TGIF (Week is Over)

*with apologies to those who don't work Monday-Friday

And so this is Friday
And what have we done?
Another week over
The weekend just begun
And so this is Friday
Let's go out tonight!
Or we could stay in
That'd still be alright

SO THANK GOD IT'S FRIDAY
And a happy weekend!
Let's make it a good one
With all of our friends!

And so this is Friday
It's been a long week
With working and worry
Let's put up our feet
And so happy weekend
To the high and the low
To bosses and workers
Both the fast and the slow

SO THANK GOD IT'S FRIDAY
And a happy weekend!
Let's make it a good one
With all of our friends!

The Week is Over
If you worked it

Afterglow

I have ideas - brilliant, sparkly, glowing ideas. And then I forget them and all I'm left with is an afterglow, and the knowledge that something bright and shiny passed briefly through my mind, but now is gone.

Picture from Flickr

Late night letter

Hey. How's it going? It's late and I can't sleep (due to a tremendously long weekend during which I might've allowed myself to sleep in a little too much) so I'm writing a letter. Who to? Who knows?! Whoever will read this, whoever you may be. Yes, that's right - to you. So how are you? I'm pretty good, just trying not to think too much. Writing seems to put things in order, line things up in a sequence of cause and effect, of given and new, of chronology or merely sets of three. When you write something down, you think about it differently, you externalise issues, you adopt a new perspective. Of course when I write 'you' I mean 'me'. Writing in the second person is probably part of that externalising process, and less pretentious in English than the third person. You may be wondering what's the point to this (and this time I mean you the reader, not you-who-is-actually-me). I've written many letters like this over the years: in journals for a future self to read over and be reassured that life is better than it was, to usually distant friends prepared to put up with my rambling emails and perhaps respond in kind. And now the blog, the modern open diary that may still be just as hidden for
none but the invited few to see as the symbolically padlocked diary of younger years. Why write where others may read? For validation, inevitably. That others may either praise what we* suspect is unique in ourselves or reassure that we are normal for they too feel the
same. Ideally, both, without it being at all problematic in its opposition. And here we come to the inevitable conclusion of such writings: an abstracted generalisation followed by a self-conscious and self-deprecating coda. And do I feel better for this?

I reached the limit of my character count for email on my phone before I was able to decide.

*Note the use of 'we' at this point, assuming you are like me, and we experience this together.

Riverside

Sitting by the river. Technically an autumn day but I can see nothing to suggest that except for two grey clouds. When the sun escapes them, it's warm enough you can almost forget that winter's coming. Two swans
sail past, and a pelican, and numerous ducks which which occasionally guffaw as if one of them has made a huge social gaffe. Then there's the birds I don't know the name of but which occasionally sound like a small child who has just discovered that a short burst of high-pitched screaming gets a funny response from their parents. In the sun something glistens on my black jeans and I see a tiny white spider inexplicably building a web on my knee before I'm obliged to brush it off. Uni students lounge between classes, reluctant to leave their friends, or cross the foot bridge to their cars. Up river a man is fishing, which is unusual on a river in the middle of the city. The pelican stands on the bank between the fisherman and a group of international students.

It feels still, but the birds are noisy, and the students are talking and laughing. I can hear cars passing and a plane decending for landing at the airport. And just once, when it was a little more still, or the now non-existant wind was in the right direction, I heard monkeys whooping in the zoo. The sun goes away and a young man climbs into the struts under the footbridge, undoubtedly to impress one of the girls in a group nearby, but he seems to quickly realise he can't go far and stands poised above them. Half a dozen skateboarders glide over the footbridge, each making a loud clatter over one loose plank. Now the highschool kids are out, and joggers and cyclists.

I'm reluctant to leave, but such is life.

I don't think I'm destined for greatness

I don't think I'm destined for greatness unless that greatness is accidental.

I have no ambition only a headache

uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Speak to me not

Oh speak to me not!
For your words are sour
And the taste of the world is sweet
And I would not put
Within your power
My love for what I see

So call me slow!
So call me blind!
For rejecting the view you choose
But til you've seen
What I have seen
This argument you'll lose

Think me not naive
(Though I know you will
Nomatter what I say)
For though I love
It's not as if
I was born yesterday

This choice is mine
And it is done
And far happier I will be
Than you with rancour
And bitterness
And eternal sophistry

I have no ambition only competency

I have no ambition to recommend me to power, no desire for conquest, no megalomania. Nothing in common with those many mighty leaders we remember in the course of our history. I have only competency. Simple, plain proficiency for the task at hand. Though I do not dream of personal glory, I will make good choices, grow this country and benefit it, for that is in the job description, and that is what I do and what I have always done. I do what is right and I do my job well. And if that is enough for you to choose me as Dictator-in-Supreme for our nation, then I will humbly accept your choice. And if not, then I will continue in whatever task you or the new Dictator-in-Supreme will give me.

