Soul of the city ...

On more than one occasion now, I have listened to a friend speak of a city as if a living person. The aim is ostensibly to romanticise a geographical location such that it assumes an almost human persona. Although bordering on the unusual, such practices are nothing new. For example, aircraft and seagoing vessels are often referred to fondly as ‘she’, most commonly by doting owners and the odd historian.

Although I cannot lay claim to Sydney, I do consider it my home. After having spent half my life residing in over 20 countries, it was a welcome relief to have finally found a base in November of 1989, the month in which my family immigrated to Australia.

Prior to having moved to Sydney, I was unaccustomed to living in ‘big cities’. My father, an ex UN diplomat, routinely had his family accompany him to various hell holes around the globe, predominantly to small towns in nations with an almost non-existent infrastructure. I was used to desert conditions, having lived on the edge of the Sahara for some seven years, surrounded by wide open spaces boasting views to the horizon in almost every direction. Although Sydney does not offer a similar experience, there is something to be said about standing at the edge of the Tasman Ocean, contemplating the depths of the ocean and the numerous secrets she may hold.

In choosing a favourite place in Sydney, I would have to pick Cremorne Point. This particular area, situated on the lower north shore, is home to the wealthy and few from the west traverse there for any other reason aside from a picnic, or perhaps mere curiosity over how the ‘other half’ lives. Accessible by ferry from Circular Quay, Cremorne Point offers breathtaking views of Sydney Harbour and the CBD skyline at all times of the day. It is also home to the Cremorne Point Lighthouse, a modest yet picturesque structure connected to land by way of a small walkway resembling a pier. Although relatively unassuming to look at, this particular building is lent an aura of mystery owing to a small steel plaque commemorating a young girl who drowned there many years prior.

Several days ago, I decided to make my way to Cremorne Point in the early evening following a rather terse argument with my folks. Following this little altercation, I felt somewhat suffocated in my own home and experienced an almost unnatural need to be outside. Upon having finally made it to Cremorne Point some one and half hours later, I found a vacant bench and spent several hours staring out over the harbour to the city skyline. The view at dusk was nothing short of breathtaking, and it amazed me to realise that such a beautiful scene could be enjoyed and appreciated without interruption from either locals or tourists.

Despite being only a few kilometres away from the hub of one of the world’s great cities, I still felt alone. The view across the water presented a world that could not have been in starker contrast with my own immediate surroundings. It was abuzz with activity – ferries drifting in and out of the commercial piers of Circular Quay; a million and one shimmering lights giving life to towers of steel, glass and concrete; the silhouettes of countless strangers walking around the sails of the Opera House; flocks of seagulls circling the aircraft warning lights on Governor Phillip Tower. By way of comparison, my surroundings were unnaturally still, as if I was staring out from within a photograph in a perfect state of solitude.

The ferries seemed usually quiet that evening, such that I could hear little, if any, signs of human activity. Despite straining my hearing, the only perceptive sounds were that of waves lapping the shore, the occasional buzzing insect and the wind meandering through trees and shrubs. I started wondering whether cities did indeed have souls and, if so, how best to describe Sydney’s.

Given the unquestionable beauty and grace of Sydney Harbour, any purported ‘soul’ would no doubt be female. She may be unhappy about the numerous tunnels and infrastructure projects ravaging the natural beauty of her home, but would find solace in the few nature reserves still left relatively undisturbed by man. She would mourn over the countless steel and glass structures being erected on an almost weekly basis, buildings which seem to almost block out the sky and cast long and foreboding shadows over the landscape. In the evening, she would stare in wonder at the thousands of windows aglow with lights and moving silhouettes, contemplating who these people are, where they came from, whether they are good or bad, whether they feel her presence in the same way she feels theirs …

There is no doubt in my mind that some of you will see the above as romanticised and sentimentalist claptrap. Having read the paragraph several times over, I am similarly inclined. The visible sentiment in those words is more an expression of my own thoughts and feelings about Sydney than that of any supposed ‘soul’ that the city may possess. It’s also an apt reflection of what can happen when you sit on a park bench by yourself in a state of semi-depression, sip contentedly at single malt scotch and then begin contemplating whether a metaphor can have a tangible persona.

Despite my current cynicism, I can see a certain aesthetic purpose in ascribing a human person to a city, specifically one boasting remarkable physical beauty and an unparalleled diversity of people.

Scent of a woman …

It goes without saying that most of you will find this post to be rather crass. However, there remains the off-chance that a few ‘oddball types’ may be disturbed yet strangely aroused.

The topic borders roughly on fetishism, namely the fascination some men have with female flatulence. Yes, yes …. I understand the psychological disturbance some of you are no doubt feeling now given the ‘stinking’ subject matter. A few months back, a friend of mine with a fascination for Japanese culture directed me to a website titled Scent of Woman’s F*rt. Like most people, I viewed this group email with a combination of abject horror coupled with curiosity. It almost beggared belief that there existed men, ones hailing from an overly conservative and polite culture no less, who would be aroused by the sight, sound and smell of a woman breaking wind – but there are, since there seems to be a niche market for pop-off videos.

Since I can no longer find the site online, I may describe it in some detail now. The squeamish are advised to switch off right now.

The website in question was quite descriptive; after all … one cannot enjoy olfactory stimulation from a video alone. It described in vivid detail the ‘adventurous’ dietary patterns of the women in question, comprising primarily of vegetables such as cabbage and turnip. Pictures of women bending over in preparation of letting one rip were plentiful, as were a number of sound bytes whose content one could never describe using words alone. Although I cannot speak for others, the subject matter of this site can only be described as unsettling in the extreme. Like most men who adore women, I was confronted with a very real yet unpleasant fact – women break wind.

Alluding to an old episode of ‘Third Rock from the Sun’, I remember a scene in which Albright breaks wind in Solomon’s company. Rather than being distressed or shocked, Solomon is instead overjoyed at the underlying message he has just heard. In his twisted alien mind, his relationship with Albright has reached a whole new level of intimacy, one in which each is content to expose the other to the once private workings of their bodily functions.

I honestly cannot say what drives certain people to be turned on by subject matter such as that described above. Interestingly enough, academic literature discussing the fascination some have with sadomasochism is plentiful. However, there is little to explain why anyone would be turned on by the flatulence of another.

I know for a fact that toilet humour is exceptionally popular in certain parts of South East Asia, notably Korea and Japan. For example, numerous Korean game parlours boast a popular arcade game known as Boon-Ga Boon-Ga (known in English as Spank ‘em). The object of the game involves the player jabbing a plastic finger into a jeans-covered bottom, which protrudes from the machine as if the person’s head and torso were stuck inside. The harder the jab, the more amusing the face pulled by the computer generated character you have chosen to humiliate.

Boon-Ga Boon-Ga is also known as ‘Pokey Man’ by doting fans. Proponents of this game argue that it is harmless, and used primarily as a means of reducing stress. Players can choose between various targets, including ‘ex-girlfriend’, ‘ex-boyfriend’, ‘gold digger’ and ‘mother-in-law’. Despite its dubious nature, fans argue that it does not lead them to grope female straphangers on Tokyo’s subway or otherwise engage in questionable sexual practices.

Although Pokey Man does raise eyebrows, it’s nowhere near as disturbing as the original topic of this post – which is ‘Scent of Woman’s F*rt’. Rather thankfully, Japanese game manufacturers have not yet designed a game which provides olfactory stimulation and involves players thrusting their noses into a ‘curvy lingerie covered bottom’. If they ever decide to do so, I’ll come to realise that the oddities of this world probably do defy explanation … and that I need to be cautious in opening any emails providing further lurid details of the fetishes of Japanese men.

Nice doggy …

Although I do not have a canine phobia, there are certain breeds capable of instilling more than a minor degree of anxiety in my mind. Two such breeds happen to be Dobermans and Rottweilers, an interesting observation since my family owned two Doberman guard dogs some two decades ago (both of whom were vicious bastards to put it mildly). Although not a threat to their owners, both hand a fondness for pawing frantically at their owners and in the case of a certain toddler in a stroller (i.e. yours truly), rolling him around the house like a human pinball.

Over two decades have passed since I last owned a real pet. Of course, fish do not count. Just over a year ago, however, one of my father’s friends asked whether I would mind ‘conditioning’ a young malamute pup over several months. This fellow, a seasoned breeder of Arctic sled dogs (albeit based in Australia), believed that a dog developed a much better temperament if made accustomed to being around young animals and children when young. The dog in question, a purebred worth some $5500, was known simply as J5 at the time he was put in my care. Upon acquiring this adorable little bundle of fur, I named him Shadow. Apparently he liked nothing better than tailing my mother around the house, nipping playfully at her heels and overturning her washing basket at every conceivable occasion.

In less than a week, Shadow became my new best friend. To tell the truth, I felt like this little animal loved me. The more telling likelihood, however, is that he was dependant on me for attention. My parents aren’t exactly the ‘pet loving’ type and, amusingly enough, seemed apprehensive about a little wolf-like pup sharing the same house as them. However, I completely and utterly adored him. In a household where stress levels reduced everyone to the brink of insanity, he remained something of a constant, seemingly unaffected by mood swings or other trivialities which render human interaction so unbearable at times.

On one occasion, Shadow’s owner decided to drop by with Shadow’s Mom in tow. Shadow’s Mom was a ‘big bitch’ to put it lightly. Given the fact that I am using doggy terminology, this is not being unduly offensive or uncaring. This particular Malamute must have weighed at least 40-something kilos. She also looked more ‘wolf like’ than any dog I’ve seen before, huskies included. It dawned on me, that in time, Shadow would lose his puppy cuteness for something else – powerful shoulders, a menacing jaw line, and eyes that only a predator can possess.

OK, maybe I am exaggerating. Shadow’s Mom was perfectly content in my company and felt at ease with resting her formidable head on my lap. I, on the other hand, was not quite as comfortable. For one, her snout was so close to my crotch that any misguided sense of security I may have held was dispelled in its entirety. Second, she kept glancing up at me with a ‘You have no idea what I’m thinking or might do’ look. Sensing my unease, the owner called her back to his feet, perhaps finding the whole episode to have been highly amusing.

