the hasarder diaries

Porridge.

2011-06-06T08:00:00.000+09:30

With maple syrup and cream.

That is all.

Poached pears in mulled wine syrup

2011-05-25T11:25:00.003+09:30

I rarely drink alcohol, but I love cooking with wine! This is one of my favourite dishes when the pears come into season.

Thing is, I don't have one hard and fast recipe, or even quantities of ingredients. I cook to taste, to suit my mood, what's in my cupboard, how much time I have... so I find it hard to settle on one version of this dish to post. I don't like to reduce things. Well, except sauces and poaching liquids. I'll reduce the hell outta them ;)

So go with your own tastes, especially when it comes to spices, sugar and orange. Remember clove is strong and so is star anise; if not used to spices, only use one or two cloves and a bit of a star anise.

Ingredients:
Pears
Cab Sav or Merlot (or whichever red wine you have available)
A couple of Cinnamon sticks (or more if you like)
A few Cloves
A few Cardamom pods
1 Star Anise (any more will overpower the dish; use less if making a small serve)
Thick slices of Ginger
Bay leaf
Vanilla pod or two, split
Oranges (or orange juice)
Sugar
Mascarpone for serving (you can scrape the seeds out of the vanilla pods and mix them with the mascarpone if you fancy)

Take four pears (or however many will fit comfortably in your saucepan and stomach). Slice across the bottom so that they will sit upright in the saucepan. Peel them, but leave the stems on. (the alternative method is to core them, reserving the stems for decoration later).

Slice the oranges, or juice them - or juice one or two, then slice another. I tend to usually juice them, then slice off thin shavings of the peel, avoiding the pith.

Place pears, wine, orange juice, peel, and spices in a saucepan. Ideally you want a saucepan which will is taller than the pears standing up, and not have too much empty space around them which needs to be filled with liquid. You don't have to use a whole bottle of wine; I usually use about half or less to cook two or three pears. If there isn't enough liquid, you can add water - you'll only reduce it later. If the pears are too tall, you can cook them on their sides and turn them every few minutes. You can add sugar to taste at this point, but remember the liquid will get sweeter as it reduces. I usually add at least a couple of tablespoons now (sometimes a lot more, depending on the wine), and then add more later if needed. Generally the more sugar you use, the more syrup you'll end up with.

Simmer until pears are soft; this could take ten minutes to half an hour, depending on your pears, your patience and how soft you consider to be 'soft'. If the liquid reduces in this time, don't top it up, it'll just take longer to reduce after. Just roll the pears over on their side and turn every few minutes to get an even ruby colour.

once they are cooked, take them out. You can keep them somewhere warm or just set them aside. Take the peel out. And the star anise out too. And the other spices if you think their flavour is infused enough for your taste. Then add some more sugar if it's not already quite sweet, and boil it. For as long as it takes to reduce right down. For me, it's reduced enough when it can coat the back of a spoon, though that is ~~deliciously~~ dangerously close to the point where it becomes a kind of sticky mulled wine soft candy.

Coat your pears in this; it should pool around the base but also leave a lovely syrupy residue on them. Serve with a big dollop of mascarpone.

Oh and if you got fancy and cored the pears first, fill the holes with mascarpone instead and stick the stem back in the top. :)

Spiced rosewater and quince syrup

2011-04-30T23:45:00.003+09:30

Recently, a pile of quinces appeared in my fruit bowl. My dad had picked them from a tree on the side of the road.

I've never used quince before, but I love quince jelly. I was a bit uncertain about how to make jelly though, and looked for another way to use them.

Turns out I don't much like quince as a fruit; the texture is somewhat dry and fibrous. But I loved the liquid they were boiled in! Reducing it turned it into a thick ruby coloured syrup; it's delicious poured over pancakes, and as a bonus I found that a couple of spoonfuls of it works marvellously to sooth a sore throat.

So here is my recipe for quince syrup. This makes a cup or less of syrup; to make more simply double or triple all ingredients, or add extra sugar.

Ingredients:

2 quinces
6 cloves
2 cinnamon sticks
6 cardamom pods
4 thin slices of ginger
2 tablespoons of rosewater
8 tablespoons of sugar
water

Cut the quinces into quarters. Put all ingredients into a saucepan with enough water to cover. Boil for 4 hours, or until the colour is a deep reddish pink. Remove quinces and spices, and continue boiling until the liquid is reduced to a syrup and can coat the back of a spoon.

Store in the fridge.

Consolation

2011-03-19T12:10:00.000+09:30

When I was a child, blackberries were everywhere. We would traipse through creeks and along railway embankments with buckets covered in an old stocking and pick and pick and pick, coming home with scratched legs, purple stains around our mouths and a bucket of blackberries to boot.

But blackberries are not native, and choke the life out of all the local plants. Late in my childhood a massive campaign was started to poison them all; suddenly, wild blackberries were unsafe to eat, and gradually disappeared.

But one property near my house has a huge blackberry hedge. They never poison it, and I don't care. Because for a few blissful months of the year, just as I'm sad about summer ending, I can console myself every time I wander past by picking as many ripe blackberries as I can fight the wasps for. It's my favourite berry, and reminds me of my childhood. I find enough to sooth both hunger and thirst within minutes as I wander along the hedge towards the bus stop.

It makes the turn of seasons all worth it.

This summer

2011-02-27T19:31:00.001+09:30

was not so warm... although the heatwaves which make railways buckle and koalas die of thirst are no fun, I kind of feel ripped off when I have to wear gloves for all but three weeks of summer.

I miss the tropics.

My favourite thing in summer

2011-01-15T14:09:00.000+09:30

A big jug of iced lemon myrtle tea with rosewater. Yum.

Sweet haloumi with strawberries

2010-12-10T22:07:00.001+09:30

I struggle to write recipes because I rarely measure anything... I just get an idea about what might taste good and throw it together. With this one, use as much of the first three ingredients as you can, then as much of the last two as you like.

Sliced haloumi
Strawberries
Butter
Cinnamon
Honey

Fry the haloumi in butter until golden brown. Take off heat, add cinnamon and honey. Serve with fanned strawberries.

Best lentil dish ever

2010-11-15T20:20:00.001+09:30

1/4 cup rice

1/2 cup red lentils
1/4 cup soaked green lentils
1/4 cup soaked French lentils

3 cloves chopped garlic

1 small chopped red onion

1 cinnamon stick

400ml beef stock

3 small smoked ham ribs

2 bay leaves

Fry onion in oil with cinnamon stick until translucent. Add other ingredients and cook until brown and green lentils are soft, then reduce until thick.

serves one

A somewhat nautical analogy

2010-10-01T13:50:00.002+09:30

When I talk about feminism with the men in my life....

I feel like myself and all the women I know are trying to stay afloat
in the ocean

and the men are sailing around in boats, saying "I just don't see
water in my life. My feet aren't even wet"

while pissing over the sides

and some of them don't mind us hanging onto the edge

(as long as we don't complain about them pissing over it onto us.
Because our complaining would make them too uncomfortable)

but they won't stop others stomping on our fingers because they just
don't see boats as a problem in their lives

and they say it's not the ocean that separates us. They say it's not
the boats that separate us. They say they'd be quite happy to share,
if our fingers are strong enough to hang on.

But if we're not strong enough, well there's nothing they can do to
help. Because the only reason we're drowning is because we want to see
water. We want to see boats. And if we don't have a boat of our own,
well we should make one out here in the ocean. And since we're
choosing to drown rather than make a boat, obviously that proves we
didn't actually want a boat at all.

Borlotti and Sage Dip

2010-09-10T11:51:00.000+09:30

This savoury recipe can be served as a dip with toasted pita bread wedges or used as a spread for sandwiches. The beans can be mashed to a smooth texture or left a bit chunky according to personal preference.

Prep Time: 10 mins

Total Time: 10 mins

Ingredients:

1 (400 g) cans borlotti beans
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon sesame oil
1 tablespoon sage, finely chopped
3 tablespoons sun-dried tomatoes, finely chopped

Directions:

Mash the Borlotti beans, adding olive oil half way through the process.
Add the sesame oil, sage, and semi-dried tomatoes and mix thoroughly.

Thyme Oil

2010-09-07T22:27:00.002+09:30

This oil is very simple. Drizzle over roasting pumpkin and potatoes, or use a spoonful with butter or oil when frying mushrooms. It is also good with bacon or used in salads, soups and stews. Thyme Oil can be used soon after making it, but the flavour fully develops over a few days until it is quite strong. If you want a milder flavour, use twice as much oil or half as much herb. Keeps for around three weeks.

Makes 1/2 cup

Prep Time: 2 mins

Total Time: 2 mins

Ingredients:

1/2 cup olive oil
1/4 cup fresh thyme

Directions:

Prep Time: 2 mins

Total Time: 2 mins

Chop the thyme.
Combine thyme and oil in a glass jar and seal.

Tuna Patties

2010-09-03T19:18:00.001+09:30

These patties are delicious on top of salad greens and drizzled with some Kewpie mayonnaise, or in a burger. I made them for the first time without measuring, so I've guessed the amounts. Feel free to adjust to taste!

serves 4

Prep Time: 5 mins

Total Time: 15 mins

Ingredients:

400 g tuna
3 eggs
1/2 cup Rice Crumbs (or bread crumbs)
1 teaspoon green curry paste
1 tablespoon ketjap manis (sweet soy sauce)
1 tablespoon light soy sauce
3 -4 tablespoons sweet chili sauce
1/2 teaspoon fish sauce
1 finely shredded kaffir lime leaf

Directions:

Mix ingredients together in a large bowl.
Form into patties (if the mixture is too runny, add extra crumbs. If too dry, add an extra egg or a little water).
Fry until golden brown on each side.

Simple Strawberry and Spinach Salad

2010-08-23T03:42:00.001+09:30

A quick, easy side salad that's visually striking and very tasty.

Serves 4

Prep Time: 10 mins

Total Time: 10 mins

Ingredients:

250 g strawberries, quartered
100 g baby spinach, washed
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
1 teaspoon brown sugar

Directions:

Combine Oliver Oil, Balsamic Vinegar and Brown Sugar thoroughly.
Place Spinach in a bowl and place Strawberries on top.
Drizzle dressing over Strawberries and wait 5 minutes before serving.

Mushroom Sauce

2010-08-21T11:09:00.000+09:30

This rich sauce is great over steak or schnitzel.

Prep Time: 10 mins

Total Time: 15 mins

Ingredients:

4 medium size mushrooms, thinly sliced
2 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon flour
1 1/2 cups beef stock
2 tablespoons mushroom soy sauce
1 tablespoon red wine
1 pinch sugar, if needed
salt and pepper

Directions:

On a low heat, melt butter and add mushrooms, frying briefly.
Add flour, stir until a paste is formed around the mushrooms with no lumps. Add more flour if paste is too liquid.
Gradually add the beef stock, stirring.
Add mushroom soy and red wine. Taste and add sugar if required to counter the wine, add salt and pepper.
Cook on a low heat until reduced, stirring regularly.

Rakott Krumpli

2010-08-08T16:42:00.001+09:30

A Hungarian potato and egg casserole. Can be made using a white sauce instead of sour cream for a thicker, less oily dish.

Serves 4

Prep Time: 30 mins

Total Time: 1 hr

Ingredients:

6 boiled potatoes
4 hard-boiled eggs
250 ml sour cream
100 g slicedspeck, bacon or 100 g Hungarian sausage
100 g grated cheese
salt and pepper

Directions:

Slice potatoes and eggs.
Grease a baking dish.
Place alternating layers of sour cream, potato, egg and speck until all used.
Sprinkle grated cheese on top.
Bake at 180 degress for 20 mins or until brown.

Scarborough Fair Sandwich

2010-08-07T09:43:00.003+09:30

This is a simple and delicious sandwich. Fresh herbs are absolutely essential! Also good with added basil. The butter creates a richer sandwich but can be omitted.

Serves 1

Prep Time: 5 mins

Total Time: 15 mins

Ingredients:

* 1 egg
* 1 teaspoon chopped fresh parsley
* 1 teaspoon chopped fresh sage
* 1/2 teaspoon finely chopped fresh rosemary
* 1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme
* 1 teaspoon butter
* 1 tablespoon mayonnaise
* 2 slices bread

Directions:

1. Hard boil the egg (7-10 minutes) and remove the shell.
2. Roughly mash the egg and add butter, mayonnaise and herbs. Mix well.
3. Spread on bread and cover with other slice of bread. ;-).

Recipes ahoy!

2010-08-07T09:33:00.001+09:30

There once was a lovely website called Recipezaar. I had an account on there, where I put up a few of my recipes. It was bought out, and is now called Food.com. It's different, and it put the wind of change up me. So I thought, now is a very opportune time to copy those recipes of mine onto my own site where I know they'll be safe and sound.

Dr Who, the white saviour mentality and orangutans

2010-07-22T16:58:00.005+09:30

This is something I thought of when watching the episode the Lodger. It's not a review of the episode, just something that came up in it.

Set the scene: A girl tells the Doctor that she saw a doco about orangutans, and now her greatest desire (almost, but that's another thing) is to help them - but unfortunately, she has no skills or training that are of any use. He encourages her to go for it anyway. At the end of the episode, she tells him that she found an organisation which would take her on as a volunteer and she was heading to Borneo to start.

So what's wrong with that, you ask? Well, nothing. That is, if we see this as a story about a girl having the guts to go follow her dreams.

But there's a whole lot wrong with it if we see it in terms of orangutan conservation.

Dr Who is the classic white saviour. He is so much smarter, so much more educated, so much more technologically advanced than anyone else, that he's able to rescue ever other species in the universe, repeatedly. They cannot do it without him, even in situations where he has no more experience or understanding than they do.

And that mentality is so pervasive that he passes it on unconsciously to this girl. She wants to help? Of course she can! Absolute confidence that she is innately able to be helpful, by dint of her mere white presence, in spite of having no relevant education, experience or skills to share.

But I'd tell her that the reality is: They don't need you.

Nope. They really don't.

If you've got no skills, why the hell do you think you'd be of use anyway? Newsflash: there are people living in Borneo. What makes you think that your unskilled self is better than they are at helping? Your white privilege, that's what.

Because the truth is they don't need your help - that is, they don't need you. They need your money.

What you have isn't skills. You have privilege. Because you have that, you have money. You can take unpaid time off work. You can afford a few plane tickets. You can afford to apply for a passport. You can afford insurance and vaccinations. You can afford to stockpile enough money to live off while you go.

But there is nothing you can do once you get there that the locals are not capable of doing themselves. There are local people interested in orangutan conservation, working in orangutan conservation - and they only reason they don't do more than they are already doing is lack of money.

What about the orangutans themselves? They don't actually benefit from western volunteers coming in. At worst, you can spread diseases which can ultimately kill them - even diseases as common as the flu. And on an emotional level, if you interact closely with them they will develop a bond with you - then what happens when you go? How do you think it would feel when that happened, time and time again, making friends who stay a few months and then leave, year after year? It's traumatic. And if you don't get attached, if you just have minimal contact - then they learn to become acclimatised to minimal contact with a wide variety of people, which leads to dangers in the future when they enter villages and raid bins because they are so used to being around strange people.

It's far, far better for the orangutans to be cared for consistently over the years by a core of local people who are stable and won't come and go. But for that to happen, these people have to be paid. Their country is different; they simply can't afford to put the volunteer hours and spare cash into this - they haven't got spare hours or spare cash. For them to be able to do it, they need to be paid. That's where your donor dollars come in.

For the cost of your airfare, your accommodation, your vaccinations - you could pay an organisation to employ someone for a year as well as feed, accommodate and give medical care to orangutans for the same amount of time. Or you could go to Borneo, stay for a few weeks doing something that could be just as well done by a local, and leave the place as impoverished as ever to await the next volunteer while you go home patting yourself on the back for 'doing something for the orangutans'.

Strangely enough, what I've noticed is how few people want to donate money. Out of all the people who have expressed an interest in orangutans to me, or an interest in going to help them, only a couple have actually put their money where their mouth is. Why's that? All I can put it down to is the 'feel-good factor' - people want to do something that makes them feel warm and fuzzy. An 'experience' with orangutans does that - handing over money rarely does.

But there is one other thing that makes me wonder. People in many countries keep orangutans as pets. So often I've heard people here express horror and bewilderment at that - 'how could they do it?' And yet, when I post pictures of cute orangutan babies, crawling around in nappies or being held by human surrogate mothers - the main reaction I get is "I WANT ONE!" or "I want to do that!' It's the same impulse - they're so similar to us, they play on our emotions, they ARE cute and cuddly. But since we have a learned prohibition against keeping them as pets, we channel that desire into a form which is morally acceptable to us - helping them. But I often think it's the same desire. Those who keep wild animals as pets often argue that they're giving them a better, healthier, safer and longer life than they would have had in the wild. We all rationalise our behaviour somehow.

People ask me how to get involved in orangutan conservation. What they want to know is how to get a position at an orangutan facility in Borneo so they can have some up close and personal involvement with their conservation. But be honest with yourself. Are you looking to have a warm fuzzy orangutan experience? Or do you really, really REALLY want to help? Because the best way you can help is to stay away from the warm fuzzy tourist experience, stay away from the volunteer tourism, and just send every spare dollar, pound or euro you have to an organisation like OLT, BOS, or AOP.

Dear sleep

2010-06-29T03:32:00.000+09:30

Where are you? I miss you!
With out you there I bump into walls. I can't think straight. I can't remember things. Without you there I toss and turn all night. Without you I am useless.

Come back, sleep! I need you!

Valuble things

2010-05-20T21:04:00.000+09:30

I have a friend who can make me laugh like a seal.

Normal transmission will resume shortly

2010-04-29T20:58:00.001+09:30

Still catching up.. no time to blog...

The luck dragon just swooped down and bestowed it on me.

2010-03-10T14:06:00.000+09:30

People say, you're so lucky! I'd love to do that! That's my childhood dream!

And now, I see how hollow those words are. Because if you really want to do it, if you have a burning ambition, then you probably can do it. In fact, you could probably do anything. But you don't. That's the thing. You don't do it. Instead, you plan other things. And yet you say, I want to do that. So why don't you?

