On A Prologue...

“Tell me a story

Take me to another land

This world we were born in

Is one I’ll never understand”

~ ‘Tell Me A Story’, by Garry Frost

from the 1927 album “The Other Side”, 1990

Matt’s heavy legs shuffled on the stairs from the subway station to the bright sun of the street, his feet barely rising to the required height to avoid tripping on the next step.  He pushed his sunglasses, which he had not taken off during the train ride, harder onto his face.  If it hadn’t been for his deep sense of curiosity, he probably wouldn’t even be out of bed.

The morning rush of commuters bustled around him, power suits and hair product, peppered with chatty uni students.  Many poured in and out of the half-dozen or so coffee houses within sight, sipping on their mochas and lattes and cappuccinos. He scanned the streets around him for the cafe that was his destination.  He didn’t spot it immediately, tucked away in a dark corner adjacent to an alley, its dirty sign wearily welcoming customers to Ariadne’s Café was partially obscured by unkempt trees erupting from an uneven hole in the footpath.  Several people shot Matt grim looks as they dodged him.

The idea of visiting the least busy cafe on the street appealed to him.  Crowds made him nervous, and he wasn’t particularly keen on being recognised.  

He wandered over to the door and pushed it open.  It swung open further than he intended, clanging against an empty, dusty copper tub placed at the door for storing umbrellas. Several customers looked up at his arrival, and went immediately back to their drinks.  The blue hat Matt was there to meet was tucked away in a corner booth.  As he approached, he noticed that despite the warm weather, the blue-hatted man was in an overcoat with the collar pulled high and a blue scarf stuffed in the front.  Light powder dusted the top of the scarf and coat collar.  The scarf’s blue matched the cap, pulled low.  Dark hair stuck out from the cap, beads of sweat hanging from the tips.  Blue Hat didn’t look up as Matt approached.

Matt stood at the booth and cleared his throat.

“Just in time,” Blue Hat said, still not looking up, “Please take a seat”.

“Perhaps you could tell me why I’m here?”

Thin, cracked lips turned up at the edges.  “Please, sit.”

Matt half turned away, stomping his feet.  I need a drink, he thought.  He took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Look, I don’t have to be here.  You can tell me what you want, or watch me leave.” Matt said.

Blue Hat still did not look up.

“Dear boy, I asked you to come while providing scant of details as to the reason, and yet you came.  You needn’t have bothered, yet here you are.  You are here quite simply because you choose to be.  Please,” he said, turning his head slowly for the first time to face Matt, “Sit down.  I would love for us to chat”.

Matt still could not see Blue Hat’s face, the broad peak of his cap covering his face.  Large dark glasses were now also apparent, making identification impossible.  He hesitated.  

Even stronger than Matt’s spirit of inquiry was the desire for the maelstrom that was his life to be more under his own control.  Coming here was a choice, as would be leaving.  Not to mention that an engagement in the city, even an aborted one, gave him an ideal excuse to yet again avoid an uncomfortable meeting with his landlord.  And yet… and yet…

The mysterious email from Blue Hat was far too tantalising to ignore.  Short on detail, yet it seemed to know much about Matt’s situation that he had not shared with any one person.  Clever, each word chosen carefully to appeal, yet without articulating any specific aspiration.  And then ending with the most enticing offer - that of a gift that would alter his situation in ways he had not ever imagined were possible.  The stuff of dreams and wonder.

Matt turned and slowly took the seat opposite Blue Hat, mildly shocked at the sight of the man before him.  The powder dusting his clothes was make-up, which was plastered thick on Blue Hat’s face.  Sweat was visible in drops that ran down his face, leaving snail trails that disappeared into cracks in the pale powder.  Blue Hat pushed a gloved hand out towards him, slowly pushing a steaming cup towards Matt.

“I ordered ahead.  I hope that was not too… presumptuous?”

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got places I need to-”

“You have nothing of the sort, Matthew.  Your landlord received the message cancelling your appointment there, and was none too pleased about it.  Your lunch with Rachel is not for hours yet, and our Mr Haroldson is otherwise occupied at the paper today - some awfully important business with... ahem…  certain stakeholders, and hence not very likely to be troubling you this fine morning.”

Matt ignored the coffee and stared straight at the odd creature before him.

“Congratulations.  You’ve learned how to use Google.” Matt said.  “Who are you?  What do you want?  If you’re another journo looking to bury me, I’ve got news for you.”

“Matthew-”

“My mother calls me Matthew.  My sister calls me Matthew.  My year nine science teacher called me Matthew.  My name’s Matt.”

“Yes, quite.  As I was saying Matthew,”  Blue Hat paused, just for a moment, “I’m not here to bring torment, nor to discuss trivialities.  I’ve been watching you,”

“You and half the city.”

“...and unless I’m very much mistaken, you and I have much in common.  I was once like you.  I once knew the… difficulties you face.  Many sought my ruination under their jack-booted heels,”  he sucked a deep breath through his teeth, “But they could not have seen what was to come.  My tale was yet to unfold.   What was to emerge, like a butterfly from a cocoon, was far more than their feeble imaginations could grasp.  Matthew, you are just a simple caterpillar, but soon, you too will rise from this anaemic cage,”  Blue Hat lifted his shoulders, “And become the fulfillment of your elusive promise.”

