Weekend Trip

All organised. All packed. I've got my Paris Hilton volumising lip balm on and comfortable clothes for the car trip, so off we go - stvbee and me - for a trip down the Hume to capital city world.

Bright day, fun music, dry landscape out the windows. A stop at a tiny colonial'ish settlement town for lunch at a rustic-style cafe with amazing food and cashed-up clientele.

Canberra - bunker-like buildings and the sort of creepy motel where you definitely wonder how many people have used that blanket since it was last washed. All of the bedding crackling with electricity generated by the synthetic fabrics. Good Chinese food and 'Saturday Night Fever' afterwards on some 'Foxtel' channel. Not much sleep, due to an all-night rave around the corner. I notice that the exact time the beat stops is 6.03am Sunday morning. Water and mandarins. Bleak and windy weather, with sprinklings of rain. Too rainy for the flower show. A shopping mall for fruit and yoghurt, a too-big cup of milky coffee and artificially-flavoured muffin. I'm so anaesthetised by the atmosphere that I get sucked into buying $40 worth of 'Dead Sea' beauty products. Whatever.

Then it's the drive home along the Hume Highway again which, especially in late-afternoon cloudy weather, has that low-sky feel in places - as if you could just reach up and touch it. The trees and road signs are flying past and there's lots of traffic, but something is magic about the way it all comes together.

Quotes For Today

"War is now considered a legitimate reaction against terrorist strikes."

"The U.S. government's response to September 11 has actually privileged terrorism. It has given it a huge impetus, and made it look like terrorism is the only effective way to be heard. Over the years, every kind of nonviolent resistance movement has been crushed, ignored, kicked aside. But if you're a terrorist, you have a great chance of being negotiated with, of being on TV, of getting all the attention you couldn't have dreamt of earlier."

"We can't ever abandon our personal quest for joy and beauty and gentleness."

- Arundhati Roy -

Adventures in Springtime

Thank goodness my last bout of bronchitis and cold is finally dissipating. And thank goodness for springtime.

Yesterday involved the usual fun train trip between western Sydney (I occasionally go for dental appointments) and the city and the diverse characters I never see around the inner-city bullshit zone. I sat next to an older couple. The woman looked amazing - resplendent in bright purple, her grey hair up in a bun, her tanned face covered in an incredible pattern of deep - and not unattractive - lines, which looked like a kind of aerial map. She took everything in around her, including an elderly woman with very black skin sitting opposite us, who rose from her seat and left the train at Lidcombe Station. "She's very dark isn't she?", the lined lady said to her silent partner, who nodded slightly and continued to grimly keep his firm hold on a walking stick. He wore the type of slacks that I've noticed many older men on this train wear - greyish beige in colour, synthetic fibres glistening in the light. He never said a word during the entire journey, but his wife chattered continuously about everything that came her way.

She fell silent after the train pulled away from Redfern though and, upon arriving at Central, asked him what he'd like for dinner that night.

He didn't say a thing and they both got off the train.

Narcissists I've Known

The good thing about growing older is that we can look at our experiences to date and analyse them, with a view to making wiser decisions in the future (well ... one would hope, anyway). This particularly applies to our choice of intimate partners.

Looking at my past relationships, many are people who interpret and judge the world - including people around them - according to whatever point they themselves have reached in life, or philosophies they associate themselves with, at any given time. For example, their current realisations are the ones everyone else (especially you!) should be adopting; the food they have decided is the best for them is the best for everyone else; their knowledge and perspective, to date, is the most relevant etc. etc. They move through life constantly justifying their own actions and habits, whilst judging those of other people, inadvertently revealing a very deep and hopeless insecurity. For them, the notion of empathic understanding - an interest in and sense of how others may experience or feel things - is an impossibility. It is a notion that simply doesn't occur to them. They feel no responsibility in regard to how they may affect the feelings of others. It is as if the world exists for themselves only and if everything else doesn't fit into place around them - including people - then it is an obstruction, an antagonism. I have learnt, through years of therapy, that these people are narcissists.

