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Thursday, 29 December 2005

Hitting The Road



I've got four weeks off from tomorrow and can't wait to get out of town. I feel devestated and worn out and just want to escape. I called in sick today, and for tomorrow, some stomach bug has laid me low. It's horrible. They're not very happy about it. I want to return bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready for a good 2006. Now, I just don't feel very together at all. Troubled dreams, throwing everything away; all the work and courage. I just can't wait to hit the road.

Still heading for Streaky Bay. I think it's about a 1500 k drive, maybe 1700. Spectacular views of churned up water, which is literally streaky.

Here's what one tourist site, travelmate.com.au, has to say about it:
"The first recorded European to set eyes on Streaky Bay was the Dutch explorer Peter Nuyts whose ship Gulden Zeepard passed off-shore in 1627, but it was left to Matthew Flinders to inscribe the name on a map in 1802. He named the Eyre Peninsula bay for the discoloured water which he assumed to be caused by the outflow of a large river but which scientists later sheeted home to an oil oozing from seaweed. The town has played an important role as a port and commercial centre for a wool and wheat producing hinterland and, increasingly in modern times, as a major fish producer and coastal resort. The commercial fishing bounty is based on King George whiting, crayfish, abalone and shark, with profitable side catches of salmon, snapper, garfish, snook, tommy ruff, trevally, squid, crabs and scallops. The town’s first building, Hospital Cottage (1864), is now a private residence." Posted by Picasa

Monday, 26 December 2005

And Then There Was



With one kid always comes the other. They were like twins when they were small, but now as teenagers tend to squabble a bit. I guess like a lot of parents I'm a bit taken aback to suddenly be the father of teenagers, a 13 year old girl and 14 year old boy. An entirely different prospect to being the parent of doting children. My musical taste is considered so far backward as to be a public embarrassment. Any attempt to control the car radio is futile. This is Henrietta. She has just finshed Year Seven at Saint Scholastica's. She wants to be a doctor. You have to get very good marks to be a doctor, I keep telling her, but she seems determined enough.

Except she just got a D in English, which has surprised everybody as she loves reading and always has her head in a book, unlike her brother. He point blank refuses to read fiction. I read stories to them every night when they were younger, but it didn't seem to make any difference. There was always the excitement of Harry Potter. And when they were younger, the three trolls that lived under a bridge.

Both kids are up in Moree for Christmas and sound like they're having a good time; although it's very hot. Sydney is very quiet; you can leave the front door open and there's no sound of traffic. Apart from drunken arguments in the early hours of the morning the locals are quiet. Most shops are shut. All that violence; the dramatic scenes; and the anglos copped a fair bit of the blame as the commentariat went into a heightened fit of self-flagellation. There was poor behaviour on both sides, the rampaging gangs, the smashed cars. The lovies came out in force but the lovies weren't going to solve this one. We still remained shocked, on edge; trying to sweep things under the carpet because no one knew what to make of it all. All those wonderful myths about Ausrtralia being a successful multi-cultural country just went flying out the window, like a lot of pseudo-religions created by bureaucracies and elites who did nothing but pour scorn on the general population.

My old mate Colin is down overnight and plans are in full swing to head to Streaky Bay in South Australia the minute my last shift is over.

Reading Chasm City by Alastair Reynolds, a sweeping sci-fi epic full of genetically and mechanically enhanced humans and magnificent scenes in Chasm City, the poisonous yellow boil of the planet outside the canopy. Have to be at Myers very early in the morning to do a story on the post-Christmas sales. You have to get that initial rush. A subject not dear to my heart. We are thinking of setting up a small publishing company through the Dads On The Air program. There's only one way forward; up and out. Expansion. Intellectual depth. The gravitas of the book form. Studying a Microsoft Word course. Ceaseless plans to do a million things, instead he smokes too many cigarettes and drinks too much coffee and just can't wait for the year to be over, to return to a purified, blessed state.

BEACHWATCH: 26/12/2005.

Adelaide Advertiser:

FEARS of violence at Sydney's Cronulla beach did not eventuate yesterday as a heavy police presence kept any trouble-makers at bay. But beachgoer numbers were down, despite the perfect weather for families to head there for Christmas Day. The beach and nearby streets were the setting for violent mobs brawling in racist clashes on December 11.
While all was quiet, locals said people were still to afraid to return..

ABC:

Tourism Australia says travel warnings advising tourists not to visit Sydney beaches have had no noticeable effect on the industry.
The Cronulla riots have prompted Britain, Canada and Indonesia to issue the advisories, which warn of the possibility of racist violence. Posted by Picasa

Sunday, 25 December 2005

It's Christmas Day



Christmas Day is all about family, so here's a picture of my son Sammy. In this picture he's just on his way to the school camp last week. In all these years I've never been able to convince him to go to a school camp, he just never wanted to go. Fortunately, or unfortunately, for him I never liked school camp myself, so never pushed him. It was all about being picked on by the tough kids. The absolute horror of growing into manhood. The showers at Narrabeen; where there are all the facilities for all the schools; where my family used to go water skiing. Where us obnoxious little kids could do a round of the lake on a single ski and not so much as get wet, we were so good at the beach starts and the elegant finishes.

But this year was different. The Duke of Edinburgh Award involves planning and executing a school trip, and this has kept the boys occupied and excited for the past two months. He was so well organised, never seen anything like it. His science teacher Mr Smith is a handsome sunny bloke who's just great with the boys. They all love him because he's funny and gets them out of the classroom. They were away for three days, then Sam went up to Todd's for a couple of days before the school holidays set in, so he had a great time for a week.

Now he's gone up to be with his mother for the school holidays, as per our custody arrangements. It's all pretty simple, they live with me during the school term and her during the holidays, and it seems to be working out fine for the moment. Not that it's always been peaceful, but we don't want to dwell on that.

The city was very quiet today; almost no cars about. Hot, too, with the fire fighters predicting bad bush fires. I rang Koperburg, the head of the Rural Bush Fire Service the other day, and he was back on to me within minutes. Utterly quoteable. Old timers like me like old timers like him because he knows what he's doing, he's not frightened of the media, he's always happy to talk and he's always good for a quote; and he doesn't treat you like the enemy, or a management issue. Nor does he treat basic information as some secret resource to be dolled out in tiny fragments.

I've got four more shifts and then the month of January off. Can't wait. Looking at going to Streaky Bay in South Australia with Colin, or that's the plan at the moment. Had today off, but very quiet. Went down to Michael's for a late lunch and stuffed myself, didn't realise how hungry I was or how much I was eating. Emerging from caves for brief social interactions. Embarrassing. He's such a good cook. But with many of the old gang suffering various illnesses, the raging days are over.

Both kids are now up with their mom. I'm glad she's dealing with all the Christmas stuff, I was never very good at it. Sitting in a celebration with no cause to celebrate. My mother converted to a fundamnetalist Christian sect while we were growing up. We could har the sound of the American preacher in the early hours of the morning, when she liked to listen to what she regarded as God's representatives. We were meant to be fortunate with the knowledge that had been passed to us; here, far from the holy lands and far from the earth's main powers.

I was about 10 and my next brother down about eight when our family stopped celebrating Christmas. It was a pagan ceremony; the reindeer, the white man in the red suit, the piles of food, the gifts. On the road to excess lay the palace of wisdom goes the old saying; but was it really true?