Blue Hat eased back into his chair.  His large, dark glasses revealed nothing.  Another drop of sweat seeped its way into his scarf.  Matt knew it was a mistake coming here.  It was time to make an exit. He’d met plenty of wackos in the last few months, few of them quite as odd as Blue Hat, and none quite as cryptic.  This man is clearly ill. 

“Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here.  I can really get by without the pity though.  I can handle myself just fine.  So look, sorry to waste the coffee, but this caterpillar’s has enough issues to deal with just at the moment.  I’m going to head off now, OK?”  Matt gave a nervous smile and slid towards to edge of the booth.  He shifted his weight to stand, one hand on the table.

“Matthew…” Blue Hat said, “You can’t possibly leave yet.  Not before I’ve passed on what you require.”

A free hand, withered and grey, shot out, its fingertips reaching Matt’s hand.  A blue zap of light flashed between them for the briefest of moments.  Matt felt immediately as if his blood had turned to cold lead and he slumped back into the booth.  A wave of nausea hit the pit of his gut.  He gaped at Blue Hat, a thousand blue points of fire dancing between them.  Time seemed to crawl, and Matt found himself aware that no-one in the cafe was reacting in the least to what he was experiencing.  Blue Hat wore a self-satisfied grin.  Or was it relief Matt saw in his smile?

Blue Hat spoke but his words were nothing but a droning buzz.  He raised himself from the booth and seemed to glide across the room.  Matt opened his mouth but no sound came.  He tried to lift himself, to protest, but his body would not respond.  Blue Hat had nearly reached the door, slowed, bent over and coughed.  A few more paces saw him reach the door and as he opened for it, Blue Hat stumbled.  He grabbed the edge of the door and avoided colliding with a pair of young woman who recoiled as they passed him on their way in.  It was only then that Matt’s head began to clear and his arms and legs once again became obedient.  He stood and watched Blue Hat struggle in one final effort to launch his frame out the door.  Matt moved towards the closing door.  The nausea had passed and Matt felt his strength returning, knocking some chairs aside as he darted for the exit.  He reached the door just before it swung shut and stepped out into the bright light of the morning, ignoring the bellowing barista behind him.

Matt scanned the street, but didn’t spot Blue Hat.  What caught his attention was the squeal of brakes and a scream.  A white delivery van had come to a halt across the street, surrounded by billowing blue smoke.  Matt ran across the road towards a gathering crowd on the side of the road.  The van’s driver nearly fell out of the vehicle and stammered “I didn’t even see ‘im!  He was just there!”  Matt pushed him aside effortlessly despite the driver’s large size.  In front of the van he saw Blue Hat lying crumpled on the ground.  His body seemed slight.  Matt knelt beside him and reached out and touched Blue Hat’s coat and found it dripping wet.  A large puddle spread over the surface of the road and the coat fell away from Matt’s hand.  Blue Hat was gone.  His shoes and clothes lay on the road, empty…

TO BE CONTINUED...?

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On Pets

“All things bright and beautiful

All creatures great and small

All things wise and wonderful

The Lord God made them all”

~ ‘All Things Bright And Beautiful’, lyrics by Cecil Francis Alexander

Lyrics first published in 1848

When WonderWoman and I married, I became the father of a small black and white feline named Sparkle.  As WonderWoman had Sparkle before we met, I had no say in the name.  More’s the pity, because it’s pretty lame.  Naming pets is fraught with difficulty.  Does one pick a pet name, like Rex or Spot or (God forbid) Sparkle?  Or go for a ‘human’ name like Max or Sam or Milly?  They have similar problems at the zoo, especially when some adorable new critter is born out of a breeding program.  For reasons escaping all sensibility, they always pick a foreign name that Australians can barely pronounce because it’s got five syllables, no vowels, and three silent P’s.  If the damned orangutan was born in Australia, just call him Kevin or Bruce or Wayne and be done with it!

But back to the cat.  I didn’t pick the name, but the animal is pretty sweet.

Sparkle, like most cats, can be very affectionate but only at those times of her choosing.  Those times usually defy predictability.  For the most part, though, she loves her daddy.  She’s not a lap cat, but loves to rub against legs, and if you’re sitting on the floor, she’ll lean into you, pressing her small frame lovingly against your body.  What I love most is her vocabulary.  She has all manner of squeaks and squawks.  We sometimes nick-name her ‘the meow-ow’ due to her penchant for extending her cat-cries to multiple syllables.   She has quite the set of lungs, and can extend one meow longer than any cat I’ve ever heard.  When you address her directly, she often answers directly.

While I was growing up our home had several pet cats, each different from the last.  The third was pure white with an incisor that sat out of his mouth just so.  We had to colour his ears black with permanent marker in the summer to prevent sunburn, and you can just imagine how ecstatic he was about that particular process.  Because he simply wasn’t quite odd enough, my brother, in a fit of subversion, named him Phydeaux.  One of my favourite childhood photos has Phydeaux perched contentedly on my lap.

