Epic Journeys I have undertaken: December 2008, To Cairns and back
The journey started long before December. A couple of years ago, if fact. I decided back then that I would buy a ‘new’ – that is, minute hand … well ….. OK, a second hand…car when I could take a lump sum from superannuation without penalty. I would check out if Toyota Corollas are still the stayers they’ve always been, but the question was, who would know that? My niece’s husband in Cairns – which would make him my nephew in law, I suppose. Not because he’s in Cairns, but because … oh never mind. Part of the journey also included applying for the Service Pension (for war service) and a disability pension as well; and negotiating the conversion of my superannuation into an income stream. They are topics for another day, but it is important to know that they were part of the larger life journey of which the trip to Cairns was but part. It also involved disposing of the car I’d had since 1989 – a Toyota Corolla, of course, 1986 model. You might think the latter would be a very straight forward thing to do – especially if one was to just give the car away, as I did. How hard could it be. Here’s the keys. It’s yours. Well, no actually, although it could have been. Had I given it to a nephew living locally that’s all I would have had to do, but I gave it to a young woman who really needed a break – someone I’ve known for a few years and who’s been fending off bad luck with something like the patience of Job. The problem was that the car could be hard to start at times; the sun roof leaks (but only when it rains, which is fortunate, eh?); the bonnet needs a special procedure to open; and sometimes you can’t tell what’s wrong with it just by kicking the tyres. So I felt obliged to organise explanations and demonstrations, as well as brief her on insurance and registration. Anyway, the day came for the hand over. I did some last minute things before heading to Cairns by plane; and Natasha drove me to where the Airport Shuttle would pick me up, then drove the car away as its new owner. Fortunately, the bus was late, because some time later she returned and asked me how to tale the key out. That’s when I remembered to tell her never to turn the ignition off while the car is in motion – because the steering locks and you can’t change direction. Being a girl, it would probably never occur to her to try such a thing. But better safe than sorry.
The bus came, an hour late. I sat in the back seat and looked out at the details of the landscape I could never take in while driving. At one point I glanced at the other occupant of the seat. Unshaven (as distinct from bearded), wrap around sunglasses, seriously jaded in demeanour, and eyes fixed on infinity, or so it seemed. I felt a twinge of superiority. Generation Why, I grunted silently, they don’t know what from wherefore … and returned my attention to the scenery. It was so exquisite that I felt the old magic return – the feeling I had driving around when we first came down here – every moment a wonder; around every corner another jaw dropping view. This continued until just before the Tweed River, after which the views would be of civilisation, or the effects thereof. The reverie was broken by a tap on the shoulder. It was the ‘thug’ offering me his water bottle. No thanks. Sure? Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I returned to the last of the greenery, but quickly realised that I’d missed the point of what had just happened. Why would someone do that to a complete stranger? To make conversation, of course. So I turned back and asked, Where are you going? He was going to Sydney. I’m going to Cairns, I said. Oh, just been there, he said. And, it turned out, everywhere else. He was from Brighton, and the conversation was animated and lasted until I left the bus at the Jetstar terminal. So much for judging a back packer by his sunglasses.
Despite being an hour late, I still had a long wait for my plane. If you insist on the cheapest flight your departure will be scheduled at times like 6:00 am or 9:40 pm. As I was not going to have a car I had to catch either a train (from Robina) or a bus (locally) to the airport. The last train left Central for the airport at 7:29 pm and the last bus from Uncle Toms at 4:30 pm. I chose the bus so that Natasha would have less driving to get me to my pick up point. With no mobile phone on which the bus company could contact me to explain what was going on I just had to practice Zen patience. It could be a couple of hours late and still get me there on time – though other passengers might no be as unperturbed. And besides, how many people have you heard about who, for one reason or another, missed a plane that crashed? Maybe I was missing … well, never mind, The bus did come and I arrived at the airport with much time to kill – and then found out that I had even more than I’d expected: the plane was running late. An hour late.
I’d packed every unread copy of The Week and a couple of sections of the most recent Saturday edition of the SMH, but somehow, that didn’t seem to be enough to fend off the boredom of such a long wait for my plane, so I went to the newsagent/airport book store and asked about a book I’d heard about that very morning. It was an account of how the geopolitics of the world might change if the USA just vanished in an instant. The eyes of the bloke behind the counter widened in surprise, and then he pointed to the air and said, Walk this way. I think I may have what you are talking about. And there on the shelf was a book called The World Without Us. Both letters of the word Us should have been in upper case if it were referring the said superpower, but I didn’t notice and assumed it was indeed the book I was looking for. It turned out not to be. Rather it was about the world without humans. Interesting all the same. I didn’t try reading it from cover to cover. Rather I dipped into a chapter here, another there, and realised that I had heard of this book much earlier in the year. You may have heard yourself, on the ABC, that in a very short time (less time than we’ve been here, which in geological time is the blink of an eye) the only evidence remaining that we were here will be big holes in the ground. You know, open cut mines, whose walls are cut at less than the angle of repose, and therefore will not erode but fill up with water. And those that don’t fill up will be colonised by plants and animals and remain as giant terraces until processes that occur over geological time reshape the very crust of the earth itself. All other traces of our being here will have long been obliterated by water.
The book I was after, by the way, is Without Warning by John Birmingham who also wrote He died with a falafel in his hand – so he’s an Australian.
Anyway, I was allocated Seat 1A, which means I had miles of leg room as it is adjacent to the front entrance – and opposite the Hosties’ seats. I was meant to assist with evacuation if the situation arose, which I thought was a bit ironic, since I would be one of the first people in the plane to become one with everything should we slam head on into Mount Erebus or a tall building. But since we were not going anywhere near the Antarctic the former was fairly unlikely. The latter however … also unlikely, really. After all Kevin Rudd is now Prime Minister, and between him and that black Irishman in the USA – you know, O’Bama – all that is bad in the world will be made right. Which was a real comfort, because as we waited announcement after announcement apologised for delays and notified people of changes to flight numbers and departure gates, all of which was down to the need for unexpected aircraft maintenance. Not at all reassuring. Remember Ansett? And more recently the trouble Qantas has been having? We did eventually get off the ground and I decided that I would try to sleep. Fat chance. When we landed in Cairns, I was not only dog tired, but confronted by tropical humidity and heat. After what seemed like a walk around the airport equal to the distance from Brisbane, I eventually found myself on a footpath near a sign Passenger Pick Up. And in a very short time, there was my lift. It was about 3:00 am when I fell into bed – some time later I woke up without seeming to have gone to sleep.
I’d been picked up by Grahame, the said nephew in law, husband of Karen, father of Rachael, Matthew and Danielle – ages 7,8,&9 in reverse order. I’d taken three books as gifts I’d selected from the Mullumbimby book shop with the aid of a 10 year old boy I didn’t know. Only one of the kids was at home. The eldest had gone south for dental treatment, and the boy was with his grandmother so that I could have his room. The youngest was curious. After saying hello to Karen and having a cup of tea it was off to the car yard – via a number of Grahame’s other businesses, one of which was a boat yard in which he showed me a launch or cruiser that he had designed and built with his own hands. Think Aristotle Onassis and you’d only barely exaggerate the size and opulence of the craft I was looking at. Grahame offered me a look inside, but I said I’d wait until I could drink champagne on its bridge on launch day. You get the picture. The guy’s loaded. Yet you’d never know by looking at the way his family lives, or hearing him talk – even business on the phone. While the paperwork was being done for me to take possession of the car Grahame told me some remarkable stories about his operations. I asked him if he keeps a journal or a diary, because there was the making of a good book.
The moment came. We walked out into the yard, and there before me was what I can only describe as the Starship Enterprise. Ice Blue – an interesting colour – in sunlight it is the faintest blue. As the light changes it too changes form blue to silver to white to grey, and picks up tints of anything that comes near it – a bit of a chameleon, eh? Grahame showed me various aspects of its workings before I took the keys and very gingerly reversed it out of the yard. I hadn’t even crossed the footpath before I had to stop and ask someone how to close the windows. A two thousand kilometre adventure lay ahead. I still hadn’t come to grips with the fact that what I had control of actually belonged to me, so as I crept over the footpath onto the street, I heard in my mind’s ear, Captain Jean Luc Picard say, Ensign. Set a course for the Townsville sector; sub-luminal speed. Engage.
In spite of the Captain’s instructions the car attempted an immediate jump into hyperspace. Discovery No. 1: it has real grunt – a lesson I am still learning the subtleties of. The air conditioner was already going so in spite of the heat and humidity outside the car, it was like a luxury hotel room inside. It was – and still is – hard to believe. For most of the nineteen years that I had my previous car the aircon didn’t work. We had driven nearly half a million kilometres in it, in the tropics in summer and the Blue Mountains in winter, among other places, and broiled or froze as the season provided. The exterior and interior had gradually deteriorated, a condition which I addressed by having a reconditioned engine put in and a new paint job, as well as refurbishing the interior with lambs wool seat covers and other accoutrements. But for all my efforts, it was still really only mutton dressed up as lamb. In contrast the interior of my new craft almost gloats with opulence. Deep charcoal bucket seats enveloped the body like an intelligent or bionic prosthetic. You know, the kind of seat that makes you know you are one of the rulers of the universe. (just kidding) As I passed a large glass fronted building I caught a glimpse of its exterior. The most astounding sense of pride surged through every fibre of my being. That was my baby!! I had never before understood how guys could be in love with their cars. I do now.
It took some time to clear Cairns and its surrounding sub-luminal speed zones. Fortunately, I wasn’t in a hurry, because my docking facility in the Townsville sector would not be available until late afternoon, so I paid close attention to the changes that had occurred since my last visit – exactly a decade earlier. The place was a lot more trim – no gravel verges; verdant plant life in the median strips; and gleaming facades behind bowling green lawns with designer exotics. It was no longer a Cairns I could say I knew. It had been infiltrated and overtaken by aliens. In the eighties you could tell them by their white shoes. These days they are barely recognisable. They have adapted to the sartorial standards of the locals, who in turn have adopted the aliens’ 'aspirational values'.Seeing the new Cairns reminded me of the once new Port Douglas, and that, of course, reminded me of the graciously old Port Douglas, where I had the very great pleasure of eating fresh coral trout and washing it down with tequila in a dilapidated restaurant with fish nets and Cianti bottles hanging from the ceiling, situated on a jetty that should have been declared a hazard, but wasn’t because people in those daze didn’t expect to be cosseted – the days before Christopher Skase threw other people’s money around and turned the place into a manifestation of his soul – you know, two miles of imported fully grown date palms lining the southern approaches to the sepulchral behemoth ironically named the Port Douglas Mirage. The further out I got, the more familiar the place became - you know, kess change - until I was into the cane fields and the approach to Walsh’s Pyramid and Mount Bartle Frere – Queensland’s highest mountain, perpetually cloaked in a theophany of clouds. It was time for super-luminal velocity – well, for maximum permitted speed, anyway – maintained by cruise control.
Ah!! What bliss!! What is it about driving that transports one not merely from one state (Qld) to another (NSW), but from one state (preoccupation with minutia) to another (mindfulness)? Probably the fact that so few essential physical and mental functions are involved, allowing the rest of one’s being to engage with the universe, if I can put it that way. In what other circumstance can one give oneself to one’s fondest dreams with absolutely no sense that one might be wasting one’s time - that one should be doing something 'useful'? It may be a bit like making art, especially if one’s art involves using words, or concepts – which, dare I say it, would make one’s reveries conceptual art. Another way of describing it is that it may be like meditation. What starts out as a thought loses its form as the connections between it and all other thoughts bring it into communion with the Whole. One enters the void, in the sense that one goes beyond thought to being present. And that, of course, actually increases one’s safety, because being present means exactly what it says. One is utterly aware of one’s presence in a car on the road travelling at a speed that could kill if something went wrong. One is alert not only to the big picture (to change the metaphor from words to images) but to the details within it. And that’s how it is in any car, even without cruise control. With CC it’s even more liberating – although one person recently told me she doesn’t use CC because it makes her lose concentration. That has never been my experience. Some years ago when I worked in a job that involved using company cars to travel all around northern NSW, I discovered the joy of CC and vowed that my next car would have it. It was, one of the two things I told Grahame the car must have. Well actually, the other was something it was not to have, viz, a sun roof. So when it was appropriate on my journey back to Nirvana via Nirvana, I engaged the pilot’s little helper and noticed what an incredible difference it made – in at least two ways. Firstly, because I did not have to obsessively monitor my speed, I became aware of how much more alert I could be of what was going on around me. And secondly, I didn’t have to think about whether I was going too fast, running the risk of getting a speeding ticket. It’s not all plain sailing, however, with CC. I discovered that my beautiful craft has a mind of its own – well, a will of its own, anyway – when it in CC. When going up hills it has a tendency to jump into hyperspace – you know, drop a cog or two and gun it. And of course, when one is approaching sharp bends one has to take back control, otherwise one might find oneself spiralling towards a black hole. But in general, air conditioning, power steering, cruise control and a myriad other features I haven’t mentioned, made for one of the most blissful experiences of my driving life. Had we but world enough and time… two thousand kilometres in the embrace of my coy mistress seemed barely a blink. In one sense, I really was in hyperspace!
One circumstance that made the Cairns to Townsville leg of the journey particularly pleasurable was the density of traffic – or lack of it. I had forgotten that north of about Maryborough the number of cars one has to share the road with diminishes sharply, even around larger places like Cairns, Townsville, Mackay and Rockhampton. One can frequently see no other vehicles in the whole distance ahead and behind. This, of course can be enhanced by the use of CC, at least for vehicles ahead, by setting CC at slightly less than the speed of any vehicle ahead. It can mean that you are being overtaken by cars coming from behind, and one needs to consider pulling over momentarily if traffic is building up behind. But once again, this is precisely one of the joys of CC – it creates the mental space in which such strategies become possible.
Another thing I had forgotten about the Cairns to Townsville leg is the overwhelming evidence of the fact that one is driving in the tropics – well, the wet tropics, actually. From slightly south of Ingham to slightly north of Proserpine is the dry tropics. The difference between the two is cleverly illustrated by a nickname given to Townsville (probably by people from Cairns, in the first place, but now embraced by Townsvillains (sic) as a badge of honour), viz, Mount Isa by the Sea! Having grown up near Townsville and taken most of my school holidays near Mackay, which is much more lush than Townsville yet not classified as the wet tropics, I was always awed by verdant extravagance of the wet tropics when I drove to and from Cairns – in particular the rampant vines that covered the trees in vast areas of the landscape, transforming it into a wonderland of mystery, if that’s not overdoing it a bit – and even if it is… What! me care? So after the cane fields and mountains came the ‘uninhabited’ forests festooned with magical shapes that made me literally gasp with joy as I remembered my youth and realised that there was still something of the world I had known in tact. Were I a psalm singer I would doubtless have composed a song of praise to mark the occasion. Who knows, perhaps that is what I am doing now.
My next jolt was as I approached Ingham and saw the tribes of Rain Trees camped permanently on the plains. For those who have never been to North Queensland and probably don’t know what Rain Trees are, let me call to mind the saying that money doesn’t grow on trees. Nor, you might reasonable assert, does rain. And you’d be right, but only in the strictly literal sense that has become the norm in our less than poetic public imagination. These trees originate in Africa and are adapted to surviving predation by giraffes. So, as you have probably already envisaged, they have very tall trunks. But what you may not yet have imagined is the canopy that spreads at right angles to the trunk. The canopy casts a very dense shade and in summer attracts swarms of cicadas which, when pumping up their wings, excrete about half their body mass in water which falls like rain on anyone or anything that gathers in the shade beneath.
