Saturday, December 26, 2015

Not a partridge in a pear tree

Yellow-tailed Black Cockatoo (2014) photograph by Pants
'It's a shower-cap year! I squeal as Niece Pants opens a present from Nana (Ma Pants to you).

Did I really say that out loud? Yes I did, apparently. Ma Pants is nonplussed. She is used to us making fun of her occasionally hilarious stocking fillers. Last time we had a shower-cap year, Sis Pants, Niece Pants and I all received stunning, heavy plastic shower-caps featuring the face of a large mammal. They even had fake-fur-lined ears. Mine's a hippo. I'm still using it - or was. It will be replaced with the infinitely more stylish leopard print from this year's stocking. Ah, the joys of the bathroom en suite. It contains secrets never to be revealed on Instagram.

Ma Pants is prone to giving identical presents to her daughters (aged 61 and 56) and granddaughter, who is now nineteen. Hence we have matching portable miniature lights, beach towels, bags and flip-flops and animal-print fleecy throws with sleeves and pockets. The latter, although extremely weird in concept, has proved rather handy in the bitter Larrikin's End winter. Ma Pants is a sucker for buy-2-get-1-free deals. How convenient that there are three of us. I will admit to being similarly vulnerable, when it comes to films and TV series but I draw the line at shower caps, just supposing it would ever occur to me to buy a shower cap as a present for anyone.

Christmas at House of Pants Snr. is a reasonably relaxed affair. We agreed to keep it low key with minimal presents, as we do every year, with mixed success. We all got what we asked for this year, more or less. One day we will get the hang of timely on-line purchasing. Thanks are due to the yoghurt people who not only got Ma Pants's present here faster than a drone chasing a downhill skier but filled my inbox with endless progress reports on its perilous journey across state boundaries. I'd like also to extend my eternal gratitude to the UK bank where I parked my tax refund all those years ago and from whom I've been requesting a new debit card for at least the last four. Out of the blue you send one! Just in time for me to benefit from the much cheaper UK book prices. Due to some upheaval anxiety idiocy on my part when I set up the account eight years ago, the only access I have had to it recently has been via a cheque book. It isn't a lot of money but, now that I have a new debit card, it will keep me and my family in books we might otherwise deem an unaffordable luxury for a few years.

The under-tree presents contained no shocks. It's in the stockings where danger often lurks. In the past mine has unleashed unusable art supplies, unwearable jewellery, unfathomable novelties and cosmetics including a dubious product called body butter. What am I, a baguette? Happily, I've never said that out loud. The body butter I slid into the darkest corner of the guest bathroom where Ma Pants is never likely to find it. The other things go home with me. Unusable art supplies can sometimes be made to work with a little lateral thinking and the trinkets sometimes breathe new life as an element in an assemblage. And then there was the year I received the 23-piece pedicure kit boasting the claim 'similar to as seen on TV'. Well, I had to lug that all the way home to Larrikin's End where it resides, unopened, in a dark corner of my en-suite bathroom cupboard until I can find an art-related use for it. Nail-clippers is about as sophisticated as it gets around my extremities and I have no desire to alter that state.

Christmas dinner has been a problem in the past as Sis Pants and I are (mostly) vegetarian. Happily, we can flex into pescatarians when necessary. It often is necessary as the vegetarian 'option' at most Australian restaurants is invariably badly cooked penne in insipid tomato sauce with some packet parmesan sprinkled on top if you're lucky. And it costs the same as the rib-eye steak. Yes, I know there is such a thing as a vegetarian restaurant, but I'm reasonably certain there's a by-law prohibiting them in Larrikin Shire. 

Ma Pants can't conceive of a meal containing neither meat nor fish. If I make pizza, it's got to contain at least a couple of anchovies. Like most almost-always-vegetarians, I have a weakness. Mine is not bacon, but its close culinary cousin - smoked salmon. This Christmas we voted to choose a special food each. I chose smoked salmon, and lots of it. Other years we've had swordfish or salmon steaks or barramundi. That entailed me queuing up at six in the morning on Christmas Eve with a lot of people who hadn't been inculcated in the finer points of queuing etiquette. The result was a bad temper and fish that never tasted quite fresh enough when cooked the next day. A cold buffet in an air-conditioned room is easily the best way to eat Christmas dinner in the tropics. 

Christmas can be stress-free provided you do all the planning and preparation beforehand. Every year Ma Pants invites a depression-prone friend for Christmas Dinner. Every year she accepts and then phones at eleven on Christmas Day to say she's not well. We set a place for her and then remove the setting after the call. She phones later in the day to say she's feeling better. It's an event, or rather non-event we simply factor in. Every year Ma Pants and I search the supermarket shelves for cream that can be counted on to succumb to a good whipping. We never remember the name of the brand we got last year or whether or not we were able to whip into a fit state to top the pavlova. I don't care that much as I don't like pavlova. I voted for Christmas pudding - with ice cream. Memo to cream makers - here's an idea from the UK you might take up. There's a market for a product called 'whipping cream', at least in the various houses of Pants.

Every year we forget to put something relatively unimportant out. This year it was the chocolate snowballs. 'Oh no!' exclaims Ma Pants as she discovers the untouched packet in the pantry this morning, 'we forgot the snowballs.' Easily done in a Queensland summer.

And there you have it, a very Pants Christmas. 

Thursday, November 26, 2015

A ribbon won't fix it

Mean (2010) Kodakotype by Pants

Yesterday was Try Not To Bash A Bird Day here in Australia. Our record on domestic violence is so appalling that we now have a dedicated day to angst about it whilst festooning our lapels with yet another little piece of folded satin ribbon to demonstrate our commitment. The Government has even pledged $100 million (or $41 million or $30 million, depending on the media source), for a campaign to educate men that beating up on women and children is 'just plain wrong.' Perhaps we should be spending money on the more obvious problem - if that message needs spelling out, it would indicate a lack of innate morality.

It's not that men don't know it's wrong, more that they're conditioned to believe that it isn't really their fault. This view is supported by the unlikelihood that they will be charged and convicted if they batter a partner or children. It's just as likely that they'll end up with control of the family home and custody of the children, having rendered the woman homeless. We all know that cheating on our tax 'is wrong' but many of us do it because the chances of getting away with it are quite high. This is not an attempt on my part to be flippant. Violence against women and children in this country is as casual as slipping a few extra magazine subscriptions and taxi fares into the tax return for some men. Through convoluted moral manipulation, we can kid ourselves on that it's our right, perhaps even a duty, to play the system. All the better if society tosses us a nudge and a wink.

