Holler Louder Dude

It’s been a while since I posted here on Bella. Moving interstate, trying with little success to complete my first semester back at uni, I’ve had a few other things to attend to. As you can imagine, I was a little surprised to find this awaiting my approval in the comments section on my blog dashboard:

 

 

hollerlouderdude steveduden@gmail.com 94.192.244.216

Submitted on 2009/10/08 at 7:45am “Hello Guys, Looking for tips about what are the easiest tooth whitening products to purchase? It is very difficult to come across the up to date information as far as I can see. One place tells you one thing and a different place advises you something completely different! Well, I thought the easiest thing to do is get practical information from you folks as you could have personal knowledge about these things. All feedback is very appreciated. Thanks in advance folks.”

This is the weirdest thing I’ve read in a long time! I think this person aught to be spammed.

Please spam him.

Preferably with bogus information regarding tooth whitening products.

The Lady of Shallot

Lady of Shallot - John William Waterhouse

 

Fabulously humourous version of The Lady of Shallot shared by housemates this weekend past. Enjoy! I did…

Pt I

Came Arthur, riding ‘pon the sward
In armour gleaming, and with sword
Raised high above those shoulders broad,
Loved ‘cross all Englande, yea adored;
   from out of mighty Camelot.
Then sat he, proud, on England’s throne
For pulling magic sword from stone,
And burning neither cake, nor scone
   Unlike that Saxon clot.

T’was days of summer, nights were short -
The time when squires and damsels court.
But Arthur fancied rougher sport:
With buxom farm girls he’d cavort
   In some secluded rustic spot.
But finding that the sun shone fierce
Its fiery rays his eyes did pierce;
He spied ahead thru blinding tears
   The Island of Shallot.

So plung’d he t’ward a verdant glade
And sank into the lethe-ful shade
But ere he slept, a mirage played
Before his eyes – a wondrous maid
   Was this the Lady of Shallot?
So swift did he his pose adjust
As from his loins, a prick of lust
Deep down into his soul did thrust.
   He liked her quite a lot…

But ere he could his hunger sate
The mirage it did dissipate
The lady fled with quick’ning gait
And left the king to Onan’s fate
   And yea, indeed he Camelot.
Up rose Arthur, sore at heart
And sore in yet another part
He’d pulled his arrow, fired his dart,
   And now his bolt was shot.

So hastily his blade he’d pulled
His armour and his ardour dulled.
And though his lust for now was lulled
The Lady still remained unpulled -
   A fact not easily forgot.
So turned he home, with heavy tread
Along the winding road that led
To teddy bear and comfy bed
   in cosy Camelot.

Pt II

Yet sleep came not, he tossed and turned,
upon his inner vision burned
The face of she whose touch he yearned;
Until whose kisses he had earned
   In unrequited gloom he’d rot.
So mutt’ring noises loud and queer
Unable now to venture near
The comely Lady Guinevere
   Whose bed he entered not.

Now Arthur, mighty king of fable
He whacked his pony in the stable
And beat his meat upon the table
Then pulled his pudding all he’s able
   And all but filled his chamber pot;
But still he could not free his mind
From thoughts of the lascivious kind
That linger’d on her sweet behind
   That juicy apricot.

Poor Arthur, for relief he searched
And from his stiffened sheets he lurched
Toward the sanctuary of church
And on the oaken pew he perched
   And to the angels prayed a lot.
But from his lusts he can’t away
In anger all his priests he’d flay
and beat his bishop night and day
   In sticky Camelot.

In chapel, down on bended knee
With one hand deep in hosiery,
Arthur, in despair cried he:
This prayer I shall compose to thee
   Just render unto me Shallot :
“Oh Mary, maid immaculate
Grant when I next ejaculate
I can myself congratulate -
   I’ve laid she of Shallot”

Pt III

With Arthur sunk in his morass,
Across the scented meadowgrass
This ravishing, unravished lass
Gazed deep into her looking glass;
   And, merry-me, what did she spot?
From upstairs, in her tower high
A handsome princeling she did spy
So broad of chest and firm of thigh
   It was Sir Lancelot.

This noble man, from war returning,
Could set a lady’s head a-turning
Or send a page boy’s heart a-yearning
Until his cullions are burning -
   It mattered not to Lancelot.
He was most wondrous of sights:
Accompanied by sturdy Knights
In sparkling mail and clinging tights
In prettie polka dot.

The Lady, rouséd deep within
Did smile a lewd salacious grin
And contemplating carnal sin
She mused how she could lure him in
   For fevered frolics, fearsome hot.
And yet she tarried, for the curse
Spelt out in Tennyson’s bad verse
Could make life difficult, or worse
   For ma’moiselle Shallot.

So even as her cheeks burned red
Her thighs, desirous, trembléd
She hung the mirror o’er her bed
And pleasur’d she herself instead -
   That curse she would awaken not.
Her passion spent, she fell to slumber
Alone, with just the sheep to number
Her only love a cool cucumber
   Poor Lady of Shallot.