Some short months later, I had to return Shadow to the breeder. Being a family friend, he was wary of my obvious discomfort at parting with Shadow and asked whether I’d like to keep him. After all, he had numerous other pups from which to make a fortune. Despite my insistent begging, my parents declined the offer. I watched sadly as Shadow was laden into the back of a BMW station wagon and driven away, hopefully to find an owner who’d care for him as much as I did.

Shadow did leave a host of good memories though. Overturning the washing basket on himself and scooting around the hard, urinating on my bed every second day (young pups have no bladder control for several weeks following birth), keeping me company as I slaved away on a doctorate in the late hours of the evening, attracting some stunning female joggers to my side in various parks. Ahh yes, Shadow was a real hit with the ladies, possessing more charm than any cute baby. I’d watch him fondly as he was snuggled close to a young lady’s bosom, wondering for all the world why I could not have been born a mutt. Although proud of Shadow, I also felt a hint of jealousy because I knew that he could lick any girl’s face without having first taken her out to dinner. I now know where the phrase ‘lucky dog’ is derived from.

Aside from simply being obscenely adorable, Shadow proved something of a mystery as well. For example, I remember watching a documentary on cats titled ‘Caressing the Tiger’ (yes, I know it’s a bad choice of title) some months back. The base message was that numerous people loved cute little kitties because of their closeness to the ‘big cats’ – lions, tigers, cheetahs and leopards oh my!! Aside from their inherent cuteness, they were also respected and admired because of their close familial ties with the world’s most feared predators.

Similarly speaking, Shadow captivated me on account of the disturbingly close genetic heritage he shared with wolves. He certainly looked like a wolf pup, with his strongly defined jaw, predatory eyes, and mass of white/grey fur. When in the company of such an animal, you feel almost privileged to have earned its affections. It amazed me to no small end that, in a few months time, he’d probably grow to a size and shape that would instil the average Joe with thoughts of whispery Transylvanian forests and of wolf packs collectively howling at the moon. For the time being, however, he appeared impeccably docile and playful, incapable of bringing down anything aside from the odd washing basket.

Playing with Shadow, I came to realise how close a human could get with an animal. I looked out for him ceaselessly, ensuring he ate well, received plentiful exercise, and was generally kept company throughout the day. It made me realise how so many of us bestow more affection on an animal than a human being. Here was something which, in a natural habitat, would act out of necessity and need alone. It would not take more than it needed, the bare essentials to facilitate survival. By comparison, his owner was of a species renowned for wanton destruction and pillaging of almost everything, including its own kind. Were Shadow capable of capable of processing this in his little puppy head, I wonder how he’d have felt about keeping me company.

A long time has passed since I last saw Shadow, at which point he was being driven away from my home in a blue station wagon. Shadow appeared rather reluctant to leave, mirroring my own feelings in letting him go. However, he did leave behind some treasured memories – chasing Mom around the yard as she hung up the washing, waking us up at ungodly hours with short bursts of ‘Yipe, Yipe, Yipe’ barks, urinating on my bed at his leisure, keeping me company whilst I slaved away on a doctoral thesis.

No doubt Shadow is in greener pastures now. Given his impeccable pedigree, he has probably been put out to ‘stud’, a physically exertive but nonetheless enjoyable pastime. Who knows? Several years down the track I may well end up with one of his descendants, a ‘Shadow 2’ if you will who’ll provide countless hours of loyal companionship, and see it fit to piss on my bed at his leisure ….

Ethnic comedians are a godsend …

Several weeks ago, a friend of mine (popularly known as Gizmo) recommended that I download a 75 megabyte video clip from the net. The content of this particular file was not dubious as some of you may be inclined to presume. Rather, it concerned a stand-up comedy performance of one ‘Russel Peters’, an Indian comic resident in Canada. Readers who hail from an Asian background, specifically Indian or Chinese, are advised to download this clip at their earliest possible convenience. By far, it is one of the most hilarious stand-up performances I have seen to date, and undeniably unique owing to the ethnic background of the comedian.

Peters does exceptionally well in lampooning the myriad of cultural differences between Asians and … well, just about everyone else. He is capable of impeccably impersonating a strong Indian, Chinese and Canadian accent and satirises his own parents to no small end. One can only imagine how his poor conservative folks feel about being the butt of most of his jokes.

The most amusing aspect of Peters’ performance would have to be the caricatures of his very own father. Although possessed with a thick Indian accent (funny at the worst of times), this man was nonetheless capable of uttering words stained with the threat of impending violence, and against a child no less. His favourite saying to the young Peters was as follows:

‘Sumbady gonna get a-hurt real baaad. I am nhaat saying who, just sumbady. But I think you know him quite vell’.

In responding to the above words, the young Peters experienced a myriad of emotions – ranging from guilt to hope to suspicion to sheer terror. For example, was the threat directed specifically against him or a family member? Was it wrong to wish that the subject of impending violence was his brother? If he knew this person ‘quite vell’, as his father alleged, did it necessarily mean that he himself was the target?

It goes without saying that some members of the Indian community will find Peters’ brand of comedy offensive, namely the manner in which he satirises his own parents and parodies the Indian accent. What’s most amusing, however, is that Peters’ statements are more ‘fact’ than ‘fiction’. It is exceptionally difficult for a young Indian male to impress a western lady with his accent, Indian fathers are rather prone to violence, Indian mothers are obsessed about marrying off their offspring with disturbing expediency, Indians in general are stingier with money than a Scottish financial planner.

In past times, I have asked myself at what point comedy ceases to be humorous, especially when it pokes fun at an entire culture or people. The line is very fine indeed. For example, following the American ‘incursion’ into Afghanistan numerous American comics alluded to Afghani culture, primarily with a view to satirising it. Robyn Williams, in an appearance on Letterman some years back, ceaselessly parodied the Afghani language (i.e. the rather harsh manner of speech) and made the odd comment about the relationship of male Afghans with their donkeys.

In the end, I was both laughing and squirming. It did not seem to be very PC and, quiet honestly, appeared to denigrate a culture that has existed for thousands of years – and has more to offer than donkeys, camels and other barnyard animals. Williams’ humour led to gross generalisations of ‘all’ Afghans, including those living abroad.

Despite the obviously distressful situation Afghanistan is now in, ill-considered jokes abound which satirise Afghanistan’s non-existent infrastructure. References are often made to ‘taxi donkeys’ and ‘hut hotels’. Images which reduce some to tears (inc. those seen on World Vision advertisements) are reduced in our minds to subjects of amusement and comedy.

Anyway, it appears that I have led and otherwise light-hearted post into a pretty serious discussion. My apologies for doing so … lets get back to Peters shall we?

In watching Peters, who has built a living on lampooning ethnic groups, most feel “OK” in responding with a smile or a hearty laugh. The fact that the comedian in question is ‘ethnic’ himself acts as something of an authorisation allowing non-ethnics (yes, I just made that up) to laugh at the cultural peculiarities of various minority groups. Rather amusingly, it appears that it is only OK to laugh when minority groups lampoon themselves.

And this one time ….

It’s easy to hate people who do not let you get a word in edgewise. Don’t get me wrong, its not that I like talking about myself. However, every once in awhile I prefer to steer a conversation towards matters more pressing than haircuts, favourite sandwich fillings, white sugar v. brown sugar etc.

People often mistake me for being shy, if not downright rude when it comes to socialising. Nothing could be further from the truth. The simple fact of the matter is that I am not one for idle banter. Neither am I at the opposite end mind you. For example, was I to meet someone at a party my conversational starting point would not be neo-conservative politics in the US or the impact of colonial literature in post-apartheid South Africa. Rather, there has to be a middle ground between idle chit chat and ‘me-so-smart-and-sophisticamated’ ramblings.

On more than one occasion now, I have found myself a social function talking to some woman about her hairstyle, clothing, dietary requirements and favourite shampoo. This statement is not meant to cast aspersions towards women nor make a gross generalisation of the supposed conversational skills of the female of the species. Rather, it’s an observation of how reluctant some people can be to move away from their purported ‘comfort zone’ when meeting with a stranger. Social conventions seem to dictate that the conversation must be light-hearted, highly impersonal unless you’re discussing grooming habits, devoid of ‘religion and politics’, incapable of drawing out opinion on contentious or topical issues.

Of course, there are certain social scenes in which the abovementioned convention is done away with almost in its entirety. Legal Practitioner Parties (LPPs) are one such example. In that situation, the aim of any conversation is to prove that your intellectual penis extends far beyond that of the person with whom you’re conversing. The discussion can become exceptionally personal, as you are quizzed on your secondary schooling (public or private), tertiary entrance rank, undergraduate and postgraduate studies (honours, masters, doctorate), employer (top tier, mid tier, suburban practice, in-house, public service), income (yes, nothing is sacred) etc. Once answered, these very same questions are then asked again, but this time directed to your partner (assuming you are in a relationship).

The above behaviour is best described by some as either ‘wankerism’ or ‘big dickedness’. It can be readily observed in most upmarket watering holes around Sydney, specifically those in and around Circular Quay (a lawyer hotspot). Although entertaining to watch, the situation is markedly different should you find yourself inadvertently becoming a participant. You see, one object of social wankerism is to subtly insult your companions, such that they do not immediately realise the slight against their name. This particular aspect of a wankerist’s social interaction can take years to refine and develop, and further requires an intimate understanding of their friends’ weaknesses.

In seeking to counter a wankerist, the best approach is to simply ignore the person. A wankerist will take great offence at being ignored, as acknowledgment, attention and recognition provide a greater buzz to him/her than cocaine. In the unfortunate event that you are ever approached by a wankerist at a social function, the following lines work wonders in defusing the situation:

“Yes, how fascinating. Goodbye.”

“Congratulations, you friends must be very proud. Do you still remember their names from when your first imagined them as a child?”

“A lawyer huh? If you can interpret complex legislative provisions with such ease, why not a bored face?”