Occasions like White Ribbon Day afford little more than the opportunity for some public hand-wringing and possibly even a sob as 'we all know someone who has been deeply touched by domestic violence'. But that's all we'll be getting. A website, an app, an ad campaign suggesting that biffing birds is not in keeping with the Anzac spirit, yadda yadda. We can expect to be bombarded with motherhood statements suggesting that being nice to women is good for the economy or perhaps an imperative involving a deus ex machina - 'this violence must stop' - as if violence is somehow externally controlled. It may even be counter-productive as it offers justification for the sufficiency of a token gesture.

Donning little ribbons and chucking some small change at a systemic problem is standard operating procedure in Australia. The $30 million or $41 million or even $100 million supposedly pledged is a drop in the bucket compared to the money that has been withdrawn from women's support services like emergency housing and legal aid over the last couple of years. 

The 'findings' of yet another report into violence against women and children seem to have come as a bit of a shock to our urbane and debonair Prime Minister, Malcolm Turnbull who appears horrified to discover that his hail-fellow-well-met-countrymen tend to be more Wolf Creek than Downton Abbey. He rather naively thinks the problem is to be solved by ordaining that,

'Women must be respected. Disrespecting women is unacceptable...'

Sounds rather like Lord Grantham issuing a decree that black tie is not permissible at table under any circumstances.

Yes, it would be nice if all the violent men in the country suddenly adopted the silver-tailed etiquette of our prime minister, but in the meantime, perhaps the Government should be considering the consequences of its own enabling actions. Did it not occur to these people that women who have no place else to go might have no choice but to stay with a violent partner? Or that a woman with no access to legal assistance might be shy of going up against her violent partner representing himself in court? 

The other day I was listening to the radio and heard a first-hand account by a bi-polar woman who had had a baby and had to go off her regular medication. Despite warning the doctors several times that she was at risk, nothing was done to assist her. She eventually had a psychotic episode and was hurled into a psychiatric ward with two schizophrenic males in the throes of heroin withdrawal. A male nurse watched on while she showered. Now, that's what I'm talking about. Try not doing things like that, eh?

The hypocrisy mounts. Immigration Minister Peter Dutton was keen to nail his little white ribbon to this particular mast, conveniently forgetting that he is personally responsible for placing hundreds of asylum-seeker women and children at risk of rape and violence in offshore detention centres. I have no doubt that most of the people who participated in yesterday's worthiness are genuine in their desire to see an end to the festering violence happening behind more and more of our closed doors. But misfires abound. Despite criticism from women over years that Walk A Mile In Her Shoes efforts are misguided, male officers of a government department yesterday walked to work at Parliament House in an array of nonsensical shoes.

I'm sorry to have to say it but the behaviour and attitudes are so entrenched in this country that the men don't even appear to know when they're contributing to the inequality deficit. It's no good saying, 'oh well, at least they tried to help', as if they'd merely applied their ineptitude to the washing up and it can all be thrown into the dishwasher later. There are times when the wrong something is a lot worse than nothing.

I'm not sure if it's cluelessness or low animal cunning but men have found a way of maintaining the status quo whilst performing apparently credible caring-shaped actions. They support progressive moves towards greater equality when it suits them. We're encouraged to celebrate 'gender fluidity' but I only see the benefits flowing one way. When men drape themselves in garish versions of women's attire and call themselves women whilst acting out pantomime vanity, it's all women who reap the ridicule of that. That behaviour is attributed to women and it perpetuates the stereotypes of narcissism and silliness that have plagued us since Marie Antoinette's passion for shoes sparked the French Revolution

When gender fluidity results in more women in boardrooms and a woman prime minister who is allowed to govern free from bullying, I might start to see it as a good thing. Right now, it more resembles identity theft from this side of the gender divide. I'm not having a go at transgender people - well I am a bit. I'm just saying, don't let down the sisterhood, otherwise you start to look like a double agent.

It's worth considering domestic violence in context of The Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse that has been running for the last couple of years. It has been burbling away in the background, routinely uncovering sexual abuse of children in church and institutional settings as well as schools. A recent case involves a school counsellor in a posh Brisbane private secondary school who was allowed to abuse children unhindered for nearly two decades. And then there's the case of the gun-toting priest in a Melbourne Catholic primary school, whose reign of terror had a similar tenure.

These phenomena have so many elements in common; the threats, the victim blaming, the power trip and the capacity to operate with impunity. Hiding in plain sight as the titular leader in any social context appears to afford an abuser seemingly endless cover. The fact that we, as citizens, almost always believe the testimony of the most powerful appears to be the fault in our stars. That is some motivation for a violent opportunist, and it's the rotten core of the problem that needs to be exorcised

I know I'm always saying this but I do truly believe it - this nation won't overcome violence until it comes to terms with its brutal and oppressive foundations. That's the bitch of it.

Saturday, October 31, 2015

The desire for desires

Not drowning, waving (2010) Kodakotype by Pants

I'm writing a new novel. It's loosely structured on the subject of desires. Not desire for romance or a new fitted kitchen or bigger tits or anything vulgar like that but the desires that supposedly motivate we humans to do whatever it is we do. It began to strike me that my 'drivers' as they say, are not travelling in the same lane as most people's. In my mind, I'm speeding happily through Tuscany solo in a lime-green Austin Healey Sprite while most of the rest of the world seems stuck in motorway traffic in a white Ford Focus with three petulant offspring and a flatulent Labrador. Perhaps these disturbed souls are dreaming of winning the lottery so that they can buy a BMW X5 or a new fitted kitchen or bigger tits or a sex holiday in Thailand, (with bigger tits as an early booking bonus). A significant point of difference always indicates to me that there is a project waiting in the wings.

It was my birthday a few days ago. I turned sixty-one blissfully unaware that this event should make me miserable rather than put me in the state of heightened glee in which I found myself. The world and I are not singing from the same pianola roll; that has been evident for some time. To my shock and without the slightest dint of cognition, I have morphed into a crazy old bat that everyone humours but no one believes. I received several birthday emails exhorting me to 'do something nice'. Sadly, one of my oldest friends wanted me to 'do something different'. Gratifying to know that people have so much faith in one, innit?

