In the prolonged blink of a tiring eye, a scenery change has occurred. Green into gold like a bolt from the blue. A fine line scribed in over time by statistics, economics, and a dash of hope. A sharp boundary imposed on a gradational change. Wheat can grow profitably here, wheat cannot grow profitably there. Gutsy to be farming out this far.
I am starting to get unnerved by the sterile and refrigerated atmosphere of this train. Rail journeys should be hot, loud, blustery affairs. Character builders. The Prospector is safe, quiet, comfortable, and therefore boring. Option of living dangerously engineered out. My sealed window acts as little more than a television screen, scenery mutely panning by. Jack London: the proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I wonder if they’ll let me on the roof?
I have never felt as alive as when hanging out the side of a battered, groaning steely hulk of a train bound for a village 40 km south of central Calcutta, my life literally in my hot clammy hands. An adrenaline-heightened awareness of the speed, the heat, the colours, the smells, the people. Of life. A glorious engagement with my environment as a pulsating participant, rather than a disassociated rubberneck. Living.
I just got a bottle of water, and on the way back I couldn’t resist a stickybeak at what Junior Beckham was scribbling on his notepad. Angst-ridden lyrics for a new teen anthem? A bloody massacre scene? No. Calculus equations. Somewhat unexpected I must say. School holidays isn’t it? Very studious young chap.
In year 8 mathematics I raised my hand and asked: “Why do we have to learn calculus?” The room was swept with shocked intakes of air. Numerous murmurs of qualified support. Minor giggling. A 5 minute discussion with the teacher failed to convince me of the subject’s merit, and I was asked to stay behind. He offered me a book on the usefulness of calculus. I dismissed it offhand as blatant propaganda.
The showdown was the talk of recess. I was a hero. Sure, I was wrong – calculus is important – but what was more important at that age was that I took it to The Man. I kept the bastards honest. George Orwell: better the lone wolf, than the cringing dog. I was back to being a cringing young pup come exam time though. The Man has far-reaching tentacles.
Just got another cup of tea from the snack bar. A ham-cheese-tomato sandwich in the display case is labelled “connoisseur” and “gourmet”. Better be some damn fine cheese. A silverside-cheese-pickle version is “delialfresco” when to me it is neither of those thoughtlessly concatenated words. The individually-packaged muffins are “home-style”, just like those loaves of bread that are “country-style” because they have a bulbous shape, a dusting of flour, and a smattering of rolled oats glued to the top. I begrudgingly dips me lid to those marketing folk. They know that a thin swirling smokescreen of old fashioned goodness is more than enough to distract our attention from the accelerating erosion of same.
At Merredin now, and a woman has taken the spare seat next to me. Looks busy and efficient. Sharp features. Fixed nervous smile. Like Reverend Lovejoy’s wife. My greeting is warmly reciprocated, but nothing further is offered. Silent trip on the cards?
I’m typing this up in Perth now – it turns out she was very, very talkative. One comment on the weather and we were away. Certainly no time to pen a part three or four. Lovely lady.
Footnote: the journey’s token “annoying little boy” got out at Midland and donned a West Coast Eagles jacket. I should have known.
Happy New Year to you all!
Saturday 30 December 2006
Saturday 23 December 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner (13): Prospector - Part One
I sit aboard the Prospector bound for
An old English gentleman’s pre-recorded voice is giving me the lowdown on the finer details of the journey. Michael Parkinson or similar. Englishmen’s voices sound important, distinguished. Australianmen’s don’t.
I imagine Paul Hogan: “We will arrive at East Perth Terminal at approximately 1:30 pm”. Or Bryan Brown: “A gap exists between the train and the platform”. Insincere. Passenger confusion over whether the piss was being taken. Australian humour is all in the eyes. That’s why I can’t wear sunglasses. People try to fight me – especially foreigners. Kiwis are OK.
A teenage boy sitting across the carriage to my left is wearing sunglasses. Large aviators. Completely unnecessary in a train on an overcast day. Looks like a junior Beckham. He and mum going backwards. Dad and younger sister opposite, going forwards like normal people. Better to look forwards than backwards, or so motivational people and books say. Have to look backwards sometimes though. One can see what goodness, badness, happiness, sadness or sameness is left in one’s wake.
Junior Becks’ glasses are designed to hide embarrassment. Family train trip to
What is the “true” meaning of Christmas? If “truth” is what most believe then – at this moment and in this country – Christmas is a time to give and receive increasingly more expensive presents. And nobody can deny, as the song goes. There’s the cynic in me. Stop it.
Junior Becks’ old boy is listening to headphones. He speaks up about something out the window but does so far too loudly, as people are prone to do. Wife and son groan in unison. “Dad, shut up” threatens Junior Becks, with slow emphasis on the latter two words. Fair call. Dad laughs uncaringly. Junior Becks shakes his head, mouth open. I suspect that a squint of disbelief lies beneath his shades. The reflective glasses deny his father the intended effect.
Stop press: he has just taken his sunnies off. Goodness and intelligence in his eyes. Cruelly held captive before.
He has a pen and notepad. Like me. Pen in mouth and eyes wandering, then a burst of pen on page. Like me. Good Lord, could he be writing an alternative view on life aboard this carriage? Judging me as I judge him? Misjudging me as I misjudge him? I vainly adjust my hair. Just in case. My appearance is a bad way to judge me, the speed of my speech is worse. Only one person I know talks slower than me. His name is Christian.
Just returned to my seat from the snack bar. Cup of tea, cheese and biscuits. Prospector tradition. Driving tradition is a cheese sausage at Southern Cross. No license at the moment though. Pissy driving on Kal Cup day. Silly me.
Unfortunately the tea is in a paper cup. I prefer a proper dainty cup and saucer, so I can pretend to be a moustachioed British Officer riding a first-class train through a newly conquered landmass. Tracks laid by oppressed local savages. Safari suit. “I say, this looks to be good grazing country. Now where’s that brandy chaser? Three huzzahs for the Queen old chaps!”
I finish with a piece of cake, baked by my housemates during an unusual fit of domesticity. Christmas treat. Moist. Icing on the cake was, for me, the icing on the cake. Thanks boys.
Not even in farming country yet, but so much written. Part two next week. Merry Christmas to all.
Saturday 16 December 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner (12): Trust
In the Kalgoorlie Miner earlier this year, a lady visitor was asked what she thought of Kanowna during “Back to Kanowna Day”. Her response was stunningly blunt, but absolutely correct: “There’s nothing here”.
Initially I just giggled and turned the page, but in the ensuing days her words drifted around my brain like a ping-pong ball traversing the Sahara. I was unnerved by her candor and acute powers of observation and began to wonder whether she was simply stating the facts - in which case I admired her cutting forthrightness - or shrewdly implying that something far more sinister was going on.
Was she calling the very existence of the town into question? Where I had seen - in my imagination - Father Long preaching endless riches from the balcony of the Kanowna Hotel, had she seen nothing but bare ground and the ever-present fragments of tin and glass? When standing atop Warden’s Hill, had she looked out and seen a monumental conspiracy, where I had been naïve enough to picture a bustling township?
I’m sure the lady wasn’t so skeptical, but her comment reminded me that a trip to the Kanowna townsite, like many aspects of life, is largely an exercise in trust. I never personally had a rum can in the White Feather Hotel after a hard day's labour at the battery, but historians assure us that such places existed and I have no reason to doubt them.
We need to have some trust in those better informed than us, or else we could only ever know that which we had seen with our own eyes. Think about what you would know if not for a trust in others.
Problems arise though when experts attempt to convince the public of facts that cannot be "seen", which goes a long way towards explaining the reluctance of some to accept the science behind global warming. I've never seen global warming but, being a scientist myself, I have faith in the rigorous scientific process. I’ve never seen love but I believe that it exists because I’ve seen hardened men dragged into shoe shops, heads hanging low, by gorgeous womenfolk.
I watched "An Inconvenient Truth" last weekend and yes - like all documentaries - it aims to make the viewer feel a certain way, but what makes it so utterly compelling is it's use of graphs and images to present global warming, thereby allowing the layman to "see" the evidence.
