letter to the editor

The existence of multiple universes that run parallel to that of our own throws up some interesting and deeply troubling moral dilemmas for us as a society. If for example I was to meet an alternate g-man because of… say a transporter accident, would it then be wrong, nay reprehensible of me, given the right set of circumstances to have sex with myself. If churches and secular moralists alike wish to stay relevant in this day and age of bioneural computer circuitry and Alcubierre drives they need to start contemplating these important issues.

Might such an act for instance be considered incest, comparable with sleeping with a member of my own immediate family? Or might it be considered closer to a some form of existentialist masturbation similar to jerking off in front of a mirror?

In fact I can think of a few people who would jump at an opportunity to go fuck themselves… but me? Well… to be honest, I think I have better standards.

Sons and Daughters - my meredith diary (part three)

Half an hour had passed and I’d felt nothing. People seemed surprised when they asked, I could see it in their eyes: the “is there some wrong with you?” look. But then I was thinking the same thing and having tried a mushroom cap the night before I suspected that I'd somehow fucked up swallowing tablets. While watching City City City and Okkervil River on the Friday night, I stood there staring at the lights asking myself whether the colours were normally this vivid and wash-bright and am I normally so fascinated by singular things such as the colours of these lights when I really should be paying attention to the music. The answers being yes and sadly yes again. Rob, another campster of ours joked that at least I could say I got my shot of B2 vitamins.

Well now… mushrooms aside, this Saturday night as we headed towards the stage I did feel a little strange, floaty even, but it really wasn’t anything that I couldn’t put down to my sustained alcohol consumption over the day and it being a red wine day... well we all know that those histamines can do funny things to your head. We positioned ourselves midway between the stage and the sound tent, our little plot that we’d staked out on Friday amongst the littered beer cans. Here we danced to a band called Sons and Daughters, Scottish post-punk with toe-tapping highland flair, dark and with a sense of end-world drama that Johnny Cash would’ve tip his hat to. Indeed their song, his namesake and another Rama Lama, a tune about a girl who drowns in a bathtub were set highlights of mine; their sound, the essential elements mortared by pestle into definitely my thing.

I left the “supernatural amphitheatre” during Wolfmother (the following band), not feeling the overwhelming tour-de-force that I’d been promised, so I worked my way through an increasingly dense and hostile crowd. I felt irritated and claustrophobic, annoyed that this band’s fans were conspiring to ruin my mood. “Who do you think you’re kidding?” a girl shot at me as I stepped through the maze of people. “Obviously not you,” I backhanded, still unsure what I meant but certain it sounded cutting and sarcastic. *Swish* to me! While I am sure that the band members of Wolfmother are entirely proficient in the use of their instruments I cannot profess to like their music or their stage performance. Richard called them “derivative.” When I asked him whether this was a nice way of saying that they were just one notch above a cover band he just laughed.

Finding company away from the stage I sat under the large oaks where beams of silver light reflected off a mirror-ball suspended high in one of the trees’ branches; the circles of light moved in larger circles around us, the wind blowing tree trunk and branches, and one could be mistaken in thinking this was timed to the music. We sat and compared our favourite live music shows of all time and still I felt nothing. No overwhelming ecstatic joy or love for my fellow man or women. Nothing extra-ordinary. But I was with friends and it was all pleasant enough. Fuck the drugs.

my meredith diary (part two)

The sky was a deepening blue as the sun sat low in the west on this the second day of the Meredith Music Festival, a three day event that attracts ten thousand people each year in a largely disused paddock somewhere between Geelong and Ballarat. This was the festival’s fifteenth incarnation and had apparently sold out in ten days, well before the band line-up was announced but as I have been repeatedly told by almost everyone: “no one comes to Meredith to see the bands.”

Skipping the Aussie rock troupe Airbourne I met the others back for dinner at base-camp, with me a yellow curry wrap, it small and overpriced, I poured myself another cup of my cask cab-sav while listening to a lively discussion about Airbourne's show. One of our campsters Richard described them as OZ-Rock rip-offs, over-hyped and totally unoriginal; he questioned not only the intelligence of the band but anyone in the crowd who stuck around enjoying themselves. I had to laugh but didn't say anything. Not that I disagreed but best to in these situations, at least when conversation turns to music, as I often come out sounding stupid, ill-informed etc.