“I noticed your partner asking a few of her colleagues to have a quick peek at her briefs. She mentioned that a senior associate offloaded them to her several weeks ago. Someone should talk to her about that. It really doesn’t sound healthy.”

In the event that the above does not work, kindly inform the wankerist that you must excuse yourself briefly in order to get a VB from the bar. Upon hearing this, the wankerist will no longer wish to be in your company, owing to the abject fear of being seen with an individual drinking local beer.

On a more serious note, I have recently come to realise how many ‘masks’ we wear when dealing with different people. Most of us are multi-faceted in that nature, changing our personality as readily as a chameleon changes colour in order to meet the expectations of different social groups. To some extent, I am little different. The ‘work me’ is a much different creature from the ‘social me’. More alarmingly, the ‘social me’ is not exactly static. It can sometimes change slightly in order to better accommodate, or rather complement, its surroundings.

Put simply, I can be either silly or serious depending on the company I keep. Quite thankfully, however, I do have a number of close friends with whom I can be both. It’s reassuring to see that they can ‘read between the lines’, appreciate my rather unusual blend of cynicism, satire and humour, and respond with unrestrained wit and flair in equal measure. Every once in awhile, it is therapeutic to laugh and giggle moronically at politically incorrect jokes that would leave others dumbfounded, to appreciate the timeless beauty of toilet humour, to make light of the dark, to ignite one’s gaseous emissions in a dimly lit room … ok, maybe not the last one, but it does go hand in hand with ‘making light of the dark’.

Sleazy music videos ….

Is it just me or are lyrics in R&B singles getting seedier by the day? It’s not too long ago that I remember hearing a certain track with the chorus ‘Stroke it for me’. Although uncertain, I believe that these lyrics come from a single by Aaliyah, a ‘promising’ female vocalist who apparently died in a place crash quite some time ago.

Glad to know she left the world with such a deep message.

As far as some female R&B singers are concerned, the underlying message seems to be ‘the nastier the better’. More amusingly, the subtle sexual messages in lyrics are being dropped in favour of explicit instructions:

“Lick my neck, lick my back, lick my pu**y and my crack.”

Hmm … charming. Despite being rather in your face, excuse the pun, one wonders whether the above words are any better than Mariah Carey’s ‘And it’s just like honey, when your love comes over me.’ Oh well, guess she’s just another female vocalist who prefers the ‘in your face’ approach.

Occasionally, I do watch shows like Rage (ABC) and Video Hits (Channel 10). Classic rock seems to have taken something of a dive, in favour of R&B, Hip Hop, Rap etc. I really don’t know what the correct terminology is – it mostly sounds the same, and it all sounds like sh*t. As one commentator famously said when remarking on a Spice Girls video, “It is like watching a porn video, only with worse music”.

Amusingly enough, a number of male R&B singers – notably Judakiss and 50 Cent – release ‘wet & wild’ versions of some of their commercial music videos, namely those involving bitches, whores and booty. These clips will never be shown on free-to-air television, and it’s essentially a given that they’ll never see the light of day on MTV. However, they are readily available using online file sharing programs such as Limewire or Bittorrent. Even more disturbingly, they are downloaded in vast numbers the world over, such that other cultures may also learn of the importance of ‘shakin dat azz’, ‘backin it up’ and ‘makin dat azz clap’.

Difficult as it may be to believe, I am not a wowser. ‘Wowser’ is a slang expression, most commonly heard in Australian and New Zealand English, referring to a person whose overdeveloped sense of morality drives them to deprive others of their pleasures. I would hate to any such thing, it is not my intention to deprive countless impressionable teenagers of ‘booty pop’ – especially in its visual form. Rather, my argument begs the question of whether we need so much of it. No matter what you do, eye candy is not going to compensate for bad melodies and worse singing.

It’s a little sad to note that one of my favourite bands, Black Eyed Peas, have sunk to a new low by singing about ‘all dat azz’, ‘all dat junk inside your trunk’ and ‘lovely lady lumps’. Man, I think we’ve had enough by now. We’re overloaded on images of powerfully built African American and Latino women gyrating in front of cameras while gawking rappers look on in a stupor. If you want to be seedy, take a cue from Chris Isaak, who set a new benchmark for sensuality and sleaziness in his infamous music video for ‘Wicked Game’. A certain degree of ‘class’ helps alleviate, if not nullify, the very real perve factor of that particular clip.

Leaving aside visuals, the lyrics of ‘booty pop’ leave a great deal to be desired. For one, the grammar could not be more horrendous. For example:

Incorrect: “I likes dem girls who likes dem girls”.
Correct: I like women with homosexual tendencies.

Incorrect: “I likes the way yo azz be vibrating”.
Correct: “I quite enjoy watching you wiggle your bottom”.

I may well be guilty of being picky here. After all, it’s unreasonable to expect young males with little or no secondary schooling to employ the Queen’s English with quite the same panache she displays. For example, “One rather likes the way one wiggles one’s bottom with sufficient vigour to elicit earth tremors” does not have quite the same ring to it as “I likes the way yo azz be viiibbbrrraatttingggg. Shake dat ting like yo wanna start an earthquake”.

I guess we can expect stars like 50 Cent, Judakiss and Eminem to further assist in the denigration of the English language by continuing to produce, sell and market their wares the world over. After all, if you’re appealing to one of the lowest common denominators in society (e.g. sexually frustrated white males with no sense of cultural identity who ‘adopt’ the worst excesses of popular African American culture), then there’s little if any point in seeking to be sophisticated.

As for intellectuals such as me, we’ll simply have to make do with skin-tight ballet costumes, attractive European flautists and the like. There’s something to be said about leaving a little to the imagination AND having some restraint over the baser of emotions ….

How I wish I could play guitar …. (sigh)

For those who don’t already know, let’s just say that I’m a Dire Straits fan. Unlike some, I do not class myself in the ‘hardcore’ fan category and a portrait of Mark Knopfler is not affixed to my bedroom ceiling. In actuality, I know very little of the man aside from the fact that he’s an exceptional guitarist.

Speaking generally, women seem to take a much greater interest in a man if he’s artistically inclined. Poetry and writing may not suffice, however, unless you’re dating a literary academic in her mid-50s. It’s music which proves most captivating to the female of the species, acting as an almost infallible lure – albeit of the auditory kind. Others have suggested a double-choc coated Tim Tam at the end of a string, but some women may well find that demeaning.

It’s not just the supposed interest of women in guitar-playing men that makes me wish I could play, although Toni Braxton proved rather persuasive which she sang “I wish that I was in your arms like that Spanish guitar, and you’d play me all night long till the dawn”. I like the fact that it’s a versatile instrument, capable of being utilised for a number of styles from folk to jazz to rock. Also, if imbued with the ability to play guitar, I may well become a more interesting person.

The fact remains that I have few interests outside of work. Well, I do but they’re mostly academic and normally have some correlation with my professional interests. Few women would so much as look in my direction if I explained my passion for continuous disclosure provisions, socially responsible investment, codification of the natural justice rules in statute, taxation of cross-border transactions etc. Yes, riveting stuff isn’t it?

I do some others interests of course – contemporary English literature, creative writing, satire, travelling, exotic coffee blends, snooker etc. However, few of these involve any degree of ‘performance’. As you are no doubt aware, assuming you watch Discovery Channel, the female in most bird species has to ‘approve’ of a show performed by the suitor prior to engaging in any mating ritual. This often involves a display of plumage, but extends further to actual ‘bird calls’ – which can be quite musical in nature.

So, it follows that if I wish to attract a decent bird, I may well need to put on something of a show. A tutorial in ASX Listing Rules will probably be regarded with some disdain, as would a lengthy essay (written in the ‘magical realism’ style of Ben Okri) declaring my unabashed love and affection. BUT, what about an acoustic performance on a 12-string? Success is next to guaranteed with each note you strike. You don’t even have to be particularly gifted or talented. It may well suffice to learn a few different songs, become technically proficient at playing them, practice emotive facial expressions in front of a mirror (in striving for a particularly tricky or high note, just make the same face as for when you’re having difficulty passing wind), and make sure your nails are well manicured.

It doesn’t sound so hard, but the fact remains that I cannot read music, nor can I be bothered at this late stage in my life. It’s as difficult and troublesome as learning a new language, although some may disagree. Having come from something of a Middle Eastern background, I do not see myself as being particularly musically orientated. It seems to take too much disciple, dedication and practice over time. If only I could devise some way of downloading scores of music lessons into my brain using a stock-standard cable internet connection …..

Oh well, stuff it … I’ll just pay for se .. err .. music lessons like everyone else.

Movie Review: The Exorcism of Emily Rose

Last Sunday I watched a new release titled ‘The Exorcism of Emily Rose’. Unlike other movies about demonic possession, most notably ‘The Exorcist’, this particular feature does not subscribe to the school of swivelling heads and projectile vomiting. It also avoids the shocking, albeit amusing, sexual depravity portrayed by Linda Blair. Additionally, the demons in question here do not speak in an English accent, are short on swear words, and prefer ancient tongues to English.

The real events behind Emily Rose’s story are more shocking that the movie allows, but this is understandable given the director’s background. Director and co-writer Scott Derrickson is apparently a devout evangelical Christian – a churchgoer in other words. Although he may not subscribe to the Catholic tenets about possession and exorcism, the fact remains that he is a ‘believer’. As such, the movie goes ‘soft’ on the priest who sought to ‘exorcise’ Emily and further recommended that she cease taking her medication. Put simply, the viewer is left to interpret Emily as being either ‘mad’ or ‘possessed’. Given the numerous supernatural interludes, one would assume that the director is gunning for the latter assumption.

In the movie, Father Moore (played by Tom Wilkinson) is on trial for criminal negligence. He is represented by an ambitious female lawyer, Erin Brunner (played by Laura Linney), who describes herself as being agnostic, but gradually has her views swayed after waking repeatedly at 3am, described by Father Moore as the ‘witching hour’. She is further advised by Father Moore to take care, as "There are forces around this trial, dark and powerful forces."

Ooohhh …. Ooga booga.

