I'd only had a couple hours sleep when my phone alarm buzzed. It was 7am on a Saturday. An hour of life I had assumed was reserved only for the youngest and oldest of people. I was neither. And I felt unwelcome. Still, I got up, packed a few things that were close at hand and scrambled out the door for St Kilda. I got to Sarko's place half an hour late - he was unimpressed. Sarko, Andy and Sonia were standing in the driveway. The car was packed; tents and food for the weekend; surfboards up top; GPS loaded - destination in sight; everything totally ready. Their great, planned, organised and tightly scheduled trip on hold a whole half hour thanks to me - I almost felt bad but I was too tired to really care. I made my apologies. We bid Sonia farewell, who would meet us with her friends at camp that night, and hit the road.
We headed south-west bound out of Melbourne, passing from the city and through the far-reaching suburbia that skirts the city, acres of identical housing on both sides of the freeway for miles and miles. I'd experienced these scenes before, up-close in the surrounds of Parramatta. Suburbia in Sydney is on a far greater scale; horizon after horizon taken up by the same design-home housing; cheap small lots of land, filled by brick cut-outs, crammed in side by side. The land is especially cheap because hospitals, schools, shopping centres, offices, the most basic necessities of Australian suburbia, are incredibly lacking. As such, the quality of life suffers the further out you are. Your only hope is that your area is serviced by the government first as opposed to the thousands of others popping up in the ever-expanding urban sprawl. As we shot away from it all, passing house by house, I knew I'd prefer a small country town, with one main street, than end up on the edge of this abyss. Then we passed the Geelong turn-off and entered the country.
I drifted in and out of consciousness in the backseat until I'd had a coffee. We'd stopped somewhere unknown along the road for bacon and eggs and cappuccinos to go, served by two round, grey-haired, lovely old ladies. The caffeine coursed through my veins as we were within an hour of our first surf spot in Torquay. I was keen. Years of summers by the beach in tropical climates and I'd never learnt to surf. In fact I had even learnt to snowboard before giving surfing a go. There is no snow up north.
We rolled on past farm and grass land and into the surfing home of Victoria. Torquay's main street is like a surfer's Via Veneto; but with big clumsy warehouses in the middle of nowhere shouting all the big surf brands with discount signs for boards, wetsuits and other gear. We found our surf school amongst the clutter and headed to the main beach for our lesson; wetsuit attired, board shouldered. And we were all pretty content with the lesson, we'd all managed to stand up on the floating foam doors lent to us, and looked forward for our next chance to get back out there. We jumped back in the car to head further south.
From Torquay the road wound narrowly along the coast. A brilliant rich blue filled our view as we looked out beyond the edge of the world. There was nothingness, only scattered wisps of cloud and whitewash disturbed the monochrome scene, a vast expanse of rugged sea in which we would all end up at some point drove out to where the blues met, and fell. Sarko was frustrated to the edge of his seat driving at the greys in front of him, the seasonal tourists in their rented sedans drove along at 40k's an hour in unwarranted caution to stay on the road. Andy told him to relax, I agreed, it was fine. Then we hit the bush. The road twisted upwards through dry dense Australian trees and shrubs. The sunlight struggled through, the car a shadow on the road. It was cooler now and I sat back and discovered the Chuck Berry coming from the stereo and drifted in to a semi state of sleep.
I awoke to the cool ocean breeze blasting my face. Andy was hanging halfway out the passenger's side window, with his XLR camera at his eye, attempting to capture the extreme scene. We had hit the postcard Great Ocean Road. And I could understand the hype. The land gave up here. Sheer scaled sunburnt cliffs met the ocean and came off second best. The earth retreating as the fierce waves and wind whipped at its face hundreds of metres below. Sarko guided us in and out, still at the 40k's an hour in the queue of tourists, on the pockets of land valiantly but ultimately vainly attempting to resist the great Southern force. It was a sight to take in; the scale of nature at work dwarfs any of mankind’s minute problems and when you don't have any on hand, you can't imagine ever having a profound problem or issue or thought; it just dwarfs you. The thoughts reeled around in my head as Berry made way for Marley. Andy and I reached for beers in the esky, and toasted to life.
