The Brazilian street pote Bulebule says that, "though the door to our house is open we stay home in the dark because we don't understand that we are free." This is as true today as it ever was. We take for granted that our roof doesn't leak, our car will start in the morning, and that when we push that piece of plastic into the hole in the wall it will spit out cash. No one tells us when we are allowed to head out the door of our homes to go for a walk and no-one stands there with a machine gun and forces us to go to work in the morning.
I've been thinking about these things because lately I've been reading a lot of history about world war II. The privations and horrors of that war are scarcely to be believed. I had long thought that the view I had of that war from school, and from popular media and indeed from the stories my parents told of it that I had a fair idea of what it might have been like. Only now am I beginning to appreciate the full horror of that period of history.
It is true that we don't fully appreciate what we have until it's gone. Actually, I might go beyond that. It's perhaps not until freedom, or peace, has been lost and then re-gained does one perhaps fully appreciate it the most. The trick then is to maintain that appreciation and not let it become stale, hence the importance of history and the frequent consumption thereof.
I do understand how privileged I am to be able to walk out the front door whenever I like. I do appreciate the fact that there's not an armed soldier standing on each street corner wanting to see my papers. And I know that when I get up and go to work in the morning it's not because I have to, but because I choose to, and if I really wanted, no-one is going to stop me walking away from work and never returning. These freedoms are valuable and, in the overall scheme of things, a rare privilege in the history of humankind.
And yet, I'm also aware that these freedoms are always under threat. My emails and phone calls are all susceptible to interception should some authority somewhere decide to do so. My very identity and the cash I need to survive are all at the mercy of some bureacrat or villain with a computer perhaps on the far side of the planet. And I know I can't walk down a city street or into a public building without being captured by a small barrage of surveillance cameras. And while all this may genuinely be about the greater safety of society, sooner or later, when the veneer of ethical governance breaks down, it will be used as a weapon. That day will come, as inevitably as conflict arises in human society.
Everything goes in cycles, and freedom (or lack of) and oppression are not exempt. There may be nothing we can do to stop the inevitable decline into anarchy and war, but what we can do - perhaps the one way in which we ordinary mortals can make a difference - is to appreciate and understand what others before us have gone through and what they have sacrificed in order to give us the freedom we now enjoy - not forgetting of course the people still fighting and dying for those freedoms this very moment. The simple luxuries of life: good food, books and music are all the more enjoyable when viewed in that context.
Bravo à la liberté.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
The cricketing ages of man.
As I watch Ricky Ponting approach the end of his cricketing career it occurs to me that my life has been set down in stages according to who is the current Australian cricket captain. It certainly has tended to divide life into convenient chunks of 5 - 8 years or so. Far too many of them if I'm honest.
My first real cricket captain was Ian Chappell. Of course as a young nipper I was aware of Bill Lawry but Chappelli was the first captain i genuinely recognised as being an important part of my life. Still, I was too young to appreciate his genuine worth as a captain and I can only remember being desperately disappointed by his all too frequent modest scores as a batsman.
His brother and replacement captain Greg Chappell on the other hand, was God-like in his batting prowess, and I happily overlooked any shortcomings he had as a captain. His fluent, elegant technique was a joy to watch, and his prowess against both the English and the dominant West Indies brought joy to my teenage years.
Of course, Chappell's reign was interrupted and to a certain extent ruined by the eruption of Packer World Series cricket, and so we had brief periods of captaincy by Graham Yallop (who I quite liked) and Kim Hughes (who I didn't). But Greg was the man. Only much later did I find out what serious flaws he actually had as captain. Perhaps our heroes will always inevitably let us down, but I'm glad Greg's failings weren't apparent (at least to me) until well after his captaincy ended.
Following Greg of course was the ineffable Allan Border, perhaps my most favourite of captains. A great captain and a great batsman, he was rock solid and lacked the character flaws of both Chappell brothers. With neither the elegance of Greg nor the hard-headed insight of Ian, he was yet a brilliant batsman and a competent and respected skipper. Whenever Aussie cricketing backs were against the wall, you could always rely on AB to grind out a big innings to save the day. He did it again and again and virtually single-handedly re-built Australian cricketing pride.
That Border's reign coincided with my marriage, arrival of children and first significant move from my home town are not insignificant. Australia's 1989 triumphant Ashes tour of England remains one of my life's highlights. And while that tour was memorable for the coming of age of superstars and future captains in Mark Taylor and Steve Waugh, it was Border's captaincy that made that series possible. I still vividly remember sitting alone in my new town of Adelaide, wife and kids yet to join me, and watching all night, mesmerised as Mark Taylor and Geoff Marsh batted through the whole of day one of the fifth test. Glorious!