I moved off and joined another conversation. “You can tell which part he works out on..." Glen laughed, "do you thing he’s had surgical implants?” he asked, gesturing to one of the boys in a neighbouring encampment. “His arse is pretty big,” I agreed only fully comfortable with discussing things of a sexual nature if I can make fun of it. The man we were ogling was wearing just a pair of tight white footy shorts, with longish tawny hair and moustache, his body tanned and musculated. You had to wonder whether he was aware that he looked like a 70’s porn-star (I thought he was probably was). And there (*subtle tilt of the head to indicate direction) was his arse… pert and taut and enormous, inflated semi-circular cheeks and with his friends surrounding him, largely shirtless, athletic bogans, one wearing a lifesavers skull-cap; what a mouthful. They were drinking their beers and laughing and we were there watching them as expertly and slyly as possible. Nevertheless, differing sexualities aside these men were probably engaged much the similar conversation themselves.

Having finished dinner Dan and Andrew finally got about setting up their tent. Dan who’d arrived late on Friday night slept in his car, and after doing his very best to catch up with drinking and all other manner of things he ended up vomiting out one of his car doors. I was kicking around the dust and grass while waiting for some movement out of the camp, when I found a finch, flat and lifeless on the ground. Using a shovel from Dan’s car I proceeded to dig a shallow grave and had made several attempts before I was able to lift the bird into the earth. I am always lost for words at funerals but wished her a long and lasting sleep; imagined the ground empty of caravans and tents, bogans and me, just the yellow grass sweeping in the wind with the deep breath blue sky above.

The tent now standing by itself, pegs (and now bird) in the ground, Darren suggested we go on a sunset ride on the Meredith Eye, a 18 metre ferris wheel just east of the Pink Flamingo. A fine idea, I thought to waste some time until Sons and Daughters came on. So I decided to join them. Cam walked over to me as we were leaving and handed me a ticket to the ferris wheel, a small rectangle slip that said admit one. Apparently they had a spare from last night. Thanking him I placed it in my wallet; he’d just saved me three bucks.

g is for gonzo - my meredith diary (part one)

Jumping up I grabbed my fluorescent-green plastic cup of red wine in one hand I pushed the tent flap aside and entered. “Here’s your pill,” my friend said as I sat down, dangling a small plastic satchel containing two pastel pink tablets. “As this is your first time,” he paused and I offered no protest, “I suggest you take half now and the rest later.” Using thumb and forefinger he attempted, unsuccessfully to break one of them in two. “Tough little bugger,” I said in sympathy as I watched him try and snap it along the indentation. I was excited and nervous too but I’d been looking for an opportunity to try MDMA for a while and this was a good one: three days, two nights, maybe thirty acts, a high proportion of bogans and eight very cool people to spend it all with.

After a protracted search for a knife and using a melways to cut it on, he handed me the two halves. Choosing the smallest one, turning it around in my now slightly shaking hand, I watched it drop accidentally into my plastic cup. “Shit,” I said not sure what to do as I looked down at the red ripple. “Ah…. um” and with newly found rock-and-roll abandon, knowing this was probably not recommended I gulped down my wine only to find the pill stuck to the bottom. I signed and with my index finger fished it out and left the tent to find some water.

reasons to live

I have sworn my life and blood to the holy war against the western christian materialist imperialists and while my life will be short, the death of a martyr is a celebrated one, in this life and the one to come.

Or so I keep telling my self. Sometimes... sometimes I have my doubts. It's true I can admit this in the relative anonymity of this blog and I can say that I've attempted it several times but there's always something, something that gets in the way. Sitting on the train there is always that child on their mother's lap who won't stop looking at me, staring wide-eyed with an un-remitting grin, forcing me to get off at the next station. I mean, are infidels really so bad? I knew plenty in high school and was even friends with some. Even recently I got a call from a work collegue who invited me to dinner with him and his wife in their appartment in the suburb across. They'd even done their homework, buying a halal cook book and so my other plans had to wait once more.

Sometimes I think I am not disciplined enough; to be honest I don't even have an exercise regime. I think of all the pictures of the mujahadeen that you see on television, in magazines and newspapers and on the internet, they are all dusty and lean, their eyes that stare straight through you. My mother's cooking is too good for me and even if I did lose all this weight, maybe I think that when I am dead the infidel media will just print old photos of me anyway. So I say to myself second helpings cannot hurt.

Sometimes I don't even take the belt with me. I tell myself later, when I get home that I forgot it, that I have too many things to think about that it just slipped my mind. But then there are days where I get so angry, a guy pushes in front of me at the supermarket or I see poverty or things on TV and I feel as though they need to pay. But there is so much anger around. So much righteous anger that I wonder whether from my perspective my blacks and whites are really not greys seen from above. And that I am not in the position to judge anyone in my name or someone elses'.

