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.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Monday, July 25, 2005
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
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
Monday, July 04, 2005
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.
This is temporary. Five years of this same shit and I tell myself this is temporary.
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