We arrived in Lorne mid-afternoon with the sun out to ward off a threat of rain. Sarko dropped us off, with the tents and gear, and headed back to the city - he had a hockey game to temporarily return to. We found a picturesque campsite next to a flowing stream; lush with green grass and bush and Kookaburras and Cockatoos laughing and crying in the trees. After some effort constructing the tents, getting necessities from town and exploring the beautiful and touristy beachfront, Andy and I sat down by the stream on an old wooden bench. The view was rich and timeless. We drank cold beers and talked and mused and pondered and awaited our friends who would arrive in the night.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Time
I was out on the paves in good enough time; the sun still warmly glowed through the surrounding trees undertaking its final duties for the day. My new, albeit temporary, Southern home loomed behind me; it was still a novelty, my whole new city was. The air was refreshing and invigorating and a far cry from the stifling humidity felt up north. I headed along the paves of the narrow street toward the traffic-prone Toorak road - though only to be stopped a house down. A chrome coloured BMW sedan, a nice new shiny model, pulled out of a hidden terrace drive in front of me, heavily-tinted preventing any view through the side windows. There was no need anyway. The same participatory men and women, of varying middle-age ages, constantly rolled by the house and bounced down the cobblestone lanes dividing the not-quite-any-longer colonial Victorian terraces crowding South Yarra.
Without a glance it pulled out and growled past its German brothers and European cousins that sat idly lining both sides of the tiny one-way street; not even constituting a single lane on a highway, three cars abreast as the BMW squeezed through, lined from top to bottom all hours of the day with these vehicles. The space had never been intended as a road or parking lot and had been poorly renovated as a result; extended as wide as possible, some areas consisted only centimetres of footpath between the gutters and the terrace doors. The doors themselves were a façade; the quaint cosy interiors had long since been slapped with modern furnishings and maximised spacious living plans to push multi-million dollar price-tags. The exteriors were on the way out too in favour of the archetypal architectural dream home design; though at least those monstrosities made no pretence of intent.
I caught up with my tinted neighbour whose immediate intent was a right turn across four lanes on to Toorak. He was yet to spot a sufficient gap as I took a hard left toward the tram stop. I hopped on without fare and headed south bound. A united nations of cars formed a frustrated queue as I rode along; the tram crawled at 40k’s an hour and stopped every fifty meters or so to trade passengers. On Chapel the lights were dancing; the sun suddenly an ancient superfluous resource long forgotten. The drinking fraternity was already out in their droves jumping between the excess cafes and restaurants and pub and clubs. I dropped off outside Bridies, an Irish-theme pub that had hollowed out this totally imposing, grand and monolithic church that dwarfed its surroundings.
Walking with a carlton, the local cheap beer, I located Paul and Andy at a table on the stone beer garden out front in midst raging conversation. ‘I can’t believe I used to pay for that shit. Now, I’m like, I won’t die from hydration if I go without water between the office and the house’ Paul was nodding affirmatively huddled over his pint as Andy continued ‘Bottled water, man, it’s a capitalist scam but people are waking up to it’.
‘There’s always beer man’ We drank to that.
Paul and Andy were both from Europe, Switzerland and Denmark respectively, and were in Melbourne to use the Synchrotron at the University and many other things of which I knew nothing at all about. We had met only a month ago after joining the South Yarra Soccer Club but had built incredibly strong friendships in the time. The rounds of carlton flowed along with the conversation, it went and warped and twisted from football to women to weekend plans to how we would all meet up in Europe in a few months to life. All universal we could relate to and when one of us spoke it was greeted with ‘Yeah mann!’ and Yes!’ and ‘I know!’.
Then, rounds later in the early hours, we became restless and made a move to Temperance; we were fortunate to get in without any girls with us. Here the music was loud and bad and had the 25 to 35 clientele moving like it was the nineteen-nineties. The DJ working his iPod like there was no tomorrow! We grabbed more expensive carltons and sank into the wild scene. Paul got talking to a girl in the smoking section, the only place you can actually talk without having to scream what? or give fake affirming nods and yeah I know’s. She and her girlfriends had come in a 45 minute taxi ride from the outer suburbs. It was hard to comprehend. The girl’s sister who was amongst the group looked no older than twenty, and she was pregnant.
We tired of our bar buddies and took off. We walked the streets a while, almost empty by now, accompanied by a few stray drunks still finding their place in the night, the odd taxi cruised by in search of any final business. Then I looked for home and finished with my Brothers and Chapel Street. I rounded Toorak; a market was already opening, a Chinese man was unloading his fruit on the street, his dilapidated trolley featuring per kilo specials; I had no idea if they were cheap or not.