Then as I arrived on the edges of the town itself I was stricken joyfully, yet again, by the sight of Cassias and Poincianas, both of which grow in the Northern Rivers of NSW, but not with the vigour and splendour they attain up north. To start with both types of tree grow to fifty plus feet and enrobe themselves with flowers of such density and richness of colour that an unsuspecting pilgrim might think he’d witnessed a manifestation of that divinity which is said to take the form of angels in cultures sprung from the religions of the book. A knowing pilgrim, on the other hand, would have no trouble at all acknowledging that that is precisely what she was witnessing, and he would greet them with peals of emotion, which such beings would have no trouble recognising and relating to – unlike words which, though they would not fall on deaf ears, would not so fall only because such tree/angel/beings don’t have ears for words to fall on.
South of Ingham I entered the dry tropics as I approached Townsville and remembered something that I had been glad to forget. There are many Townsvilles. There are the vibrant artistic and academic cultures; a military culture; a particularly unimaginative and vindictive business culture; and there is the physical look of far too much of the place. You probably have to be an Aborigine, or on your way to becoming one, to love the comparative monotony and meagreness of the Dry Tropics. You probably have to be a particularly single minded white fella entrepreneur to feel no shame at the industrial ugliness that greets you as you arrive in Townsville from the north. This is what I had been glad to forget, and not at all thrilled to remember as I dropped out of warp speed to torture of seeing shabby sheds bulging with the makings of great material wealth, piled one beside the other for what seemed like an eternity. Many Townsvillains continue to wonder why their patch still has no international airport despite being self styled as the “Capital of North Queensland”. I will not attribute it to the smugness of the predominant merchant class, for Cairns could hardly be more virtuous in this regard. But surely the way a place looks manifests something about the way it is. I’m not suggesting that there is anything wrong with a culture of counting the profits; or denying the resilience and efficacy of the parallel universe that exists in the same landscape, honouring the prophets of sustainability. The Galleries, public and community based; Museum(s?); University and a multitude of Research Institutes; and possibly even some churches enable a huge proportion of the population to define and accomplish life choices that honour the landscape and all who live in it. Far from being sordid boiling down plant it started out as, it really is a good place to live – a place in which the grubby business of grubby business can be kept at arms length if not in its place. I’m simply saying that I have very mixed feelings about the town I grew up near and later came to maturity in.
I docked the Enterprise (an ironic name, given what I have just said about the culture of enterprise) in Mundingburra, the centre of one of Queensland’s most sordid political scandals – of recent times, at any rate - a labor pokitician went to gaol over it. Friends who have seen much more of the world than I live there. That is, when they’re not dropping in on the world’s really serious trouble spots, like Lagos and Srebrenitza. We talked, drank wine, had dinner – half of an Atlantic Salmon….each! (not actually, but so it seemed) and panicked about their not being ready to fly to Melbourne at 8:00 the next morning. Being the seasoned problem solvers that they are, they managed well enough and after dropping them at the airport, I returned to their house on the edge of a park populated by a very large number of Rain Trees… and other things. For two daze I caught up with blasts from the past – not all of them, regrettably – I learned long ago that trying to catch up with everyone results in your not really enjoying any of it. If you’re reading this and I didn’t contact you, it’s not you, it’s me. And that’s the truth. While I was there I was taken to the new riverama. That’s not what it’s called, but it describes the way Townsville has finally discovered that a river runs through it – to coin a phrase. The focal point is a large cultural and sports centre with a terrace of pools that cover about a trillion acres falling gradually to river level. And along the river on both sides walking/cycling tracks that run from the ocean to the Ross River Dam. In between, in waterways created by a series of weirs, there are places for water sports of all kinds, from swimming and rowing to power boating and skiing. It really is very impressive. The other significant thing that I did while I was there was go to look at the houses we used to own. Much had changed in the street. No more shabby leftovers from the era when renovating meant tacking fibro on the outside and inside of walls. Some places were all but unrecognisable. Our former rental house, however, was looking a bit sad, but the house we lived in looked hideous. It had been painted in colours calculated to prevent anyone from seeing what we had achieved by rescuing a dump that others offered to burn down and turning it into a heritage listed property. The garden canopy that John had nurtured is gone, along with the most spectacular variegated Pandanus trees. I went to see it against my better judgment. Never again, but. Eh?
Before leaving I tried unsuccessfully, to buy a hail cover for the new car. The south east of Queensland had been repeatedly clobbered over recent weeks and I was anxious to do anything I could to protect my treasure. Apparently it doesn’t hail in the north so there was no protection to be had. I was more successful, however, in getting some entertainment on CD, Volumes 1 & 2 of The Canterbury Tails, from the Mary Who Bookshop for the rest of the trip. And while I was there, one of the people I visited found the book I tried to buy at the airport, so I got that too.
At first light the next day I carefully checked doors and windows, hung the key where it was supposed to go and pulled the door and gate locked behind me as I left. I mention this because the next night after arriving home, I rang my hosts, then in Melbourne, only to find out that that their house had been broken into sometime after I left…. by a person or persons who shares the park with the Rain Trees. That brought me down from a high of such clarity that were I still a good Catholic boy, I would probably feel obliged to regard it as a mortal sin. But I am getting ahead of myself. I steered my magic carpet at snail’s pace towards the Southern gateway of Townsville boggling at the manicured boxes of ticky-tacky occupying once vacant grasslands where cattle grazed awaiting slaughter in the meatworks that is now probably a suite of specialty cosmetic shops, until I saw one of those twenty four hour service centres that dot the Queensland highroads – in strong contrast to the locally owned and operated petrol stations that keep local hours in NSW. Sometimes one is grateful for ‘progress’ especially when one can get espresso at 5:00 in the morning. Craving for caffeine adequately assuaged, I set off for Rockhampton where I would dock for the night. If I don’t describe the landscape through which I travelled, it is not just because it is hard to find words to make it sound enticing, but because I hardly noticed it at all, so preoccupied was I with the on-board entertainment.
The Canterbury Tales is something I was supposed to have read in my first year at University. But along with most of the prescribed Shakespearian plays, which I had read in Classic Comic format as a child, I consigned TCT to the too hard basket. I heard extracts recited in Middle English at a Medieval Night at our Restaurant many years later and realised that I had missed out on something rather special. So when I saw the discs in the MHB I jumped at the opportunity to right the unrightable wrong. Woeful sorry would I have been upon later discovering the amusement I would have foregone had I not grasped the opportunity in both hands and somewhat emptied pockets. Sore lacking is my skill to relate in more than passing anecdote the mirth that shaped my mouth and face full twenty gross furlongs more as I rode. Such company none has cherished since the very things were done as told in the tails of such forthright companions as the Knight, the Miller, the Pardoner, the Merchant, the Franklin, the Wife of Bath, the Clerk, the Reeve and the Nun’s Priest. And if I try to keep this up any longer I may find myself in a rap session with an uncomprehending audience – which I may already have.
In Rockhampton I stayed with the partner of the friend whose funeral I recently reported. She looked much more relaxed than she did last time I saw her. I was pretty spaced out by the time I got there so there was not a lot of conversation that would have made any sense. Inge prepared a very tasty dinner, shortly after which I crashed. I was off again at first light before Inge was up. As she lives on the north side I travelled right through the whole town – though not the CBD which, like most places these days, is by-passed.
Have you heard about the search for the lost tribes of Israel? Well I reckon at least one of them lives in Rockhampton. If you’ve never been to Rocky, you may not know that Bulls Rule. At several places along the highway as it runs through the town area there are very large sculptures of Bulls – 2 to 3 times life size (photo 1 in the set accessed by link below). There in quite a few other places as well, especially on the awnings of shops – offering some sort of protection, perhaps? So what has this got to do with lost tribes of any kind, let alone of Israel? Well, recall that one day when Moses was on holidays, mountaineering on the Sinai Peninsular, his brother sculpted a Bull Calf of gold (photo 2). Moses wasn’t happy when he saw it, but in spite of chucking a wobbley, many of his groupies, who spent the next four decades shuffling around after him in the desert, retained their affection for Bulls. I believe, on good authority, that some of them moved to Rockhampton while they were crossing the Red Sea – a feat that can be accounted for if one believes in worm holes. It would have been a simple matter for some people to take a wrong turn and end up in Rockhampton in the nineteenth century AD instead of Sinai in the thirteenth century BC. The problem with the Rockhampton Bulls, however, is that they have forgotten how to capture the real Bullness of Bulls - that's if they ever knew. So one day I’ll go back and offer to build three new Bulls at the town gates – one Mesopotamian (photo 3); another Minoan (photo 4); and the third a Minotaur (photo 5 ii); as well as in the RSL (photo 5 i), the Council Chambers (photo 5 iii) and the City Park (photo 5 iv); and yet another, a mural, perhaps in the Civic Theatre, of one of the Palaeolithic cave paintings (photo 6 i). That’d giv’em sumfin t’finka bout. Wu’nit?
http://www.flickr.com/photos/twogreytoes/sets/72157611872426083/detail/
See why I luuuuuuuurv driving?
Since what lies south of Rockhampton – until you cross the border - has even less to recommend itself to a curious eye than what lies to its north, I shall say no more, but bring the account of my journey, which continued for another full day, under the intoxicating influence of Geoffrey Chaucer’s wit, to an end, saying only that the addition of what might be considered a distraction to goal of maintaining one’s sense of being one with everything (sounds like a hamburger, doesn't it), in no way diminished the connection I had established earlier with all that I traversed, but, on the contrary, added a previously unexperienced dimension to my ever widening sense of the epic nature of life as a journey, and journey as metaphor.
(You can laugh now at or with me as you see fit.)
Wednesday, 31 December 2008
Sunday, 18 May 2008
The Existential Jesus - a comment
I have just finished reading John Carroll’s The Existential Jesus (Scribe, 2007). In answering the question Why another book on Jesus, JC (that’s John Carroll, not… you know…) says that What emerges is a mysteriously enigmatic, existential Jesus whose story has not been retold elsewhere, and whose teachings have not been spelt out as they are here.
This is a big claim, but, in my opinion, it is justified.
Carroll focuses on the Gospel of Mark, the first written Gospel which set the agenda to which the others responded, and argues that the Gospel of John was the only other Gospel that really got what Mark was on about, and enlarged Mark’s story of Jesus into an account of Jesus the Christ. (Carroll says that the other two Gospels subvert and dilute Mark’s message to make it palatable to an audience incapable of hearing Mark’s story – namely, the church.) Along the way he gives riveting accounts of other players. His Peter and Pilate are breath taking, and not simply because he turns the traditional view of both men on their heads. Jesus, the main player, far from having foreknowledge of his identity and mission, makes mistakes, has to regroup, is disappointed in just about everyone and everything, and in the end dies as a failure in his own eyes. In other words, it’s an account of a Jesus who did not have the benefit of two thousand years of another point of view – the existential Jesus.
The significance of this is that you don’t have to be “into religion” to find this interesting, moving and relevant. This is a man who has had, and continues to have, a very big influence on humanity. This book explains why.
Over thirty years ago a Jesuit, Bede Lowry SJ, RIP, who was temporarily residing at St Joseph’s Parish, Giru, (near Townsville) told anyone who cared to listen that the Gospel of Mark was a scorching account of Jesus’ ministry that made the other Gospels look like Sunday School stuff – actually, it was the other Synoptics; like Carroll, he saw John as the other Gospel that challenged conventional assumptions. Unfortunately, I didn’t get what he was on about at all. Mark just seemed shorter than the others to me. But Carroll’s book has certainly shown me what BL may have been talking about.
I was startled to find that Carroll is not a practicing Christian. Yet he has lavished an astonishing amount of work on this book. I too am not a practicing Christian. At least not from the perspective of people who call themselves practicing Christians. I was until J-P II declared (more or less) that gay people are kidding themselves if they think they are Christians. Reading Carroll’s book makes me suspect that choosing to accept JP IIs definition of what is, or is not, Christian was the right one. On the other hand, I have also been reading the theologian James Alison who is gay and Christian. His work http://www.jamesalison.co.uk/texts/eng52.html has stirred me too, but quite differently to Carroll’s. One of his messages, if it can be summed up in a (colloquial) sentence is Don’t let the bastards tell you who you are. I must say I jump for joy when I read his stuff. But I also feel deeply motivated by Carroll’s messages: 1) If you are any sort of being you have a right (responsibility) to participate in the mystery of being. 2) There is a role for church – in social justice (anything else – such as presuming to define the nature of God and presuming to control the keys of the kingdom of heaven – is atavism). At least that is what I think he’s saying.
Towards the end of the book he say that there are two gifts: touch and story telling. And at the end of chapter 11 he ask What does it mean to tell a story? How can John’s particular achievement be generalised to other human beings living their very different lives? He go on to say Retell the story from yourself, from within your own particular being emerging from the shadows… I can’t tell you how much that startled me, because I am about to embark on a project in which I hope to explore aspects of the Jesus story without ever mentioning his name. Something else Carroll said reinforces (if not legitimises) that goal: somewhere in the book he said that it is not actually Jesus but his story that matters. (I think Paul of Tarsus would certainly endorse this.) Well, I’m not sure he put it quite as bluntly as that, but I think the sense of it was that Jesus is the exemplar of participation in the mystery of being but not the mystery itself – he demonstrates the journey but is not the destination. And he illustrate that by his discussion of Mary Magdalene who, by not clinging to Jesus, “becomes” him (the word becomes having two meanings, the actions of which are indispensable to each other).
As you would expect, Judas plays a significant role in Carroll’s telling of the story. He says Judas is the archetype of “I am not!” Carroll effectively endorses the Calvinist doctrine of predestination. So I wondered what he thought about Francis Moloney’s collaboration with Jeffrey Archer in writing The Gospel According to Judas (Macmillan 2007), in which Judas does not commit suicide, but fades into quiet obscurity, leaving it to his son (I think) to tell his story.
I have to say that Judas has always been a puzzle to me. Nothing I have ever read about him convinces me that he is not a hapless victim. Not even Carroll’s account. Especially Carroll’s account. It is the one part of his book that I will have to re-read, and possibly re-re-read…. I cannot come at predestination. If he is right then Judas was not just a hapless victim, but someone with a good case against God! (Have you seen the movie The man who sued God?) Maybe this simply reflects the limitation of my mind. I am not God and therefore cannot know the mind of God – as Job patiently points out.
I do however, see some way forward in something else he says in his book. He deals with the life of Jesus as story – as distinct from his story oops, I mean history. He can talk about Jesus dancing on the water without being bothered with whether or not he could actually do such a thing. What matters is how the incident works as story – not how it may have been possible. (He is scathing about the search for the historical Jesus.) If this is so, then maybe doctrine works in a similar way. Predestination is not necessarily a fact but a … a … what? A concept that works in the psyche or the unconscious to get a result that cannot possibly be got by calculating weight, distance, angle of refraction, specific gravity….
His account of Pontius Pilate, on the other hand had me cheering and dancing. I have never been able to stomach the sneering contempt of church people for this man. As a student of history I have always suspected that the Roman Governor of one of the most difficult provinces in the empire could not possibly be the venal sook he is made out to be in sermons and 1950s movies. And I was just bowled over a discussion about Billy Budd – the one opera that actually made me cry – with outrage!! (I didn’t know it was a novella by Herman Melville.) Suddenly I see Captain Vere in a very different light, and I am so glad to have a framework within which to imagine Pilate and other leaders – not to mention “enemies”.