Sometimes I think about these things.

the end of the world

I had another dream about the end of the world, well as REM said, as we know it. They tend to come in clumps, these dreams, when things aren't going so well... ...well, I guess I am beginning to sound a little maladjusted.

My Grandmother was a noble laureate, in physics if you must know and employed with some top level research agency for the government. She was the family's little feather in the cap, badge on the lapel, and although she was barely ever present (even at Christmas dinner) her name had opened doors for us all, given us all a sense of aloofness and self-satisfaction that we'd in no way earned ourselves. The war had been going on for years now and Grandmother was involved in finding solutions. She never talked about it but we all knew it was hush-hush, top-secret, some black project weapons development.

It wasn't until later that the government began pointing fingers, at Grandma namely. Her calculations were off, sloppy they said, it was her fault that nearly every major city on the planet had been irradiated.

It had started slow at first but the radiation grew and they projected it wouldn't be long before it reached lethal levels. But it gave us enough time to gather our families and leave our cities to be settled in the country. We left almost everything behind, my books, music, possessions that I thought had defined me. I was to become a farmer, grow crops and live a simple life, and as we poured out of the cities I began to think about all the vegetables I would grow, wheat and barley we'd turn into bread and drink, the animals I would tend.... we can never go back to the cities as they will glow in the night for centuries.

the last I dreamt

trademark indifference

I learned last week (Tuesday I think) that my general malaise, my apathy to life was the subject of copyright; someone had gone and trademarked my indifference, my disengagement and total lack of direction in life. Now the matter of litigation and for legal reasons I can say little except: what the hell am I supposed to do now? If I say so much as “I give up” or “I just don’t care anymore” I owe some goddamn opportunity capitalist bastard royalties. And until the lawyers sort it all out, my counsel advises me to do something with my life.

stories from the line - part 2

Hi. I just like to apologise to you, the guy on the Upfield line today, to you the man in the beard sitting next to the woman in the hijaab. You were pretty upset. I could see this. I sat almost opposite you. It seemed as though you might almost burst into tears, grasping your bag in one hand and with the other checking your mobile phone. I tried very hard to focus on my book (Solaris by Stanislav Lem if you're interested) but these thoughts kept entering my head. Firey death, shattered glass, severed tendons, seared flesh... darkness and then that retching smell of burning chemicals and skin. Again I would like to apologise.

I mean what does a bomber feel before, well, before he kills himself and those around him? Does he cry? I suppose not. Although I think that if I was to be a victim of a suicide bomber I would like him (or her) to cry before we both die.

koan

Am I a straight acting gay or a straight acting gay?

The Lord sayeth...

...that the eighth ring of hell be reserved for those that chewith and then placeth their gum on seats and under tables, on buses and trains and in libraries and many other such places heretofore mentioned. For much time is spent to removeth said filth from one's clothing and other property and this is thus a distraction from the adoration of God and a tool of the Devil. Gum that is chewed and never swallowed is unnatural, for food that is nashed with one's teeth and is not eaten is unclean and is an afront to God's earthly design (Leviticus 11:48). Be here warned: to chewith the gum is to partake in sin and draw yourself from God. To placeth it once chewed in anything but a bin is to invite eternal damnation.

Now let us now pray.

the haunting

Last night I dreamt I was a ghost who haunted a video store run and owned by Pakistani migrant who smoked too much, with an ashtray brimming with ash and stubbed filters; but he was friendly to his customers with a real passion for cinema and sometimes when the store was closed and there was no one else around he would talk to me the ghost and would watch films with me. I would listen in wide-eyed amazement at his vast knowledge of movie trivia but I was a lonely ghost and a selfish ghost who was not satisfied with living life in the shadows. I was a ghost who knew the video store owner had lung cancer because ghosts know the ways of death and I said nothing as he smoked and he smoked and on the day he went to hospital I knew what the diagnosis would be: I would have company all day and every day.

the last I dreamt

God bless you Kenneth Branagh

For the last few nights I've been waking just after three-ay-em on some odd numbered minute, suddenly and gasping for air as if in my sleep I’d forgotten to breathe. It feels as though my heart stops… and I panick: hot white panick and I am bright awake. It takes me maybe forty-five minutes, curled-in-a-ball-on-the-floor, muscles twitching to calm down enough to sleep. In fact I've found a safe and drug free method to do this that might peak the curiosity of you holistic medicos and aficionados out there. I've found that by watching the BBC’s documentary Walking with Dinosaurs I can fall asleep with in the hour. There is something about Kenneth Branagh’s voice I think that soothes me, calms me down and rocks me to sleep… I’m not sure what it is or why it works, but it works and so I go with it. Maybe further research is warranted, although not by me. At times like this I try not to think about it too much. Thinking is the problem; thinking just loops around and accelerates until sub-thought particles reach just sub-light speed.