The first courageous step, to paraphrase Alcoholics Anonymous, is to admit that we have a problem, and I feel that to continue to deny the phenomena's existence, or our contribution to it, or the urgency of the situation after viewing the film is to put oneself on a par with members of the Flat Earth Society.
So surely the debate must now move on to solutions, where for once - and I feel dirty saying this - I am partially in agreement with the Howard Government: we certainly need to reduce our own emissions, but by far the biggest contribution we can have as a nation is to use our world-class scientific resources to develop technology that will help out the world's biggest polluters.
Hooray for science!
Initially I just giggled and turned the page, but in the ensuing days her words drifted around my brain like a ping-pong ball traversing the Sahara. I was unnerved by her candor and acute powers of observation and began to wonder whether she was simply stating the facts - in which case I admired her cutting forthrightness - or shrewdly implying that something far more sinister was going on.
Was she calling the very existence of the town into question? Where I had seen - in my imagination - Father Long preaching endless riches from the balcony of the Kanowna Hotel, had she seen nothing but bare ground and the ever-present fragments of tin and glass? When standing atop Warden’s Hill, had she looked out and seen a monumental conspiracy, where I had been naïve enough to picture a bustling township?
I’m sure the lady wasn’t so skeptical, but her comment reminded me that a trip to the Kanowna townsite, like many aspects of life, is largely an exercise in trust. I never personally had a rum can in the White Feather Hotel after a hard day's labour at the battery, but historians assure us that such places existed and I have no reason to doubt them.
We need to have some trust in those better informed than us, or else we could only ever know that which we had seen with our own eyes. Think about what you would know if not for a trust in others.
Problems arise though when experts attempt to convince the public of facts that cannot be "seen", which goes a long way towards explaining the reluctance of some to accept the science behind global warming. I've never seen global warming but, being a scientist myself, I have faith in the rigorous scientific process. I’ve never seen love but I believe that it exists because I’ve seen hardened men dragged into shoe shops, heads hanging low, by gorgeous womenfolk.
I watched "An Inconvenient Truth" last weekend and yes - like all documentaries - it aims to make the viewer feel a certain way, but what makes it so utterly compelling is it's use of graphs and images to present global warming, thereby allowing the layman to "see" the evidence.
The first courageous step, to paraphrase Alcoholics Anonymous, is to admit that we have a problem, and I feel that to continue to deny the phenomena's existence, or our contribution to it, or the urgency of the situation after viewing the film is to put oneself on a par with members of the Flat Earth Society.
So surely the debate must now move on to solutions, where for once - and I feel dirty saying this - I am partially in agreement with the Howard Government: we certainly need to reduce our own emissions, but by far the biggest contribution we can have as a nation is to use our world-class scientific resources to develop technology that will help out the world's biggest polluters.
Hooray for science!
Saturday 9 December 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner (11): Information
Loyal readers of this column will remember last week’s hypothetical everyman, who’s ordered existence at the Broad Arrow Tavern was thrown into chaos by the arrival of a nightclub and kebab shop. Disloyal readers should hang their heads in shame, recite fourty Hail Marys, and read on in search of redemption.
Regardless of which camp you are in, prepare now to let your imagination run wild as we rejoin our lovable simpleton on his perilous journey through modern life (if this was television the screen would go all blurry now, and a harp would start playing).
Old mate is perched at the bar of the Broady listening to RadioWest on his first ever wireless, which just arrived in the mail from the big smoke. After a short while, and despite his limited intellect, he tires of listening to the nauseating rememberance of yesteryear and switches to the ABC where, after a few inoffensive jokes from a delightfully smug chap called “Ted Bull”, the news headlines come on:
“Kambalda invades Widgiemooltha for rich nickel reserves: insurgents fight back. Rising sea levels swallow statues on Lake Ballard: tourists numbers fall, Menzies residents struck by poverty. Celebrity shock: Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughan split."
He is startled by all this suffering, nearly toppling off his bar stool, and becomes concerned that Widgie terrorists or global warming may destroy his beloved home. He is also desperate to know who Jennifer and Vince are, and why they felt it necessary to separate.
In order to keep abreast of developments, he decides to subscribe to the Kalgoorlie Miner newspaper; an outstanding and impartial journal that is worth every cent of it's crazy low price - or so he has heard.
He reads the paper cover to cover every day, but starts to become confused. In the Kalgoorlie Miner, the Widgiemooltha combatants claim that they are "freedom fighters", not terrorists, and a man in a cowboy hat says that global warming is "a pack of lies", even though all the qualified labcoat-wearing scientists say that it's true.
He begins to feel less certain about life than ever and, despite nothing having changed at Broad Arrow, decides to lock his doors at night to keep out Widgie terrorists, Menzies refugees and that nasty love rat Vince Vaughan. He lies sleepless worrying about rising sea levels and the fate of poor Jennifer, who is so unlucky in love (cue blurry screen and harp music).
Last week our unfortunate friend found out that greater choice can cause greater stress, and he has now discovered that more information can lead to more uncertainty, fear, and helplessness.
Of course just like choice last week, more information is a good thing, but the dilemma for the modern person is that they must suffer either the guilt that comes with ignoring everything that happens to unfamiliar people in far-flung places, or the sense of helplessness that comes with taking it all to heart.
Well, luckily for us, a clever person came up with a solution: "Think Global, Act Local".
So if you want to stop global warming then don't have baked beans for breakfast. If you want world peace then invite someone from Boulder over for tea and scones (keep an eye on your silverware though). If you want more laughter then write a ridiculous opinion column for the local newspaper.
Before you do anything ask: "What would the effect be if everyone did what I'm about to do?"
Regardless of which camp you are in, prepare now to let your imagination run wild as we rejoin our lovable simpleton on his perilous journey through modern life (if this was television the screen would go all blurry now, and a harp would start playing).
Old mate is perched at the bar of the Broady listening to RadioWest on his first ever wireless, which just arrived in the mail from the big smoke. After a short while, and despite his limited intellect, he tires of listening to the nauseating rememberance of yesteryear and switches to the ABC where, after a few inoffensive jokes from a delightfully smug chap called “Ted Bull”, the news headlines come on:
“Kambalda invades Widgiemooltha for rich nickel reserves: insurgents fight back. Rising sea levels swallow statues on Lake Ballard: tourists numbers fall, Menzies residents struck by poverty. Celebrity shock: Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughan split."
He is startled by all this suffering, nearly toppling off his bar stool, and becomes concerned that Widgie terrorists or global warming may destroy his beloved home. He is also desperate to know who Jennifer and Vince are, and why they felt it necessary to separate.
In order to keep abreast of developments, he decides to subscribe to the Kalgoorlie Miner newspaper; an outstanding and impartial journal that is worth every cent of it's crazy low price - or so he has heard.
He reads the paper cover to cover every day, but starts to become confused. In the Kalgoorlie Miner, the Widgiemooltha combatants claim that they are "freedom fighters", not terrorists, and a man in a cowboy hat says that global warming is "a pack of lies", even though all the qualified labcoat-wearing scientists say that it's true.
He begins to feel less certain about life than ever and, despite nothing having changed at Broad Arrow, decides to lock his doors at night to keep out Widgie terrorists, Menzies refugees and that nasty love rat Vince Vaughan. He lies sleepless worrying about rising sea levels and the fate of poor Jennifer, who is so unlucky in love (cue blurry screen and harp music).
Last week our unfortunate friend found out that greater choice can cause greater stress, and he has now discovered that more information can lead to more uncertainty, fear, and helplessness.
Of course just like choice last week, more information is a good thing, but the dilemma for the modern person is that they must suffer either the guilt that comes with ignoring everything that happens to unfamiliar people in far-flung places, or the sense of helplessness that comes with taking it all to heart.
Well, luckily for us, a clever person came up with a solution: "Think Global, Act Local".
So if you want to stop global warming then don't have baked beans for breakfast. If you want world peace then invite someone from Boulder over for tea and scones (keep an eye on your silverware though). If you want more laughter then write a ridiculous opinion column for the local newspaper.
Before you do anything ask: "What would the effect be if everyone did what I'm about to do?"
Saturday 2 December 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner (10): Choice
Consider a situation where a friend rings and says “I’m at the pub, come down for a drink”, then hangs up without telling you which of the 30 or 40 local bars they are referring to. It would be pretty hard to find them wouldn’t it? Or would it? In reality, most of us probably only frequent a handful of trusty drinking holes.