Why would I do anything different? I do exactly as I please every day of the year. Can that be bettered? I hardly think so. I don't measure the value of my experiences on whether or not they'll look good on my CV or Instagram. There is nothing more unattractive to me than going through the motions of an approved activity for the benefit of others. Parties ceased to be fun for me when they acquired the competitiveness and faux earnestness of a nineteenth-century novel and everyone brought Perrier because they were driving or breast-feeding or both. It's so much more thrilling to express abandon alone than to attempt polite conversation with people who think you're drinking too much. Why don't people know that? And yes, I can guess what you're thinking.

Hmmppphhh! I can see why her friends have had it with her!

Perhaps that's how it ought to play out. Perhaps I will come across as someone who protests too much to be credible, but, believe me, I am content with my current speed and direction of travel. I have neither wants nor urges now, merely a fascination with desires. If being understood is out of reach for this crazy old bat, then I have to say that being ignored is infinitely preferable to being 'handled'. I'm presumed to be in state of loneliness - a default position unless one is surrounded by grandchildren and cupcakes. That's not the case at all. I'm solitary. There's a huge difference. And why the fuck does anyone imagine I moved to this idiotic coastal fishing town anyway? I wanted a cheap ocean view and a space to contemplate. And, above all, no distractions. Distractions are the enemy of work.

Speaking of which... The idea for the novel comes from the title of a book of short stories by Leo Tolstoy, Boredom: the desire for desires. I haven't been bored in the colloquial sense in years. The worst kind of boredom involves other people and waiting for them to arrive or leave or decide or fashion a thought bubble into a cogent sentence, that kind of thing. I worked out a long time ago that other people can cause time to elongate in confusing and not entirely pleasant ways. If one limits access, hones focus and adds lots of decent wine, it's possible to enjoy company. So that is exactly what I do.

Yesterday, as I was preparing my favourite brunch of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs on rye toast with fresh dill and parsley from the garden, I listened to a radio item about boredom. From a great height, a penny dropped. Apparently boredom, in the sense that one has failed to be engaged in an approved reportable activity, (hey - that's me paint-balling in world-heritage wilderness!), has been outlawed. An academic expounded,

We're conditioned to say, Oh, I'm so busy!

Now this goes some way to explaining why I've been baffled for so long about why everyone is acting strangely. I must have missed that particular upgrade, the one that conditions us to emote a state of being permanently, madly and outrageously busy on contact. I'm a fleecebook and twidda refusenik and prepared to accept that this makes me a social outcast. I don't mind that. I've been saying for years that conformity on this level is very bad for society. And I've been met with howls of derision. Well, fine, be like that then. I remember how much fun it was in the seventies when independent thought and messing about with ideas was encouraged, along with shoving two defiant fingers into the face of the establishment. It was a time when one didn't have to prove one's sentience by drawing attention to oneself every hour on the hour.

The power to refuse can be potent when control depends on a willingness to join in. I hadn't realised quite the extent to which subversives like me are considered a threat and, well, a bit creepy. Old friends lob me a quarterly email that always begins something like this,

I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to write but things have been frantic.

Routinely, I reply promptly. I pride myself on my time-management skills and I'm unerringly punctual. Invariably, I begin these replies in a conciliatory tone,

Please don't worry, I understand that people are busy...

Which is total bollocks because I have no comprehension of this version of 'being busy'. If you have too much to do, surely you solve that problem by doing less and sticking to the things that are either enjoyable or necessary to sustain life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, don't you? And perhaps you could find a way to tell old friends that writing long emails to them is a burden too far in this modern world. That, I believe I would understand.

On Art of Pants this week, I wrote about something that the artist Michael Craig-Martin said,

People who make things have a different understanding of the world than those who do not.

As I said in that post, I was happy to discover that I have a 'different' understanding of the world as I had previously thought the place a complete mystery and was cheerily resigned to the parallel life I'd managed to establish. However, it appears I might yet be right about a few things.

The academics on the radio show claimed that a lot of people were discontent with this life of frenetic and often meaningless activity and synthetic connectedness. The key, it seems, is to get in touch with one's inner self. Well, no shit Sherlock. Surely there's an app for listening to the birds sing or watching the grass grow. What, no MOOC for teaching your mind to roam free? Well, not quite yet, however, a suggestion was made that learning to daydream could be built into the primary school curriculum.

Laugh, well, I nearly drowned. Ordering children to daydream is likely to be as successful as sending them out to buy cigarettes. I've always been a champion sleeper. In the first few years of primary school the teachers used to make us take off our shoes and lie down on the floor on manky old mats with no pillows, three children to a mat, and sleep for half an hour. Presumably this was so that they could sneak off to the staff room for caffeine and a fag. Slumber under these conditions was impossible. An otherwise enjoyable pastime turned into a nightmare of crawling insects and foot odour. I can just imagine how the children of today will respond to the instruction to daydream,

Please Miss, could we do some long division instead?

I wouldn't trust it either. I would immediately suspect that my thoughts were being monitored for nefarious purposes. And you know what, they probably would be. How else would the system assess the efficacy of this radical experiment? It makes one positively nostalgic for the days when the teacher hurled a piece of chalk at you if you stared out the window.

The novel. Well, I set myself a goal of a lazy first draft to take on Christmas holiday and I'm a little over halfway there with six weeks to go. The process is a bit like NANOWRIMO but without the external discipline. It's also a bit like daydreaming, but with fingers. Oh, do get your mind out of the gutter. I set myself a target of 1,000 words a day. It's a three-month project and I'm comfortably on schedule.

It might not be any good. I don't know and I don't care. That's my superpower - not caring. It's a very useful superpower to have and it's an effective substitute for both confidence and inclusion. It's dancing like no one's watching. It's also a great companion to invisibility, a superpower which all women my age have. Provided we resist the pressure to conform for the sake of others', er, what is it exactly? A desire? A duty? To be reassured? Absolved? I've given up guessing. Provided we can tolerate being dispassionately surveilled, we can do pretty much as we please. This is a freedom I would not willingly relinquish.

My mother never approved of daydreaming. If she caught me staring at nothing, she would always say,

Do you think the rain will rot the rhubarb?