At age twelve, I scored my first dog.  A scruffy beast, I named her Scrappy after Scooby-Doo’s rambunctious nephew, Scrappy-Doo.  She was everything a dog ought to be: friendly, loyal, and exuberant in her affection.  She loved to chase and fetch, and adored chasing the wild rabbits among the brambles near our local oval, despite the futility of the exercise.  Once, I threw a yellow tennis ball to a blind corner of the back yard for Scrappy to fetch.  She zoomed after it in all haste, only to return with a small lemon fallen from a tree near where I threw the ball.  She returned it clenched firmly in her jaws, but seemed almost relieved to be rid of it, the sour juice on her tongue proving a less than pleasant taste.

A precious memory of Scrappy is the sight of her snout sticking through one of the triangular gaps in the large driveway gate at my mother’s house.  She would stick her nose out whenever I came home, a greeting I never tired of.

When she was ten, and I twenty-two, she became ill, and after a short period of illness, she needed to be euthanised.  Anyone who has lost a pet knows the heartbreak of it, but like most, I can say with absolute certainty that the wonderful years together (all of my formative teenage years at that) were well worth the expensive vet bills, and the sadness of her death.

Studies have shown that pet ownership has significant physical and psychological benefits.  Animals, mainly dogs, have even been used as therapy for the elderly, infirm and unwell.  My advice to you, dear reader, is go and give your pet a friendly cuddle (unless it’s a puffer fish or a particularly nervous rodent or something).  If you don’t have a pet, go and get yourself a fluffy moggy, or a joyful cavoodle, or a clown fish or a parrot or an octopus or a frill-necked lizard.  Look after it, respect it, love it and learn from it.  You’ll not regret it, even if it has a terribly feeble name.

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On Self-Description

“He says I keep my life in this paintbox

I keep your face in these picture frames

When I speak to the faded canvas it tells me

I have no need for words anyway

And he says I, I am a man

A simple man, a man of colours”

~ ‘Man of Colours’, by Iva Davies

from the Icehouse album “Man of Colours”, 1987

I was catching up with a friend not long ago, and she did something no one else has been able to do for me: she made a convincing and sensible argument for joining the two-hundred-odd million users of the social network known as Twitter.  I’ve used Facebook for a while now, but Twitter was always something I dismissed as a little bit light-weight.  It has been referred to as “the SMS of the internet”, and limits the number of characters in a single message, or “Tweet”, to a mere one-hundred and forty.  Surely no Tweet could ever amount to anything of substance?  Facebook would have to be a far more sensible way of keeping a degree of contact with friends and family, near or far?

Not so, I was told.  Twitter is the place to be, leaving the banalities of life to Facebook.  Twitter was the way to converse with people the world over who share interests close to my own, and to network, to spread the word about what I’m spending my time on, such as this very blog.  Armed with such advice, I sat down at the computer and opened an account.

I’m certain that what happened next is something many others have faced with mixed feelings: the creation of the profile.  Perhaps it’s the typically Australian habit of self-deprecation, but I’ve always seen this as a somewhat pretentious exercise.  I’d much rather let someone else describe me than do it myself, although even the thought of that leaves me cold.  So I started writing with limited space, and came up with something I thought was reasonably fitting.

WonderWoman wandered past and peaked over my shoulder. “That’s not right,” she said.

She made some reasonable points and I made some changes, remembering that nothing I’ve written has ever had a decent first draft.  As one of Twitter’s attributes is brevity, it got me thinking:  Is it possible to define yourself so briefly?  Can one encapsulate oneself in a mere few sentences?  Of course not, not entirely anyway.  I’m reminded, yet again, of David Fincher’s Fight Club (1999):  “You're not your job. You're not how much money you have in the bank. You're not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet…”

In 1943, a psychologist by the name of Abraham Maslow released a paper entitled A Theory of Human Motivation in which he espoused a hierarchy of human needs, starting with the basic physiological elements needed for survival, all the way to what he termed “self-actualisation”.  Self-actualisation can supposedly only occur  when mastery of all the other needs is achieved, and an individual reaches their full potential as a human being.  It’s at the second-to-top level of the hierarchy that Maslow and I cannot fully agree, that of self esteem.  Supposedly, one needs to feel reasonably highly of oneself in order to achieve some form of personal mastery and satisfaction.  To this I cry: horse hockey!  

George Carlin put it like this:  “...studies have repeatedly shown that having high self esteem does not improve grades, does not improve career achievement, it does not even reduce the use of alcohol, and most certainly does not reduce the incidence of violence of any sort.   Because, as it turns out, extremely aggressive, violent people think very highly of themselves!  Imagine that.  Sociopaths have high self esteem.”