The final bend came as the sun crept over the terrace roofing. The street was dead, the lifeless cars glistened as the first rays of the day fought away the collected dew, the terraces utterly empty as I strolled past on the smoothed cobblestones. The only sound to accompany my footsteps came from the delicate whistle of birds from sparse trees in tiny front gardens. The only movement came from the ever-present breeze as refreshing and as invigorating as always. It was perfect. I headed in, to sleep the day away.
Without a glance it pulled out and growled past its German brothers and European cousins that sat idly lining both sides of the tiny one-way street; not even constituting a single lane on a highway, three cars abreast as the BMW squeezed through, lined from top to bottom all hours of the day with these vehicles. The space had never been intended as a road or parking lot and had been poorly renovated as a result; extended as wide as possible, some areas consisted only centimetres of footpath between the gutters and the terrace doors. The doors themselves were a façade; the quaint cosy interiors had long since been slapped with modern furnishings and maximised spacious living plans to push multi-million dollar price-tags. The exteriors were on the way out too in favour of the archetypal architectural dream home design; though at least those monstrosities made no pretence of intent.
I caught up with my tinted neighbour whose immediate intent was a right turn across four lanes on to Toorak. He was yet to spot a sufficient gap as I took a hard left toward the tram stop. I hopped on without fare and headed south bound. A united nations of cars formed a frustrated queue as I rode along; the tram crawled at 40k’s an hour and stopped every fifty meters or so to trade passengers. On Chapel the lights were dancing; the sun suddenly an ancient superfluous resource long forgotten. The drinking fraternity was already out in their droves jumping between the excess cafes and restaurants and pub and clubs. I dropped off outside Bridies, an Irish-theme pub that had hollowed out this totally imposing, grand and monolithic church that dwarfed its surroundings.
Walking with a carlton, the local cheap beer, I located Paul and Andy at a table on the stone beer garden out front in midst raging conversation. ‘I can’t believe I used to pay for that shit. Now, I’m like, I won’t die from hydration if I go without water between the office and the house’ Paul was nodding affirmatively huddled over his pint as Andy continued ‘Bottled water, man, it’s a capitalist scam but people are waking up to it’.
‘There’s always beer man’ We drank to that.
Paul and Andy were both from Europe, Switzerland and Denmark respectively, and were in Melbourne to use the Synchrotron at the University and many other things of which I knew nothing at all about. We had met only a month ago after joining the South Yarra Soccer Club but had built incredibly strong friendships in the time. The rounds of carlton flowed along with the conversation, it went and warped and twisted from football to women to weekend plans to how we would all meet up in Europe in a few months to life. All universal we could relate to and when one of us spoke it was greeted with ‘Yeah mann!’ and Yes!’ and ‘I know!’.
Then, rounds later in the early hours, we became restless and made a move to Temperance; we were fortunate to get in without any girls with us. Here the music was loud and bad and had the 25 to 35 clientele moving like it was the nineteen-nineties. The DJ working his iPod like there was no tomorrow! We grabbed more expensive carltons and sank into the wild scene. Paul got talking to a girl in the smoking section, the only place you can actually talk without having to scream what? or give fake affirming nods and yeah I know’s. She and her girlfriends had come in a 45 minute taxi ride from the outer suburbs. It was hard to comprehend. The girl’s sister who was amongst the group looked no older than twenty, and she was pregnant.
We tired of our bar buddies and took off. We walked the streets a while, almost empty by now, accompanied by a few stray drunks still finding their place in the night, the odd taxi cruised by in search of any final business. Then I looked for home and finished with my Brothers and Chapel Street. I rounded Toorak; a market was already opening, a Chinese man was unloading his fruit on the street, his dilapidated trolley featuring per kilo specials; I had no idea if they were cheap or not.
The final bend came as the sun crept over the terrace roofing. The street was dead, the lifeless cars glistened as the first rays of the day fought away the collected dew, the terraces utterly empty as I strolled past on the smoothed cobblestones. The only sound to accompany my footsteps came from the delicate whistle of birds from sparse trees in tiny front gardens. The only movement came from the ever-present breeze as refreshing and as invigorating as always. It was perfect. I headed in, to sleep the day away.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
¡La Salud!