We became the only kids on the street who didn't get Christmas presents, and we hung around with the other kids at the deadend, the beloved deadend, checking out all the things they had got; rubbing in our own deprivation. Christmas was always an awkward time; hard to get into the swing of things, particularly when you don't drink. So the kids are away in the heat in Moree, where it's up in the 40s, and we all wished each other merry christmas on the phone; in what has finally become a civilised and cooperative situation.


IRAQ WATCH:

It took a long time to get to 2000 dead American soldiers, but it seems to have hardly taken any time at all to get to 2100.

Here's some of what Reuters has to report:

By Lesley Wroughton
MOSUL, Iraq, Dec 25 (Reuters) - Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld left Iraq on Christmas Eve confident that his cautious strategy to hand over security responsibilities to Iraqi forces -- a critical component for eventually declaring victory - was working so far.
The unannounced two-day visit ending on Saturday, which followed stops in Pakistan and Afghanistan, was considered a "stock-taking mission" that had been planned for months with the intention of capitalizing on Iraq's relatively peaceful Dec. 15 parliamentary election.
In public pronouncements and private meetings, Rumsfeld showed he clearly believes that the Iraq war has entered a new phase in which the U.S. role is shifting from occupier to supporter of Iraqi forces assuming control of their nation's security.
He was careful to avoid any prediction or timetable for a U.S. withdrawal. Asked by a soldier how he would define victory, Rumsfeld calmly replied: "a situation where the political process is successful, where security forces are sufficiently competent to take over the security responsibilities."
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Friday, 23 December 2005

The M7 Opening



This is Prime Minister John Howard with NSW Premier Morris Iemma and all the various M7 dignatories and operators. There were beams all round. It was Australia's first major clover like complex "engineering masterpiece". We're getting used to talking billions of dollars of infrastructure now. But it just keeps getting more and more costly to get around your own city; as if it was a luxury rather than a working necessity. Howard was still chipper and as upbeat as I have ever seen him.

The times will suit me, Howard once said, and perhaps it is a case that time has suited him. Unflagging courtesy. He gave his speach with professional aplomb, but with it now a grandfatherly twist. The M7, 40 kilometres of which were being opened up in one swoop, was an example of what could be achieved when Australians worked together, public private, bosses and workers. It was coming up Christmas and what was needed was a steady hand at the keel. Arrests and charges continue over the riots. We could see across the ribbons of roads to the flat hot plains, the colour draining in the heat with each minute that passed. He railed against injustice, but couldn't see the perpetrator. The Prime Minister remained in very good form. You should never leave yourself vulnerable.

Eight hundred extra police on the beaches this.year. There was absolutely no source of comfort in it. Christmas Eve. The kids are away now, visiting their mum in the Moree.

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Thursday, 22 December 2005

The Determined Future



This is our Prime Minister John Howard, launching a $1.5 billion plan for upgrading the army, boosting troops to 28,000. It was about three hours after he had got off a plane from Malaysia, where he had been to an East Asian Smmit - ASEAN. He was clearly relaxed, asking lots of questions of polite young soldiers, posing comfortably in state of the art tanks and all terrain vehicles. He has been in power for a decade now; a remarkable feat. It is a long time since I have seen him quite so jocular. It's been a busy year, and in many ways he is in the prime of his political career.

It was hot; and once again we were whited out in the historic Victoria Barracks building. Peripatetic. I myself felt physically worn out, over-tired, written out, emotionally scattered, just getting through to the end of the year. I thought I wasn't coping all that well and then looked around. No one else was either. Enough of 2005.
But Howard was beaming, relaxed, jovial, giving the media everything they wanted, dealing politely with everyone from the high to the low. The Liberal Party would be lost without him. His successor holids little hope of ever having the same level of rapport within a ceremonial event. Never happier than embraced with the forces; the fresh faced. ultra-fit, young soldiers who explained in great detail the new equipment. They all treated him with great respect. It's amazing to think that someone who began voting when they were 18 and is now 28 has never known another Prime Minister. It was fashionable to hate Howard, particularly in inner-city Sydney. I just went mute when they began their tirades. He was not that easy to dismiss.

We were part of the baby boomers, couldn't get around that. We came into political consciousness in the 1970s, which now seems like a distant, almost folksy time. Then, it was Vietnam. I just didn't believe in it, and with the ferment on Australia's university campuses at the time these were the issues of our day. Anything to the right was spawn of the devil stuff, while I had to fight off the Trotskyists in the vote for editor of the student union paper. Then after years of almost odd-ball Liberal Prime Ministers, Holt, who most mysteriously went swimming one afternoon off the coast of Victoria and vanished. McMahon, a furry, funny little man with a glamorous wife. In swept Gough Whitlam the grand Gough Whitlam who for years I thought was a great man.

Having survived the Family Court, which Whitlam created as a supposedly progressive institution and is now a Stalinesque nightmare; and having seen much of what he did turn to dust, he is no longer the great man to me. There could be no better example of institutionalised injustice. It disfigure the lives of those who come before it to this very day. But thanks to Gough I didn't go to Vietnam. No offense to the vets who are almost invariably a great bunch; though badly damaged some of them. I postponed it till I finished uni, by which time Whitlam was in and conscription was out.

And the most famous day in Australia's political history; 11 November 1975, when Whitlam was dismissed by the Governor General, Sir John Kerr. The nation was divided. We went to a concert at the Adelaide Arts Festival and the Governor General's party arrived late; and he was clearly tipsy as he always was, and along with a significant number of others I booed and I booed, even though I was there on free tickets, courtesy of someone who was clearly embarrassed by my behaviour.

The government entwined arts fraternity was always pissed. The pools and the late night parties, after the performance, whatever it was, in the Adelaide heat, were our own magic moment on the edge of a vast continent. Then you were cute and you only had to look mournful or lost to get anything you wanted. Which was usually to get pissed and have a good time. Now I'm 53. I never had any contingency plans to live this long.

The Whitlam years, regarded by some as the beginning of everything that was to go wrong in Australia, were like the breakup of an iceberg, dramatic if nothing else. Where were you when Whitlam was sacked? is a question you could only Ask Australians of my age group. I remember it exactly, partying with a group of intensely intertwined friends and a couple from university our gang had got thick with. The bloke was a big strapping handsome Aussie lad, but the woman was petite and blonde, American with a regular income in American dollars. We were all awestruck by the amount of food in her fridge. Going shopping with someone with an income was mind boggling. We never had any money.
Howard, arriving back from the apparently successful ASEAN meeting, and there on the well maintained lawns of the city's central barricks, making a major announcement which would keep him centre face on the domestic scene and competely within his comfort zone, seemed almost triumphant. There was always talk that Howard would retire. Why on earth would be? Industrial relations, terror, welfare to work and Telstra legislation, all major and difficult pieces of legislation, had all whistled through both the House of Representatives and the Senate, which after the last election the government now controlled.
As the ultimate political survivor he had been caught in the spotlights more than once. But here, he was announcing exactly what he wanted to announce: "I have to say on behalf of the Government that we will need to commit ever-increasing amounts to defence in the years ahead. Defence does not come cheaply, it should not come cheaply. We cannot send men and women into danger without giving them the best available equipment and giving them the best possible opportunities to defend themselves when danger confronts them. And that remains a very strong commitment and belief of the Government." Posted by Picasa

Sunday, 18 December 2005

The Cliff Edge



This is the walk along the cliffs at Coogee, just down from Stephen's place, where I waited one night, lost, child free, hungry and the car untidy, and always the uncomfortable gut and the hole that could never be filled. Sydney beaches in lockdown, the headlines screamed, 200 kilometres from Wollongong and Newcastle. Death of the Australian summer. Two men were arrested after they got on a public bus going down to Bondi. The bus driver could smell the petrol and alerted the authority. Police stopped the bus and escorted the two men off. They had petrol and bottles and materials for making molotov cocktails. How smart is that, getting on a public bus. Grass roots movement, so to say.