It matters little how I see myself, or whether the words I pick to describe myself in the profile are modest or positively glowing.  I’m not complete, I never will be this side of Heaven, and that’s OK.  I’m faulty, like a cracked jar that needs constant refilling so as to keep from running dry.  I have all manner of scars.  I guess I’ve given myself permission to be imperfect, and all the contentment that that permission brings.  It frequently results in a fatalistic attitude and a disinclination to argument (I turned it into a positive in the profile and called myself a pacifist).  The disinclination to fight is often seen as weakness.  I’ve given myself permission not to care about that particular perception from others either.  Too many pour too much time and effort into fighting about things that simply don’t matter.  What a waste.  And besides, the meek will inherit the Earth, right?

I began the Twitter journey in a hope to promote my humble scribblings to a larger audience.  Perhaps I’ll be successful, perhaps not.  I’m not certain what the end-game is, even after all these words, but I knew I had to give whatever it is a try.  I’m getting past an age where I can continue to tread water with who I am and what I’m to become.  It’s time to take some risks and get out there.  Let’s see where we end up together, shall we?

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On 'The Prestige'

“You have to believe we are magic

Nothing can stand in our way”

~ ‘Magic’, by John Farrar

from the Olivia Newton-John album “Xanadu”, 1980

(Spoiler alert:  What follows contains plot points and character beats that give away things you may not want to know if you intend on watching the movie under discussion.  Although, a recent study from the US, the details of which can be found HERE, suggests that “giving away the ending” may in fact increase your enjoyment of the story in question.  That being said, having seen the film will likely assist your enjoyment of this piece; I’m assuming a degree of knowledge.)

Christopher Nolan is fast becoming my favourite film director.  His films have reached a place of 'see on sight' for me, and I consider his last two efforts, Inception (2010) and The Dark Knight (2008), nothing short of masterpieces of modern cinema.  The Dark Knight Rises (currently filming for a 2012 release) is my most anticipated unreleased film by a street.  One of my all-time favourite films is Nolan’s The Prestige (2006), based on the award-winning novel by British author Christopher Priest.  The Prestige concerns itself with stage illusionists, in London at the turn of the 20^th Century.  Magicians, with their pageantry and showmanship, are considered by the film to be the pop stars of that age.  The story follows two such performers Alfred Borden (Christian Bale) and Robert Angier (Hugh Jackman), from their time as assistants to an older magician, through to the development of careers of their own.  The two men, both obsessive about the practice and craft of stage illusions, begin a rivalry that eventually consumes them both.

The protagonists are vastly different men.  Angier is not as skilled as Borden, but is a natural performer who can capture and enthrall crowds.  He yearns for public adoration and struggles when the spotlight is not on him completely.  Borden is the blue-collar struggler to Angier’s aristocratic persona, a gifted and natural illusionist who is lacking in the showmanship needed to really present what he is capable of.  Both men hide deep secrets, both are driven to extreme acts in the pursuit of what they want.  The tragedy of their feud is not merely that they could have been amazing if they had worked together, but that even until the very last scene of the film, they are both so self-absorbed and blinded by their obsession that they fail to see what their actions have cost either themselves, or the other man.  They remain dismissive of each other, even to the end, even after the costs of their actions are fully wrought.

The cost of obsession is a recurring theme that runs through the whole film.  Early on Borden and Angier attend the show of a Chinese illusionist, Chung-Ling Soo.   Borden immediately discerns the method of Soo’s ‘goldfish bowl’ trick and points it out.  Chung-Ling Soo shows absolute dedication to his craft, the key to his illusion being the ‘act’ he performs at all times while in public.  That Borden spots the method reveals much about the nature of his character, and that of his partner, Bernard Fallon.  Angier learns about the sacrifices that must be made in pursuit of one’s dreams; once the tragic death of Angier’s wife Julia occurs, Angier, blaming Borden, becomes consumed with ensuring Borden’s downfall.  Thus begins a vicious cycle of brinkmanship and sabotage that they both enact upon each other.

The rivalry between Borden and Angier is mirrored by the contention between real-life enemies Nikola Tesla (portrayed in the movie, with an appalling accent, by David Bowie) and Thomas Edison.  The Edison/Tesla conflict plays out as a subplot behind the main story, it’s influence always present.  Tesla, despite being more like Borden with regards to his talents, spends his scenes exclusively with Angier.  It is during these scenes that he recognises Angier’s compulsions and urges him to a different path, knowing full well that his advice will go unheeded.  Tesla, it seems, sees the unflinching drive in Angier paralleled in his own struggles and when Angier suggests that some good has come of Tesla’s obsessions he retorts:  “Well at first. But I followed them too long. I'm their slave... and one day they'll choose to destroy me.”  Tesla sees the inevitable endgame before anyone else.

The film is bookended by the voiceover of Cutter (Michael Caine), an ingénieur (a designer and engineer of magic tricks) who explains the three stages or ‘acts’ of a magic trick (those being ‘the pledge’, ‘the turn’, and ‘the prestige’).  It’s a clever use of such a device.  Despite the non-linear progression of the storyline, the film employs a similar structure, with one character even describing a particular plot development as ‘the turn’.  It is clear that cinema uses similar tricks as the act of magic; distraction and diversion, sleight of hand, and surprising revelation.  Nolan controls what we see and how we see it, playing with our perceptions and teasing the viewer as he slowly unravels the mystery. 