It was Bolivia and I was feeling weak as it was; high altitude coupling extreme poverty is not easy to ignore in itself; to remain unaffected by the extremes. Tougher still when combined with no real purpose or knowledge about our travels to this quarter of the continent; and our being myself and a small pretty green-eyed blonde named Ashleigh with whom I was travelling and making at the time; and whom attracted long stares and great attention from all sides. Still, the first sightings of Sucre, as our bus roared forth, had me in awe. It proved to be a most beautiful colonial Spanish town: an 18th century urban-sprawl set high in the mountains; awash with white villas and narrow cobblestone streets; streetlamps emitted an incandescent orange glow illuminating manicured parks and water features. For sure, I was a long way from home.
My familiarity of glassy Australian cities, grey of concrete and suits and exhausts, provided such a stark contrast; even the towns of Argentina and Chile that I’d previously ventured didn’t offer much of an education. It was rather a scene I was somehow only familiar with through film, though through movies involving a cast of gun-wielding Americans rather than poverty stricken Bolivians. I explored Sucre as I did any town I visited: with an ‘if it’s good enough for them it’s good enough for me’ mantra. I sought to source out the most popular places you would find locals in Sucre - rather than where the backpackers milled about. There was one food outlet that stood out in particular. It was an eatery off one of the cobblestone roads, across from one of the manicured parks. It served fried chicken. I’d observe night after night the wild queue that would fall out onto the paves of Bolivianos eager for their fix. Night after night I’d say in passing ‘tomorrow night, we’re having dinner there’, usually on the way to the Joy-ride café; the tourist Mecca of the town in which we frequented far too often.
Nights had passed, and one night I was hungry and keen for the local specialty. I said to Ashleigh ‘tonight we’re going to the fried chicken place’. She refused, of course, but agreed to accompany me on my journey anyway. When we got there the chickenshack was in full-swing, as every night, with people pushing about. Spanish flew across the counter along with a few pesos; locals seemed to be delightfully tucking in to their most wonderful chicken. ‘The queues too long’ I decided. I felt overwhelmed. There was too much going on as I stood diffidently, viewing from the street. I was keen on fried chicken but not willing to go through what seemed like an ordering ordeal, so we continued walking. As fortune would have it, it wasn’t a hundred meters down the road before we stumbled upon another chickenshack. This one was almost empty.
Seeing the few scattered customers with their own fried bird, I thought I too might seize the opportunity and dragged Ash inside. ‘Dos de estos’ I told the Boliviana over the counter, pointing to a picture of the pollo on the menu, ‘con papas fritas, por favor’. ‘Diez pesos’ she replied and reached down into an industrial vat-like bucket filled with greasy orange chicken that somehow had missed my eye. It didn’t look so good, I thought, as I was already walking over to a table with my meal. But I’ve got it, I’ve paid for it, I might as well eat it, the damage is done. How wrong I would prove to be!
Ash’s face was one of disgust as I bit into my first piece. The batter was hot enough at least and tasted normal enough too, I told her. So I continued on. It was when I reached the bone that I became slightly concerned. It was red, blood-red; I scraped away at the rest of the batter on the chicken: it was pink; it wasn’t cooked; it was bad. ‘I think I’m done’ I said. Her gaze moved from the chicken to me, in disgust.
Days later and I’m producing my own version of the same blood-red. I had no notional strength left and filled with the desire to just sleep – or pass out – after a day of my body seeking to expel the chicken along with everything else; save for my heart and lungs. Ash somehow managed to find the one Doctor who spoke English in the village - god knows how she did it. And I was shuffling my feet, with her support, up a cobblestone street around the corner from our hostel and knocking on two great wooden doors hidden within the whitewash.
The doctor reminded me of my grandfather and he spoke slowly as if considering his words with great measure; not because he couldn’t find a word but rather he just held a great importance to them. He learnt English after spending some time working in Europe; in hospitals and such. His accent was thick, but his English knowledgeable and fluent. We followed the Doctor through a Spanish style courtyard that sat in the middle of his house, as common as having a kitchen in Sucre, and entered a room kitted decently enough out to look like a doctor’s examination room from the 1970’s: he sat in a rather awkward looking wooden chair; his wooden desk was covered in dusty paper and held a prehistoric typewriter; brown leather couches sat facing each other on wooden floorboards; dusty leather-bound books in bookshelves lined the walls; I lay on a bed located under one of the shelves.