Having got to this point I have to try to draw what I’m saying together. Let’s just say that I can’t believe it’s not butter. You know, I bet George Pell and his ilk have condescending things to say about Carroll and his work. They would regard Raymond E Brown as butter. Well, I can’t believe Carroll’s not butter – maybe even better. His reference to art from Greek tragedies to Benjamin Britten is awesome. He is attributing to people a role in the ongoing telling (retelling) of the story on an immensely enlarged scale. He shows how we are involved whether we intend to be or not.
Even if you have no interest in religion in general, and Christianity in particular, I believe you would find this book disturbingly engaging. Or should that be engagingly disturbing? Trust me on this. And if I’m wrong, sue me.
This is a big claim, but, in my opinion, it is justified.
Carroll focuses on the Gospel of Mark, the first written Gospel which set the agenda to which the others responded, and argues that the Gospel of John was the only other Gospel that really got what Mark was on about, and enlarged Mark’s story of Jesus into an account of Jesus the Christ. (Carroll says that the other two Gospels subvert and dilute Mark’s message to make it palatable to an audience incapable of hearing Mark’s story – namely, the church.) Along the way he gives riveting accounts of other players. His Peter and Pilate are breath taking, and not simply because he turns the traditional view of both men on their heads. Jesus, the main player, far from having foreknowledge of his identity and mission, makes mistakes, has to regroup, is disappointed in just about everyone and everything, and in the end dies as a failure in his own eyes. In other words, it’s an account of a Jesus who did not have the benefit of two thousand years of another point of view – the existential Jesus.
The significance of this is that you don’t have to be “into religion” to find this interesting, moving and relevant. This is a man who has had, and continues to have, a very big influence on humanity. This book explains why.
Over thirty years ago a Jesuit, Bede Lowry SJ, RIP, who was temporarily residing at St Joseph’s Parish, Giru, (near Townsville) told anyone who cared to listen that the Gospel of Mark was a scorching account of Jesus’ ministry that made the other Gospels look like Sunday School stuff – actually, it was the other Synoptics; like Carroll, he saw John as the other Gospel that challenged conventional assumptions. Unfortunately, I didn’t get what he was on about at all. Mark just seemed shorter than the others to me. But Carroll’s book has certainly shown me what BL may have been talking about.
I was startled to find that Carroll is not a practicing Christian. Yet he has lavished an astonishing amount of work on this book. I too am not a practicing Christian. At least not from the perspective of people who call themselves practicing Christians. I was until J-P II declared (more or less) that gay people are kidding themselves if they think they are Christians. Reading Carroll’s book makes me suspect that choosing to accept JP IIs definition of what is, or is not, Christian was the right one. On the other hand, I have also been reading the theologian James Alison who is gay and Christian. His work http://www.jamesalison.co.uk/texts/eng52.html has stirred me too, but quite differently to Carroll’s. One of his messages, if it can be summed up in a (colloquial) sentence is Don’t let the bastards tell you who you are. I must say I jump for joy when I read his stuff. But I also feel deeply motivated by Carroll’s messages: 1) If you are any sort of being you have a right (responsibility) to participate in the mystery of being. 2) There is a role for church – in social justice (anything else – such as presuming to define the nature of God and presuming to control the keys of the kingdom of heaven – is atavism). At least that is what I think he’s saying.
Towards the end of the book he say that there are two gifts: touch and story telling. And at the end of chapter 11 he ask What does it mean to tell a story? How can John’s particular achievement be generalised to other human beings living their very different lives? He go on to say Retell the story from yourself, from within your own particular being emerging from the shadows… I can’t tell you how much that startled me, because I am about to embark on a project in which I hope to explore aspects of the Jesus story without ever mentioning his name. Something else Carroll said reinforces (if not legitimises) that goal: somewhere in the book he said that it is not actually Jesus but his story that matters. (I think Paul of Tarsus would certainly endorse this.) Well, I’m not sure he put it quite as bluntly as that, but I think the sense of it was that Jesus is the exemplar of participation in the mystery of being but not the mystery itself – he demonstrates the journey but is not the destination. And he illustrate that by his discussion of Mary Magdalene who, by not clinging to Jesus, “becomes” him (the word becomes having two meanings, the actions of which are indispensable to each other).
As you would expect, Judas plays a significant role in Carroll’s telling of the story. He says Judas is the archetype of “I am not!” Carroll effectively endorses the Calvinist doctrine of predestination. So I wondered what he thought about Francis Moloney’s collaboration with Jeffrey Archer in writing The Gospel According to Judas (Macmillan 2007), in which Judas does not commit suicide, but fades into quiet obscurity, leaving it to his son (I think) to tell his story.
I have to say that Judas has always been a puzzle to me. Nothing I have ever read about him convinces me that he is not a hapless victim. Not even Carroll’s account. Especially Carroll’s account. It is the one part of his book that I will have to re-read, and possibly re-re-read…. I cannot come at predestination. If he is right then Judas was not just a hapless victim, but someone with a good case against God! (Have you seen the movie The man who sued God?) Maybe this simply reflects the limitation of my mind. I am not God and therefore cannot know the mind of God – as Job patiently points out.
I do however, see some way forward in something else he says in his book. He deals with the life of Jesus as story – as distinct from his story oops, I mean history. He can talk about Jesus dancing on the water without being bothered with whether or not he could actually do such a thing. What matters is how the incident works as story – not how it may have been possible. (He is scathing about the search for the historical Jesus.) If this is so, then maybe doctrine works in a similar way. Predestination is not necessarily a fact but a … a … what? A concept that works in the psyche or the unconscious to get a result that cannot possibly be got by calculating weight, distance, angle of refraction, specific gravity….
His account of Pontius Pilate, on the other hand had me cheering and dancing. I have never been able to stomach the sneering contempt of church people for this man. As a student of history I have always suspected that the Roman Governor of one of the most difficult provinces in the empire could not possibly be the venal sook he is made out to be in sermons and 1950s movies. And I was just bowled over a discussion about Billy Budd – the one opera that actually made me cry – with outrage!! (I didn’t know it was a novella by Herman Melville.) Suddenly I see Captain Vere in a very different light, and I am so glad to have a framework within which to imagine Pilate and other leaders – not to mention “enemies”.
Having got to this point I have to try to draw what I’m saying together. Let’s just say that I can’t believe it’s not butter. You know, I bet George Pell and his ilk have condescending things to say about Carroll and his work. They would regard Raymond E Brown as butter. Well, I can’t believe Carroll’s not butter – maybe even better. His reference to art from Greek tragedies to Benjamin Britten is awesome. He is attributing to people a role in the ongoing telling (retelling) of the story on an immensely enlarged scale. He shows how we are involved whether we intend to be or not.
Even if you have no interest in religion in general, and Christianity in particular, I believe you would find this book disturbingly engaging. Or should that be engagingly disturbing? Trust me on this. And if I’m wrong, sue me.
Saturday, 17 May 2008
ANZAC DAY 2008
Anyone who read my blog entry on Anzac Day 2007 will probably be surprised to hear that I went to Anzac Day 2008 and had a very good time. I explained last year why I had been a regular truant but ended with these words:
All I can say is: Look fellas, it’s not you. It’s me. And that’s the truth – although I don’t rule out the possibility of getting over what ever it is that I don’t like about living in the past. Perhaps when it is long enough ago and I can be certain that THAT is not me, I will be able to go back and enjoy the memory of the most astounding year of my life: 23 July 1969 to 23 July 1970.(emphasis not in the original.)
Well the possibility came to pass sooner than I imagined when I wrote those words. I had a “road to Damascus” experience while reading something written by the theologian James Allison, whom I have referred to elsewhere in this blog. Here’s what he wrote:
I suggest that only someone who is really aware of being liked, who is really complacent, is able to defuse someone else’s place of shame and make it spacious. And it is out of complacency that liking flows to those who are like: because I am not frightened of being like someone, liking them, being liked by them.(my emphasis in both quotes)
[By the way, JA’s use of the word complacent above must not be taken to mean what it normally means. If you would like to follow up what he means see Chapter 5, Confessions of a Former Marginaholic in his book On Being Liked, DLT 2003.]
I told James that I had fallen off my high horse (why it is a “road to Damascus” experience) when I read the words emphasised above. As I said to him, I’m still not sure that the relevance of his words for mine is really as self evident as it seems to me, but for me they certainly flashed like lightning when I read them. In the light of his words I felt compelled to examine my position. At the time I wasn’t sure that it would result in my going to the Anzac Day Dawn Service and march, but I saw that I probably had to make an even bigger leap and rejoin the Returned Services League. He replied that he’d be interested to hear how the melding of the two sentences highlighted above affect me as Anzac Day comes closer, and my re-membering continues.
Well, I deliberately did not work on drawing out the case for going to the Anzac Day activities. I decided to act on the flash of insight and see what happened. I thought it would be more fruitful to reflect on the experience rather than run the risk of pushing the experience in a direction it might not be capable of going. So I went with the expectation that there was something in store for me that I not only wanted, but needed. And so it was. It was as though I had always been there. And look, I can’t help myself, a certain parable comes to mind – “These late comers have worked only one hour, yet you have paid them as much as we who bore the full day’s burden and heat.” [If you don’t know the parable and would like to know what I am talking about, it’s Matthew 20: 1-16]
DAWN SERVICE AND BREAKFAST
The day started with the Dawn Service at 4:30 am – the time of the Gallipoli landing. There was no formation, just people standing around in the dark with the president of the local RSL calling on people to lay wreaths and sing hymns. It was a surprisingly moving hour – surprising because when I was in the army I found military ceremonial utterly barren – even though I was good at it: I was the right marker for my rookie platoon and most subsequent units. But this, of course was not military ceremonial. It was blokes and the wider community remembering. The last post and Reveille were played on a bugle by a young man I later met and found to be in year 12 at the local high school. The singing was by a mother an daughter team – the daughter known to me and seen regularly at school dancing and singing extravaganzas. The mother was obviously someone who had had serious voice training – which probably explains the daughter’s regular stage appearances. The number of people there surprised me. Apparently I wouldn’t have been the only one surprised at the size of the turn out. I later heard that 450 attended breakfast – they had catered for 160. Not everyone who attended would have gone to breakfast – though it seemed that most did. I wondered if the later collected 12 baskets of scraps.
Because of the unusual circumstances of my being there I was not only participating in something I had mostly avoided in the past, but very actively observing that participation. As I waited in line for breakfast, therefore, I realised, with considerable clarity, one of the reasons that I had stayed away in the past. I was feeling vulnerable because I couldn’t see anyone I knew, apart from a couple of people on the RSL executive, and I didn’t think it would be right to attach myself to them – they would have more to do than protect me from my sense of being a stranger – how presumptuous would it be for someone who had not been involved to cosy up to the leaders. My first strong impulse was to flee. But too much was at stake. I knew I couldn’t ever succeed in what I was there for if I chickened out. So as I moved slowly towards the food service my mind frantically worked on opening lines and topics of conversation that might be useful when I found myself sitting at a table with people I didn’t know.
As it happened I sat at the same table as the bugler and found an instant opening line. Well done that man with the bugle. He was grateful but self critical. There was spit in the bugle which made a couple of the notes problematic. The conversation immediately turned on out mutual interest – music. He told me he was in the Lismore Symphony Orchestra. I confessed that I did not know there was a LSO (other than in London, of course) and told him that I was in the Mullumbimby Amatori Choir. He asked me if I had considered singing at the Dawn Service, which took me by surprise, because it had indeed crossed my mind during the service that it might be a role I could play as a veteran and singer. Next thing he has me meeting the president of the local RSL and it’s arranged for next year. Struth!! How fast was that?
Later at breakfast I met someone with a medal I had not seen before and asked him what it was. It turned out to be a medal to which I am entitled but knew nothing of. So there’s another gong to add to my collection. What was particularly interesting about that conversation was the warmth of it. This bloke didn’t know me from Adam, yet he engaged with me instantly as though I was someone he could call a mate and mean it. Context is everything. If you’re here you must be OK, so to speak. Would I get the same reception from the same person in a different context? It struck me like a thunderbolt that that depends, not on the context, but on me, and that I was here to begin the journey towards being the kind of person who would get the same reception regardless of the context. The measure with which you give you shall receive. In the next hour or so as I moved around the hall saying g’day to people I didn’t know was so utterly painless that couldn’t help laughing to myself about my initial anxiety – and even invoked a piece of advice from quite a different context: Do not be concerned about what to say. The words will be given to you. It was the second time in a month that that advice had emerged from my unconscious. Maybe the message here is that I am a control freak who needs to trust the universe. Universe?! Wooooooooo! Hold that thought! I’m definitely not ready for reconciliation with the New Age.
The people I was sitting with left as I got up to get a cup of tea. When I returned to my seat I saw someone I knew at the next table and asked if I could drag up a chair on the end. He was with a couple from Brunswick heads and friends visiting from Melbourne, who were specialists in personal development. Me too I said. So we talked about a range of interesting things until it was time to go. At no time did I feel I was in alien territory. It was probably about 7:30 when I went home and took a nap before returning at 10:30 for the march and parade.
THE MARCH, PARADE AND LUNCH
By then I was much less apprehensive about being unknown, and it took no time to “be there”. People I approached greeted me as “one of them”. They had no way of knowing that until that morning I hadn’t been “one of them”. It didn’t even phase anyone when I pulled out my medals and asked which one goes on the left, which on the right and how the others fit in between. Haven’t done this for a while, eh was the remark. Haven’t done it ever I said. Well it’s good you finally made it was the reply are you coming to lunch after the march – would you like my wife to pin those on for you? I almost laughed. Someone who sews and makes biscuits, vacuums, washes and irons, you know, sensitive new age guy stuff, doesn’t need someone else to pin his medals on. So I thanked him but declined, and made a huge mess of pinning my own medals on. Maybe I’m not such a control freak after all. If I were I would have persisted until they were in a straight line. But hey, I’m just a few months away from being a pensioner. I don’t have to be perfect anymore. Not that I have ever been perfect – other than a perfect dickhead, of course.
Speaking to people before the parade prompted me to remember things I wouldn’t otherwise have thought about ever again in my life. And it was interesting to catch a glimpse into life in the Australian base early in our engagement. One person told me about building the base at Nui Dat where I first went. He mentioned the air field built by the Engineers (my Corps). I mentioned my alarm when I saw it for the first time coming in to land on it – it runs over a hill! Being able to identify that seemed to make a difference to the bloke I was talking to – he knew for sure that I wasn’t bullshitting about being there. Let me explain that. A problem I have had, not just with veterans but people in general, is that I have always looked too young to be a veteran. People have always given me dubious looks when I have said I was there. One of the people I had breakfast with me asked me how old I am. He was visibly taken aback when I said sixty in a few months. He told me he must have been in the same National Service intake as I. I didn’t tell him that he couldn’t have been in the same intake as I, because I didn’t wait to be called up. I volunteered for Nasho early. One in eight Nashos were volunteers. Why I volunteered is too long a story for here.
One slightly unnerving incident was that one of the members of the RSL executive saw me and asked, Are you the opera singer? I was absolutely confounded by this. I sing, I said, But I’m not an opera singer. I’m in a choir. To which re replied, Yes, you’re the bloke who’s going to do the singing next year, aren’t you? Struth! Talk about no where to hide. If I was planning to test the waters anonymously, which I wasn’t, I would have failed outright. Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves here, I returned, I made an offer not an arrangement. I don’t want to upset the people who are already doing a fine job of it. It’s something that would have to be discussed with all interested parties. So no, I’m not yet the person doing the singing next year, although I might be if no one minds. Fortunately I was rescued from any further discussion of this point by the signal to start the parade.