Empty words. They're not helpful. They don't make my job easier. They don't make me feel better. They don't relieve the stress or the fear or the financial burden. They just sound hollow and meaningless.

If you're so jealous, start saving. Raise some funds. Learn something. Get a skill. Make connections. I'm not lucky -I'm dedicated. There's a difference - and when you call me lucky, you negate all the real work I had to do to get here, the work you too could do if you really wanted it so much.

Don't get envious - get active. Start helping. What's stopping you?

I'll never live like common people...

2010-02-19T20:35:00.005+09:30

There is a town with over 350,000 people in it. Only two of them are Caucasian.

And I am one of them.

It is a strange experience. People stare at me on the street wherever I go. I feel raw and exposed. And rich. Filthy, filthy rich. I can make more money in a day back home that they do in a month.

And apparently I am beautiful... my white skin and big nose makes me the most desirable woman in town.

Oh, the prospect of money and a free trip outta here helps too.

In the house where I stay, I don't feel so strange. I play with the children, I talk and joke with the adults. But then someone else washes my clothes, cleans up after me and cooks for me. I have never boarded with anyone before, and can't help feeling like a colonial with servants. It is an awful feeling. I try and help and they let me a bit, but the combination of 'honoured guest' and 'paying guest' makes them feel worse if I do. They are not doing following their cultural norms and not earning their money if I help.

But when I go out, men stare at me. All. The Time. All the way through town. I hate it.

The crushing poverty of the people around me makes me feel ashamed of my good fortune. But then I remember the hardship, poverty and hunger my family endured as refugees, and I feel grateful. Immensely grateful for the sacrifices they made and the hard work they did to give me such a good easy life. I hope I don't ever take it for granted again.

Despite all that, I am happy and content here. Being here is a blessing for me. And I can understand why some people look upon me with resentment or desire. I am grateful to have made good friends, grateful to be given the opportunity to be here. But I can't get the song Common People outta my brain..

"you will never understand how it feels to live your life
with no meaning or control
and with nowhere else to go...."

2010-01-11T16:15:00.000+09:30

raising awareness

2010-01-09T11:49:00.005+09:30

Lately, I've been thinking hard about consumerism. Thinking hard about the choices we make; about all the things we do and buy which are not presented as choices. I've been thinking about the divide between what people think, and their self-identity, and what they actually do.

This post on lifestyle activism made me laugh. And this post about the latest status update meme made me laugh too. But it makes me sad that people think they are doing good while actually they are doing nothing.

Raising awareness. What does that mean? How does that translate into change? Well, most of the time it doesn't. You can set your facebook status to say anything you want. Saying 'bad palm oil' on facebook won't get it banned - it may make you feel warm and fuzzy for 'doing good', but actually no good has been done. Telling everyone the colour of your bra may make them think about breast cancer - but just thinking about it is useless. Raising awareness is liberal hippie bullshit unless it is backed up by meaningful action.

There are two sides to this in my head. One is 'good' people, who make consumer choices which are not just detrimental, but directly causing pain, suffering and death. People don't think, "I want to kill an orangutan today, and help contribute to the extinction of the species." They think "hmm, might go buy a broom handle. And while I'm at it, I'll pick up a packet of biscuits as well." 80% of the plywood in the USA comes from old growth forest, orangutan habitat. But we don't think of orangutans when we buy it. We don't want to destroy the forest or send hundreds, thousands of species to extinction. We just want to build a bookshelf.

So yes, I'd like people's awareness raised, because our society is set up so that we don't have to think about the consequences of our consumer choices, don't have to think of what happens around the world to get our cheap and easy products on the shelf. We have little or no knowledge of how or where our goods are produced. It's the privilege of ignorance. But there's little point 'raising awareness' if it isn't going to translate into action.

Because the other side of the coin is those who seem to think that mindpower will somehow fix things. This is the 'if I think pure thoughts the energy of the earth will be raised and change will happen" attitude. Yeah, hippie bullshit. One of my mates asked me what was needed to save the orangutans. I said, "Money. You're a musician - set up a benefit gig. Raise funds. Busk. We need money to pay the forest patrols, money to buy land for habitat, money to pay for food and medication. WE NEED MONEY."

So what did she do? Set up a facebook event, for people to change their status to 'save the orangutan, ban palm oil'. And somehow, she managed to tell herself that it would make a difference, that she was doing something for the orangutans.

Relief

2010-01-08T11:47:00.000+09:30

Remember the two people I was afraid had been lost in the fires?

I found them, safe and well. Their eyes are haunted, but they are safe.

Happy days.

Reflections

2009-12-25T23:38:00.003+09:30

It's hard to believe the decade is nearly over. Well, it's not that hard. Maybe what's hard is remembering the beginning of the decade, thinking of all the things which have changed since then, and all the things which haven't. It seems so long ago now.

Something shifted in me, about half-way through this decade. I became restless, and caught a glimpse of something more... since then I've been following that vision, not knowing where it would take me, but knowing there was something more out there for me.

And I'm happy to say that I'm really looking forward to the next decade.

Tired.

2009-11-29T00:56:00.000+09:30

So. Very. Tired.

All aboard the clue boat...*

2009-10-25T11:47:00.006+09:30

Mine is a strange and terrible affliction.

I suffer from foot in mouth disease.

Or rather, the people around me suffer from my foot in mouth disease. No matter how thoughtful or empathetic I am, I can only take my foot out of my mouth long enough to put the other one in.

Witness my latest moment of idiotic thoughtlessness.

I went up to a group of Aboriginal people to ask for a light. We made a bit of small talk, and I asked where they were from. They said they were from the central desert. And I responded: "Really? Hey, do you have some relatives in there?" Pointing behind them - at the zoo.

They gave me a look of what the fuck. I continued, "because I was just talking to a woman in there, with a toddler, and a beanie, she comes from the desert..." Their faces cleared and they relaxed. "Yeah, that's my Aunty."

And I didn't even realise the possible implications of what I had said until afterwards when the clue boat came by and smacked me in the back of the head.

Way to imitate a racist fuckwit, Cinnamon Girl.

*an expression totally ripped from this excellent post by Harriet Jacobs.

A piece of ableist language I could really do without.

2009-10-19T20:34:00.001+09:30

I've read a few posts lately about ableist language; things like 'blinded by privilege' or 'that's so lame' or that judge must be insane'. But there's one piece of ableist language that I personally could really, really do without.

It's that dreaded question, upon meeting: So, what do you do for a living?

It hurts. And what's worse, people often don't stop there; they keep on asking. 'Oh, you don't work? Why not? So are you on the dole then? Are you looking for work? But how do you afford to live? A pension? What are you on a pension for?"

Honestly, sometimes I just want to tattoo it on my forehead: "Hi, I'm Cinnamon Girl, and I'm insane. Thanks for the tax dollars!"

You see, I have a psychiatric disorder, and receive a disability support pension as a result. I don't work to make my living. I also don't want to disclose to every last person I meet that I have a mental illness. But, with that ~~loaded~~ innocent question, that's pretty much what I'm forced to do.

It hurts because there's a lot of people out there who resent pensioners. There's a lot of people out there who don't believe that mental illness is real. I've been sneered at more times than I can count by bus drivers who look at my card, look me up and down (noting the lack of wheelchair and apparently fully-functional body) and mumble 'yeah right' under their breath. I've had people get angry that they pay tax dammit and people like me are bludging off the system because we're just lazy and we're scamming their tax dollars dammit.

Never mind the excruciating and rigorous process I had to go through to get the pension - no, you'd think people just walk in off the street with a fake sickness certificate and sign on the dotted line.

Never mind the debilitating affect my illness has, how close I've been to death as a result, how much of my life, my life has been wrecked and ruined as a result of this illness. Never mind how crippling it is to my self esteem to not have a job. Never mind that I'm not fucking lazy, and that being able to be consistently employable and employed is my most deepest and most secret desire, and being a useless waste of space is my most secret fear. Never mind who I am, and what I've gone through - all that matters is I don't work and I get money from the government and I don't look sick.

And, although not everyone thinks like that, I don't know who does. I've been hit with other people's ignorance and prejudice too many times to think it's a minority who feel that way. And when you so innocently ask me what I do, my adrenaline starts pumping because I don't know how you're going to respond when I answer. Some of the responses I've had have been nasty and cruel, and my self esteem is fragile enough without spending another few days having to overcome that feeling of worthlessness that these interactions bring up in me.

And even if you don't think like that - maybe I just don't feel like telling you about my illness today, any more than I'm inclined to talk about my yeast infection with a stranger. It's personal, it doesn't affect you, and it's none of your business. Maybe I just want to feel like a normal person and be able to go see some music and meet people without having to disclose my illness - just once.

I keep myself busy when I can. I've studied, and things were easier then when it came to 'the question'. I've done a lot of volunteer work over the years, and sometimes when people ask the dreaded question I tell them what I do - without telling them it's volunteer. Because once they know it's volunteer, you're back to square one. 'But how do you make a living then?'

You see, somehow work has become synonymous with 'worth'. If you have a job which pays money, no matter what the job, you're worth more than someone who doesn't. Even if your job is cutting down trees, or killing people, or painting over old paint that didn't need retouching at all, you're still worth more than me - even if my time is spent revegetating riverbanks, helping refugees, or caring for injured wildlife. If no one gives me money for it, it's not worth shit.

So, if you are one of those people who doesn't think that a person's worth is measured by the fact they have a pay packet, if you're one of those people who understand that mental illnesses are illnesses, if you are one of those people who is mindful of ableist language - please, do me and others like me a favour, and stop asking people what they do for a living.

It would really help.

Etymology and ickyness

2009-10-18T01:22:00.003+09:30

When talking about white privilege it's pretty hard not to talk about the people who don't have it. My reading of blogs suggests that in the beginning, that was black people. But it was pretty quickly worked out that there are a whole lot of people who aren't black, but don't have white privilege. So the term PoC (people of colour) was born.

Now, one geographic group which I have had a lot of connections to are people from the Middle East*; in particular Persian people. Now, they comfortably call themselves Asian, because, logically, they come from Asia (challenging the standard Aussie reading of the term Asian to mean East Asian), But they also very strongly identify as Aryan. That is where the name Iran comes from - land of the Aryans. Many of the Persian people I have met look no different to Southern Europeans; many are fair, some are blonde, some are dark, yet all are discriminated against for being from the Middle East. They are Aryan, they don't consider themselves to be People of Colour. They do not fit comfortable into a theory which was made for a specific set of circumstances and then enlarged into a one size fits all theory which forces them into an identity they don't quite share. And yet there is a whole level of privilege they don't share with me, one that I examined intensely well over a decade before I read the term PoC.

I'll use that term while talking about privilege on American blogs, but I'll say here that something about it grates on me. And to be honest the terms back and white grate on me as much as the term PoC. I think it grates because they are short hand words, which are by nature reductionist. And they are unwieldy. Most of the situations in my life where I am talking about racism and privilege I am talking specifics, not generalisations, so it's easy to avoid them. But lately on the blogsphere I have caught myself using them and I wince. I am using them out of their cultural context, America, often to comment on some aspect of white privilege that affects both our countries that has been written about by Americans. Maybe if I was talking about some specific aspects of privilege in Australia I would use the words blackfellas and whitefellas, but to be honest as a woman those terms sometimes grate as well.

Language, I love it. I love the etymology of words. I love using it precisely and I love playing with it. I love learning about it. I love thinking about it. But I hate the icky feeling I get when I know I'm not using it well to express what I mean.

*Speaking of words that grate, this Colonial term is one that grates like nails on a blackboard.

The invisible knapsack of boundaries

2009-10-17T22:42:00.003+09:30

The invisible knapsack of privilege has been an enormously helpful contribution to sociological theory. The knapsack of male privilege, the knapsack of white privilege, even the knapsack of Christian privilege.

However, it's not string theory. It's not the unified theory of everything. And I've seen people treat it as such. I've seen people forget that all sorts of privilege exist in each persons backpack, a different mixture for each of us, and any one of them may be at play - or none.

I've been trying to work out if there ever can be a unified theory of privilege. I suspect not, because I don't think it's possible to find a unified theory of a dynamic system like human enculturation. But I've noticed one thread which runs through each account I've read lately of peoples experiences without privilege, and that is something which stands out to me.

The privilege to have boundaries, and have those boundaries respected.

Black people don't have their boundaries respected. Women don't have their boundaries respected. Lower class people don't have their boundaries respected. When a man thinks he has a right to objectify a woman, rape her or control her, he's not respecting her boundaries. When white women think it's OK to touch black women's hair and get affronted when told it's not, they're not respecting boundaries. When a Christian secretly tucks a Bible into someone's stuff because she knows they are Wiccan, she's not respecting their boundaries.

In every case, there are a group of people who have their ability to create or maintain boundaries challenged, by a group of people who have never been taught to respect or even see the boundaries of the other group, but have been taught to maintain and respect their own.

I see this because I have been abused by people in positions of male privilege who never considered my boundaries real because I was a woman, by people in positions of Christian privilege who never considered my boundaries real because I was a Pagan, by people who were mentally healthy who never considered my boundaries real because I was mad. In every case they not only violated my boundaries, but became angry when I asserted that I had a right to maintain boundaries - and outraged at the mere possibility of anyone violating theirs.

It's not a small stretch for me to see the boundary violations in other situations. This seems to me to be one aspect of the invisible knapsack, and a very important one. I don't think it's the only one, but I think boundaries are not spoken enough about, not addressed in our society, not taught to our children as something that needs to be respected. I think it would really lighten the load if they were.

I remember once telling a male friend how rude I thought the constant sexism I encountered was. I said that I had decided to confront it, whenever I heard it, by simply saying "that's a rude thing to say." He told me that he believed it would be equally as rude for me to tell someone that what they had said was rude. I found this very perplexing. It didn't make sense. And the only way I can explain it, was that they felt entitled to say anything without having to worry about how rude it sounded, but I had to be careful I wasn't rude to them. Privilege, much?

Our society grooms males into having strong boundaries and applauds them for maintaining them; but the same society teaches women not to have those boundaries, and withdraws support for women if they do.

It could easily be seen as an aspect of male privilege alone. But I have seen the same process time and time again with many different protagonists. It happens with white people, males, heterosexuals, the employed, the mentally and physically abled. It happens in many other contexts, like military hierarchies, caste systems and peerages. The privilege in the invisible backpack is the privilege to maintain boundaries while being oblivious to the boundaries of others.

Asian friends

2009-10-16T21:17:00.004+09:30

A few months ago, I was visited by a friend from Taiwan. When we met in my city, she commented on how many Asian people there are here, and observed 'you must have heaps of Asian friends!'

I laughed a hollow laugh and asked her to look around the city again. 'Asian people hang around with Asian people, white people hang around with white people, and the only time you'll see them together is when they're all wearing business suits'.

Since then I've tried to pinpoint exactly what it is that stops me, and people like me, from having Asian friends here.

Jumping back a few more months: I was camping with a bunch of people - half Aussies, and half working visa travellers. There was one Japanese girl who dressed like a typical hippie. But when she sat down at my table while I was rolling a joint, I felt a ripple of disquiet. I hesitated about it, and then thought fuck it, she's a hippy - and asked her if she was interested. She said sure, and had a bit. That broke the ice, and we ended up talking about all kinds of stuff. Later, one of the Aussie guys called me into his tent for a smoke, and I called her in too. He nearly fell over and said "I didn't think Asian girls smoked!" (This was the same guy, btw, who had asked me if this girl was a prostitute, because he had seen her go into two different white men's tents and could think of no other reason for her to do so).

It made me think of the stereotypes we have about Asian people - that they don't do drugs, that they don't want to hang around with us, that they don't talk to white men unless they are prostitutes, that their habits and culture are so alien we can't imagine being friends with them.

But there's something else I began to pick up on, which is that we're afraid they will judge us.

In white circles, I've become fairly adapt at spotting who will judge me, for a few reasons. Firstly because I have a mental illness and get a disability payment for that; I don't have the energy or time to defend myself on that front to people who don't believe in mental illnesses or in welfare. I also smoke marijuana medicinally, and need to know that the people around me don't judge me on that and won't report me to the police. I am a woman, and need to discern very quickly which men are safe for me to be around; I am also very open minded and interested in many things, so my life is easier when I can seek out people who are also open minded.

I can pick up on these cues very quickly amongst white people; I know their manner of dress, their manner of speech, the way they greet each other, their body language, their symbols - all kinds of small and subtle cues which tell me who I want to be around. I have no idea how to pick up on these cues amongst Asian people.

The Asian friends I have had over the years fall into two categories - people who have been raised as Aussies, and people I have met at hippy festivals, who have taken on board my culture's cues and I can be fairly sure will be non-judgemental of me and my life. Other than that, I am just like every other white person - hanging out with other white people in a group while the Asian hang out together in their own group.

Now I know there are a lot of racist people here who just don't want to hang out with Asians. But I also know there are a lot of people people like me who couldn't give a toss where you are from or what your culture is as long as you don't judge us personally. I think we naturally gravitate towards those we think we will relate to and feel comfortable with, and that's a small group of predominantly white people. Unfortunately that means we pass over a lot of white people who we erroneously assume will judge us, and we also pass over everyone else unless they have taken on our cues.

It has become my new mission to learn their cues.

Some thoughts about dreadlocks on a white woman.

2009-10-15T11:57:00.001+09:30

Reading the post on how white folks ask black men wearing dreads for weed made me think again about my own dreadlocks.

I decided to get dreadlocks to see how it changed the way people related to me. I had observed this effect with other people, and I was curious enough to explore it for myself. Unfortunately, I didn't think about what a high maintenance hairstyle dreadlocks are for a white woman. I didn't want to fill them up with cement, but I had never before had a hairstyle that required any maintenance. However white dreadlocked hair needs a lot of maintenance, and often just looks scruffy, dirty and matted.

Some things did change in the way people related to me. What I noticed most having locks were the ways white people tried to ally themselves with me, simply because I had locks.

White people spoke more, and more loudly in front of me about drugs. I got a lot of people casually mentioning what drugs they were on in a loud voice once they saw me, and others who didn't bother to lower their voices when I passed them talking to each other about drugs in the street. I never realised before just how many people are talking about drugs in the street.