Nolan uses foreshadowing expertly throughout the film.  Note Borden’s first encounter with Sarah where Sarah’s nephew, crying over a vanished bird is shown an alternative and asks suggestively “Where’s his brother?”.   Borden appears on several occasions to be a poor historian, unable to recall his own actions.  His mistress Olivia doubts his honest and sincere expressions of love for her, based on his continued love and devotion to his wife Sarah.  His interactions with Sarah appear on the surface to be selfish and it is no wonder that their strained relationship drives Sarah to desperation, even suicide, but in each of their arguments he hints at his true duality.  Likewise, Angier suggests his own false facade when he refers to a name change he has undergone, so as not to “disgrace his family”.  When Borden’s daughter Jess’s new ward, Lord Caldlow, is revealed as the supposedly dead Angier, it is clear that there were plenty of breadcrumbs of Angier’s identity left by Nolan along the way.  There is not a scene, situation, or even a single line of dialogue that doesn’t propel the story forward or further the character arcs.  

The opening sequences are an apparently disconnected collection of images, richly detailed and stunningly shot, as is the rest of the film.  If there is a criticism of the film’s visuals, it could be that they are too clean (especially in the high definition of BluRay), especially the scenes set in dingy bars or the prison in which Borden is held during several scenes, having been framed for Angier’s murder.  Even from these very first images, such as the array of top hats littering a forest floor, Nolan is revealing points of the mystery that will only be revealed more fully later, taunting the audience to guess at their true nature.

One of the film’s mysteries that continues to elude me is the relationship between Borden and Tesla.  Did Borden in fact send Angier to Tesla, in Colorado, as a wild goosechase to merely remove him from the magic ‘scene’ in London, or had Tesla actually built the same machine for Borden prior to the story portrayed in the movie?  The film suggests that Borden/Fallon had a cloudy past.  Was that because Fallon did not exist until Tesla’s machine created him, rather than Borden/Fallon being identical twins?  If so, it makes the revelation of Angier murdering his first ‘prestige’ in cold blood even more chilling.

I find the film utterly compelling, although to a viewer looking for easy entertainment, the techniques and structures Nolan employs may be considered confusing or even aggravating.  It’s certainly not a film to approach casually, and in fact it virtually demands repeat viewings.  Whether one is watching it for the first or twentieth time, the question asked by Borden (in fact, the very first spoken words of the film) should be well heeded:

“Are you watching closely?”

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On Asylum Seekers

“If our days could be filled with small rebellions

Senseless brutal acts of kindness from us all

If we stand between the fear and firm foundation

Push against the current and the fall, the current and the fall”

~ ‘Small Rebellions’, by Haseltine/Mason/Odmark/Lowell

from the Jars of Clay album “The Shelter”, 2010

One weekend in 1973, a minister was going door-to-door in the suburbs of a small town seeking donations from the public.  Finances in his congregation were meagre at best.  It was no doubt arduous work, and yet, when a friendly couple with two young boys welcomed him into their home and offered tea as a refreshment, the minister was at best confused.  Confusion turned quickly to concern, even anxiety, when the cup of tea was served in a china cup.

The reason for his concern was two-fold: refreshments were not readily offered inside the home (the back door-step was a more common venue), and the cup traditionally given to people like him was cheap enamel rather than more precious crockery. The place was apartheid era South Africa, and the minister was black.  The white family that accepted him into their home were my parents.

I was born a few years later, and eleven months after that, we were fortunate enough to be afforded the opportunity to emigrate to my adopted home, Australia.  It is one of life’s ironies that my family was initially denied residency by the Whitlam Labour government, which after “The Dismissal” of 1975, was replaced with the government of Liberal Malcolm Fraser, whose policies were far more sympathetic towards immigrants. Our request for citizenship was finally accepted and we were allowed to move away from the environment of oppression from which we sought asylum.  This oppression was not directed towards us (being white we were considered by the South African government as a “superior race”), but the socio-political climate was not one my parents wished me or my older brothers to be shaped by.  Our personal situation, both in what we left and the method of our leaving, pales into insignificance when compared to the stories of those displaced people who flee famine, war and life-threatening persecution by their millions every year.  That said, I am grateful to call this sunburnt country home and will always be thankful for the brave decision my parents took to bring our family here.

It is perhaps revealing that Malcolm Fraser would revoke his Liberal Party membership in 2009 following an increasing estrangement from the party he once led, especially with regard to foreign policy and immigration.  He allegedly told friends at the time that he “disliked the racist overtones adopted by the [Liberal] party in the debate on immigration”.*

The asylum seeker debate has been raging with increasing fervour in the last decade, and has received even more attention in the last few weeks following the Australian High Court decision to rule the recent asylum-seeker arrangement between Australia and Malaysia as unlawful.  This decision effectively scuppered Julia Gillard’s plans to deal with so-called “boat people”, people attempting to gain refugee status after entering Australian territory by sea, an incredibly dangerous and risky venture often facilitated by people smugglers.  