It was late starting, and it was led off by a tracked vehicle festooned with children. Small town, I mused. No one concerned with OH&S issues here. As we marched down the main street of Mullumbimby I scanned the crowd gathered and clapping as we passed, for people I knew. To my surprise I didn’t see anyone I knew at all, even John who was definitely there. Yet the people I didn’t know were not strangers. This was my town out to celebrate. When we arrived at the cenotaph we formed up for what was to be a much longer ceremony than the Dawn Service. This time there were speeches. Fortunately there was cloud cover so it was not as difficult as it could have been. Nevertheless one person fell over and was taken away in an ambulance. That brought back some memories. Parades were always ordeals in training units. Someone always fainted – and was charged later for (I forget what the wording was, but it was ludicrous.) That’s the military. There was a poem The Power of Kokoda by Dean Travaskis, a local lad from Ocean Shores, who had walked the Kokoda Track and subsequently won the Blackened Bush Billy poetry competition in Tamworth. It was quite moving. When the parade was dismissed I was delighted to discover that I had forgotten the dismissal drill – unlike the first time I attended an Anzac Day parade (mentioned in my blog post of Wednesday 25 April 2007).
As I went in to the RSL for lunch I reverted to type fretting about who I would find to sit with. I made the cowardly choice of sitting with the same people as at breakfast. Calling it cowardly is not intended to reflect on the company, but to admit that I had not really gained courage from what I had learned – about myself and the universe – earlier that day. The bugler was there with two of his brothers. On the other side of the table, where I sat, was a WWII veteran and his son – a bloke about 50 years of age who turned out to have had a fascinating career in biomedicine. What was rather special about lunch is that it was served by the RSL catering staff. Roast beef with Yorkshire Pudding and three veg, followed by apple and rhubarb crumble with ice cream. Later on port was served. I had forgotten about that aspect of military life. The Queen is toasted with port or water for those who don’t drink. Interestingly enough, the Queen was not toasted – a fact that I noted but did not comment on. My conversation with others at lunch was not about the war – any war – but life in general. It was remarkably easy. Not at all fraught like others I had had in previous years. These were not blokes reliving the past but engaged with the present and alert to possibilities of the future. Maybe it was the fact that it a small town with no garrison. You know, the Capital of The shire. I’m sure if I’d have looked around I would have seen Bilbo and Frodo.
As I said earlier, the majority of people who saw me there didn’t know that it was my first time there. Most of them were probably regulars (not a military term in this instance)and probably would have assumed that I was too, if they thought about it at all, which they wouldn’t have, because they would have no reason to do so. But you see what I mean. It was like I had always been there. And it is my intention to be there from now on – as a regular. My next visit is this coming Sunday. There’s a monthly RSL meeting. I have an arrangement to make for next year. I was thinking maybe something from St Matthew’s Passion, but probably not. I mean it’s in German after all. It might be the RSL, but, you know… don’t mention the war.
All I can say is: Look fellas, it’s not you. It’s me. And that’s the truth – although I don’t rule out the possibility of getting over what ever it is that I don’t like about living in the past. Perhaps when it is long enough ago and I can be certain that THAT is not me, I will be able to go back and enjoy the memory of the most astounding year of my life: 23 July 1969 to 23 July 1970.(emphasis not in the original.)
Well the possibility came to pass sooner than I imagined when I wrote those words. I had a “road to Damascus” experience while reading something written by the theologian James Allison, whom I have referred to elsewhere in this blog. Here’s what he wrote:
I suggest that only someone who is really aware of being liked, who is really complacent, is able to defuse someone else’s place of shame and make it spacious. And it is out of complacency that liking flows to those who are like: because I am not frightened of being like someone, liking them, being liked by them.(my emphasis in both quotes)
[By the way, JA’s use of the word complacent above must not be taken to mean what it normally means. If you would like to follow up what he means see Chapter 5, Confessions of a Former Marginaholic in his book On Being Liked, DLT 2003.]
I told James that I had fallen off my high horse (why it is a “road to Damascus” experience) when I read the words emphasised above. As I said to him, I’m still not sure that the relevance of his words for mine is really as self evident as it seems to me, but for me they certainly flashed like lightning when I read them. In the light of his words I felt compelled to examine my position. At the time I wasn’t sure that it would result in my going to the Anzac Day Dawn Service and march, but I saw that I probably had to make an even bigger leap and rejoin the Returned Services League. He replied that he’d be interested to hear how the melding of the two sentences highlighted above affect me as Anzac Day comes closer, and my re-membering continues.
Well, I deliberately did not work on drawing out the case for going to the Anzac Day activities. I decided to act on the flash of insight and see what happened. I thought it would be more fruitful to reflect on the experience rather than run the risk of pushing the experience in a direction it might not be capable of going. So I went with the expectation that there was something in store for me that I not only wanted, but needed. And so it was. It was as though I had always been there. And look, I can’t help myself, a certain parable comes to mind – “These late comers have worked only one hour, yet you have paid them as much as we who bore the full day’s burden and heat.” [If you don’t know the parable and would like to know what I am talking about, it’s Matthew 20: 1-16]
DAWN SERVICE AND BREAKFAST
The day started with the Dawn Service at 4:30 am – the time of the Gallipoli landing. There was no formation, just people standing around in the dark with the president of the local RSL calling on people to lay wreaths and sing hymns. It was a surprisingly moving hour – surprising because when I was in the army I found military ceremonial utterly barren – even though I was good at it: I was the right marker for my rookie platoon and most subsequent units. But this, of course was not military ceremonial. It was blokes and the wider community remembering. The last post and Reveille were played on a bugle by a young man I later met and found to be in year 12 at the local high school. The singing was by a mother an daughter team – the daughter known to me and seen regularly at school dancing and singing extravaganzas. The mother was obviously someone who had had serious voice training – which probably explains the daughter’s regular stage appearances. The number of people there surprised me. Apparently I wouldn’t have been the only one surprised at the size of the turn out. I later heard that 450 attended breakfast – they had catered for 160. Not everyone who attended would have gone to breakfast – though it seemed that most did. I wondered if the later collected 12 baskets of scraps.
Because of the unusual circumstances of my being there I was not only participating in something I had mostly avoided in the past, but very actively observing that participation. As I waited in line for breakfast, therefore, I realised, with considerable clarity, one of the reasons that I had stayed away in the past. I was feeling vulnerable because I couldn’t see anyone I knew, apart from a couple of people on the RSL executive, and I didn’t think it would be right to attach myself to them – they would have more to do than protect me from my sense of being a stranger – how presumptuous would it be for someone who had not been involved to cosy up to the leaders. My first strong impulse was to flee. But too much was at stake. I knew I couldn’t ever succeed in what I was there for if I chickened out. So as I moved slowly towards the food service my mind frantically worked on opening lines and topics of conversation that might be useful when I found myself sitting at a table with people I didn’t know.
As it happened I sat at the same table as the bugler and found an instant opening line. Well done that man with the bugle. He was grateful but self critical. There was spit in the bugle which made a couple of the notes problematic. The conversation immediately turned on out mutual interest – music. He told me he was in the Lismore Symphony Orchestra. I confessed that I did not know there was a LSO (other than in London, of course) and told him that I was in the Mullumbimby Amatori Choir. He asked me if I had considered singing at the Dawn Service, which took me by surprise, because it had indeed crossed my mind during the service that it might be a role I could play as a veteran and singer. Next thing he has me meeting the president of the local RSL and it’s arranged for next year. Struth!! How fast was that?
Later at breakfast I met someone with a medal I had not seen before and asked him what it was. It turned out to be a medal to which I am entitled but knew nothing of. So there’s another gong to add to my collection. What was particularly interesting about that conversation was the warmth of it. This bloke didn’t know me from Adam, yet he engaged with me instantly as though I was someone he could call a mate and mean it. Context is everything. If you’re here you must be OK, so to speak. Would I get the same reception from the same person in a different context? It struck me like a thunderbolt that that depends, not on the context, but on me, and that I was here to begin the journey towards being the kind of person who would get the same reception regardless of the context. The measure with which you give you shall receive. In the next hour or so as I moved around the hall saying g’day to people I didn’t know was so utterly painless that couldn’t help laughing to myself about my initial anxiety – and even invoked a piece of advice from quite a different context: Do not be concerned about what to say. The words will be given to you. It was the second time in a month that that advice had emerged from my unconscious. Maybe the message here is that I am a control freak who needs to trust the universe. Universe?! Wooooooooo! Hold that thought! I’m definitely not ready for reconciliation with the New Age.
The people I was sitting with left as I got up to get a cup of tea. When I returned to my seat I saw someone I knew at the next table and asked if I could drag up a chair on the end. He was with a couple from Brunswick heads and friends visiting from Melbourne, who were specialists in personal development. Me too I said. So we talked about a range of interesting things until it was time to go. At no time did I feel I was in alien territory. It was probably about 7:30 when I went home and took a nap before returning at 10:30 for the march and parade.
THE MARCH, PARADE AND LUNCH
By then I was much less apprehensive about being unknown, and it took no time to “be there”. People I approached greeted me as “one of them”. They had no way of knowing that until that morning I hadn’t been “one of them”. It didn’t even phase anyone when I pulled out my medals and asked which one goes on the left, which on the right and how the others fit in between. Haven’t done this for a while, eh was the remark. Haven’t done it ever I said. Well it’s good you finally made it was the reply are you coming to lunch after the march – would you like my wife to pin those on for you? I almost laughed. Someone who sews and makes biscuits, vacuums, washes and irons, you know, sensitive new age guy stuff, doesn’t need someone else to pin his medals on. So I thanked him but declined, and made a huge mess of pinning my own medals on. Maybe I’m not such a control freak after all. If I were I would have persisted until they were in a straight line. But hey, I’m just a few months away from being a pensioner. I don’t have to be perfect anymore. Not that I have ever been perfect – other than a perfect dickhead, of course.
Speaking to people before the parade prompted me to remember things I wouldn’t otherwise have thought about ever again in my life. And it was interesting to catch a glimpse into life in the Australian base early in our engagement. One person told me about building the base at Nui Dat where I first went. He mentioned the air field built by the Engineers (my Corps). I mentioned my alarm when I saw it for the first time coming in to land on it – it runs over a hill! Being able to identify that seemed to make a difference to the bloke I was talking to – he knew for sure that I wasn’t bullshitting about being there. Let me explain that. A problem I have had, not just with veterans but people in general, is that I have always looked too young to be a veteran. People have always given me dubious looks when I have said I was there. One of the people I had breakfast with me asked me how old I am. He was visibly taken aback when I said sixty in a few months. He told me he must have been in the same National Service intake as I. I didn’t tell him that he couldn’t have been in the same intake as I, because I didn’t wait to be called up. I volunteered for Nasho early. One in eight Nashos were volunteers. Why I volunteered is too long a story for here.
One slightly unnerving incident was that one of the members of the RSL executive saw me and asked, Are you the opera singer? I was absolutely confounded by this. I sing, I said, But I’m not an opera singer. I’m in a choir. To which re replied, Yes, you’re the bloke who’s going to do the singing next year, aren’t you? Struth! Talk about no where to hide. If I was planning to test the waters anonymously, which I wasn’t, I would have failed outright. Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves here, I returned, I made an offer not an arrangement. I don’t want to upset the people who are already doing a fine job of it. It’s something that would have to be discussed with all interested parties. So no, I’m not yet the person doing the singing next year, although I might be if no one minds. Fortunately I was rescued from any further discussion of this point by the signal to start the parade.
It was late starting, and it was led off by a tracked vehicle festooned with children. Small town, I mused. No one concerned with OH&S issues here. As we marched down the main street of Mullumbimby I scanned the crowd gathered and clapping as we passed, for people I knew. To my surprise I didn’t see anyone I knew at all, even John who was definitely there. Yet the people I didn’t know were not strangers. This was my town out to celebrate. When we arrived at the cenotaph we formed up for what was to be a much longer ceremony than the Dawn Service. This time there were speeches. Fortunately there was cloud cover so it was not as difficult as it could have been. Nevertheless one person fell over and was taken away in an ambulance. That brought back some memories. Parades were always ordeals in training units. Someone always fainted – and was charged later for (I forget what the wording was, but it was ludicrous.) That’s the military. There was a poem The Power of Kokoda by Dean Travaskis, a local lad from Ocean Shores, who had walked the Kokoda Track and subsequently won the Blackened Bush Billy poetry competition in Tamworth. It was quite moving. When the parade was dismissed I was delighted to discover that I had forgotten the dismissal drill – unlike the first time I attended an Anzac Day parade (mentioned in my blog post of Wednesday 25 April 2007).
As I went in to the RSL for lunch I reverted to type fretting about who I would find to sit with. I made the cowardly choice of sitting with the same people as at breakfast. Calling it cowardly is not intended to reflect on the company, but to admit that I had not really gained courage from what I had learned – about myself and the universe – earlier that day. The bugler was there with two of his brothers. On the other side of the table, where I sat, was a WWII veteran and his son – a bloke about 50 years of age who turned out to have had a fascinating career in biomedicine. What was rather special about lunch is that it was served by the RSL catering staff. Roast beef with Yorkshire Pudding and three veg, followed by apple and rhubarb crumble with ice cream. Later on port was served. I had forgotten about that aspect of military life. The Queen is toasted with port or water for those who don’t drink. Interestingly enough, the Queen was not toasted – a fact that I noted but did not comment on. My conversation with others at lunch was not about the war – any war – but life in general. It was remarkably easy. Not at all fraught like others I had had in previous years. These were not blokes reliving the past but engaged with the present and alert to possibilities of the future. Maybe it was the fact that it a small town with no garrison. You know, the Capital of The shire. I’m sure if I’d have looked around I would have seen Bilbo and Frodo.
As I said earlier, the majority of people who saw me there didn’t know that it was my first time there. Most of them were probably regulars (not a military term in this instance)and probably would have assumed that I was too, if they thought about it at all, which they wouldn’t have, because they would have no reason to do so. But you see what I mean. It was like I had always been there. And it is my intention to be there from now on – as a regular. My next visit is this coming Sunday. There’s a monthly RSL meeting. I have an arrangement to make for next year. I was thinking maybe something from St Matthew’s Passion, but probably not. I mean it’s in German after all. It might be the RSL, but, you know… don’t mention the war.
Thursday, 1 May 2008
April Bulletin
Groooooooooooooooooooooan….The older I get the less able am I to experience pain with grace. I got what ever’s going around recently. Then John got it. We’re both over the worst, but neither of us are ready to party. I also had the strange experience of being bitten by a “non poisonous” spider a couple of weeks ago. I’d hate to see what happens when one is bitten by the real thing, because the friendly bite (get it… you know, like friendly fire) resulted in the left hand side of my body doing strange things – like I couldn’t sleep on my left side because my left hip was so sore… that sort of thing. Bur speaking of parties…..
25th celebration
Our 25th went off well on 29th March. There were actually three celebrations in one. Helen of Elanora turned … um… twenty something … a couple of days before; and Andy and Denis got together in the same year as John and I. So most of the usual suspects came and some others who couldn’t come emailed us on the day. Many thanks for your presence and your presents. I know we would not have thanked you enough on the day, so I hope mentioning it now proves we remember that we got them. You know we always say you shouldn’t have, and mean it, but when someone insists, we are grateful. A very special thanks to Helen who took over in the kitchen and put stuff that John had prepared in the oven. Pictures of the party on Flickr on the link that follows. Regrettably, the camera made itself temporarily unavailable for a good part of the afternoon (in other words, I put it down somewhere and forgot where it was) consequently not everyone who attended appears in the pictures.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/7899872@N08/sets/72157604308325818/
New laptop
John has a new best friend. He bought a lap dancer recently. Um, that should be a lap top (or note book if one’s keeping up with the terminology). He’s spent a lot of time communing with it. So now all he has to do is coax it into writing all those essays for him that are part of his Advanced Diploma in Ceramics. One of them is 5000 words.