Pt IV

At table round, each in position,
No knight sat there above suspicion
Each one subject to inquisition
A victim of the king’s condition,
   As envy coloured Camelot.
He was, by jealous fears, drove mad
That they’d all lain where he’s forbad
Sir Lance a lot, Sir Gala had
   The Lady of Shallot

Cried Merlin, thou art Arthur, Brave!
Is this how noble kings behave -
To mope around as Cupid’s slave?
Go! Wash your face and have a shave
   And ride direct down to Shallot.
Knock firmly thrice upon her door
And speak unto thine paramour
That thou shalt claim droit de seignior
   Upon that very spot.

‘pon hearing this, from wizard gifted,
That shadow from the king’s heart lifted,
No more on sea of love he drifted,
And fleeting swift his arse he shifted
   Along the lanes of Camelot.
Through tossing heads of barley tan
Dashed the resurrected man
And clutched his sceptre as he ran
   Its point toward Shallot

The Lady at her glass sat gazing,
And watched the sheep in meadow grazing,
And drowsie bees at flowers lazing
When lo! she glimpsed a sight amazing,
   Bearing down upon Shallot.
From beyond the willow weeping,
Past the weary shepherd sleeping
The king of Albion came creeping
   The silly idiot.

Through thorny hedges he did blunder -
Then split the tower door asunder
With one great blow that fell like thunder
(and hurt his hand, I shouldn’t wonder
   although the pain he felt it not)
He cried, sweet lady be my saviour,
And please forgive my bad behaviour
But wills’t thou grant thy sweetest favour?
   …Alas the lass shall not.

But Arthur would not be denied,
Cast doublet, hose, and vest aside
Alas! One flash of that backside –
The mirror cracked from side to side!
   Oh, cried she, well thanks a lot!
You’ve done for me! the lady said,
You’ve brought the curse down on my head
You’d know about that if you’d read
   The Lady of Shallot.

With this tale’s end, you’ll be acquainted -
Her final journey so oft painted:
The lady, in the boat, dead-fainted
Her beauty, by death’s touch untainted
   She’s drop-dead gorgeous is she not?
And now our legend is near ended
With Alfred Lord’s great tale amended
And if by this you’ve been offended
   You’d hate my Walter Scott.

 by tightwhitepants on deviantART

Twits, Tweeting and Twitter

 

So I’m all hyper-connected, as previously discussed. I still get all my nearest and dearest whenever they happen to be available, playing at all manner of stupidity and sharing all necessary information on Facebook. And adding both Twitter and Bebo, and then linking all four of my online activities together has meant I’m getting more people reading my poetry. (Excellent! It’s secretly why I write it…) But in several conversations, Facebook status updates and SMS, there appears a common theme in recent days; WTF is Twitter about?

I know exactly what it is about. Took a bit of time, and a few nights taking advantage of my insomnia trawling through Twitter and the complete nonsense that constitutes a conversation therein. I’m going to take a moment to explain what I’ve worked out and laugh out loud at the Twits of the world who exist solely for that purpose.

There are two sorts of people doing the twittering. Twits and Tweeters.

The Twit:

These people are everywhere. They are having ‘RT @perezhilton @ some_random_twit’ conversations. And they need only 140 characters to do so, most of which is taken up by the page url on which they are having said conversation, and the url of the twit they are replying to. As you can imagine it’s a nightmare to follow and isn’t exactly meaty, indepth conversation. Twits follow everyone mentioned anywhere even once. Example this week, Susan Boyle. And twitter about it amongst themselves. I don’t care, I don’t want to know.

A friend of mine asked the question whilst we mused social networking sites over coffee this week, “do we really want everyone to know? Does me brushing my teeth make you feel closer to me?” The answer of course is no. I don’t care. I don’t want to know. And if you think I do, and if you feel ‘closer’ to others in this way, then you are a Twit. If you are  following only two twits, your entire home page, and Facebook home page will be swallowed whole with what Twitter actually marketed the site as; a blow by blow account of life, day in, day out. And all the mindless chatter between all the other twits they follow. I occurred to me that if James Joyce were alive today he would have never written Ulysses. He would have twittered the whole thing. And it would be just as boring.

The Tweeter:

These people have more followers than they are following. They understand Twitters real power, as the most effective marketing tool we’ve seen in a long time. Sure, Oprah is following Mrs Kutcher, The Real Shaq and Larry King, but she’s not following you. She’s following The New York Times and The Washington Post. And when she happens to reply to Demi it’s pure mutual admiration celebrity cult style. My favourite had to be “@kingsthings hey Larry, wanted to tweet you on the show tonite. But will be in the air. Not sure about airtweets. Have fun with Ashton!”

There are other celebs, as well as the above mentioned, Britney and Ryan Seacrest are very popular, and for the most part they are the tweeters and when others like managers etc tweet for them, the reader gets a heads up. For example @britneyspears “The Kardashians were under the big top checking out the show tonight…. -Adam Leber, Manager”. Considerate, all considered. All in all the celebrity tweeter is just marketing. Plain and simple.