The Malaysia deal was dreadful policy.  It would have seen eight hundred Australia-bound boat arrivals sent to Malaysia, while accepting four thousand refugees processed in Malaysia and chosen by the Malaysian authorities.  Malaysia is not currently a signatory to the UNHCR Refugee Convention (similar to the Pacific island nation of Nauru, whose boat people deal with John Howard’s government was ceased largely on that basis) and Malaysia has a poor human rights record, including in their dealings with asylum seekers.  As policy, it was a sad and sorry return to the days of the Howard Government, with their thinly-veiled xenophobia and the responsibility-shifting of their so-called “Pacific Solution”, oxymoronic in that it solved precisely nothing.  It is worth noting that the apparent drop in boat arrivals in the years of the Pacific Solution had more to do with the Howard government’s redefinition of Australian territory in the relevant legislation and the diverting of boat arrivals to neighbouring countries (a pathetic dereliction of responsibility) rather than a decrease in the numbers of attempted boat arrivals.  Tumult and upheaval in the Middle East (especially Afghanistan and Iraq) in the last decade have had a greater ‘push’ influence on asylum seekers than changing policy here negates the ‘pull’ factor.

(Push factors are external influences, whereby someone is displaced (either by choice or force) and seeks to settle elsewhere.  Pull factors are domestic policies that are varying degrees of inviting or discouraging towards people who would seek to resettle.  Despite what many politicians argue, push factors are far more influential than pull factors.  Perhaps the view that pull factors are the stronger of the two comes from a collective delusion of grandeur that Australians and our parliamentarian representatives hold with respect to controlling what others overseas think about us.  It is also likely influenced by the mistaken view in politics that compassion is somehow correlated with weakness.)  

This point is most plainly demonstrated by the Howard government’s ill-conceived Temporary Protection Visas (TPVs), which were instigated in 1999.  TPVs provided asylum seekers who had the audacity to apply for asylum after arriving in Australia with extremely limited access to legal representation and supports.  It was also specifically designed with mechanisms that served to isolate family members from one another and deny them travel rights in an attempt to discourage asylum seekers from making the hazardous trip to Australia by boat.  What this did achieve, however, was a massive jump in the proportion of woman and children arriving as boat people from 15% to 40%, as families could no longer afford the risk of long-term separation.  The introduction of TPVs did nothing to discourage overall numbers of boat people, which did not diminish in the years immediately following the introduction of TPVs.  TPVs were thankfully abolished by Kevin Rudd early in his term as Prime Minister, much to the chagrin of the conservative right.

Australian governments past and present (but especially Liberal governments), have maintained an unnatural and frankly unhealthy preoccupation with both the morally dubious practice of mandatory detention and with off-shore processing.  It is absolutely perplexing.  It ought to be kept in mind that applying for asylum, whether before or after reaching Australian shores, is an action which has always been and remains completely legal, according to the UN Refugee Convention, to which Australia is a long-term signatory.  Those who argue that off-shore processing offers discouragement to boat people are often ignorant of the fact that in 2010, the number of asylum seekers arriving by boat comprised only 47% of the total - less that half - with the rest arriving by plane.  Even more startling is that over 90% of boat arrivals over the last decade have been found to be genuine refugees deserving of resettlement.  Genuine refugees among plane arrivals are more difficult to find, a fact worth remembering next time Tony Abbott babbles mindlessly about “stopping the boats” without a single mention of turning the planes around.

Furthermore, it costs three times more to house asylum seekers (often for ridiculously extended periods of time) in detention centres than to provide the Red Cross with the resources to care for them in the community.  It has been claimed (in those bone-headed group emails some seem hell-bent on sending to everyone in their address book prior to engaging their brains) that asylum seekers receive more financial benefits than pensioners.  This is patently false.  At best, some asylum seekers have temporary access to a Red Cross Asylum Seeker Assistance Scheme payment that is at the most 89% of the lowest Centrelink Special Benefit available to Australian citizens.

The real villains of this story are the people smugglers, who are unlikely to be discouraged by the domestic policies of the countries to which they deliver their customers.  These are profit hungry criminals; it is unrealistic to expect that they will be honest to those desperate souls to whom they are selling their wares with respect to their prospects of resettlement.  

The fear of terrorists somehow slipping the security nets around Australia by using the guise of an asylum seeker is equally ridiculous.  The intense personal risks undertaken by boat people are not worth the effort for committed criminals considering there are other far safer, more cost effective and simpler ways of gaining access to this country in order to commit acts of terror than to risk the perils of the open sea. 

Many believe we take far too many refugees, bumper stickers vitriolically stating “We’re Full” are prevelent.  This simply does not stand up to scrutiny.  In 2009, Australia was not among the top nations in regards to accepting refugees.  In fact, we didn’t even break into the top twenty.  Above Australia on that particular list were Pakistan, Syria, Jordan, Kenya, Tanzania, and even Iran.  Ponder that last one for just a moment.  European countries receive (and process onshore) asylum seekers by boat from North Africa and the Middle East every single day, with much smaller areas of vacant land and far less robust economies than ours.  Compared with many other nations, Australia’s efforts are weak.  We are capable of so much more.