The beaches were quiet last night; neither we nor anyone else could really get to them. Five men were arrested in Brighton le Sands, a thin but picturesque bay along Port Jackson which has always been popular with out ethnics because it has no waves. Unable to swim; having arrived from the desert, they looked so uncomfortable with their burquas in the heat. They didn't mix, they gathered for picnics.

Keith Windscuttle also wrote: "All the evidence from the numerous studies of similar ethnic ghettos in North America and Europe show they produce much the same result, whatever the colour or ethnicity of their inhabitants. Ghetto culture for young men everywhere is characteised by interpersonal violence, sexual irresponsibility, incomplete education, substandard speech, a hypersensitivity about being disrespected and a feckless attitude towards work."

We had all grown up along the beaches, or it had become part of our psyche. Long hot summers; too hot to think. The key was simply survival. My old mate Colin has been staying for a few days, down from Newcastle where he had retreated, basically to die. But instead, with all the new treatments, he had rallied. Men in our 50s, these weren't our golden age. Indeed, we had never expected to live so long, to make it here through all the tumble that had ever been. I miss Howard, he said. I miss them all, I thought. They don't queue at the door like they used to, he said, remiss, but it wasn't just that. In those partying days, 30 years ago or more, we thought that every last step we took was changing history, changing the nation's psyches. We were the talent that would shake the age. Everyman's cafe is the centre of the universe, Cocteau wrote, and thus it had seemed. I had a house next to a hotel in Hargrave Street, Paddington, which Jenny had inherited and let me live in for minimal rent while I finished university.

In the end we sold the house for $30,000 because we needed the money. It would be worth a million dollars now.

Those were only part of the things that had gone wrong; with everybody carking it like flies as Aids spread across the world, wiping out a whole layer of Sydney's gays. And everything we ever thought meant something, was gone. Lou Reed played through the long afternoons, in the heat, and we could never have imagined a Sydney where the beaches were in lockdown, where ethnic gangs from the west terrified the residents of the beach suburbs, going on car smashing rampages. The text messages were distributed quickly through the seething uncertainties. "Rise up, rise up, Oh Lions of Lebanon."

More than 50 people have been arrested now. At Brighton le Sands police solved the problem by diverting all traffic away from the beach. It was basically just impossible to get to. It was sunset, and where normally, in the midst of summer, lots of families and tiny kids would splashing in the shadows, there was only two people in the distance walking along the deserted sand. All the craving had gone inwards. The itch would never stop. The emptiness would never cease. He would in the end never know comfort, never find his own place of peace, or worship. There was a profound cynicism, a jocular wit, and that was it. The dredging of the mine for more words, more sense, more stories, had reached a point where he could barely function. They sensed it of course, the bosses, because people always pick on the week. The impending catastrophe was averted only by putting on a blank mask. The luxurious beaches in the end were a poor resource; everyone looked so happy, so relaxed, so comfortable within themselves, and he, who had once known everyone, was lonely now. I find it hard to make friends, he said, and it was true. Time and the tides of the city had cannibalised the past, the generations to which we had belonged had gone, the groups which we thought would form the great novelists, artists and musicians of tomorrow had vanished in shame, chaos and self-indulgence. They looked so far away, those two people in the distance on the beach, while behind the police diverted the walls of traffic and the hope that we had once held vanished still further into a future we could never have recognised.

IRAQ WATCH:

The Vietnam war was still raging when I emerged into adulthood in the 1970s. I got out of conscription because I was going to university. By the time I had finished the war was over. I had never wanted to go, just simply didn't believe in it. Any comparisons between Vietnam and Iraq have been poopoohed. The helicopters ferrying embassy staff off the roof of the US embassy would not happen here. I remember saying on radio one night, some days you know you're watching history, when the statue of Saddam was pulled down, the scene beamed around the world. It was then I thought, hey maybe I was wrong, maybe this war is the right thing to do. The thought didn't last long, the quagmire worsened.

Here's a bit from Bloomberg:

President George W. Bush warned Americans to expect ``more testing and sacrifice'' in Iraq while urging his critics to consider the stakes of a war that he said is slowly being won. In his first Oval Office address since the start of the Iraq war, Bush directly addressed opponents of his Iraq strategy and appealed for continued public support for the war.
``The need for victory is larger than any president or political party, because the security of our people is in the balance,'' Bush said in an address tonight from Washington. ``I do not expect you to support everything I do, but tonight I have a request: Do not give in to despair, and do not give up on this fight for freedom.

Bush said the U.S. is succeeding by staying the course in Iraq.
``My fellow citizens: Not only can we win the war in Iraq, we are winning the war in Iraq,'' Bush said. ``Some look at the challenges in Iraq and conclude that the war is lost and not worth another dime or another dday. Not even the terrorists believe it. We know from their own communications that they feel a tightening noose, and fear the rise of a democratic Iraq.''
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Friday, 16 December 2005

Watched



This is all that remains of the historic 1920s Victory Hall, next to the Uniting Church in Auburn, which was burnt to the ground in the early hours of the morning this week. Police are treating the fire as suspicious.

Not far around the corner, only a few hundred metres away, all the windows along the front of St Thomas' Anglican Church, which has a primarily Chinese congregation, had all its front windows smashed. Church workers busily cleaning up the broken glass refused to cast blame. And not far away, at the Catholic church and primary school of St Joseph the Worker, shots were fired at the building during choir prasctice on Monday night.

Catholic, Anglican and Uniting church facilities have been torched, attacked or shot at in Sydney's Islamic heartland of Auburn during a 48 hour.

All day people stopped to inspect the damage. It was hard to tell whether they were stopping to gloat or shake their heads in sorrow. Or that not much happened around here.

It was impossible to get even the slightest tinge of inflammatory rhetoric from the Uniting Church, who were burdened in their own conflicts. Anger was not on the agenda.

Both Uniting Church leaders and those from the Islamic school literally next door, said of all the places that could be targetted Victory Hall was the worse; for there had been good cooperation and understanding between muslims and Christians in the area for years. The Uniting Church regularly let out the hall to the Islamic school known as the Al-Faisal College.

Reverend Glenys Biddle described the smoldering ambers of the once busy hall as ``very very sad''. "People who went to Sunday school as kids have been coming by all day. One woman told me the building held the memory of a woman who was significant in her faith journey, but is no longer around. That is sort of thing that has been lost with the building."

Rev Biddle said Islamic leaders had been by throughout the day to express their condolences and assure them they wanted to continue to be good neighbours. ``It has been a very good relationship,'' she said.

Principal of the Al-Faisal College Shafiq Khan nextdoor said Christians and muslims had worked amicably nextdoor to each other and the loss and the fear it may promote in the community was a loss for both muslims and christians. "We have been neighbours for 20 years the christian, since we bought this place," he said. "They come to us, we go to them. There was no distinguishmenet between who believed what. They used our place and we used theier place, we lived like good brother and sister. This is a crime against peace, the community and the country, a crime against harmony and against our children, who used the hall."