So the obligation to be busy or appear to be busy or whatever the fuck it is that is rendering everyone bonkers isn't a new thing. Sadly, when I spoke to her the other day, Mother said,

There's so much I should be doing!

You may ask yourself what an 86-year-old woman in declining health should be doing, exactly. Wonder not, because I asked. Predictably, the activity was a perennial one in House of Pants Snr; moving her stuff from one room to another 'to make space'.

She and I have a very different understanding of the concept of 'space'. Must go now, the grass is whispering...

Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Magpies and makings

Magpies (2015) by Pants

The Australian magpie is not, as far as I know, associated with the superstitions of its European counterpart. Being of a highly superstitious disposition, I salute them anyway, just to be on the safe side. There are plenty about at the moment. Many fear them as they can be aggressive and prone to swooping at the heads of passing pedestrians and cyclists. This hasn't happened to me since I've been in Larrikin's End. I tended to think it was because of the saluting. What bird doesn't respond to a respectful gesture? I now discover that magpies only attack certain people. How they decide upon who is a threat is probably as arbitrary as our government's decision-making process when it comes to the threat posed by refugees to our national security.

I watched a magpie build a nest in next door's ghost gum. It's about six storeys up in a swaying tree. I wouldn't like the chances of any eggs that happen to fall out of that nest. The European magpie is known for collecting trinkets for decoration. Wikipedia informs me that our magpie and the bower bird are passerines. Bower birds are known for their enthusiasm for re-purposing found objects but I don't know if the magpie shares this predilection. The magpie is known for its musical versatility and ability to mimic. I have heard one do R2D2, which was quite a treat. Recently, there's been one around that has mastered the call of my oven timer. I've got a terrible memory when it comes to putting food on to cook and forgetting about it has caused some near disasters. It's not uncommon for me to put eggs on to boil and forget about them so I always put the timer on and then, sixteen minutes later, squeal,

What the fuck is that beeping!

It's just as likely to be a magpie these days. There is a football team in Melbourne called The Magpies. On one of my first trips to the city, I was sat at a pub with a friend and there was a menu board out front. It read, 



And I said,

What's a go pie?

Well? Context is everything. Since then, I've developed a recipe for my own go pie. It contains everything from my fridge that needs to go into a meal or into the compost. Never let a good idea go to waste is my motto.

I hate waste. Yesterday I posted an item on Art of Pants about a small assemblage I made from a plastic paintbrush handle I found on the beach. The whole piece cost me under $1 to make. I bought a frame for 50c from a local charity shop and had the other items I needed to hand (an orphaned fake pearl earring, some black card, Araldite). I conclude rather cheekily on the that post that I can't understand why artists need to apply for grants. What's wrong with making things from whatever one has lying around? It would be different if I wanted to replicate the piece as a 200-foot long balloon and suspend it from Sydney Harbour Bridge, I admit. But why would I want to do that? Arts funding in Australia is so ludicrously fraught that it seems a lot easier to learn to be content with small pieces made from rubbish than to spend all that time competing for money that you probably won't get anyway. This way you get to really assist the environment rather than going to all the bother of explaining to a bunch of arts administrators how you're going to comment on the environment with your artwork.

My favourite work by Picasso is Bull's Head. Forget the $100m paintings. This is the one I'd pick if I had my choice. I do love the ambitious visions of Anish Kapoor, Rachel Whiteread, Anthony Gormley, et al. But I've always been just as impressed by a surprise Banksy suddenly appearing on a street I walked down daily. Art can cost a lot or it can cost nothing and, for me at least, there can be little in it. Damien Hirst's For the Love of God is indeed very beautiful. It is quite something to be in a room with it for a couple of minutes. When I saw that paintbrush handle lying on the beach and pictured it with a pearl for an eye, I thought that idea as profoundly beautiful as a $50m diamond-studded skull.

Sometimes, life really is black and white - with a salmon-pink background, obviously.

Monday, August 31, 2015

PC Issues

Shark Net by Pants (2015)

There is no new post for August as I have PC issues which will hopefully be resolved later this week. Instead, I reproduce this post that appeared on Art of Pants recently.

I finished this piece yesterday*. As I walked around Lake Larrikin in the morning, I spotted a pod of Bottlenose dolphins close to the shore. 'Seeing dolphins is a good omen,' I thought. I bought a lottery ticket, went home and finished the assemblage above. In the afternoon, I lay on my winter-sun sofa and read a section of Karl Ove Knausgaard's Boyhood Island. The boy Karl Ove and his grandfather spot a pod of porpoises in the sea off their Norwegian island and the grandfather tells Karl Ove, 'seeing porpoises is a good omen, you know.' My chances of winning the lottery improved.

When it comes to Karl Ove Knausgaard, I am one of the firmly gripped. Boyhood Island is the third in the series My Struggle. I have read the first two in English and have asked the kindly people at Larrikin Library if they will be so good as to purchase the fourth, Dancing in the Dark, which is recently out in English translation. In the second book, A Man in Love, Knausgaard paraphrases Lawrence Durrell's method of novel-writing - 'you set a goal and go there in your sleep.' This method also works for assemblages. The elements are all out there, they just need a few sleeps to come together. 

I found this piece of driftwood last week. Australian artist Fiona Hall constructed a wall of animal-shaped driftwood for the Australian Pavilion in this year's Venice Biennale. There is an awful lot of it on the beaches of southern Australia and the Larrikin coast is no exception. I've made a few animal-inspired driftwood assemblages myself, some of which have previously appeared on this very blog. The piece featured above struck me initially as shark-like but it could also be a very angry dolphin. 

I immediately began to sift through my mind-closet for a suitable mount and remembered that I had a long, thin, framed board among the many that I've purchased for a few dollars each at charity shops over the years and that it had a blue, 'stressed' frame. It had previously displayed a Zodiac poster - Cancer, the Crab. Presciently nautical, I thought. I had a sample pot of emulsion that would do for background and some water-based gloss so there was no expense there. My initial thought was that I would make a piece that mimicked a trophy. Then I remembered that I had some garden netting in the shed.
Some popular Australian beaches are strung with nets to help prevent shark attack. I am strongly against these (unless of course I am swimming at one of these beaches, in which case I feel a lot safer). The nets kill other marine animals including turtles, seals, rays, dugongs, small whales and, yes, dolphins. Bad, bad omen. 