With the latest High Court ruling, there presents itself a golden opportunity for the Gillard Government to take a step back from the furore and froth of the current debate and reframe a new policy based on compassion and justice rather than lowest-common-denominator, bottom-of-the-barrel politics.  They can offer the Australian constituency a genuine alternative to the knee-jerk, reactionary, bitter politics of their rivals for office.  I hope and pray they take a stand and lead the debate rather than get dragged through the gutter attempting to appeal to the most base and selfish parts of the Australian psyche.

Personally, I choose to make a stand.  I refuse to be anxious about refugees.  I refuse to be fearful of people from cultures other than my own, no matter how much short-sighted, ignorant, bigoted, and xenophobic individuals think I ought to be.  I choose to approach people with compassion and acceptance, even if it means I’m branded as naïve. 

Another story related to me by my mother involved a group of black labourers working on the street outside our home.  One worker badly gashed his foot with an errant spade.  While trying to avoid the neighbours noticing (you could get in serious trouble for these kinds of things), the man was whisked inside our house where his wounds were bathed and dressed.  My mother remembers being struck by the deep, vivid red blood on his dark, black skin.  The memory in turn reminded me that we all bleed the same, sharing a common brotherhood despite the national borders that separate us from one another.  I am likewise reminded that neither I, nor anyone else, regardless of their station, have the right to treat others as if they are less than who they are - our brothers and sisters in humanity.

* As reported in The Age newspaper: http://www.theage.com.au/national/baillieu-tells-of-sadness-after-fraser-quits-liberal-party-20100526-wbes.html

For further reading:

http://www.refugeecouncil.org.au/

http://www.hreoc.gov.au/

http://blogs.crikey.com.au/pollytics/2009/10/19/push-vs-pull-asylum-seeker-numbers-and-statistics/

http://www.crikey.com.au/2010/02/15/lies-damned-lies-and-asylum-seeker-statistics/ 

http://unhcr.org.au/unhcr/

http://www.aph.gov.au/library/pubs/bn/sp/AsylumFacts.pdf

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On Taking A Break, encore

“Holiday!  Celebrate!

Holiday!  Celebrate!”

~ ‘Holiday’, by Curtis Hudson and Lisa Stevens

from Madonna’s self-titled debut album, 1983

The On Writing Blog is taking a week off, only its second since its debut in March.  I’m working on a piece that’s requiring a bit more research and consideration than normal, so hopefully you’ll like the results next week.

If you feel so inclined, check the archive blogs and catch up on any previous blogs that catch your interest.  I’d be most grateful for you to post any feedback on any of the topics on the blog's Facebook page, found at www.facebook.com/OnWritingBlog .  Maybe leave a post letting me know which one is your favourite, and why?

Next week, I’ll be offering a special reward for anyone who posts a link to the blog itself on their own Facebook wall… look out for details!

Thanks to all my readers for their ongoing support and encouragement.  Very special thanks to the On Writing Blog’s wonderful editor, who has forgotten more about grammar that I know, and in whose debt I shall eternally remain.

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On The Evening News, part 2

“Here is the news, coming to you every hour on the hour

The weather’s fine but there may be a meteor shower

Here is the news, a cure’s been found for good old rocket lag

Someone left their life behind in a plastic bag

Here is the news, another action filled adventure

All the worst from the world convention” 

~ ‘Here Is The News’, by Jeff Lynne

from the Electric Light Orchestra album “Time”, 1981

A brief note on what follows:  As per the warning last week, any resemblance in the following piece of fiction to any person, either living, dead, or a GWS supporter, is absolutely intentional.  The On Writing Blog:  Keeping defamation lawyers in bread and jam since 2011...

(Ad break ends.  Cue pompous music.  Pompous music fades…)

Peter Hitchener:  Welcome back, I’m Peter Hitchener and this is the rest of the news.

PH:  For news from the world of entertainment, we now cross to Richard Wilkins, who is… somewhere other than the studio.  Apparently our producers believe that having reports given from somewhere other than here in the studio gives them more gravitas.  Richard, I understand there has been a dramatic development in the already bizarre career of Lady Gaga?

Richard Wilkins (on location… somewhere other than the studio):  Yes, thank you Peter.  In entertainment news today, the music world is in shock following the apparent disappearance of pop-icon Lady Gaga during an in-depth interview to be aired on 60 Minutes this Sunday.  When asked a serious question about the merits of her music and its originality, the controversial singer appeared stunned and unresponsive.  When the interviewer reached over to try and rouse her, she vanished in a puff of irrelevance.

PH:  Has there been any sign of her since?

RW:  Sadly not.  The internet went berserk for a few minutes, with social networking sites awash with rumours, theories and debate amongst diehard fans and detractors alike.

PH:  And then what happened? 

RW:  What do you mean what happened?

PH:  What happened with Lady Gaga?

RW:  Lady who?