AB's reign lasted a whole decade, and it seemed somehow grotesque that it had to come to an end, but it did. I was unsure about the worthiness of his replacement, Mark Tubby Taylor, but then, who could replace AB? Taylor proved worthy but relatively short-lived, being at the helm for just 5 years. In some ways the opposite of Border, Taylor proved a lively and likeable captain paving the way for his replacement Steve Waugh, and cementing Australia's position as a leading test nation, whilst simultaneously I was cementing my own life firmly in my new home city of Adelaide.
Steve Waugh was a strange but aggressive captain and a powerful batsman who was even more capable of digging Australia out of trouble than had been Allan Border. Perhaps our most fluent and elegent batsman since Greg Chappell, Steve Waugh impressed everyone the world over with his skill and mental as well as physical toughness. With a fast-growing family of three rapidly growing boys, these were traits I needed and tried to emulate.
Then came Ricky Ponting. Never before had one so young and so talented been so obviously destined for the captaincy as young Ricky. Such precocious talent of course yielded a few ups and downs early on, but it was always inevitable that he would settle down to become one of Australia's finest batsmen and an undoubted, brilliant captain. That he was a fellow Tasmanian only made his reign doubly pleasurable for me.
However now his era is coming to an end, and as his star fades, so does Australia's as a cricketing nation. The gloss has gone, and as I enter the latter half of my life and begin to feel my age, it seems to me that the best of Aussie cricket has also been and gone, at least for a while.
Whoever takes over as captain will have an unenviable job. Following the Chappells, Border, Taylor, Waugh and Ponting is going to be one of the toughest challenges on Earth. I wish him well.
My first real cricket captain was Ian Chappell. Of course as a young nipper I was aware of Bill Lawry but Chappelli was the first captain i genuinely recognised as being an important part of my life. Still, I was too young to appreciate his genuine worth as a captain and I can only remember being desperately disappointed by his all too frequent modest scores as a batsman.
His brother and replacement captain Greg Chappell on the other hand, was God-like in his batting prowess, and I happily overlooked any shortcomings he had as a captain. His fluent, elegant technique was a joy to watch, and his prowess against both the English and the dominant West Indies brought joy to my teenage years.
Of course, Chappell's reign was interrupted and to a certain extent ruined by the eruption of Packer World Series cricket, and so we had brief periods of captaincy by Graham Yallop (who I quite liked) and Kim Hughes (who I didn't). But Greg was the man. Only much later did I find out what serious flaws he actually had as captain. Perhaps our heroes will always inevitably let us down, but I'm glad Greg's failings weren't apparent (at least to me) until well after his captaincy ended.
Following Greg of course was the ineffable Allan Border, perhaps my most favourite of captains. A great captain and a great batsman, he was rock solid and lacked the character flaws of both Chappell brothers. With neither the elegance of Greg nor the hard-headed insight of Ian, he was yet a brilliant batsman and a competent and respected skipper. Whenever Aussie cricketing backs were against the wall, you could always rely on AB to grind out a big innings to save the day. He did it again and again and virtually single-handedly re-built Australian cricketing pride.
That Border's reign coincided with my marriage, arrival of children and first significant move from my home town are not insignificant. Australia's 1989 triumphant Ashes tour of England remains one of my life's highlights. And while that tour was memorable for the coming of age of superstars and future captains in Mark Taylor and Steve Waugh, it was Border's captaincy that made that series possible. I still vividly remember sitting alone in my new town of Adelaide, wife and kids yet to join me, and watching all night, mesmerised as Mark Taylor and Geoff Marsh batted through the whole of day one of the fifth test. Glorious!
AB's reign lasted a whole decade, and it seemed somehow grotesque that it had to come to an end, but it did. I was unsure about the worthiness of his replacement, Mark Tubby Taylor, but then, who could replace AB? Taylor proved worthy but relatively short-lived, being at the helm for just 5 years. In some ways the opposite of Border, Taylor proved a lively and likeable captain paving the way for his replacement Steve Waugh, and cementing Australia's position as a leading test nation, whilst simultaneously I was cementing my own life firmly in my new home city of Adelaide.
Steve Waugh was a strange but aggressive captain and a powerful batsman who was even more capable of digging Australia out of trouble than had been Allan Border. Perhaps our most fluent and elegent batsman since Greg Chappell, Steve Waugh impressed everyone the world over with his skill and mental as well as physical toughness. With a fast-growing family of three rapidly growing boys, these were traits I needed and tried to emulate.
Then came Ricky Ponting. Never before had one so young and so talented been so obviously destined for the captaincy as young Ricky. Such precocious talent of course yielded a few ups and downs early on, but it was always inevitable that he would settle down to become one of Australia's finest batsmen and an undoubted, brilliant captain. That he was a fellow Tasmanian only made his reign doubly pleasurable for me.