For example I go to the Tower for drinks after work on Fridays (not during football season though, because the coach gets all sooky and unreasonable if we turn up for training legless), deBernales for Saturday night benders, and the Federal for lazy Sunday afternoons betting on Cannington dogs or Hong Kong trots or whatever other group of filthy animals happens to be running in circles at the time.
So when faced with so many choices, why is it that we drift towards the same well-beaten track? I think it’s a desire for familiarity that we all have. The quandary of these sparkling economic times though, is that as our choices increase we become less able to find the certainty and comfort that we crave.
A man living at Broad Arrow, to continue with the pub example, will be comfortable when in need of a grease-laden hamburger and an icy cold beer because he has just one place to go, but what would happen if a nightclub and a kebab shop opened over by the water tank?
Maybe he would continue to frequent the Broad Arrow, but be torn with longing to know what is going on in the flash new nightclub, or to taste one of these new-fangled Mediterranean treats. Maybe he would abandon the Broady for the new disco-dancin' souvlaki-eatin' lifestyle without hesitating, but then wistfully look back at his old haunt with a quivering tear of reminiscence in his eye. You would have to agree that whether it’s better or worse, easier or harder, his life is certainly more complicated.
Moving along, it strikes me that one of the peculiarities of the modern world is that the wealthy are the worst affected by stress, depression, and other "lifestyle diseases". How is it, for example, that a man living comfortably on $2000 a week can be more stressed or depressed than a checkout chick on $300 a week, or a Somalian corn farmer earning $10 a week?
I think that the wealthy man simply has so many choices that he gets sucked into a sort of alphabet soup whirlpool, drowning amongst Ralph magazines, Harvey Norman electrical catalogues, and copies of Business Review Weekly. He is constantly reminded of all the fashions, gizmos, shares and properties he needs in order to be considered successful, but countless high-profile examples demonstrate that wealth, and therefore greater choice, do not equate to happiness - if anything, the opposite may be true.
Don’t get me wrong, choice is essential, but the challenge for us modern folk is to make choices that complement our true passions and goals, and to not allow ourselves to be blinded by the neon lights of consumer culture.
I leave you today with words from the song "Freedom of Choice", by iconic 1980’s keyboard pop group Devo:
“In ancient Rome there was a poem, about a dog who had two bones. He picked at one, he licked the other, he went in circles till he dropped dead."
For example I go to the Tower for drinks after work on Fridays (not during football season though, because the coach gets all sooky and unreasonable if we turn up for training legless), deBernales for Saturday night benders, and the Federal for lazy Sunday afternoons betting on Cannington dogs or Hong Kong trots or whatever other group of filthy animals happens to be running in circles at the time.
So when faced with so many choices, why is it that we drift towards the same well-beaten track? I think it’s a desire for familiarity that we all have. The quandary of these sparkling economic times though, is that as our choices increase we become less able to find the certainty and comfort that we crave.
A man living at Broad Arrow, to continue with the pub example, will be comfortable when in need of a grease-laden hamburger and an icy cold beer because he has just one place to go, but what would happen if a nightclub and a kebab shop opened over by the water tank?
Maybe he would continue to frequent the Broad Arrow, but be torn with longing to know what is going on in the flash new nightclub, or to taste one of these new-fangled Mediterranean treats. Maybe he would abandon the Broady for the new disco-dancin' souvlaki-eatin' lifestyle without hesitating, but then wistfully look back at his old haunt with a quivering tear of reminiscence in his eye. You would have to agree that whether it’s better or worse, easier or harder, his life is certainly more complicated.
Moving along, it strikes me that one of the peculiarities of the modern world is that the wealthy are the worst affected by stress, depression, and other "lifestyle diseases". How is it, for example, that a man living comfortably on $2000 a week can be more stressed or depressed than a checkout chick on $300 a week, or a Somalian corn farmer earning $10 a week?
I think that the wealthy man simply has so many choices that he gets sucked into a sort of alphabet soup whirlpool, drowning amongst Ralph magazines, Harvey Norman electrical catalogues, and copies of Business Review Weekly. He is constantly reminded of all the fashions, gizmos, shares and properties he needs in order to be considered successful, but countless high-profile examples demonstrate that wealth, and therefore greater choice, do not equate to happiness - if anything, the opposite may be true.
Don’t get me wrong, choice is essential, but the challenge for us modern folk is to make choices that complement our true passions and goals, and to not allow ourselves to be blinded by the neon lights of consumer culture.
I leave you today with words from the song "Freedom of Choice", by iconic 1980’s keyboard pop group Devo:
“In ancient Rome there was a poem, about a dog who had two bones. He picked at one, he licked the other, he went in circles till he dropped dead."
Saturday 25 November 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner (9): Nimbin - Part Two
They came at us like dreadlocked zombie salespeople, their toothless mouths stretched into pleading grimaces, trinkets rattling from their gaunt outstretched arms. As their slow advance relentlessly smothered us, panic and paranoia set in and their numbers swelled into what seemed like hundreds. The situation, my learned friend, was bleak indeed…
Last week I left you as your heroes Angry Turk, Billygoat, Typhoon and Sooty were with me aboard the lemon yellow Corona wagon, lazily gliding through picturesque hills bound for Nimbin. Unfortunately, as you will find out, if the highway we were slithering down was a long black snake, then Nimbin was surely the venomous apple lodged in it’s fangs.
But back to the action.
The great surging tide of hippies was by now so close that we could smell the lentils on their breath. If a clove of garlic, a silver bullet, or a stake through the heart would kill a vampire, then what, we frantically asked ourselves, would repel this plodding army of emaciated John Butlers and Janis Joplins? Soap and a scrubbing brush? A barrage of unsustainable Brazilian beef and battery eggs? A macro-economics textbook?
Mercifully, just as their yellowed fingernails began clawing at us, we found refuge in the local kebab shop, where we ate, drank, and came to the consensus that our stay in Nimbin would be brief. So after chilling out for a while we stepped back onto the street, the mob having diverted their attention towards another group of unsuspecting visitors, and quietly slinked back towards the Corona.
Just before getting in though, our hearts softened and we bought a Nimbin tea-towel off an aging woman, clearly fried by decades of drug use, who without a hint of irony warned us “Don’t go to the park. That’s where all the junkies are.”
As we drove away the woman became entangled in a screaming and clawing match with another vendor, who seemed to believe that the sale should have been hers. Textbook irony, my friend and reader - an embarrassing display of greed and competition in Australia's communal living mecca.
Angry Turk skidded the Corona out of there, not being an admirer of hippies at the best of times, and we soon became quietly contemplative, as people are prone to do on the return leg of a memorable road trip. To be honest I can't remember what music Billygoat chose for the drive back, but I'd like to think it included Pink Floyd's "Welcome to the Machine".
It seemed to me that capitalism must organically grow out of socialism, like penicillin forming on mouldy bread in a share house pantry - was it really inevitable? I was sure that Nimbin once worked, but as soon as a single member of the commune started selling glass beads or organic beetroot then powerful economic cogs began to turn and the end of the dream was nigh.
At least on the Gold Coast the greed, glamour and excess were shamelessly on display, so as we cruised back in there we felt strangely comfortable. Later that night Typhoon, Sooty and I made our customary trip to the casino, ordered a round of mango daiquiris, settled in around one of the bile-yellow roulette tables, and chased the elusive capitalist dream.
Last week I left you as your heroes Angry Turk, Billygoat, Typhoon and Sooty were with me aboard the lemon yellow Corona wagon, lazily gliding through picturesque hills bound for Nimbin. Unfortunately, as you will find out, if the highway we were slithering down was a long black snake, then Nimbin was surely the venomous apple lodged in it’s fangs.
But back to the action.
The great surging tide of hippies was by now so close that we could smell the lentils on their breath. If a clove of garlic, a silver bullet, or a stake through the heart would kill a vampire, then what, we frantically asked ourselves, would repel this plodding army of emaciated John Butlers and Janis Joplins? Soap and a scrubbing brush? A barrage of unsustainable Brazilian beef and battery eggs? A macro-economics textbook?