But if like me, you don’t care whether or not Demi and Ashton are happy in love, what the hell are you logging on to look at?

The (Dynamic) Tweeter:

Sometimes celebrity /social commentators / organizations and businesses, but mostly these are the big guns. They don’t respond. They have nothing to say to Mrs Kutcher. They are The New York Times and The Washington Post. For Aussies you can also find The Australian and any several other major publications. One line tweets, a headline and a URL to their website. Brilliant. They follow others, each other mostly, and occasionally Oprah et al, lest some amazing news story breaks there. Celebrity sells after all. But they are not replying. They Tweet. All day, every day. That’s it. Click the URL, read the news/article/review. Its brilliant.

And that’s what Twitter is all about. Having never followed an RSS feed in my life, nor could I be arsed to have my inbox flooded with news stories I’ve been drifting further and further away from good ol’ fashioned news. Now I’ve a place full of headlines in several languages, from multiple continents pertaining to only things I am interested in.

And David Attenborough.

And a few choice friends.

And am I a Twit or a Tweeter? I twitter. But I’m taking the NYT approach. It’s about me, and not my bathroom habits. After all, I’m not selling toothbrushes. And my personal hygiene, whilst brilliant, has little to do with poetry and philosophy, culture and society. If I’m going in for blatant, unadulterated self promotion, I’m going for class. And avoiding meaningless chatter with Twits wherever possible.

The upside is getting in with the multi-lingual crowd before Twitter reaches the non-English speaking world. Deciding to counterweight my news and practice my German, I now follow Das Journal. Me and 32 other people. And Das Journal are now following me.

As they should.

Bis nächste Zeit, tschüs!

Twit or Tweeter, can you spot the difference?

10 Most extraordinary Twitter Updates 

A single leaf.

I am a leaf.
A single leaf, green.

The last of my days,
   sun scorched, wind beaten,
   full of the unquenchable thirst
   age has for the waters of youth!
   Dry and brown
            will I drift…
                                                               Down from this tree.
Softly, maybe, on a cool breeze. If I am a lucky leaf,
           within the whirlwind of storm!
           Raging!
           Will I fall!
                              Fall…
                                         Fall.                                                                                               Down.
To the soft earth that bore me.
Me, a simple leaf. At the foot of my mother.
A single leaf,
    Into the green again.
A leaf, into the cool darkness of soil.
A single leaf.

(I have had a particular image in my head for some time, and whilst this is not nearly my best work, I like that it conveys something of that image both in form and through metaphor. It is also, I might add, a direct result of an article written by Robin Artisson, Veratyr’s Precious Gift,which I would highly recommend to anyone interested in the ancient religion of the Norse.)

Hyperconnectivity; just say yes!

Tapestry 27; Three Fates, from a 1943 drawing by Henry Moore.

I’ve spent the vast majority of my evening procrastinating. I can afford to do this, at least for now, but whislt I know I can, and countless times before today have envied others for being able when I was not, this evening I started to get irritated. And procrastination that is also an irritation, is the very worst kind of evil and requires examination and rectification! Which I did.

It begins with my dear friend Mr Dandy, frequent commentator on Bella, and a ‘Facebook friend’ of mine, who has taken a great disliking to that particular networking internet site. And why should he not, when they change it so often as to make it impossible for it’s inhabitants to be comfortable? And we love it! When it contains the goings on of the likes of my dear Mr Dandy, who lives in another state, how can we not? There lives, in the quiet of my room, all my nearest and dearest who are overseas, interstate, and quite close to me actually, who are just too busy to sit down for a coffee, as we are all too familiar with.  But there are other sites that facilitate the same thing, and so I did a bit of internet surfing. By the time I had explored all the aesthetic possibilities at www.bebo.com I was over-wrought, over-whelmed and for the life of me could not work out how I could justify the time spent, (and the times to come) updating multiple statii, twittering and photo posting along with attending the in-boxes of three email accounts, and a web-log! What am I trying to achieve here?

Shortly, I am to move interstate, off the island in fact and onto the littlest best kept secret in Australia, Tasmania. I am going to be a long way from the vast majority of my family and friends. My primary concern is to keep those closest to me as close as possible. What a gift the world wide web is when it means we don’t have to wait weeks to hear about the ever important lunch possibilities for my friend in London, when she is having a bad day because of someone insignificant who did something completely inane and even more insignificant. It was vital when she lived in Sydney, it is VITAL now. And so it is with all my friends. But what struck me today as I weighed the pros and cons of internet social networks is how much more there is to be gathered.

Those intimate things, which are paramount to be sure, would not have equated on thier own, in a hand written letter, to the various interesting and wonderful people I have met online doing little more than simply ‘being’ within the FB community. I might like to be able to choose; one blog, one email address, one socializing tool, but who am I missing? What information is there to be had that I shan’t be privy to?