I thought the little old ladies would start being afraid of me and stop telling me their life stories at the bus stop. But no, they didn't change, and I even got a compliment or two on my lovely hair from ones who couldn't see properly.

One of the most common remarks, particularly from white men who were trying to pick me up, was how much they like reggae, or how they're really into Bob Marley. They strongly identify dreadlocks on a white woman with Rastafarian appropriation and Bob Marley's image.

(Interestingly, as a side note, there was a 'hippie trail' to India from Australia in the 70's.I've heard white people who spent a long time there express their surprise and bewilderment at seeing dreadlocks appear in white culture when they came back home, as they strongly associated it with the Sadhus in India and had no idea why white people had suddenly started taking it on here.)

Over time though, dreadlocks have become more and more popular amongst white people, and for more and more reasons. But they have always been associated one way or another with defying social norms or choosing alternative lifestyles. Another way white people try to ally themselves with someone wearing locks is somehow work into the conversation that they wore them too at one point, even though they have a 'straight' hairdo now. It's pretty well accepted that almost no white person would have dreads forever (a few months to a few years is the norm), and the circumstances around getting rid of your dreads becomes part of the story.

Just recently I've seen a new phenomena - dreadlocks becoming a fashion statement. This is a remarkable shift because it brings dreadlocks into the mainstream white culture for the first time and normalises them, reducing them to 'fashion' removes the overt associations with Rastafarian culture which white people have linked with locks. As a result, a new thing white people do is to talk about dreadlock care and mention that their son has them - and often say that they would themselves if their hair was up to it. By doing this they're conveying that they understand the stereotype and don't go by it, and that they aren't judging you or making assumptions about you based on your locks. It's another way of allying yourself with a white person who wears them.

I still get a lot of random questions from white people about dread care; the most common one from adults is 'how do you wash them' and from kids it is 'why is your hair like that'. People do ask if they can feel them occasionally, but usually it's very excited teenagers who are thinking about getting dreadlocks themselves; I went through a stage around the time I got mine done of being intensely curious about the various ways of making them and the results, and had to stop myself asking people if I could touch their locks in that stage, so I usually say yes. Curiosity doesn't hurt.

It's not all positive. Overall, slightly less white people would speak to me. The occasional old man would gave me a filthy look. I think some people assume I am too cool for school, that I wouldn't want to associate with them, because there's been a lot of snobby people with locks around who won't talk to people who aren't in their subculture. Others believe the stereotypes and don't want to associate themselves with it.

Dreads are a very personal thing. When you start them you don't quite know what they are going to grow into. Over time you develop a relationship to them and you invest meaning in them. I will say I invested a spiritual meaning into mine; but as a Pagan I'm pretty much making it up as I go along.

The red pill of feminism

2009-10-02T02:24:00.008+09:30

While writing a comment on Shakesville, I suddenly realised I am at the beginning of my journey as a feminist. I never articulated that to myself until I was writing it.

I thought no, that's not true, in some ways I took the red pill years ago, I was always a feminist - but no. I didn't even call myself a feminist. I called myself an equalist, because I truly believed in equality, and I thought the word feminism by its very nature didn't express equality. If I said I was a feminist it would sound like I was all about teh wimmenz, and I really and truly wanted equality. Sometimes now I wish the early feminists had just used the word equalist and avoided this whole damned problem. I'd almost prefer to call myself a suffragette.

I took the red pill recently, and I realise that I had never been a feminist. How could I? I was half blind and half deaf, seeing only the worst excesses but burying my head in the sand when it came to the everyday acts, trying to harden the fuck up so I wouldn't feel the death by a thousand cuts, caring about the men in my life and accepting the terrible bargain of the blue pill. Because of that, I am at the beginning of my feminist journey; and once I sloughed off the excess misogyny I found myself increasingly alone. But I had glimpsed what a feminist support network looked like, and I was determined to get myself some more of that.

I have a clue as to why I continued to swallow the blue pill for so long. I remember at one point I was studying sociology, and when I stopped I said to several people "I'm sick and tired of hearing how oppressed I am". It got a laugh, and it was true - at the time I thought that there was no way I could rise above the many layers of oppression if I focused on them; I was afraid I would be overwhelmed by despair. But now I wonder if there was something else - a particular form of oppression that I wasn't willing to face. I can think of no other reason to explain why I already understood so many things yet was completely oblivious to the one that affected me most. I think I somehow subconsciously knew I wasn't ready to be confronted with it, and that to encounter it would mean that I couldn't deny it any more. It was the red pill, and I refused it. I was afraid of being overwhelmed.

But continuing to take the blue pill nearly killed me, so in the end the red was the only option. I became a feminist because I had no other choice. Once I had taken the red pill, I could not be silent, I could not call myself an equalist, I could not accept the terrible bargain, and my friends and family dropped away like flies as I began demanding respect and support unequivocally.

The red pill can be a bitter, bitter pill in this stage.

But I knew that one must prune in order to see new growth emerge. I am happy with my choice, even if at this point it means solitude for the most part. I am rebuilding my life, and I am making sure my supports are not rotten at the core. I have seen the awesomeness of a feminist network, and I am determined to be part of one, no matter how hard it is.

It is worth it.

Unpacking the knapsack can be so satisfying when your baggage weighs a ton.

2009-09-26T00:02:00.003+09:30

Something I've noticed recently in reading posts about privilege is that there are people who don't want to examine what they think or why they think it. Well, that's something I've known for a while; I've just seen it a lot recently.

It's something I don't really understand; because unpacking the invisible knapsack is something I actually enjoy. It doesn't make me uncomfortable to spot my internalised sexism or racism, it makes me excited. I don't know when I begun doing it consciously, because it was a long time ago; and it wasn't something I came to after reading about it on the internet, it was something that grew out of my own experiences. I only heard about the knapsack a month or so ago, but I've been familiar with its contents for most of my life.

Although on the surface I look like I fit very well into the privileged class, it's not something I ever felt until I was older. When I was young I was alienated, ostracised and othered by the people I grew up with. I grew up in a hetero-normative, misogynistic, colonially British, Catholic community, but I didn't fit neatly into any of these categories. My early experience set me up to question the things I was told. When told "we won the war" I questioned the notions of us and them, because I was both us and them, with ancestors fighting on both sides of that war. I have never been able to see attempts at othering people as anything but Orwellian because of that. I was taught that God loved everyone, and then when I grew old enough was taught that God hates gays; but since I was queer I questioned that and found it both bigoted and hypocritical.

My church, my family and my culture did not nurture this questioning spirit, and did not support me in crucial ways, ultimately making me feel bad about who I was. To reclaim my sense of self-worth, I had to challenge where I had internalised these detrimental closed-minded attitudes. I found that the more I weeded out prejudice and assumptions from my own mind, and the more I questioned what I had been taught, the better I felt about myself, and my beliefs became well-thought out and carefully chosen rather than just parroting what I was fed by my culture. The process makes me feel strong and free and valuable, capable of thinking for myself.

In the beginning it's easy, because the shit lies close to the surface. But as the years go on it becomes harder and harder, because the prejudices which are left are so ingrained, so part of the fabric of your world that you can't even see them. You don't pick up on them so often, but that is when you need to be especially vigilant. Because no matter how open-minded you are, no matter how progressive, you never completely get rid of them.

I found one of these a few months ago. Growing up Catholic, the gender divisions in the Church were one of the main reasons I felt left out. Excluding women from having an active and meaningful role in the church is something I am against. I don't see any good reason why women can't be priests.

A few months ago I was visiting a friend and he mentioned that the minister of his church is a woman. The next day I was at his mother's house (his father had just died). A woman came over to ask if his mother was OK and did she need a ride to the funeral. I could tell this woman was religious; she had that serene glow and she had a whopping great gold crucifix around her neck. Clearly she was a nun, but her manner was so familiar I began to wonder if she wasn't also a relative. When she left, my friend turned to me and said, "so you've met our minister". I was floored; although he had told me only the night before that his minister was a woman, my internalised Catholic told me that the only thing a religious woman could be was a nun.

It doesn't bother me that I thought this; it would have bothered me no less if someone else had pointed it out rather than noticing it myself. Because although I internalised that reality to the point where I perpetuated it without thinking, I know it was something I picked up from outside and not what I really believe. I was excited to spot it because it was such an insidious piece of sexism, and the kind that had made me feel alienated from Christianity all along. Having identified it, you can be damn sure I won't let it happen again.

I guess it's the same for me with any kind of prejudice or stereotype. I know I occasionally find some piece of it in my thoughts, but I don't get defensive about it. I celebrate the fact that it is no longer an unconscious thing, because it gives me the opportunity to examine it and see if I really believe it or have just be taught to.

I find it easy to acknowledge how bigoted and discriminatory my society is, because it discriminated against me. I find it easy to acknowledge how much I internalised all that shit, because that internalisation detrimentally affected me. I find it easy to see the benefit in making sure I don't perpetuate that shit on other people, because I benefited from ceasing to perpetuate it on myself.

And I don't really understand why it's so hard for anyone else.

Lingua Franca

2009-09-25T10:43:00.009+09:30

I asked Stinkypaw how Canadians feel about being a bilingual country and she wrote a post over on her blog to answer. She mentioned in passing that she thinks people who migrate to Quebec should understand that it is a French province and should endeavour to learn French rather than English. Marius and Barb related that back to what they think about Hispanic migrants in the USA who 'choose' not to learn English or 'refuse' to learn it, and that got me thinking.

When there is an enclave of language speakers, their density and volume predict the longevity of their language. If there are few of them and they are widely dispersed, the language dies out quickly. If there are many of them, and they congregate together, their language is more tenacious, but for it to survive they have to be self-sufficient. An example of this is the German speaking enclaves in places as wide-spread as Hungary, Massachusetts and the Barossa Valley. While they were self-sufficient and had little contact with those outside their community, their language hung on. But with modern connectivity that kind of isolation is near impossible, and now they struggle to maintain any of their language.

I found the whole conversation ironic. Because if your ethnic minority is small, the language dies out in around three generations. There is only one generation that stays monolingual in the old tongue. Their lives are facilitated by their bilingual children, and they struggle to communicate with their grandchildren who are monolingual in the new tongue.

But if your enclave is big enough and self-sufficient enough to resist that - well, you get Quebec.

Interestingly, Canada has made both English and French the official languages; so they have a unique situation accommodating for both. It certainly raises an expectation that every Canadian should be fluent in both; but in practise it is in Quebec that French is expected, whereas English is expected everywhere else. This is pretty much explained by history; it is the default through right of conquest. Similarly, although they don't have official languages, the default in the USA and Australia is English through right of conquest. It is expected that the Indigenous people acknowledge that conquest by learning English, and it is expected that those who who come after acknowledge the precedence of the ruling wave of conquerors by learning their language - English.

Back in England and France, the lands of the conquerors, colonialism has come back to bite them on the arse. There are large numbers of migrants coming in from the colonised lands; and while the colonials stuck to their own languages, the migrants who have arrived in England and France have done the same thing. The same people who had a horror of 'going native' now have the expectation that every migrant community in their country should go native. When you meet someone who refused to learn Urdu after four generations living in Pakistan, it's pretty amusing to hear them complain about how Urdu is being taught now in British schools because of the migrant Pakistani community.

Actually it's difficult for me to regard fears about multiculturalism with anything other than amusement. Of course, I am a monolingual first-generation born Australian. One generation back, my family is trilingual. I am a product of the assimilation era so I have little patience with the rhetoric of assimilation.

I've heard people complain about hearing other languages spoken on the bus. I've also heard people confess that it's because they fear those people are talking about them - and maybe they are. That's never a nice thought, but I guess it's something I'm used to; growing up in a family that I couldn't understand meant there were lots of times I knew I was being talked about in a foreign language. It's no different to the possibility of English speakers talking behind your back; you either trust that they won't be nasty or you don't.

I have a different reaction on the bus; I am wildly envious. I envy anyone who is bilingual. My one regret is that my family did not teach me their language. But in not doing so, they gave me another precious gift in its place: the ability and motivation to learn how to communicate with people who barely speak my language. Both Aussies and foreigners have commented on my ability to communicate with people whom no one else understands. I adore and embrace multiculturalism for I see no reason now to keep Australia British, and I cannot realistically see us giving precedence and dominance back to the fractured Indigenous languages and cultures which are left. I think the best outcome here is the breaking of barriers and the sharing of knowledge, to let the melting pot create a fusion culture which hopefully is more suited to the ecology and global position of Australia than British culture has been.

In Australia, although there are hundreds of languages spoken, there is no one language that is a serious linguistic threat to English. In the USA, however, 1 in 4 people are Hispanic. That's an awfully large minority. And since English is only the main language due to right of conquest, I think that people who feel uneasy about the increased use of Spanish in the USA are worried that the tables are turning, they are losing the privilege of being in the majority, and that one day they will wake up and find English has dropped off the signs and their grandchildren are monolingual Spanish speakers. And maybe they fear that Hispanic people won't be accommodating to them.

Because here's the thing I've seen in Australia. We are multicultural, but we still have our prejudices and traditional English schema. And the people who blend in quickly and easily are the Europeans, no matter which generation. The people who are accused of being segregationist and not assimilating are the ones who look different - the ones, incidentally, that are shunned most, either consciously or unconsciously. Through my lifetime, the majority of immigrants to Australia have been European, and I have seen them welcomed, approached, included, and helped with their English. During that time the Asian, Middle Eastern and African migrants have been ignored and excluded, yet somehow expected to improve their English and become part of Aussie culture while only speaking to other excluded people. When I have talked about this with people of these minorities, they have always spoken with sadness about their isolation from mainstream Aussie culture. I have been asked by Arabs 'where is a friendly neighbourhood to live in?' and not been able to tell them, because the truth is no one would be particularly friendly to them. I have been assured by Muslims that they are happy to go to pubs, since they realise that a large part of Aussie culture happens in pubs, but no one invites them, and they are likely to be harassed if alone and unable to speak English well. And ultimately they stick to their own kind out of a basic human need for community and friendship which is not being met by the community at large.

I think we shun them, due to fear or ignorance or ancient enmity, and it's easy to do that when there are very few of them. But we create our own enemy by othering them, and then we fear they will take over and our lack of connection or understanding will be our undoing. So we demand they get to know our terms because we cannot understand them on theirs.

At its heart, I think this debate exposes the great lie of democracy - that what counts is the will of the majority. The USA has shown over and over again that the will of the people only counts when it is in line with the will of those who hold the power. When other nations have democratically elected governments that do not suit the will of those who hold the power in the USA, they very undemocratically enforce their will on those nations.

And I think this is the case inside the USA today. In the past, the majority have been aligned with those who hold the power - WASPs. But if a new group become the majority who aren't in line with the WASPs, the will of the majority may be for an Islamic Republic, or a Hispanic dictatorship, or a Communist regime. And those who are happy with the status quo and hide behind the fact that it's the will of the people, will have to face the fact that what they believe in is not, in fact, the will of the majority, is not, in fact, democracy at all, but is actually their own personal agenda, their own comfortable privilege, their own position on the side of those who hold the power.

Technically....

2009-09-25T03:37:00.003+09:30

If you're in South Australia, here's something to remember:
South Australian District Court judge, David Smith, thinks that having sex with someone who is asleep or unconscious isn't rape. Well, only technically.

If you are raped while unconscious, and take it to court, and your case comes up before judge David Smith, he will believe that you weren't raped, because he believes that penetrating a woman who is unconscious isn't rape, providing the man believes the woman would have consented to sex if she was conscious.

WTF?

This horrifies me. I hate to think that any man I agree to have sex with has the right to rape me in my sleep. But according to judge David Smith, it would only be a technical rape - you know, not the kicking and screaming kind.

Here's the new twist - the girl wasn't unconscious at all - she was feigning sleep in the hope that he would stop!
"well, that moves the goalpost then" said the judge. Because, you know, to him rape is about scoring. Not about raping.

So the story has changed again - he never got any consent. He just did it. But the judge is choosing to believe that the man thought he had consent.

And he thought that because..... that's right. The woman wasn't kicking and screaming, therefore it wasn't rape. Even if she was rigid with fear, terrified of being murdered, it still wasn't rape. Whether or not she was conscious, it still wasn't rape.

The official courts sa website states: Judges regularly participate in education workshops and seminars. Topics include Aboriginal cross-cultural awareness training, mental impairment and judicial ethics.

Too bad they don't train them in things like the definition of consent.

The judge wanted to sentence the man leniently. So leniently that he didn't even want to give the man a suspended sentence, even though he pleaded guilty, because he was worried the man's future prospects might be hurt if he was convicted of rape when, well, it was only rape because she didn't consent, not like a real rape where.... hang on.

Strange that the judge is so concerned about the future prospects of a rapist. Oh, that's right - a technical rapist.

What kind of precedence is he setting for any other predatory male out there? If you get her so drunk she passes out, or so terrified she can't say no, then you can do whatever you want to her! And if you get caught, I'll make it quite clear that no matter what happens in court I won't believe you're a rapist or treat you like one, and I'll make sure that your future isn't affected by your crime.

Tell me something. How was this man supposed to know that he needed to ask for consent when even the judge doesn't believe it.

So, David Smith. What are you telling us? What are you telling us women about your desire to dispense 'justice'? What are you telling us about who you think deserves justice? What are you telling us about your own beliefs, your own morals?

What are you telling us?

Well, after all that hinting by the judge, now the man has withdrawn his guilty plea. What a surprise. This judge has shown us all that he is firmly on the side of rapists.

Well, technical rapists.

You get a cookie Dr Who, but get your hand out of the jar until you learn to share.

2009-09-10T19:10:00.007+09:30

The other day I sat down to watch an episode of Dr Who. I'm quite a fan, not least because I'm quite fond of David Tennant. And just for my own amusement, I applied the Bechdel test and the PoC Bechdel test.

It failed.

Not surprising, you may think. After all, it's Dr Who; it's about Dr Who, and Dr Who is a man.

Thing is, I was watching season 3, episode 13, which is about a black woman (Martha) saving the universe.