Mercifully, just as their yellowed fingernails began clawing at us, we found refuge in the local kebab shop, where we ate, drank, and came to the consensus that our stay in Nimbin would be brief. So after chilling out for a while we stepped back onto the street, the mob having diverted their attention towards another group of unsuspecting visitors, and quietly slinked back towards the Corona.
Just before getting in though, our hearts softened and we bought a Nimbin tea-towel off an aging woman, clearly fried by decades of drug use, who without a hint of irony warned us “Don’t go to the park. That’s where all the junkies are.”
As we drove away the woman became entangled in a screaming and clawing match with another vendor, who seemed to believe that the sale should have been hers. Textbook irony, my friend and reader - an embarrassing display of greed and competition in Australia's communal living mecca.
Angry Turk skidded the Corona out of there, not being an admirer of hippies at the best of times, and we soon became quietly contemplative, as people are prone to do on the return leg of a memorable road trip. To be honest I can't remember what music Billygoat chose for the drive back, but I'd like to think it included Pink Floyd's "Welcome to the Machine".
It seemed to me that capitalism must organically grow out of socialism, like penicillin forming on mouldy bread in a share house pantry - was it really inevitable? I was sure that Nimbin once worked, but as soon as a single member of the commune started selling glass beads or organic beetroot then powerful economic cogs began to turn and the end of the dream was nigh.
At least on the Gold Coast the greed, glamour and excess were shamelessly on display, so as we cruised back in there we felt strangely comfortable. Later that night Typhoon, Sooty and I made our customary trip to the casino, ordered a round of mango daiquiris, settled in around one of the bile-yellow roulette tables, and chased the elusive capitalist dream.
Saturday 18 November 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner (8): Nimbin - Part One
"Look mate", said the orgasmically smiling Hertz man, "if you want to hire a car around here, don't say you're going to Nimbin. Say Byron Bay or something."
So began our search for the Gold Coast's shadiest car rental agency - the only firm brave or foolish enough (for it's a fine line, dear reader) to grant a cheap one day rental to a derelict trio of gentlemen on a football trip; that trio being Elephant* (your narrator), Billygoat*, and Angry Turk*.
Sooty* and Typhoon* would join the pilgrimage later, for they were still in bed desperately and fruitlessly attempting to recall the liquor-ravaged details of our previous evening's messy, graceless ejection from Conrad Jupiters casino, and subsequent skinny dipping shenanigans.
Anyway, we eventually stumbled across "Yahoo Car Rentals". It had a yard full of pre-1990 Fords, Toyotas and Mazdas, and the name certainly sounded reckless and carefree enough for our requirements. Yes, we each silently decided, this was the one.
After edging past two well-groomed Italian minders, their hands clasped mafia-style, we came across a jolly fat bloke in a Hawaiian shirt, halfway through a beer. He was the boss.
"Can we hire the Mini Moke?", enquired Angry Turk, never one for small talk or diplomacy.
"Nup", was lightning reply. He'd seen our type before. It transpired that he had owned several nightclubs in the area, but this was his business now - a dodgy business I suspected, but what's a bit of money laundering between new best friends. He refered to me as "old mate" and I like that in a man.
"How about the Corona?" I prodded, refering to the lemon yellow family wagon that caught all of our eyes on the way in.
Well, before you could say "i'll just whack it on old mate's credit card", we were swinging past the hotel and collecting the sleeping pair. Angry Turk was the designated driver and Billygoat assumed the navigator/DJ role, leaving Typhoon, Sooty and I in the back. Sooty, being the youngest and thinniest, was naturally made to sit in the middle.
A beer stop was made, shirts were compulsorily removed, Angry Turk pointed the car towards where he believed Nimbin to be, and we relaxed, trusting that his renowned driving skill would guide us there. For a while we cruised down the gently winding coastal road, crossing bridges over sparkling rivers and inlets, and at some unknown point entering New South Wales, but before long we turned right and headed inland.
Billygoat wisely selected The Smashing Pumpkins for the mountain leg, we gradually slumped further into our seats, Angry Turk's right arm found it's niche on the window sill, and pretty soon his steering arm expertly had us sliding and swaying down the road like well-lubricated prey down the belly of a long black snake. Bethlehem stars of sunlight panned across the bonnet and windscreen, and all was well in the world.
This blissful state of relaxation and meditation was soon shattered though, for Nimbin was all that I knew it would be and hoped it was not. But, ladies and gentlemen, that is a story for next week, when this two-part saga will reach it's conclusion.
* Names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved.
So began our search for the Gold Coast's shadiest car rental agency - the only firm brave or foolish enough (for it's a fine line, dear reader) to grant a cheap one day rental to a derelict trio of gentlemen on a football trip; that trio being Elephant* (your narrator), Billygoat*, and Angry Turk*.
Sooty* and Typhoon* would join the pilgrimage later, for they were still in bed desperately and fruitlessly attempting to recall the liquor-ravaged details of our previous evening's messy, graceless ejection from Conrad Jupiters casino, and subsequent skinny dipping shenanigans.
Anyway, we eventually stumbled across "Yahoo Car Rentals". It had a yard full of pre-1990 Fords, Toyotas and Mazdas, and the name certainly sounded reckless and carefree enough for our requirements. Yes, we each silently decided, this was the one.
After edging past two well-groomed Italian minders, their hands clasped mafia-style, we came across a jolly fat bloke in a Hawaiian shirt, halfway through a beer. He was the boss.
"Can we hire the Mini Moke?", enquired Angry Turk, never one for small talk or diplomacy.
"Nup", was lightning reply. He'd seen our type before. It transpired that he had owned several nightclubs in the area, but this was his business now - a dodgy business I suspected, but what's a bit of money laundering between new best friends. He refered to me as "old mate" and I like that in a man.
"How about the Corona?" I prodded, refering to the lemon yellow family wagon that caught all of our eyes on the way in.
Well, before you could say "i'll just whack it on old mate's credit card", we were swinging past the hotel and collecting the sleeping pair. Angry Turk was the designated driver and Billygoat assumed the navigator/DJ role, leaving Typhoon, Sooty and I in the back. Sooty, being the youngest and thinniest, was naturally made to sit in the middle.
A beer stop was made, shirts were compulsorily removed, Angry Turk pointed the car towards where he believed Nimbin to be, and we relaxed, trusting that his renowned driving skill would guide us there. For a while we cruised down the gently winding coastal road, crossing bridges over sparkling rivers and inlets, and at some unknown point entering New South Wales, but before long we turned right and headed inland.
Billygoat wisely selected The Smashing Pumpkins for the mountain leg, we gradually slumped further into our seats, Angry Turk's right arm found it's niche on the window sill, and pretty soon his steering arm expertly had us sliding and swaying down the road like well-lubricated prey down the belly of a long black snake. Bethlehem stars of sunlight panned across the bonnet and windscreen, and all was well in the world.
This blissful state of relaxation and meditation was soon shattered though, for Nimbin was all that I knew it would be and hoped it was not. But, ladies and gentlemen, that is a story for next week, when this two-part saga will reach it's conclusion.
* Names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved.
Saturday 11 November 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner: (7) Understatement
With the passing of Wally Foreman last week, we not only lost a legendary WA sporting figure and commentator, but I believe we also saw another nail embedded in the coffin of what was once the critical defining feature of Australian-ness: the gentle art of understatement.
Wally was more a Richie Benaud than an Eddie McGuire, more a Bush Tucker Man than a Crocodile Hunter, more a Pat Rafter than a Lleyton Hewitt. He was more a slowly brewed cup of tea than he was an instant coffee.
The slow death of understatement is of course is largely related to the influence of United States culture, and can be observed in just about every aspect of Australian society.
For example, modern Australian man will have an energy drink and watch a game of 20/20 cricket rather than have a beer and watch a test match. He will seek the fleeting fame that comes with morally corrupting himself on reality TV rather than take time to achieve something that is actually worthy of adulation. He will explore for enlightenment in a bookshop before he bothers to explore for it in himself, his environment, or those around him. Quick fixes are everywhere, and quality is hard to find.