We are constantly romanced by the myths of Fate and the weaving of things that are and that are not. As I began to streamline my various profiles: My twittering appears on my blog, Bella appears on Facebook, Facebook status updates and twittering bouncing into Bebo, deciding to place links to all my profiles here on Bella, I suddenly understood, possibly for the first time, that the World Wide Web, is more than an arbitrary network. I was doing the weaving, like a spider, criss-crossing back and forth. Unlike any other time in the history of humanity are we connected, and how much of that connectivity we as individuals can control.

I’ve often tried to ‘manage’ my time in the web and various sites, much like I would a working day. But the web is so like the spider’s in the front garden, that I have decided that henceforth, I shall scuttle along it’s intricate threads following the vibrations of all the juiciness of knowledge, information and experience as they occur, and as I want. When I want, well outside of business hours and no longer apologize. And marvel that how in the most civilized of places human kind is all at once it’s most scientific, etheral and insect like.

One month, one week and one day.

This post is dedicated to all the lost dogs. Everywhere.

Phoenix - September 2008

It has been exactly one month, one week and a day since my little Phoenix went missing. My friends and family are well aware of the stories, trials, fits of tears. It happens, regularly, I am beginning to understand, and that is why I have decided to write this post.

I have two dogs, and whilst the escape belongs in its entirety to my larger, sookier beast, Brindle, she managed to find her way home, after five days almost completely unscathed. This was a great relief, because as a dog owner there is something I am very attuned to, the responses of non-dog people to my dogs. And Brindle is quite capable of smashing large bones between her teeth. Moreover she looks it. If I were going to have trouble, if I was going to have complaints, fines etc, Brindle would be the cause. She incites fear. If I was going to find her,  I still ran the risk of loosing her forever. Thank fully she is currently outside reclining on one of my parents outdoor chairs, as is her want, much to my parents distaste.

Brindle will sit at the table, on a chair, while you eat, and display better manners than most people I know.

The little one didn’t bother me in that way. He is the sort of dog that pretty girls imagine carrying about in a little tote dressed in a pale blue cardigan and a heart tag on a sequined collar. Children immediately want to cuddle him as if he was a teddy bear, stuffed. What is hilarious to me, their owner, companion and carer, the one who knows them best of all, is that they are exactly opposite. It is Brindle, the crier, the sook ,the sucker for a cuddle who is nearly completely harmless. She wants to sit on the lounge all day, and I could easily get her to wear a cardigan and sequins, and she would love it. She loves anything that will mean her feet stay clean and dry. She is also the best behaved of my fur children. Phoenix is the terror, the naughty boy and won’t stand still let alone wear anything for longer than it takes for him to tare it to shreds.

They got out of my parent’s yard where we currently stay. It happens. We all believed it was secure. But they are thinking willful beings, and they find ways when they have cause, just like anything. It happens all the time to the best of animal owners.

Both my dogs are registered and micro-chipped. As is the law. Phoenix remains listed as ‘missing’ and all the proper authorities were notified of their disappearance and of Brindle’s return. As required by the law. I have walked and driven the suburb and more. I have door-knocked. I have posted fliers and letterbox-dropped. Everyday I go through a list of websites that daily upload photographs of the newly picked up, that people can list lost and found animals on, rescue shelters and council animal impound facilities. They are countless, numerous and it is my daily ritual that continues to break my heart, for far more than my own little man, who by his disposition and size, is probably the new pet of some other family.

Say good bye to sleeping Brindle...

I am dis-heartened and completely amazed at the bulk of animals who are lost, and never found again; the numbers who are surrendered to shelters etc BY THEIR OWNERS; the countless found and picked up and have apparently nowhere to go home to. The cruelty, the suffering is enormous. A society of PC do-gooders signing petitions to save whales, and yet the cruelty that happens to our domestic animals is almost too much to read about. They are social creatures, bound to an existence inside the confines of our civilization, and to most they are taken totally for granted. And so too are the laws that are designed to protect us, their owners, from our own suffering when they are lost to us.

I hope everyday that my assumption is correct and that my little Phoenix is being chastised for tearing at his pale blue cardigan by someone who is quickly falling in love with him. But I would like to tell that person they are technically in possession of stolen goods. Dogs, like my car, belong to the owner; you simply can not pick one up randomly off the street and keep it. Moreover Phoenix could have already, for countless reasons, been treated by several vets, who require the owner to sign a release to treat him. But unless the vet scans him for his registration details, they and the person who signs for his care are both committing acts for which I have recourse within the law. Vets are not required to scan animals they care for. The keeping of unregistered animals is illegal and failure to surrender a stray to council also results in a fine. My best hope is that Phoenix escapes again from his current carers, and then I have a chance of finding him.

I am not the only one. Not by a long, long shot. And as I have mentioned the problems are so much larger than the keeping of strays. Cruelty, illegal dog fighting, illegal breeding, tales of torture and death. The hopeless failure of a society responsible for their very existence. It has broken my brain entirely.