While he looked over me, carefully considering his diagnosis, I lay there trembling. It wasn’t a tremble of fear, of exhaustion, of anything I had experienced before. My body was entering shock. I could do nothing about it as I almost convulsed. I focused on my breathing. In through my nose, and out through my mouth; like I was on the football pitch. I tried to breathe as deep and as slow as possible, to try get my heart-rate down - it was trying to burst out of my chest. Eventually the consideration came to a close. The double edged sword of finding the only English speaking medico in town, especially when it is a second language, is you’re prone to statements like ‘he has only a few hours, we have little time, we have to be fast’ with little or no elaboration following. Ash was in understandable shock.
The days following were a blur of drugs and injections. The doctor spent the first few days with us on an almost 24 hour basis. He cleared his schedule. He was with me when I woke up and with me when I fell asleep. He helped befriend and comfort Ash. Ash was unbelievable. She was there for me the entire time; she was living for my recovery at the expense of herself.
My strength recovered somewhat after a week but never returned close to its original levels. We flew back out to Santiago, Chile where I was hospitalized and then took leave for Australia, via a short stop in Buenos Aires, Argentina where we were able to stay with our incredible friends we’d made in the six months of travel earlier, accompanied with the feeling of unfinished business; that there was so much more to explore and experience.
Alphonse Karr.
The french have a famous saying, “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose“ which gave rise to the well-known English phrase “The more things change, the more they stay the same."
Alphonse Karr, an all-round writer, coined the phrase in 1849. One wonders, has the famous saying played out in reality, have things remained constant? Why has this phrase carried on 160 years later? As a species we have advanced almost beyond recognition in many respects; our technology has improved out of sight, our world has changed around us, even our appearance and physiology has evolved as we continue to. The inherent truth of the phrase though, lies not in the world around us, but within ourselves. When Karr, at the then old age of 41, published those words it was no doubt a dry, witty observation of society at the time; perhaps an expression of frustration. The phrase though, could also be seen as the manifestation of a desire, of a need - of what he wanted. It's carried the last 160 years because it is what we want. For things to stay the same is our collective desire.
Consider that certain aspects of life do remain the same. Notably everything inherently human; in that people themselves are likely to be and to remain the same. Our appearances may evolve as the species continues to but the intangible aspects; the soul, for lack of a better word, is the same as it has always been and will continue to be. In terms of people, Alphonse Karr's phrase seemingly is true. Applied to stuff, the environment in which we reside, it is an impossibility. Change is a constant, a necessary, a fundamental rule of life to be accepted.
It is therefore that our lives are lived within a constant friction. An ever-present battle between ourselves and our environment. One force being a constant with the other in perpetual motion. How does one cope against this friction then? The fact that in life all experiences, both good and bad, are fleeting. The future becomes the present, the present the past, with moments filtered through to the memory. To continually seek new experiences, to push forward, rather than holding on to the past experiences is one of the great challenges in life.
When one is young, change is sought after and pursued without inhibition. To experience new things is a precious high. An incredible gift that provides stimulation, excitement and joy. As one continues in life, and more change is experienced, greater friction is generated. The changing environment, like chalk on a blackboard, starts to wear away at a person. A loss of a job, of a friend, of a family member takes its toll. The thought of finding a new job, seeing new places, meeting new people, making new friends becomes too much. The desire to experience anything new, everything from things to even people, is restricted in a selfish bid to comfort the soul.
Thus as the population ages, the status-quo in general is sought after. The romantic notion is the change they sought, they feel has now been accomplished. That the world is now right in their view - or at least they feel they've contributed enough. The reality seems harshly different. Rather than withdrawing content with the world around them, it is rather to seek protection from the paralyzing grind of change. The amount of wear that a person's soul can take is not defined but it is inevitable that a person will reach a stage in which a routine is sought, formed and maintained. A stage where change is feared and feverishly fought against. Their desire to have things remain the same being sacrosanct.
Age though is not the right word, it's easy to bring age into this discussion but it's actually irrelevant. It is their strength that is most crucial. Or rather, it's their perspective. What does one need? A recognition that a status-quo exists. That a system is in place. That not all benefit. That they are not the only one who matters in the world. That all humanity is equal but is not currently treated as such. That is this unacceptable.