Movie talk
We saw a couple of good DVDs last month: Bonhoeffer; and Veronica Guerin. The first is about the role of a German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer in the assassination plots against Hitler before and during the Second World War. It’s a very moving account of how a pacifist reconciled himself with the need for violence, and how he almost got away with it; and the vindictive reprisals of the Gestapo who executed him fifteen days before the end of the war, knowing that it was all over bar the … well, bar the hanging. The punch line moment is so understated that it’s almost possible to miss. Which, of course, is the point. Justice is anything but glamorous. The second is similar in many ways. It is about an Irish journalist who took on organised crime and almost got away with it. Though she was murdered on the road, her campaign, courage, refusal to be intimidated even after being brutally bashed, galvanised the Irish government to pass some of the most effective anti-corruption legislation in the western world. And the icing on the cake: all but one of the people who were involved in her murder were convicted and gaoled. The one who got away is doing a Tony Mokbel in Spain and will get his – unless he does a Christopher Skace.
Bobby Flynn Concert
We went to a concert in Bangalow on Friday 4/4/08. The star of the show was Bobby Flynn. Well, actually, Bobby Flynn and Omega 3. The show would not have had the impact it had without what would normally be called the backing group. It’s too long a story to tell here, but it’s written up on the blog -
http://twogreytoes.blogspot.com/search/label/Arts%20commentary
Job Hunting
For reasons too painful to think about I am in the job market again. It has been an interesting vindication of my job as a Job Search Trainer. One of the key messages was about canvassing. 70% of people in the workforce did not apply for advertised jobs but made themselves known to potential employers. I sent a dozen canvassing letters and got three responses. Even though I should have expected such a result it came as a surprise. The crisis I now have to resolve is what do I do if I get offered a job, because it was actually a bit of a dog chases car exercise. Ever wondered what a surprise it would be, not least to the dog, if one ever caught a car by the wheel and stopped it in its tracks? [just kidding, of course]
Love your enemies
You may recall my saying in an earlier bull tin that I have planned a number of Adult and Community Education courses, one of which is called Love your Enemies. When researching it recently I came across a lecture by James Alison called Love your enemies – within a divided self. The first ten or so paragraphs, in which he talks about a new field of research into how we develop our sense of who we are, would be of interest to anyone and is worth knowing about even if some would not want to read the rest of the article – which goes on to explore what it might mean to love one’s enemies. If you wonder why such matters have to be discussed in religious language, I’m here to tell you that the point of my course is to find a way to do otherwise. But I would like to say to anyone who is willing to take the risk of reading something that might lie outside of your normal frame of interests, you will not be disappointed if you read the whole article. You will not necessarily be convinced, but at least you will have seen just how critically informed and accessible, not to mention relevant, theology can be.
Here are links to three of James Alison’s articles. The first one is the lecture mentioned above. The other two will help to explain why I might be on the verge of un-lapsing – if you get what I mean.
http://www.jamesalison.co.uk/texts/eng50.html
http://www.jamesalison.co.uk/texts/eng52.html
http://www.jamesalison.co.uk/texts/eng27.html
We wish you all a very splendid and happy un-birthday, and hope that Santaclause is a daily, rather than merely annual, contributor to your well being – or sense of well being, depending on your philosophical preferences and or sensory proclivities. And on the day on which a thousand ideas bloom, may you find a chicken in every pot. And never mind that the foregoing makes no sense at all. It is enough to wonder, silently or out aloud as you ……
25th celebration
Our 25th went off well on 29th March. There were actually three celebrations in one. Helen of Elanora turned … um… twenty something … a couple of days before; and Andy and Denis got together in the same year as John and I. So most of the usual suspects came and some others who couldn’t come emailed us on the day. Many thanks for your presence and your presents. I know we would not have thanked you enough on the day, so I hope mentioning it now proves we remember that we got them. You know we always say you shouldn’t have, and mean it, but when someone insists, we are grateful. A very special thanks to Helen who took over in the kitchen and put stuff that John had prepared in the oven. Pictures of the party on Flickr on the link that follows. Regrettably, the camera made itself temporarily unavailable for a good part of the afternoon (in other words, I put it down somewhere and forgot where it was) consequently not everyone who attended appears in the pictures.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/7899872@N08/sets/72157604308325818/
New laptop
John has a new best friend. He bought a lap dancer recently. Um, that should be a lap top (or note book if one’s keeping up with the terminology). He’s spent a lot of time communing with it. So now all he has to do is coax it into writing all those essays for him that are part of his Advanced Diploma in Ceramics. One of them is 5000 words.
Movie talk
We saw a couple of good DVDs last month: Bonhoeffer; and Veronica Guerin. The first is about the role of a German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer in the assassination plots against Hitler before and during the Second World War. It’s a very moving account of how a pacifist reconciled himself with the need for violence, and how he almost got away with it; and the vindictive reprisals of the Gestapo who executed him fifteen days before the end of the war, knowing that it was all over bar the … well, bar the hanging. The punch line moment is so understated that it’s almost possible to miss. Which, of course, is the point. Justice is anything but glamorous. The second is similar in many ways. It is about an Irish journalist who took on organised crime and almost got away with it. Though she was murdered on the road, her campaign, courage, refusal to be intimidated even after being brutally bashed, galvanised the Irish government to pass some of the most effective anti-corruption legislation in the western world. And the icing on the cake: all but one of the people who were involved in her murder were convicted and gaoled. The one who got away is doing a Tony Mokbel in Spain and will get his – unless he does a Christopher Skace.
Bobby Flynn Concert
We went to a concert in Bangalow on Friday 4/4/08. The star of the show was Bobby Flynn. Well, actually, Bobby Flynn and Omega 3. The show would not have had the impact it had without what would normally be called the backing group. It’s too long a story to tell here, but it’s written up on the blog -
http://twogreytoes.blogspot.com/search/label/Arts%20commentary
Job Hunting
For reasons too painful to think about I am in the job market again. It has been an interesting vindication of my job as a Job Search Trainer. One of the key messages was about canvassing. 70% of people in the workforce did not apply for advertised jobs but made themselves known to potential employers. I sent a dozen canvassing letters and got three responses. Even though I should have expected such a result it came as a surprise. The crisis I now have to resolve is what do I do if I get offered a job, because it was actually a bit of a dog chases car exercise. Ever wondered what a surprise it would be, not least to the dog, if one ever caught a car by the wheel and stopped it in its tracks? [just kidding, of course]
Love your enemies
You may recall my saying in an earlier bull tin that I have planned a number of Adult and Community Education courses, one of which is called Love your Enemies. When researching it recently I came across a lecture by James Alison called Love your enemies – within a divided self. The first ten or so paragraphs, in which he talks about a new field of research into how we develop our sense of who we are, would be of interest to anyone and is worth knowing about even if some would not want to read the rest of the article – which goes on to explore what it might mean to love one’s enemies. If you wonder why such matters have to be discussed in religious language, I’m here to tell you that the point of my course is to find a way to do otherwise. But I would like to say to anyone who is willing to take the risk of reading something that might lie outside of your normal frame of interests, you will not be disappointed if you read the whole article. You will not necessarily be convinced, but at least you will have seen just how critically informed and accessible, not to mention relevant, theology can be.
Here are links to three of James Alison’s articles. The first one is the lecture mentioned above. The other two will help to explain why I might be on the verge of un-lapsing – if you get what I mean.
http://www.jamesalison.co.uk/texts/eng50.html
http://www.jamesalison.co.uk/texts/eng52.html
http://www.jamesalison.co.uk/texts/eng27.html
We wish you all a very splendid and happy un-birthday, and hope that Santaclause is a daily, rather than merely annual, contributor to your well being – or sense of well being, depending on your philosophical preferences and or sensory proclivities. And on the day on which a thousand ideas bloom, may you find a chicken in every pot. And never mind that the foregoing makes no sense at all. It is enough to wonder, silently or out aloud as you ……
To get up or not to get up
Anyone who thinks GetUp is aligned to a political party should actually look at how it is constituted and how it works. Let me give you an example of how GetUp actually remains impartial when encouraging people to participate in the resolution of issues of significance.
In the lead up to the 2007 election GetUp published an interactive How to Vote Card (H2VC). It asked people to respond to a number of policy issues and only then generated a customised H2VC which ranked the candidates in the relevant electorate according to the policy preferences of the person it was made for. In other words, if you were a coalition voter it would have given you a H2VC that identified candidates who would support your views in Parliament.
But wait, there’s more. This process was so impartial that it was capable of producing H2VCs that displeased the recipient! Let me tell you about the H2VC it produced for me. On the basis of my policy preferences it placed the candidate for the Citizen’s Electoral Council at no 3!! Naturally I didn’t vote that way. But it gave impartial advice on how I should vote given my expressed preferences. An organisation pushing a left-liberal agenda, as distinct from encouraging people to participate and facilitating that participation, would not have put the CEC third on anyone’s ticket.
GetUp is not beholden to any political party or point of view. It is a vehicle for the prosecution of issues held dear by people who care about the future of the country. Anyone who thinks it does not take an interest in their concerns has as much right as anyone else to have input. If enough people provide input on any issue it will get an airing from GetUp. And why wouldn’t it? How short sighted would it be to ignore what a significant number of people are concerned about.
Anyone who thinks that they are unlikely to get a look in at GetUp is, of course, free to get their own activist network up to work on behalf of whatever specific agenda they think is being ignored. All that’s needed is a coherent world view and some ability to say what it is; and use it to identify issues of concern; and to publicise those issues; and provide a means of responding in writing to the appropriate stakeholders; and facilitate public participation in the identification of opportunities for community development as well as issues of concern in local communities and the nation as a whole.
Nation!? Oh, I forget. Someone on the right of politics already tried something like that. It was called One Nation, remember? Except of course, it never was a network – just a black hole into which a prodigious amount of good will poured, never to be seen again. People were betrayed by a “gang of four” whose tools of choice were misrepresentation, manipulation and grubbing (sic) for power. People who feel that GetUp doesn’t address their issues, would do well to learn from One Nation in getting an alternative network up.
In the lead up to the 2007 election GetUp published an interactive How to Vote Card (H2VC). It asked people to respond to a number of policy issues and only then generated a customised H2VC which ranked the candidates in the relevant electorate according to the policy preferences of the person it was made for. In other words, if you were a coalition voter it would have given you a H2VC that identified candidates who would support your views in Parliament.
But wait, there’s more. This process was so impartial that it was capable of producing H2VCs that displeased the recipient! Let me tell you about the H2VC it produced for me. On the basis of my policy preferences it placed the candidate for the Citizen’s Electoral Council at no 3!! Naturally I didn’t vote that way. But it gave impartial advice on how I should vote given my expressed preferences. An organisation pushing a left-liberal agenda, as distinct from encouraging people to participate and facilitating that participation, would not have put the CEC third on anyone’s ticket.
GetUp is not beholden to any political party or point of view. It is a vehicle for the prosecution of issues held dear by people who care about the future of the country. Anyone who thinks it does not take an interest in their concerns has as much right as anyone else to have input. If enough people provide input on any issue it will get an airing from GetUp. And why wouldn’t it? How short sighted would it be to ignore what a significant number of people are concerned about.
Anyone who thinks that they are unlikely to get a look in at GetUp is, of course, free to get their own activist network up to work on behalf of whatever specific agenda they think is being ignored. All that’s needed is a coherent world view and some ability to say what it is; and use it to identify issues of concern; and to publicise those issues; and provide a means of responding in writing to the appropriate stakeholders; and facilitate public participation in the identification of opportunities for community development as well as issues of concern in local communities and the nation as a whole.
Nation!? Oh, I forget. Someone on the right of politics already tried something like that. It was called One Nation, remember? Except of course, it never was a network – just a black hole into which a prodigious amount of good will poured, never to be seen again. People were betrayed by a “gang of four” whose tools of choice were misrepresentation, manipulation and grubbing (sic) for power. People who feel that GetUp doesn’t address their issues, would do well to learn from One Nation in getting an alternative network up.
What a sorry lot
One has to feel very SORRY for the opposition in the Australian Parliament. At a time when the rest of the country was agog with enthusiasm about the 2020 Summit – or expectation, at the very least – these poor things had to adopt the role of critics. Alas they are so bereft that that couldn’t find anything coherent or even pertinent to say.
Starting weeks ago Brendan the Brief discredited himself as a political operator by asserting that the Rudd government has no ideas of its own and had to call on the public to help it out. Actually, Brendan, the Summit was evidence of the government’s ability to harness a really good idea that has the ongoing potential to re-engage the nation with its own future – a process that was viciously attacked by the Howard government every time anybody with something significant to say spoke out.
Another who covered himself in dis-grace was Christopher Pine who knowingly misrepresented the way in which the Summit would work by saying that each idea would get 39.6 seconds of attention. This is so absurd that you’d have to wonder why he’d run the risk of looking like such a goose. Not that anyone, not even people with no idea how a thousand ideas would be processed in one and a half days, would imagine that he could be serious. But they would be entitled to ask, if he can’t say anything substantial about the process, why say anything at all? Why not, in fact, offer his best wishes for the success of the enterprise?
And then there’s Julie Bishop who also couldn’t help making herself look like a substance free zone. Those attending, she solemnly declared, will have every reason to feel cheated if Kevin Rudd pays no attention to their recommendations. This is soooooooooo self evident that it is ridiculous to say it at all. So why say it? Not just because she has nothing of substance to say, but because if she could just play the spoiler, some people who might otherwise have remained open to the possibility of a positive outcome will be encouraged to be gloomy about its prospects, and therefore be less likely to participate at a later stage when momentum gathers for significant social and political change.
Brendan Nelson’s comment after the event was that he met a representative of sex workers and a union official, but found it hard to find anyone from small business and the Australian Medical Association. How could he confine himself to such a trivialising comment. He’d just been involved in a pivotal moment in Australia’s history. A thousand people had earlier given the Prime Minister a standing ovation. Um… or was that nine hundred and ninety nine? His parsimonious account of his experience can be explained by one of two possible dynamics. The first is that he went determined not to be captured by the enthusiasm of the other 999, and succeeded; or he felt that as opposition leader he had to find fault with what the other 999 very clearly found exhilarating. See what I mean when I say we have to feel SORRY for him and his sorry lot.
Oh, and what about Dilly Downer? Responding to the tsunami of support for a republic from the Summit, he predicted that those who opposed the republic would be ridiculed. And that would be a bad thing? Anyone remember the sneering contempt of just about every Howard government minister, not just for their predecessors, but for people who persisted in holding views labelled elitist and politically correct; not just in the immediate aftermath of the 1996 election, but at every election campaign since? It was in this vein that he Downer wrote off the whole Summit as a revival of Keatingesque political correctness – the word Keating intended as a term of abuse. In less than a minute he the spat the word Keating out of his mouth as though it were a vomit lolly from the Harry Potter zone that kept forming in his mouth. Well, a vindication of Keating the Summit was indeed, and it’s so good that you noticed, you flouncing punce. Keating will be honoured in history, while the best thing anyone will ever say about you is that you were the son of a Federal Cabinet Minister, and grandson of a Premier. But the prize goes to his saying that a few conservatives were “roped in to give it a vernier of respectability.” What a pompous fart. Only someone who thinks respectability has something to do with “breeding” could come up with that one. But hey, you globular cluster of sequins and fish net stockings, keep it up. Oh please!! Keep it up.