Disturbingly however, I have been noticing that many people become more narcissistic as they age and am starting to think that it is almost inevitable - perhaps a 'side effect' of the individualisation of a society in which self-centredness rules. Yet, on saying this, I suspect that mothers are probably far less likely to be narcissistic, though I'm not sure whether I'd extend this exemption to women in general. Surely, we owe it to ourselves and those around us to try and understand what the concerns of others are - how they feel, what makes them tick, what might be of benefit to them and how we can perhaps help? However, given the way the world is going right now, including attitudes, in general, towards 'the other' in situations of conflict and the greed and selfishness of those of us living in affluent societies, I don't feel particularly optimistic.

Bacteria

I'm sick again - 10 days so far. (When have I not been over the last five or six months?) It's actually getting ridiculous. Since March, there have been three onslaughts of full-on cold - with all the trimmings - that have lasted for 3 to 4 weeks, but always with a smidge of 'chestiness' remaining, which eventually (usually 2 or 3 weeks later) flares up to the point that I feel like crap for a couple of days and then it subsides. And so on, and so on...

But the chest infection is really nasty this time, so I went to the doctor's last Friday. I'd seen him a month earlier - after enduring 2 weeks of the previous cold - and had left a sputum sample for pathology. He was surprised I hadn't returned to see him - telling me the pathology had revealed bronchitis bacteria (and here I was thinking he'd call me if there was any cause for concern!)

Anyway, I've been on antibiotics since Friday for bronchitis, even though it developed into another full-on cold and there's no improvement. I am sooooo sick of being sick! Nothing I eat tastes right. I feel like crap. I look like crap. Everything hurts. I cancel a scheduled appointment with my acupuncturist and express concern that I've had to start a second course of antibiotics that I'm worried won't work. She reinforces all my fears by saying "Well, antibiotics aren't what they used to be ... it could be a different bug to last time ... " and advises me, as does everyone, not to do anything, stay in bed and eat nourishing, easily-digestible foods. OK, so how am I supposed to prepare this food and get the ingredients? And, being a member of the 'new workplace' world (ie no sick leave etc), I have to actually produce work (albeit part-time) in order to get the money to pay for this food - and my life in general. So what now?

An Evening Walk

It had been a while since doing so, when I walked down Crown Street, Surry Hills on Saturday evening (not the western, hilly side that descends toward the city, but Crown Street, north of Cleveland and to its east.) Wow. Things sure have changed.

At risk of sounding painfully nostalgic (too bad!), I felt as if I may as well be in Paddington. Every last pub in the area appeared to have been gentrified into sterility. Every person I saw looked primped and decked out in designer gear - women with that ubiquitous highlighted blonde, blow-dried hairstyle, designer jeans, bags and shoes, and guys with that typical 'yuppie about town' thing going on.

I remember when this area was lively with colour and contrast - struggling people and wealthy alike. And I especially remember `China Joe'. Whatever happened to him? He was a derelict, supposedly alcoholic Chinese guy of indeterminate age, who wandered around lower Crown Street and Cleveland Street all day and evening and slept in the street. He looked kind of crazed and was often laughing to himself. He usually carried a bottle - inside a paper bag most of the time - and sat with his hand outstretched, begging for money. He didn't seem to be able to speak any English at all. I heard numerous theories about him - how he'd ended up there, that he was actually an academic doing research etc. etc. Who knows.

But slowly the area was sterilised and that's pretty much when China Joe disappeared - along with the mystery.

Drug Wars

I can't believe that the Kings Cross injecting centre is still the subject of debate. Recent surveys amongst local residents show that 75% are in favour of it. Local business support has grown from 58% in 2000 to 68% in 2005. An average 220 injecting episodes a day have been taken off the street and medically supervised - more than 300,000 over five years - and 5,380 referrals to drug treatment have been given out. Countless lives have been saved. Stumbling across discarded needles in public places is becoming a rarity, instead of commonplace. Kings Cross Police report a drop in crime rates and anti-social behaviour, which has allowed them to focus on drug dealing and the clinic is not government/taxpayer funded, but by confiscated proceeds of crime, including from drug dealing. In short, it is a success.