PH: … It appears she has been forgotten as quickly as she appeared.  What else is news Richard?

RW:  Huge news from Hollywood!  I can reveal exclusively that Bono, Tom Cruise, and the Dalai Lama have all been killed in a freak accident involving a jacuzzi, a George Foreman Grill and a bowl of petunias.  That’s right, sensational news from Tinsel Town!  You heard it here first!

PH:  That’s certainly incredible news!  How did you come across this stunning scoop?

RW:  One of the interns in the office came across it on Twitter.  It’s on the internet, it must be true, right?  And most definitely newsworthy!

PH:  >ahem< Yes, well, um, thank you Richard.  Richard Wilkins there with all the glitz and glamour from the world of entertainment.  Clearly, all the Botox has done little to blunt Richard’s journalistic skill.

Peter Hitchener:  Up next is sport.  We have Amy Parks at AAMI Park with an exclusive interview.  Amy?

Amy Parks:  Thanks Peter, joining me now is Melbourne Storm coach Craig Bellamy.  Craig, how does it feel to have coached the Storm to yet another minor premiership after the furore of last year, where the Storm was stripped of all premiership points for the year, as well as its last two premierships?

Craig Bellamy:  Yeah, nah, defin’ly, it was a tough year last year, we lost quite a few good players, so it was pretty tough, yeah.

AP:  What do attribute this year’s success to?

CB:  Yeah, nah, it turns out that a strong work ethic among the playing group, state-of-the-art facilities, good coaching and tactics were really the key to our success, rather than illegally paying players too much.

AP:  I’ve also heard rumours that you have reached out to a local AFL team for some assistance, is that correct?

CB:  Yeah, nah, we’ve made contact with the Carlton Football Club, we’ve been building relationships there.

AP:  What kind of alliance have you been forming with the Blues?

CB:  Yeah, nah, we’ve been discussing facilities, training techniques, and most importantly, finding out how the hell they managed to convince the AFL to let them keep the 1995 premiership, the one they bought with salary cap breaches.  We’d love to have that secret, of course, and maybe get back the two the NRL took off of us.

AP:  Thanks for your time, Craig.

CB:  Yeah, nah, no probs.

AP:  Back to you in the studio Peter.

PH:  Thanks Amy.  That’s Amy Parks, reporting from AAMI Park.

Peter Hitchener:  And now for the weather with Livinia Nixon.  What can Melbournians expect from the weather tomorrow Livinia?

Livinia Nixon:  … I don’t know Peter.

PH:  Um, OK… what do you mean Livinia?

LN:  It’s Melbourne Peter.  It may be sunny.  It may be cloudy.  It may be foggy.  It may be rainy.  It may be windy.  It might be all five at the same time.

PH:  Can we… um… narrow that down at all Livinia?

LN:  Sure, I could try, but seriously, how can any self-respecting reporter stand here and pretend we have the foggiest idea what the weather in Melbourne is going to be like with any certainty?

PH:  This is show-biz, Livinia.  We’re here to swallow our dignity and look intelligent while attempting to sound authoritative.

LN:  Oh, OK then.  In that case, I can absolutely assure our viewers that there it will be sunny and warm for five straight days, before a cold, wet and windy change.

PH:  When can we expect that change?

LN:  Right in time for the weekend Peter.

PH:  Thanks Livinia.  Livinia Nixon there with the weather.  Coming up next is A Current Affair. For a sneak peak, here’s host Tracy Grimshaw.  Tracy, what can we expect on A Current Affair this evening?

Tracy Grimshaw:  Thanks Peter, coming up on A Current Affair tonight is Martin King’s hard-hitting exposé about a bitter ongoing feud between neighbours in a sleepy suburban cul-de-sac in outer Sydney.

PH:  Sounds intriguing.

TG:  Most definitely Peter, it’s a really good excuse to plant a few hidden cameras and have footage of unemployed bogans behaving like infants.  There’ll be plenty of swearing, but it will be bleeped out, so the kiddies can watch and enjoy the show as well.

PH:  What else can we look forward to?

TG:  For the dads watching tonight, we have designer Alex Perry’s new range of woman’s underwear, which manages to be racy, revealing and totally impractical all at the same time.  We’ll have models in their late teens, which look nothing like any of our female viewers, to try on the very best of the new range and parade about shamelessly.  We’re sure this will in no way create unreal expectations among our viewers as to what a normal body shape for a woman.

PH:  Sure to be gripping viewing Tracy.

PH:  That’s Tracy Grimshaw, with a preview of A Current Affair, so stay tuned.  There will be absolutely no mention of the political upheaval in Libya or the devastating drought in East Africa, so I’m sure we’ll all be a better human beings for having watched it.

PH:  And that brings us to the end of the news for this evening.  We hope we haven’t challenged your shallow thinking or your dogmatic mono-cutural biases too much, and that you’ll join us again tomorrow for a further stream of drivel that our intrepid news team has dumbed down enough for you, the great unquestioning, pap-consuming masses.  Thanks for watching.  Good night!

(Cue Pompous music… )

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