Your servant.

Angel

Don't call me angel

Because I can't save you

I know that you love me

But you're just gonna corrupt me

Brain Saver

I watch tv or put on a dvd
As respite from my own company
Because I'm much too scared you see
To spend a day on my own

I call up friends or log on the net
Just 5 minutes worth of time to spend
But none of it is ever time well spent
When I spend the day at home

I read a book or play a game
And feel in need of holidays
I'm wasting away in so many ways
I need some time alone

To think through where I am
To know just how to act
To be a mouse or a woman
To move ahead or turn back

I can't turn off my inactive mind
Or even make better use of my time
I would really love to receive a sign
To tell me which way to go

My ideas for making the internet less addictive

Number 1: Make everything black and white. That'll be much more boring and much less exciting.

Number 2: Don't count anything. Don't tell me how many views my blog has had, how many friends I have, how many emails I have. Because I will ALWAYS want to know, want to count, want to measure. Instead have three categories: More/Same/Less. I'll still want to try to make it say "More", ...but I'm sure with my shortened attention span I'll tire of it quickly.

Number 3: Switch it off periodically. This may not work because I may just stubbornly try to reconnect for an hour or two, but I'm hoping it might actually make me rely on it less. And I mean switch off the whole interweb. What can be that important?

Number 4: Don't update anything for a year.

Number 5: Don't let me personalise anything.

Hm... sounds like a newspaper. And you can always turn THAT into a hat. So... ignore everything I just wrote.

 

From Little Things Big Things Grow

There are so many beautiful songs out there whose lyrics we've never stopped and listened to or read. This is a song not only with beautiful lyrics but with a beautiful, true story we should be aware of.

From Little Things Big Things Grow
by Paul Kelly and Kev Carmody

Gather round people I'll tell you a story
An eight year long story of power and pride
'Bout British Lord Vestey and Vincent Lingiarri
They were opposite men on opposite sides

Vestey was fat with money and muscle
Beef was his business, broad was his door
Vincent was lean and spoke very little
He had no bank balance, hard dirt was his floor

CHORUS
From little things big things grow
From little things big things grow
From little things big things grow
From little things big things grow

Gurindji were working for nothing but rations
Where once they had gathered the wealth of the land
Daily the oppression got tighter and tighter
Gurindji decided the must make a stand

They picked up their swags and started off walking
At Wattle Creek they sat themselves down
Now it don't sound like much but it sure got
Tongues talking
Back at the homestead and then in the town

CHORUS

Vestey man said "I'll double your wages
Seven quid a week you'll have in your hand"
Vincent said "uhuh, we're not talking about wages
We're sitting right here till we get our land"
Vestey man roared Vestey man thundered
"You don't stand the chance of a cinder in snow."
Vince said "if we fall others are rising."

CHORUS

Then Vincent Lingiarri boarded an airplane
Landed in Sydney, big city of lights
And daily he went round softly speaking his story
To all kinds of people, from all walks of life

And Vincent sat down with big politicians
"This affair," they told him, "it's a matter of state
Let us sort it out,.... Why, your people are hungry!"
Vincent said, "no thanks, we know how to wait."

CHORUS

Then Vincent Lingiarri returned in an airplane
Back to his country once more to sit down
And he told his people, "let the stars keep on turning
We have friends in the south, in the cities and towns."

Eight years went by, eight long years of waiting
Till one day a tall stranger appeared in the land
And he came with lawyers and he came with great ceremony
And through Vincent's fingers poured that handful of sand

From little things big things grow
From little things big things grow
That was the story of Vincent Lingiarri
But this is the story of something much more
How power and privilege cannot move a people
Who know where they stand and stand in their law

CHORUS

Now that was the story of Vincent Lingiarri
But this is a story of something much more
How power and privilege, can not move a people

When they know where they stand....
When they stand in their Lore....

From little things big things grow
From little things big things grow
From little things big things grow
From little things big things grow

The True Value of Tears

Mrs Dewbridge was flustered. A prospective customer had turned up at her small production unannounced, and from the look of him, his business might finally give her the chance to overtake that trumped-up Mrs Mulberry. She eyed the tall stranger appraisingly and ventured a self-depreciative comment.

“We’re only a small scale production here, sir, but I believe you’ll find our produce of the finest quality.”

“Yes, well, we shall see. You should know that I am surveying other producers as well as I have been having…” he hesitated, wrinkling his nose in distaste, “supply issues.”

Mrs Dewbridge struggled to contain her glee. She knew it! Mrs Mulberry was finally having the supply issues she herself, Mrs Dewbridge, had forecast.