However now his era is coming to an end, and as his star fades, so does Australia's as a cricketing nation. The gloss has gone, and as I enter the latter half of my life and begin to feel my age, it seems to me that the best of Aussie cricket has also been and gone, at least for a while.
Whoever takes over as captain will have an unenviable job. Following the Chappells, Border, Taylor, Waugh and Ponting is going to be one of the toughest challenges on Earth. I wish him well.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Life without a car.
Every second or third day, I walk to the supermarket, buy a few things and walk home again. It can take as little as 15 minutes, and I love it.
Every work day I catch a train from the station across the road from my house. 37 minutes later and a few chapters of whatever book I'm reading, it drops me at Central Station, the 26-platform major hub of the Sydney train system, ironically a few minutes and two stations west of the actual city centre. From there I have an 8 minute walk to work, most of it underground through a major pedestrian tunnel. Unlike most of my work colleagues who drive to work and have to contend with Sydney's never-ending traffic snarls, I arrive relaxed and untroubled by my commute (although some of the buskers I encounter are frankly terrible).
I've been living like this, sans car since January. Admittedly it's made easy by having the train station and all the shops and services I need within an easy walk or short train ride, but it is an agreeable way to live. I no longer have to remember to take the car for a drive every week or two to stop the poor thing from seizing. And I can borrow a car readily enough when I need to, but thus far I haven't had the need.
The only thing I have really missed is kayaking. Without a car, the kayak sits forlorn and neglected in my garage. However the lack of a car is temporary, and the kayaking will resume eventually, but I will continue to walk to the shops and commute by train to work even after the return of the big blue petroleum monster that is my 15-year old car which is currently on a sabbatical in another part of the country.
The Deepwater Horizon catastrophe has made me feel even more smug than usual as my personal reliance on petrol dwindles to virtually nothing. I haven't bought petrol in nearly six months, and can honestly say that not having a car has been an ironically liberating experience. I am definitely looking forward to the return of my car (if only so I can go kayaking again), but life without it has been enlightening, in that I now realise how daily life seemed to revolve around the car rather than the car being a tool to be used occasionally when appropriate.
And my 74 minutes per day on the train reading has meant I have read more books in the last two years since I began commuting by train than in a long, long time. And I love it.
Johnny Walker was right!
Every work day I catch a train from the station across the road from my house. 37 minutes later and a few chapters of whatever book I'm reading, it drops me at Central Station, the 26-platform major hub of the Sydney train system, ironically a few minutes and two stations west of the actual city centre. From there I have an 8 minute walk to work, most of it underground through a major pedestrian tunnel. Unlike most of my work colleagues who drive to work and have to contend with Sydney's never-ending traffic snarls, I arrive relaxed and untroubled by my commute (although some of the buskers I encounter are frankly terrible).
I've been living like this, sans car since January. Admittedly it's made easy by having the train station and all the shops and services I need within an easy walk or short train ride, but it is an agreeable way to live. I no longer have to remember to take the car for a drive every week or two to stop the poor thing from seizing. And I can borrow a car readily enough when I need to, but thus far I haven't had the need.
The only thing I have really missed is kayaking. Without a car, the kayak sits forlorn and neglected in my garage. However the lack of a car is temporary, and the kayaking will resume eventually, but I will continue to walk to the shops and commute by train to work even after the return of the big blue petroleum monster that is my 15-year old car which is currently on a sabbatical in another part of the country.
The Deepwater Horizon catastrophe has made me feel even more smug than usual as my personal reliance on petrol dwindles to virtually nothing. I haven't bought petrol in nearly six months, and can honestly say that not having a car has been an ironically liberating experience. I am definitely looking forward to the return of my car (if only so I can go kayaking again), but life without it has been enlightening, in that I now realise how daily life seemed to revolve around the car rather than the car being a tool to be used occasionally when appropriate.
And my 74 minutes per day on the train reading has meant I have read more books in the last two years since I began commuting by train than in a long, long time. And I love it.
Johnny Walker was right!
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Tasty, dark blue dreams.
Last night I dreamed about Hogan's Beer: no, I've not heard of it either, and I seriously doubt it exists, but in my dream a friend who incongruously drank Fosters bought me a six pack of Hogan's and it was sublime. I can even remember the taste of it - sort of a cross between Coopers Sparkling Ale (out of the tap) and the American Schlitz beer but creamier and richer and just yum.
Which is all very weird because I can't honestly remember ever having a dream in which I could taste something, certainly not so vividly anyhow. Other aspects of this rather short dream were equally vivid, from the car we were driving in, to the space we parked in across the road from the grog shop to the dark blue can that the beer came in.
The previous night I had an equally vivid dream, albeit without the taste sensation, in which I was unsuccessfully attempting to empty an enormous warehouse with a very small, very old forklift. All rather weird.