OK, by now it must be apparent that I am something of a skeptic. Of course, I cannot explain with precision every ‘weird’ event which takes place in the world. However, I’ll be damned (no pun intended) if I seek to explain the inexplicable by reference to the unprovable (i.e. religious ideology, or rather ‘dogma’). For countless years, people have been using the mechanism of ‘fear’ as a means to coerce others to adopt their ideology. Accept Christ, or burn in hell for eternity – pray five times a day, or risk the wrath of Allah – don’t take a bite out of God’s apple, otherwise He’ll throw you out of Paradise …. It’s hard to see how Derrickson’s movie does anything different.

Fear of the irrational is something I have yet to come to grasps with. For example, after having watched the ‘Exorcism of Emily Rose’ I felt uneasy about crawling out of bed at 2:15am in order to take a much needed piss. Had I done so, my mind would have been replete with images of all manner of ‘dark beasts’ lurking in the shadows whilst my trembling hands struggled to find a light switch. This whole episode made me feel stupid and ashamed, especially after I relieved myself in an empty Sprite bottle and then proceeded to fall asleep once more (joke).

The fact remains that real life offers a great deal more to fear than fiction. For example, I often ask myself what I would fear more:

(i) one metre cockroach or Leader of the Opposition in a g-string;
(ii) demonic presence under my bed or threesome with Condoleeza Rice and Janet Reno;
(iii) a zombie or Phillip Ruddock (are the two even distinguishable?);
(iv) Lucifer in the flesh or being seriously ill with no medical insurance in the US;
(v) alien beings or being caught in a lift with several chronically flatulent vegetarians;
(vi) vampires or an international shortage of single malt scotch.

On second thought, The Exorcism of Emily Rose is about as scary as John Howard in a tutu compared to the more salient fears visible in our world.

S.A.

El Kebabo Diablo (The Kebab Devil) …..

In recalling my childhood, some of my most vivid memories are those of my father entertaining me with stories of gins (i.e. Arabic lexicon for ‘demons’). His tales horrified and captivated me at the same time. So attuned was he to detail that I sometimes wondered whether these mystical beings did in fact exist. After having visited a certain kebab shop on George Street, I no longer doubt their existence.

Only last weekend, I encountered a kebab demon. In its earthly form, this being masqueraded as a purveyor of shredded animal flesh grilled to perfection. At the time of our meeting, it had assumed a human form – specifically a male Middle Eastern immigrant with a broad moustache, ample frame and considerable body odour. Despite its obvious talents in shape-shifting, I soon recognised the thing for what it was and proceeded cautiously to exit the shopfront.

In recounting my story, I recognise that I was saved from a terrible fate, but only because others sacrificed themselves unknowingly. Specifically, a long queue had formed by the time I entered this innocuous little kebab shop. Being a naturally perceptive and inquisitive person, I carefully watched ‘El Kebabo Diablo’ as it prepared various kebabs for human consumption. What I noticed, albeit in the finest of details, sicked me beyond belief.

El Kebabo Diablo wore no apron, and its white shirt was stained with discoloured crimson streaks - a sight that could only be interpreted as dried blood. Even in its human form, this creature’s skin was replete with coarse black hairs which glistened menacingly under the harsh fluorescent lighting. If one were bold enough to closely examine its face, it would be impossible to discern where nose-hair ended and moustache began. The teeth behind those thin and cruel lips appeared broken and jagged, probably from having spent millennia gnawing on bone and gristle.

Fine droplets of perspiration, clearly visible on the creature’s forearms, routinely dropped into the meat tray as it sliced and shaved huge strips of flesh from three rotating skewers (chicken, beef and lamb). Every once in awhile, the creature would rub its bulbous nose vigorously into the sleeve of its shirt, leaving lengthy streaks of what can only be described as sweat, mucous and grit. It appreciated not the norms of civil society, especially as they related to the art of food preparation. The creature did not wear plastic gloves, and touched foodstuffs regularly with its bare hands. More disturbingly, it appeared to be unaccustomed to clothing, routinely inserting the thumb and forefinger of its left hand into the nether-regions of its backside in an effort to dislodge the monstrous ‘wedgie’ that became its earthly burden.

Looking around me, I found other patrons to be oblivious of the peril in their surroundings. None appeared to regard El Kebabo Diablo with fear, failing to recognise the true nature of the beast in their midst. They dug hungrily into their kebabs, feeding on singed fleshed, tabouli, homous, lettuce, tomato, onion and the putrid sweat of an unearthly friend.

I cautiously exited the shop whilst El Kebabo Diablo had its back turned, slicing and shaving away at slabs of meat. No-one saw me leave, as all were staring hypnotically at the two pillars of grilling flesh that they were soon to feast upon. The primitive and beastly nature of El Kebabo Diablo had infected them ...

It is now that I understand the wisdom behind a centuries old Lebanese proverb, a saying that is whispered to little children in hushed tones by their parents:

‘Temptation of the kebab is a deadly thing.

The more kebabs you eat, the more you look like what made you the kebab.’

Remembers readers, not ‘who’ … but ‘what’.

Stupid names for food items …..

Ever walked into a Hungry Jacks only to be asked whether a ‘Big Whopper’ is to your liking? What about performing the seemingly innocuous task of purchasing ice cream only to have an attractive check-out chick scream ‘Price Check on Golden GayTime’?

If you are anything like me, and have even a modicum of dignity about your person, then episodes like the above prove infuriating beyond belief. It’s bad enough that so many fast-food outlets ascribe moronic names to their wares, worse yet when you demean yourself publicly by ordering them.

Rather thankfully, I reside in a country (i.e. Australia) whose penchant for stupid food names has yet to equal the standard set in the United States. At almost any café, the food items for sale are afforded ‘descriptive’ titles that are self-explanatory in nature. Even more comforting is the fact that few, if any, restaurants have named sandwiches in honour of ‘home grown’ celebrities or, worse yet, politicians. Being a man of some dignity, I rue the day where hunger will force me into ordering a ‘Barnsey Burger’, ‘Minogue Melt’ or, God forbid, ‘Ruddock with Rye’.

Although years have passed since I last set foot in the US, the following are some of the stupider names I saw affixed to items one is meant to consume:

(i) Hot Beefeater (Quizno’s Fast Food Chain, USA – a burger)
(ii) Rooty Tooty, Fresh and Fruity (IHOP, USA – a fruit smoothie)
(iii) The Big Stick (USA, allegedly a popsicle)
(iv) Nutty Buddy (USA – a type of ice cream)
(v) Jacob Bluefinger (Erbert and Gerbert Sandwich Chain, USA – a sandwich)
(vi) Boney Billy (Erbert and Gerbert Sandwich Chain, USA – a sandwich)

What being in its right mind would openly say the words ‘Hot Beefeater’ and ‘Boney Billy’ when ordering in a restaurant? What confectioner would be sick enough to name an ice cream, specifically one targeted as children, a ‘Nutty Buddy’ or a ‘Big Stick’? It is my belief that the manufacturers and retailers of these items are perversely pleasured by secretly humiliating their clients, most of whom are obese and willing to forego dignity for a feed.

Roald Dahl must have chuckled silently to himself when he named his most popular fictional character, a confectioner no less, ‘Willy Wonka’. What sane parent would allow a child to purchase a ‘Fudgemallow Delight’ from an individual bearing such an unscrupulous name? Obviously the man worked hard at being a ‘chocolateer’, going so far as to put a little of himself into every piece of candy sold. However, if one were to draw inferences from his name, he put in more than effort alone. Also, rumour has it that he was particularly fond of manufacturing vanilla lollipops. They had a liquid centre apparently ….

Inner strength and perseverance ….

Ever heard a song by Sade called Pearls? From my perspective, limited as it may be in matters of music, it possesses some of the most haunting lyrics ever penned.

There is a woman in Somalia

Scraping for pearls on the roadside
There's a force stronger than nature
Keeps her will alive
This is how she's dying
She's dying to survive
Don't know what she's made of
I would like to be that brave

She cries to the heaven above
There is a stone in my heart
She lives a life she didn't choose
And it hurts like brand-new shoes
Hurts like brand-new shoes

There is a woman in Somalia
The sun gives her no mercy
The same sky we lay under
Burns her to the bone
Long as afternoon shadows
It's gonna take her to get home
Each grain carefully wrapped up
Pearls for her little girl

Hallelujah
Hallelujah

She cries to the heaven above
There is a stone in my heart
She lives in a world she didn't choose
And it hurts like brand-new shoes

Hurts like brand-new shoes

The above words perfectly describe the struggle for survival I saw in much of Africa as a child. During my time in Sudan, I witnessed a country torn asunder by civil unrest and poverty. In spite of the overtly dire circumstances of the people, it beggared belief that so many persevered with life where others would have fallen. These individuals were possessed of a strength and determination few will ever know, let alone fathom.

Unbeknown to most, both my parents came from a background of abject poverty. Nonetheless, they were privileged in respect of the numerous sacrifices made by my grandparents to ensure that their offspring benefited from a sound education. My parents made the most of this opportunity, sacrificing a social life for the rigours of study and examinations. In time, both become highly accomplished professionals, and served with the United Nations for several years before embarking on alternative careers. During this period, my grandparents lived well owing to the continued support and assistance of their children. However, all four passed away before I ever had an opportunity to get to know them well.

My parents speak little of their folks and the difficult life they once lead. Compared to what ‘once was’, their current situation can only be described as a complete turnaround from the uncertainty of the past. On occasion, my grandparents would forego their dinner simply to provide their children with a meagre second helping. They worked and laboured hard throughout much of their life, striving hard to provide their children with benefits they themselves had not been afforded.

Given my own privileged upbringing, comprising of private and international schools and tertiary study, I cannot even begin to understand what life would have been like for my grandparents. Although I can sympathise, empathy is difficult since I have not been in a similar position and ostensibly never will. Looking at my parents, it sometimes appears that they are discomforted by the comfort in their lives. It presents an exceptionally stark contrast to what they once knew, so much so that any act deemed ‘indulgent’ is considered almost sinful. Why buy a novel when you can source the same item from a library? Why ‘eat out’ when significant savings are to be had by dining at home? Why purchase an Omega when a Seiko will suffice?