Malcolm Turnbull’s response to Summit’s enthusiasm for a republic shows that “conservatives” really would rather that the plebs were not involved in running the country. Let’s recall that it was Malcolm who single handedly sunk the Constitutional Convention. As head of the Australian Republican Movement (ARM) he went to the convention with an elitist model – the President to be appointed by the Parliament. Other’s took other models, most of which involved the popular election of the President. It was a rare moment for courageous engagement with the future when it became clear that there was am impasse and the logical thing to do was to sit down and do some actual negotiation. But no, the ARM simply refused to accept any compromise or alternative model. It was to be Malcolm’s way or Howard’s (which, of course, was no republic.) Malcolm Turnbull had the gall to accuse John Howard of breaking the country’s heart when he put up a referendum question that everyone knew would fail. The point to revisit here is that it was Turnbull who refused to budge from the elitist model that was not acceptable to the majority of other republican delegates. Never mind what the people think. I know what will work best. It was hardly surprising, therefore that when the Summiteers championed the republic, he sneered at its prospects, saying that the issue should not come up again until QEII is no longer the monarch.
Of more far reaching consequence is the deliberate misrepresentation of the role of GetUp in the Summit by [National Party politician] who complained that no one from his electorate was going to Canberra, in contrast to over 100 GetUp members which he falsely described as an ALP instrumentality. This is a disgraceful misrepresentation of GetUp and the way the Summiteers were selected. (See separate post on GetUp) People were not picked because they were in GetUp. They were picked because they could make a worthwhile contribution. A significant minority of them happen to be members of GetUp. Oh, and by the way, a significant minority of the Summiteers were Catholics; another significant minority were people who went to public schools in NSW. How ludicrous would it be to single out either of the latter two minorities for scrutiny?
“Conservative” politicians and commentators who misrepresent the government’s intentions and the way the Summit would operate, and who attempt to undermine its outcomes, and attack the success of community based activism, do so KNOWINGLY. Every politician in Australia, and every commentator who has bothered to look into GetUp, for example, knows that it is not politically aligned, and that it does respond to people’s concerns as distinct from parties’ concerns. You would therefore have to ask why certain politicians misrepresent GetUp the way they do. And if they really do think GetUp is partial, why not sponsor another organisation that promotes a “conservative” agenda? Here’s my suggestion: if they lie about GetUp people who might otherwise be curious about the way it works might be persuaded not to investigate – not to get involved. It’s people getting critically involved that they don’t want, even if it were with an alternative to GetUp that promoted a partisan agenda of their liking, because involved people are difficult to manage. Look how they treated Pauline Hanson and One Nation after the latter ceased to be useful to them.
The very people who accused “the left” of elitism, shut down participation of diverse opinion even within their own party. Is it any wonder they are terrified of the Summit and what it will trigger in this country? Is it any wonder they speak such embarrassing drivel? For to speak truthfully would be politically self incriminating.
Starting weeks ago Brendan the Brief discredited himself as a political operator by asserting that the Rudd government has no ideas of its own and had to call on the public to help it out. Actually, Brendan, the Summit was evidence of the government’s ability to harness a really good idea that has the ongoing potential to re-engage the nation with its own future – a process that was viciously attacked by the Howard government every time anybody with something significant to say spoke out.
Another who covered himself in dis-grace was Christopher Pine who knowingly misrepresented the way in which the Summit would work by saying that each idea would get 39.6 seconds of attention. This is so absurd that you’d have to wonder why he’d run the risk of looking like such a goose. Not that anyone, not even people with no idea how a thousand ideas would be processed in one and a half days, would imagine that he could be serious. But they would be entitled to ask, if he can’t say anything substantial about the process, why say anything at all? Why not, in fact, offer his best wishes for the success of the enterprise?
And then there’s Julie Bishop who also couldn’t help making herself look like a substance free zone. Those attending, she solemnly declared, will have every reason to feel cheated if Kevin Rudd pays no attention to their recommendations. This is soooooooooo self evident that it is ridiculous to say it at all. So why say it? Not just because she has nothing of substance to say, but because if she could just play the spoiler, some people who might otherwise have remained open to the possibility of a positive outcome will be encouraged to be gloomy about its prospects, and therefore be less likely to participate at a later stage when momentum gathers for significant social and political change.
Brendan Nelson’s comment after the event was that he met a representative of sex workers and a union official, but found it hard to find anyone from small business and the Australian Medical Association. How could he confine himself to such a trivialising comment. He’d just been involved in a pivotal moment in Australia’s history. A thousand people had earlier given the Prime Minister a standing ovation. Um… or was that nine hundred and ninety nine? His parsimonious account of his experience can be explained by one of two possible dynamics. The first is that he went determined not to be captured by the enthusiasm of the other 999, and succeeded; or he felt that as opposition leader he had to find fault with what the other 999 very clearly found exhilarating. See what I mean when I say we have to feel SORRY for him and his sorry lot.
Oh, and what about Dilly Downer? Responding to the tsunami of support for a republic from the Summit, he predicted that those who opposed the republic would be ridiculed. And that would be a bad thing? Anyone remember the sneering contempt of just about every Howard government minister, not just for their predecessors, but for people who persisted in holding views labelled elitist and politically correct; not just in the immediate aftermath of the 1996 election, but at every election campaign since? It was in this vein that he Downer wrote off the whole Summit as a revival of Keatingesque political correctness – the word Keating intended as a term of abuse. In less than a minute he the spat the word Keating out of his mouth as though it were a vomit lolly from the Harry Potter zone that kept forming in his mouth. Well, a vindication of Keating the Summit was indeed, and it’s so good that you noticed, you flouncing punce. Keating will be honoured in history, while the best thing anyone will ever say about you is that you were the son of a Federal Cabinet Minister, and grandson of a Premier. But the prize goes to his saying that a few conservatives were “roped in to give it a vernier of respectability.” What a pompous fart. Only someone who thinks respectability has something to do with “breeding” could come up with that one. But hey, you globular cluster of sequins and fish net stockings, keep it up. Oh please!! Keep it up.
Malcolm Turnbull’s response to Summit’s enthusiasm for a republic shows that “conservatives” really would rather that the plebs were not involved in running the country. Let’s recall that it was Malcolm who single handedly sunk the Constitutional Convention. As head of the Australian Republican Movement (ARM) he went to the convention with an elitist model – the President to be appointed by the Parliament. Other’s took other models, most of which involved the popular election of the President. It was a rare moment for courageous engagement with the future when it became clear that there was am impasse and the logical thing to do was to sit down and do some actual negotiation. But no, the ARM simply refused to accept any compromise or alternative model. It was to be Malcolm’s way or Howard’s (which, of course, was no republic.) Malcolm Turnbull had the gall to accuse John Howard of breaking the country’s heart when he put up a referendum question that everyone knew would fail. The point to revisit here is that it was Turnbull who refused to budge from the elitist model that was not acceptable to the majority of other republican delegates. Never mind what the people think. I know what will work best. It was hardly surprising, therefore that when the Summiteers championed the republic, he sneered at its prospects, saying that the issue should not come up again until QEII is no longer the monarch.
Of more far reaching consequence is the deliberate misrepresentation of the role of GetUp in the Summit by [National Party politician] who complained that no one from his electorate was going to Canberra, in contrast to over 100 GetUp members which he falsely described as an ALP instrumentality. This is a disgraceful misrepresentation of GetUp and the way the Summiteers were selected. (See separate post on GetUp) People were not picked because they were in GetUp. They were picked because they could make a worthwhile contribution. A significant minority of them happen to be members of GetUp. Oh, and by the way, a significant minority of the Summiteers were Catholics; another significant minority were people who went to public schools in NSW. How ludicrous would it be to single out either of the latter two minorities for scrutiny?
“Conservative” politicians and commentators who misrepresent the government’s intentions and the way the Summit would operate, and who attempt to undermine its outcomes, and attack the success of community based activism, do so KNOWINGLY. Every politician in Australia, and every commentator who has bothered to look into GetUp, for example, knows that it is not politically aligned, and that it does respond to people’s concerns as distinct from parties’ concerns. You would therefore have to ask why certain politicians misrepresent GetUp the way they do. And if they really do think GetUp is partial, why not sponsor another organisation that promotes a “conservative” agenda? Here’s my suggestion: if they lie about GetUp people who might otherwise be curious about the way it works might be persuaded not to investigate – not to get involved. It’s people getting critically involved that they don’t want, even if it were with an alternative to GetUp that promoted a partisan agenda of their liking, because involved people are difficult to manage. Look how they treated Pauline Hanson and One Nation after the latter ceased to be useful to them.
The very people who accused “the left” of elitism, shut down participation of diverse opinion even within their own party. Is it any wonder they are terrified of the Summit and what it will trigger in this country? Is it any wonder they speak such embarrassing drivel? For to speak truthfully would be politically self incriminating.
Saturday, 19 April 2008
Let a thousand ideas bloom.
“We’ve opened the windows of our democracy to let in a bit of fresh air!”
Thus spake Kevin as he opened the 2020 Summit.
And verily did I fall about in wonder and amazement, for they are famous words!!
You probably have to be a Catholic, old enough (not to mention interested enough) to remember the election of Pope John XXIII and what happened shortly afterwards, to get this one. Being such, I want to share it with you. You see, very shortly after the JXXIII’s election there was a gathering of the big guns of the church at which the question was put to the new Pope: What is the agenda for your papacy? The jolly Pope smiled for a moment, got up, walked to the nearest window and opened it. He then turned to the assembled princes and said: I want to open the windows of the church to let in a bit of fresh air.
It just goes to show… when a Pope can anticipate the actions of an Australian Prime Minister the world must be in Go(o)d Hands. Just kidding of course. But there is metaphoric value in the coincidence – if that’s what it is – that I’d like to draw out a bit.
Let’s start with the suggestion that the Venerable Kevin’s choice of words was not a coincidence. We all know that Kevin is a practicing Christian. We see him on TV going to Anglican churches. But what many may not know is that he grew up as a Catholic. He’s not old enough (born 1957)to personally remember the news reports of the Pope’s breath taking words and action. But his vital years of personal formation (you know the saying attributed to the Jesuits – Give me a child until the age of seven and I will give you the man) coincided with the most exciting transformation in the life of the church since… well, since the first Pentecost. Kevin may not even be aware of the fact that his words echoed JXXIII, but it is not too much to suggest that there may be, for him, a deep unconscious connection between the potential of the 2020 Summit and the most astounding event of the era of his youth.
The Second Vatican Council galvanised people on a mass scale to recreate the face of the earth. There was near universal optimism among Catholics of the time about the future. And it wasn’t just Catholics. Protestants and Orthodox in great numbers watched in amazement and rejoiced as the Catholic church took unprecedented initiatives in ecumenism and engagement with the world. In its own internal life the transformation was almost like the emergence of a new religion, except that it was in fact the recovery in contemporary form of what had always been it’s essential inner life.
It is this manifest model of transformation that may be the root of Kevin’s motivation and vision. Being a root it is deep in the soil and therefore out of sight. But if it’s there we may be able to discern the pattern of a future that takes as its point of departure the 2020 Summit – a future that was already unfolding even before today. You may have noticed that people all over Australia have been at it for months – holding forums and testing means of “thinking outside the square”, and even daring to hope!! Reminding themselves that the past is not the only predictor of the future; dusting off the model of thinking that anticipates and therefore to a significant degree facilitates change; cutting through the definitions of what it means to be Australian, created by vested interests, to a vision of a just society in right relationship not only with itself but with the rest of the world and above all with the planet itself; taking the opportunity to absorb in advance as much of the agenda of the Summit as technology and willingness will enable, so that in the event they act disinterestedly (sic) on behalf of the greater good, the nature of which they can only glimpse partially as if in a glass darkly. If time permitted I could list a dozen more ways in which people of good will have flocked to this event on behalf of a sustainable and exciting future. But it is enough to draw attention to the discernable pattern of events.
If I am right about this we can expect not only good ideas from the Summit, but a vision of the future whose substance will take the whole country by surprise. People everywhere will meet in small groups to examine the implications of the documents that come from the Summit for their daily lives. People will see connections between issues they had never previously imagined and change the way do things. People will look to others they have never considered worthy of attention for clues about how to build relationships they never previously wanted. Sacred cows, such as “the bottom line” and “the inviolable rights of shareholders”, will be put out to pasture – not deprives of their rights, but stripped of undue influence. Courageous and innovative ways of creating sustainable prosperity will emerge in unlikely places and be adapted widely and rapidly. And people will make the connections between those new forms and those of earlier times that brought them forth as aspiring champions of the Fair Go.
People will ignore the few who say it can’t be done – like the politician who said: There are a thousand ideas, there are 660 minutes of discussion on the summit program, which means that for every idea there are 39.6 seconds put aside for discussing that particular idea.
To be continued…
Thus spake Kevin as he opened the 2020 Summit.
And verily did I fall about in wonder and amazement, for they are famous words!!
You probably have to be a Catholic, old enough (not to mention interested enough) to remember the election of Pope John XXIII and what happened shortly afterwards, to get this one. Being such, I want to share it with you. You see, very shortly after the JXXIII’s election there was a gathering of the big guns of the church at which the question was put to the new Pope: What is the agenda for your papacy? The jolly Pope smiled for a moment, got up, walked to the nearest window and opened it. He then turned to the assembled princes and said: I want to open the windows of the church to let in a bit of fresh air.
It just goes to show… when a Pope can anticipate the actions of an Australian Prime Minister the world must be in Go(o)d Hands. Just kidding of course. But there is metaphoric value in the coincidence – if that’s what it is – that I’d like to draw out a bit.
Let’s start with the suggestion that the Venerable Kevin’s choice of words was not a coincidence. We all know that Kevin is a practicing Christian. We see him on TV going to Anglican churches. But what many may not know is that he grew up as a Catholic. He’s not old enough (born 1957)to personally remember the news reports of the Pope’s breath taking words and action. But his vital years of personal formation (you know the saying attributed to the Jesuits – Give me a child until the age of seven and I will give you the man) coincided with the most exciting transformation in the life of the church since… well, since the first Pentecost. Kevin may not even be aware of the fact that his words echoed JXXIII, but it is not too much to suggest that there may be, for him, a deep unconscious connection between the potential of the 2020 Summit and the most astounding event of the era of his youth.
The Second Vatican Council galvanised people on a mass scale to recreate the face of the earth. There was near universal optimism among Catholics of the time about the future. And it wasn’t just Catholics. Protestants and Orthodox in great numbers watched in amazement and rejoiced as the Catholic church took unprecedented initiatives in ecumenism and engagement with the world. In its own internal life the transformation was almost like the emergence of a new religion, except that it was in fact the recovery in contemporary form of what had always been it’s essential inner life.