I decided to make a piece about shark nets. (That lottery ticket should pay off tonight.) Apart from the usual problem I have with assemblages - i.e. the assembly bit (note to self - Araldite will not stick anything to anything). Happily, the piece of driftwood had two well-positioned protrusions on the underside which were amenable to screws. After a great deal of unladylike language and wishing that I had several extra available hands, the thing came together. 

It's not clear from the photograph above, but the little rock at bottom left has the word 'DREAM' chiseled into it. I have no idea where this object came from* but it was kicking around and it was the right colour so it went on - and so far remains, thanks to a generous blob of Araldite. Dream is a word that has special significance in Australia, especially in relation to nature. It seemed right to add it in.

I have a feeling that the 'DREAM' rock might be from a conference pack dating back to the late 90s, when an element of warm-fuzzy, body-mind-spiritedness was often woven in to soften the hard-data coldness that tended to dominate public-sector proceedings. I can never bear to throw this sort of artefact away. Superstition can be good for art.

* July 2015

Friday, July 31, 2015

The awful truth about Australia and racism (again)

Blurring the lines (2009) Kodakotype by Pants

It has been a vile week in Australia. I didn't especially want to write this post because many of the things I'm about to say, I've said many times before. But every week, every month, every year, things get worse in this, the birth-mother country that feels less and less like a real home and more and more like an ideological prison. This week, we really broke it when we hounded an Aboriginal man - a sporting hero and courageous activist - into silence. This post will contain no original thought but this is not a day for original thought. It is a time for simply standing up for what is right.

My personal abhorrence and intolerance of racism has been expressed many times on this blog. One of the reasons for this post is that, of the six hundred entries on That's So Pants over nine years, one of the most popular is this one. I wrote with some pride in 2007 about how Sydney had responded to the Cronulla riots by training a group of Muslim women as life guards. At the time I was living in Britain, where I had been since 1982 and was blissfully unaware of how skilled Australia is at papering over nasty cracks with a token gesture and a few reassuring words. I got played. I believed the hype. I wanted to believe it. And now things have gotten a whole lot worse since I rode back in on the wave of hope and enthusiasm generated by Kevin Rudd's apology to Indigenous people in 2008.

I have written in support of Aboriginal football player Adam Goodes before too. Now, the former Australian of the Year has taken time out and may even retire after being hounded by crowds and pilloried by the media over a prolonged period of time. Curiously, his singling out coincides with his speaking out about racism, calling for reconciliation and overtly expressing cultural pride. Journalist and football fan Waleed Aly spelt it out here - this really did need saying. And it needs repeating until we finally get it. 'Australia is generally a very tolerant society until minorities demonstrate that they don't know their place ... the minute somebody in a minority position acts as though they're not a mere supplicant, we lose our minds.'

Australia is and always has been a racist country. The degree to which racism manifests depends on 1) how regressive a government we have at the time and, 2) what's happening in the rest of the world. Right now, our political 'leaders' are a bunch of a self-serving, light-fingered jobsworths captained by a fork-tongued creep who makes a show of head-patting Indigenous people for the television cameras whilst openly plotting to cut off their essential services and hand over their lands to his mining buddies. Would you like smallpox with that blanket? (Snigger, snigger.)

And the rest of the world? Well, that's a very sorry story too. With the mega-rich hoovering up more and more global wealth, there is less and less for us ordinary folks to share between us. When that happens, we look for someone else to blame for our reduced opportunities. We can't blame the rich because they're paying our shrinking wages, so we turn to a group we've traditionally oppressed and we have another bash at them. The rich and powerful are leading by example, setting the tone. Trickle down doesn't work with money but it works a treat with oppression. Look at what's happening in Greece right now. You lean on people, they lord it over someone even more powerless.

There's an especially virulent form of racism that white people reserve for black people. White Australians have routinely directed casual racism at other fellow immigrant groups from the Chinese who came during the nineteenth century through to continental Europeans after the Second World War, the Vietnamese following the Communist victory and lately refugees from conflicts in the Middle East, North Africa and Sri Lanka. But Indigenous Australians have always been bottom of the heap. All the other groups form a buffer, so that we can occasionally say, 'see, we pick on them too.'

I agree with Waleed Aly, visibility plays a big part. Racism against black people generally is becoming more pronounced and violent whether it be towards Australian Indigenous people, African Americans or refugees waiting in Calais for the opportunity to scramble onto a truck heading to Britain. Racism in the United States has gotten worse since Barack Obama was elected president. A black man in charge terrifies the cotton socks off white men. And he's talking about racism now - finally, but who can blame him, you're no good to anyone assassinated. Many black Americans have written about the primal fear that white America has of blackness but few as potently as Ta-Nehisi Coates in The Atlantic this month.

Back home, Celeste Liddle tackled the white fear of black assertiveness in The Guardian with the challenge, So an imaginary spear is more terrifying than racism? Really? Many have drawn the obvious parallel - if the Maori Haka is routinely performed at sporting events to roars of delight, what's wrong with Adam Goodes doing a traditional war dance when he scores a goal? Is it because only one of these displays is a programmed and approved activity for which we white people have been given a full and satisfactory explanation? Two years ago, Adam Goodes called out a 13-year-old girl who called him 'ape' during a game. At the time, it was generally felt that he handled the situation with grace and sensitivity. Now, he's being recast as the villain of that situation - a grown man bullying a child who obviously isn't very bright.

So, let's accept that, as a nation, we're racist. Then we can look at the equally interesting question of why are we so desperate to see ourselves as something else entirely? This piece by Sean Kelly provides a comprehensive roundup of the many avenues of denial down which we have been merrily strolling. Why go to all the bother of enacting this elaborate charade to conceal our racism when it would be so much easier to confront it and move on? Isn't this what you're supposed to do with bad character traits? Why doesn't someone call Dr Phil and get us on a program so that we can sort this out once and for all? The first step to solving a problem is admitting you have one, right? Somewhere in the collective consciousness, we know that racism is wrong otherwise why would we bother brazening it out like a bunch of primary school kids who've been caught trying to set fire to a toilet block?

Anyone who has ever been bullied in this country will tell you that once the bullies have crushed you, they'll immediately gush with faux concern about the state of your mental health - the inference being that you must have been a bit cracked anyway to break like that. And so it is with Adam Goodes. Suddenly everyone's angsting about the effect this will have on him emotionally. Guess what fellow citizens - this is not a group hug moment. This is a group shame moment. We must act to stop racism now.