Did you know that death is odd numbered?

I’ve been dreaming a lot too. I can’t remember them all that clearly (although the previous post is an example of one) but when I wake up the following morning I feel like I’ve barely slept. Then over the day I find myself being hit with multiple sensations of déjà vu, feelings of having seen and heard it all before, in a dream, some mundane dream derived from equally mundane precognitive powers. Or perhaps it's a side effect of working an endlessly repetitive day job: a job that's the intellectual equivalent of a brain slip-sliding about on wet concrete. That as a coping mechanism my subconscious is repressing my memories albeit with a small amount of seepage, that in fact I have seen and done it all again and again and again.

Note to self: I must think about buying Walking with Beasts. Again God bless you Kenneth Branagh.

footscray zombie

I dreamt this Friday last week:

It was Saturday morning and I was on the way to my English student’s house in Maribyrnong, a suburb in Melbourne’s west. I’ve been doing this recently, been helping him get his licence, we’ve been meeting at his house first and then driving to school once his wife had plied me with enough fruit and juice and tea. It was a wet and green morning, trees dripping, the rainwater collecting in the imperfections of the footpath and road. The Maribyrnong river was deep and reflective and swollen clouds moved away east. The streets around me were deserted and I found myself in front of a modest community hall, maybe built around the 1930s or 40s and long ago it might have held the Saturday night dances of the working-class. Low-pitch noises from within attract me, conversation that’s heard through solid walls. Forgetting what I was doing I investigate, walking around the building to locate an open door: I enter. The hall has been converted into an unpresumptuous Buddhist temple, reds and yellows; monks sit on cushions in what I assume is quiet contemplation. I am noticed. Their faces turn and I am hit with montage of dead faces: pale and sunken, blood clotted beneath the surface skin. In George Romero style I am surrounded by the living dead, zombie Buddhist monks moving towards me, grasping mindlessly.

The sun was hidden by cloud and the day grew dark and I found myself running along a strip of shops, all closed, all abandoned, pursued by an increasing number of these creatures, climbing out from the edges of my imagination at the prospect of new flesh. I am grabbed from behind and dragged into one of the nearby shops (perhaps an old milkbar or spice shop) and I am surrounded in this blacked-out store not by zombies but by four or more women, short but well built women who exude confidence and competence. I am told in eastern European accents, maybe Polish, maybe Greek, Russian and even Italian that the plague of undead is not as it seems. There are forces at work whose expressed intension is to push the old residents out of the west. “Gentrification my darling,” one said. “You must have noticed the new development going on around, land prices are skyrocketing out here. It’s housing for the rich well-to-do and they want the old residents out!” Perfect symmetry to have some succumb to the horror of zombiism and leave the rest to be consumed, devoured, and eaten by their neighbours.

The women drag out an old fire extinguisher with a hand pump used to build pressure. “We’re not going to abandon them, our friends, our neighbours and we’re not going to kill them either. So forget decapitation. We have devised a cure instead darling. The cure is alcohol based and all we need to do is spray it on the zombie and pow!”

At this point I woke up.

postscript: while some artist licence has been taken (such as the dialogue) the events portrayed are as good as I can remember them.

the last I dreamt

stories from the line - part I

The handset of the public phone swings in the anaemic yellow glow of Flemington Bridge train station. A man in blue cap and DADA streetwear, wiry and stretched paces to-and-fro on the platform opposite: citybound. Darting about with the intensity of an amphetamine fuelled frenzy, his face red and eyes scrunched up blinking, his hand metering out some beat with a nervous tic or toc; he turns away, flinging himself at the phone, grabbing the receiver, screaming soundless obscenities through copper and maybe fibre optic channels of the telephone network. His anger converted into little electrons and photons passing countless k’s to some poorly formed object of my imagination: a girlfriend, bestfriend, dealer or customer. I don’t know... maybe all of the above. A day of intellectual RSI in my nine-to-five (more like seven) has all but rendered my imagination inert and I am left with other people’s ideas and stereotypes to plug the gaps. I cannot be bothered thinking.