The phenomenon is well illustrated by the rapid devaluation of the exclamation mark in writing. Unable or unwilling to express their extreme thoughts and emotions with the thousands of words available in the language, the modern email or text message writer resorts to using ever increasing numbers of exclamation marks, much like an amphetamine junkie who needs to up his intake each day in order to achieve the desired effect.
Where will this exclamation mark addiction end though? Will we invent a new punctuation character that means “extremely excited”? Sadly, many have already resorted to the punctuation equivalent of smoking crack cocaine: smiley faces and emoticons. Don't fool yourself though - the effect of those will wear off too.
The only answer is to just say no. Set yourself the challenge of not using a single exclamation mark in the next email or letter you write. Go cold turkey. You will have strong withdrawls, and your friends may become confused and upset, but stay strong and force them to decide for themselves whether you are serious or joking, genuine or sarcastic. Apparently it's poor email etiquette, but it's much more fun.
Bring back the understatement in your speech as well. A bone-dry quip mumbled by a casual unsmiling larrikin holds in it far more pleasure than brash and predictable American sitcom-style humour.
In fact, let's get rid of the exclamation marks from all aspects of our lives. Let's chill out, slow down, and have a good time. Peter Costello can stick his economic growth targets into the hole in the ozone layer as far as I'm concerned.
Organise some mates to chuck a sickie with you this summer, buy a few cartons of king browns, toast to Wally's memory, and settle in to watch the Ashes until the booze runs dry. Discuss the Englishmen’s pasty complexions and unsanitary bathing habits between overs - it's the Australian way.
Wally was more a Richie Benaud than an Eddie McGuire, more a Bush Tucker Man than a Crocodile Hunter, more a Pat Rafter than a Lleyton Hewitt. He was more a slowly brewed cup of tea than he was an instant coffee.
The slow death of understatement is of course is largely related to the influence of United States culture, and can be observed in just about every aspect of Australian society.
For example, modern Australian man will have an energy drink and watch a game of 20/20 cricket rather than have a beer and watch a test match. He will seek the fleeting fame that comes with morally corrupting himself on reality TV rather than take time to achieve something that is actually worthy of adulation. He will explore for enlightenment in a bookshop before he bothers to explore for it in himself, his environment, or those around him. Quick fixes are everywhere, and quality is hard to find.
The phenomenon is well illustrated by the rapid devaluation of the exclamation mark in writing. Unable or unwilling to express their extreme thoughts and emotions with the thousands of words available in the language, the modern email or text message writer resorts to using ever increasing numbers of exclamation marks, much like an amphetamine junkie who needs to up his intake each day in order to achieve the desired effect.
Where will this exclamation mark addiction end though? Will we invent a new punctuation character that means “extremely excited”? Sadly, many have already resorted to the punctuation equivalent of smoking crack cocaine: smiley faces and emoticons. Don't fool yourself though - the effect of those will wear off too.
The only answer is to just say no. Set yourself the challenge of not using a single exclamation mark in the next email or letter you write. Go cold turkey. You will have strong withdrawls, and your friends may become confused and upset, but stay strong and force them to decide for themselves whether you are serious or joking, genuine or sarcastic. Apparently it's poor email etiquette, but it's much more fun.
Bring back the understatement in your speech as well. A bone-dry quip mumbled by a casual unsmiling larrikin holds in it far more pleasure than brash and predictable American sitcom-style humour.
In fact, let's get rid of the exclamation marks from all aspects of our lives. Let's chill out, slow down, and have a good time. Peter Costello can stick his economic growth targets into the hole in the ozone layer as far as I'm concerned.
Organise some mates to chuck a sickie with you this summer, buy a few cartons of king browns, toast to Wally's memory, and settle in to watch the Ashes until the booze runs dry. Discuss the Englishmen’s pasty complexions and unsanitary bathing habits between overs - it's the Australian way.
Saturday 4 November 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner: (6) Fractures
In the glamorous and high action world of geology, it is recognised that observations made on a small scale are usually replicated on a large scale, and vice-versa.
For example, one can observe millimetre-wide fractures in rocks on Nannygoat Hill and proceed to speculate that there is a much larger-scale fracture nearby. And of course there is - the kilometre-wide Boulder Lefroy Fault Zone (BLFZ), which links the gold deposits of St Ives with those at Paddington, passing through South Kalgoorlie Mines and the Superpit along the way.
The BLFZ was the driving force behind the formation of these deposits over 2 billion years ago, and is therefore to be thanked for founding the glorious City of Kalgoorlie-Boulder and it's most sacred institutions: Race Round, skimpy barmaids, that bloke who tried to drive to Perth backwards, and of course the almighty Railways Football Club.
As mentioned the principle also works in reverse, so if I were to put the rock from Nannygoat Hill under a microscope, I would observe that each fracture is comprised of thousands of smaller fractures.
"So what?" I hear you say, "I stopped caring about rocks when old Tommy Smith threw one at my head in kindergarten."
Well, loyal and learned reader, stop shaking your fist at the sky and cursing Tommy Smith, because now that I've laid the geological groundwork, I want you to consider the application of this phenomenon to the worlds of business and politics.
So do you think that the large-scale actions of political and business leaders are reflected in the behaviour of individual constituents or employees? I think so.
A positive example from business might be a boss who catches the Prospector to Perth for a meeting, stays in a three-star hotel, and eats breakfast, lunch and dinner at Dodgy Gino's Coffee and Kebab Emporium. Such a boss can ask for cost savings and hard work from employees without inspiring contempt and cynicism, because he or she has led from the front.
Negative examples abound in the world of politics.
Can a Prime Minister who presides over pre-emptive strikes against other nations, legitimately be surprised or disgusted by a bouncer who pre-emptively strikes out at drunken nightclub patrons?
Can a Foreign Affairs Minister who turns a blind eye to torture, unashamedly scold a child for pulling the wings off a fly?
Can a local Federal Member who supports the oil-grabbing war in Iraq, cry injustice when a colleague takes his Caramello Koala from the communal office fridge?
I say no to all of these questions.
A fracture in values at the highest level inevitably causes a network of smaller fractures to spread throughout the lower levels - what's good for the goose is good for the gander.
The flipside though, is that if enough members of the gaggle are willing to change their own attitudes and behaviours - towards their environment, workplace, community, or anything else - then they can force the powerful geese to change. In life, as in geology, the microscopic controls the macroscopic.
For example, one can observe millimetre-wide fractures in rocks on Nannygoat Hill and proceed to speculate that there is a much larger-scale fracture nearby. And of course there is - the kilometre-wide Boulder Lefroy Fault Zone (BLFZ), which links the gold deposits of St Ives with those at Paddington, passing through South Kalgoorlie Mines and the Superpit along the way.
The BLFZ was the driving force behind the formation of these deposits over 2 billion years ago, and is therefore to be thanked for founding the glorious City of Kalgoorlie-Boulder and it's most sacred institutions: Race Round, skimpy barmaids, that bloke who tried to drive to Perth backwards, and of course the almighty Railways Football Club.
As mentioned the principle also works in reverse, so if I were to put the rock from Nannygoat Hill under a microscope, I would observe that each fracture is comprised of thousands of smaller fractures.
"So what?" I hear you say, "I stopped caring about rocks when old Tommy Smith threw one at my head in kindergarten."
Well, loyal and learned reader, stop shaking your fist at the sky and cursing Tommy Smith, because now that I've laid the geological groundwork, I want you to consider the application of this phenomenon to the worlds of business and politics.
So do you think that the large-scale actions of political and business leaders are reflected in the behaviour of individual constituents or employees? I think so.
A positive example from business might be a boss who catches the Prospector to Perth for a meeting, stays in a three-star hotel, and eats breakfast, lunch and dinner at Dodgy Gino's Coffee and Kebab Emporium. Such a boss can ask for cost savings and hard work from employees without inspiring contempt and cynicism, because he or she has led from the front.
Negative examples abound in the world of politics.
Can a Prime Minister who presides over pre-emptive strikes against other nations, legitimately be surprised or disgusted by a bouncer who pre-emptively strikes out at drunken nightclub patrons?
Can a Foreign Affairs Minister who turns a blind eye to torture, unashamedly scold a child for pulling the wings off a fly?
Can a local Federal Member who supports the oil-grabbing war in Iraq, cry injustice when a colleague takes his Caramello Koala from the communal office fridge?