It is up to these people. Those who don't fear change. Those who seek, with open minds, new experiences, realities and world orders. Those who hold a desire to challenge the status-quo. Their difficultly, they are the minority. A system of routine is in their way. A system to service and support those who have accepted their place. Those who seek to go about their routine in as much ease as possible.
The system is clever, it's been well created, but the energy is misguided. Our best minds are currently directed towards the most suitable colour in which to market their company's respective brand of cereal and how to efficiently target the most gambling-prone demographic to maximise value for their shareholders. Our attention's directed towards tabloid newspapers and TV shows featuring our favourite celebrities. The fact shows these shows, which repeat the same programs about weight-loss, noisy neighbours and drug-busts on a yearly cycle, rate so highly proves the system is definitely effective. While the public sector, the majority of which is caught up on traffic fines, utility rises and teacher's holidays, has degraded into a mired bureaucracy about as efficient as a Ferrari on ice. It is easy to get caught up it in all; fighting such an omnipresent and immovable object appears seemingly impossible. It's easy to accept that this is all there is to it.
We as a race may hold a collective desire to stay the same but if we wish to improve and grow we need to force change. The people, the ones without the fear of change holding them back, the ones who have open minds, are pushing us forward. Its too easy to accept the status-quo, that this is the best we can do. With so much imperfection, so much injustice in the world, it must be refused. This is the way we advance.
Alphonse Karr, an all-round writer, coined the phrase in 1849. One wonders, has the famous saying played out in reality, have things remained constant? Why has this phrase carried on 160 years later? As a species we have advanced almost beyond recognition in many respects; our technology has improved out of sight, our world has changed around us, even our appearance and physiology has evolved as we continue to. The inherent truth of the phrase though, lies not in the world around us, but within ourselves. When Karr, at the then old age of 41, published those words it was no doubt a dry, witty observation of society at the time; perhaps an expression of frustration. The phrase though, could also be seen as the manifestation of a desire, of a need - of what he wanted. It's carried the last 160 years because it is what we want. For things to stay the same is our collective desire.
Consider that certain aspects of life do remain the same. Notably everything inherently human; in that people themselves are likely to be and to remain the same. Our appearances may evolve as the species continues to but the intangible aspects; the soul, for lack of a better word, is the same as it has always been and will continue to be. In terms of people, Alphonse Karr's phrase seemingly is true. Applied to stuff, the environment in which we reside, it is an impossibility. Change is a constant, a necessary, a fundamental rule of life to be accepted.
It is therefore that our lives are lived within a constant friction. An ever-present battle between ourselves and our environment. One force being a constant with the other in perpetual motion. How does one cope against this friction then? The fact that in life all experiences, both good and bad, are fleeting. The future becomes the present, the present the past, with moments filtered through to the memory. To continually seek new experiences, to push forward, rather than holding on to the past experiences is one of the great challenges in life.
When one is young, change is sought after and pursued without inhibition. To experience new things is a precious high. An incredible gift that provides stimulation, excitement and joy. As one continues in life, and more change is experienced, greater friction is generated. The changing environment, like chalk on a blackboard, starts to wear away at a person. A loss of a job, of a friend, of a family member takes its toll. The thought of finding a new job, seeing new places, meeting new people, making new friends becomes too much. The desire to experience anything new, everything from things to even people, is restricted in a selfish bid to comfort the soul.
Thus as the population ages, the status-quo in general is sought after. The romantic notion is the change they sought, they feel has now been accomplished. That the world is now right in their view - or at least they feel they've contributed enough. The reality seems harshly different. Rather than withdrawing content with the world around them, it is rather to seek protection from the paralyzing grind of change. The amount of wear that a person's soul can take is not defined but it is inevitable that a person will reach a stage in which a routine is sought, formed and maintained. A stage where change is feared and feverishly fought against. Their desire to have things remain the same being sacrosanct.
Age though is not the right word, it's easy to bring age into this discussion but it's actually irrelevant. It is their strength that is most crucial. Or rather, it's their perspective. What does one need? A recognition that a status-quo exists. That a system is in place. That not all benefit. That they are not the only one who matters in the world. That all humanity is equal but is not currently treated as such. That is this unacceptable.