Yet still these wowsers babble on and on about how it encourages drug use (?), despite having absolutely no evidence. They just don't get it. People use drugs and always will, for a myriad of reasons, and will continue to gravitate to particular areas of big cities for this very reason - such as Kings Cross. And rather than leaving these people to shoot up in streets and alleys and then turning a blind eye, we owe it to ourselves - regular citizens and junkies alike - to take some responsibility for this reality. By having a medically supervised injecting room, we are taking responsibility, whilst also maintaining an element of control, so that everyone ultimately benefits. We can't simply pretend that people will just stop using drugs, or that they won't overdose, or that drugs and druggies will vanish. It's not good enough.

When debating the issue with a family member a few years ago, he told me he disagreed with the injecting centre, saying: "Anyone who sticks a needle in their arm deserves everything they get". Apparently, they deserve to overdose in the street and die, just because they're junkies. And this is what so many others think. Compassion doesn't even appear to be a consideration, yet surely there is a strong element of hypocrisy here. Everyone uses drugs of some sort - legally or illegally - and for many reasons. Are our hearts so hardened that we cannot care about people who aren't as well-adjusted as ourselves. And who the hell is so well-adjusted anyway?

To my thinking, the so-called 'War On Drugs' seems to me to be as pointless as the 'War On Terror'. This whole idea that you can just wipe out illicit drug use is completely misguided and an enormous waste of money that could be so much better spent on programmes that assist people, in whatever ways necessary, to address the problems that lead to their habits.

Again, just my opinion..

Joke Of The Week

What's the difference between yoghurt and an Australian?
Yoghurt has culture.

Things That Saved My Last 10 Days

Apart from Lisa's birthday indulgences (I am very rarely so naughty nowadays!) there's been very little going on really. Mind you, a few small pleasures have saved these last 10 days, namely:
**Hanging out with Choofla last Thursday and Friday - listening to his stories, watching his smile and listening to him speak Greek.
**'The Devil and Daniel Johnston' movie with stvbee last Sunday evening at The Chauvel. DJ is one of those rare artists who has the ability to effortlessly channel unadulterated insight and creative imagination via his songs and art - wilfully, yet almost unconsciously. Of course, he is labelled a 'genius' - and maybe he is - but sadly, he also has a tendency to become completely unhinged and remains dysfunctional - in the normal, suburban sense, that is - necessitating a dependency on hideous psych. meds.
**Cookie-eating. Stuff the wheat intolerance! Too bad, because lately I've been indulging in my favourites - 'Full-o-Fruit' (with a hint of chocolate), 'Scotch Fingers' and 'Orange Creams'.
**Finding out yesterday - from my endocrinologist - that my Vitamin D levels are as good as someone who regularly sunbakes - and I've more or less completely avoided the sun for 17 years!
**Seeing the Pigeon Lady in Hyde Park. I love her and so do the pigeons. She just sits on her spread-out newspapers in the late afternoon sun, slowly feeding them kernels of grain and talking to them as they sit on every part of her body and entirely surround her.
**Another movie last night with stvbee - 'United 93' - a very gripping yet, thankfully, not didactic or cloying in any way, account of the flight that ended up crashing in a Pennsylvania field, after being hijacked on September 11 2001 in the US. A very emotional experience.

Lisa's Birthday

It's not Lisa's birthday any more. It's early the next morning. Listening to some dumb glam music - a bit past-it by now, we're liking being stoned on pot and don't care. This is us

R.I.P. Elizabeth Tolley

A late night phone call - after midnight - and I'm told you had passed away, earlier last night. I never knew you closely and seldom saw you, but it didn't matter. We had been acquainted over a long period of time and I knew that there was a connection between us.