Despite what I have said above, my parents have absolutely no problem with spending extravagant amounts on their children. As a child, I could very easily have been spoilt had my parents not taught me the importance of money. They both did everything possible to ensure that I had most, if not everything, of what I desired. Every once in awhile, I hope to see them let their hair down, to stop time and just enjoy the moment instead of having work as a 24/7 consideration. They have both done everything possible and achievable in order to ‘survive’, it’s high time that they sought some rest.

The act of survival …. In my view this has to be the greatest singular accomplishment of humankind. If you doubt me, read ‘The Life and Times of Michael K’ – a novel by Coetzee, a Noble Prize winning laureate who is arguably the greatest contemporary author alive (recently emigrated from South Africa to Australia, teaching at the University of Adelaide). Coetzee’s novel is set in a period of civil unrest characterised by anarchy and brutal roaming armies. Michael K, a mentally disabled and impoverished black South African, finds himself an orphan following his mother’s death. Unlike his protagonist counterparts in other fictional novels, Michael does not commence a journey of ‘heroic endeavour’ in the traditional sense of that phrase. Rather, his singular achievement is that he survives in an environment that would break countless others.

‘The Life and Times of Michael K’ is an exceptionally complex novel. If one were to intellectualise it, as is necessary in regarding a work of that calibre, Michael is best described as an extremely marginal figure, disempowered and property-less. In a country torn apart by war, Michael strives hard to find a ‘gap between the fences’, a place to occupy. Being physically weak, Michael has to live off the temporal and material scraps left by the powerful, but his resistance is to use those that the powerful do not realise are there. Everywhere around him, people are laying seeking to lay ‘claim’ to all things capable of being either owned or possessed. In contrast, Michael’s existence is transient in nature. For example, he deliberately builds a home using materials that would be devoured by insects were he to cease tending to it.

Most commentators argue that history is defined by a sense of ‘place’. Being something of a wanderer or drifter, Michael has no claim over the landscape. He is a dispossessed soul, both unable and unwilling to make a mark on the very earth over which he roams. The reader is left with the brutal realisation that were Michael a real person, the imprint of his existence would disappear disturbingly soon after his death.

There are countless thousands like Michael K, but they do not have the luxury of being fictional characters ....

Keep on walking …

I have been doing a lot of walking these past few days. My efforts, though admirable given the distance covered, are not linked to some weight-loss initiative. Rather, I find walking to be an exercise in nostalgia and reflection. In my younger years, countless hours would be spent roaming on foot around the Sydney ‘Rocks’ area, a region known for beautiful sandstone buildings, colourful street fairs and an almost surreal blending of the old and the new.

Aside from the actual views, music provides a fitting accompaniment as well. It helps to drown out the peripheral sounds of tourists, buskers, vehicles and street side vendors. Although I enjoy the Sydney atmosphere, that of a bustling cosmopolitan city, there is much to be said for solitude. Most of my walking takes place in situations of dusk and drizzle, showery evenings where few dare to venture out. Although gloomy for some, the rain and accompanying damp bring even more character to the area. There’s something to be said about walking under a massive sandstone overpass, replete with dark green moss and miniature waterfalls that wind, bend and twist their way through fissures in the sandstone walls.

Perhaps some of you are wondering what I contemplate on these little sojourns. It’s nothing overtly philosophical really, more a reflection on past events and contemplation on what the future might hold. There’s a certain sense of stasis you feel when walking through a historical area, as if life has ceased to be transient. It is a soothing feeling, to me anyway. I sometimes feel trapped, caught up in some motorised ‘walkway of life’ that is moving far too fast for me to appreciate the beauty of everything that passes.

Life can grow rather weary if you don’t look back once in awhile. Some years back Ben Okri, a literary master of the ‘magical realism’ genre, was to be found on the last carriage of a small Greek mountain train, travelling backwards as he entered Arcadia, and philosophising as follows:

You’re sitting in this train at the back of it here, and you’re not seeing a landscape that you’re approaching, but a landscape that is receding from you .... You don’t greet things, you say goodbye to things, you look back on things, you think back on things, you think about bridges that you’ve just crossed. I actually quite like this backward looking. I rather like it, because always one lives through life with one’s eyes facing forward, so things come at you and then they go behind you. And when they go behind you it’s as if they disappear and they vanish, and they don’t exist any more, whereas like this, they always exist, they always exist. This is one thing this journey has taught me, that there is a sort of chain, (isn’t there?), a link, a kind of relay system, whereby each one of us, just passes on the baton of our lives to the next generation - and that way, we keep something alive that is greater than us.

Okri makes a strong point. When your eyes constantly face forwards, you often tend to forget the very experiences which define you as a person, nonchalantly accepting them as part of your character but not questioning why. As a child, I lived in some 15 different countries and attended several international schools across the globe. Although a memory of my past, it goes without saying that these experience helped shape my current personality and outlook towards life. In what way? Well, that’s something I’ve never actually contemplated at length.

More than anything, I guess it was the transient nature of life that overwhelmed me the most. As soon as my fledgling self took root in a new environment, it would be yanked out again only to be transplanted somewhere else. There never was any sense of familiarity, continuity or permanence. Interruption was the order of the day for years on end, with no real idea of how, when, where and what the end destination might be. I yearned for stability and now that I have it, wish to rid myself of its hold ….

Several years on, having graduated from university, I find myself in the clutches of full-time employment. The sheer nature of professional life - characterised by billable hours, timesheets, business lunches and formal training - exerts too much of a physical presence on my thoughts. I feel grounded, in the literal sense, as if my feet have taken root in the most barren of earth. Unlike my childhood counterpart, there is no third-party to set me free this time. Any attempt to struggle free will eventuate from my own efforts alone, and no-one else’s.

Okri once remarked ‘keep postponing your destination, keep extending your dream’. Purpose gives meaning to one’s life, and it amuses me to no small end that, once achieved or attained, a dream tends to lose sits significance or importance.

I’ve come to realise through all this that I cannot stop walking, I need to be on the move, on the lookout, searching out what has passed by unnoticed before. Life is transient, fleeting in nature and, as the old adage says, ‘life does not stop for anyone’. It can be broken down, labelled, finely tuned but, like some mystical perpetual engine, will not cease to function. It happens all around us, to young and old, rich and poor, in whatever definitions we choose to hold. Every once in awhile, I will have to be the one who seeks to stop time, and enjoys the moment.

S.A.

Official Correspondence - The Public Service Equivalent of Intimacy

Ever held a job that you truly despised, so much so that the mere act of waiting for ‘quitting time’ felt like someone was dragging a cheese greater across your privates? Well, pity me because I have and I am in precisely such a position.

Without going into specifics, suffice it to say that I work for what is arguably the most loathed public service organisation in the South East Asia region. The entire department is driven by bureaucracy and red tape, such that I can imagine any number of First Assistant Secretaries (FASs) sitting in their private offices manipulating themselves to paperwork. Jokes aside, what drives an organisation to be so driven by forms, formalities, official procedure, and paperwork? Lawyers routinely make jokes about having chosen their profession owing to a deep-seated paper fetish. Well, you’ve opted for the wrong field my friends. Bureaucracy is the true calling of those who are .. err .. ‘stimulated’ by formatting (e.g. spacing, paragraph numbering), syntax, grammar, punctuation etc.

Every second day some tosser from Central Office sends out yet another round of templates specifically designed to suit some politician’s personal preferences. It’s not unheard of to have a Minister refuse to sign a document because there ‘five spaces instead of six’ between the words ‘Yours sincerely’ and his/her name. Seriously, what freaking difference does it make? Will your world end? Will your ‘old boy network’ ridicule you for not having learnt the finer points of presentation at any number of supposedly prestigious tertiary learning institutions? Is it because you are obsessive compulsive? Just how big is your damned signature that you need a whole six spaces to enable sufficient ‘signage area’ for your Anglo-Celtic name?

It beggars belief that so many public servants would hold such an unwavering belief in the power of ‘letterhead’. Just because a document is formally presented, grammatically correct in every way, devoid of mistakes in spelling/punctuation/syntax etc does not mean that its content is accordingly enhanced. Do you remember the kid in high school who had impeccable handwriting? Did this particular talent necessarily eventuate in more meaningful and coherent essay writing? Not particularly. Chances are that the kid was sexually frustrated and used the elaborate loops, curls, swirls and spirals in his/her cursive text as a subliminal expression of sexuality.

So there you have it. The entire public service is dominated at the upper echelons by people more emotionally connected to paper than their own partners. To these lonely and isolated individuals, human touch is no substitute for the inherent sensuality of caressing the tip of an expensive fountain pen across inter-office correspondence. Hmm, what could possibly better the subtle satisfaction of ‘officially corresponding’ with those equal or senior to your level within the organisation? After all, that ambitious State Director from Victoria (whose heavenly visage has graced the glossy pages of numerous internal newsletters) may not even know of your existence. BUT, just wait till she opens her internal mail tomorrow and sees your briefs – stiff, white, watermarked, sealed as ‘confidential’ and marked for her eyes only. The thought of your package in this woman’s hands fills you with indescribable pleasure.

In a situation such as the above, you ponder ceaselessly as to whether the recipient had thoughts of your instrument (of writing) moving gracefully across crisp white sheets (of paper). Although he/she sees naught but a mark (i.e. signature), you wonder whether the recipient acknowledges and appreciates the fluidity of your movements, the dexterity of your wrist, the fickleness of your fingers as you wonder whether everything has been done to their satisfaction.

Yes, yes …. It stands to reason that public servants are in desperate need of a shag. However, God forbid that one should pursue an office relationship in such an uptight environment. The general behaviour of public servants is governed by the APS Code of Conduct, a legislative ‘ethical’ code that, although not prohibiting office relationships, ostensibly discourages overt expressions of sexuality. Public servants, much like accountants, are meant to be as bland as an English breakfast (e.g. cheese on toast, no spices aside from salt and pepper). How does one express individuality in an environment dictated by conformity? There is only one way to make yourself known of course, via the quality of your documents.

