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.