This on the surface looks like a good example of why the Bechdel test should have stayed as a comic strip. After all, you can't get much more pro-active in your scifi than a black woman saving the universe.

Except... you can. Sure, it's difficult in this episode; although Martha saves the universe, she achieves this by walking the earth for a year, talking about a white man. Dr Who. However, there is some dialogue in this episode, and not all of it is about a man. There was the potential for this to pass the Bechdel test. It contains several black non-speaking characters (Martha's family), and several woman (at least two of whom had major roles). Yet it STILL doesn't pass the Bechdel test.

Dr Who has moved a long way from its origins, and is full of strong female characters. Martha was a pioneer in being the first black companion. The show may never have a female as the main character. It would be impossible to have the show Dr Who without the Doctor, and there is no indication so far as I know that Time Lords can change their gender. I really enjoy Dr Who, and not just to perve on David Tennant. I enjoy the strong female characters, enjoy their diversity, enjoy the fact that they are more than just love interests for the main character. Have a cookie, writers.

But I was very disappointed to find that, even when they write a story where Martha saves the world, they still can't pass the Bechdel test.

I'd analyse this, but it's time for bed.

Goodnight!

To the USA: If you want to dispel your international image as a nation of idiots, then at least get your propagana right!

2009-09-09T20:46:00.005+09:30

What, you didn't realise that the rest of the world sees you as a nation of idiots? Sure, it's a shitty stereotype, but that's what stereotypes are. Shitty. If you want to see what I mean, check this out. Then come back.

This, from the Investor's Business Daily, was one of the arguments made during the debate about universal Medicare in the USA:

"People such as scientist Stephen Hawking wouldn't stand a chance in the UK, where the National Health Service would say the life of this brilliant man because of his physical handicaps, is essentially worthless."

Notice the problem here?

Here is Stephen Hawkings response:
"I wouldn't be here today if it were not for the NSH. I have recieved a large amount of high-quality treatment without which I would not have survived."

Yes, that's right. Stephen Hawking is, and always has been, British.

Surely, if you're going to create 'Reds under the Bed' propaganda about socialised health care, you'd want to avoid people picking you for a big fat liar as soon as you started?
It's not that hard to get your facts right. Here.

Sometimes you never know just what you're anticipating.

2009-09-05T22:54:00.000+09:30

I had no idea
While writing that last haiku
that today I would.....

Be offered the chance
To fulfil my most cherished
Childhood dream next year.

It's really real, and
So much sooner than I'd hoped.
It's within my reach....

I'm so excited
And also afraid, of course.
But fear won't stop me.

Two different days

2009-09-05T13:30:00.000+09:30

Haiku on anticipation

Six in the morning
Filled with possibilities
And singing magpies.

Haiku on the benefit of creating new memories to feel good about in hindsight.

Six in the morning
Reminds me of a sad time
I'd rather forget.

A new kind of date rape

2009-09-03T16:15:00.016+09:30

Or rather, a new way to blame women for being raped.

Okay, so it's an article in Cosmo. Yes, I know I shouldn't expect any better. It's like watching tt or aca and expecting journalism.

But really, I can't quite work out what Laura Sessions Stepp is trying to achieve with this article. So I'll break it down.

Stepp basically says that there is a 'grey area' surrounding consent. That, I would soundly agree with. Although the rules of consent are clearly and legally defined, there is a huge grey area when it comes to understanding what those rules are.

But from here, she doesn't seem to be thinking an awful lot. I know, I know. Cosmo. But her conclusions just don't add up. Yeah. Cosmo. I get it. Not quality.

Bear with me.

This new type of rape, 'grey rape', is that fuzzy area where no one said no, but someone feels raped. Note, this is a 'new' kind of rape, which, according to Stepp, has evolved as a result of the pick-up culture. What is the pick-up culture? The one where people can 'pick each other up'.

You know, for sex.

In the good old days, roles were clearer because women wanted relationships and men wanted sex. Rape was easy to define. Now that women can and do seek out casual sex, everything's a murky grey. This is how Stepp puts it: But those boundaries and rules have been loosening up for decades, and now lots of women feel it’s perfectly okay to go out looking for a hook-up or to be the aggressor, which may turn out fine for them — unless the signals get mixed or misread.

Yes, you heard it - women get raped because they enjoy casual sex and aren't giving clear enough signals. Apparently, if you have a sex drive and want to satisfy it outside the bonds of matrimony, then it's your fault if men can't tell whether you want them or not.

Stepp then proceeds to give a few pages of anecdotal examples, seemingly to prove her point. They all involved women who had said no but not loud enough so he might not have heard, had said they wanted to leave, had said outright that they didn't want sex, had stopped pushing, had passed out before it started - all different stories, but oddly enough all with one thing in common. None of the women had said Yes. And not once did anyone ask them for their consent. And yet Stepp didn't think this was a significant enough factor to point out at any stage in her article. Her emphasis was on how the victims reacted; more specifically how they didn't fight back hard enough.

It doesn't sound to me like these women were giving unclear signals - it sounds like no one was paying attention to the signals they were giving.

And to top it off, some of those girls were drunk. They were, according to Stepp, drinking almost as much as men. They were too drunk to be in control, to remember if they consented - that's why they experienced 'grey rape'. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't - who knows when you're that drunk. Strangely, the fact that someone is so blotto they can't give clear consent is taken as a reason for 'grey rape', instead of being textbook rape. Intoxicated=consent invalidated. Why is the fundamental issue of consent slipping between Stepp's fingers here?

Lesson, girls - don't drink. Doesn't matter if he does - you are the keeper of his moral compass. It is up to you to make sure he doesn't 'accidentally' become a rapist while drunk, by remaining sober yourself. Oh, and if you don't want sex, don't wait to be asked - you must kick and scream unceasingly throughout the entire experience or your consent is implied.

Because, if you weren't so damn confusing then the poor innocent men wouldn't accidentally rape you.

These poor guys, who just want sex and then get accused of rape. You can understand, with the mixed signals they recieve, why there would be a high level of cognative dissonance. They don't want to think of themselves as rapists. And if they're doing stuff that's classed as rape, that makes them rapists. But I'm a nice guy, not a rapist, - therefore what I'm doing can't be rape. Which means, if some chick says it is - well, she must have been lying. That's how a guy could force sex on a girl who didn't want any, then expect a hug goodnight, and walk out not realising that what he did was rape her; because he assumed compliance was consent. Classic cognative dissonance.

Except, that reading of the situation doesn't actually hold true once Stepp speaks to men. While she holds up a couple of examples as if they are the male side of the story, they are actually the male side of a sightly different story. And it isn't one where the men are blissfully unaware that the woman didn't consent.

She interviews a couple of guys for their take on things. Here's what one said: “I’ve had girls tell me ‘I don’t have sex on the first night.’ And I say, ‘That’s fine, I respect that. Mind if I play with you a little bit?’ A girl will say no, she doesn’t mind, then she’ll get so hot, she’ll say, ‘Let’s do it.’ That’s the scariest part. Is it then my responsibility to say no?”

THERE. Did ya see it?

There is some evidence of consent. And what happened? He's worried she'll change her mind after the fact and re-write history to call it rape. After all - isn't that what date rape is - a chick who got into it and then cried rape afterwards? In doing this, he is casting doubt on all those other women who stood up and said they were date-raped - maybe they're revisionist, and maybe this one will be too - after all, she flicked from no consent to consent before. What's to stop her flicking back? ?

Nothing. But there is a fundamental difference between changing your mind about what you want now, and re-writing history to lie about what you wanted in the past. He is already casting her as a potential liar, and therefore a potentially unreliable witness; already defending himself against her potential accusations of rape. Why would he do this? More to the point, why would he even consider playing with her if he's worried she'll spring a rape accusation on him?

Note his use of language (yes, his language is significant). He didn't ask if she wanted him to play with her. He asked if she minded - as if her vagina was some kind of toy, a teddy bear or train set, that, if she didn't mind, didn't object, if it didn't bother her, he was going to play with for a while. As long as she didn't mind, it didn't actually matter whether she enjoyed it or not.

So we have men who believe they're decent guys, yet who view women's bodies as toys. And some of them, like this one, understand that you have to ask permission to play with the toy. But there is nothing in that sentence “Mind if I play with you a little bit?’ that implies he wants a willing partner, that he is even interested in engaging sexually with a person rather than just playing with the fun things she hides in her toy box (and we all know we have to share our toys, am I right? We all know it's not nice to chuck a tanty if someone comes over to play and dives into our toy box without asking, don't we. If we get angry, we're called selfish and told to play nicely, aren't we? Good. Just making the metaphor clear). His asking of consent is routine - not do you want me to do this, but will you agree to not complain if I do this. It's the language you use when you're slightly inconveniencing someone, not when you're trying to give them pleasure. Do ya mind if I take this seat? Do you mind if I borrow your lighter? Do you mind if I play with you a little?

Here's the kicker - when it comes to penile penetration, he then becomes scared that when she says yes she really means no - suddenly, whether she wants it matters. And it matters because now his behaviour could get him in trouble if she does complain- not because he genuinely cares whether she's into it or not. If he genuinely cared whether she was into it, he wouldn't have asked if she 'minded' him playing with her after she already said she didn't want sex. He wouldn't have accepted her consent then, only to raise his doubts later about her trustworthiness and whether she 'really' wanted it (when penile penetration could get him into trouble if she didn't) . Sounds like he's very conscious of how much he can get away with, and he's is unhappy with the fine line he's having to tread. Still, this one could still easily think of himself as a nice guy. Because hey, he actually respected her decision not to have sex, and asked if she minded him playing with her. So is it cognative dissonance or a planned strategy? Well, a little from column A, and a little from column B....

Stepp didn't notice any of this. She was too busy sympathising with the man for being unable to trust in this dodgy new climate of grey rape.

We're now getting a picture of men who view women's bodies as toys, who know that women sometimes want it, who are told that women are capricious and ambiguous - - Men who've been taught that rape is defined by how much the woman is kicking and screaming, who've been taught that if she doesn't want it, then it's her responsibility to kick and scream, because that's how you can tell she doesn't want it. Men who for the most part have been taught that it's okay to keep going unless she tells you to stop because that's how to get laid - but at the same time to be very very careful about the risk of a rape complaint. Men who, whether they care about consent or not, aren't told or expected to get it in any positive way. The message is reinforced from all sides: If she doesn't scream NO, then it's green light GO!

We also have women who don't expect to be asked for their consent, but are told that if you didn't kick and scream it wasn't rape, that if you wanted a bit you might have wanted the lot, that if you present yourself as a potential sexual partner it automatically becomes a fait accompli and anything you don't like from then on is your fault for not being clearer. It's your responsibility to see it coming, and it's your responsibility to stop it if it does - and if you don't, well, it wouldn't have happened if you had, that's all. If you stayed at home, if you stayed sober, if you'd stayed in your scummy clothes, if you had shouted louder. If you'd realised he was a rapist before he raped you wouldn't have been raped.

None of which is surprising in a context like this.

And yet according to Stepp, the reason why 'grey rape' occurs is because women enjoy and even seek out casual sex but aren't clear enough to men about what they actually want.

She reckons the guys find the pick-up culture secretly freeing, because it allows them to act like arseholes and use women.

Er, looking at the evidence, I'm not sure the pick-up culture is to blame.

In fact I know it isn't. The culture of assumed consent is to blame for supporting this kind of behaviour. That's not something Stepp is addressing or even acknowledging - she's too busy supporting it.

At the end of the article, Stipp urges women to 'protect themselves' against rape (because, you know, it's their responsibility to make sure they're not raped). Here, she seems to have lost her thread slightly - she can't decide now if the rapists are malevolent, or just bewildered at the greyness of girl's consent. There are four recommendations - recognise his mind games (of course, if he's playing mind games he's not too concerned about your consent), don't get drunk (if he rapes you when you're too drunk to notice - again, he's not too interested in consent), be more clear about what you want (this is her central argument - the classic 'it's your fault if you feel raped because he didn't know you didn't want it'), and then finally, as the last three sentences at the end of a six page article, this:

Under the law, a guy has to get a clear verbal or nonverbal yes from you to have sex. Just because you consent to one sexual activity (making out, even with few clothes on) does not mean you have given permission for any other. Also, silence doesn’t always equal consent, nor does being too drunk to know what you’re doing.

Why was that tucked away (and not in bold either) at the end of a six page long article about how women's unclear signals are responsible for their rapes? Confusion about consent was established as the issue in the very beginning, yet consent was not defined in the article until the very end. - All through the middle, women are blamed for being raped and told how to avoid rape. Then right at the end, Stipp adds a kind of ps actually it's completely the men's responsibility to stop rape. It jarrs with the rest of the article, like she's cut and pasted in a hurry to get her word count up, or her editor just slipped this token in at the last minute. Three sentences, at the END of a six page article. Those three little sentences didn't have much impact. They were kind of diluted by the previous six pages of grey.

It is quite difficult for me, given the above, to see much evidence that that Laura Stipp believes any of the following :
- that men are responsible for making sure the person they want gives their consent - sober, prior to the event, and at every step of the way.
-That when consent is denied, unclear or unsought, men are responsible for not raping women.
-That women's boundaries around their bodies should be accepted.
-That women who identify as rape victims will get support.
-That men should never rape women, even if she enjoys sex, enjoys men's company, changes her mind, hangs out in bars or gets drunk.
-That even if the woman is not kicking and screaming, if she hasn't given consent it is rape.

This is how Stipp ends the article, but it's inconsistent with the rest of her argument.

Initially, this article posited a question, 'was I raped.' I would love to say that this article enlightened me on the seriousness of sexual assault and the importance of consent, considering that consent is what everyone is confused about here.

Unfortunately, the message I came away with was, well, it probably wasn't rape, but if it was, it might have been your fault, and anyway, you'll never really know. So girls, if you're not sure whether you were raped or not, well, you should carefully examine if you wanted it or not, and whether you were clear enough about what you wanted. Then, according to Laura, "if something bad does happen, seek help immediately, and don’t blame yourself. It was incredibly empowering for me to say ‘I’m a survivor of rape.’”

WTF? How, exactly, is it 'empowering' to say you're a survivor of rape in a context like this, where if you seek help, you're likely to come up against judges like this, and then afterwards have to deal with arseholes like this, when there is barely a hint anywhere of this?

And wtf does 'empowering' mean anyway?

Oh, one more thing.

While I was flicking from page to page of that article, I noticed the URL. At first I thought it was unfortunately misfiled; then I realised it was exactly where they wanted it to be.

www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/tips-moves/new-kind-of-date-rape

Sex love. Tips moves. New kind of date rape. They had the option to file this under 'secrets and advice'; it fits that pretty well. But instead they chose to file it under 'sex and love', in the 'sex moves and tips - best sex advice' section. Yep, rape is in the same category as sex and love, just another way to make a move. Want some tips? It's so difficult for people to accept that rape is a crime.

And they wonder why we're all confused about what really happened.

Those happy times

2009-09-02T22:52:00.015+09:30

We passed the joint around the table, each smoking in turn as we talked and laughed, joking with each other. Australian, Japanese, Taiwanese, French, German, Kiwi, British. Seventy years ago our nationalities would have branded us as enemies. Yet here we were, sharing a smoke and a drink, sharing a bond developed over a few weeks of living together in the same campsite.

We can talk easily about the war with each other, unanimously agreeing that war is hell and nobody wins. We are all to some degree open-minded hippies, free-spirited travellers, citizens of the world. We have no use for xenophobia.

Yet I can't help but wonder if we would have felt differently had we met during that war. I like to think we could have resisted the blanket designation of 'enemy'. I like to think we could have remained untouched by jingoism, still able to form friendships, to love and trust each other based on who we are are people. But I suspect that we wouldn't have found it so easy.

I feel a sense of wonder as I look around the table. We talk, we joke, we laugh. We hug and dance and tickle. We share what we have, and we watch each other's backs. I've come to cherish our connection. We are each other's family in a place where we would otherwise be alone.

I look around and I think with pride, we won that war.

We won, all of us - all of us who refuse to hate anyone for their colour or creed, refuse to hate merely on the basis of our fear or ignorance. We won, in spite of the forces which would want us to hate each other. We're still winning. What a triumph!

It's so satisfying to know that our grandparents' demons didn't prevail.

Some thoughts on white privilege

2009-08-26T18:07:00.032+09:30

I've been encountering the term 'white privilege' a lot lately. I've thought about white privilege at length over the years. It has determined the course of my life. But some things in the conversations I've had about it lately are really starting to irritate me. And there's a couple of things I've wanted to say about it that I haven't said. So I'm saying them now.

White privilege is both a theory and an experience. And I understand the experience. But it shits me to see the theory bandied around by people who haven't really thought it out, and are using it to prove how hip they are, how they're down with this kind of thing, how they may be white but they understand, man. This, to me, isn't much different from showcasing your token black friend as an example of how non-racist you are. And it's starting to be used as yet another elitist, hippier-than-thou catchphrase. That really bugs me. Drop the phrase white privilege into a conversation along with the tofu you ate last night and your bicycle, and you've succeeded in identifying yourself with one kind of people, the good white guys, a member of the tribe Wannabe. You've instantly distanced yourselves from those other kind of white people, you know, the ones who don't understand how privileged they are, and probably eat meat and drive SUV's too. The ones you wouldn't see at Burning Man.

The fact that you can do this, that you can distance yourself and create space where you can deride people who don't fit into your group by saying things like hey mate, your privilege is hanging out, you might want to do something about that - the fact that you can do this, is a sign of your white privilege.

I learned this many years ago. I was in a relationship with a man of Middle Eastern appearance. I was also a hippie. While I wanted to wear flowing hippie clothing and a headscarf, my boyfriend would beg me to put some jeans on for once. I was dealing with the Orientalism of the people around me, while I was challenging the bigotry and illuminating the privilege we encountered every day. The irony was that while everyone assumed he was making me wear the veil, he really wanted me to look like everyone else does here, so that I wouldn't draw attention to his race. He had learned that without white privilege, the safest solution is to blend in as best you can. When in Rome, he always did what the Romans did. This was hard for me to understand at first. Being able to reject the dominant culture and its norms with minimal backlash was a privilege I had, that he didn't.