Both Phoenix and Brindle are adoptees. Brindle is an RSPCA puppy and Phoenix adopted directly from his former owner who could no longer keep him due to work commitments taking her overseas. Unfortunately, she purchased Phoenix from a pet store, and his size and a consequent medical issue seem almost doubtlessly caused by unregistered breeders, breeding bitches of his breed before the age of 12 months in order to get more litters into the pet stores for more money.

If you are thinking of getting a dog (and if you are not a dog person, and prefer cats, I can assure you all of the above is true for them as well, you need only click on the other page of any website, marked ‘Cats and Kittens’) please, please adopt one of the thousands and thousands that need a second chance like my Brindle did. I’ve added a list of some of my preferred websites and Organisations but you can contact your local council, each of which has a holding facility that you can adopt directly from.

RSCPA - House animals from pounds past their ‘due’ date and rescues cruelty cases.

Animal Welfare League- House animals from pounds past their ‘due’ date and rescues cruelty cases.

Companions for Life – Pet Rescue - House animals from pounds past their ‘due’ date and rescues cruelty cases.

Renbury Farm Shelter – Intake facility for Liverpool, Fairfield, Bankstown and Camden council areas.

Sydney Dogs & Cats Home - General intake and houses animals from pounds past their ‘due’ date and rescues cruelty cases.

Blacktown Animal Holding Facility – Pets Online - Blacktown City Council acts as a holding facility for other Councils in the Sydney region, these Councils being:

• Blacktown City Council (BCC)
• Auburn Council (AUB)
• City of Canada Bay Council (CAN)
• Holroyd City Council (HOL)
• The Municipality of Hunters Hill (HH)
• Lane Cove Council
• Parramatta City Council (PAR)
• The City of Ryde (RYD)
• The City of Sydney (SYD)

My wish for all pet owners:

1. Adopt a pet, they will love you more because you will stand in stark contrast to where they have been. My Brindle is evidence of that.
2. Do the right thing legally: register, microchip and de-sex your pet.
3. By all means pick up strays, and then immediately call your local council so they can get home as fast as possible or find new ones through adoption.
4. DO NOT hesitate to report any cruelty. Ever. If it doesn’t look right, it probably isn’t

Brindle & Phoenix November 2008

Baz Luhrmann’s Australia – A Shared Experience

 

Hugh Jackman & Nicole Kidman in 'Australia'

I recently had the misfortune of viewing Baz Luhrmann’s Australia. I say, misfortune for two reasons; the first, like every one else apparently, I felt the film was probably Luhrmann’s worst yet, and possibly one of the greatest epic film failures of all time. The second reason is far more concerning; in amongst Nicole Kidman’s terrible performance and over-sized forehead, Hugh Jackman’s posturing and ‘crickey’-ing and an unmentionable treatment of the Indigenous characters, a portrait so fundamentally true of my country appears, and I’ve been embarrassed to think that other people in other countries might actually have seen it.

Many would be disappointed after Moulin Rouge and Romeo + Juliet. Australia is really two films, held together by a middle section something akin to a damp fold running down the middle of a single sheet of a paper. The dialogue is shockingly bad, and Kidman and Jackman oscillate between periods of dreadful slapstick and extended forehead to chest hair posturing. There are brief moments of triumph in the cinematography, but you needn’t watch the film to appreciate it. It really is at it’s best in the promotional stills.

The highlight is Brendan Walters as Nullah, the half-aboriginal, half-white boy, who somehow makes a completely undeveloped and poorly scripted character work, possibly because he’s absolutely adorable and manages to demonstrate a greater range and depth of emotion than his ‘seasoned’ counter-parts. Lurhmann seems to be almost making fun of this character’s (and arguably the entire Stolen Generation, which Nalluh represents in it’s entirety) complete cultural isolation. There are scenes in which the young actor is forced into singsong, magical, jazz-hands moments that you feeling as if you should look away! Whilst these moments are given the ‘slow motion to make people realize I’m serious’ effect, truly tragic moments in the child’s life, like the death of his mother are washed over, notably by Kidman, and her awful rendition of ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow’.

Brendan Walters as Nullah in 'Australia'

That the 1939 masterpiece The Wizard of Oz should feature at all in the film is mind-boggling! Until of course Nullah verbalizes the connection between the Wizard of Oz and his grandfather, King George, a totem full blooded aboriginal elder (played by David Gulpilil) who, like a good totem, speaks little, does less and assumes the stereotypical position, literally. In fact all the minority characters of the film are so hopelessly stereotypical it is embarrassing, and so indicative of an entire generation for which Asian equals food and Eastern European equals ‘shifty’ but not servant, mostly because they too are white.  