The minimal research I've done on the interweb as to the causes of such vivid dreams suggests I was simply a little low on blood sugar (unlikely); that I had a big day at work ahead of me (no); or that I'm pregnant (um, also no). Personally, I'd like to blame the radishes, but as I didn't eat any I guess it wasn't that either. At the end of the day (bad pun I know, sorry) I don't think anyone really knows the cause of vivid dreams, which is probably just as well when I think about it.
Aristotle (if I understand him correctly) thought that dreams were little different to everyday thought processes, but in a sleep state we are unable to differentiate between the real and the imagined, and therefore dreams take on a greater significance and are left to run their course, whereas in the awake state our imaginations are cut short by everyday realities and our awareness of them.
None of which explains why in my dreams I apparently invented a new friend, a new car, a new grog shop and an entirely new beer which tasted wonderful and came in a dark blue can. Am I seeking new adventures? Well I'm always ready to taste something new, but I like my favourite beer - have done for over 20 years and see no need to change. Unless of course they decide to put it in a dark blue can.
Cheers.
Which is all very weird because I can't honestly remember ever having a dream in which I could taste something, certainly not so vividly anyhow. Other aspects of this rather short dream were equally vivid, from the car we were driving in, to the space we parked in across the road from the grog shop to the dark blue can that the beer came in.
The previous night I had an equally vivid dream, albeit without the taste sensation, in which I was unsuccessfully attempting to empty an enormous warehouse with a very small, very old forklift. All rather weird.
The minimal research I've done on the interweb as to the causes of such vivid dreams suggests I was simply a little low on blood sugar (unlikely); that I had a big day at work ahead of me (no); or that I'm pregnant (um, also no). Personally, I'd like to blame the radishes, but as I didn't eat any I guess it wasn't that either. At the end of the day (bad pun I know, sorry) I don't think anyone really knows the cause of vivid dreams, which is probably just as well when I think about it.
Aristotle (if I understand him correctly) thought that dreams were little different to everyday thought processes, but in a sleep state we are unable to differentiate between the real and the imagined, and therefore dreams take on a greater significance and are left to run their course, whereas in the awake state our imaginations are cut short by everyday realities and our awareness of them.
None of which explains why in my dreams I apparently invented a new friend, a new car, a new grog shop and an entirely new beer which tasted wonderful and came in a dark blue can. Am I seeking new adventures? Well I'm always ready to taste something new, but I like my favourite beer - have done for over 20 years and see no need to change. Unless of course they decide to put it in a dark blue can.
Cheers.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Old? I ain't old!
I have noticed a disturbing trend in recent months, most commonly when I'm flying. And that is that whenever I'm in a row of seats with a younger female passenger, the cabin crew are far more likely these days to serve me first. This is disturbing because I can only attribute this to an "age before gender" etiquette that has never previously applied to me.
But listen up cabin crew - I'm only 48 for Christ's sake.
Maybe it's paranoia, but I'm also sensing on occasion that slightly condescending, overly sympathetic gleam in the eye of a younger person who holds a door open for me, for example. Hateful. I am beginning to properly understand why some old people become grumpier as they age.
My father on the other hand, who lived to 84, took it all in good grace and loved it. He revelled in the attention, and it was always an excruciating exercise to go shopping with him and witness the attention fawned on him. Shop assistants who'd barely give me the time of day would find chairs for him, serve him to the exclusion of all others and happily chit chat with him on matters totally unrelated to whatever the business at hand was. Nauseous.
The pragmatic thing would be to accept it and make the most of it while you can, as my father did. But, as I said, I'm only 48. I'm not old. Don't consider my self old. Quite the opposite in fact.
The ageing metaphorical salt was further rubbed in the festering wounds again recently when I discovered a seemingly wonderful radio station playing all the classics of my yoof - Led Zep, Bowie, The Who, et cetera - wonderful music, but I couldn't stand it because all the ads were for funeral plans, denture clinics and retirement homes...
I say again, I'm only 48, God damn it!
We keep being told that the population is ageing, but as far as I can see, it appears the world is now run by generation X, Y and whatever the hell they call the youngest up-themselfers who have the impression that anyone over 40 is already one foot in the biodegradeable cardboard coffin. Again, hateful.
Yesterday I visited an exclusive wine store which supposedly has pretty much anything and everything (even a 5 litre bottle of Chateau d'Yquem for example - for those who understand such things*). I was searching for a fume blanc similar in style to a locally famous one made by wine maker Tim Knappstein in the late 70s/early 80s. The first two store assistants (both in their 30s) I asked had no idea of the wine I was referring to. A third assistant, in his 50s at a guess, did know of the wine but then changed his expression to one of "that was so long ago - how dare you remind me of past glories that can never be again". He then cold shouldered me, as if greatly offended. It is true that nostalgia can be a dangerous thing, but seldom have I found that it provokes antagonism in quite this way.