TOILET HUMOUR

Several years ago I was in the restroom of my then employer, a legal publishing firm, throwing cold water on my face in a desperate attempt to retain consciousness – such is the nature of the publishing world. Halfway through these actions, I heard sounds for which there is no apt description in the English language. Suffice it to say that they constituted the lonely utterances of a man seeking to relieve himself of his innermost demons. Interspersed with his agonized groans were the names of several religious figures of the Christian faith – saints, prophets, Mother Mary, Jesus and God Almighty Himself.

Although I could not even see this tormented individual, I regarded him with mixed feelings. Here was a human soul in obvious pain, seeking to cleanse his body of elements that would elicit sheer terror from the bravest of man and beast alike. Yet, in spite of his admirable attempts to once again attain a state of purity, I hated him for the indescribable revulsion his utterances instilled in me:

Uuunnhhh … Oh Sweet Mother of God …. Release me of these demons …. Plop … Oh thank you Holy Father, mighty are thee …. Ggnnhhhhrrrr …. Dear Saint Patrick, Holy Patron of …. Pffftttt … How you torment me Satan, giving me nothing in return for my labours …. Plop …. Bless you Jesus, Son of God …

Upon hearing the above words, I instantly forgave the Japanese for all their cultural peculiarities. I am, of course, speaking of pills that remove odour associated with bodily functions, toilets which play loud music as soon as they detect a presence on the seat, sound-proofed toilet stalls etc. Had it not been for my olfactory and aural senses, this revelation would have never come to light. The sounds I heard that day were other-worldly. They did not belong in this realm, which advocates order and civility as the norm. What I heard were the sounds of chaos – a living, breathing, intelligent being with no control over the most primal of biological processes.

In the event that Hell has an orchestra, an entire symphony of demonic music could have been composed solely from the sounds emitted by that one man. I have never heard anything quite like it in my entire life, and hope and pray that I never will. Prayer and profanity, supplication and defecation, faith and faeces … all united in the one act.

I have never been quite the same again since that day. My entire diet has taken a turn. Steaks are a thing of the past – fruit and fibre is my new mantra. Previously, I used to laugh at those old fools parading around on television, mouthing the magnificence of Metamucil. Not anymore, not anymore …

Scared? Of what??

A few days ago, I was laying back in bed watching TV, as was the style at the time. A television program titled 'Afterlife' was playing on Channel 9. For those of you who have lives and are not reliant on evening programs for entertainment, Afterlife is a show about a rather dreary looking white woman undergoing therapy on account of seeing 'dead people'. Having regard to the fact that she is a UK resident, I fail to see what makes her unique in that regard. England is full of pale people with blotchy skin walking around in a daze, especially on Friday nights following a few bevvies.

Anyway, the episode in question revolved around a fellow called Daniel. This young chap was haunted by a rather malevolent poltergeist he had named 'Daniel 2'. Daniel 2 was physically alike to Daniel in almost every way, but looked like he'd just done several pills and chased that up with an LSD enema. Suffice it to say that Daniel 2 was a creepy looking bastard, with bloodshot eyes, damp hair and unkempt fingernails. Oh yeah, he didn't say much either and had few passtimes, aside from scratching Daniel's face in the middle of the night as he lay terrified and quivering beneath the sheets. Later in the show, it is revealed that Daniel 2 is Daniel's deceased brother. Apparently his mother 'aborted' him following some affair at a late stage of pregnancy. Daniel 2 was feeling particularly pissed that his mother never quite acknowledged his existence and did her utmost to bury memories of the abortion and the life that might have been.

Well, I did not think much of this show until I woke up feeling like a cigarette at 2:00am. The night air was unusually still, and moonlight reflecting from my backyard pool lent a somewhat surreal shimmer to the surface water. As I stood outside in the cold, sucking warm ash into my lungs, I felt a little uneasy. For one, it was uncharacteristically quiet. I couldn't even hear traffic from a nearby main road, not that many people would be driving around at 2am on a Thursday morning. Second, the shadows cast on account of the crescent moon were almost supernaturally dark, as if the black had a texture and consistency to it.

As a child, my parents used to sometimes lock me in a basement or closet space if I had misbehaved. It'd be dark in there to put it mildly. Most days I would be hard pressed to see my hand in front of my face. Also, I had a disturbing fondness for horror novels despite being 8 years of age. By that stage, I'd already started reading authors like Stephen King, Dean Koontz and John Saul. My imagination was over-active to the extreme, and I literally felt as if I my mind itself could conjure up any number of demons when the darkness kicked in.

As a self-defence mechanism against my own imagination, I began to imagine myself as evil. After all, if you can't beat em' then join em'. This is the logic of a fuc*ed up 8 year old whose guardians have as much parenting skill as a piranha with a drinking problem. Amazingly enough, my little tactic worked. I was no longer afraid of the dark, and even willed myself to take walks in the backyard in the late hours of the night as a means of testing my own resolve.

Well, some 19 years have passed since that 8 year old was last locked in some closet or baseent. I am no longer afraid of the dark. So, why did I feel uneasy at 2am on Thursday morning. Realistically speaking, I no longer need to pretend I am evil as a means of circumventing fear. After all, I'm a government official working for what is arguably the most hated and controverial government agency in the southern hemisphere. Cigarette advertising executives would look towards someone like me with the utmost contempt and disdain. They would wonder how a living being could stoop to such low depths, how conscience, morality, decency could be abrogated by the misguided notion that one is serving his country by enforcing the will and word of politicians. Should Lucifer ever cross my path, he would shake in revulsion and disgust. Indeed, his much touted decision to NOT bow down before 'man' would be further enforced as having been the 'correct and preferable' decision. Yes, it is my belief that Lucifer has considerable legal skills, especially in administrative law. After all, he's reliant on people having made bad decisions in order to support his very existence.

For present purposes, I am not going to state my occupation. Suffice it to say that my home internet use may well be monitored by certain intelligence agencies. However, the mind once again boggles as to whether my unease that evening could be translated as being fear. If so, something is not quite right in the universe. After all, what reason is there to fear what does not exist? It's not like Daniel 2 will appear behind my shoulder and scrape one long, dirty fingernail across my brow. He's more likely to quizz me on my occupation, shake his head in disgust and then offer me a line so that I have a more 'liberal' perspective on life.

CULTURAL ATTITUDES TOWARDS VICTIMS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT

The following article was written by me under a pseudonym ('Anissa') and posted on a popular Islamic website (IslamicSydney.com) some time back. It was meant to generate discussion about Islamic cultural attitudes towards sexual assault victims, but few members were willing to put forth so much as a peep. By way of background, it is perhaps worth mentioning that I have been banned from this particular website on several occasions, if for no other reason that offering a dissenting view. It purports to be 'liberal' in nature, but any person who intends to question dogma or archaic religious prescriptions is likely to be banned.

Anyway, hope this proves to be an interesting read. Prior to having a look-see, bear in mind that 'Anissa' was little more than a pseudonym alone. I wanted to put forth the persona of an intelligent, articulate and logical woman with an Islamic background, who had long given up on her faith on account of having 'reason' alone. The backlash 'she' received provided one hell of a show.

Cultural Attitudes Towards Victims of Sexual Assault

Last night I received a phone call from a friend of mine mentioning how a young man undertaking a Masters in Psychology had recently approached her. The meeting resulted in her being presented with a lengthy questionnaire seeking to address her personal attitudes towards rape victims. The bulk of questions focussed squarely on the issue of whether the woman - in particular circumstances - may be said to shoulder some of the responsibility/blame for the act of 'sexual intercourse without consent' - ie rape.

Earlier posts of mine have shed some light on the importance that Islam places upon 'modesty'. To the chagrin of many, I have went on to say that certain 'Islamic persons' often construe a covered Muslim woman as being of higher moral fabric than one who chooses to dress in say a midriff top and a miniskirt. Although my memory fails me at this point, I may have mentioned the inherent logical flaw that such a generalisation indulges in. Namely, the old adage that 'one ought not to judge a book by its cover' is completely done away with. Actually, this may not be entirely true. Physical appearance by way of dress is a much different creature from physical appearance as resultant through biology. With respect to the former, one may argue that a grown man walking down Pitt Street sporting a leopard skin g-string may well be profiled as a 'chap of dubious moral fibre'. But then again, I tend to formulate my perceptions of others based primarily on whether or not they have the capacity and/or inclination to cause unwarranted harm to others - and not necessarily whether they engage in extramarital sex, illicit drug-taking and partying etc.

Within my personal circle I hold dear a number of professional women who - in spite of dressing professionally - wear clothing which does draw attention to their female form. In exercising regularly and taking great care of their physical selves, some of these women do in fact seek to attract attention. Having said that, one must distinguish between the attraction which is sought and that which is not. They are definitely not seeking to be raped so one cannot argue that - by dressing provocatively by Islamic standards - they were 'asking for it' once the sexual assault is occasioned. Rather, it remains a well-known fact that physical attraction is often the first point of attraction as far as relationships are concerned. Although this sounds dreadfully superficial, it is simply a reality of life which most people do not perceive as being an inherent social evil leading to breakdowns in family relationships etc. Such blatant scare mongering would do little to detract any sane person from some of the more salient issues sought to be raised in my posting.

Under existing laws rape can occur when (i) a woman refuses to consent to sexual assault outright; and (ii) the man does not 'withdraw' during the act of sexual intercourse when asked to do so by the woman. Some men - irrespective of their religious affiliation - see the latter position as somehow being incredulous. It 'blows their minds' that a criminal act can be said to occur in the mere seconds following a woman's request to 'withdraw' even where the sexual act has already commenced. It must be borne in mind that, in dealing with sexual assault, we are not dealing in so-called matters of practicality. For example, how can any man be expected to withdraw at a point when he is only moments away from orgasm ? Would that not amount to some kind of 'cruel and unusual punishment' ? (Little attempt at humour there ..)