A police spokeswoman refused to draw a connection between the Cronulla riots and the incidents in Auburn but were treating the fire as suspicious. No one was casting the first stone.

While the parishioners agonised over the correct expression of faith, church leaders from all sides found little difficulty in their easy dialogue. In wrestling with God, the tiny niceties had little home.

Rev Dr Dean Drayton, President of the Uniting Church in Australia, said the burning of the hall had happened "at a time of heightened fear" but was eager to calm things down. If it had been intentional, it was impossible to know whether or not the Islamic school had also been their target. Although the Islamic school was clearly safe and the hall was clearly gone; right to the edge of the building. The last thing he was interested in was subtlety. The thirty somethings all thought they knew everything. He longed for a resolution, the tree change they all talked about, as if it was possible. And the smarmy little twirps kept increasing their powers.

The riots have opened vissures in the debate; allowed finally people to talk about things they had long wanted to avoid, and brought out the pundits on all sides.

Here's a small sample of what some of the leading figures have had to say.

As talkback radio ran hot and reasoned voices vanished,
Mike Steketee wrote:

"What the riots prove is not that multiculturalism has failed, but that there has not been enough emphasis on it. Its whole purpose is to avoid just these sort of situations by developing greater understanding and tolerance. That should include exploring and addressing the alienation of young Lebanese men.

"Those who know them say that many Lebanese Muslim families have low expectations... Unemployment rates are high, as is the consequent resort to crime. Few young Lebanese are motivated by fundamentalist Islam. But the demonisation of Muslims in the age of terror adds one more ingredient to a volatile mix."

Here's some of what the well known former policeman Tim Priest had to say:

"If the police and the state Government are to learn anything from Sunday's riots, it is this: people largely do not believe what comes out of the mouths of senior police and government ministers.
Of course, the usual claque of agenda-driven ethnic community leaders were quick to condemn the Cronulla incidents as un-Australian and racist. Never mind the multitude of racist attacks on young Australian men and women during the past decade, which have now manifested into full-blown racial retaliation."

He went on to say:

"The crime problems evident in southwest and southeast Sydney resemble a medical condition like skin cancer: they are relatively painless and easy to cure in the early stages, but if left untreated they require painful and radical surgery to cure. Sunday's events are the start of what could become a long, drawn-out war of racial and social division that may be harder to cure than any of us can imagine. If we addressed the problem a decade ago when it first appeared, we may never have seen what we witnessed on Sunday."

Then former head of the Australian Broadcasting Association Professor David Flint got in on the act, writing a piece in favour of the shock jocks and the uncensored. uncomfortable voices of democracy in the raw.

He wrote:

"Now among the favoured policies of the elites is the doctrine of multiculturalism. A Humpty Dumpty word, multiculturalism means whatever the user chooses it to mean, neither more nor less. If it is used in the sense requiring tolerance - and treating all Australians of whatever colour, religion or ethnic background in identical ways - then it is superfluous. Australians had already achieved that with the waves of migration after World WarII and well before they had ever heard that word, multiculturalism.
If it is used to mean that people should be classified and then advantaged or disadvantaged according to some ethnic tag, or that the essential principles and values of our Australian culture must give way, this is unacceptable to most Australians.
Australians have never agreed to this and they never would. The problem is, they have never been asked. No wonder they recorded their vehement opposition to the doctrine on one of the few places where this was tolerated: talkback radio."

Heavyweight historian Keith Windschuttle, author of The Fabrication of Aboriginal History, also through his considerable frame into the debate, declaring that Cronulla was not a race war but a clash of cultures.

"It was inevitable, given the prevailing mind-set within government and the media, that Sydney's beachside violence this week would be called race riots.The New South Wales Premier, his ministers and many newspaper headlines all used the term. However, a more ungainly but nonetheless more accurate description would have been multicultural riots. For the doctrine of multiculturalism is really to blame..."

IRAQ WATCH:

From the UK Financial Times:

"Iraqi officials were yesterday counting votes for the first post-invasion parliament and investigating allegations of violations, including the intimidation of voters, in a process that may determine how much legitimacy Sunni Arabs accord the country's nascent democracy.

"An official with Iraq's Independent Elections Commission said that between 10m and 11m voters may have cast ballots, or between 65 and 70 per cent of registered voters. Turnout has been particularly high in Sunni areas... "
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Thursday, 15 December 2005

Nothing Works Anymore



Nothing works any more. All the colours are wrong, bleached out in the heat. This tunnel, another secret contract, has all the hallmarks of being another Cross city tunnel; or at the very least bound in controversy. The collapse of the corner of an apartment block into the giant hole which had opened up in the middle of the night did little for their public image. While things have been much quieter the last two nights, the city remains shocked by unparalleled scenes of race violence, of "white" mobs hunting down "Lebs" and gangs of men of "Middle Eastern appearance" smashing cars and rampaging through shops. Fissures open everywhre in the debate. These sorts of things didn't happen in Australia.

These cranes, fed by a ceaseless line of red cement trucks, poured hundreds actually I think it was thousands of tonnes of concrete down the hole which suddenly opened up down into the Lane Cove tunnel through shale, another public/private tollway project nearing completion which will once again add to the cost of just getting around. There wasn't anywhere else to go. There were those scenes on television, attacking ambulance officers, police wielding batons, hoeing into crowds. This sort of thing had never happened here, in Australia. Shades of France? the interviewer asked. Absolutely it is, he said.

For a while he thought unfashionable views, then enough commentators came out to attack the fashionable shibboliths that he felt comfortable once again. Then in inconsistent grumpiness he kept broadening his ideas. The roads are wrong, and the traffic, he can hear it, the fabric of things. The red concrete trucks queued up the side ramps of the freeway and around the corner. The cranes poured well into the night. No one was killed. The company executives looked trapped. Summer had gripped the city, but in it was no tomorrow; the beginning of a long hot summer or a brief, uncontrolled and shocking flare? Pundits from all sides had their say today. In praise of shock jocks, was one, from David Flint. The occasionally unlovely voice of democracy. NSW Parliament re-convened today and rushed through legislation increasing police riot control powers. A thousand police are being ordered out for Saturday night, and 1500 for Sunday, the day everyone is expecting trouble, embraced, as the news channels say, with increased powers. I have to work Sunday night. Posted by Picasa

Tuesday, 13 December 2005

Suddenly Famous Beaches



Our beaches are suddenly famous around the world, for all the wrong reasons. Sixteen people were arrested on the first night of the race riots; and 11 more on Monday night. There will be more trouble, they said, this has been building for years. This is Maroubra; home of the famous Bra Boys. They held a meeting today with some members of a Lebanese gang, in an attempt to cool hot heads. They drove off in a spanking new Mercedes; I guess you don't get much change out of $250,000 for one of them. There were so many currents, it opened so many fissures. Here's some of the news from the Daily Telegraph: "An emergency session of NSW parliament will give Sydney police tough new powers to crack down on racial and mob violence, amid signs the city's race tensions are spreading to other states. A massive force of 450 highly-mobile police also patrolled Sydney streets on Tuesday night to try to prevent a third successive night of violence following Sunday's Cronulla race riot. Eight people were injured on Monday night as groups of Middle Eastern men in fast-moving convoys of cars roamed southern Sydney suburbs, trashing vehicles and shop fronts. In Maroubra, gangs on Monday night collected rocks and petrol bombs as they prepared to defend the beachside suburb."