So as I sit here listening to Dio's "Rainbow In The Dark" and mourning the loss of poor old Ronnie James who died recently, nursing my arthritic left knee and staring balefully at the superannuation statement that just arrived in the post to remind me that I'm going to have to accept the fact that I will soon enough have to retire (and that I don't have enough savings to do so), I am left pondering the pros and cons of the ageing process. But as I pour another glass of 33-year old port** that was purchased as a relative youngster for next to nothing and has been sitting quietly and patiently in my cellar all this time waiting for this moment, I conclude that some of the benefits of the ageing process are bloody well worth it.
Hell yes.
*Six thousand Australian dollars, if you're interested.
** 1977 McWilliams Vintage Port, damn lovely.
But listen up cabin crew - I'm only 48 for Christ's sake.
Maybe it's paranoia, but I'm also sensing on occasion that slightly condescending, overly sympathetic gleam in the eye of a younger person who holds a door open for me, for example. Hateful. I am beginning to properly understand why some old people become grumpier as they age.
My father on the other hand, who lived to 84, took it all in good grace and loved it. He revelled in the attention, and it was always an excruciating exercise to go shopping with him and witness the attention fawned on him. Shop assistants who'd barely give me the time of day would find chairs for him, serve him to the exclusion of all others and happily chit chat with him on matters totally unrelated to whatever the business at hand was. Nauseous.
The pragmatic thing would be to accept it and make the most of it while you can, as my father did. But, as I said, I'm only 48. I'm not old. Don't consider my self old. Quite the opposite in fact.
The ageing metaphorical salt was further rubbed in the festering wounds again recently when I discovered a seemingly wonderful radio station playing all the classics of my yoof - Led Zep, Bowie, The Who, et cetera - wonderful music, but I couldn't stand it because all the ads were for funeral plans, denture clinics and retirement homes...
I say again, I'm only 48, God damn it!
We keep being told that the population is ageing, but as far as I can see, it appears the world is now run by generation X, Y and whatever the hell they call the youngest up-themselfers who have the impression that anyone over 40 is already one foot in the biodegradeable cardboard coffin. Again, hateful.
Yesterday I visited an exclusive wine store which supposedly has pretty much anything and everything (even a 5 litre bottle of Chateau d'Yquem for example - for those who understand such things*). I was searching for a fume blanc similar in style to a locally famous one made by wine maker Tim Knappstein in the late 70s/early 80s. The first two store assistants (both in their 30s) I asked had no idea of the wine I was referring to. A third assistant, in his 50s at a guess, did know of the wine but then changed his expression to one of "that was so long ago - how dare you remind me of past glories that can never be again". He then cold shouldered me, as if greatly offended. It is true that nostalgia can be a dangerous thing, but seldom have I found that it provokes antagonism in quite this way.
So as I sit here listening to Dio's "Rainbow In The Dark" and mourning the loss of poor old Ronnie James who died recently, nursing my arthritic left knee and staring balefully at the superannuation statement that just arrived in the post to remind me that I'm going to have to accept the fact that I will soon enough have to retire (and that I don't have enough savings to do so), I am left pondering the pros and cons of the ageing process. But as I pour another glass of 33-year old port** that was purchased as a relative youngster for next to nothing and has been sitting quietly and patiently in my cellar all this time waiting for this moment, I conclude that some of the benefits of the ageing process are bloody well worth it.
Hell yes.
*Six thousand Australian dollars, if you're interested.
** 1977 McWilliams Vintage Port, damn lovely.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
On the inevitability of trouble at 'mill.
Lately I've been thinking that even by modern standards of insanity, the world is getting steadily crazier. Wherever I look these days, I see a never-ending display of the extremes of human endeavour; some of it agonizing, some of it impressive, and all of it head-shakingly bewildering, even to a cynical dog like me.
What's really alerted me lately to the complete madness of modern humanity is the feat of two young kids: the (now) 17 year old Jessica Watson and the even younger 13 year old Jordan Romero. I'd been paying scant attention to Jessica's solo, unassisted sail around the world since she left on her voyage in October of last year, but it was hard to avoid the hoopla when she recently completed the job, thus becoming the youngest person to circumnavigate the globe single-handed when she sailed into Sydney Harbour on May 15, a few days short of her 17th birthday. The record is currently being disallowed by various organisations that control these sorts of thing on technical grounds (not enough kilometres sailed or because she's under 18, for example), but that doesn't really detract from her achievement, which is undeniably impressive.
Yet I still think it's insane.
How young do record holders have to be now to impress us and where does it end? I can imagine there's a 12 year old out there somewhere who'd be quite capable of sailing solo around the world, but should we let them? The ethical and moral issues will keep people arguing forever more, but I have to wonder how we ever reached that point in the first place and why we feel the need to keep pushing the boundaries of pointless activity.