Gesticulating with the finesse of an epileptic, the man throws the receiver back down. The handset swings on its taut cord as the man returns to his pacing, counting, composing himself for another round. I rest my head against the train window removing my beanie to feel the cool glass against my forehead. Who is on the other line? Are there recomposited sounds of tears, pleading, apologies, lies or just more screaming? Referencing Don Delillo: it’s all just waves and radiation.

My eyes burn from behind with exhaustion and the train pulls out of the station. I watch the man pick the phone back up and resume sending.

my bad spanish grammar

Just a little name change from estoy to soy temporal. It just so happens that there is two "to be" verbs in Spanish: Estar and Ser... and I of course used the wrong one. I think I understand why too: I am permanently in a state of impermanence... entonces hago un poco cambio. I think my spanish teacher thinks I am weird (or a wanker) too. "Can you give me a context for that?" she asks, her head to the side. Um. Por ejemplo: el hombre es mortal. The man is mortal. "Like to to be or not to be, you mean? Ser o no ser?" Sí. "That's very existential Glen. In that case you would have to say 'soy temporal'."

evolution is just a theory...

Depending on the outcome of a US federal court case this year the science classes of a public school in the Dover School District, Pennsylvania may find their evolution lessons preceded by something of a disclaimer. "…Because Darwin's Theory is a theory,” the district super-intendant would read, “it continues to be tested as new evidence is discovered. The Theory is not a fact. Gaps in the Theory exist for which there is no evidence.” Advocates claim that they are attempting to strengthen and not weaken science as their critics argue. With what they call Intelligent Design Theory, proponents mean to challenge what they describe as the “Darwinist Inquisition” that has spread through out public educational institutions, stifling genuine scientific inquiry and anything that might challenge Darwinist orthodoxy. They offer what they argue is genuine and scientific alternative to evolution.

“A theory is defined as a well-tested explanation that unifies a broad range of observations. Intelligent Design is an explanation of the origin of life that differs from Darwin's view,” the super-intendant continues. Proponents of Intelligent Design point to holes and errors in the logic of evolution and its reliance on the chaotic nature of the universe, i.e. random mutation. According to the Discovery Institute, a conservative Christian think-tank that has been at the forefront of promoting origins science, ID is a scientific theory that “holds that certain features of the universe and of living things are best explained by an intelligent cause, not an undirected process such as natural selection.” They argue that their are elements far too complex to be coincidental and they mean to scientifically prove that there is nothing random about 'evolution'. The Institute and many defenders of ID are at pains however, to point out that their theory is separate from creationism, a literal interpretation of the bible and not science, nor do they claim that theories come close to determining the identity of this creator.

So the super-intendant reads on: “The reference book, Of Pandas and People, is available for students who might be interested in gaining an understanding of what Intelligent Design actually involves. With respect to any theory, students are encouraged to keep an open mind. The school leaves the discussion of the Origins of Life to individual students and their families…” Similarly the Discovery Institute do not advocate the teaching of ID in classrooms, instead they urge that states and school districts “focus on teaching students more about evolutionary theory, including telling them about some of the theory's problems.” In sum “evolution should be taught as a scientific theory that is open to critical scrutiny, not as a sacred dogma that can't be questioned.”

It all seems reasonable enough.

Now I could take the view that all this is really the wolf in sheep’s clothing. That Discovery Institute, as one critic put it “use intelligent design as a wedge to undermine evolution with scientific-sounding arguments and thereby advance a conservative religious-political agenda,” by highlighting flaws real or apparent in the science of evolution to a largely unscientific and generally undiscerning public.

Instead I choose to accept their claims as genuine, that they are defending science from evolutionist dogmatic beliefs in favour of more dispassionate objectivity. Never mind that many of the Institute are staunchly Christian and that on occasion they might overstep the bounds of science. For example when the Institute’s William Dembski (with doctorates in mathematics and philosophy) said at a National Religious Broadcasters meeting that “if there's anything that I think has blocked the growth of Christ [and] the free reign of the Spirit and people accepting the Scripture and Jesus Christ, it is the Darwinian naturalistic view.... It's important that we understand the world. God has created it; Jesus is incarnate in the world.”

In the spirit of this pluralism that conservative Christianity has taken to heart in defence of science, not to further their own religious objectives but to further objective (and rigorous) scientific inquiry I offer my own disclaimer in the hope that in this spirit it is also accepted with open arms and churches across the world adopt this or something similar to precede their sermons.