If you would like to demonstrate your support for Adam Goodes and honour his courage, please sign this petition on

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Nothing much to see here, so stay why don't you

What you looking at (2009) Kodakotype by Pants

No part of the year goes as quickly as June. The short winter days bring with them a lot of extra work and the fact that there are fewer hours to do it in doesn't help. It's not just that. It's almost as if June is non-month in the southern hemisphere. The northern equivalent, December, contains certain events which prolong the days and render it hugely significant. There's all that anticipation and shopping and socialising and planning for Christmas and New Year's Eve. The shops are open late and there are lights in all the trees. The bleakest month of the year needs lights.

There are few things sadder than a seaside town in the southern hemisphere in the middle of winter. So often I've walked along The Esplanade in Larrikin's End in the early evening, parka zipped up to my chin, battling the gale-force winds, looked up at the sad, scrubby pines and thought, 'there is such a thing as solar-powered fairy lights you know.' 

Having said that, the Seat of Pants lighting rig is far from perfection, although there are fairy lights, indoors and out. Three years ago now, I worked for a year in a hideous but well-paid job. I saved almost all of my earnings, whacked the wad into a special, high(ish) interest account and have been gradually upgrading SoP on the proceeds since. The big job was the external painting. It took a great deal of time and I proved not all that good at having people crawling all over my carapace for many months of days. SoP has become a separate planet, a bit like Discworld, gliding through space on the back of a giant turtle. My turtle is not fond of interlopers in Dulux caps.

It took me about a year of monkish silence and furious waving about of incense sticks to recover from le grande makeover, after which I realised that I would need 1) bathroom refurbishment of my en suite bathroom (get 'er) and 2) lighting renewal. I thought the former would be the easiest so I called in quotes. None of the 'tradies' who came were prepared to do what I asked for. They all wanted to strip my little bathroom and start again. I wanted a replacement shower stall, basin and stand (preferably recycled) and a new cistern and seat for the toilet - there is nothing wrong with the bowl or the plumbing.

I turned to the lights - forgive the lame pun, it's late in a very short month which, by the way, barely exits. I called in a lighting guy who handed me a huge catalogue. Forensic scouring of this catalogue failed to come up with a single non-hideous light fitting. Quite a lot of the house should be easy. The whole downstairs section has the low, horizontal ceilings that are well-suited to subdued downlighters. 

Downlighters aren't the problem. What's not to like about a little white disc with a light in it? Upstairs is where the lighting challenge lies. SoP is a typical 1980s house with very high cathedral ceilings, skylights and exposed beams. Along these beams and very high in the corners are positioned typically eighties single spots and rows of spots. Lighting in these areas is very important for a number of reasons. 

The kitchen is there, and it's helpful to be able to see when you're cooking, especially if sharp knives are involved. A large part of it is my work space - well all of it actually when no one else is in residence. I don't tend to work when there isn't good daylight but I might if I had good artifical light. And it's the main entertainment area. You really don't want dinner guests feeling like they're being interrogated by the CIA while they're eating your rather excellent, if you do say so yourself, aubergine lasagne.

Dissatisfied with the catalogue offerings, I dove into the on-line marketplace and came up with no pearls in the shape of discreet, elegant, light-diffusing eco-friendly spotlights. I never thought that I could be rendered despondent by the lack of a consumer product to buy. Reader, it was an annoying first. Then I had a light-bulb moment (June, southern hemisphere, we talked about this already.) I could get retro fittings. But where? I spent a morning on eBay and then thought, hang on a minute, I already have retro fittings!

I phoned lighting guy and asked if the fittings I already had could be repositioned, repaired and fitted with energy-efficient bulbs that didn't explode - several have in my time here, and let me tell you it's no fun picking the aftermath out of the salad. The spots I have suit the style of the house. They're bell-shaped, brass and they swivel. Lighting guy said, yes, in principle, it could work. 

So, I spent half a day calculating if the functional single spots I had would meet my lighting needs.  No one needs banks of spots unless they're planning on moonlighting as a boxing gym. I have enough, counting the one in my bedroom that is pointed straight at my face. It's a fairly large room but the bed can only be located in one place. I really don't know what that's about. Even if one is into self-examination, there are limits, surely.

I sent my detailed specification off to lighting guy and never heard back. That was last June, or maybe the June before. I still work mostly in the daylight hours. Guests have gotten used to candles. One day, in a better month, I'll call for quotes. Next month, I'll write a better post. That's a 'tradie' promise. Meanwhile, I'll put on my fairy lights and pretend I'm in Paris and Lake Larrikin is the Seine.

Sunday, May 31, 2015

Heart and LOL

Life and Limb by Pants (2009)
If there is one thing we really hate here at Seat of Pants, it's organisations set up ostensibly for the national benefit by people who are apparently incapable of even defining said benefit.

Outcomes Australia - pause for chunder over phony conceptual name - appears to fit that description.

It's okay, TQW, I've got this. Just keep that Chardonnay flowing.

I find faux earnestness so dreary, however, coupled with idiocy, it can provide an evening's amusement on a drizzly night when there is no new episode of Sleepy Hollow to watch.

'What is Outcomes Australia?' you ask as, presumably, you are too smart to have been enticed by my thoughtful linking gesture.

The homepage opens with an obligatory John Lennon, (blessed be his name), quote (There are no problems; only solutions), and mandatory motherhood statement (our almost-perfect nation will prosper exponentially if we just tweak it ever so slightly in a way that only our uniquely talented team of egalitarians knows how to do). Then we get right into the nittiest of gritties with this,

'Outcomes Australia is a not-for-profit organisation for change.'

High-impact stuff. But what does it mean? The organisers want us to give them our small change? Red buckets being jangled in the high street are nothing new to us. Let's move on.

'It is a collaboration of eminent Australians who are dedicating time and expertise on a pro-bono basis to deliver solutions for the greater good.'

Respect to the sentiment but we were not aware that the 'greater good' required solving. Yawn. More Chardonnay.

'Our purpose is to ensure that Australia has optimal solutions to problems that impact on the entire community directly, or indirectly.'

Didn't we just discover that there were no problems? Never mind. What's next?