It is this manifest model of transformation that may be the root of Kevin’s motivation and vision. Being a root it is deep in the soil and therefore out of sight. But if it’s there we may be able to discern the pattern of a future that takes as its point of departure the 2020 Summit – a future that was already unfolding even before today. You may have noticed that people all over Australia have been at it for months – holding forums and testing means of “thinking outside the square”, and even daring to hope!! Reminding themselves that the past is not the only predictor of the future; dusting off the model of thinking that anticipates and therefore to a significant degree facilitates change; cutting through the definitions of what it means to be Australian, created by vested interests, to a vision of a just society in right relationship not only with itself but with the rest of the world and above all with the planet itself; taking the opportunity to absorb in advance as much of the agenda of the Summit as technology and willingness will enable, so that in the event they act disinterestedly (sic) on behalf of the greater good, the nature of which they can only glimpse partially as if in a glass darkly. If time permitted I could list a dozen more ways in which people of good will have flocked to this event on behalf of a sustainable and exciting future. But it is enough to draw attention to the discernable pattern of events.
If I am right about this we can expect not only good ideas from the Summit, but a vision of the future whose substance will take the whole country by surprise. People everywhere will meet in small groups to examine the implications of the documents that come from the Summit for their daily lives. People will see connections between issues they had never previously imagined and change the way do things. People will look to others they have never considered worthy of attention for clues about how to build relationships they never previously wanted. Sacred cows, such as “the bottom line” and “the inviolable rights of shareholders”, will be put out to pasture – not deprives of their rights, but stripped of undue influence. Courageous and innovative ways of creating sustainable prosperity will emerge in unlikely places and be adapted widely and rapidly. And people will make the connections between those new forms and those of earlier times that brought them forth as aspiring champions of the Fair Go.
People will ignore the few who say it can’t be done – like the politician who said: There are a thousand ideas, there are 660 minutes of discussion on the summit program, which means that for every idea there are 39.6 seconds put aside for discussing that particular idea.
To be continued…
I may not be my brother's keeper, but...
Please bear with me for the next few lines, especially if your political views differ from mine – god knows, I’ve made them clear – or even if you share my views but think I over do it a bit – or a lot. Just stay with me for a moment – please.
I’ve had no one take me up on the offer to dialogue about the apology. It’s possible that I have somehow contrived to be friends only with like minded people. I hope not. In fact I know that’s not true. It’s more likely that someone who thinks the apology wasn’t necessary also thinks that it’s none of my business what they think. And they’d be right. I’ll come back to that. I want to look first at another possibility: that someone, having understood the offer, rejected it because they don’t want to consider arguments for the apology. You know: I know what I think and I’m not changing my mind.
By now anyone who holds that position has stopped reading, so let me tell you, who may be curious to know what I have to say about it, what I think is wrong with that position. It’s easily illustrated. Just put the boot on the other foot, so to speak. Put those words in the mouth of a person in power. Shocking, eh? Does it sound like anyone you know? No. Because no one in power in a democracy could ever use those actual words. But actions speak. Can you think of anyone whose actions consistently signalled a refusal to “talk to the other side” – who talked at the other side instead? If you’re a coalition voter you’ve probably thinking Paul Keating. If you’re not you almost certainly have of someone else in mind. What if both points of view are right – or wrong? What if it’s not “either or” but “both and”?
Recall the 1996 election campaign and its aftermath. Pauline Hanson was speaking her mind. What she said embarrassed the Liberal party and they disendorsed her. Speaking about that period long after the event John Howard claimed that, in the years leading up to that election, people with views contrary to those of the “ruling elite” had been silenced. By the time he said this, he had systematically denigrated the world view of those he’d beaten at the ballot box and implemented policies that not only embodied his own world view, but flew in the face of scientific consensus in some cases. Along the way, people within his own party who had values that differed form his, either departed from politics or were, except on rare occasions, silent – possibly even silenced. What may or may not have been true in 1996 became increasingly so from then until 2007. Does it have to be like this? And how long can we survive as a country if we don’t start talking to one another? If we maintain a winner takes all mentality?
I remember vividly what it was like just before the 1996 election. If people who didn’t like “politically correct” views felt silenced, was it because they chose not to participate in the issues of the day? You know, I know what I think and I’m not changing my mind… And remember what it was like when the Howard government got control of both houses? I don’t care what you think. I’m going to do it my way. Coalition voters will argue that the country was in such a mess when the Howard government took over they had to repudiate the views of those they had replaced in order to put their own agenda into place. Others will say that when the Rudd government took over the country was an international pariah as a result of that agenda. If you’re a Labor supporter you might hope that things can be fixed up, but you need to be worried, because if you think what happened under the last government was bad, it’s nothing compared with what could happen next time the “conservatives” get power. If you’re a coalition voter you might be thinking the worst case scenario is already unfolding.
Both sides can stop the worst form happening. Here’s how. I care what you think and I want to talk with you about it. Now, about what other people think being none of my business….
I’ve had no one take me up on the offer to dialogue about the apology. It’s possible that I have somehow contrived to be friends only with like minded people. I hope not. In fact I know that’s not true. It’s more likely that someone who thinks the apology wasn’t necessary also thinks that it’s none of my business what they think. And they’d be right. I’ll come back to that. I want to look first at another possibility: that someone, having understood the offer, rejected it because they don’t want to consider arguments for the apology. You know: I know what I think and I’m not changing my mind.
By now anyone who holds that position has stopped reading, so let me tell you, who may be curious to know what I have to say about it, what I think is wrong with that position. It’s easily illustrated. Just put the boot on the other foot, so to speak. Put those words in the mouth of a person in power. Shocking, eh? Does it sound like anyone you know? No. Because no one in power in a democracy could ever use those actual words. But actions speak. Can you think of anyone whose actions consistently signalled a refusal to “talk to the other side” – who talked at the other side instead? If you’re a coalition voter you’ve probably thinking Paul Keating. If you’re not you almost certainly have of someone else in mind. What if both points of view are right – or wrong? What if it’s not “either or” but “both and”?
Recall the 1996 election campaign and its aftermath. Pauline Hanson was speaking her mind. What she said embarrassed the Liberal party and they disendorsed her. Speaking about that period long after the event John Howard claimed that, in the years leading up to that election, people with views contrary to those of the “ruling elite” had been silenced. By the time he said this, he had systematically denigrated the world view of those he’d beaten at the ballot box and implemented policies that not only embodied his own world view, but flew in the face of scientific consensus in some cases. Along the way, people within his own party who had values that differed form his, either departed from politics or were, except on rare occasions, silent – possibly even silenced. What may or may not have been true in 1996 became increasingly so from then until 2007. Does it have to be like this? And how long can we survive as a country if we don’t start talking to one another? If we maintain a winner takes all mentality?
I remember vividly what it was like just before the 1996 election. If people who didn’t like “politically correct” views felt silenced, was it because they chose not to participate in the issues of the day? You know, I know what I think and I’m not changing my mind… And remember what it was like when the Howard government got control of both houses? I don’t care what you think. I’m going to do it my way. Coalition voters will argue that the country was in such a mess when the Howard government took over they had to repudiate the views of those they had replaced in order to put their own agenda into place. Others will say that when the Rudd government took over the country was an international pariah as a result of that agenda. If you’re a Labor supporter you might hope that things can be fixed up, but you need to be worried, because if you think what happened under the last government was bad, it’s nothing compared with what could happen next time the “conservatives” get power. If you’re a coalition voter you might be thinking the worst case scenario is already unfolding.
Both sides can stop the worst form happening. Here’s how. I care what you think and I want to talk with you about it. Now, about what other people think being none of my business….
Sunday, 13 April 2008
Wednesday, 9 April 2008
Bobby Flynn – the live show – with Omega 3
Have you heard of Bobby Flynn? If you watch Australian Idol, of course you have. Otherwise maybe not. We went to see him in concert on Friday 4/4/08 in the A&I Hall in Bangalow.
I was expecting not to be able to find a park. After all, millions voted for him on Idol, and surely they’d all be here tonight, I thought. But as soon as we turned into the main street – that is arrived in the main street: we didn’t actually metamorphose into bitumen edged with foot paths – there was a park right in front of the Bangalow pub. I suggested that I must have visualised it. If you know about “The Secret” you’ll know what I mean. If you don’t you’re lucky. Anyway, we walked… no, we sauntered… down the street, pausing to look at objects d’art in the windows. Bangalow’s that sort of place, if you haven’t been there – or even if you have been there. John saw a very nice hat and remarked that it would be good dipped, and thought the same about a number of tea cosies in another shop. Dipped? I hear you ask. In porcelain and fired. (see the photos of his work on Flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/7899872@N08/sets/72157602126431721/) Meanwhile, despite being able to park so easily I was envisaging a throng of people around the next corner waiting to get in to the hall. There were lots of cars, but no people. I panicked. Did I get the time wrong? Has it already started? Having been a theatre manager, I wondered if we’d be locked out until there was a break in the performance. But no, when we arrived at the hall there were a few people gaggling at the door, which wasn’t yet opened, and I wondered if I’d got the date wrong. I sneaked a peek through a crack in the door and saw that there were chairs in about half of the hall. Well, something’s on, I reassured myself, but it’s not going to be as big a show as I had anticipated.
As 7:30 approached the street began to fill with people all streaming towards the hall. Mmmmmmmm, I thought. The elves and fairies know when to appear, because at about that moment the doors were flung open and we all queued to get in; and waited, and waited, and waited. Eventually we were let in, stamped with the mark of the beast – I can’t imagine why it was necessary to do that when we had tickets but there you go, that’s rock and roll - and found seats; and waited, and waited, and waited. Well, it was fun looking at the elves and fairies. Finally the lights dimmed and a troll in fairy’s clothing appeared on stage – on tip toes arching up to the mike and said, It looks like every time there’s an event around here I’m up on my tip toes because the person coming after me is always taller. Well you should have heard the audience. There was a deafening silence as everyone stayed in their seats and remained calm. She continued in a perfect monotone for what seemed like some minutes regaling the audience with coming attractions and email lists and … and suddenly I realised that this was not part of the performance but an advertisement. So I stopped paying attention, because I never allow myself to be influenced by ads. Later I did ask if anyone wanted to go the hear the Spooky Men’s Choir which she had mentioned. Anyway, suddenly she wasn’t there.
A bloke who obviously hadn’t combed his hair since he was a little boy, snuck through the curtain carrying a guitar. It was him carrying the guitar, by the way – not the curtain. His name, we’d already been told was Sean Murphy. He was to be the fire starter. You know, warm up the crowd. Get them going. That sort of thing. He sang a very nice song about God, said it wasn’t a religious song and said he wasn’t a Catholic. Yes, well you may ask. It might have been this that triggered the memory of a scene from Katy and Kym in which they were discussing names for the soon to be new baby. Kym mentions a name that Kath approves of and Kath begins to write it down, spelling it out as she goes, and Kym interrupts a gives another, obviously over the top, contrivance as the correct spelling. Anyway, there were about six or eight numbers in his bracket. It all sounded like the same song to me, but. Eh? Different words. Even different notes. But it still sounded like the same song six or eight times. The problem isn't a lack of diversity in his musical composition. I think it was the sentiments expressed. All of his songs were about emotional dependency. ...give your live to me...what if all I wanted to see was God...don't hold me inside...our love will always remain the same...show me the ways to love... But to be fair I have to say, he had a very nice voice and did a fine falsetto – which is a hell of a lot more than I can do. And yes. The crowd did warm to him. So he did a good job. Oh, and when I bought his disc at the end of the show I found that he wasn't Sean but Cheynne. Well, Cheynne was followed by Dan.
Dan told us he was Dan quite a few times in the first little bit. I think he was nervous and couldn’t think of anything else to say. But he settled down and started to play his guitar and sing and all of a sudden he had my attention! This guy could PLAY. Not to mention sing. And WRITE. He was all of twenty and had been a professional muso for three and a half years – and sounded like it. And his sentiments are about engagement...for the first time in my life I don't feel the same...a one night stand was hardly worth the drive...you leave me no choice but to disagree with all you do... 'cause the reflection that I see, never smiles back at me (that same reflection once smiled from ear to ear...can I please explain the way I feel...ya can't catch hearts with every line you cast...why can't they see that there's no need to be so greedy with me...have you ever seen people living day to day, never thinking twice before they throw their love away...he likes to sail, but man does he hate the ocean...street fighting man I don't wish to be around him...I get the feeling he don't wanna like me... To my ear, his words have a poignancy you expect from a mature song writer like Paul Kelly. The eight or ten songs he sang were very distinct. In a more discerning world, Dan would not be a support act.
Intermission came next. Or was it half time? Intermission, I think. The crowd was far too well mannered for it to be half time. Speaking of which, if you’re thinking that our party of four must have stood out like geriatric thumbs, you’d be dead wrong. I was certainly expecting a young crowd, but it was more like what you’d expect at a Musica Viva bash. You know, young faces to be seen for sure, but as many from 40 up as 30 down. I mention this because it says something about Bobby Flynn.
Yes, he was on Australian Idol. But so was Paul Potts. Paul who? Paul Potts was in British Idol – and won. Soooooooooo? Well, he is an opera singer. Here’s the link to his website, http://www.paulpottsuk.com/frontpage and if anyone’s interested, he’s appearing at the Adelaide Festival this year, will be in concert in Brisbane on 20/4/08, the SOH on 21/4/08 and in Melbourne on 23/4/08. Anyway the crowd – or should that be patrons – drank a lot of Chai during interval – which answers my question about how they should be described: clearly they were patrons – they’d have been a crowd if they’d drunk a lot of beer – and had photos taken with the stars. 50+ was not too shy to take a turn in the frame with Bobby.
Like Paul Potts in Britain, Bobby Flynn brought to AI a quality that set him apart. It would either break the mould or ruin his chances of getting to the Opera House. You don't hear a Bobby Flynn song on the radio and whistle it from memory five minutes later - and not just because you don't hear them on the radio at all. He doesn’t sing “tunes” – you know, She loves me yeah yeah yeah; or Sadie the cleaning lady. He expresses complex sentiments in music that nails the emotion. If I had to compare his music with someone well known, I might mention Sting – but he’s actually nothing like Sting, so you’re none the wiser, especially if you don’t know who Sting is. Another group with whom he might be mentioned in the same breath is The Guillemots. But once again, the similarity is tenuous. The range of his voice, its power and the gut wrenching yearning for life that his choice of notes wrings out of the cosmos is as “operatic” as anything I have ever heard – which, I admit, is not really saying all that much, because I’ve only recently started paying attention to opera. But whereas Teddy Tahu Rhodes induces in me a sense of the sublime, Bobby Flynn brought me to tears. I can’t remember feeling so exhilaratingly sad – except, when, at about fifteen, my first girlfriend dumped me. And isn't that what opera's supposed to do?
Having said that, it was not all down to Bobby himself. Omega 3, who shared the stage with him, were breath taking. Two of them in particular delivered riveting performances. The percussionist produced a truly astonishing range of sounds from so many different gadgets that gave up trying to keep track of what he was doing. He was deservedly given a moment of glory towards the end of the show. The stand out performance of Omega 3, however, was the lead guitarist. Even though he was up front with the star, he was, for most of the time, a model of restraint, yet in those moments when his guitar stepped into the lead, the sound he produced and his body language easily matched the zeal of Bobby Flynn’s performance.
The most astounding moment of the show came right at the end when everyone else had left the stage while lead guitarist lead singer engaged each others guitars in a contemplative post script that had the flavour and fragrance of one’s first ever post coital cigarette. If there was a dry in the house it belonged to someone made of stone.
Keyboard, drums, bass guitar and someone pushing buttons in the wings – as well as up the back – all contributed indispensable layers to performance that is probably impossible to capture on disc or video. The discs I bought after the show are a worthy souvenir of the experience, but they are not the experience – not by a long shot. So if you’re interested and you have to opportunity to go to one of these shows, don’t be thinking the discs and a good set of head phones will do.