The ‘magic’ of the indigenous Australian culture is entirely lost on the viewer. In fact, it is fair to say that it isn’t at all depicted beyond a few songs and the aforementioned jazz-hands moments. Lurhmann has said the film is a “mythologized Australia“. But he has failed to provide one of the most important characters required in all good myth, that being the landscape. Certainly, it is there, but in the hybrid, make believe place he’s created there is nothing more than an implied connection between King George’s/Nullah’s ‘magic’ and a knowledge of the land. The viewer doesn’t experience this connection with King George or Nullah. Further, in his attempt to stylize the environment to allude to the great American epics like Gone with the Wind, Lurhmann has removed any possibility for the audience to experience the Outback of Australia in any new or authentic way.

David Gulpilil as King George in 'Australia'

There is a grotesque amount of historical repositioning here. White English aristocracy caring for half-indigenous boys is so far removed from the reality of the experience of the Stolen Generation it borders on offensive. In preparing for this post I did a little reading, picking my way through the countless reviews of the film. For those who haven’t had the pleasure, I strongly suggest Germaine Greer’s scathing review featured in The Guardian, Tuesday 16^th December 2008, in which she describes the film as “a  fraudulent and misleading fantasy”.

 

Fantasy it may be, but within all Lurhmann’s 21^st Century political correctness smeared across a plethora of historical incorrectness, is an indisputable truth about Australian culture. If Jackman’s Drover and Kidman’s Lady Sarah could have produced a child, they probably would have done so after the war. And that child would have been, like my parents, a Baby Boomer. And they have about as much cultural heritage as would be plausible for the offspring of these fictional characters: Drover, a rough and questionable character with no apparent past and Lady Sarah, an immigrant who brought with her nothing of her culture but tea. And that is the cultural experience of a half a nation spanning a whole continent. Onlookers might be curious as to why so little of the Aboriginal culture actually managed to find it’s way into the film. Don’t be, because European settlers destroyed it, and my generation as taught by the vast majority of those who represent the offspring of Drover and Lady Sarah, know absolutely nothing about it. And since white Australia failed to manifest their own mythology connecting them to this harsh, ancient and shape-shifting land, or to preserve anything substantial of their own ancestral culture, we simply lack the empathetic response to an authentic mythology or cultural experience. Moreover, in the years since 1939, whole generations of white Australia have been forced to live entirely devoid of either and there is an underlying sense of resentment within the discourse regarding the preservation of indigenous myth and culture. The 1939 white cultural imperialism that is still so evident in Lurhmann’s Australia increasingly contrasts the disenfranchised and dissatisfied white youth.

 

Emerging generations, which, if they could stay the three hours to the end of the film, might have, like me, experienced something like jealousy as they watch Nullah and his grandfather walk away to go walkabout. Realizing that, should we desire to go walkabout ourselves, there is no longer a guide, and finally begin to understand what horrible conditions we have enforced upon our indigenous fellows.

It is in this way that Australia does some small service. In it’s utter failure to demonstrate an authentic mythical experience, in the complete cultural void of the film we are given a most accurate picture of the underlying issues regarding Reconciliation. We can not go forward as a whole nation together until we recognize our shared impoverishment and until white Australia embraces the fundamental importance of authentic mythology intrinsically linked to environment to cultural growth.

Hugh Jackman & Nicole Kidman in 'Australia' 2

Word Usage and Voicemail Messages.

Recently, a friend of mine told me I should update my voicemail message, which is, currently; “Hi, you’ve reached Inga. Please leave you name and number and I’ll get back to as quick as I can. Have an excellent day! Bye, bye.”

He’s right, I should change it. It’s false. As he suggested it should perhaps be; “Fuck off, I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone, else I would have answered the bloody thing!” But that too is not quite correct. Sometimes I just miss calls, like anyone, and on the rare occasion I am quite unhappy about having done so. Other times when a call is left to go unanswered it is, simply, because I am a moody loner and it does not mean that I don’t actually intend on returning the call or that I do not sincerely wish my friend/caller an excellent day. Most of the people I actually like already know and accept my habits, leave a message well aware that it could be the very message to break me free of the bonds of melancholy isolation.

Beyond that, yes, it’s too cheerful. Mostly, I answer the phone calls of people that I like well enough to wish all manner of excellent things upon them. And so I tell them directly. It is a lie that “I will get back to you as quick as I can”, insofar as I will return the call as soon as I am emotional capable of giving a toss about anything other than my current infuriation with not being able to locate what I want on Youtube. And except on the odd occasion I do genuinely miss a call, I don’t care enough to answer so I can hardly care whether you have an excellent day or not.

Thankfully today I am too poor to change the message.

1. Smoking and your $950.00 share of the Federal Government Stimulus Package.

            In 2007, Heart Foundation of Australia, national tobacco spokesperson, Maurice Swanson, said “The Federal Government collects nearly $7 billion in tobacco tax each year.”[1] That’s right, and we’ve enjoyed a federal government budget surplus for quite some years now. Now, in dire economic straits, we’re getting it back, in lump sums.