I say no to all of these questions.
A fracture in values at the highest level inevitably causes a network of smaller fractures to spread throughout the lower levels - what's good for the goose is good for the gander.
The flipside though, is that if enough members of the gaggle are willing to change their own attitudes and behaviours - towards their environment, workplace, community, or anything else - then they can force the powerful geese to change. In life, as in geology, the microscopic controls the macroscopic.
Saturday 28 October 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner: (5) Kalgoorlie Image
Once upon a time, back in my student days, I was wandering out of Centrelink having collected my polony and rice money for the fortnight, when I saw a kangaroo hopping eastwards along Egan St. I watched it casually make it's way past the world's tallest bin, had a chuckle to myself, and then grinned like a Cheshire cat who just ate the cream and was about to stretch out in the summer sun.
A similar, if slightly less dramatic, event occurred only a few weeks ago when I saw a tumbleweed moseying down Roberts St on a breezy day.
Occasions like these are exciting for me because they confirm my preferred reality of Kalgoorlie-Boulder - not actual reality, but my reality.
Such events make me feel like the legendary Don Quixote de la Mancha, from Miguel de Cervantes 1605 novel "Don Quixote", who becomes obsessed by fictional knight's tales of valour, and henceforth roams the world believing that he is a mighty knight - of course in my reality I am not a knight, but rather a lovable rogue scraping through life armed only with my razor-sharp wit and trusty six-shooter.
The widely accepted "Wild West" image of the city, as inaccurate as it may be, is what brings tourists here and makes it an exciting place to live, so I don't see the point in trying to fight it - in fact I actively promote it.
I say lets tear up the bitumen roads, make saloon doors and honky-tonk pianists compulsory in pubs, and demolish houses not made from weatherboard and pressed tin. Let's have the council employ a dozen bearded ruffians to swagger up and down Hannan and Burt Streets in their underground gear, king browns of Hannan's Lager in hand, scaring tourists with threatening glares all the while.
I want visitors to regale and captivate their city-dwelling friends with stories about the perversely alluring aspects of the Goldfields that we all know and pompously pretend not to love - skimpies, bikies, and gold-stealin' miners. Let's keep the 90:10 male:female ratio myth alive just for laughs hey?
I'm certain that most of us thrive on relaying yarns (feigned disgust optional) that portray Kalgoorlie-Boulder as being rougher than a chain-smoking brothel madam. For example, when I saw a couple of bikies at the Kalgoorlie Cup this year, I made sure to point them out to visiting friends and then relay highly dramatised legends from Ora Banda and The Foundry Hotel.
Can you (yes you, the reader) tell me, without your pulse quickening or brow sweating, that you don't get any joy or chest-swelling pride out of telling such embellished half-truths about life in this city? If you reckon you don't then with utmost confidence I hereby brand you a liar and/or a wowser.
So I say let’s promote Kalgoorlie-Boulder in a way that gets people coming here, and let them be pleasantly surprised when they arrive. If travelers wanted to experience fully clothed barstaff, well planned streets and Eton manners then they would visit Canberra, and if they wanted to lounge about under a palm tree then they would surely choose a tropical Queensland island over a grubby Burt Street round-about.
I'd like to go into the Wilson Street plastic grass but that's a 500 word rant on its own.
A similar, if slightly less dramatic, event occurred only a few weeks ago when I saw a tumbleweed moseying down Roberts St on a breezy day.
Occasions like these are exciting for me because they confirm my preferred reality of Kalgoorlie-Boulder - not actual reality, but my reality.
Such events make me feel like the legendary Don Quixote de la Mancha, from Miguel de Cervantes 1605 novel "Don Quixote", who becomes obsessed by fictional knight's tales of valour, and henceforth roams the world believing that he is a mighty knight - of course in my reality I am not a knight, but rather a lovable rogue scraping through life armed only with my razor-sharp wit and trusty six-shooter.
The widely accepted "Wild West" image of the city, as inaccurate as it may be, is what brings tourists here and makes it an exciting place to live, so I don't see the point in trying to fight it - in fact I actively promote it.
I say lets tear up the bitumen roads, make saloon doors and honky-tonk pianists compulsory in pubs, and demolish houses not made from weatherboard and pressed tin. Let's have the council employ a dozen bearded ruffians to swagger up and down Hannan and Burt Streets in their underground gear, king browns of Hannan's Lager in hand, scaring tourists with threatening glares all the while.
I want visitors to regale and captivate their city-dwelling friends with stories about the perversely alluring aspects of the Goldfields that we all know and pompously pretend not to love - skimpies, bikies, and gold-stealin' miners. Let's keep the 90:10 male:female ratio myth alive just for laughs hey?
I'm certain that most of us thrive on relaying yarns (feigned disgust optional) that portray Kalgoorlie-Boulder as being rougher than a chain-smoking brothel madam. For example, when I saw a couple of bikies at the Kalgoorlie Cup this year, I made sure to point them out to visiting friends and then relay highly dramatised legends from Ora Banda and The Foundry Hotel.
Can you (yes you, the reader) tell me, without your pulse quickening or brow sweating, that you don't get any joy or chest-swelling pride out of telling such embellished half-truths about life in this city? If you reckon you don't then with utmost confidence I hereby brand you a liar and/or a wowser.
So I say let’s promote Kalgoorlie-Boulder in a way that gets people coming here, and let them be pleasantly surprised when they arrive. If travelers wanted to experience fully clothed barstaff, well planned streets and Eton manners then they would visit Canberra, and if they wanted to lounge about under a palm tree then they would surely choose a tropical Queensland island over a grubby Burt Street round-about.
I'd like to go into the Wilson Street plastic grass but that's a 500 word rant on its own.
Saturday 21 October 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner: (4) River of Knowledge
During a five week trip around India earlier this year, my mate Tim and I made it our aim to leave the country with at least a workable understanding of how Indian society functions despite the apparent randomness encountered at every turn. Broadly speaking we failed, but there were small gains made.
The central pillar of Indian craziness, the monumental cliff face from which all other madness is shed, is chronic inefficiency - pointless rubber stamping, elaborate systems of back scratching, and unnecessarily laborious work practices are commonplace.
Examples include women who are employed to hammer rockmelon-sized pieces of rock into marble-sized pieces of rock for use as road base in the Indian Himalayas, men employed to check your ticket to tourist attractions literally two metres from where you bought it, and the failure of anyone to collect rainwater in Darjeeling, where there is a water shortage despite the fact that it drizzles all day.
Of course it is a given that there will be inefficiency and seemingly menial work in a country of over one billion people, most of whom are poor, but the examples above are government-related, which led Tim and I to suspect that there was beauracratic method behind the madness.
In the end we formulated a theory that, mathematically speaking, if 'x' is the population and 'y' is the work available, then everyone simply does 'y/x' work each day. Using this (questionable) theory, if the population increases then each person does less work or, more commonly I suspect, unnecessary new jobs are created in order to keep individual work levels constant - hello zero unemployment and crippling inefficiency!
Another fascinating aspect of the Indian labour force that Tim and I noticed was the single task expertise of the street-level workers: zip-repairers, shoe-polishers, chai-makers etc. I was most impressed by the mobile phone repair men set up on many street corners with nothing but a school desk and a soldering iron - they put our woeful "send it to the east coast" electronics repair systems to shame.
This notion of a single expertise reminded of a passage from "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance", where Robert Pirsig says (and I'm paraphrasing here) that the river of human knowledge, which used to be deep and narrow, is now shallow and broad - only in this example we are talking about across cultures, rather than through time. Basically, through improved transport and communication technology, we in the first world have become jacks of all trades and masters of none, and therefore rarely get the satisfaction and wellbeing that comes from having a complete understanding of a particular subject or two.
The deepest part of my river is probably my work as an exploration geologist. I love the challenge of trying to gain a perfect understanding of the rocks in my area - my colleagues and I joke that to fully understand a rock, you must become the rock (an impossibly sad and unfunny joke for non-geologists I know).
So for me it's rocks, for another it's zips or brewing tea, and for others it's fast cars, stamp collecting, or miniaturised poodles. The only people I can't relate to are those without a passion - a deep river is a good river!