It reads:

“Because Christianity is just a belief it must not be confused with science that uses verifiable facts to support theories based on observation. There is as yet no proof that God exists and there is certainly no evidence to suggest that the events in the bible have a supernatural explanation. While Christianity is a belief that gives spiritual and moral guidance to millions across the world the same words are interpreted differently, as religion is based on personal faith there cannot be one correct interpretation. Indeed there are many faiths different from that which is presented to you now, equally based on belief and may or may not be equally valid or correct as Christianity. We have placed their texts and promotional literature in the lobby should anyone be curious after completion of today’s service.”

Links:

http://www.discovery.org/

Steve Benen, The Discovery Institute: Genesis Of 'Intelligent Design,' Americans United for Separation of Church and State
http://www.au.org/site/News2?page=NewsArticle&id=5582&abbr=cs_

boogey man

The inner city glow reflects off the dispersing cloud cover, as strong winds blast Melbourne. Branches crack, grown and screech against windows while the front gate bangs open and shut, as I try to peg my clothing to the clothes-line. Fumbling with pegs as I hold the hills hoist still with the other hand, spinning, catching the wind every time I bend down to the basket; the temperature is mild and the sky is moonless but the fluorescent incandescence of the public housing tower down the road casts an odd light onto the backyard. Ever since I was a kid weather like this had inspired in me a sense of drama. I’d watched a TV documentary when I was eight or nine about Nostradamus as wind had whipped around the house (much like this) and I had been convinced that this was the beginning of the end that he had prophesied.

What a shitty night I’ve had, I think to myself: dinner with the family in some Indian restaurant in Camberwell that started with an argument and ended in almost total breakdown in communication. The family got on fine that is, light hearted, amiable chatting going on all around me… except I spent the night staring intently at my curry, the waiters, the chef preparing naan or roti or whatever in some glass booth extension to the kitchen. Anything to distract myself from the fact I was sitting there sullen not talking to anyone. In the end I made my excuses and left placing a twenty on the table. I arrived home feeling miserable and sorry for myself and with little else to do I set about doing the washing.

There seems something wrong about drying your clothes at night- relying on the wind. More than sheer lack of organization and planning, but something more base and primal, it feels unnatural. As if I were abandoning the sun and light, the true partner of the dried cloth for the unholy night: a pact with the devil. Maybe there is some verse in Leviticus that prohibits all this. I think this as I hang my clothing, dead palm leaves drop from the tree behind me as I stare out between my t-shirts, towel and pants as they rotate in the wind, to the alleyway that runs behind my place. A chill runs through me and I almost expect someone to walk past. Shaking my head, I decide to concentrate on the task at hand: pegging up my undies.

It is late and the rest of the house is asleep, silent and all I can hear is the sound of the wind, the gate and the trees rustling around me. I remember the childhood feeling of being the last left to fall asleep, listening to the sounds outside, scared to look out behind the blinds, to go to the toilet, afraid of what I might see or who or what might be out there. Aware the heavy darkness that enveloped the house, something menacing on the other side of the wall: an ashen face that would appear at the window if I paused just long enough in front of it.

I recall the story of Albert Fish that I read a couple of months ago: a house painter who drifted across the United States in the inter-war and boasted to having killed a child in twenty-three American states. A frail and emaciated old man with grey hair and moustache, Fish lured children away from their homes (many of them African-American) with money and candy where he molested, tortured, murdered and ate many of them. In New York the three year old witness to an abduction, found on the roof of his family’s appartment block, was asked about the disappearance of his four-year old playmate: he replied “the boogey man took him.” Sentenced to death by electrocution, Fish was executed on January 16, 1936 and in the end could offer little if any account for his crimes other than what he called his blood lust and a psuedo religious cause, citing imaginary bible verses like “Happy is he that taketh Thy little ones and dasheth their heads against the stones.” Had God thought what he did wrong, Fish reasoned, then “an angel would have stopped me, just as an angel stopped Abraham in the Bible.”

I looked at the fence again and accuse myself of doing this on purpose, trying to freak myself out.

Grabbing the clothing basket I dart up the pathway to the backdoor making sure not turn around. Closing the laundry door behind me, locking one, two three locks with inner city ease and I dump the basket, reaching around to turn out the porch light only to see a man’s head silhouetted through the opaque glass only to flick the light switch. FUCK! I jump back. Too scared to turn the light back on, to move, I stand perfectly still. I listen and hear nothing, just the afore mentioned wind, trees and gate.

