to the steps. Divers should have to make their way to the steps while making as little impression on the water as possible. Thirdly, in the synchronised diving, if one person’s landing is piss poor but the other person matches it exactly, they should be rewarded, not penalled. Finally, there should be more scope for playfulness in synchronised diving. They could bow to each other mid-air, shake hands, embrace, or have one person acting out attempting to win the other’s attention for purposes of seduction, while the other acts out cooly ignoring them.
Matthew White just informed us that Olympic fever is spreading fast and the only cure is gold. Well, I’ve just inhaled 30 migs of gold filings and my sinuses are worse, not better. Matthew, you’ve just secured yourself a malpractice suit.
* in this case, aka XXIX. Note thus that the olympics qualify for roman numeral (RN) status, a mark of history, dignity and esteem. Curiously, Wrestlemania and the NFL - but not rugby league - have attained RN status.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
This dream I had
- Simple enough. Darkened stair well, metal grate with railing. Bottom lighting. Near the bottom step sits a red hairy behemoth. Red monster has a briefcase. Is waiting. This is the dream I had the other night. The dream was real strong - I'd had a busy, memorable, sociable and drunken evening, and my dreammaker was somehow so loaded up with energy and material that I fell straight and deep and clear into this one. Emotions from the dream were: strangeness, fear, incredulity, helplessness, absurdity, curiosity. I almost recognised myself. I felt resigned to my strange fate, but that could have been a mistake. The dream might have revealed nothing.
- This wasn't a dream peopled by persons. Obviously the human touch was there though, because of the strong emotional feel of the dream. But it was basically me just wondering about, but I can't for the life of it remember where. All that remains is this bizarre scene.
- I may have mentioned this before - call it sympathetic pregnesia - but you know how sometimes you're in that sleepy state of wakefulness, where you have access to all kinds of past dream memories? It's like they're on tap. You can roll through vistas, landscapes, pathways, very often modified versions of real places, you can get the strange shock of remembering a recurring dream that was previously hidden to your conscious self, you can bring back those feelings. There's not many other kinds of memories that can be evoked so fully. What an oddball tour. Mine includes another version of my high school, trains, underground city food courts... I just remembered another class of dream that doesn't actually fit neatly into this evocative set - it's the dream I have where I'm playing basketball, and I can jump real high, with real big hang time, multiple pump fakes and all that. Haven't had one of those for a while. No strong emotions attached to those, I don't know why.
- The other night I had the most vivid dream of a massive shelf of ice falling into the sea.
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