It is up to these people. Those who don't fear change. Those who seek, with open minds, new experiences, realities and world orders. Those who hold a desire to challenge the status-quo. Their difficultly, they are the minority. A system of routine is in their way. A system to service and support those who have accepted their place. Those who seek to go about their routine in as much ease as possible.
The system is clever, it's been well created, but the energy is misguided. Our best minds are currently directed towards the most suitable colour in which to market their company's respective brand of cereal and how to efficiently target the most gambling-prone demographic to maximise value for their shareholders. Our attention's directed towards tabloid newspapers and TV shows featuring our favourite celebrities. The fact shows these shows, which repeat the same programs about weight-loss, noisy neighbours and drug-busts on a yearly cycle, rate so highly proves the system is definitely effective. While the public sector, the majority of which is caught up on traffic fines, utility rises and teacher's holidays, has degraded into a mired bureaucracy about as efficient as a Ferrari on ice. It is easy to get caught up it in all; fighting such an omnipresent and immovable object appears seemingly impossible. It's easy to accept that this is all there is to it.
We as a race may hold a collective desire to stay the same but if we wish to improve and grow we need to force change. The people, the ones without the fear of change holding them back, the ones who have open minds, are pushing us forward. Its too easy to accept the status-quo, that this is the best we can do. With so much imperfection, so much injustice in the world, it must be refused. This is the way we advance.
The UN General Assembly.
Friday, 25 September 2009 at 13:32
It’s his ambition. But one can only be ambitious if they believe in something. You cannot set goals if you don’t believe they can be achieved. It’s the hope, the unfaltering faith, in humanity that comes across when you listen to Barack Obama speak. That through the collective good of the world, we can act as one to achieve anything.
The UN General Assembly. It was 12 or 1am on Wednesday night humble Brisbane time, when Barack stood up at 10am local time to deliver his address. I am generally moved during Obama’s speeches, his courage is so easily transferred that I believe I could by myself, storm Iran and demand Ahmadinejad sign the nuclear proliferation treaty. The General Assembly address though, utterly inspiring. He stood up in front of our world leaders and basically called for the world to unite and his four pillars be accomplished. Sure, we have heard this talk before, but Obama is different. This middle-aged and intelligent man, who has lived in both poverty and wealth, in Africa, Indonesia and America, who would have seen and experienced many of the highs and lows the world provides - actually believes it can happen. He actually believes peace can be obtained. I find that in itself, so utterly inspiring.
Perhaps surprisingly, the nuclear proliferation was one of his four pillars that has since been the focus of the most attention. Or should I say has received the greatest response. A fantastic sign, but there are other matters to focus on.
Obviously, there is no place for nuclear arms on earth. But, there is also no need to fear Ahmadinejad will actually “wipe Israel off the map”. Ahmadinejad denies the holocaust - there is indisputable evidence that the holocaust existed. He is not an idiot, he is not ignorant, his actions directed towards Jewish people and Israel are totally internally politically motivated. What’s the saying about not underestimating your enemies? Anyway, it’s an Iran thing. One cannot take his actions on face-value, to do this would cause far more harm than good. In fact, anyone, especially the U.S. and Israel, reacting to what he says only serves to boost his own popularity and reinforce his own political methods.
Iran is a country that - as Obama stated - the world must unite against and decree enough is enough, it is time to get with the rest of us. Whether or not a united world could achieve this change remains to be seen. There is no doubt though, the U.S. alone can not do it. The U.S., acting solo, will only make things worse. Why then, on Wednesday night as Obama continued from pillar to pillar, did his tone change. It went from We to I. From the world to the U.S.A. This is where he must be careful.
After the Bush Government, world opinion of America is at a massive low. Much like a guy who left to play the field, only to realise the mistakes he has made, and how much he misses his relationship. Obama has knocked on the rest of the world’s door, with a bunch of flowers declaring that they belong together and can achieve so much if only he is let back inside.
It’s hard to get the trust back. One primary issue I have is against the U.S. right now, is its involvement in Israel. It is not the place of the U.S. to find peace between Israel and Palestine. This inbuilt arrogance of the U.S. has sadly not diminished despite the many changes Obama has brought. With opinion of the U.S. so low, why do they feel the need, the responsibility even, to interject their opinions and devote so much time and so many resources to this situation? The U.S. previously may have wished to be the saviour, the shinning light of peace in the Middle East and across the world. But surely now, in light of the recent events, there is no way it is going to happen. Alone, they will achieve nothing there; such is their lack of credibility.