But here's the really bizarre thing: just a few days ago Jordan Romero, at age 13, became the youngest person ever to ascend Mt. Everest. Without doubt that's a brilliant effort, but some 4,000 people have now made that climb to the top of the world and according to the news report I read, conditions at the time of Jordan's climb were sufficiently good to allow a whopping 49 people to make it to the top. What really struck me about it though was that to reach the summit the climbers had to step over, walk past, or pass within sight of over 100 bodies of climbers who had previously died making the same attempt. Which leaves me wondering what would be going through young Jordan's mind as he negotiated all that.
The people who succeed in these quests return as heroes: widely applauded, they make successful films about their efforts, write books, appear on chat shows, have blogs written about them and do the speaking circuit for years on the back of what they've achieved.
And yet... if they die in the attempt, we just leave their bodies on the mountain as if it didn't matter, and probably don't even report it in the news unless it's a local or relatively famous climber. The effort required to recover the bodies would only inhibit the efforts of other climbers to reach the top, so they are left there, and the fact of so many bodies on the mountain seemingly does nothing to slow the express train of climbers wanting the glory of a successful assault on Everest. All up, there are now around 150 unrecovered bodies on the mountain.
Meanwhile, down at sea level it's a little different. Every time a solo sailor gets into a trouble, authorities are only too happy to send out a rescue team. But there's neartly always an outcry at the expense to the public of those rescues. And it's true that every year we spend a small fortune in rescuing lost and injured adventurers. Yet we treat as heroes those who succeed in their endeavours to do something remarkable at the limit of human capabilities, while condemning those who try, fail and have to be rescued.
What will it take to impress us next? A solo ascent of Everest without oxygen by a blind dwarf with no legs and multiple sclerosis? An unassisted sail around the planet by a 10 year old in an open dinghy? The madness really ought to stop.
Regrettably, madness seems to go hand in hand with all forms of endeavour - recently I've been reading about early 20th century industrialisation. One of the heroes of that era was the German chemist Fritz Haber, a Nobel laureate whose work with nitrogen enabled fertiliser to be made so inexpensively that it has been claimed the world's population in the year 2000 was nearly double what it would have been had it not been for Haber's work.
It's ironic then, and tragic in the extreme that Haber was also directly and enthusiastically responsible for the chlorine gas used by the Germans in the trenches of World War I, and a later version of it was used by the Nazis in the extermination camps of the second world war.
But as horrific as that was, here's the real madness... Haber was a Jew.
And what's the connection with our two kids? Well, not a lot really, except to illustrate that in any field of human endeavour, the point of it seems inevitably to become lost, or at best distorted, and used for the wrong reasons with sometimes fatal consequences.
Which explains, I think, the inevitability of the global financial crisis; of BP's little soiree in the Gulf of Mexico, and countless other disasters and disappointments. All of which would be avoidable but for the human condition, which is to push the boundaries of everything we ever do, and which we do almost unconsciously as soon as something proves successful. Despite the media's penchant for bad news, we rarely see a balanced view of dangerous undertakings. The general media portrayal of Mount Everest isn't one of unclaimed bodies littering the upper slopes, but of accolades and wealth for those who safely return. An ambitious 13-year-old mountaineer scanning the available resources will find far more reasons for pushing himself to climb the thing than not. Which leads to the situation of children stepping over bodies to achieve their so-called dream.
So, this insanity continues to build. The whole planet seems to be imbued with the spirit of a destructive imp; building a fine mansion, only to pull it down in a cloud of dust and rubble as it is finally finished. Or worse still, a collapsed oil rig on the ocean floor, and a gushing torrent of oil spewing forth at 800,000 litres a day, there to remind us that progress can come at a hideous cost if we don't exercise restraint.
Incidentally, Fritz Haber's wife Clara - herself a doctor of chemistry - killed herself at least in part because of her husband's weaponizing of chlorine gas. The despair at seeing talent so badly misused is of course, understandable. As would be a general malaise over a society subjected to similar horrors caused by financiers, petroleum companies, politicians and countless others looking to progress civilisation, but in doing so inflicting unendurable harm through zealousness and irresponsibility.
What's really alerted me lately to the complete madness of modern humanity is the feat of two young kids: the (now) 17 year old Jessica Watson and the even younger 13 year old Jordan Romero. I'd been paying scant attention to Jessica's solo, unassisted sail around the world since she left on her voyage in October of last year, but it was hard to avoid the hoopla when she recently completed the job, thus becoming the youngest person to circumnavigate the globe single-handed when she sailed into Sydney Harbour on May 15, a few days short of her 17th birthday. The record is currently being disallowed by various organisations that control these sorts of thing on technical grounds (not enough kilometres sailed or because she's under 18, for example), but that doesn't really detract from her achievement, which is undeniably impressive.