The story got coverage around the world.

This story had been brewing for years. At least some commentators got it right. Did they never think these high immigration rates and headlong rush into multiculturalism would never cause serious social dislocation, would never threaten the host population? It all seems so obvious now. Tim Priest wrote today: "Of course, the usual claque of agenda-driven ethnic community leaders were quick to condemn the Cronulla incidents as un-Australian and racist. Never mind the multitude of racist attacks on young Australian men and women during the past decade, which have now manifested into full-blown racial retaliation."

All the right instincts, all the wrong reasons, he talked sideways to the orthodoxy and they didn't listen past their own strong views.

I've had a stomach bug and been laid low. The girl is up the country on holiodays with her mother and the boy is going on a school camp tomorrow. The Premier Morris Iemma has done media training. His voice has deepened, he is much firmer, he makes his point and keeps making it. Our point is to get through the month and have January off. And find some remote alcove off the Nullabor. Posted by Picasa

Friday, 9 December 2005

Oh Captain!



I've got the month of January off and the kids are with their mother for the holidays so I'm thinking of hitting the road. I suppose I could have cancelled the holidays when the present arrangements fell into place. But I really need the time. The strain has shown. There's some forests south of Perth in Western Australia I have never been to. Once again, card in hand, master of your own destiny. Never happier than on the move.

Here's a poem I stuck up on my day desk, I'm not sure why.

Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.

O Captain! My Captain!

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!
5
O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.


O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
10
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck,
15
You’ve fallen cold and dead.


My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
20
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.


IRAQ WATCH:

By ROBERT H. REID Associated Press Writer
The Associated Press
BAGHDAD, Iraq Dec 9, 2005 — A suicide bomber detonated explosives Thursday inside a packed bus bound for a southern Shiite city, killing 32 people and wounding 44, police said. The blast pushed the three-day death toll from suicide attacks in the capital to at least 75.
Meanwhile, a statement posted on the Internet in the name of the Islamic Army in Iraq claimed to have killed an American hostage. The statement did not name him or provide photos, but the group earlier identified its captive as Ronald Alan Schulz and threatened to kill him unless all prisoners in Iraq were released. Posted by Picasa

Thursday, 8 December 2005

Talking Hats



This is Kim Beazley, the leader of the federal opposition in Australia. He's just addressed a union meetiong of "sparkies", or electricians at a rally in Sydney. He is absolutely in his element. He is genuinely popular at these events, and answers or engages with the so-called "rank and file". They're handsome some of the lads, in their Energy Australia uniforms. And they're wound up. Journalists tend to like Beazley, he never leaves you short of a quote. Talk under wet cement. The new industrial relations "reforms" have left every employed person in the country unsettled in one way or another. They are billed as the biggest change in labour relations in 100 years. The campaign is an absolutely natural fit for Beazley to campaign on, fundamental to what the labour movement is all about.

He was on television tonight, talking about the new child custody laws. In the ten years that they have been in power the conservatives, led by Prime Minsiter John Howard, have passed the unpopular 10% tax the GST, gone to war in Iraq, taken a tough stand on illegal immigrants, implemented new terror laws, including controversial sedition laws and also passed welfare to work legislation. Yet family law and reform of the Family Court has been all too difficult.

The coverage has largely focussed on the idea that the government has succumbed to pressure from father's groups. There is a strange disconnect here, because the legislation is nothing like what fathers were looking for. The Prime Minister John Howard won a lot of hearts and minds back in 2000 when he announced an inquiry and said he was attracted to notion of joint custody. After endless committees, hearings, draft reports and real reports and draft legislation and national consulation tours, the final draft legislation has been released and the original notions of fairness before the law for both parents and the right of a child to know both parents subverted to large degree. It will be difficult to get the court to change its ways. A lot of blokes out there will never forgive the Labour Party for creating the Family Court; for which some regard the adjectives despised dysfunctional and discredited as appropriate. The former Chief Justice of the court Alastair Nicholson has poked head of the court,

With the police seeking something like 16 men from the Block on rape charges, the drunken shouts have taken on a more sinister, sordid, dangerous and drunken air. You can't pretend there was anything nice or Roussean or even victim-like in this appalling scene. There are a lot of outer-towners at the moment. There are few houses left standing down there now One young man passes by as neighbours stand outside discussing the heat. Drunk as a lord, he proudly announces it is his birthday. We congratulate him. He deliberately kicks over garbage bins as he veers towards the pub. Earlier I took the kids down to the local Thai restaurant down on Cleveland Street. "White cunts," a group shout at us from their car. It was my daughter's last night here before heading off to the country to see her mother for the school holidays. The boy is relieved to see the back of his sister for a while. He'll be flying up for Christmas.

People now want to talk about their perplexity and outrage over the Iraq war. Here's the latest excepts from the biggest story in the world:

"A suicide bomb attack on a Baghdad bus killed 30 people and wounded at least 18 others on Thursday, police said. The bus was leaving the busy Nahda bus station in the city centre for the Shi'ite city of Nassiriya when the bomber detonated himself, they said."

"In a rare concession to critics of the Iraq war, United States President George Bush agreed on Wednesday that "mistakes have been made" but said US-led reconstruction and security efforts were making solid progress."Reconstruction has not always gone as well as we had hoped, primarily because of the security challenges on the ground," he said in formal remarks on Iraq ahead of the war-torn country's crucial elections on December 15."

"THE Howard Government should have known AWB was paying kickbacks to Saddam Hussein after prices paid for Australian wheat shipments skyrocketed ahead of the Iraq war, the Opposition claimed yesterday... "
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Wednesday, 7 December 2005

This Is The Scene




This is the scene at the arrival of the A380 at Sydney airport, destined at something like $380 million each the future of aviation over the next 20 years, much like the 747 was in its day. The first double decker passenger craft. Lounges in economy. My father was a Qantas captain with a somewhat difficult reputation; very clever and very demanding. We grew up with free airfares. I thought being the son of a captain might propel me to ask an interesting question, but it didn't. What's it like to fly? Enormous damn thing, amazing that it gets off the ground. I remember when we were first downgraded to economy, as the family of the captain, on a crowded flight, how shocked we were, well put out anyway. What a come down it was. Never tell the person next to you that you are sitting there for free, that was the motto. I remember as a 12 year old watching the sun set over a range of mountains on the flight from Los Angeles to Mexico City and thinking that I would never forget this moment; that in life I would never forget so many moments. It was not to be.

The cross city tunnel remained a good story today. The Premier called on the company operators to make good with the community; and perhaps lower the toll. The opposition claimed that 72 streets had been shut, narrowed or altered as part of the cross city tunnel operations. They released documentation which they said showed that more than 50 streets could be returned to public control. Changes in Paddington are now coming into effect as per the contract; with the company took the trouble to release parts of today; along with a statement that previous comments to the parliamentary inquiry on Tuesday suggesting that they would not take action if streets were returned to their former state was incorrect. He also reiterated that they would not be lowering the toll. When we are wrong promptly admit it didn't go down too well. And in the mix the coverage of former Premier Bob Carr's appearance at the inquiry was overwhelmingly hostile. Here's what Andrew West had to say in the Sydney Morning Herald: "If you had any doubts about whether New South Wales was lucky to be rid of former premier Bob Carr, you need only look at his contemptuous behaviour at today's parliamentary inquiry into his government's Cross City Tunnel rort."