'The Outcomes approach is not to devise solutions, but to find successful and proven solutions to existing problems.'

Now I'm really confused. An activity that involves no activity? Sounds exhausting - and expensive. Poor John Lennon, (not that he's in a position to care, obviously). Even so, I'm sure he'd be mightily pissed off at the appropriation. He wasn't exactly a 'kick the can down the road' kind of guy.

Dear Outcomes Australia (chortle) - If all you're suggesting is that we copy whatever everyone else is doing, what do we need your eminent pro-bono expertise for? Can't we just Google it ourselves, wait thirty years and then get it all wrong anyway? Whatevs.

Dear Reader - have a Chardonnay. You'd be surprised at how well it goes with these mind pretzels. And you'll be wondering how I came upon this cabal of citizens extraordinaire, no doubt. Grab the bottle as this narrative has more clunky devices than an episode of Midsomer Murders.

Approximately every four minutes, thirty-three seconds, something happens in Australia that is a complete mystery to me. Most of the time I just put on my best 'whatevs' face and move on to unfathomables worth pondering. Occasionally, I find one that might be worth a blog post, and I foolishly follow that rabbit down its hole. When one goes to the bother of trying to join up the dots in Australia, one usually ends up with a cubist portrait of Heath Robinson. You have been warned.

It began last week, when one of our pre-eminent pro-bozos shocked the nation by resigning as chairman of the Organ and Tissue Authority Advisory Council. (You wha... Have another Chardonnay). As P-E, P-B David Koch's main gig is as a breakfast host on commercial television, he naturally chose to announce his resignation via rant between ads and interviews with reality TV stars. (You wha... Yep friends, this is what living in Australia is all about).

You have an organ, non?  You're a modern, metro male so you can admit to needing a tissue once in a while without the fear of being pummelled to death for being a homo. The birth of your son for e.g. (Strewth love, he's bald just like his ole man). Advising - that's sort of the same as advertising. Well, it's exactly the same except for the 'ert' bit in the middle, right? How difficult can it be chairing meetings where people will be discussing serious issues of medical ethics?

And exactly why did his pre-eminence feel obliged to resign? Well, it seems that the government is dragging its knuckles feet over improving our organ-donation rates which, shock-slash-horror, are not world-class!

'Obviously, I've got no choice but to resign,' he raged, 'and actively counter the tripe dished out by a whole bunch of rich lobbyists that just talk and do nothing.'

Given the general state of inertia in this country, it's difficult to imagine that our eminences ever do anything other than huddle in the nation's board rooms devising new ways of saying and doing nothing, but never mind. Intrigue thickens. It turns out the government appears to be suggesting that its own advisory council is to blame for our poor international showing. Curiouser and curiouser.

After such a bold provocation, I naturally went in search of the 'bunch of rich lobbyists' rabbit which led me down another dark hole. ShareLife (pause for chortle over conceptual, digital-age name), has apparently criticised the government and its advisory council for spending an awful lot of money on 'awareness' and receiving very few human bits in return. Finding an exact statement to this effect has proved difficult as the ShareLife warren website seems to have been stricken by myxomatosis. I did find this article, which clarifies one thing at least - everyone appears to be screwing up. One might pause to consider if a rich tabloid television presenter mightn't have something to gain from there being a lot of people with life-saving transplants to interview. Jus' saying.

Have another glass of Chardonnay and, if you're looking for the place where the pretzel joins up - ShareLife turns out to be a 'project' of Outcomes Australia. I will now pull a rabbit out of a hat.

A little more rabbit-hole exploration reveals that one of our infamous 'national conversations' has been burbling away in the background for the best part of a decade on the subject of whether or not we should adopt an 'opt-out' model for organ donation. I don't feel strongly about whether or not my organs are gifted after death. I don't carry a donor card. My family can do what they like with my remains. I'm happy to be turned into mulch.

However, I do have an objection to the growing tendency in our eminences and the masters of industry they serve to view us lowly proles as instruments. And I certainly have an objection to the notion that a life-saving transplant should be a 'right'. Rights infer universality. In an age when medicine is being increasingly privatised, it is doubtful that such a 'right' would ever be fairly extended. There is even a doubt in my mind as to whether medicine itself can be viewed uncritically as a public good now, given the vested interests that control it.

And I would most certainly object to having to carry a little card around indicating that I am so mean-spirited as to refuse to allow what's left of my liver to be re-homed in a child prodigy who is destined to achieve lasting world peace. I would do that rather than tacitly sanction involuntary harvesting. There is little chance that, given my age and condition, I would make a suitable donor so I am the perfect candidate for protest.
I doubt that, in the present climate, the opt-out 'debate' will get a serious airing. I only heard one interview with a strong advocate for it last week and then couldn't find it again, which is a shame because the interviewee's superior tone was truly offensive. Compulsory organ donation doesn't seem sensible in any case. It appears not to increase the rate of donation nearly enough to take on the political bother it would generate. Spain has the highest organ-donor rates and it has an opt-in model. The clincher is having a nation of people who care about each other. Good luck with that, ShareLife.

I'm on track to end up as mulch.

Meanwhile, back to the beginning and Outcomes Australia.

According to its founder and director, Marvin Weinman,

'Outcomes, (check out the casual shorthand), was formed to deliver much greater bang for buck to the Australian community.'

Another of Outcome Australia's 'projects' is BetterOff, (picture everyone at Seat of Pants going totally Bevis and Butthead about now). BetterOff's, (how can anyone keep a straight face), website informs us that,

'Australia is one of the five most obese nations in the world.'

Well, I guess, when you look at a map of the world, Australia is quite fat, especially around the middle. That's not good. Oh, and apart from our huge belly and tiny little legs, we also have two heads, and one of them appears to be wearing a dunce cap.

Enough rabbiting on from me.

Th-th-th-th-that's all folks!

Sunday, May 10, 2015

Stop, look, listen

Stop by Pants (2015)

As a junior sailor, I had to learn to interpret nautical flags. Not that we had any of those on the sabot, mind. A plastic bucket remodelled to crudely resemble an Edwardian coal shovel and some sawn-off polystyrene coolers shoved under the seats for buoyancy was as classy as it got. Neither did anyone ever hoist a flag in our direction. On Sydney Harbour, rich people in yachts just swore at children attempting to navigate a boat the size of a rum barrel and with comparable manoeuvrability through one of the busiest waterways in the world. Survival depended on being alive to risk.