I see so many hippies who take pieces of other cultures, who smoke a hookah in public or wear a bindi dot and think that by doing so they are identifying with minority groups. Well, you're not. You're mocking them. You're letting your privilege hang out. You might want to do something about that.

I eventually had to reject the headscarf. It was many years after I split up with that guy. In fact it was in September, 2001. I had begun to fear for my safety after receiving abuse and threats when I walked down the street while wearing a headscarf.

Now we come to the other thing I want to say about privilege. You may want to tell me that I had the privilege of taking off that headscarf, since I am not a Muslim, since I am white.

If you say that, I will get angry.

Because this is what I really want to say about white privilege.

Be very, very careful about what you call a privilege around me. If you are white, and white privilege is a new concept to you, and you want to talk about it with other white people, don't start a conversation with me by assuming that I've never thought about white privilege, and that I don't already know what you have just learned. Don't start a conversation with me assuming that all white people are the same, think the same, and have the same background as you, unless you want me to call you a racist.

Because it's quite possible that I am not the same as you.

I'll tell you a bit of a story. Many years ago (as so many of my stories begin), I was in a bar, talking to an Aboriginal man. We were talking about our lives, and he pointed out the similarities between us. Unlike me, he had been adopted. But like me, he had lost his culture.

He had been told that this was a privilege afforded to him by his light skin tone. He had the privilege of growing up in a house, speaking English. He had the privilege of better education, better nutrition, a better future. He had been given access to white privilege, because he looked white. He was told to be grateful for having white privilege, because thanks to it he was better off than those Aboriginal people who were blacker and stayed on the missions. And was he grateful for that? Was he happy about it? Fuck no. Because that privilege had not been given for nothing. It had been given as part of a bargain that he didn't agree to - you can have white privilege, if you give up your language, if you give up your culture, if you give up your land.

Some fucking privilege. Try telling the Stolen Generations now that they are privileged, and see how far you get.

What that man recognised in me, was that I had been given white privilege in the same shitty exchange that he and so many people were given it during the assimilation years. I, like him, had not been given the choice, and like him, would not have accepted the exchange if I had.

My family made that choice, a generation before I was born. And they were grateful for their white privilege. My aunt told me how she would pray to God every day, thanking him for giving her pale skin and light brown hair so she could blend in, and not get beaten like the Greeks and Italians. They made the choice to change their names, to not teach their children their language, to let their culture die so that their children would be safe, would have easy access to the privilege that they themselves struggled to achieve as new migrants. The assimilation policy succeeded in my family. As a result of their choices, I have 'white privilege'. I also could not speak to my grandmother because I didn't know her language. My family's culture died with her, because they were forced to choose between their culture and their safety.

Don't fucking tell me this is a privilege.

Doing so shows a gross misunderstanding and distortion of the term privilege. White privilege is what enabled my family to come to Australia during the time of the White Australia Policy. But being forced to deny and destroy your culture in exchange for your safety is not a fucking privilege, whether you are Aboriginal or European. So find another word for it. Tragedy, perhaps.

Like the Indigenous people of this land, my family is slowly learning to find pride in our origins, to be proud of our cultural heritage instead of hiding it. I am grasping at the shreds that remain of our culture, clutching those shreds tight because they are all I have to link me with my grandmother, with my past.

Am I lucky that my family are white and therefore had the option of blending in? In some respects yes, of course, what a stupid question. I've seen how shitty people can be towards people I know who aren't white, yet grew up as Aussies. I've seen how shitty people can be towards people I know who are new migrants from the Middle East and Africa. I've seen how shitty people can be towards people I know who are Indigenous. People ain't shitty to me for the same reasons.

But I think the whole concept of white privilege is a white American construct that some people try and fit into every situation, because they think that the white American discourse is applicable to every situation *cough*Americanprivilege*cough*. Like any theory, it sounds like a load of bollocks when wielded by clumsy people who don't know what they're talking about; and like any theory, it sometimes falls down when you get it into the real world - or, the world outside the USA. Maybe there, things ARE that simple. But the cultural mix in Australia is different to the USA. The cultural mix around the world is different to that in the USA. And often I hear American theories applied to situations where, well, they don't quite fit.

Privilege is a useful concept, but I've seen people get stuck on the word 'white' at the front. Privilege is afforded to those who wield the power. In the States as in Ausralia, that's whites. In Japan, that's Japanese, and my white friends are in a minority group who are scrutinised, ostracised and forced to be on their best behaviour because they look different. In Iran, it's Shi'ite Muslims. Around the world, it's men. Able bodied people. Heterosexuals. In some places brown people have privilege over other brown people. White people have privilege over other white people. It's not always clear who's Caucasian and who's not. In Australia, many threads of privilege intertwine. Privilege is a theory that's extremely useful; but constantly reducing it to one facet, white privilege, is to assume that everywhere in the world, the white/black discourse is the only one. And what I'm hearing there is I'm ~~American~~ white and my privilege is the only one that matters in the world, because ~~the American discourse~~ whiteness is the only thing that matters to me.

That doesn't mean white privilege doesn't exist in Australia, or that the concept is invalid. The concept is very valid, and needs to be talked about and fleshed out more. We desperately need a lot more discourse in Australia on the various aspects of privilege, and in particular white privilege. But privilege is a complex multi-faceted issue. My aunt thanked God she wasn't Greek; my ex-boyfriend found life easier when he pretended he was (hell, nowadays in Australia it's far safer to be called a Wog than a filthy Arab). So I'm not saying don't talk about white privilege. I'm saying if you want to have a dialogue with me about it, just be very careful that you don't fall into the old trap of not thinking about what you're saying, or assuming that everyone whom you classify as white is the same as you. Australia is a broad mix of migrants. A refugee from the Nazis who lives down south is not the same as a fourth-generation cane farmer who lives up north, any more than either of them are the same as a fair-skinned Persian migrant or fair-skinned Koori. They do not come from the same culture. They have not had the same experiences in life. Not all white people are the same, just as not all black people are the same.

Oh yeah, that headscarf I mentioned? It's part of my family's cultural and religious identity. I gave up part of my identity to protect my safety. Muslim women from the Middle East could do that too. But they shouldn't have to - and neither should I, regardless of my skin colour.

Rage, indeed.

2009-08-03T00:58:00.003+09:30

I used to listen to triple J when I didn't have a television, but I stopped about 10 years ago because they played so much shitty depressing music. cough*powderfinger*cough*
Nevertheless it didn't take long before news of the hottest 100 of all time filtered through to my world.

There were no women in it.

In one way, that surprised me. No women at all? Why, I would have thought there'd be ~~one~~ a ~~couple of~~ half a dozen or so ~~token~~ women! But, in another way, it didn't surprise me at all. Because I've been noticing something about my music collection over the last year that bothers me. It's mainly comprised of men. Ditto my books. Ditto movies.

I've been making a conscious effort to bring more female artists into my life, and in the process pondered the questions of why there are so few in the first place.

One thing I know is that the women I encounter most often just don't play the kind of music I like. You know these women - they get in the top 40, they all look the same, they gyrate and shake their booty while singing about sex, men and/or submission. They are they cultural norm, they are what we're told we want. That's why we encounter them most. I sometimes like their attitude, their persona, very occasionally their looks. Pink does it for me on all levels except one - her music is shite to my ears. I can't bear to listen to it. I've tried. I liked her in concert, but I don't want to have to listen to her cd. I don't like R&B, I don't like country, I don't like pop. Show me the woman playing ska, playing funk, playing something interesting to me, and I'll listen to her.

But it's difficult to find these women. Women who play the kind of music I like don't have the publicity, the recognition, the resources to be found by me. I use google, but it's actually really fucking hard to find music by women that I like, because women are not supported or recognised in those areas of music. They are certainly not promoted in the genres that I like. When they do succeed, it is often because they are supported by men, rendered acceptable (and the exception) by the presence of men. Do you like Ruth Underwood? She is an amazing percussionist. You may not have heard of her. But if you have ever heard the funky percussion on Frank Zappa's album Apostrophe, then you have heard Ruth Underwood playing marimba. Ever heard of Mathilde and Alice Burguière? Probably not, but without them Les Ogres De Barback would not be the amazing band it is. Women are often there; but they are rendered invisible by the belief that 'women don't play this kind of music'. Even the famous ones just aren't that famous. When Amanda fucking Palmer toured Australia earlier this year, I didn't even know who she was. She's fabulous. Why had I never heard of her, or the Dresden Dolls? Because our society supports women who fit a certain stereotype, and ignores the women who don't. I know the names of heaps of female singers who fit the stereotype. And yes, the stereotype is fucking boring. That doesn't mean that women are fucking boring.

Triple J sometimes showcases albums by women, but their general content is predominantly male. Should we be surprised that women drop off the list when we are fed a diet of male music? The impression JJJ gives is that a few exceptional women make good albums, but most of the good stuff is by men. That's not really much better than the impression given by other radio stations - that there is great music by men, and shit music by women.

It takes effort to change that kind of paradigm. I am making that effort. I am making that effort because it is important to me. Because I want to play the kind of music that 'women don't play', and I want to listen to other women playing that kind of music too.

Many other people have got the shits up with JJJ's list and the cultural paradigm that enables a list like that. If you want an alternative list, go here.

There is no war on drugs. There is only a war on people.

2009-07-01T22:23:00.002+09:30

This year, I went to Mardi Grass in Nimbin. I thought it was about time I protested our illogical and damaging drug laws.

I went as a tribute to a couple of people I know. One was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and died six months later. The other was his sister, diagnosed six months after his death, her cancer thankfully now in remission.

Both of them used marijuana as part of their treatment. I had always heard that it was good for cancer; but I finally saw its effects first hand. It was incredible. Both the cancer and the chemotherapy were hell. It was heartbreaking to see my friends so sick. And it was amazing to see how much marijuana helped ease their symptoms in a way no other treatment they were given could. When my friend couldn't keep her chemo drugs down, couldn't even keep the anti-emetic drugs down, pot helped her do it. That was a vital part of her treatment. When she couldn't eat, pot helped her. When she wanted to die from the pain, pot helped her.

Her brother kept smoking pot until he died. He had asked the hospital if there was a legal way he could obtain it for medicine or get a script, but they said no. He became a criminal by accessing the only medicine that worked, because the government won't grant any access to it, even to a dying man. The workers in the hospice where he stayed at the end of his life became criminals too, because they knowingly let him use this medicine whilst under their care. His friends became criminals for getting this medicine to him. And after his death, I, some of my friends, and some of my family became criminals to get this medicine to his sister when she developed cancer.

That, my friend, is the crime. There is no war on drugs. There is only a war on people. Many of them are sick people. And our politicians are the criminals for denying them medicine that works.

And I had never really realised that it is a war until I went to Mardi Grass.

For most people who take forbidden substances, the laws are an inconvenience, but we wouldn't think of it as a war. But when you see hundreds of people gathered in protest, and you see police gathering, and then pouncing, and then attacking people and beating them and dragging them off bleeding while everyone stands around, mutinous, calling out a bit of opposition but each thinking it could be me next if I call too loud, and you look around at the faces and you think I know these people, they're good people, they don't want to cause trouble, and half of them are sick, and they're just trying to have a quiet smoke for fucks sake, and you're the fucking police, you're supposed to protect us, not bash us! weeell, you start thinking this feels like a war . A war on US. Us, the people.

The only violence I saw during the Mardi Grass protest was police violence, perpetrated on people for such crimes as holding a can of beer while sitting on a park bench, sitting in the park smoking joints, or telling the police they don't like their bully-men tactics.

And yet these are the same police who would call my terminally ill friend a criminal for using medicine.

So I lent my presence to Mardi Grass this year. And I won't stop fighting until the war is won.

'....if you want a friend, tame me'.

2009-06-11T18:13:00.004+09:30

The only things you learn are the things you tame.

-the fox

I was first given the book the Little Prince for my seventh birthday. It quickly became one of my favourite books.

Over the years, I've loved it more and more. And over the years, every time I read it I get something new out of it. It speaks to me on so many levels.

When I was ten, my mother and I lived in a house where there was a copy of le petite prince, exactly the same as mine but French. For six months I carried both books around with me, constantly cross-referencing between them and building up my understanding of the book on a new level (and incidentally creating a lifelong love of cognates and false cognates in the process). As a result of that, I can still read the book in French today. I also have a reasonably good understanding of simple written French, though I can barely understand any when it's spoken (and French people often don't understand me when I try to speak it).

At different times in my life, different points of the book resonate with me. As a child, the discourse on differing perceptions of children and adults appealed to me. When I began studying Anthropology, the explanation of the Turkish astronomer illustrated the theory of Orientalism beautifully. When I struggled with addiction, the circular thinking of the drunkard illuminated starkly to me the choices I was making.

Some points I skimmed over years ago, not knowing the true depth of meaning until I had life experiences to match. Some points seem to imprint the same meaning over and over, but in ever-increasing ripples of deeper understanding and experience.

Many years ago I lent my original copy out, never to return. Other copies I have bought since are in a new translation. Knowing the text so well, it jars with me. But in itself that has been a new tool of understanding. It makes me ponder the meaning of certain words, and how some catch the heart in different ways to others.

When I experienced clinical depression, one phrase resonated deeply within me - "It is such a secret place, the land of tears". In the new translation, 'secret' is replaced with 'mysterious'. That changes things - my land of tears was certainly secret, but it wasn't mysterious. The line changes to show you the perspective of the observer, not the inhabitant - which, in context, is entirely right. But it does not capture the essence of what I originally felt when I grasped at that line. Now I have both meanings in hand, and it increases my understanding and application. Ripples in a pond.

When I came back from France I brought with me some postcards of the little prince. I gave one to Partner - the fox saying 'if you tame me, we will need each other'. It was how I felt - yet I had skimmed over how the incident with the fox ends. And the ending of that relationship was difficult. I felt for some time afterwards that I did not want to be tamed ever again. I no longer understood why anyone could want to be tamed. I could no longer remember how it was done. I revelled in my wildness and my freedom.

But the fox has come to me again recently. I met someone, a while ago now, while travelling. I felt a connection with him, and we developed a friendship. I enjoyed his company, and knew I'd like to see him again. Our connection is beautiful, and funny - special, and at the same time the most ordinary thing in the world. What is important about this connection is invisible.... In the end, we spent the night together before I left. I didn't worry about being tamed. I don't have any desire to grow something serious from it, in the usual sense. My journey is different from his, and our paths only connected for a few weeks. We didn't see each other again, had little contact, and never spoke of the incident, until eight months later.

Now we have spoken about it, and one thing is evident: that night we set our friendship on fire. We started something that we haven't got out of our systems yet. Since he is on the other side of the world, we can't at this point. But we are communicating regularly now. Our connection has deepened. And I find that I have been tamed.

I feel a sense of wonder at what is happening. I am surprised to find myself opening, doing things I couldn't imagine doing again, and enjoying it. I know if I am tamed by someone I like so much, there is danger. And there is certainly danger here, yet I am unafraid. I am the fox. I am willingly becoming tamed, knowing it must end, knowing the ending will hurt.

Now, finally, I understand again why we choose to make ephemeral connections, why we choose to become friends with people we may never see again. We do it for the colour of the wheat, for the memories of the laughter we shared. As the little prince said, "When you look up into the sky at night, since I'll be living on one of them, for you it will be as if all the stars are laughing. You'll have stars that laugh! And when you're consoled (and everyone eventually is consoled) you'll be glad you've known me. You'll always be my friend. You'll feel like laughing with me. And you'll open the window sometimes just for the fun of it...and your friends will be amazed to see you laughing while you're looking up at the sky."

To the fox, to tame meant to create ties, to mark one as special amongst all others and build trust over time through observing rites. It was essential for friendship. In that sense, I was tamed when we first spent time together. Of course it would have been simpler if we had never set the friendship on fire. But I have no regrets - now something has awakened within me, something that was sleeping, that I worried was dead. Something that I didn't want to lose. My friend is part of that awakening, and I am honoured by that essential something which is invisible. I am happy to share this with him.

I am learning again the secrets of the fox - why we ask to be tamed, knowing what that means, knowing how it ends, and yet still doing it, welcoming the joy and sorrow that go with it.

Rosies

2009-05-14T20:48:00.003+09:30

Due to circumstances, I spent my last night in Brisbane on the street.

I wasn't too worried. My stuff was in a locker and I had an early train outta there. I didn't have much money left, but I usually stay awake all night before travelling so I figured I'd just hang out in a park near the station. I called my Watcher (a friend who I always tell when I'm doing stuff like this, so that someone knows where I am and can call for help if I disappear).

I wandered around looking in the shops until they closed, then went to the park to find a spot to settle in. But as I approached I saw a crowd of people on the street corner. I wasn't sure who they were, and at first hesitated in approaching them. Then I saw clearly what was going on - it was a couple of food vans with a bunch of volunteers in red shirts, and a big crowd of homeless people.

As I walked up one of them gave me a huge smile and asked me if I wanted a coffee. I perched awkwardly on the edge of the crowd as he went and got them. He brought back three coffees, two for me and one for himself, and sat talking to me. Slowly I realised he wasn't one of the workers, but one of the clients - his red shirt helped him blend in, as did his kind attitude. We talked for an hour or so, about our lives, hopes and dreams, the books we liked, our philosophy - life, the universe and everything. Several times he jumped up to get our cups refilled, one time coming back with some packets of chips. I shared my tobacco with him.

I had never been up to a food van before, and I looked around in curiosity. Actually, the van next to us just served hot drinks and soup. I was really struck by the attitude of the volunteers. Their deferential manner reminded me of waiters in a high-class restaurant. They never showed any distaste for us, just friendly helpfulness. You want two coffees? Extra milk? A spoonful of chocolate in that? Not hot enough? More sugar? No worries, sir, we are here to make it just how you like it. There was no expectation that we should be grateful, that we should be mindful of the charity done for us. There was simply an overwhelming sense that we were worth it, that we deserved coffee, that we deserved dignity, that we deserved inclusion and and acceptance, that we deserved to just chill out and have something the way we liked it for a change, since god knows the life of a homeless person is rarely how they like it and rarely comes with the level of respect we were given that night. They served us with a gentle grace that showed us, more than anything they said, that to them, we had worth and we deserved respect. And as a couple staffed the coffee machines, another dozen or more fanned out amongst the crowd, sitting with people, talking to them, listening to them, laughing with them. It was clear that it wasn't just about the coffee.