The central pillar of Indian craziness, the monumental cliff face from which all other madness is shed, is chronic inefficiency - pointless rubber stamping, elaborate systems of back scratching, and unnecessarily laborious work practices are commonplace.
Examples include women who are employed to hammer rockmelon-sized pieces of rock into marble-sized pieces of rock for use as road base in the Indian Himalayas, men employed to check your ticket to tourist attractions literally two metres from where you bought it, and the failure of anyone to collect rainwater in Darjeeling, where there is a water shortage despite the fact that it drizzles all day.
Of course it is a given that there will be inefficiency and seemingly menial work in a country of over one billion people, most of whom are poor, but the examples above are government-related, which led Tim and I to suspect that there was beauracratic method behind the madness.
In the end we formulated a theory that, mathematically speaking, if 'x' is the population and 'y' is the work available, then everyone simply does 'y/x' work each day. Using this (questionable) theory, if the population increases then each person does less work or, more commonly I suspect, unnecessary new jobs are created in order to keep individual work levels constant - hello zero unemployment and crippling inefficiency!
Another fascinating aspect of the Indian labour force that Tim and I noticed was the single task expertise of the street-level workers: zip-repairers, shoe-polishers, chai-makers etc. I was most impressed by the mobile phone repair men set up on many street corners with nothing but a school desk and a soldering iron - they put our woeful "send it to the east coast" electronics repair systems to shame.
This notion of a single expertise reminded of a passage from "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance", where Robert Pirsig says (and I'm paraphrasing here) that the river of human knowledge, which used to be deep and narrow, is now shallow and broad - only in this example we are talking about across cultures, rather than through time. Basically, through improved transport and communication technology, we in the first world have become jacks of all trades and masters of none, and therefore rarely get the satisfaction and wellbeing that comes from having a complete understanding of a particular subject or two.
The deepest part of my river is probably my work as an exploration geologist. I love the challenge of trying to gain a perfect understanding of the rocks in my area - my colleagues and I joke that to fully understand a rock, you must become the rock (an impossibly sad and unfunny joke for non-geologists I know).
So for me it's rocks, for another it's zips or brewing tea, and for others it's fast cars, stamp collecting, or miniaturised poodles. The only people I can't relate to are those without a passion - a deep river is a good river!
Saturday 14 October 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner: (3) Inside the Whale
I share my house with three other young men. In the communal toilet there is a variety of reading material including the obligatory trashy magazines (they disappear when parents come to visit), joke books and, surprisingly for some guests, assorted high-brow literature and poetry.
The odd book out is "Russian Political Institutions", a 300 page volume on the inner workings of communism. No-one knows how it got there, and no-one has ever soldiered on past the first ten pages.
Anyway, one of the toilet books is "Inside the Whale and Other Essays" by George Orwell (I just realised that it is probably bad form to have "Russian Political Institutions" alongside a book of essays by Orwell, who is best known for anti-communism novels like "Animal Farm" and "1984" - my comrades and I will rectify this). In the feature essay, the title of which is a reference to the biblical story of Jonah and the whale, Orwell explains that novels generally use either passive or active characters, and does so using the whale as a metaphor for life, or the world.
Passive characters are said to be inside the whale; willing Jonahs, happy to let the whale go where it pleases, riding through life inside the protective blubber, and indifferently accepting everything that happens to themselves or others.
Active characters are outside the whale; renegade Jonahs, emotionally unprotected by the blubber, and constantly questioning and attempting to control the whale's direction.
I'll get to the point now.
I reckon that much of the western world is deeply inside the whale, far too easily ignoring or forgetting or feeling helpless against wrongs done to themselves, to others, and to the environment.
Why and how are issues like the irresponsible invasion of Iraq so effortlessly swept aside come election time, drowned amongst trivial nit-picking and competition over who has the shiniest teeth?
I think we are just so warmly cocooned inside the thick blubber of a booming global economy, that we will sit idly by while basic human rights and values disappear. We will more than happily trade the right of an Australian citizen to the presumption of innocence and a fair trial, for new "rights" like having a plasma television and a boob job.
Where is the rage in the electorate? Are we plain dumb, just forgetful, or has "Big Brother" (read Orwell's "1984") successfully trampled our spirits and brainwashed into this state of permanent and disgraceful apathy? Evidence suggests all three.
One man who maintained the rage up until the day he died was Hunter S. Thompson, who most people, perhaps unfairly, think of only as the maniacal, drug-addled, gun-toting fiend who wrote "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". He certainly was all these things (and more), and was from all accounts a complete and utter bastard to deal with, but only because he never ever compromised on his values.
I urge anyone who needs an injection of rage to get a hold of Thompson's writings, in particular a compilation of his letters called "The Proud Highway" - you won't forget it. He was a man who sat defiantly on top of the whale, bottle of whiskey in hand, jerking on it's reins and flogging it until he was red in the face - we need more like him.
The odd book out is "Russian Political Institutions", a 300 page volume on the inner workings of communism. No-one knows how it got there, and no-one has ever soldiered on past the first ten pages.
Anyway, one of the toilet books is "Inside the Whale and Other Essays" by George Orwell (I just realised that it is probably bad form to have "Russian Political Institutions" alongside a book of essays by Orwell, who is best known for anti-communism novels like "Animal Farm" and "1984" - my comrades and I will rectify this). In the feature essay, the title of which is a reference to the biblical story of Jonah and the whale, Orwell explains that novels generally use either passive or active characters, and does so using the whale as a metaphor for life, or the world.
Passive characters are said to be inside the whale; willing Jonahs, happy to let the whale go where it pleases, riding through life inside the protective blubber, and indifferently accepting everything that happens to themselves or others.
Active characters are outside the whale; renegade Jonahs, emotionally unprotected by the blubber, and constantly questioning and attempting to control the whale's direction.
I'll get to the point now.
I reckon that much of the western world is deeply inside the whale, far too easily ignoring or forgetting or feeling helpless against wrongs done to themselves, to others, and to the environment.
Why and how are issues like the irresponsible invasion of Iraq so effortlessly swept aside come election time, drowned amongst trivial nit-picking and competition over who has the shiniest teeth?
I think we are just so warmly cocooned inside the thick blubber of a booming global economy, that we will sit idly by while basic human rights and values disappear. We will more than happily trade the right of an Australian citizen to the presumption of innocence and a fair trial, for new "rights" like having a plasma television and a boob job.
Where is the rage in the electorate? Are we plain dumb, just forgetful, or has "Big Brother" (read Orwell's "1984") successfully trampled our spirits and brainwashed into this state of permanent and disgraceful apathy? Evidence suggests all three.
One man who maintained the rage up until the day he died was Hunter S. Thompson, who most people, perhaps unfairly, think of only as the maniacal, drug-addled, gun-toting fiend who wrote "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas". He certainly was all these things (and more), and was from all accounts a complete and utter bastard to deal with, but only because he never ever compromised on his values.
I urge anyone who needs an injection of rage to get a hold of Thompson's writings, in particular a compilation of his letters called "The Proud Highway" - you won't forget it. He was a man who sat defiantly on top of the whale, bottle of whiskey in hand, jerking on it's reins and flogging it until he was red in the face - we need more like him.
Saturday 7 October 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner: (2) Forest-Desert
Are you a forest person or a desert person?
I am a certified desert person, both literally and metaphorically, and this characteristic expresses itself in many aspects of my life.
From a literal point of view I am a desert person because, in simple terms, I would prefer to sit and look at a single tree on a sand plain, than to be amongst hundreds of trees in a valley. I am eternally thankful that my subconscious led me into the field of exploration geology, a profession in which my chances of encountering thick forest are slim - as long as I'm in this country anyway.
Metaphorically I am a desert person because I prefer space over clutter, simplicity over complexity, solitude over crowds.
I don't know too much about art, but I do prefer more minimalist paintings and drawings over more complex ones. I can appreciate the skill required to produce a detailed peice, but there is certainly just as great a skill in knowing what to leave out - the background noise, so to speak. There has to be space for my imagination to fill.
My preferences in music are much the same, in that I generally enjoy simple or spacious music, performed with as few instruments as possible. I love it, for example, how the White Stripes perform such unique and energetic music with only Jack on guitar and Meg on drums.