The news out of Iraq stayed appalling:

"Two suicide bombers killed at least 43 people and wounded 73 when they blew themselves up inside Baghdad's police academy yesterday. Posted by Picasa

Tuesday, 6 December 2005

Quagmire





We faced through things. There wasn't much to change. We were as always on the border of great events. There was a lot of ocean between us and the rest of the world. He smiled briefly in the heat, that smile of recognition and embarrassment, and when he realised who it really was he kept on moving, fast. Better to be certain than sorry. Sydney, a city full of snarling yuppies, has become less flash with the property prices settling. We're one of the most overpriced markets in the world, according to some recent report. The heat, the Australian summer, had suddenly hit. He had built enough walls to survive. Life had always been fragile.

The news just continues to defy belief:

Angry clash at Hussein trial
Boston Globe - 1 hour agoBy Thanassis Cambanis, Globe Staff December 6, 2005. BAGHDAD -- Two witnesses who survived a 1982 massacre angrily confronted Iraq's onetime dictator in a courtroom here yesterday, accusing Saddam Hussein ...

CIA 'closes terror prisons'NEWS.com.au - 7 hours agoTHE United States held captured al-Qaeda suspects at secret CIA prisons in Europe until last month when the facilities were shut down after media reports of their existence, US television's ABC News reported today, citing current and former CIA agents. ...

Israel begins clampdown in West Bank after bombingReuters AlertNet - 21 minutes agoBy Matt Spetalnick. JERUSALEM, Dec 6 (Reuters) - Israel began a clampdown in the occupied West Bank on Tuesday in the early stages of what it vowed would be a harsh military response to a Palestinian suicide bombing that killed five Israelis. ...

Anti-terror laws passedThe Age - 21 minutes agoSeven-year jail terms for urging violence against the government or sections of the community. Police and ASIO powers to examine passenger and business information. Broader use of surveillance cameras at transport hubs. ... Posted by Picasa

Sunday, 4 December 2005

Bar Italia



This is my friend Stephen who I've known for something like 30 years now, God forbid. We're at Bar Italia in Norton Street, Leichhardt. As far as the kids are concerned this is by far the simply best restaurant in Sydney. It has the only truly great spaghetti bolognaise and the best gellato and why would one want to go anywhere else. It's a place where you don't have to bring anything to, others say, and that is why it is popular. They certainly haven't spent any of their profits on new furniture. It's easy to be philosophical here in the middle of the night when things go wrong. The spirit was bloated, like some diseased frog. We played cards and then headed back from Shellharbour way. Stories got bashed away, balls whizzing back across the net.

God a lot of crap went on, a long time ago. We were always out there. We'd be better sorted if we hadn't been. There was a rape not far from where I live the other night. One news report states:

"A MAN has been charged after a young woman was sexually assaulted by up to 15 males in Sydney's inner suburb of Redfern."

There's still a lot of milling around late at night, drunk. It comes and goes in waves. The police in the TNT towers and a proactive approach from the Aboriginal Housing Company has cleaned up a lot of out of control stuff that used to go on around here.

The story of anotheer man who died out the back fence in Caroline Lane a few months back has made the newspapers.


I thought this was a really excellent story:

The full text is here:

http://www.smh.com.au/news/national/we-bought-lethal-heroin-with-help-of-drug-worker-addict-saysredferns-needle-exchange-bus-at-the-centre-of-shock-allegations/2005/11/19/1132017025580.html]

Here's a couple of pars by
John Kidman and Erin O'Dwyer on November 20, 2005

"A health worker at Redfern's controversial needle exchange bus is alleged to have facilitated a "hot heroin" deal which has left two men dead and another in jail for murder.
The over-strength heroin, which was bought on Redfern's notorious Block, is blamed for the death in June last year of Aboriginal man Edward "Zorbie" Carr, police statements before the NSW coroner show.
The fatal overdose also led to Carr's best friend later trying to avenge his death by brutally killing a man he mistakenly believed responsible.
On Friday, a Supreme Court jury found that Phillip Dale Harrison slit the throat of David Martin - one of three men who were with Carr when he died - in Redfern's Caroline Lane in September 2004.
Carr had died behind a disused recreation block in Sydney's Prince Alfred Park three months previously.
Three of Carr's mates who shared the heroin were rushed to hospital and recovered, but the 40-year-old father of four died at the scene."

We shouldn't default to irritable, restless and discontent, but we do.
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Saturday, 3 December 2005

Hanging Around


This is a picture of me and the kids, Sam who is 14 heading towards 15 in February and Henrietta who is 13 and growing up rapidly. Came down to my mom's place from Sydney last night. Went down and had a picnic in the park next to the beach down at Shellharbour, with the lads in the souped up cars doing wheelies and hanging out. It was low tide and the dog ran across the rock shelves; as we poked along, looking at the tiny seasnails.

Have to be at work by four and the mother-in-law is cooking the kids dinner and putting them to bed.
Like everyone else, I'll be glad when it's Christmas holidays.

Thursday, 1 December 2005

Cross That Hurdle



This is Sydney's cross city tunnel, again. After five weeks of being free the $3.56 one way e-tag only toll went back on at midnight on Wednesday. The operators saw a 44 per cent drop in custom in the first 12 hours compared to the previous Thursday. These were all the things that we could wish to make.

The Premier, the leader of the Opposition, Morris Iemma, Peter Debnam, held pressers and made statements while residents held demonstrations. William Street was a cluttered mess. They were closing off more roadways, making sure no one could weave their way through the back streets and escape. "Tunnel funnels". The state government had literally sold public streets to a Hong Kong billionaire. The outrage, and the debacle, just kept getting worse. Businesses, restaruants, were upset because nobody could get to them. Summer was officially here at last and everyone just wanted to make the dash to Christmas, enough of 2005 already.

The nation was grim in sentiment;the passing of the terror laws and the arrest of more than a dozen home grown alleged terrorists building a bomb for Sydney; the passing of the industrail relations laws, greeted with foreboding by almost everyone who is employed; the passing of the welfare to work legislation, where was was meant to be progressive came out only as draconian; and lastly, the countdown to Nguyen's execution in Singapore. He will be hung on Friday at 6am Singapore time; 9am Australian time. Australia abandoned the death sentence more than 20 years ago and numerous public figures have labelled the execution barbaric. Nguyen's family came to Australia after the Vietnam war. He was caught in 2002 with 396 grams of heroin, which he said he was transporting to make money for his twin brother's debts. Enough for 26,000 hits the enthusiasts for his hanging claimed. He was 22 then.