The key issue is quite simply that of consent. If a woman chooses to walk down a dark and deserted alleyway stark naked she is not inviting rape. She has NOT consented to the act of penetration and this point should never lose its clarity when clouded by futile debates over 'wrong place, wrong time, wrong choice of clothing, along, unaccompanied by big strong male for protection etc'.

The attacker's own culpability with respect to a sexual assault matter should never be removed from the wider picture. Islam seems to place a great deal of emphasis on the modesty of a woman as a means of protecting not only herself but also men from being 'tempted'. In doing so, it falls into the trap of perhaps attributing blame - through the medium of moral culpability - to a woman who is raped in a seemingly 'blameworthy' scenario. That is, provocatively dressed, inebriated, alone in dangerous place and unaccompanied by a suitable protector etc. Such views do little to advance the cause of women's' rights and almost everything to displace 100% physical, moral and emotional culpability on the attacker.

Does anyone remember the words of Yasuo Kakuda, the chief cabinet secretary of the Japanese Parliament? Some months back he appeared to comment that women who dressed provocatively were 'really asking for it'.

"If you walk around, there are many of them. Many who have a provocative appearance. Those who have that kind of appearance are at fault. Because men are black panthers."

Worse still, he alluded to men in general as being 'black panthers' - thereby insinuating that men are somehow driven by primeval or perhaps animalistic urges, with such a state being in the natural order of things. At some stage or another we all have to take responsibility for who we are - human beings with the ability to reason and rationalise. People need to take responsibility for their own actions and it shall be a sad day when a man can somehow escape and/or reduce his culpability in a sex crime by seeking to argue the alleged shortcomings of his masculinity.

Kakuda's comments appear not to be uncommon and have been complimented by the moronic comments of other leading Japanese politicians. Japan is by nature a patriarchal society although women are gradually beginning to assert dominance in both the workplace and at home. Such anomalies appear to be 'culturally' guided and not necessarily motivated by some particular faith. With Islam, however, the situation is markedly different.

Earlier this morning I perused an Islamic website (www.jannah.org) to attempt to better understand the role of 'Hijab' in the daily life of a pious Muslim woman. The arguments propounded were nothing new and indeed appeared to constitute yet another rehash with buzzwords like 'liberation', 'purity', 'chastity', 'virtue' etc. As stated by a friend of mine, Islam appears to guard the chastity of Muslimahs with greater fervour than Israel guards its nuclear arsenal. In contrasting the so-called Islamic standard with 'Western values', the following statement was provided:

"What a contrast with Western fashions which every year concentrate quite intentionally on exposing yet another erogenous zone to the public gaze! The intention of Western dress is to reveal the figure, while the intention of Muslim dress is to conceal [and cover] it, at least in public."

Comments such as the above are precisely what serve to further alienate Muslims in western countries. In a recent cultural exhibition at Darling Harbour, I was treated to the spectacle of four Muslim women - in full Islamic garb - sporting blonde wigs and mimicking what they believed to be 'western excesses'. When exposed to such a blatant exposition of the 'us and them' mentality, it is no wonder that a great many Muslims attribute a lesser moral standard to a woman who chooses to expose her 'feminine form' through tight-fitting or revealing clothing. Indeed, some would go so far as to say that such women are 'asking for it' when they get sexually assaulted through no fault of their own. It sickens me that I even have to add the qualifier of 'through no fault of their own' as a means of further clarification. The simple phrase 'sexual assault' should imbue the reader with an understanding that consent was lacking.

In addition, the allusion to 'western fashions which every year concentrate quite intentionally on exposing yet another erogenous zone to the public gaze' is laughable. The mind boggles as to just how zones a Muslim male might label as 'erogenous' with respect to a woman's body. Research conducted by a friend of mine - concentrating on male/female sexuality and arousal - noted that certain men (especially those living in Iran, Saudi Arabia et al) would be sexually aroused by the sight of an exposed wrist. Women in those parts of the world would be advised to wear a G-Shock on either wrist to prevent the possibility of inadvertently arousing a male's sexual desires. Ohhhh .. what a ravishing wrist you have sister!!

DO not for a second believe that I have little or no grasp of some of the altruistic arguments favouring the Hijab. It is true that women living in western countries face an almost comical level of pressure to be attractive. The cover of any woman's magazine as well as its contents supports this assertion. However, the fact remains that there is no moral distinction placed between a woman who goes to great lengths to appear beautiful and one who does not. Anomalies do occur, such as one woman being preferred for a position owing to her looks alone. However, these discrepancies are not brought about through the exercise of any particular religion and/or belief system. Under Islam, a woman who chooses to cover herself is describes at great length as being chaste, virtuous, pure and pious. This 'admiration' is to the exclusion of any woman who chooses not to wear the Hijab or dress with modesty.

Believe it or not there do exist women who wish to dress provocatively as a means of exerting their sexual power. Although this may be an invitation to admire - albeit with some discretion - it does not extend into an invitation of the same nature as a coupon allowing you to partake in an RSL buffet. Is there anything wrong with a person engaging in such behaviour ? Admittedly, it's rather sad that - whilst most women will be drawn to a well-dressed, groomed and heeled gentleman - the gentleman in question may be attracted primarily to a 'nice rack' and a 'butt you can bounce quarters off'. Both forms of 'attraction' have a layer of superficiality but so what? No-one is being harmed and both persons remain well in control of the decisions they make and the conduct in which they engage - whether it is flirting or a more intimate liaison.

Speaking as an intelligent and perceptive woman, I am often aware when a man is interested in me primarily because of my appearance as distinct from my personality. This much can be gauged from either body language or by the frequency of compliments which go towards looks as distinct from character. Having noted this, it is high time that society dispensed with the view of women as being 'chicks' - small, fluffy animals which are lacking in substance and have the tendency to fall prey to stealthy 'chicken hawks'. Really, such abject generalisations not only demean us but encourage even further 'predatory behaviour' among men who assume all women to be gullible creatures easily swayed by flattery.

Earlier in this piece I stated that - when seeking to judge people - I was more concerned with their capacity and/or inclination for harm. With this in mind, I was rather taken aback when I saw the lack of sympathy my mother recently expressed upon having heard the news of a prostitute's brutal rape in the Darlinghurst area. This particular lady happens to hold some 3 separate degrees and, in gauging her reaction, I saw that a decent education is not necessarily a precursor to someone developing a more sophisticated sense of compassion and/or empathy. I reminded my mother of how brutal the act of rape can be. Some people think that simply because a woman is a prostitute, she will somehow be less emotionally and/or physically distressed following a sexual assault. Strangely enough, I cannot quite remember my mother's reply. It will suffice to say that it was something less than memorable. Little more can be expected of someone who believes that all human beings should live according to the stringent codes laid down in the Quran and Hadith. Simple minded person, simple minded response ..

As with most mammals a woman needs to be ready for the act of sex to take place. In addressing the men of this forum, imagine if you have an object measuring some 6-7 inches (average) thrust into your anus. Severe bruising and trauma would result. Sensitive blood vessels in your colon would rupture instantly. Your sphincter muscles would contract thereby eliciting even greater pain. It's not that much different for a woman either. The experience is traumatic irrespective of who you may be. The fact that a woman is perceived as being lacking in chastity, purity, religion or otherwise does not serve to dampen the emotional and physical pain she feels by any margin whatsoever.

Exclusion ... this is what religion is all about. People from groups such as 'Interfaith' never tire of arguing that the world's major religions all have a 'common thread' - tolerance, peace and submission to God, charity etc. If ever we need a shining example of a concerted effort to exercise political correctness this would be it. PeeCees at their finest.

"A young woman decides to walk home alone following a late party in Darlinghurst. She lives alone in a studio apartment a few hundred metres away from the club that she has just frequented with a number of friends. She is slightly drunk, inebriated to the point that her thoughts and physical actions appear muted. Further, she is dressed in revealing clothing - a short skirt and a midriff top which exposes her stomach and cleavage. She also has a heavy layer of make-up on plus a 'glitter balm' which lends an almost shimmering quality to her face, neck and shoulders. On the way home she is accosted by a male and brutally raped."

How many of you think that - with respect to the aforementioned scenario - the woman shoulders some of the responsibility and/or blame for what has occurred? Keep in mind that it is one thing to 'assume risk' in the context of undertaking a hazardous sporting activity (eg mountain climbing) and another to 'assume risk' in choosing to walk home alone in circumstances as the one described above. With respect to the latter case, some may argue that the woman in question was 'inviting rape' on account of having - inter alia (ie amongst other things) - dressed 'provocatively'. With respect to the former scenario you're assuming responsibility for (i) your own actions; and (ii) any contingency which may arise (eg bad weather, loose rocks, frayed rope). You do NOT assume responsibility for the actions of a 'human being' who is unable to control his/her desires to the extent that a criminal act eventuates. The same SHOULD be true for the latter although some people would beg to differ. Unlike a mountain, the said human being has the ability to decide whether or not to 'attack'. With this in mind, how can it possibly be said that the woman in the aforementioned scenario is 'also to blame' ?

She took a risk and paid the price. Without doubt that is the reply some of you shall deal my way by means of an answer. In previous discussions I have been given the analogy of someone who 'stares' at another person in public - thereby provoking a heated response. Is the situation, which I've illustrated above, any different?

Yes, it is. Even is one assumes the risk of walking down a perilous alleyway dressed in sexually alluring clothing one does not seek to 'invite rape'. The central issue is one of consent and this distinction differentiates clear-headed individuals with moralistic, dogmatic nutcases. The extent to which the latter view is commonly entertained is cause for some concern. Amongst Islamic societies, this rather ham-fisted perception of rape victims is visibly apparent. The question of what triggers such archaic attitudes is a subject of further debate still. In looking towards religions values and/or morals some understanding may be fostered.