Yet I still think it's insane.
How young do record holders have to be now to impress us and where does it end? I can imagine there's a 12 year old out there somewhere who'd be quite capable of sailing solo around the world, but should we let them? The ethical and moral issues will keep people arguing forever more, but I have to wonder how we ever reached that point in the first place and why we feel the need to keep pushing the boundaries of pointless activity.
But here's the really bizarre thing: just a few days ago Jordan Romero, at age 13, became the youngest person ever to ascend Mt. Everest. Without doubt that's a brilliant effort, but some 4,000 people have now made that climb to the top of the world and according to the news report I read, conditions at the time of Jordan's climb were sufficiently good to allow a whopping 49 people to make it to the top. What really struck me about it though was that to reach the summit the climbers had to step over, walk past, or pass within sight of over 100 bodies of climbers who had previously died making the same attempt. Which leaves me wondering what would be going through young Jordan's mind as he negotiated all that.
The people who succeed in these quests return as heroes: widely applauded, they make successful films about their efforts, write books, appear on chat shows, have blogs written about them and do the speaking circuit for years on the back of what they've achieved.
And yet... if they die in the attempt, we just leave their bodies on the mountain as if it didn't matter, and probably don't even report it in the news unless it's a local or relatively famous climber. The effort required to recover the bodies would only inhibit the efforts of other climbers to reach the top, so they are left there, and the fact of so many bodies on the mountain seemingly does nothing to slow the express train of climbers wanting the glory of a successful assault on Everest. All up, there are now around 150 unrecovered bodies on the mountain.
Meanwhile, down at sea level it's a little different. Every time a solo sailor gets into a trouble, authorities are only too happy to send out a rescue team. But there's neartly always an outcry at the expense to the public of those rescues. And it's true that every year we spend a small fortune in rescuing lost and injured adventurers. Yet we treat as heroes those who succeed in their endeavours to do something remarkable at the limit of human capabilities, while condemning those who try, fail and have to be rescued.
What will it take to impress us next? A solo ascent of Everest without oxygen by a blind dwarf with no legs and multiple sclerosis? An unassisted sail around the planet by a 10 year old in an open dinghy? The madness really ought to stop.
Regrettably, madness seems to go hand in hand with all forms of endeavour - recently I've been reading about early 20th century industrialisation. One of the heroes of that era was the German chemist Fritz Haber, a Nobel laureate whose work with nitrogen enabled fertiliser to be made so inexpensively that it has been claimed the world's population in the year 2000 was nearly double what it would have been had it not been for Haber's work.
It's ironic then, and tragic in the extreme that Haber was also directly and enthusiastically responsible for the chlorine gas used by the Germans in the trenches of World War I, and a later version of it was used by the Nazis in the extermination camps of the second world war.
But as horrific as that was, here's the real madness... Haber was a Jew.
And what's the connection with our two kids? Well, not a lot really, except to illustrate that in any field of human endeavour, the point of it seems inevitably to become lost, or at best distorted, and used for the wrong reasons with sometimes fatal consequences.
Which explains, I think, the inevitability of the global financial crisis; of BP's little soiree in the Gulf of Mexico, and countless other disasters and disappointments. All of which would be avoidable but for the human condition, which is to push the boundaries of everything we ever do, and which we do almost unconsciously as soon as something proves successful. Despite the media's penchant for bad news, we rarely see a balanced view of dangerous undertakings. The general media portrayal of Mount Everest isn't one of unclaimed bodies littering the upper slopes, but of accolades and wealth for those who safely return. An ambitious 13-year-old mountaineer scanning the available resources will find far more reasons for pushing himself to climb the thing than not. Which leads to the situation of children stepping over bodies to achieve their so-called dream.
So, this insanity continues to build. The whole planet seems to be imbued with the spirit of a destructive imp; building a fine mansion, only to pull it down in a cloud of dust and rubble as it is finally finished. Or worse still, a collapsed oil rig on the ocean floor, and a gushing torrent of oil spewing forth at 800,000 litres a day, there to remind us that progress can come at a hideous cost if we don't exercise restraint.
Incidentally, Fritz Haber's wife Clara - herself a doctor of chemistry - killed herself at least in part because of her husband's weaponizing of chlorine gas. The despair at seeing talent so badly misused is of course, understandable. As would be a general malaise over a society subjected to similar horrors caused by financiers, petroleum companies, politicians and countless others looking to progress civilisation, but in doing so inflicting unendurable harm through zealousness and irresponsibility.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Writing wrongs.