“Ah…” she nodded her head for a moment with an expression I’m sure she fancied gave her a knowledgeable and sympathetic air but in reality made her look more like she had swallowed her bottom teeth. “Yes, I understand some once-reputable outlets are experiencing shortages for which they failed to prepare although they cannot say these shortages were not foreseen. We, however, have refined the harvesting method somewhat so as to guarantee not only long term production, but also consistently higher output per unit with abundantly superior quality.”

“Oh really?” The stranger sat forward slightly in his seat and, encouraged, Mrs Dewbridge became somewhat loquacious.

“Indeed. As I’m sure you know, ever since Gainsborough made the remarkable discovery of the power of tears, there has been much debate as to the best way to harvest this self-replenishing resource. The error our competitors made is a small one, but fundamental to the reason for the superiority of our produce.”

Mrs Dewbridge paused until the customer bid her to continue and launched into her favourite subject.

“You see, the most common method for harvesting tears is pinned on causing trauma to the donor units. Some use verbal stimuli, others physical pain, deprivation and a variety of provocations to induce the flow. Without exception, they find that the tears come in waves, ebbing and flowing, but inevitably dissipating into a tearless despair. At this point they face a choice: 1) they combine the stimuli to attain a new intensity which normally requires spending longer time with the subject and having more staff in attendance, 2) allow the patient time to rest and recover for a period; or 3) find new stock to mine. All of these options cost the company money.

“Despite the development of more efficient tear harvesting equipment, no matter the technological advances in storage, they cannot escape this trend because it is based on a single, fundamental fallacy; and that fallacy is this: that a human being sheds the most tears for itself.

“And so you see our approach is unique. We do not touch our harvesters. We do not deny them food or shelter. We supply all they could ever need so they maintain optimal health and strength. Instead, we turn our attention to a single subject, a subject which we then use to service dozens of producers as stimulus. And thus, rather than spend hours with many patients with multiple staff required to force the stimuli to ever increasing levels, we instead have them exert their speciality on one and have that one visit the rest. We do not harvest the tears from the stimulus-subject, and indeed we find the tears do not last long. However the harvested beings produce greater flow, and often quicker.

“The quickest we’ve ever achieved maximal flow is a mere fifteen seconds from introduction of the stimulus-subject into the producer’s cell. Some of our more sensitive donors can produce consistently high volumes of tears for days before the stimulus has to be reintroduced.

“And so sir, you’ll see that our humble production is far more time and cost efficient with far less detrimental effect on the livestock and, as I’m sure you’ll agree if you’d care to sample. Produces tears far richer, far stronger to the taste with more body and depth than any tears you have ever drunk. And all because here at our establishment we understand that tears shed for oneself are a finite resource, but tears shed for others flow endlessly with the proper stimuli.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Reader, if at this point you are wondering at me and my motivations in this, if you yourself weep at the idea of the torture of a few individuals solely to harvest tears, or, worse still, if you scorn the sentimentality of tears of the sensitive, grant me a moment to explain myself. You see I do believe that there is a value in tears. If that value could be harnessed, I do not doubt it would lead to harvesting. Whether that value has a power or not, whether it is merely a seasoning to life like the salt of which it tastes, I leave that to you to decide. I believe in allowing tears for those for whom no tears are shed. I believe that our tears speak in a language we only vaguely understand the meaning of. And I believe that tears can affect outcomes, induce mercy, encourage forgiveness, express compassion.

So you see, dear Reader, I believe in the value of tears. And in a world gone wrong, that value could be harvested, its power could be used against us and could ultimately be an excuse to inflict more suffering, more hardship and oppression.

But do not despair, dear Reader. For I have not finished the tale.

Cursed blessed sleep

I met a sad man, a frayed man, a weary man. He had shadows under his eyes and slumped on the bar like a man gone in drink, though he had touched nothing but water the whole evening. It was late and I felt myself nodding as I waited for a friend before we left.

“Going home to sleep?” he asked in a voice surprisingly clear.

I did not reply as I reasoned it to be the safest thing to do.

“I would be. I’m jealous.”

“Why don’t you then?”

He leaned closer, the blues of his eyes bluer against the bloodshot tinges of the whites.

“I’m a cursed man,” he whispered. I smelt no alcohol on his breath.

“How so?” I asked, bemused.

“I cannot go to sleep until I have achieved something significant.”

“What? Ever?”

“No, just each day.”

“Is it anything in particular?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. At first I got by with cleaning my house, or cooking dinner, or doing the dishes. Then I had to call my mother, or pay a bill, or write a letter. Now, I don’t know. I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept for two days. What should I do?”

At that moment his hand seemed to leap from its supporting position beneath his chin and he collapsed on the bar, snoring.

My friend emerged from the toilets.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah, sure.” I glanced at the cursed man, with something between bemusement, pity and confusion, and left, more awake than a few minutes prior.