He's 25 now. From all reports he's faced his final days with great dignity. There has been a daily, now hourly countdown. Barlow and Chambers, executed in the eighties in Malaysia when Hawke was Prime Minister, was the last time the nation was gripped by this sad moral drama. There are pictures every day of the boy's distressed mother entering the prison. It is a different Australia that would be gripped, and show such sympathy, for a Vietnamese immigrant now one of our own. Here's the latest from Bloomberg:

Singapore's Lee Vows to Hang Australian Drug Smuggler (Update1)
Dec. 1 (Bloomberg) -- Singapore will execute convicted Australian drug smuggler Nguyen Tuong Van, Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong said, dismissing calls for the sentence to be commuted.
``The government has decided that the law has to take its course, and the law will take its course,'' Lee told a news conference in Berlin today after a meeting with German Chancellor Angela Merkel.
Nguyen, 25, is scheduled to be executed tomorrow.
Singapore has a zero-tolerance policy toward drugs and sentenced Nguyen to death after he smuggled 396 grams (14 ounces) of pure heroin into the city in 2002. The sentence caused an uproar in Australia, where consumers, politicians and newspaper editorials criticized Singapore for being authoritarian and called for boycotts of companies including Singapore Telecommunications Ltd.'s Optus unit and Singapore Airlines Ltd.
Nguyen admitted to carrying drugs, though not for sale in Singapore. He said he was carrying the drug to Australia for a Sydney syndicate to help his brother Khoa, a former heroin addict, pay A$30,000 ($31,460) in debts.
Australian Prime Minister John Howard asked Singapore to spare Nguyen's life and raised the issue in a meeting with Singapore Prime Minister Lee Hsien Loong in Malta on Nov. 26.
Appeals for Clemency
Lee ``was left in no doubt as to the intensity of feeling within Australia,'' Howard said, according to a transcript of a press conference in Malta posted on his Web site. ``I said that it would continue in my opinion to grow through the week.''
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Tuesday, 29 November 2005

Seen Better Days



These are the white paper daisies in outback Australia.

Seen better days, goes the popular song of the moment, Pete Murray.

http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/petemurray/betterdays.html

Also more at:

www.petemurray.com

Here's the lyrics; it plays in cafes, cars, where ever you go.

"Better Days"

And I saw it coming
I saw emptiness and tragedy
And I felt like runningSo far away
But knew I had to stay
And I know when I'm older
I look back and I still feel the pain
I know I'll be stronger and I know I'll be fine
For the rest of my daysI've seen better days
Put my face in my handsGet down on my knees and I pray to God
Hope he sees me through till the end
I noticed the smallest things
But I didn't notice the change
It was hot in the morning
Then it turned so cold, twas the end of the day
There was no condensation I just felt like I was in space
I needed my friends there I just turned around
They were gone without a traceI've seen better days
Put my face in my handsGet down on my knees and I pray to God
Hope he sees me through till the end
Now I have just started
And I won't be done till the end
There's nothing I have lost
That was once placed upon the palm of my hands
And all of these hard timesHave faded round the bend
Now that I'm wiser I cannot wait
Till I can help my friendsI've seen better days
Put my face in my hands
Get down on my knees and I pray to God
Hope he sees me through till the end
Seen better days
Put my face in my hands
Get down on my knees and I pray to God
Hope he sees me through till the end
Seen betterNa Na Na Na Na Na Na [x4]
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This is a procession



This is a procession through the streets of Sydney one Sunday. Tens of thousands of people turned out. The procession from the oldest Catholic church in Sydney, carrying relics left by the first priest after he was forced to leave the colony, we weren't the master of the detail, or of our destiny. It was a very colourful event; yellow balloons, St Mary, everyone expected a miracle. They thronged around St Mary's. I was carried away too, now, in the longing for a deeper space. That wasn't so much what propelled him, as fostered him. If there was anything there. The audience was in raptures and he was not one to argue. There had been a poverty of experience and it needed to be overcome. All the dignity and coverage we give to far narrower interest groups; who would be in raptures to get a turnout like this. Even the Work Choices march, the other great march of the period. They scattered in the streets now, quickly, as if there wasn't any heart but in the pubs, which did a roaring trade. The Catholics of course took their families, all ages, all nationalities, all determined in their beliefs, the nuns in grey, chanting, waving incense, the intense look in some boys faces; for which the future path might be very different to his. If only it hadn't gone so quickly. We shared there, in long stakeouts and rushed jobs and seas of suits, confidences we would never share with anyone else; not in the same way. But not all his human interaction could be photographers. He hid low, sometimes, behind the terminal, dawdled with a feature. There were more dead in Iraq. There always was. How much more could the moral stain spread from this. We met each other through text and sat for a moment watching the view, the crowds flowing into the cathedral, the thousands gathering outside. It was a finished moment, legs swinging briefly in the Sydney winter sun, the sandstone courtyard, enough people talked to, enough people canvassed. He was getting better, he thought. Two steps forward and one step back. Their raptures, his sanity. They went hunting for a taxi in the crowded silence. There wasn't any way out. Posted by Picasa

Sunday, 27 November 2005

An Impost Too Far



This is the cross-city tunnel on the first day that it was free. I had to go through. I had become obsessed with the cross-city tunnel as symbolic of everything that was wrong with the city. I took Joyce and the kids, so we could all say we had been through it. Normally it would cost three dollars fifty six on a compulsory e-tag one way; and fed into other networks which also cost money. They were narrowing William Street to compel people into the tunnel. It was unconscionable. It was all in the contract. Personnel went from public to private. Public-private partnerships began to stink. I was just somehow so disappointed in the whole damn lot of them. It was like being taken over by the mafia. These people didn't have a clue. How could you treat the city's people like that? I had this fantasy that one day there would be one more impost too far and the entire city en masse would just throw up the candle and say it's not worth it anymore. And just stay home, barricading in the front door, getting in supplies. There just came a point when the figures just didn't add up. He felt like everything, everything had gone to mud right in the pit of his stomach. Panic. And he paid another taxi driver and went to another function; and he was treated fine in treacherous dens. We moved quietly. And there was never another way out. Posted by Picasa

Amid The Hours

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We spent a lot of time at the airport, days it seemed, waiting for the model Michelle Leslie, who had just got out of jail after spending three months for possessing two ecstasy pills. The Bali tourist market must be dead by now. If they're not blowing them up they're busting them. You think Bali was so popular all these years because of the quality of the sea food, or because it was party town? And when the party was over for all of us, and you still had to show up for work. That was what was confusing. That there didn't seem any way out anymore. That in all the nestling and bustling something entirely abstract was lost. We had dealt into all of it, dwelt in all of it, and these passionless slides of colour was all there was to show? That was it, that was what hurt the most in the end, that everything he had ever believed in had turned to dust. In the end there was no salvation for what he sought. There was no redemption. The body grew less and less fit to deal with it. He allowed a grime to coat what had once been a sparkiling spirit. He couldn't keep the swamp at bay, all those viruses, all that danger. He was caught in it and he wasn't sure there was any way out. There just wasn't enough money to make a full escape. She wasn't on the flight all Sunday. She was on the flight first thing Tuesday. The controversy had raged all the while; a beautiful young model, a millionaire boyfriend, drugs, who could want for more. It was one of the worst crushes I had seen in years, print, radio, television, absolutely no one cooperating. It was great theatre. There was nothing to embroider. The graat weight was gone. Again. Amid the hours we had waited and the flights we had ticked off, there wasn't anything else to play but a straight bat and downbeat humour.