            It’s ok, you don’t need to thank me and the approximately 1/3 of the population who contribute just that little bit extra. WE WOULD FALL OVER AND DIE! Our hearts are simply too badly damaged by use of one of the most addictive drugs available legally. And we’re too used to being social pariahs and being TREATED LIKE LEPERS.

            When the smokers of the nation light-up together and spend that $950 in part on a pack of everyone’s fav Winnie Blues, you can be guaranteed, we already know we are helping support not only more industries in a single purchase, our nation’s financial reserves, but several villagers in some unknown undeveloped country who make as much as a single packet costs, per family, per annum, growing tobacco.  We don’t want your approval you sanctimonious arsehole! And we are all secretly preying what they say about second has smoke is true, at least FOR YOU!

            So if you calling today with a mind to making some comment about my unsavoury (though entirely legal, and not entirely unbeneficial to you) drug use, think again.

2. Real Drugs and the Terrors of Being ‘Dry’

            If you are still inclined to talk about my addictions to caffeine and nicotine, then know this: I have been entirely high on Marijuana for the past 15 years. In that time I have been employed, studied, had relationships, made many a mistake. But I was ‘acceptable’, because I worked, because I was happy, I didn’t mind about the little things whilst high. I have been ‘clean’ for 6 months.

            One of the biggest mistakes I could have possibly made in my personal journey towards regaining my health and happiness (note the terminology so that everyone who watches The Biggest Loser can understand what I mean) is to have quit smoking pot before I got a job, before I got out of my parents home. And possibly in giving it up at all. Because now when I wake up in the morning I remember every stupid, half-baked, idiotic and ignorant thing that has been said to me the day before, the past week, the last 6 months. And the thought of going to work for some moron like the one I met with today who did not know what the word ‘facetious’ meant makes me want to cry. If I could just get high, I know that that urge to self mutilate would ease, and all would be right with the world. In fact, it’s so brilliant as erasing the vulgar, stupid, and disgusting, that even Mr Moron above, who will no doubt go out on the town this Friday/Saturday night ‘on the piss’ and contribute his small part to making Sydney the cess pit of vomit and urine that it is, and keeping the 3am cleaners who hose the city down of said excrement employed, would be thoroughly socially acceptable to me too.

            So thank you for calling, but please, all you ignorant, dirty, binge drinking alcoholics who have a mind to make comment about my addictions, note, you constitute the most debase part of our society. I will not be returning your call. But I take this opportunity to encourage you to consider the word ‘clean’. And the use of a dictionary.

3. Learning Other Words and Other Labels

            Whilst on the subject of word usage, here’s a simple lesson for those a little slow on the up-take.

            The term ‘Mum’ is used in relation to one’s female parent, usually and most often to indicate the maternal, biological parent. Any other person who would encourage a child under the age of 10 to call them this when they are not the actual, maternal, biological parent, and when the maternal, biological parent is completely competent and is in no way restricted in the parental obligation as defined by the State of this fair land of ours, is akin to a weird stalker-esque character who has personal emotional issues regarding neediness. Any female relative of the maternal, biological parent of a child who would encourage that child to call them ‘Mum’ should be ejected from the sisterhood and declared unworthy as a mother in their own right for failing to empathise with the sanctity of that relationship and attempting to undermine that relationship of her own female kin.

            The term ‘Dad’ is used in relation to one’s male parent, usually and most often to indicate the paternal, biological parent. Any other person who would encourage a child under the age of 10 to call them this when they are not the actual, paternal, biological parent, and when the maternal, biological parent is their DAUGHTER, is a weird and unwholesome character who has personal emotional issues. And should be ejected from society.

            Christians, you are responsible for propagating the beliefs that have resulted in innumerable dead, the extinction of races of men, genocide, torture and the continued assumption that non-Christians are ‘wrong’ and will burn in Hell for all eternity. Keep this to yourselves, lest the crimes of your forbears be brought before you in the manner that ancestry has been brought before the indigene throughout the world by you. If this little light of yours is going to shine, understand that it will mean that you will be judged, that you represent the ongoing homogenisation and exclusivity of my society. I am the Devil’s handmaiden, and you are the enemy.

            I am not unemployed. I am almost always employed doing something or other. This post is evidence of that fact. I read, and I enjoy the Arts; Fine, Performance, Theatrical, and Literature, Music and Film. In answer to the question “what do you do?” I answer many things, or anything that I happen to do in my day. Whether or not that has anything to do at all with a job, trade or skill that I am contracted or not to perform for a person, company or institution as defined by the laws of our state is completely irrelevant. Should you answer the question with “I am a (insert noun)” I will assume you a greatly limited individual. If for example you are ‘a lawyer’ I will have little to say to you as I already have access to the all statutory and common law in Australia, and much Internationally. If you are for example, ‘a baker’ then the conversation must be very limited since I already know how to bake bread. Any person so uninteresting enough to answer with a common noun will be judged according to my understanding of any or all of that class of entities. Find a verb people; take up a hobby, read a book. Find a new bloody question. Really.