You were inspirational - a goddess of my time. A pantheon of light and style, I looked up to you - almost as a 'big sister' - when I first met you in small-town New Zealand. You were a shining star - dressed with exotic, gypsy flair. I sometimes imagined living my life as you might live yours. You sold me an old cotton lace dress, dyed black, from the vintage clothes shop you operated. The lace is handmade and I still have it. For several years, if you saw me, you would ask if I would sell it back to you.

In Sydney, you were in your element. You have been indispensable in injecting new life into the fading glory of Kings Cross's bohemian chic. Working at the legendary 'Piccolo Bar' in Roslyn Street for some time, you were fabulous. Stunningly beautiful, sassy, wise, funny, mysterious and always so incredibly stylish, you kept the legend alive. You ARE a legend. It's not hard to imagine you fitting in perfectly with the icons of 1950s Sydney bohemia. I even saw your name on the credits of 'Fashionista' (SBS fashion doco) one night. Perfect.

I heard that you had been sick, struggled and triumphed and then, relapsed. I heard there were two relapses. I can relate to this, because I have been through something similar - though comparisons are, of course, always dubious. Yet, I know how difficult it must have been because I know the pain and anguish of just getting through each 'day-at-a-time' day. And I can clearly comprehend what it is like to reach the moment when it is simply impossible to go through any more. So I am glad that you can finally just rest now, Elizabeth, even though the world will miss you.

Film review - 'Scared Sacred'

Not much to say about this movie that isn't already covered in the PR blurbs. However, film maker Velcrow Ripper, (though clearly not the "punk rocker" he fancies himself to be) has definitely created a thought-provoking reflection on hope and compassion springing from suffering in the aftermath of disaster - the shifting of emotional devastation into positive transformation. Or, to paraphrase Velcrow himself, breathing in tragedy and breathing out compassion.

He has travelled to 'ground zeros' of the world - post-disaster - including the sites of the 'Union Carbide' tragedy in Bhopal, India, the World Trade Centre in New York, post-war Bosnia, Israel/Palestine, the minefields of Cambodia and war-torn Afghanistan. A group of Afghan women, mostly orphaned, who had fled Taliban-controlled Afghanistan to live in secret in a Pakistani border town, were particularly inspiring. Continuing their brave campaign for the rights of Afghan women - including regular street protests, where their lives are constantly endangered - they have set up a school for orphaned Afghan girls, which offers their only hope of getting an education. Also moving were the stories of an Israeli and Palestinian family who had both encountered tragedy from their particular sides of the conflict. They had managed to transform their raging (and useless) desire for revenge into empathy and now actively work together with other bereaved families, from both sides, to encourage compassion and understanding. Good stuff.

Was A Friend

He thinks he is the only one who suffers as he does, in isolation. He thinks his suffering is more justified. He doesn't understand why people sometimes become indifferent to him - after all, he has sought out their company and has been capable and charming. He doesn't recognise love when it is being given to him, nor friendship when he has it. He betrays his real self and his real friends alike. He knows what he doesn't want, but not what he wants. He knows who he doesn't like, yet doesn't like himself. He lives in the world as he sees it and is master of it, but he is miserable. He assumes he is being misunderstood.

He seldom admits to being moved by what moves others and maybe he isn't. He sets himself apart and negates the value of mere mentions of things that have brought small satisfactions or joy to acquaintances - books, films, art, studies, people, jobs. He knows better, or so he thinks. His take on things is more informed. His studies and life mission are more relevant and worthy than yours. A narcissist, this is what he thinks. It gets tedious after a while, but don't challenge or criticise him. He can only dish it out.

I know about him, because he was a friend of mine.

Quote For Today

"There is something deeply suffocating about life in the prosperous west. Bourgeoisification, the suburbanisation of the soul, proceeds at an unnerving pace. Tyranny becomes docile and subservient, and soft totalitarianisam prevails, as obsequious as a wine waiter. Nothing is allowed to distress and unsettle us. The politics of the playgroup rules us all".