In a documentary about the making of Pink Floyd's 1972 album "Dark Side of the Moon", keyboard player Rick Wright says that he placed great importance on leaving "space" in his playing - something that he and the band did expertly on that record and on it's follow-up, "Wish You Were Here". Sometimes the space or nothingness holds in it a lot more meaning than a chord thrown in for a chord's sake.
In terms of possessions, I would rather not have "things" than have them. I like it when there is nothing around to distract my attention and I am free to explore what I can do with myself - music, writing, reading, or just thinking. When there is too much going on my brain ceases to function.
This lack-of-desire for material possessions can be quite demotivational workwise and, when coupled with my tendency to melt down when faced with complexity, potentially makes me a useless employee. Luckily, for both my boss and my loan shark, the passion for geology is just enough to drag me into work each day and keep the dollars coming in.
Finally, I reckon that this topic relates to the common misconception that country people are simple people. I think that country people just want simple things, and have the ability to think simply, so in my classification they are desert people. It's the old "nature vs nurture" debate though - are they born or made?
So anyway, what are you - forest or desert? Maybe I've simplified it too much and there is another type of person not accounted for - mountain people, swamp people? Let me know!
I am a certified desert person, both literally and metaphorically, and this characteristic expresses itself in many aspects of my life.
From a literal point of view I am a desert person because, in simple terms, I would prefer to sit and look at a single tree on a sand plain, than to be amongst hundreds of trees in a valley. I am eternally thankful that my subconscious led me into the field of exploration geology, a profession in which my chances of encountering thick forest are slim - as long as I'm in this country anyway.
Metaphorically I am a desert person because I prefer space over clutter, simplicity over complexity, solitude over crowds.
I don't know too much about art, but I do prefer more minimalist paintings and drawings over more complex ones. I can appreciate the skill required to produce a detailed peice, but there is certainly just as great a skill in knowing what to leave out - the background noise, so to speak. There has to be space for my imagination to fill.
My preferences in music are much the same, in that I generally enjoy simple or spacious music, performed with as few instruments as possible. I love it, for example, how the White Stripes perform such unique and energetic music with only Jack on guitar and Meg on drums.
In a documentary about the making of Pink Floyd's 1972 album "Dark Side of the Moon", keyboard player Rick Wright says that he placed great importance on leaving "space" in his playing - something that he and the band did expertly on that record and on it's follow-up, "Wish You Were Here". Sometimes the space or nothingness holds in it a lot more meaning than a chord thrown in for a chord's sake.
In terms of possessions, I would rather not have "things" than have them. I like it when there is nothing around to distract my attention and I am free to explore what I can do with myself - music, writing, reading, or just thinking. When there is too much going on my brain ceases to function.
This lack-of-desire for material possessions can be quite demotivational workwise and, when coupled with my tendency to melt down when faced with complexity, potentially makes me a useless employee. Luckily, for both my boss and my loan shark, the passion for geology is just enough to drag me into work each day and keep the dollars coming in.
Finally, I reckon that this topic relates to the common misconception that country people are simple people. I think that country people just want simple things, and have the ability to think simply, so in my classification they are desert people. It's the old "nature vs nurture" debate though - are they born or made?
So anyway, what are you - forest or desert? Maybe I've simplified it too much and there is another type of person not accounted for - mountain people, swamp people? Let me know!
Saturday 30 September 2006
Kalgoorlie Miner: (1) Classic-Romantic
I was going to write a universally appealing column of introductions and banal generalities first up, but rather than just meekly testing the water I have decided to go straight into the deep end and alienate more than half of the readership by explaining why I like the Dockers and dislike the Eagles. Football is nearly over, so I thought I should get this out of my system.
Thankfully for all, rather than use traditional anti-Eagles arguments involving their appalling hairdos or the comical amount of oil on their arms, I will be analysing the issue in terms of the "Classic/Romantic" split from Robert Pirsig's 1974 book "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance".
Hippies amongst you may be familiar with the book, in which Pirsig begins by examining the different approaches he and a friend take to looking after their respective motorcycles, and ends up penning a brain-bending philosophical thesis on "everything". It's an amazing book, and I'm sure future columns may include references to it.
Anyway, one key aspect of the book is that Pirsig believed he could cleave a population in two based on whether people had a "Classic" or a "Romantic" mindset. To briefly summarise in my own terms, a Classic personality looks at a tree and sees wood and leaves, and thinks about using it for firewood. A Romantic personality looks at the same tree and sees God, or beauty, or life, or some other vaguely mystical concept, and feels more inclined to write a poem about it.
Now it is my belief that Eagles supporters belong to the Classic mindset, in that they see a football team simply as a machine comprised of 22 men that will inevitably prevail if it does everything more efficiently than the opposition. A series of undoubtedly Classic coaches in Mick Malthouse, Ken Judge, and now John Worsfold, have turned the team into one that Classic personalities can appreciate.
Conversely, Dockers supporters have Romantic minds, in that they see their team as a transcendental "concept" that fate will deliver to it's destiny. Fremantle has been led by a succession of eccentric coaches who recruited and created numerous unusual/flawed players, and in doing-so fashioned a team that appeals to Romantic personalities.
The divide can be most clearly illustrated by using the example of ex-Dockers forward Clive Waterhouse, truly one of the strangest enigmas to have ever pulled on a studded leather boot. For those not acquainted with him, the archetypal Clive exhibiton would involve him taking mark of the year and then torpedoing the Sherrin out-of-bounds on the full. While Eagles supporters ridiculed this man as the absolute anti-thesis of "percentage football", Dockers supporters loved him dearly, preferring to think of him as a God-given artwork commenting on the duality of man.
So I hope we all now understand that, owing to deep-seated psychological differences, Dockers people will never understand Eagles people, and vice-versa. People that claim to support both teams clearly have a multiple personality disorder.
Let me finish by conceding that unfortunately Classic football generally conquers Romantic football – but we Romantics have more fun.
Thankfully for all, rather than use traditional anti-Eagles arguments involving their appalling hairdos or the comical amount of oil on their arms, I will be analysing the issue in terms of the "Classic/Romantic" split from Robert Pirsig's 1974 book "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance".
Hippies amongst you may be familiar with the book, in which Pirsig begins by examining the different approaches he and a friend take to looking after their respective motorcycles, and ends up penning a brain-bending philosophical thesis on "everything". It's an amazing book, and I'm sure future columns may include references to it.
Anyway, one key aspect of the book is that Pirsig believed he could cleave a population in two based on whether people had a "Classic" or a "Romantic" mindset. To briefly summarise in my own terms, a Classic personality looks at a tree and sees wood and leaves, and thinks about using it for firewood. A Romantic personality looks at the same tree and sees God, or beauty, or life, or some other vaguely mystical concept, and feels more inclined to write a poem about it.
Now it is my belief that Eagles supporters belong to the Classic mindset, in that they see a football team simply as a machine comprised of 22 men that will inevitably prevail if it does everything more efficiently than the opposition. A series of undoubtedly Classic coaches in Mick Malthouse, Ken Judge, and now John Worsfold, have turned the team into one that Classic personalities can appreciate.
Conversely, Dockers supporters have Romantic minds, in that they see their team as a transcendental "concept" that fate will deliver to it's destiny. Fremantle has been led by a succession of eccentric coaches who recruited and created numerous unusual/flawed players, and in doing-so fashioned a team that appeals to Romantic personalities.
The divide can be most clearly illustrated by using the example of ex-Dockers forward Clive Waterhouse, truly one of the strangest enigmas to have ever pulled on a studded leather boot. For those not acquainted with him, the archetypal Clive exhibiton would involve him taking mark of the year and then torpedoing the Sherrin out-of-bounds on the full. While Eagles supporters ridiculed this man as the absolute anti-thesis of "percentage football", Dockers supporters loved him dearly, preferring to think of him as a God-given artwork commenting on the duality of man.
So I hope we all now understand that, owing to deep-seated psychological differences, Dockers people will never understand Eagles people, and vice-versa. People that claim to support both teams clearly have a multiple personality disorder.
Let me finish by conceding that unfortunately Classic football generally conquers Romantic football – but we Romantics have more fun.
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