Under certain faiths a culture may be said to arise under which a woman is seen as better dead than defiled. Although I have limited knowledge of the position under Christianity, this statement is very definitely lent support by certain Islamic and Hindu societies. In both instances fathers and brothers will pursue and kill daughters or sisters for disobeying or being forced to disobey their cultural/religious rules. In measuring a woman's worth depending on whether she is a virgin, a mother, has sex inside or outside of marriage, is called a spinster, slut or a whore, has ten children or is childless, is still evident in many ways. Indeed, women are expected, if not outright encouraged, to feel guilty, sullied, dirty and worthless when they have been raped. As stated earlier, victims are often said to be 'inviting rape' if they wear 'provocative' dress. With such views in mind it is no wonder than most Muslims feel the headscarf and/or all-encompassing burkha to be some kind of 'defence mechanism' against sexual assault.

Why should I, as a woman, drastically alter my mode of dress in order to ensure that men are at ease in not being tempted in some 'un-Islamic' manner ? Why should restrictions be placed on my conduct simply because of the weak will of another ? Most importantly of all, should I be judged as a 'bad person' simply because I choose not to dress modestly from the point of view of a Muslim ? In doing something as simple as walking through Burwood Westfield I am aware of the disapproving glances cast at the numerous young women in hipster jeans, midriff tops etc. The 'daggers from the eyes' are mostly thrown by elderly Muslim women who are doing their grocery shopping or whatever.

At what point does a woman's chose of clothing throw her into the slut, whore, skank category ? These very words exist as a means of demeaning and denigrating women owing to their conduct in everyday life. Why are there so few comparative words denigrating men in a similar fashion? On more than one occasion I have been face to face with a man whose jeans are so tight that each testicle is left precariously devoid of the other's company by a very attached zipper.

Religion is obsessed with notions of purity which, for the better part, appear to place as heavy an emphasis on 'keeping up appearances' as a person's mental character and/or spiritual development etc. If this does not trigger out and out prejudice, I do not know what does. Going back to the scenario of the Lebanese gang rapes, let it not be forgotten that one of the culprits remarked to his victim that: 'We are doing this because you're Australian'. As much as I hate to bring this up, I wonder whether similar conduct would have accrued to a Muslim woman sporting a headscarf.

Under Islamic culture, the attitude to rape and raped women appears to have been covered by one of the 'great' monotheistic, male dominated religions. In worst-case scenarios, one can easily refer to a number of 'Muslim nations' where a raped woman has been arrested and sentenced to death by stoning for adultery! - Anissa

MEMORIES OF A CHILDHOOD FRIEND

It's two in the morning and I can't sleep.

Just over 15 minutes ago, I stepped onto the back porch of my house to have a cigarette. Given my current asthmatic condition, this is without doubt the stupidest thing I could possibly have done. For the better part, I guess I just wanted an excuse to be outside, to enjoy the cold night air and perhaps spend a few minutes stargazing. In addition, my mind was besought with thoughts of someone whose memory fast escapes me.

The person I am talking about is a woman named 'Daulat'. She was one of my mother's best friends, and often used to babysit me as a child. Her background was Syrian, but it was virtually impossible to pick her ethnicity based on appearance alone. She had a fair complexion, but wasn't pale. I remember her skin as having a honeyish glow to it, and she had the most stunning eyes imaginable, like emeralds on fire. Thinking back, she is probably the only person I know whose looks matched her personality. She was angelic in almost every way, someone who would give her all for those she loved and cared for.

Daulat, being a qualified nurse, was often asked by my parents to 'scare' me with images of syringes and drips should I fail to behave. She humoured them, but always winked at me secretly to show she was merely acting in jest. On occasion, she would pick me up and hold me against her face, so close that our noses touched and it became impossible to escape those penetrating green eyes of her. She treated me as her own child, and did her best to care for me and my siblings during those periods when my parents were away on business.

Several years ago, Daulat had her marriage arranged to someone she scarcely knew. For various reasons, she kept this development hidden from my family - perhaps on account of being shamed that her will was over-written by what her family believed to be in her best interests. My mother only kept in touch with Daulat intermittently during this period. Daulat had become somewhat reclusive, and we could only speculate as to why this was the case.

Anyway, the last news I received of Daulat related to her untimely death. She had died in childbirth. My mother later told me that, soon after getting married, Daulat was informed by a treating physician that complications would arise were she to get pregnant. Her husband was informed of this but seemed to care little about his wife's health and wellbeing. He insisted on children and more or less 'raped' her in marriage. As a result, she died giving birth to his child - a stillborn.

For some reason or another, Daulat came to mind while I was on the back porch, smoking a cigarette and counting constellations. I have no idea what triggered her memory, but feel disturbed that I don't think of her as often as I should. Being an atheist, I don't believe that there is a 'life after death' - this particular facet of my atheist belief system is steadfast. On occasion, it also causes me a great deal of distress. Here's a woman who ought to be remembered, who ought never to be forgotten ... and yet very few would have even known of her existence.

I only knew Daulat in my limited capacity as a child. In so many ways, she seemed to mirror my own innocence. There was a certain naivity to her, but it could not be interpreted as a 'lack of intelligence'. Rather, Daulat seemed to see the good in people and was often willing to overlook shortcomings to bring out their best traits. She could've made such a difference in the lives of everyone around her, but her entire existence was cut short by a man who could not think past his desire to continue the 'family name'.

Several months after Daulat's death, her husband visited our family home - perhaps in an effort to bask in sympathy. My parents pretended to not know of the circumstances surrounding her death, and simply wanted him out of the house as soon as practicable. I felt differently. Upon walking into the living room, I threw a chair at his face and then stuck my heel into the nape of his neck as he hit the floor. I don't believe that my actions were pre-meditated. I cannot even remember forming thoughts at the time. Everything happened almost instinctly, without foresight. All I can remember is an indescribable feeling of hatred, so intense that it felt as if it had been distilled, purified into its most base essence. The last thing I remember of that episide is being thrown out into the backyard by my parents, and Daulat's husband gasping for breath on the floor of our living room.

Those feelings came very close to rushing back when I thought of Daulat earlier today. However, now it's more hollowness than hatred. The bitterness I feel over her death is not going to bring her back. If anything, it will simply serve to dampen my fonder memories of her existence and the imprint she left on my 'child' self. I just wish that there was some way to reconcile my atheist beliefs with my desire for her to be in some 'better place'.

MANUFACTURING DISSENT

Can the force of human spirit conquer the deprivations and violations committed against it, either individually or collectively? And what are the boundaries within which we, as members of humanity, may expect to be victorious over the cynical, oppressive forces that affect our world? They are deliberately wide and vague questions. What do you think the answers are?

A few years ago I visited a friend of mine who had only just recently purchased a modest house in Glebe. He gave me a brief tour of the premises before leading me into the living room and offering me a seat on a beanbag. One of the first things I noticed about this room, aside from its sparse furniture, was a large rectangular sheet of white cloth hanging over the fireplace. It seemed to be covering up either a large framed picture or perhaps an ornamental mirror. Upon being quizzed on its purpose my friend cast aside the sheet and turned to face me, as if scanning my face for a response. The image which presented itself was that of a soldier standing over a handcuffed man laying on his stomach. He was grinding one highly polished boot into the back of the other man’s head, pressing it deep into the dirt.

"Most people get rather disturbed by it. Still, it’s worth keeping in mind all the shit that happens. Just in case you forget.", he said.

Just what is a crime against humanity? Does it have to be inhumane to be accorded such a definition? Should we even be confusing the words humanity with humane or humanitarian? Most would frown were I to answer that question. My own personal cynicism is no surprise to anyone, least of all myself. In any event, I would like to limit the tone of my discourse by concentrating on something close to home: Asylum seekers; refugees; boat people; queue jumpers.

Several years ago, I read an exceptionally well written article in the Sydney Morning Herald by Robert Manne, Associate Professor of Politics at La Trobe University, titled "Ruddock-speak is helping many to sleep at night". The article aimed to examine why so many Australians seem to be turning a blind eye to the plight of those in detention centres. Reference wsa made to a survey conducted in Newspoll which quizzed Australians on how they felt after seeing/hearing/reading about the acts of self-mutilation and protest which routinely gripped detention centres. 70% responded by saying that they felt even less sympathetic towards asylum seekers than before.

A letter to the editor (SMH Opinion & Letters) asked how anyone could be sure that the Afghans shown browbeating themselves in a detention centre were not potention suicide bombers. After all, if they could inflict such intense pain on themselves readily surely they could take the next step. What she meant by the next step is a little vague to me? Kill themselves? Become suicide bombers? I assume she meant the latter.

Manne commented briefly upon how public consciousness can be shaped through the corruption of language. One of Orwell’s essays on the relationship between politics and language is alluded to. It is one in which Orwell expressed his conviction that political language was becoming increasingly corrupted by vagueness and abstraction, by the use of dead metaphors, prefabricated phrases, the passive rather than the active tense, the choice of Latin-based rather than Anglo-Saxon words. The corruption of language in this manner hence serves a precise political purpose – the partial concealment of one’s meaning not only from other but from oneself.

Consider the following example. Ruddock was recently asked to comment on how he could justify continued detention of the family of a traumatised six-year-old boy who no longer ate or drank or spoke. He answered: "Well, I do look at these issues in the context of humanitarian considerations and there are a broad range of issues that I have to look at, firstly in terms of whether or not we give up a refugee place that could otherwise go, in this case, to four other people, whose circumstances would, I suspect, be far more compelling."

Manne goes on to say the following:

This is not an extreme version of Ruddock-speak. For him a broken child has suffered an "adverse impact"; people who go on hunger strike or sew their lips together are involved in "inappropriate behaviours"; refugees who flee to the West in terror are "queue jumpers"; those who live without hope in forlorn refugee camps are "safe and secure"; those who are dispatched to tropical prisons financed by Australia are part of the "Pacific Solution".

So, from a microeconomic perspective how can we be "victorious over the alarming amount of community hostility towards asylum seekers?". In the past I’ve carried on endlessly about the benefits of education as a means of creating dissent. If there is one proposition which the majority of Utopian/Dystopian novels put forth it’s that knowledge equates to power. The psychology of why any one person behaves, acts or thinks in a particular way is exceedingly complex and beyond the scope of my knowledge. But, if consent can be manufactured then why not dissent. The question is, how do you turn dissent into something more meaningly, something capable of throwing aside the oppressive forces.