As the crowd was breaking up, I found myself on a bench next to one of the workers. I told her that they were doing a great job and I admired them for it. She asked how I was. I confessed that I didn't belong here, that I wasn't really homeless - I felt like a fraud for taking advantage of their services when I could have found a place to sleep, when in fact I knew I had a place to sleep somewhere and I had left it by choice. She didn't seem to care, didn't seem to think I was undeserving. She asked about my travels. Suddenly it all came flooding out. How I had started by running away from my troubles, and ended by chasing my demons. How I was on my way to face them, to conquer them. How I was alone and afraid. When I finished speaking, she turned to me. Her eyes radiated love and compassion. She wished me good luck, and I knew she meant it. I left with my head held a little higher than I arrived, feeling a little more confident and a little warmer in the heart.

I was deeply and profoundly moved by this encounter. When you are homeless, in a way you become invisible - no one wants to see you, and you can end up feeling somewhat set apart from the human race. Even when people do see you, it's usually with distaste, as they wrinkle their nose and gather their purse or their children tighter. It's difficult to feel that you have any value when this is your life. It wasn't my life; but I had walked up to a group of people thinking I don't belong here, I'm a fraud, I don't deserve this service, they won't welcome me here. - when in truth, those are the very reasons that I did deserve it.

The organisation is called Rosies. I tried to find out who they were affiliated with, but didn't get much answer. The truth is they are a Christian organisation, but they didn't want to mention it - their religion isn't the point, the service they provide is. When I arrived home, I looked them up on the web. This is from their website:

We at Rosies understand homelessness, not in the absence of safe and secure shelter that is described as houselessness, but rather… the condition of emotional emptiness and isolation. We see that a person can be sucked into the condition of homelessness due to a deprivation of basic emotional needs like love, acceptance, belonging, and achievement. So it is not primarily physical….something that can be seen and observed…. but rather…. an intangible condition of hopelessness, sadness and emptiness that is around us in the streets and even in our families.
:
Our understanding that people are created in the image of God with human dignity enables us to offer a unique service to the most abandoned and marginalised. The coffee and doughnuts handed-out is the means used to be present with them, to walk the path of homelessness with them, to offer a listening ear. So it is not mere charity that we offer but more importantly human rights… the right to be accepted, the right to belong, the right to be respected, and the right to speak and to be listened to. With a non-preaching, non-judgemental approach we fulfill our mission on the streets by making love real, by putting faith into action. Rosies volunteers empower patrons by respecting their dignity and re-building their self-esteem.

If this is Rosies mission, they fulfilled it that night with kindness and compassion, and they continue to do so every night on the streets of Brisbane.

Rosies friends on the street

Really?

2009-04-29T22:28:00.000+09:30

I spotted this recently in the texting section of a street newspaper in Brisbane.

Girl wanted.
Any girl residing in Brisbane
between the ages of 20 and 22, be mine?
I beg of you, please.
Can I convince any nice girl to go out with me?
I'm down on my knees, begging you.
No desperate girls.

Honestly, is this for real? Is it tongue in cheek, or actually blind to the irony?
What do you think?

Aftermath

2009-03-31T18:14:00.006+09:30

Since the bushfires in Victoria, my senses have been heightened. I am acutely aware of every siren, every whiff of smoke. I walk around the area and instead of beautiful houses in beautiful streets, I see death traps.

Where I live is indefensible. In a bushfire the fire-fighters can't protect us; the maze of small winding roads are a death trap to all if the fire blocks the one road leading out. During Ash Wednesday, most people evacuated as we did. Some stayed. Many who stayed then, and would have stayed again, are now saying they will flee. We all know we wouldn't have survived Black Saturday.

I remember Ash Wednesday, but I was a child, and we didn't lose our house, so I don't remember the aftermath. There are very few scars on the landscape after so long. Many people moved into the area after the fires. They don't remember them. They don't remember the debate over whether the area should even be rebuilt at all, given the danger here.It is over 25 years since we had fire amongst our houses on such a scale, and people had been lulled into a false sense of security.

All around, you see complacency. The fuel loads on the ground are piling up. You find people accidentally starting fires by using power tools or machinery on total fire ban days. You see piles of firewood stacked up against wooden houses, surrounded by leaf litter and gum leaves.

Death traps, on dead-end roads.

I used to walk into the bush in summer, climb a mountain and sit there at the top, watching as fire after fire erupted in the valley around me and was extinguished. I feel sick thinking of how blasé I was back then - if any of those fires had got out of control, it would have been too late for me to run by the time I realised I was in danger. My trust in the CFS was so great that I never seriously worried that there could be fires they couldn't cope with.

You can hear the fire station's siren from here. It's always given me a sense of comfort, like they're taking care of something somewhere. Now, it sends me into a spiral of fear. I race indoors and check the CFS website to find out what's happened, and where. If I know I will have no transport on high risk days, I head into the city early and stay there until the danger has passed. I sniff the wind, and feel my heart sink - even though usually it's the smoke from our own indoor fire I can smell.

Not long ago, there was a big one, not far away, and close to houses. There were water bombers and choppers buzzing overhead for five hours, and trucks wailing up from all over. It was a big one, and took a big response. As the sun set, I wondered if they could contain it. It was the first time I'd ever really been afraid they wouldn't. But they did.

Four days later, it flared up again.

You are never totally safe, living here. Maybe you are never totally safe living anywhere. Most people do what they can to keep their blocks clear, and are careful about any source of ignition. We are aware, in the backs of our minds, of the danger. But it is in the back, not the front. When you live close to danger, you become almost immune to the fear - you simply cannot live in that state of heightened awareness all the time. Mine flared up this summer in a way it hasn't before. But for us there is always the reprieve of winter, when the rain falls and the danger eases for a few months.

Until next season.

Fear

2009-02-10T19:53:00.004+09:30

Two beautiful people I know live in one of the towns ravaged by the bushfires, a town where so far 22 people are confirmed dead. Two beautiful people, whose surnames I don't know and who I cannot contact or trace.

I have no way of tracking them down, no way of finding out if they are ok. I can only wait until the clean-up is finished and the bodies are all identified. Then I can find out if they are amongst the dead.

At this point, there is nothing more I can do. I feel sick in the guts.

Hell

2009-02-09T11:04:00.010+09:30

Did I say the bushfire season has begun?

Victoria is burning. Australia is in the middle of the worst natural disaster we have ever had.

More than a hundred people are dead, and the toll is expected to continue rising. Hundreds of people are being treated in hospital. More than seven hundred homes are lost. Whole towns have been wiped out.

The fires are still burning. Some of them were deliberately lit. And as the CFS tries to put them out, arsonists close in behind and re-light them.

I feel sick with the horror of it all.

114.26 degree Fahrenheit

2009-01-31T18:21:00.006+09:30

Bushfire season has begun. There are fires every day. It's hot. Really hot.

The koalas are suffering as the temperature rises into the mid forties day after day. They climb down from the trees to seek relief on the ground. People put water out for them. It's so hot they climb into the water..

It's so hot the train tracks are buckling. It's so hot that supermarkets have taken the chocolate off the shelves and the meat from the fridge. 33 people have died from the heat in just two days.

It's really hot.

Haikus for the end of 2008

2008-12-27T18:00:00.005+09:30

They're perfunctory.
Our Christmas celebrations.
No one really cares.

This year is different.
We're determined to party.
We make an effort.

I see my cousins.
They've crossed the country for this.
One crossed the oceans.

We love each other
But haven't caught up for years.
This time is precious.

Drink flows freely here
As do the jokes and stories
In two languages.

We gather to eat.
Our cousin from the homeland
Has never had prawns...

She can't speak English.
But my older relatives
Speak her language well.

We rarely gather
Except when one of us dies.
This time we're happy.

Celebrating us;
Not Christmas. Our own triumph
Surviving this year.

Thank god it's over.
Eight's only lucky for some.
Better luck next year.

Koalas

2008-11-15T11:44:00.001+09:30

Koalas lounge around in the trees, sleeping. They don't move for hours. They're cute and cuddly, but slow and dopey and quiet.

Except when they're not.

After midnight, they wake up. They grunt at each other, loudly, in this extraordinary bray like a donkey with a bass voice. They thrash through the gum trees in search of a mate. The din is tremendous. You'd hardly think it was the same sleepy creatures responsible.

When I was young, there were very few koalas around the area. Many people never saw one; I felt privileged to have seen two in my life.

Now, if I want, I could see one every day. I certainly hear them every day. I have looked up, wondering if one was around, and seen one right in front of my eyes. You can sometimes hear them call during the day, and see them raising their snouts as they do. They have passed me on the path at night, not seeming to even see me in the dim light. There's more and more of them all the time. They're not native to the area, so I wonder where the population explosion will lead.

They certainly keep the nights interesting.

Good on ya, USA.

2008-11-05T20:42:00.002+09:30

I'm happy to see that Obama got in. I'm also happy to see that huge numbers turned out to vote. I suspect the feeling in the US has been similar to what we had here after our federal election last November.

Stinkypaw wrote a post about it that reminded me of something I've often said to people.

In Australia, we have compulsory voting. There is occasional debate over whether this is a good thing. While I see problems in the voluntary system, there are two big problems in the compulsory one.

The first is that very few people understand how the political system and the voting system really work. There is little education in schools about it. I've even been asked at the polling booth by someone twice my age how to fill in the ballot. I often hear people quoting mis-information on the system. I think something is wrong when people are forced to vote in a system they don't fully understand.

The second big problem is something Stinkypaw mentioned - what if there is no one running that you want to vote for? Nothing sucks more than wasting your vote because none of the people represented you.

I think there should be one more little box on the list of candidates - saying 'none of the above'. It should be a genuine vote. If enough people tick that box, the election is re-run and none of the previous candidates can stand again.

Sure, it would cost a lot of money. But wouldn't it be satisfying?

Yum

2008-10-22T21:37:00.005+09:30

Want to know what we eat in Australia?

Introducing: The Roadkill Cafe.

On the menu, from right to left:

Staked Buffalo
Staked Wallaby
Buffalo Sausages
Wallaby Sausages
Impaled Camel
Camel Sausages
Speared Kangaroo
Pigeon Pieces
Kangaroo Sausages
Emu Onnastick

I assure you, as I assured many a tourist, their slogan 'you kill em we grill em' would be in jest. Really, we don't go out collecting roadkill and selling it at market stalls to eat. There are rules in Australia on the slaughter and sale of animals for human consumption. No, really.

Food Surrender!

2008-09-29T22:10:00.005+09:30

So it's about time I updated on the food surrender!
Stinkypaw sent me a lovely box of goodies with a beautiful card. Having no idea what we get in Australia, she managed to do a good job in finding things that were new to me - only one thing that is common over here, and that's the Kitkat. Interestingly enough though, when I ate it I realised the chocolate is different - much darker than our milk and not as sweet.

Most of the other things she sent were very like what we have here. We have Pringles, but not ketchup ones, so that was good. I've always wanted to try Tootsie Rolls having heard about them so much in American literature; they were very nice, and the small hard candies were delicious! We have something nearly the same as Whippets but for the life of me I can't think what we call them. The Mirage is very like our Aero bar, but again, a darker, less sweet chocolate. Hershey bars made an appearance in Australia in the 80's, but are quite hard to find now.

Thankyou so much Stinkypaw, and I hope you enjoyed your package!

Well, duh!

2008-09-29T21:51:00.002+09:30

I bought a container of yoghurt-covered peanuts. On the lid it said 'Yoghurt Peanuts' in big letters. In the ingredients list, it said yoghurt 75%, peanuts 25%. And on the base was a warning.

"May contain traces of peanuts."

Food, glorious food...

2008-08-08T17:21:00.002+09:30

I'm taking part in Stinkypaw's food surrender!

I've hunted high and low for some Aussie delicacies to send to her. I posted it today; now I just have to wait for a package of Canadian goodies to turn up at my house.

It was great fun, thinking of what to select and chasing down things from my childhood. I had to do a fair bit of research to find out what was actually Australian. Growing up, I thought Cadbury's was an Aussie brand, because I knew they had a factory in Tasmania. Now I'm older and wiser; and although every brand I grew up with has been bought out by Cadbury or Nestle, many things are still specific to Oz.

I'll post about it again when my parcel arrives.

What next?

2008-08-01T22:31:00.001+09:30

In one month Kava will be illegal in South Australia.

What's happened to the place? It used to be so liberal!

Things I never thought I'd do #57

2008-07-29T17:45:00.004+09:30

I went pistol shooting today.

I have a good eye, but a very unsteady hand. I have to support it on something to hit the centre of the target.

Ouch

2008-07-16T20:16:00.001+09:30

I've cracked a rib!

Comfrey ointment is my friend.

Don't tell me jokes, it hurts to laugh.

Months

2008-06-30T08:56:00.000+09:30

Ages ago, I made a vow to post at least once a month.
Nothing special. But I like seeing that nice unbroken row of months in the sidebar. It shows I've stuck with something for a while; no mean feat for me.
So this is the frantic 'fuck it's July here so I'm pretending to be in Jamaica's timezone to write a June entry.'
Tricky, aren't I? Maybe later I'll come back and write something interesting instead of this placeholder.

Spicy

2008-05-31T14:00:00.004+09:30

I recently made a startling discovery.

I had known for a long time that almost everything sold as 'cinnamon' is actually something called cassia; something far cheaper for mass production.

So the other day I went to a shop that sells spices in bulk. They had both cinnamon and cassia, so I got some cinnamon quills and some powder.

When I opened the powder and sniffed it, I thought something was wrong. it smelled more like garam marsala than cinnamon. I put some in my semolina and tasted it; it tasted somewhat like nutmeg, somewhat like allspice - but not like what I knew as cinnamon. It was a more earthy taste, more mellow, without the kick of cassia. It was wild and warm and beautiful and somehow familiar yet like nothing I had ever known. I truly wondered then if this really was cinnamon.

I took one of the quills and stirred a hot chocolate with it. The blend of true cinnamon and chocolate was amazing. That same warm, earthy, mellow, wild taste mingled perfectly with chocolate. It was a blend designed in heaven.

I think I will always love cassia like I always have. But now I know the difference, my choice has widened. I want to make everything I've ever made with cassia again with real cinnamon and see what it's like. I want to try the two together.

The possibilities are endless.

Idiots

2008-04-12T07:02:00.004+09:30

So independent MP Ann Bressington has managed to introduce legislation in SA banning the sale of bongs, hookahs and crack pipes. The government has passed the legislation, even though nearly 90% of the population disagrees with it.

Ann Bressington has one big bone to pick. Her daughter died of a heroin overdose.

Now, I don't want to minimise her pain. The death of a child is something I have never faced, and cannot imagine. But I have had friends die of drug overdoses, and it's a tragic waste.

However I fail to see how banning bongs, pipes and hookahs will help anyone.

Firstly, the only time I have used hookahs is to smoke tobacco (usually that beautifully fruity tobacco you smoke with people from the Middle East). I don't know anyone who uses a hookah for anything other than tobacco. We like the idea of smoking pot through them - but it rarely happens.

Crack pipes? How common is crack in SA? I've only seen crack pipes used to smoke pot. When I've seen people use ice it's been through a needle or up their nose.

And bongs are only used to smoke pot.

Why is this woman picking on pot users? No one in the world has ever died of a pot overdose.

The usual rationale is that pot is a 'gateway drug'.

I call bullshit.

I know people who got into hard drugs without ever smoking pot. But I do not know one single person who has tried pot and gone on to use other drugs who hasn't first tried either tobacco or alcohol. Tobacco and alcohol are the gateway drugs. Why is the government wasting time banning drug paraphernalia instead of trying to stop the 22,000 deaths a year caused by tobacco and alcohol?

Ann Bressington believes that 'harm minimisation' is a bad strategy. Does that mean that harm maximisation is a good one?

If you ban the sale of bongs and pipes, people make them from plastic bottles and bits of garden hose. The carcinogens from these that you inhale along with your pot are 1000 times more damaging than the pot is. Banning drug paraphernalia doesn't stop people using drugs - it just increases the harm incurred.

Why not just say to all the heroin users in the state, "here's one needle. Share it amongst all of you. Sharpen it if it becomes too blunt. We're not going to give you single use needles and we're not going to provide sharps bins because harm minimisation is a bad strategy."

Makes sense, does it?

Ann Bressington, I'm sorry your daughter died. But you are a fucking moron.

Albert Camus

2008-03-31T15:43:00.000+09:30

Au milieu de l'hiver, j'ai découvert en moi un invincible été.

Good morning

2008-02-23T06:26:00.006+09:30

Although eating honey is a very good thing to do, there is a moment just before you begin to eat it which is better than when you are.

Winnie-the-Pooh

I'm a coffee snob. I only drink good quality fair-trade coffee.

I ran out of coffee a few days ago. It's been a difficult few days.

But now the pot is full. The plunger is ready to be pressed. The smell is wafting through the kitchen.

The anticipation is delicious.

nature's medicine

2008-02-02T20:00:00.000+09:30

Nearly a year and a half ago, I wrote about my struggles with an addiction to marijuana. Recently I thought of doing a follow-up post, and today I was spurred into action when I noticed on the stat counter that someone had found my blog when they googled 'my pot addiction'.

I would still consider myself an addict. It is all too easy for me to fall back into the addiction.

I still smoke, by the way. But I don't smoke often, and I don't smoke much. I managed to smoke in every country I went to in Europe. I smoke whenever I go back to Hometown. But the cravings don't return with a vengeance when I do. I can go to Hometown for two weeks, smoke every day while I'm there, but as soon as I step off the plane in Newtown I forget about it. I can go days, even weeks, without a craving.