One final point to make is about the understated stage wear of everyone involved. Far from being a criticism, I am really impressed at how a show that could easily get away with a touch of Demis Roussos is content to look like its wardrobe was supplied by St Vincent de Paul or the Salvation Army. The show was about music. That’s what anyone who attended will remember, because it seriously exceeded expectation. Next time Bobby Flynn is in town, guess who’ll be there to hear him.
I was expecting not to be able to find a park. After all, millions voted for him on Idol, and surely they’d all be here tonight, I thought. But as soon as we turned into the main street – that is arrived in the main street: we didn’t actually metamorphose into bitumen edged with foot paths – there was a park right in front of the Bangalow pub. I suggested that I must have visualised it. If you know about “The Secret” you’ll know what I mean. If you don’t you’re lucky. Anyway, we walked… no, we sauntered… down the street, pausing to look at objects d’art in the windows. Bangalow’s that sort of place, if you haven’t been there – or even if you have been there. John saw a very nice hat and remarked that it would be good dipped, and thought the same about a number of tea cosies in another shop. Dipped? I hear you ask. In porcelain and fired. (see the photos of his work on Flickr http://www.flickr.com/photos/7899872@N08/sets/72157602126431721/) Meanwhile, despite being able to park so easily I was envisaging a throng of people around the next corner waiting to get in to the hall. There were lots of cars, but no people. I panicked. Did I get the time wrong? Has it already started? Having been a theatre manager, I wondered if we’d be locked out until there was a break in the performance. But no, when we arrived at the hall there were a few people gaggling at the door, which wasn’t yet opened, and I wondered if I’d got the date wrong. I sneaked a peek through a crack in the door and saw that there were chairs in about half of the hall. Well, something’s on, I reassured myself, but it’s not going to be as big a show as I had anticipated.
As 7:30 approached the street began to fill with people all streaming towards the hall. Mmmmmmmm, I thought. The elves and fairies know when to appear, because at about that moment the doors were flung open and we all queued to get in; and waited, and waited, and waited. Eventually we were let in, stamped with the mark of the beast – I can’t imagine why it was necessary to do that when we had tickets but there you go, that’s rock and roll - and found seats; and waited, and waited, and waited. Well, it was fun looking at the elves and fairies. Finally the lights dimmed and a troll in fairy’s clothing appeared on stage – on tip toes arching up to the mike and said, It looks like every time there’s an event around here I’m up on my tip toes because the person coming after me is always taller. Well you should have heard the audience. There was a deafening silence as everyone stayed in their seats and remained calm. She continued in a perfect monotone for what seemed like some minutes regaling the audience with coming attractions and email lists and … and suddenly I realised that this was not part of the performance but an advertisement. So I stopped paying attention, because I never allow myself to be influenced by ads. Later I did ask if anyone wanted to go the hear the Spooky Men’s Choir which she had mentioned. Anyway, suddenly she wasn’t there.
A bloke who obviously hadn’t combed his hair since he was a little boy, snuck through the curtain carrying a guitar. It was him carrying the guitar, by the way – not the curtain. His name, we’d already been told was Sean Murphy. He was to be the fire starter. You know, warm up the crowd. Get them going. That sort of thing. He sang a very nice song about God, said it wasn’t a religious song and said he wasn’t a Catholic. Yes, well you may ask. It might have been this that triggered the memory of a scene from Katy and Kym in which they were discussing names for the soon to be new baby. Kym mentions a name that Kath approves of and Kath begins to write it down, spelling it out as she goes, and Kym interrupts a gives another, obviously over the top, contrivance as the correct spelling. Anyway, there were about six or eight numbers in his bracket. It all sounded like the same song to me, but. Eh? Different words. Even different notes. But it still sounded like the same song six or eight times. The problem isn't a lack of diversity in his musical composition. I think it was the sentiments expressed. All of his songs were about emotional dependency. ...give your live to me...what if all I wanted to see was God...don't hold me inside...our love will always remain the same...show me the ways to love... But to be fair I have to say, he had a very nice voice and did a fine falsetto – which is a hell of a lot more than I can do. And yes. The crowd did warm to him. So he did a good job. Oh, and when I bought his disc at the end of the show I found that he wasn't Sean but Cheynne. Well, Cheynne was followed by Dan.
Dan told us he was Dan quite a few times in the first little bit. I think he was nervous and couldn’t think of anything else to say. But he settled down and started to play his guitar and sing and all of a sudden he had my attention! This guy could PLAY. Not to mention sing. And WRITE. He was all of twenty and had been a professional muso for three and a half years – and sounded like it. And his sentiments are about engagement...for the first time in my life I don't feel the same...a one night stand was hardly worth the drive...you leave me no choice but to disagree with all you do... 'cause the reflection that I see, never smiles back at me (that same reflection once smiled from ear to ear...can I please explain the way I feel...ya can't catch hearts with every line you cast...why can't they see that there's no need to be so greedy with me...have you ever seen people living day to day, never thinking twice before they throw their love away...he likes to sail, but man does he hate the ocean...street fighting man I don't wish to be around him...I get the feeling he don't wanna like me... To my ear, his words have a poignancy you expect from a mature song writer like Paul Kelly. The eight or ten songs he sang were very distinct. In a more discerning world, Dan would not be a support act.
Intermission came next. Or was it half time? Intermission, I think. The crowd was far too well mannered for it to be half time. Speaking of which, if you’re thinking that our party of four must have stood out like geriatric thumbs, you’d be dead wrong. I was certainly expecting a young crowd, but it was more like what you’d expect at a Musica Viva bash. You know, young faces to be seen for sure, but as many from 40 up as 30 down. I mention this because it says something about Bobby Flynn.
Yes, he was on Australian Idol. But so was Paul Potts. Paul who? Paul Potts was in British Idol – and won. Soooooooooo? Well, he is an opera singer. Here’s the link to his website, http://www.paulpottsuk.com/frontpage and if anyone’s interested, he’s appearing at the Adelaide Festival this year, will be in concert in Brisbane on 20/4/08, the SOH on 21/4/08 and in Melbourne on 23/4/08. Anyway the crowd – or should that be patrons – drank a lot of Chai during interval – which answers my question about how they should be described: clearly they were patrons – they’d have been a crowd if they’d drunk a lot of beer – and had photos taken with the stars. 50+ was not too shy to take a turn in the frame with Bobby.
Like Paul Potts in Britain, Bobby Flynn brought to AI a quality that set him apart. It would either break the mould or ruin his chances of getting to the Opera House. You don't hear a Bobby Flynn song on the radio and whistle it from memory five minutes later - and not just because you don't hear them on the radio at all. He doesn’t sing “tunes” – you know, She loves me yeah yeah yeah; or Sadie the cleaning lady. He expresses complex sentiments in music that nails the emotion. If I had to compare his music with someone well known, I might mention Sting – but he’s actually nothing like Sting, so you’re none the wiser, especially if you don’t know who Sting is. Another group with whom he might be mentioned in the same breath is The Guillemots. But once again, the similarity is tenuous. The range of his voice, its power and the gut wrenching yearning for life that his choice of notes wrings out of the cosmos is as “operatic” as anything I have ever heard – which, I admit, is not really saying all that much, because I’ve only recently started paying attention to opera. But whereas Teddy Tahu Rhodes induces in me a sense of the sublime, Bobby Flynn brought me to tears. I can’t remember feeling so exhilaratingly sad – except, when, at about fifteen, my first girlfriend dumped me. And isn't that what opera's supposed to do?
Having said that, it was not all down to Bobby himself. Omega 3, who shared the stage with him, were breath taking. Two of them in particular delivered riveting performances. The percussionist produced a truly astonishing range of sounds from so many different gadgets that gave up trying to keep track of what he was doing. He was deservedly given a moment of glory towards the end of the show. The stand out performance of Omega 3, however, was the lead guitarist. Even though he was up front with the star, he was, for most of the time, a model of restraint, yet in those moments when his guitar stepped into the lead, the sound he produced and his body language easily matched the zeal of Bobby Flynn’s performance.
The most astounding moment of the show came right at the end when everyone else had left the stage while lead guitarist lead singer engaged each others guitars in a contemplative post script that had the flavour and fragrance of one’s first ever post coital cigarette. If there was a dry in the house it belonged to someone made of stone.
Keyboard, drums, bass guitar and someone pushing buttons in the wings – as well as up the back – all contributed indispensable layers to performance that is probably impossible to capture on disc or video. The discs I bought after the show are a worthy souvenir of the experience, but they are not the experience – not by a long shot. So if you’re interested and you have to opportunity to go to one of these shows, don’t be thinking the discs and a good set of head phones will do.
One final point to make is about the understated stage wear of everyone involved. Far from being a criticism, I am really impressed at how a show that could easily get away with a touch of Demis Roussos is content to look like its wardrobe was supplied by St Vincent de Paul or the Salvation Army. The show was about music. That’s what anyone who attended will remember, because it seriously exceeded expectation. Next time Bobby Flynn is in town, guess who’ll be there to hear him.
What do you say...
Visit to G&I 6-7/4/08
Change is imminent. As a result I have taken the opportunity to catch up with a number of people, because it may be some time before I have as much freedom to choose as I have had for the past year. Particularly urgent was a visit to Rockhampton to catch up with a couple of friends, one of whom has a limited time to live. Well don’t we all, you might say. Yes, but this bloke knows that the end is not just some time in the future, but just a few … well, moments, really… away.
Even though I was present for the several months of each of my parents dying, I have never before gone to visit someone, looking the same healthy active person as ever, knowing that I would never see them again. I had seen community service announcements on TV about finding out what you can do/say when you know someone with a terminal illness. I looked up the website. It didn’t help. So I got on a plane and flew north hoping that a certain promise made by one of the great mythologers of ancient times would be fulfilled. I can’t give chapter and verse, or even an approximate quote, but the sense of it is: Don’t be concerned with what to say. The words will be given to you. It didn’t work – for me, anyway - well, if it did it wasn’t until the very last moment of my visit.
Part of the reason I found it difficult to address the issue of a friend’s imminent death may be that Graham and Inge are living each day, focused on that day, attending to the day to day, speaking when necessary of the time ahead – after Graham has died and Inge is getting on with her life. In other words, they are focused on being alive – doing what the living do. Furthermore, Graham has been keeping a journal of their activities since being diagnosed with cancer of the larynx. Selling their country property and their town houses and moving into town close to where Inge works; going to doctors, being given a range of options and calmly choosing the one that makes most sense – to him, to them; winding up his relationships with all and sundry and being very frank about why; paying attention to detail as one would in any enterprise of significance. And what could be more significant than this!
Graham met me at the airport, complaining about how busy it was and how hard it was to find a park. Mmmmmm, I thought. That’s a good sign: business as usual. And so it was. We talked about the trees they’d planted since moving in; the upgrading to the house; the plants that had come from their last half dozen places of abode, strategically placed to fulfil their purpose in their new location; the way Inge’s work place operates and its tentacles into all of the eastern capital cities and its overseas clients; and so on – oh, and the party they’d had the day before for Graham’s 65th birthday. The closest I got to saying anything about his limited remaining time was: Oh, it was your birthday? Well, I wish you many happy returns of the day – and this time I mean it as never before. To which Graham replied with a smile, Ah yes, it’s probably my last. During our conversation I managed to have two glasses of wine which clobbered me like nothing I could have imagined. I took an afternoon nap and resumed conversation with them well into the night, after we’d all slept for six or eight hours. In the morning I said hurray to Inge and was driven to the airport by Graham.
We parted as we always had. You know, with words like You look after yourself and give our love to John. and Yes, I’ll do that, and you take care, and don’t worry about parking tickets. You won’t be around to pay them when they’re due. There! I did it!! At that moment I realised that the right words for the duration of my visit were words that fitted in with the priorities of my hosts. They weren’t dwelling on what I considered – still consider – to be an imminent catastrophe. But if one was going to make any reference to it, maybe humour was the appropriate attitude to have. It might have been risky, but it worked. Graham laughed out loud and waved me off. That’s the last image I will ever have of him – how I will remember him.
And what of Inge, AG? Her life will change, as would anyone’s. But she is a resourceful and imaginative. She will grieve and grow. And we will have a new role as friends of Inge, as distinct from, as it is at present, friends of Graham and Inge. But we will always remember….
Change is imminent. As a result I have taken the opportunity to catch up with a number of people, because it may be some time before I have as much freedom to choose as I have had for the past year. Particularly urgent was a visit to Rockhampton to catch up with a couple of friends, one of whom has a limited time to live. Well don’t we all, you might say. Yes, but this bloke knows that the end is not just some time in the future, but just a few … well, moments, really… away.
Even though I was present for the several months of each of my parents dying, I have never before gone to visit someone, looking the same healthy active person as ever, knowing that I would never see them again. I had seen community service announcements on TV about finding out what you can do/say when you know someone with a terminal illness. I looked up the website. It didn’t help. So I got on a plane and flew north hoping that a certain promise made by one of the great mythologers of ancient times would be fulfilled. I can’t give chapter and verse, or even an approximate quote, but the sense of it is: Don’t be concerned with what to say. The words will be given to you. It didn’t work – for me, anyway - well, if it did it wasn’t until the very last moment of my visit.
Part of the reason I found it difficult to address the issue of a friend’s imminent death may be that Graham and Inge are living each day, focused on that day, attending to the day to day, speaking when necessary of the time ahead – after Graham has died and Inge is getting on with her life. In other words, they are focused on being alive – doing what the living do. Furthermore, Graham has been keeping a journal of their activities since being diagnosed with cancer of the larynx. Selling their country property and their town houses and moving into town close to where Inge works; going to doctors, being given a range of options and calmly choosing the one that makes most sense – to him, to them; winding up his relationships with all and sundry and being very frank about why; paying attention to detail as one would in any enterprise of significance. And what could be more significant than this!
Graham met me at the airport, complaining about how busy it was and how hard it was to find a park. Mmmmmm, I thought. That’s a good sign: business as usual. And so it was. We talked about the trees they’d planted since moving in; the upgrading to the house; the plants that had come from their last half dozen places of abode, strategically placed to fulfil their purpose in their new location; the way Inge’s work place operates and its tentacles into all of the eastern capital cities and its overseas clients; and so on – oh, and the party they’d had the day before for Graham’s 65th birthday. The closest I got to saying anything about his limited remaining time was: Oh, it was your birthday? Well, I wish you many happy returns of the day – and this time I mean it as never before. To which Graham replied with a smile, Ah yes, it’s probably my last. During our conversation I managed to have two glasses of wine which clobbered me like nothing I could have imagined. I took an afternoon nap and resumed conversation with them well into the night, after we’d all slept for six or eight hours. In the morning I said hurray to Inge and was driven to the airport by Graham.
We parted as we always had. You know, with words like You look after yourself and give our love to John. and Yes, I’ll do that, and you take care, and don’t worry about parking tickets. You won’t be around to pay them when they’re due. There! I did it!! At that moment I realised that the right words for the duration of my visit were words that fitted in with the priorities of my hosts. They weren’t dwelling on what I considered – still consider – to be an imminent catastrophe. But if one was going to make any reference to it, maybe humour was the appropriate attitude to have. It might have been risky, but it worked. Graham laughed out loud and waved me off. That’s the last image I will ever have of him – how I will remember him.
And what of Inge, AG? Her life will change, as would anyone’s. But she is a resourceful and imaginative. She will grieve and grow. And we will have a new role as friends of Inge, as distinct from, as it is at present, friends of Graham and Inge. But we will always remember….
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