One flag I have remembered down the years comprises a blue cross on a white background. Roughly translated, it means 'stop what you're doing and look at me.' I have occasionally had cause to raise the blue cross to friends when they appeared poised to capsize. It sometimes works and sometimes doesn't.

As children we were taught to 'stop, look and listen' when we arrived at a road crossing. It was good advice. It is very important to be fully engaged when attempting to share a confined space with double-decked buses and cement mixers (putty putty). I'm all in favour of daydreaming, but not whilst in transit in high density urban settings.

Switching to autopilot in the supermarket is usually fine and often essential to general well-being, especially if you live in a small town and are sensitive to spontaneous, high-pitched greeting noises occurring scant inches away. An audio book and a set of impenetrable headphones can be invaluable in this situation. I try to preserve my focus for the small print on signs that scream 'SPECIAL', and for the checkout, where 'the bank' very rarely makes errors in one's favour.

I always bristle whenever the weary checkout operator enquires,

'How's your day been so far?'

Where did they get that one from? I'm always nice to minimum-wage, zero-hours people. There but for the grace of a lifetime of parsimony and a lot of fiscal good luck go I. Even with my near-pathological standoffishness, I've a nodding connection with many of the people who work in the Larrikin's End supermarket. They're all much better people than the monster corporation that employs them deserves.

'Fine, thank you,' is what I usually politely reply, with a smile that is the emotional equivalent of badly drawn blood.

This morning, someone finally volleyed the answer I've been tossing about in my fantasies for years,

'Not too good. I've just come back from the hospital. My wife's got cancer and it's terminal.'

I ventured a surreptitious glance. He was right behind me in the next queue. An old guy. Swollen ankles. One of those walking sticks with a claw foot. Face baggy and grey from worry. He was not being facetious. It was not a prank.

I felt for Toby*, the checkout guy. He's worked there for years.

'That's no good,' said Toby, as the vile bar-code-scanning thing bleeped.

The marketing elf who thought up the inanity 'how's your day been so far?' surely must have considered that, at some point, someone who has just received the worst possible news will still need to buy dog food. That person may, in fact, be grateful for the opportunity buying dog food affords to forget that this is the shittiest of days.

'We'll find out more about treatments next week,' the man said as he handed over cash for the three tins of dog food. Toby must have been glad of the cash transaction. Mercifully, he dispensed with the obligatory, 'enjoy the rest of your day,' and merely offered up a meek but clearly genuine 'take care.'

Having a script is all well and good until routine decides to improvise. Perhaps the guy with the dying wife momentarily forgot that this wasn't an actual question - rather the retail equivalent of a salute. Maybe because of the nodding familiarity we all have with each other in Larrikin's End, his grief felt liberated to express itself with the most tenuous of prompts. In that moment, all hell could have broken loose. But it didn't. Thank fuck for express checkout lines. Cash only, one basket. Have a nice day.

Recently, an article appeared in the New Yorker flagging the hazard of (literally) being on autopilot.  A commercial airliner crashed on a short domestic flight in favourable weather conditions because the pilot forgot that you're supposed to push the stick shaker away rather than towards you when your plane is about to stall. The crew were all chatting away in the cockpit and no one was looking at the instruments. There's a comforting thought for frequent flyers. 

The article cites a new study of airline pilots' responses to emergency situations as tested in a flight simulator. Researchers concluded that the higher the level of automation, the less likely it is that a pilot will be able to recognise a problem and fly the plane manually. Not only are pilots' skills 'atrophying' - that is the word researchers used - it seems their minds are inclined to go the same way. The researchers found that when asked to 'sit and stare', humans get bored and switch off and concluded that it would be better if technology designers developed human-centred systems rather than have humans conform to a tech-centric world because we're just not built that way. Well, duh!

Perversely, pilots mostly don't fly the planes these days. Their expertise is usually required for take-off and landing only. They are the cinema projectionists of the sky except with sexier uniforms. Projectionists push a few buttons and then retire to the snack counter to ponder the minutiae of life while a plane slams into the ground in CGI Land. The worst thing that can happen if you're a projectionist is that someone will come looking for you to tell you that the screen has gone black and the emergency lights have come on. If you're a pilot that's you slamming into the ground in real time while you're talking through your marital issues with your co-workers. If a computer crashes, it's merely annoying. If a plane crashes - well that really isn't good.

Unless you're living in a padded cell, any disincentive to paying attention can be dangerous, particularly if there are large, moving metal objects involved. Research seems to be suggesting that increased automation leads to boredom and dullness of wit - states that most of us would find undesirable in any situation. Yet, the hunger for more and more automation persists along with an inexplicable desire to self-subjugate to it. When Business Council of Australia President Catherine Livingstone was asked to suggest a single measure to address the 'growing digital literacy gap between Australia and its competitors', she replied,

'Teaching four-year-olds how to code, introducing them to computational thinking, design thinking, problem solving. They're absolutely capable of it and that's when they should be learning those skills.'

At this moment I am waving the blue cross flag furiously. First of all, good luck with getting your average four-year-old interested in the fascinating patterns you can make with a bunch of zeros and ones. Yes, babies are wizard on the iPad but that is only because they've worked out how to watch the very hungry caterpillar eat a chocolate cake over and over again. If you want to introduce your four-year-old to 'computational thinking, design thinking and problem solving, I suggest you buy a jumbo pack of Lego and invite all the neighbourhood children for a play date - unless of course you would prefer them to revive the horrid memory of how you attempted to turn your own progeny into an instrument of the economy whilst they peruse nursing home brochures. And I'd keep quiet about how much fun you had when market forces still allowed an actual childhood as you're driving them to coding class.

It's time we citizens of this supposedly free society collectively push back hard on the stick shaker before we go into an irretrievable stall and while we can still remember how to fly our lives on manual. Oh, and if you want 'literate' infants, try teaching them letters and numbers - preferably using brightly coloured cubes. That way they can learn their colours, strengthen their motor skills and acquire some basic manners into the bargain. (Pass me the heliotrope block please - thank you.) And maybe very young children also need to learn that sometimes what you build falls down - for real. 

*Not his real name, obviously. This is most definitely Jason and Darren territory.