Occasionally I think 'hmm, a smoke would be nice right now'. But I'm long past the point where I search desperately through the house, hoping the pot fairies have been and left something hidden in a place I've searched a hundred times before. And I don't go to the lengths I used to, just to get a smoke. About a month ago someone said she thought she'd be able to get me some, as she thought she was getting more than she wanted. It turned out she only got a very small bit, but she offered me a token as she knew I was going through some stress. But I don't really know the girl, and although I thought it was a sweet gesture, my pride made me tell her that I'd already found some, even though I hadn't. She didn't have much for herself, and I just didn't want to appear desperate in front of someone I didn't know. A few years ago I would have jumped at the chance to get any, and who cared whether I seemed desperate. I was! It made me realise that I don't need it so much to deal with stress, and that my self-respect has finally become stronger than my addiction.

But there are some things which have become clearer to me. Over the last two years I've managed to sort out exactly how pot has affected my life. I have a much more accurate picture of the influence it has on me. Giving it up has been worth it for that.

What's really interesting is how clear it is that pot really is medicine for me. I always knew I used it to control the symptoms of my mental illness, even long before I knew I had one. When I used it every day I made do with only one prescribed medication. Now I have up to six different medications, just to control the things that were previously controlled by pot. Even Partner has said how much he can see that pot is actually good for me. It's funny, in a way, because so many of the people I know with mental illnesses really can't tolerate it at all. They have a smoke and you can see the negative change almost instantly. With me it's the opposite. You can see, very clearly, as soon as it takes effect, that suddenly I am calm, less agitated, less scattered in my thinking, less irritable. It brings me up when I am down and brings me down when I am too far up. I function at my peak with judicious use.

But judicious use is the key. Although it is an effective medication, I am still an addict. If left to my own devices I would do nothing but smoke all day. I find it difficult to limit my use to that which is medicinal. And the problems it causes only exist when I overdo it - I become de-motivated and less inclined to interact socially. Partner and I have discussed it, and figured I would be best if I had someone else controlling the keys to the stash, and doling me out only a bit every day.

Fear of Flying

2008-01-27T12:59:00.000+09:30

Last year I caught twenty aeroplanes.
That's more than in the previous thirty years put together.
It didn't decrease my fear of flying, though. I still have to take tranquillisers to fly.
It did make me realise how stupid and inefficient the rules about flying are.
I came back to Australia with plant material from Europe in my luggage. I'd forgotten about it, and they missed it. So much for quarantine.
I had two lighters taken off me last time I flew, as I had three on me. They missed the metal crochet hook though. So much for the new restrictions on dangerous items.
Why do they bother?

After A While

2007-12-13T13:47:00.000+09:30

by Veronica A. Shoffstall

After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
and you learn
that love doesn't mean leaning
and company doesn't always mean security.
And you begin to learn
that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of woman, not the grief of a child
and you learn
to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow's ground is
too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down
in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns
if you get too much
so you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure
you really are strong
you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
with every goodbye, you learn...

Hindsight and the split

2007-12-11T09:48:00.000+09:30

It's been over two years now since I started blogging. I just read back through my archives. It's really interesting to see some of the stuff, to reflect on how things have changed. It's heartening to see the posts that I think were written well, and I'm proud of them. Other posts, with the benefit of hindsight, could have been improved on a lot.
It's great to know that people from all over the world have read things I've written. That was one of my childhood dreams; but in my childhood, the only way that could happen was if someone chose to publish you in a book or newspaper. Having the freedom to publish my own stuff on the web is fantastic.
It's great to have a record out there, to track the various things going through my mind over the last couple of years. I wish I'd written all those posts that got composed in my head but never written down. It's inspired me to write more regularly.
Lately, I've been writing. But mostly I've been writing on a private, invite only blog. If you're interested in some of my more personal ramblings, write a comment here or send me an email and I'll send you an invite. For now, I'd rather keep my private life there and my public thoughts for the public blog.
Maybe one day I'll meld the two again.

A new day, a new era

2007-11-25T08:04:00.000+09:30

Today is the first day of the rest of our lives.

The Prime Minister is gone. Whether he retains his seat or not, he no longer holds power. Finally, for the first time in over a decade, I have faith in the Australian public.

Little Johnny led our nation into a time of economic prosperity - by selling off our country's assets. He provoked fear and xenophobia. He brought the worst out in the people of this country, and made us look like selfish ignorant fools in the eyes of the world.

If I had my way he would lie down and let each and every one of us piss on him as we file past.

Labor, surely, will not keep all their promises. If they do, this will be a golden age in Australia, a utopia, with beer and skittles for all. But the word utopia means no place, a place which does not exist, and I certainly do not expect that Labor will do everything they say they will, when the realities of economic management kick in. I hope they do. But what political party ever does everything they say they will? There is no accountability in Parliament.

The only hope I have is that they did listen to what people see as important, whereas Johnny's party seems to have lived the last decade completely cocooned from the rest of the country. People chose greed over decency and human rights in the last election. This time they chose punishment - punishment for the new IR laws and punishment for the continual denials of environmental reality that made Johnny seem like more and more of a joke as more and more evidence appeared. Johnny missed the boat on that one, and he appeared to forget that while big business supported him while he was in, voting works by majority rule, and the majority of Australians are workers not business owners.

So that's my little political analysis. Others, I'm sure, will do it better. But here are my parting words to little Johnny Howard:

Fuck you, you fucking cunt. I hope you burn in hell for what you've done to this country.

One of my favourites

2007-11-18T23:44:00.000+09:30

My heart is sore pained within me:
and the terrors of death are fallen upon me.

Fear and trembling have seized me:
and darkness has overwhelmed me.

And I said: O that I had wings like a dove!
For then I would fly away and be at rest.

Lo, would I flee far away,
and live in the wilderness.

I would wait for him who will save me
From my cowerdice and from the storm.

PSALM 55

Want to know why I'm dejected? Check out my other blog.

2007-10-20T08:48:00.001+09:30

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is:
Her Excellency Hasarder the Dejected of Middle Witchampton
Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

At home, we only ever see one at a time.

2007-10-19T08:59:00.000+09:30

We built a fire on the dry riverbed, and settled in for a night of drinking and talking.
Towards dawn, we decided to climb a hill to a ruined castle and watch the sunrise from there. I was most excited about the ruined castle. There was already enough light before the sun rose to explore it.
As I scanned the horizon for the emerging sun, I noticed a white streak across the sky left by a passing plane.
Then I saw another. And another. And another. And another.
More than a dozen planes were criss-crossing the sky in the pre-dawn light.
That was the first real indication I had of just how busy Europe is compared to Australia.

For whom the bell tolls

2007-10-17T08:50:00.000+09:30

In the village where I stayed, the church bells struck every hour. You get so used to them that you only register their sound near the end, so they strike again so you can count the chimes and know what the hour is. They also, anachronistically, struck in the morning to tell the peasants to go to the fields, at noon to tell them to eat lunch, and in the evening to tell them to come home.

I thought the sound of the church bells was beautiful. You could hear them everywhere in the village and the surrounding fields. They sounded quite merry.

Then one day they began striking at an odd time. And the sound was different - and very, very slow. Bong.............bing............bong...........bing...........

Someone in the village had died.

It was the eeriest sound I've ever heard. There were two bells, because it was a woman. They kept going for a long time, because she was old, striking twice for every year she had lived. And for the first time in my life I really understood the poem by John Donne.

There are so many things that, as an Australian, are part of our cultural heritage from elsewhere. I knew the poem. But it was never quite real to me. I had never lived anywhere where time and lives were marked by church bells.

And after that day, the church bells never sounded quite so merry.

"Who bends not his ear to any bell which upon any occasion rings? but who can remove it from that bell which is passing a piece of himself out of this world? No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

Another thing in Europe that i couldn't get used to...

2007-09-06T16:15:00.001+09:30

Guards at train stations armed with machine guns.

Some things I couldn't get used to in Europe

2007-08-29T12:38:00.000+09:30

Driving on the right
I never got used to the roads in Europe.
I kept looking at cars on the road and thinking no one was driving them, because I looked in the wrong front seat. I kept having that wild moment of panic thinking whoever was driving us around had turned into oncoming traffic. If a group of us were walking down the road and a car came towards us, they'd all head off to the right while I instinctively headed off to the left. In the end I just looked around wildly and constantly when crossing the roads, thinking that a car could spring out at me from any direction.
The only place I didn't have a problem was England, of course. And in England all the street corners have "Look right" painted on them in big writing, for the foreigners. It was the only place I didn't need telling.

Money
It's hard enough keeping one exchange rate in your head, let alone three or four. With each new currency I'd have to write down a bunch of conversions and keep referring to them for the first few days. I'd do things like try and give euros to the shopkeepers in England. I always had to tip all the coins out of my purse and look at them in shops because I couldn't remember which coin was which.
I also took a while to notice they still have one and two cent coins in Europe. In Australia they were phased out fifteen or so years ago. It was only after I bought some fruit and the shopkeeper kept stabbing the docket irritably with a finger that I realised I'd automatically rounded it down and forgotten to give her the extra two cents.

Trains
It's very strange being in a train that goes 300k's an hour. But not so strange as being in the front seat of a driverless train. That never stopped freaking me out.

Toilets
I think it's outrageous that you have to pay for public toilets in Europe. I will never think that's fair. Especially since many cities had free urinals on the side of the street. That's discrimination, people!
The toilets themselves were hard to get used to. German toilets have a sort of shit-shelf. I've had some debate with people as to why - whether it's so you can examine your shit or just so you don't get that leaping drop back up you. The trick with German toilets is to put a wad of toilet paper on the shit-shelf before you start, otherwise it all sticks.
Turkish toilets are worse though. They just have the porcelain foot rests either side of a hole in the ground. The trick with them is to be ready to dash out the door as you pull the chain - otherwise the big whoosh of water gets all over your shoes.

Just a quick one

2007-08-22T16:50:00.000+09:30

Well, I touched down in Australia two days ago, after catching four planes in four days. Now I just have to get over the jetlag.
But our computer is broken! So no extended late night blogging sessions from me until it's fixed. But I promise, when I can I will get some photos up, and catch up with you all, and write a real post.
Right now the public computer I'm on keeps freezing up, and it's giving me the shits. So I'm going home to Partner, who is cooking me dinner as we speak.
We can't keep our hands off each other. Two months apart is just too long. Next time we go together.
Yep, I'm already planning next time.

Hello

2007-07-26T16:43:00.001+09:30

Hello, still here, still travelling.
No time to post now, I'll see you all later.

close

2007-06-10T12:42:00.001+09:30

A lot of people see it as no big deal that I'm going away.

They can't understand how my every waking moment is fixated on the idea.

I've dreamed of leaving Australia for over 2o years. Now it's happening in a week, how could I possibly not think of it?

I'm paralysed in social situations. I can't focus on the conversation because my mind can't drag itself away from the idea of travelling.

And it is an idea in stasis. It's poised on the brink, waiting. Having filled my head with all the information I can, there is no way for the idea to progress or develop until I've taken the next step and set foot on that plane.

A place to stay

2007-06-07T00:45:00.000+09:30

One of my contacts has fallen through and now I'm left frantically trying to find a hostel.

It shouldn't be too hard to find a hostel in a major European city in summer on a week's notice, should it?

Ha.

I'm not too worried, I just have a niggling voice telling me to get onto it now because of something that happened to me a few years ago.

I was travelling around and had only booked accomodation for part of the trip. I was due to arrive in a town at midnight and didn't organise anywhere to stay until that evening. Imagine my horror to find everywhere was full.

Well, I had no choice. I hopped off the bus at midnight and prepared myself to spend a night on the streets with my backpack and guitar. I scoped out the toilets in the park where I figured I could lock myself in if things got rough (it's a real party town, and not in a good way). I grabbed myself something from the late-night bakery, found a well lit doorway on the main drag and settled myself down to wait until dawn.

I watched as drunk tourists tipped over rubbish bins and jumped into shopping trollies to race down the street. I saw a couple of fights. But during the night lots of people stopped to chat. Someone gave me a chocolate bar. Someone else gave me a red string which had apparently been blessed by the Dalai Lama.

And around four in the morning the woman from the bakery came out and told me to come back to her place.

"I didn't like to think of you out on the streets," she said. "So I told myself if you were still there when I finished my shift I'd take you home. My husband can drive you back into town in the morning."

I took a punt and trusted her as she did me. I slept on her couch and the next day found a place to stay in another town.

I am constantly amazed at the generosity and kindness of complete and utter strangers.

But I don't like the idea of spending the night on the streets in a big city, especially a big foreign city. And what are the chances that anyone in a big city would invite a random stranger off the streets into their home for the night?

That's why I'm up late running page after page through Babel Fish when I should really be getting some sleep.

back again

2007-06-02T22:54:00.000+09:30

I think that must have been my longest break from blogging yet.

Finally, we found a house. Just in the nick of time. It's an awkward house; the poor thing suffers from random wall syndrome. We're having fun trying to work out how to fit all our stuff in it. But it is done, the move is over. We're slowly easing ourselves into suburban life.

And we have broadband! Sweet, beautiful, fast broadband. I can read a dozen blogs before breakfast, and still have time to comment.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some catching up to do.

Going Overseas

2007-05-03T14:01:00.000+09:30

In seven weeks I'll be leaving the country.

For people who live on other continents, this may not seem like a big thing. You can drive to another country.

I can't imagine what that's like. I can't imagine driving for a few hours, and suddenly being in a different country, with a different language spoken. I can't imagine an international border that does not consist of ocean.

When you're an Aussie who was born here and has never left, the world is divided into two parts. There is Australia, and there is this other place called Overseas. Overseas is where the interesting things happen. Overseas is where the bad, scary things happen. Going Overseas is almost a rite of passage. It doesn't matter where you go. Everywhere that's not here is Overseas.

Australia was started as a prison. For some of us (in other words, me) it still seems like a prison. Unless you have a lot of money, you can't get out of it. You can't walk or drive or swim far enough to get out of it.

When I was young, I had dreams of travelling to far off lands where exciting things happened. I just assumed my life would turn out in a way that let me travel. But it didn't turn out that way.

I watched so many other people leave. It made me so envious and frustrated. I was the one who'd had the dreams of leaving all my life! It wasn't fair of them to live my dreams. I'd thought of it first! And I was the one left behind.

And as the years went by, it began to seem like I'd never leave, like I was stuck on this prison continent. And somehow I twisted my feelings around and learned to love this country, to protect myself from the desire to leave it. Call it a kind of continental Stockholm syndrome, if you will.

Gradually as I grew older, I became scared of leaving. I hid my fear under a veneer of excuses about why I couldn't go.

I don't think I fully realised how afraid I was until this trip flipped over from dream to potential reality. Suddenly, every time I thought of it I became physically sick in my stomach. Talking about it gave me panic attacks. I put off applying for a passport, I put off booking a ticket, I put off paying for the ticket.

Now all this is done. I can't back out now. And suddenly I am free - free of the fear, and free of the bonds that were holding me to this land.

For the first time ever, I'll be flying across the ocean to a place on the other side of the world.

Why? Those of you who've been around here long enough may recall how I wrote about a housemate of mine who came from a foreign country. She became one of my closest friends, and when she left I missed her so much it hurt. So finally, I've been inspired to get off my arse and leave the country, to go and visit her.

Seven weeks and counting.

A tropical night in April

2007-04-20T00:06:00.000+09:30

Too cold in a singlet, too hot in a shirt.

It's a hard life.

Interview Me

2007-04-16T01:30:00.000+09:30

The Rules: Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me.” I respond by asking you five personal questions (I will leave these questions for you in my comments) so I can get to know you better. If I already know you well, expect the questions may be a little more intimate! Then you update your blog with the answers to the questions (please don't leave your answers in my comments unless you don't have a blog). Include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you ask them five questions.

Belatedly, here are some questions from Desmond, along with my answers.

1) So, what have you been up to lately? I saw something about how your landlord is kicking you and your partner to the curb (kerb?), and he's been sick. Anything else you'd like to share?

We have a metal fan in our bedroom. A while back the safety cover on it broke. (You know where this is going, don't you?) Today I was having a snooze with the fan on, and I got cold. So I reached over to turn it off, and slashed my fingers up quite badly in the metal blades. It bled a lot. It hurts. But I can now confirm that it is possible to stop a fan with your bare fingers. Eventually.

2) Do you and Emily ever get confused for each other - you know, 'those Australian women'? The two of you don't know each other in 'real life', do you? (yeah, I know, Australia's a big place; it's not like you're just around the block from each other)

Australia is a big place, but remember there's only about 20 million people here. It wouldn't suprise me in the slightest if it turned out Emily and I knew each other. I suspect we don't, because I know very few people in her city (which is about 2,000 k's away from me). But I would love to meet her next time I'm down that way! I doubt people confuse us, our readership only overlaps on a couple of blogs.

3) I probably already know the answer to this, if I could remember that far back (so, please forgive me in advance) - are you and your partner married? Why, or why not? Any kids?

No, not married. Why not? Well, we haven't come to any conclusions about when/where/how/why. We do know we want to formalise our commitment in some way. No kids yet, but we're in negotiations about the future.

4) Because it's me asking the questions, I've got to ask at least one 'God question': what is your religious/spiritual background, and how does it impact the life you have today?

I was raised Roman Catholic. Now I describe myself as a Recovering Catholic. Actually I don't even consider myself a Christian anymore. But my religious background has had a profound impact on my life ever since. Actually this question is harder than I thought; to adequately answer it would take several posts! I guess it influenced my morals and values, led me to think deeply on theological issues, gave me a large dose of skepticism about organised religion and introduced me to a satisfying personal relationship with God. All of these things ultimately led me away from Christianity, but I'm very happy with the spiritual path I'm on.

5) I apologize in advance for stealing the last stupid question from Fr. Guido Sarducci - Iffa you coulda be-a any-a animal inna da world, what-a animal would-a you be?

A human one? No, that's too glib. I would like to try something with radically different senses and/or abilities to my own, yet still be intelligent enough to enjoy it. Maybe an octopus?

Well, that's all, folks. Any follow-up questions, comments, or requests for an interview - you know where they go.

You know you're getting older when...

2007-03-26T13:17:00.000+09:30

Someone says to you:

"Oh my God, that's how old you are? Does that mean you actually remember Kurt Cobain dying?"

It doesn't feel like it was that long ago.

Out

2007-03-22T02:45:00.000+09:30

I sat on a stool by the wall at a club, people-watching.