There's a writers' festival happening in town at the moment and so we have a veritable flood of famous authors. Working in the media I get to meet some of them and this week has reinforced a view I've held for some time now. I've long thought that writers - even successful ones - seem to have a small black cloud hanging over them. Certainly the ones that don't have that cloud are in the minority. Matthew Riley is one that springs to mind - an effervescent, enthusiastic type who seems more than happy with his lot. Ben Elton is perhaps another, but everyone else seems to live with a metaphorical lance in their side. That is not to say all writers are morose or depressed (although it wouldn't surprise me if they were). But they do convey the impression that their lives are a little sadder than they had expected. Perhaps it's knowing that having succeeded in their quest to be published they find it's not the purpose of life after all? I don't know. But I'm sure there's something intrinsically sad about being a writer, even a funny one.
Other famous, successful people seem to have a confidence about them that writers lack. Even other artists - musicians or painters for example, have a determination that's missing among authors. Oh, writers may well have discipline; they may even have that headstrong drive to be brilliant at their craft, but still there's a Sisyphusian shadow over their persona in the way they seem to sense an endlessness to their quest, whilst yet remaining compelled to continue.
I (if you hadn't already guessed) wanted to be a writer. In fact I was one for a while. But although I was published, and made some (not much) money from it, I was crap at my trade. The stuff I wrote way back then is embarrassing to me now. In recent years I've been able to meet a great many writers - even got to know my favourite writer quite well - and I learned very quickly that I am not a writer. Apart from an acute shortage of talent on my part, I lack the ... compulsion to write to the exclusion of everything else. I suppose like many people, I have a desire to write that goddamned novel that's been kicking around my desk for years now, but I am continually distracted by other worthy ventures.
Always, I lose motivation if I focus on any one project for too long. It's an ADD-like syndrome - unable to focus on one thing for too long, yet finding life fascinating in so many ways, I jump from one thing to another, continually excited by life yet paradoxically frustrated at my inability to complete any major project.
My fear about this blog, of course, is that it too will lose my interest after a while and it'll all come to nought. Still, that would most likely be appropriate. It's not as if I expect anyone to read it of course - I'm hardly that presumptuous. It's just a need at this point to get a few things out of my head and written down if for no other reason than to clarify my thinking to myself.
Most probably there'll be a small flood of thoughts over the next few weeks, and then it may well dry up. Like my feeble attempts to keep a diary since I was a small boy, it tends to finish with a few full pages and a smattering of single lines or paragraphs and large amounts of blank space for the year. Some years there was simply nothing at all.
And yet! And yet, sometimes a simple sentence written many years ago in a moment of unconsidered naivety provokes such strong and pleasant memories! And so we begin again. But hopefully this will be a more considered blog.
We'll see.
Hunter S. Thompson once said, "Buy the ticket, take the ride." I'm on the mystery bus now. Let's see where it takes me.
Other famous, successful people seem to have a confidence about them that writers lack. Even other artists - musicians or painters for example, have a determination that's missing among authors. Oh, writers may well have discipline; they may even have that headstrong drive to be brilliant at their craft, but still there's a Sisyphusian shadow over their persona in the way they seem to sense an endlessness to their quest, whilst yet remaining compelled to continue.
I (if you hadn't already guessed) wanted to be a writer. In fact I was one for a while. But although I was published, and made some (not much) money from it, I was crap at my trade. The stuff I wrote way back then is embarrassing to me now. In recent years I've been able to meet a great many writers - even got to know my favourite writer quite well - and I learned very quickly that I am not a writer. Apart from an acute shortage of talent on my part, I lack the ... compulsion to write to the exclusion of everything else. I suppose like many people, I have a desire to write that goddamned novel that's been kicking around my desk for years now, but I am continually distracted by other worthy ventures.
Always, I lose motivation if I focus on any one project for too long. It's an ADD-like syndrome - unable to focus on one thing for too long, yet finding life fascinating in so many ways, I jump from one thing to another, continually excited by life yet paradoxically frustrated at my inability to complete any major project.
My fear about this blog, of course, is that it too will lose my interest after a while and it'll all come to nought. Still, that would most likely be appropriate. It's not as if I expect anyone to read it of course - I'm hardly that presumptuous. It's just a need at this point to get a few things out of my head and written down if for no other reason than to clarify my thinking to myself.
Most probably there'll be a small flood of thoughts over the next few weeks, and then it may well dry up. Like my feeble attempts to keep a diary since I was a small boy, it tends to finish with a few full pages and a smattering of single lines or paragraphs and large amounts of blank space for the year. Some years there was simply nothing at all.
And yet! And yet, sometimes a simple sentence written many years ago in a moment of unconsidered naivety provokes such strong and pleasant memories! And so we begin again. But hopefully this will be a more considered blog.
We'll see.
Hunter S. Thompson once said, "Buy the ticket, take the ride." I'm on the mystery bus now. Let's see where it takes me.
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