For progress and peace to be achieved, the world on a united front (including the U.S.) must act. Only then will parties have to listen.
The U.S. has so much to deal with at home, it mustn’t act solo abroad. Obama must heed his own words, he cannot hold a double standard, by calling the world to unite against Iran and North Korea but then say it’s the place of the U.S. to find peace between Israel and Palestine. Ultimately though, addressing the UN, Obama mustn’t speak as the President of the United States of America but as an elected representative of the world. One of the best,brightest and most ambitious we have.
It’s his ambition. But one can only be ambitious if they believe in something. You cannot set goals if you don’t believe they can be achieved. It’s the hope, the unfaltering faith, in humanity that comes across when you listen to Barack Obama speak. That through the collective good of the world, we can act as one to achieve anything.
The UN General Assembly. It was 12 or 1am on Wednesday night humble Brisbane time, when Barack stood up at 10am local time to deliver his address. I am generally moved during Obama’s speeches, his courage is so easily transferred that I believe I could by myself, storm Iran and demand Ahmadinejad sign the nuclear proliferation treaty. The General Assembly address though, utterly inspiring. He stood up in front of our world leaders and basically called for the world to unite and his four pillars be accomplished. Sure, we have heard this talk before, but Obama is different. This middle-aged and intelligent man, who has lived in both poverty and wealth, in Africa, Indonesia and America, who would have seen and experienced many of the highs and lows the world provides - actually believes it can happen. He actually believes peace can be obtained. I find that in itself, so utterly inspiring.
Perhaps surprisingly, the nuclear proliferation was one of his four pillars that has since been the focus of the most attention. Or should I say has received the greatest response. A fantastic sign, but there are other matters to focus on.
Obviously, there is no place for nuclear arms on earth. But, there is also no need to fear Ahmadinejad will actually “wipe Israel off the map”. Ahmadinejad denies the holocaust - there is indisputable evidence that the holocaust existed. He is not an idiot, he is not ignorant, his actions directed towards Jewish people and Israel are totally internally politically motivated. What’s the saying about not underestimating your enemies? Anyway, it’s an Iran thing. One cannot take his actions on face-value, to do this would cause far more harm than good. In fact, anyone, especially the U.S. and Israel, reacting to what he says only serves to boost his own popularity and reinforce his own political methods.
Iran is a country that - as Obama stated - the world must unite against and decree enough is enough, it is time to get with the rest of us. Whether or not a united world could achieve this change remains to be seen. There is no doubt though, the U.S. alone can not do it. The U.S., acting solo, will only make things worse. Why then, on Wednesday night as Obama continued from pillar to pillar, did his tone change. It went from We to I. From the world to the U.S.A. This is where he must be careful.
After the Bush Government, world opinion of America is at a massive low. Much like a guy who left to play the field, only to realise the mistakes he has made, and how much he misses his relationship. Obama has knocked on the rest of the world’s door, with a bunch of flowers declaring that they belong together and can achieve so much if only he is let back inside.
It’s hard to get the trust back. One primary issue I have is against the U.S. right now, is its involvement in Israel. It is not the place of the U.S. to find peace between Israel and Palestine. This inbuilt arrogance of the U.S. has sadly not diminished despite the many changes Obama has brought. With opinion of the U.S. so low, why do they feel the need, the responsibility even, to interject their opinions and devote so much time and so many resources to this situation? The U.S. previously may have wished to be the saviour, the shinning light of peace in the Middle East and across the world. But surely now, in light of the recent events, there is no way it is going to happen. Alone, they will achieve nothing there; such is their lack of credibility.
For progress and peace to be achieved, the world on a united front (including the U.S.) must act. Only then will parties have to listen.
The U.S. has so much to deal with at home, it mustn’t act solo abroad. Obama must heed his own words, he cannot hold a double standard, by calling the world to unite against Iran and North Korea but then say it’s the place of the U.S. to find peace between Israel and Palestine. Ultimately though, addressing the UN, Obama mustn’t speak as the President of the United States of America but as an elected representative of the world. One of the best,brightest and most ambitious we have.
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