- J.G. Ballard -

Whinge-o-rama

After a week at home - sick with a bad cold - it's a sunny day, so I decide to venture out into the city to try and find a copy of an elusive new 7" record by a favourite music group (such are the pleasures of my - generally useless - existence). Bad move. An excursion to town these days only serves to further embitter me towards my fellow humans, despite having spent the last few days mulling over the importance of compassion towards others. Oh, well..
Everywhere I go, hordes of people teem, filling up any piece of available space; escalators clogged with the overfed bodies of inseparable couples who, clutching each other's hands, use these modes of transport as joyrides upon which they can remain static, whilst kissing and fondling one another like characters in their own movie, oblivious to the backlog of fellow travellers behind them. The need for refreshment is fatal. Food halls housing a multitude of globalised, corporatised, franchised outlets have replaced humble cafes and are, again, filled to the brim with teeming multitudes, all gobbling down their cakes and sushi, sandwiches, crepes and stuffed potatoes - drinking trendy drinks from franchise 'juice' bars (which are composed mainly of bacteria-laden crushed ice), crapping on about their inane purchases, as if it was of actual world-shattering importance.
Women are the worst. Why are they so gullible to this bogus, manipulated ('consuming is cool') idea of "retail therapy"? Could someone please explain the therapeutic value of being stuck in a designer shoe store sale, for example, with throngs of women squawking and grabbing at products like starving seagulls? And on that note, what exactly is this psychotic desire in women to purchase ridiculously impractical shoes, regularly, with the ostentatious swagger of victory, as if each item collected represents a major achievement. It's out of control.
Cluttered with designer bags, gabbling on about how "those shoes would go well with a short skirt" or "that top would look good with my new jeans" etc. etc. to their friends and hapless partners (I admit I've been guilty of this myself!) and all the while, their husbands are just following after them - pushing prams, carrying shopping, listening to this endless crap - just (seemingly) happy to be part of it. Something to build a life around, I guess. Get me out of here!

July war

I'm gobsmacked. I know that my view is basically irrelevant, but I have to say that, in my opinion, what Israel is doing - in the name of destroying Hezbollah - is simply WRONG - on every level. Wiping out Hezbollah? How far do they have to go before this is done and how will they actually know that their mission is accomplished? Surely, killing huge numbers of civilians will breed more terrorism and encourage more rocket attacks, as has already happened. Retaliation for the kidnap of two soldiers? Don't the Israelis hold hundreds of members of Hamas and Hezbollah captive? Self-defence? Israel is the biggest military and economic power in the region, so how long can they play the victim card? Why should Lebanon be used as a chessboard in which to play out these grievances? How can Israel expect its Islamic neighbours to remain weak and divided while they prosper?
Obviously, I'm no expert, but even Blind Freddy can see that Israel's mission can never be accomplished. How can we expect the people of Lebanon (as with Iraq) not to feel resentment towards their aggressors? Anyway, I think these pictures speak volumes more than anything anyone could ever say.

Velcrow Ripper's 'Scared Sacred'

I just found out about this film via an email. It's an apparently "powerful documentary", by filmmaker Velcrow Ripper (love the name!), who goes on a 5-year odyssey to 'Ground Zero' locations around the world - including post-September 11 New York, the minefields of Cambodia, war-torn Afghanistan, the toxic wastelands of Bhopal, Bosnia, Palestine and Israel. His quest is to discover whether humanity can transfer the scared into the sacred. Sounds intriguing. There's a special screening in Sydney on 1 August, so I'll try my best to get there. In the meantime, there's a blog...

Dream

Had a dream last night that I was in an American city - Boston, apparently - but it was the late 1970s and I was having an affair with (a still quite youngish) William Shatner. (Don't ask, ok? I mean, I like his album 'n all, but this is ridiculous!) Anyway, we were like teenagers in love as we hung with his buddies - a great bunch of intellectual 'art' types and I was exuberantly telling them how I'd come from the future and about the differences between their time and mine. They were reluctant to believe me and who could blame them, but they were all the while reminding me of better, more tolerant and hopeful times, so I told them all about my world.

Stinky Flower

the close-up flower is a an `amorphophallus titanum', which literally means: 'huge distorted penis'