I met a happy man, a contented man, a fulfilled man. His eyes were bright blue and lines marked only smiles in a youthful face. He sat at the bar, cheerily looking around the crowded pub, far too cheerful for such an hour. It was late and I felt myself nodding as I waited for a friend before we left.

“Going home to sleep?” he asked in a voice surprisingly clear.

I did not reply as I reasoned it to be the safest thing to do.

“You should. I highly recommend it.”

“Have we met?”

He leaned closer, the blues of his eyes bluer against the bright white of the whites.

“I’m a blessed man,” he whispered. I smelt no alcohol on his breath.

“How so?” I asked, bemused.

“I cannot go to sleep until I achieved something significant.”

“Last time somebody told me that they immediately fell asleep.”

“Exactly.”

I didn’t understand and was too tired to try to follow.

“Just telling you was significant, last time. And so I started to tell others, and do things, and achieve things. And it is so nice to sleep knowing that you have done something that day, something good, something worthwhile. I may only sleep a couple of hours, but I could go for days. Of course I rarely do, unless opportunity keeps from me.”

I did not know how to respond. I was vaguely jealous. I wished I’d done something significant that day.

My friend emerged from the toilets.

“Ready to go?”

“Yeah, sure.” I glanced at the man with something between jealousy, hope and confusion, and left, more awake than a few minutes prior.

A Good Feeling

I had a dream the other night. I was at a market and I came across a stall filled with bottles of all shapes, colours and sizes. I started rifling through them. A big square blue bottle was labelled “financial independence,” a small round yellow one was labelled “prosperity” and a curved red one had a tag with “fertility” announced in bold writing. I kept looking. A black and white bottle was for “decisiveness” while a rosy pink bottle was for “daydreams.” I kept looking, getting increasingly frustrated. Some bottles piqued my interest, but I couldn’t decide which one to get and I didn’t want to get the wrong one. There had to be something better.

Eventually I found a small, dusty bluey-green bottle. Its stopper seemed to be almost sitting loose in the neck, and only a yellowed corner remained of the label. I caught the eye of the stall-keeper.

“What’s this one?” I asked, curious.

“That’s a good feeling.”

My heart lurched in my chest. This was the one I wanted. I hesitated – surely it was more responsible to get “financial independence” or there had been a gold bottle of “luck” which I had thought too expensive but which may be of more use.

“How much is it?” I asked, almost decided to buy it.

The stall-keeper named a price half again as expensive as the gold bottle. I did not try to hide my surprise.

“What?! How can a good feeling be so expensive? Surely it’s a common commodity – I could get a good feeling off a blue sky, or a piece of chocolate, a favourite song or calling a friend. I’ll give you a quarter of the price you ask.”

The stall-keeper rebuffed my offered money.

“People get good feelings from those things you named, but the sugar high comes with a fall, a favourite song can be worn out from over-playing and your friend may not answer the phone. A blue sky could be the despair of a drought stricken farmer. You see, those other things are unreliable. To make this good feeling we had to distil the essence of all these things, in a secret recipe.”

“Okay, I’ll give you half.”

The stall-keeper shook his head with a smile.

“You still don’t understand. This is more than just feeling happy. This is getting out of the right side of the bed sort of good feeling. With this, you get every other potion I offer: A good feeling about a choice will make you decisive; with a good feeling you create your own luck; you are courageous, confident, popular. Never underestimate the power of a good feeling, my friend.”

Wordlessly, I handed over the requested amount, unable to haggle further. With the little bottle in hand, I moved away from the stall, eager to get out of sight of the keeper that I may taste my purchase. I had removed the stopper and was raising the bottle to my lips when I woke up. I lay in bed, sighed and wondered which side of the bed to get out of.

A Franciscan Prayer

This is a beautiful, honest, raw prayer, that's worth sharing:

May God bless you with discomfort at easy answers, half truths and superficial relationships so that you may live deep within your heart.

May God bless you with anger at injustice, oppression and exploitation of people so that you may work for justice, freedom and peace.

May God bless you with tears to shed for those who suffer pain, rejection, hunger and war so that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and to turn their pain into joy.

And may God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you can make a difference in the world so that you can do what others claim cannot be done to bring justice and kindness to all our children and the poor.

Ships in the night

There's friends you lose track of
And you don't remember their name
Then there's friends you lose grasp of
And that is just a shame.

Insomnia

I'm still awake and my thoughts don't satisfy me and each passing hour leaves me less time to sleep
If I could just sleep my dreams would inspire me but the clock it keeps ticking and I will not count sheep

Lingering

I linger online
And the longer I linger
The less I live

Chlorophyl or chloroform?

Chlorophyl? Chloroform?
Easy to confuse;
One will turn you green
The other makes you snooze!