            Cunt is a fabulous word! In my estimation it is the perfect counterpart for the word ‘cock’, and it should be utilized thusly. And if a man can be cocksure then by the gods, at my most confident and arrogant, I must be cuntsure! I have been known to use this word to express negative connotations. However this must come to a complete stop! If I have ever called you a cunt before, you can be sure you are neither so pretty nor useful and I do not like you, even a little bit.

            Please leave a message if you are confident you will not piss me off with your complete ignorance of the general /underlying meaning of the labels you attach to others and yourselves!  Otherwise, don’t, and don’t call back either.

 

---

[1] http://www.ashaust.org.au/mediareleases/070905j.htm, Australian health groups echo NZ call for smoke-free future, Action on Smoking and Health (Joint release by ASH Australia, the Heart Foundation and The Cancer Council Australia) Media Release

Children+clumsiness=disaster

I have recently returned from touring the beautiful island of Tasmania. I had the pleasure of being guest to two of my dearest friends, who, knowing my deep love and appreciation for things dirt cheap, dirty and any and all things made of paper, took me to the quaintest shop I’ve ever been in! The Tip Shop. What, you ask, is the Tip Shop? It is as you might have suspected a retail outlet located at the local waste disposal depot.

I’m from Sydney, so I don’t know anything about garbage. I put it in a bin and then wheel that bin to the front of my property once a week as specified by important looking documents I receive from Council Departments. I have theories about what happens to the rubbish that miraculously disappears from my bins once a week. But in Tasmania, being that it is the Land of Rainbows they do things I have never seen! But enough of that rubbish.

For 50cents a piece we bought a box full of second hand books graciously gifted to the Tip Shop proprietors by people who were ignorant enough to think them worthy of disposal. The following is a piece from Modern Poetry edited by Guy N. Pocock, M.A., printed in 1921.

Part IX-A Note on Futurist Poetry

When a new movement in Art attains a certain vogue, it is advisable to find out what its advocates are aiming at, for however far-fetched and unreasonable their tenets may seem to-day, it is possible that in years to come they may be regarded as normal. Such things have happened before. Moreover, one cannot shut one’s eyes to the very significant effect of these modern ideas in the matter of painting and music.

With regard to Futurist poetry, however, the case is rather different; for whatever Futurist poetry may be- even admitting that the theory on which it is based may be right- it can hardly be classed as Literature.

This then, in brief, is what the Futurist says: that for a century past conditions of live have been continually speeding up, till now we live in a world of noise and violence and speed, of trains and motorcars and wireless telegraphy, of aeroplanes and giant howitzers. Consequently, our feelings, thoughts and emotions have undergone a corresponding change: we live ten times as fast as our great-grandfathers did.

This speeding up of life, says the Futurist, requires a new form of expression. We must speed up our literature too, if we want to interpret modern stress. We must pour out a cataract of essential words, unhampered by stops, or qualifying adjectives, or finite verbs. We must leap from one idea to another without check, using plus and minus signs instead of full-stops and semicolons; regulate the pace and tone by musical signs, such as rallentando or crescendo. Instead of describing sounds we must make up words that imitate them; we must use many sizes of type and different coloured inks on the same page, and shorten or lengthen words at will.

Well, they may be right; and certainly their descriptions of battles and so forth are vividly chaotic. But it is a little disconcerting to read in the explanatory notes that a certain line describes a fight between a Turkish and a Bulgarian officer on a bridge over which they both fall into the river- and then to find that the line consists of the noise of their falling, and the weights of the officers: “Pluff! Pluff! A hundred and eighty-five kilograms.”

Perhaps we may explain what is meant by making up an example. Suppose the poet set himself to rewrite the Nursery Rhymes, the famous adventure of Jack and Jill might appear in this guise:

Children+clumsiness=disaster

Jack+Jill incline 1 in 8 puff pant summit+pail Bubble-bubble-splash incline 20 degrees+carelessness= biff bump rattle SPLOSH Jack minus water plus crown +abrasion of epidermus+Jill weight 4 stone 2lb. = Misery.

This we feel, though it fulfils the laws and requirements of Futurist poetry, can hardly be classed as Literature. All the same, no thinking man can refuse to accept their first proposition: that a great change in our emotional life necessitates a change of expression. The whole question is really this:  have we essentially changed?

My dear Mr Pocock, not a single bit.

And to think, someone THREW THIS BOOK AWAY! As relevant now as ever it was.

On Leaving Some Friends At An Early Hour

On Leaving Some Friends At An Early Hour by John Keats

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean
  On heaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and far;
  Bring me a tablet whiter than a star,
Or hand of hymning angel, when ’tis seen
The silver strings of heavenly harp atween:
  And let there glide by many a pearly car
  Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar,
And half-discovered wings, and glances keen.
The while let music wander round my ears,
  And as it reaches each delicious ending,
    Let me write down a line of glorious tone,
And full of many wonders of the spheres:
  For what a height my spirit is contending!
    ‘Tis not content so soon to be alone.