I saw a really cute girl. As I watched she made a bee-line straight for me! She asked me for a cigarette. I gave her my pouch.

As she rolled one, she leant up against me, grinding her crotch into my knee. She then coughed up the corniest line ever:

"So, do you come here often?"

My brain was mush. I gave her a really lame answer.

She made some small talk, which I barely managed to respond to. All I could think was, oh god oh god oh god this really cute girl is cracking onto me! What do I do? Quick, think of something witty to say -

Then she thanked me for the cigarette and disappeared into the crowd. In my state of total shock, I obviously didn't give off strong signals of interest - or any signals at all.

I spent the rest of the night glued to that stool, the sensation of her crotch still on my knee and a goofy grin on my face.

Partner and I have an agreement about me indulging my desire for female action. But so far I've never done anything about it. Firstly, because I've been in open relationships before, and there's always a strong chance it will get messy and complicated and go wrong for someone, if not everyone. But secondly, and more importantly, I want to maintain the monogamous bond I have with Partner. I enjoy the intimacy, and the feeling that we share something with each other that we share with no-one else. I don't want to lose that, and I'm willing to be a non-practising bisexual to maintain it. Giving up girls is a small price to pay for what we have.

But it's still nice to have a really cute girl try to pick me up.

Strange Children

2007-03-16T19:58:00.000+09:30

I went to the bowling alley with some friends. While we were there, a small boy - only two or three years old - came up to me and took my hand.

"Where's your mum? Show me where your mum is," I said to him. I looked around, but couldn't see any adults who seemed to be missing a kid. "How about your daddy? Is your daddy here?"

He dragged me by the hand, but only to the pinball machine and pointed to it. Then he dragged me to the basketball ring and pointed at that, then the row of little yellow ducks, and the crocodiles that pop up so you can hit them on the head with a mallet. He walked me around all the sideshows, smiling and pointing, and all the while I was looking around for his parents and asking him where they were.

Suddenly a wrathful mother charged over to me and snached him out of my hands, her eyes flashing.

"Thank God!" I said. "He grabbed me and I kept asking him where..." She didn't stop to listen. She dragged him away from me, and over her shoulder shot me a look of pure venom.

I felt dirty. I wanted to explain to her what had happened, but she wasn't interested. I can understand the fear parents have of child abduction. I wasn't doing anything wrong. But I know I would be horrified to see a stranger hand in hand with my child. For five minutes this kid was latched onto me before his mother noticed he was missing. It wasn't a case of me letting him go - I wasn't holding him. I hated knowing that his mother was suspicious of me, and I felt really bad. I couldn't have convinced her that I wasn't about to steal her child.

Then I remembered something that happened when I was a kid myself. My mum was driving me somewhere. Near the end of our road, she noticed a very small child lurking by the side of the road. We lived out in the sticks, so the properties were quite large. There was no one else around.

She stopped the car and asked the kid where he lived, but he didn't answer her. So she said to me, "I'm not leaving this child to get run over. I'll take him to the police station." She took the kid by the hand and started walking him to our car.

Just then a car came around the corner, and screeched to a halt. His mother jumped out. It turned out he lived just behind where we found him, and obviously had been sent outside to wait for his mother who was on her way home (a bloody stupid thing to do, leaving a child who's only about three or four to wait alone by the side of the road). The woman looked at my mother like she was a child abducter, snatched the kid away and hurried inside.

My mother felt bad. She knew the woman would have thought the worst of her. But she said to me, "No matter what she thought, no matter how I feel now, I couldn't have lived with myself if I saw a child that young alone on the street and didn't try to help him."

And that's how I feel now. If there's a child who is alone, who looks lost or frightened, I will stop and try to help. I know I'm a good person. But I can't guarantee that the next person who comes along will be so good. Even if to the parents I'm a frightening stranger, I couldn't live with myself if I ignored a child in need.

Stale Anger

2007-03-15T22:41:00.001+09:30

Has someone ever said something to you that made you so angry, that you mulled over it for years, and even fifteen years later whenever you think of it you still boil over in anger?

No?

Er, me neither. Nothing to see here. Move along, people.
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I'm reading a book at the moment called 'The case of the female orgasm: bias in the science of evolution' by Elisabeth A Lloyd. It is primarily a critique of the different theories about why women have orgasms. It's quite an interesting book.

But it reminded me, yet again, of something that happened in my year 10 science class which made me so angry, I still haven't got over it. Why, I don't know. I'm hopeing that blogging it will finally lay this demon to rest.

We were at the point in science class where we were studing sex. We had a test. I got 60/60, quite a good mark you may say. But I was actually marked wrong on one question, and made the perfect score by getting the bonus question right.

The question I was marked wrong on was: What is the female equivalent of the penis?

My answer was, of course, the clitoris.

When I got the test back there was a big red X next to my answer, and the words 'the vagina = complimentary organ.'

I was so angry. He hadn't asked what the complimentary organ was, he asked what the female equivalent was. And I knew it was the clitoris. All the literature I've read before and since says it's the clitoris.

Let me quote from this book I'm reading (pg 108):

It is crucial to note that the penis and the clitoris are the "same" organ in men and women; there is an organ in the primordial, undifferentiated embryo that turns into a penis if it recieves a dose of particular hormones; otherwise it matures into a clitoris. In other words, the penis and the clitoris have the same embryological origins and are thus called "homologous" organs.

The clitoris has a hood (a prepuce, homologous to the foreskin). It has erectile tissue which becomes engorged with blood during sexual excitement. It has the same amount of nerve endings as the penis. It is the female equivalent of the penis.

I know I was right. And I got full marks on the test anyway, so why am I still bitching about it so many years later?

Partly because I was right and he was wrong, and I didn't have the gumption to get up and argue my point more forcefully. Partly because I object to a man telling me about my sexual organs when he evidently has no idea. Partly because there was no mention whatsoever of the clitoris in the science curriculum, as if the only female sexual organs that matter are those related to popping out babies and being penetrated by a dick. But mainly because he was a bloody teacher, and he was not only teaching stuff that was wrong, he was deliberately leaving out an important part of the female sexual organs in a class where we covered everything else (ovaries, fallopian tubes, uterus, labia, the menstrual cycle etc). And I knew that a generation of girls would have to sit through this curriculum.

Every time I read another account of how the clitoris is the female equivalent of the penis, I feel vindicated. But it doesn't stop me being angry, for I am still powerless to change the curriculum and give girls the information about their bodies that they deserve to be taught.

So slow

2007-03-14T22:46:00.000+09:30

We've been shunted onto dial-up.

It takes me ten times longer to load a page than it does to read it. Hence, I'm only reading a couple of blogs a night, and it takes about a week to get through my blog-roll. Commenting just doesn't seem worth the effort; although there's been some interesting posts I'd like to comment on, it may be well after the fact. Oh well. I should stop reading and just get on with writing.

In other news: still looking for a new house. Still plugging away at the new job. Hang on - that amounts to no news, doesn't it?

Oops

2007-03-05T03:49:00.000+09:30

The doorbell rang. It was our next door neighbour's son.

'Have you got any Baileys?' he asked shyly. What the fuck, I thought. This kid is only six years old!

'No, sorry, we don't have any,' And even if we did, I wouldn't be giving it to you.

He looked confused. 'But your Partner said you've got some,' he said. Hang on, there's something else going on here.

'Is it for your mum?' I thought maybe Partner had offered her some kind of alcohol and she got confused about what we had. But he shook his head.

'No, it's for me.'

'Well, we really don't have any. Sorry.' The poor kid walked away looking totally bewildered.

When Partner got home, I told him what had happened. He nearly pissed himself laughing.

'You duffer! He's looking for bay leaves for a school project!'

I ripped a small branch off the bay tree and scuttled around to the neighbours to make my red-faced explanation, his laughter still ringing in my ears.

Perfect - more or less.

2007-02-23T02:23:00.000+09:30

The other day, when talking to a friend, I mentioned a couple of arguments Partner and I had recently.

She looked really concerned. "Is this a recent thing?" she asked.

"Hell no! We fight all the time."

"Really? But you seem so perfect for each other!"

"We are perfect for each other. That doesn't mean we don't fight."

I always wanted to find the person who was so perfect for me that we wouldn't fight. I thought if I found the right person, found a relationship with mutual understanding and open, honest communication, that I'd never fight with my partner again.
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Ok, you can stop laughing now.
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When Partner and I had our first arguments, I nearly hyperventilated with fear and anxiety. We'd been with each other for a few months by then, and were already planning a life together. I became so worried that the arguments were a sign that our relationship wasn't what I thought it was, that it would degenerate into the same old crap I'd gone through with other boyfriends.

But it didn't. And I've come to realise that finding the right person doesn't mean you stop fighting about the silly, petty little things of everyday life. We grumble. We scream. But then, and this is the important bit, we talk. We talk properly, like mature people. And we sort things out. Everything gets resolved. This doesn't always happen straight away - occasionally we do the rounds two, maybe three times before we really nut the issue out. But everything, eventually, is resolved, and there are no lingering resentments.

I always thought fighting was a sign that things weren't right. And it's true that at times, neither of us fight fair. We both have issues, we both get defensive, we both say hurtful things. We're both trying to minimise that. But we agree on all the really big, fundamental things, and we generally have very good communication. So when a small issue flares up into something, we can always talk it through to the point where we understand each other and find a solution.

This is what I really wanted.

Grrrr

2007-02-17T15:19:00.000+09:30

Why, why did I fuck around with the template? I swear it said something about saving the old one if you want to go back. Wrong! Now I've lost all my old buttons, and I can't make head or tail of the new template.

Not being a computer geek, I was so proud of setting up a blog, and working out how to use HTML and put links in and stuff. Now I feel like I'm a newbie again.

Blogger promised the new system would be easier. Easier my arse.

I think the changes blogger's made to the template look silly. But on the other hand, do you like the purple? I do.

fucken blogger

2007-02-16T02:28:00.000+09:30

I think the new blogger is going to be enforced on me, whether I like it or not.
Today when signing in, it sent me to a 'switch to new blogger' page. There was a small 'click to enter your old account' button, underneath which it said 'you can only do this once'. I guess that means next time I post, I HAVE to move! Fuck you, blogger. I hate being forced into shit.

Now. Where was I?

Ah, bugger it. I've been derailed.

I fell asleep early this evening, had a really vivid dream and woke up in the middle of the night with no desire to go back to sleep. But after an hour of pissing around on the computer, I don't have the energy to write.

Fingers crossed that the transition to new blogger goes well.

Just one more thing while I'm on the subject

2007-02-11T01:47:00.000+09:30

A State Government report (I hope that link stays viable) "says the mental health system is failing 800 mentally-ill South Australians." It outlines 41 recommendations including "a plan to cut acute care beds to fund early intervention programs."

These people are fuckers.

If there are 800 people already being failed by by the system, they are already ill. Early intervention will not help them. The people helped by early intervention are the people becoming ill now, and the people that will become ill in the future.

Taking acute care beds away from a system that is already struggling KILLS PEOPLE.

I knew a girl who died while waiting for an acute care bed.

I knew a guy who spent three days sitting on a chair in the waiting room of an emergency department - and only got a bed when he attempted to commit suicide in front of the desk.

I knew a guy who was released from hospital after several hours due to lack of beds and proceeded to kill himself that night.

I once rang the Acute Crisis Intervention Service, trying to get admitted to hospital because every time I left the house I had an overwhelming urge to throw myself in front of the traffic, and it frightened the shit out of me.

Their answer? "There are no beds. Just don't leave the house."

The mental health system needs more money - not just a money shuffle.

More on that

2007-02-10T23:30:00.000+09:30

Since blogger ate my responses to the comments in my last post, I thought I'd address a few here, since the more I think about it, the more there is to say.

A common theme was that I was 'brave' for posting it, and that it couldn't have been easy. Well, that's true. I have wondered ever since I started blogging whether to write about it or not.

After I was diagnosed, I pretty much told everyone. Of course, it got around my group of friends pretty quickly that I was in hospital. But I spoke far more widely about it than that. I told people who really didn't need to know.

I always thought that the fear and stigma of mental illness is one of the biggest crosses to bear, and I wanted to lighten the load. And I found it lightened the load for others too. I would tell people at parties (where it's often not done to talk about these things). And then one or two people would confess that they had a mental illness, and a few more would say their partner/mother/friend/boss has one. And then a discussion would ensue about things people had kept hidden away through fear of what others would think.

I get a real kick out of helping people with their problems. Not only have I told people with bipolar things they never knew - I've also helped so many relatives and friends understand why the person they loves is acting the way they do. Being able to spread understanding and therefore compassion is a true gift. And I give it because when I was sick, someone with bipolar helped me come to terms with what had happened, and someone else with bipolar explained a lot of stuff to my dad which helped him understand me.

But for some reason, a couple of years ago I got sick of telling people. I got sick of wading through the judgements and ignorance. I got sick of being an ambassador for people with my illness. I just wanted to be normal (whatever that is). And people do think differently about you when you have a mental illness.

Here's a small example. While travelling a few years ago, I wound up in Nimbin. For those of you who don't know, Nimbin is famous for its marijuana culture. I was sitting at a long table with about 20 people smoking grass. I had told one person about my illness. When I started looking a bit glassy-eyed and nodding off, he asked me "Did you take too much medication today?" Now, bear in mind we were in Nimbin, for God's sake. We were all smoking - a lot. If anyone else had nodded off, people would have assumed they had smoked too much pot (which is, actually, what others thought had happened to me - and what had, in fact, happened). Assuming under those circumstances that I had an issue with my medication was a judgement, and evidence that he saw me differently from those other people. He was trying to show that he had at least a nominal understanding of the issues I face, but ultimately just proved that he saw me through the filter of my illness.

That situation was not a big deal. But imagine what happens when you go for a job interview and on the form it asks you if you have any illnesses. Imagine that you have gone to the Housing Trust to apply for a house, only to be told that you will have to provide references from your previous neighbours to prove that you won't be a disturbance in the street (this actually happened to me). Eventually you get mighty sick of it.

To be honest, the main reason I hadn't posted about it was because it would be an obvious marker if anyone I knew ever found the blog. What I'd already written would probably be enough to identify me, but reading about that would clinch it. But now I'm not quite so worried about anyone finding it.

The real reason I finally posted it is because of what other people had written. Just as I had given courage to others to be open, so other gave me courage. Confused Husband has been incredibly honest about his journey of self-discovery. Artful Dodger wrote about a terrible event in his childhood which he has drawn something positive out of. People like this have made me ready to tell my story - which again, helps others to tell theirs.

I feel that now I've mentioned it, I've opened the floodgates. There is so much more that I have to say. But as this post is already long, I'll save it for later.

But if you have anything to say about your own experiences with mental illness, or those of people you know, I'd love to hear it. And if you have any questions, I'll do my best to answer them.

On to more serious matters

2007-02-03T00:20:00.000+09:30

You Are 100% Bipolar

You have some serious ups and downs, maybe to the point of endangering your own life.
Consult a doctor to see if you may truly have bipolar disorder.

Are You Bipolar?

Five years ago I was hospitalised and diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

I believe I have had the illness since childhood, but bipolar is notoriously difficult to diagnose in children. I had my first episode of severe depression when I was nine. I first noticed symptoms of hypomania when I was thirteen, but at the time, although I guessed something was not normal, I didn't know what it was. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

I was mis-diagnosed with depression, and subsequently wrongly medicated, which actually made the condition worse. This is a common story with bipolar. After all, when we are depressed we know something is wrong. But who goes to the doctor because they feel great? And hypomania does feel great. It's only when it slips over the line to mania that it becomes frightening and life-threatening.

To be honest, right now I can't be arsed explaining the illness. If you want to know more about its symptoms and effects on quality of life (and life-expectancy) here is a comprehensive page with good information and good links, and here is a brief overview.

Reading this information makes me feel quite hopeless. My prognosis is not good.

When I was diagnosed, I felt my life was ruined. I'd lost my job, my home, my friends, my partner, my education and my reason for living and all due to the illness. But none of these things would have ruined my life. You can always get new friends, another house, another job. What made me feel ruined was that I couldn't trust my own brain anymore. The illness both impaired my cognitive abilities and and made me behave in abhorrant ways. (I might write further posts on this, because really, hearing the direct experiences from the horse's mouth give people an understanding of the realities of living with bipolar that you simply can't get from a dispassionate account of symptomology.)

I'd wound up in hospital because I had severe mania, with delusions which were bordering on psychosis. (There is a joke that schizophrenics think they have a direct line to God, but bipolars think they are God.) And when I come out of that, and was properly medicated, I realised that my mind had betrayed me. I'd thought a lot of things were true which were in fact products of a diseased brain. And of all the things I have, the one thing that is truely mine and I could truely trust is my mind. We all like to think that we can evaluate facts and situations and come to accurate conclusions. But what if those conclusions turn out to be wrong? If you can't trust your own mind, what can you trust?

I began to wonder if everything I'd ever thought was wrong. I spent years after that learning as much as I could about the illness, and monitoring my own thoughts and behaviours until finally the day came when I could trust my own thoughts, and recognise when they were faulty.

I thought bipolar was a curse. As I said, my prognosis is not good. I'm likely to die young. I have to accept that my relationship has only a 10% chance of lasting that lifetime. I have to accept the years of lost productivity, and bad health. I have learned to have flexible plans and deadlines because I never know when I will be well.

But I have come to regard this illness as a blessing in disguise. Because of it, I have highs higher than most of you will ever know. I have periods of greatly increased energy, productivity, creativity and sociability. But more than that, I've learned to treasure my mind. I've learned that my mind is an organic product, and that my thoughts don't define who I am. I have learned to analyse and scrutinise my thoughts and behaviours, and as a result I know myself better than I possibly could have otherwise.

In Broken Images

He is quick, thinking in clear images;
I am slow, thinking in broken images.

He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images,

Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;
Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.

Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact;
Questioning their relevance, I question the fact.

When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;
When the fact fails me, I approve my senses.

He continues quick and dull in his clear images;
I continue slow and sharp in my broken images.

He in a new confusion of his understanding;
I in a new understanding of my confusion.

Robert Graves