BOOGEY MAN!

epiphany

I dreamt I met God. I was swept through darkness, distance, space and time to the edge of everything, where beginnings and endings curve into one point: there a brilliant shining and flaring green sun roared from the centre. My limbs in flux, alive and energised, reverberating from the enormous power of this the engine that created the universe, which generated existence itself. I sensed something immense and incompressible yet distant from the anthropomorphic imaginings of levantian Bronze Age mystics, something detached and alien. Forgive me for sounding like an episode of Star Trek, or the blurb of some pulp science fiction novel but I felt no warmth or love or compassion, nothing remotely human, only a presence that hummed through my bones, the fibres of every muscle, my veins and capillaries. Oh God I believe! I believe. God I throw myself at Your mercy. I will become born again, whatever... washed of my sinful ways, anything, just tell me what to do.

God is it wrong to be a homosexual?

Nothing… there was just the noise of the burning green sun.

connecting

The distant midday sun shines upon the steel train tracks, their rusted stain weeping into the rubble of stone and sleepers that support them. It is still winter but the chanced break in the clouds is a pleasant reminder of warmer weather as I sit and regard my surroundings. The digital display that denotes time and destination of the next train, the plastic bin liner that now flaps in the chill breeze, and the discoloured red-brickwork that remembers the steam engine.

A piano concerto—perhaps Chopin—cracks and pips lo-fi on the station’s loudspeakers as I wait for the 12:45 city-bound. With quick careful glances and avoiding eye contact I survey my fellow commuters, their faces downward and distracted. I am caught thinking about the complex and fraught trajectories that have now entered to within five metres of my own. Stuck in transit between points, from where they were and where they would like to be, this is empty time.

It then begins to rain. Shining and sparkling it falls to earth, the sky strikes clear blue; the sound of rain hitting the asphalt platform, gravel and tracks is met as the pianist, metered to a cosmic synergy, reaches the concertos’ crescendo. A chill runs up my spine bringing with it a thought: no moment can be meaningless or vacant. Some occur with such beauty and intent that they cannot help but touch those moments surrounding them, their influence spreading far beyond the visible horizon.

I look up and see my train approaching. The rain stops and the robotic announcer’s voice washes out the music and with it my reverie. I stand and turn to the woman beside me, smiling I catch her gaze. Her face begins to brighten and although awkwardly and with cautious reservation she nods and smiles in acknowledgement. Gathering her belongings, she stands and we walk to the carriage door, catching the 12:45 city-bound together.

sunday market scientologists

Two men sat next to the Scientology stand at the Sunday market, their legs crossed quietly chatting to each other, hushed and detached from the flow of human traffic. These scientologists were here in this backwater outer Melbourne suburb no doubt to illuminate the uninitiate with the promise of self-improvement, the actualisation of potential heretofore untapped. Stacked in thoughtful storefrontish display were copies of L. Ron Hubbard’s Dianetics with dramatic illustrations of exploding volcanos on their front covers. Picking up a copy I hope to attract one of the men’s attention, eyeing the blurb without really reading it. But they kept talking. Next to a stack of books, a sign reads "Free Stress Test." I put the book down glancing at what I had really come to see, their e-meter. Essentially a black box, arrayed with dials and a needle-gauge, it is a central part to this stress test. The latest technology in engram, or bad memory detection, in effect measuring the intensity of my negative thoughts. Used in tandom with the trained councel of an Auditor, the box would undoubtedly determine how inadequate I was, how irrational and emotionally unstable: the textbook case of a malfunctioning thetan. Delving questions, well chosen pauses and knowing glances would tear away my fragile facade. Hell I didn't need the pseudo-scientific tool of some science-fiction religion to tell me this.... then again it might be fun. Besides I had an afternoon to burn.... I was gunning for it.

I exhaled loudly, looking up to leave when one of the men noticed me. Lightly backhanding his friend on the thigh he motioned him to ‘attend me’. “Hi friend,” the forgetable man in his forties said as he got to his feet. “You look like someone who reads a fair bit.” Maybe it’s the glasses, I jokingly replied. He smiled stepping around the table. “I’m sure it’s more than that,” he reassured, picking up a book and offering it to me. “Have you ever heard of Dianetics friend?” I said to him that I’d heard the name but hadn’t read it, that I’d heard of the author and founder of Scientology L. Ron Hubbard. The man frowned and asked me to read the blurb to see what I thought, did I like the sound of it etc?

… So it’s all about improving yourself, yeah? I offered. He paused momentarily as if considering my answer, finally asking: “Does that idea appeal to you?” Well I can’t say self-improvement is a bad thing, keeping fit, reading, going to the theatre etc and I’m not exactly signing a blank cheque by saying so… so yeah… sure… it’s a good thing. He smiled, mentally ticking a box of approval. The man changed tack… it seemed I done good so he continued with earnest. “Did you know this ONE book, the wisdom of Dianetics has become an international phenomena, it has be translated into hundreds of different languages, some you would never have heard of.” Trying to impress me, he thought. Astound me with the authority of his knowledge, their knowledge over mine. I didn’t take kindly to this. Tell me about its philosophy, substance, how the religion can make me a better me, but don’t waste my time with games meant to make me feel stupid. I’m not impressed with numbers or testimonials, quotes used without context by people who claim to be doctors. Nor do I think popularity alone is an indicator of substance; just take box office smashes for example. I am a little sensitive this way.

Try me, I replied.

“This book,” he tapped the cover confidently “has been translated into a language called Xhosa,” accented, his tongue made a clicking sound as he said it, as if he spoke the language himself. I’d heard of that one, South African yeah? Childishly I challenged him to tell me an obscure one. He couldn’t. I kept going.

So you’re going to give this to me yeah, as a gift? Like the ones the Hari Krishnas give you outside their restaurants? (not that they don't ask for money either) “No, this is the same price as you’d expect to pay for a book in a regular bookstore, sixteen dollars.” So that's it! In order for me to understand his religion I had to cough up sixteen bucks, to find enlightenment I had to buy in. I changed the subject: what about this then? This stress tester, what does it do?

“It measures thoughts but that’s not important.” He motion back to the paperback. Cool, I said, how does it work?

Persisting he said: “It’s this that is important. It is this that is changing the lives of millions around the world.”

It’s a popular book, then? So it’d be in a library yeah? I said.

“I suppose.”

Well maybe I’ll do that then, borrow it from my local library. The scientologist looked wholly unimpressed. Using this uncomfortable silence I took the offensive. Sorry, I said, we haven’t even been introduced. I told him my name was Greg, offering my hand, a smile stretching across my face.

“Allan,” shaking it reluctantly.

So this device that measures thoughts, could I have a try? With all the eagerness of a salesman who failed to get his commission but is nonetheless constrained by store policy not to tell me to fuck-off, agreed.

Attached to the e-meter or electropsychometer were two metal rods designed to complete an electrical circuit. “Place one in each hand, relax and let your go hands loose, don’t hold them too tightly.” Similar to the lie detector, the e-meter’s needle measures the galvanic skin response, or the electrical resistance of the hand. The scientologists for their part believe that this response is a symptom of the energy created when the mind focuses on an engram or negative thoughts stored in the mind's reactive memory (it is my understanding is similar to Freud's Id).

“Now I’m going to ask you some questions, they might get personal so don’t feel obliged to answer. After all it’s the thoughts that are being measured and we only need to get a reading.” I sat there and tried to relax as he switched the machine on, the needle flying off the scale. Allan displayed a hint of satisfaction as he adjusted the dials. “Now think about your family and friends.” In reflection it is not unrealistic to assume that many of our daily stresses revolve around the relationships we have with those close to us. It wasn't a bad primer.

The needle spiked. “What was that?” he demanded. I told him I was thinking about some family problem or another. Allan it seemed didn’t like the generalist answer I had given him, and pressed for the details. What happened to the thoughts being paramount to the answers, I thought but nonetheless explained in technicolour my worry. Nonetheless the needle dropped and sagged like a middle-aged man’s erection and Allan did every thing he could to sustain it: twisting dials, demanding more details, more thoughts. As it quickly became apparent that I was now barely registering Allan blamed his subject, moi for the null reading. He accused me of needing more sleep, even of being malnourished. Where was all my emotional resistance to his questioning goddamn it? I am the preclear, I am vulnerable to his superior detached and rational mind. His frustration clear he ended the session suggesting I “need some food, go get something to eat…. and go get some sleep.”

Then again maybe he’s right.

Links:

http://religiousmovements.lib.virginia.edu/nrms/scientology.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E-meter

this is temporary....

Set on forming some tired and cliched existential mantra into digital ones and zeros so as to compete with the immensities of crap already on the internet, I write this the first entry to this blog, soy temporal. I am temporary as the distance between what I was and what I am flux with every perceptible unit of time. I am temporary when the pragmatism of the present hollows out the ideals of the past and co-opts the dreams of the future, until all I am left with is shallow memories and a commitment to continuity. I work in a job I hate in the hope it will get me somewhere better. I work in a job I hate because it pays the bills. I work in a job that I hate because I lack the imagination to leave.

This is temporary. Five years of this same shit and I tell myself this is temporary.