Thursday, 24 November 2005

Joy



This is my son Sam and his friend Todd. They're 14 and pretty funny kids, the house full of the laughter and twisted humour of tweenagers; another life impossible to imagine. What do you do? they ask; and in the alchemy of it all, scanning texts and flipping across points of information; when the kids are old enough to get themselves to school and the peace that had distinguished all the chaotic times. Sammy won a prize to go to Nova 96.9's Christmas Party and to invite three mates. Nova for the uninitiated is the coolest radio station on the planet as far as the youth vote is concerned. They rang up and asked and said he was one in five; and then announced him the victor as if there wasn't anyone else on line; not really. I spent the day in court watching extradition proceedings for a very bad boy. Well for an entrepenarial spirit who took the opportunities created buy the legal status of various things. You're a very good dog and I love you very much, he said to their pet Major, as if these flashes of domesticity were more deeply important than anything else. He crawled into his nest the bed and was never happier; as if these moments were the most important, the warmest, he would ever experience. Another made a dash for the door and he knew in their heart was curdled contempt. The landscape, the giant eucalyptus trees, Yellow Box and Red Gum across the flat, rich plains; these things were part of him even here in the smog soaked streets. We couldn't have stayed on the barstool alone. The fantasies would have been harsher, crueler, more arid and more abstract by the year. I didn't have any contingency plans for after 30, did you? he asked. No, Colin laughed; and in all the puddles of the past we weathered, it was children that provided the most surprising turn around; that redirected anguished rhetoric and warmed his contact with humanity's flow. It would never have been a sunny day. The car, smashed, crumpled in half, out there in the outback where their whole life could have disintegrated in a moment; where instead he was found 200 yards away, crying, a slight cut to his head, but otherwise fine. Where is he, where is he? we asked, upside down, unable to get out the doors. We had to crawl out through the boot; thinking all the while he was underneath the car. He's alright, he's alright, his mother yelled back; and I couldn't believe our luck, with the lurching sinking dread of what could have happened still leaving him shocked; completely apart. But an angel, so it seemed, had reached down in that exact instant, and said: it's not your time yet. And we lived to see our son grow. And we lived to hear the laughter in the house. The great dance that music had become. And to see and tolerate their intense excitement, for Sam and Todd and his mates Kenny and Arial, as they headed to the coolest party of the year. You can be grateful, not just for the small things but the big. For life, and the life of others. For the future, which could have been so easily lost.  Posted by Picasa

Wednesday, 23 November 2005

The City and the Grime


This is Les Kennedy, the police reporter for the Sydney Morning Herald. This is him outside the Blacktown Court, I think it was, where the court was a series of runways under construction. We were there, the usual suspects, for the appearance of a mother who's daughter had died from a methadone overdose. It was the usual classic; it was nobody's fault, the house, "a supermarket of drugs" the police prosecutor described it, had more than a litre of methadone, a safe for the drugs to be locked up in, theoretically away from the children, and there was the classic clash between the police prosecutor and the presumably left wing magistrate, who appeared to be oozing concern for the distraught and emotional mother, who's six year old daughter Rose had died of a methadone overdose after she had given it to her thinking, allegedly, that it was cough medicine. Even here, even now, the scams continued apace. Nothing was anybody's fault. The supermarket of drugs was just another house. The grieving parents were not murderers. Two more kids ended up in hospital on methadone overdoses and it was nobody's fault. Or the doctor's fault. Or methadone's fault. She sobbed, she cried, she twisted. We were immune to blandishments. We just wanted the story and to get going. The police appeared to have absolutely no sympathy. The stepfather was silent, depressed, refused bail, said nothing. The mother was voluble, tearful, trying frantically to get out, and was refused bail. A handsome officer in shorts laughed right next to her, what do you expect if you've got a house full of dope and you're doped yourself; and these were a sub-species in the sprawling suburbs, irredeemable, dependent on welfare, drunk, stoned and unable to look after themselves. We saw them every day. And in the end it was hard to know if we cared either. We filed, we wondered where the world was going, we watched our own grime turn inwards and looked upward and away. There was little that could be said, in the end, did we even know each other's names; the gang that was everywhere in a city which had essentially collapsed into warring factions, ghettos, classes, suburbs where no one crossed the line. The stratification of wealth. I saw it all like froth at the edge of the beach; looking down, and somehow, my heart was gone, compassion disintegrated; scattered with an aridity that just didn't care anymore. We were professional empaths and the empathy had gone. We needed to keep our own hearth secure; our own futures tied up; and all around everything we had ever believed in was gone. Single tragedies and multiple tragedies, like malt whisky, came and went by the day. Our time was brief. Our dignity gone. I pleaded for a better life and forgot how good things were in the cesspit we still called home. This city used to be a great place to live, 30 years ago, I said to a taxi driver, the universal taxi driver, and he nodded. It was always easy to agree. The good days were gone. Sydney was a big city now. And with it came the grime. Posted by Picasa

Sunday, 20 November 2005

Secrets


Secrets; these things that I never tell anybody, thoughts that should be free and easy but never are. Such an easy going guy, they say, and all the time the brain is itching and scrastching in troubled places, dying for a drink, waking up under the table at a party, syringe in arm; someone holding me down and pouring whisky down my throat, sticking a joint in my mouth. None, in these strange places in the outback were no one will ever know, where the thoughts run wild and really, really, no one will ever know. Unless you tell them. That was always the policy. Plausible deniability. Not that it matters anymore; the creaking framework on the bones, the creaking pretences; they're strung like x-rays in the falling light; when they smoked and drank champagne and wondered where; and why; we had become so different. I've reads a couple of gay books lately and I've put them down; saddened and horrified and wondering where it all went wrong. I read The Beauty of Men by the author of Dancer from the Dance; which was a big book back in the 70s when we were all up till dawn and bi-sexuality in the days of Bowie was almost compulsory. Everyone was pushing the boundaries, or what we thought were the boundaries. Pretty tame now, tell you what. Now, with the reading light and the back garden and the sound of our colleagues down The Block, late at night screaming abuse at God knows what; I'm reading My Lives by Edmund White. He wrote a book I liked years back and I interviewed him in London in the 1980s for some magazine or other. All the reviewers at the time commented on his soulful, large brown eyes and the impact they had; and I felt, in whatever room it was I interviewed him in; that we connected somehow. He was living in Paris then, his Paris phase, and I was just a freelance journalist from the provinces patching together a living. I thought, the way he acted, he was going to ask me out afterwards; there would be some altercation; another event with another famous man; who, in the end, were no different to any other man. Maybe even more insecure. But he hesitated and I hesistated and all these years later I'm reading his biography; about him in his sixties and his sado-masochistic slave practices, pushing the boundaries, every boundary, boundaries I never ever wanted to cross. The truth is I always liked something else far more than sex; male or female; and if it wasn't so personally, so life and career and reputation destroying, I'd probably still be at it. Instead, restless, irritable, discontent, the default position of the untreated alcoholic, we keep secrets we should never have kept, look out on sunsets we should never have seen, jerk around instead of entering the slipstream of the spirit, and wonder, still, naively, what it was all about. The Dancer from the Dance became the old man on the beat, horrified by his own unattractiveness, sucking knobs through glory holes and worryiong about his weight, wondering whether to dye his hair. While Edmund, HIV, provides TMF, too much information, about sex practices I don't even want to think about in the most removed of fashions. Instead, there's cigarettes and sunsets and a longing for beauty. And we get up and go to work. And others just retreated, not just from the dance but the gay world altogether, rewriting the script inside the head like a million other married men, and tonight I don a white shirt and tie and go to my daughter's Awards night. And we know that one path obviates another; and there was never any true path, or true loyalty, anyway. Posted by Picasa

Saturday, 22 October 2005

Sunset Strip Revisited


This is the beach at Sunset Strip in Central Australia; a very long way from its American namesake. Lake Menindee is dry now and there are swarms of flies wherever you move. I arrive early to avoid the swarms, driving as always long distances in pointless pursuit. There are holiday houses lined along the edge of the beach, selling now for around $80,000. The water has gone. I remember, maybe 15 years ago, first coming here when it was a spectacular sight, the pelicans skimming across the water, birds everywhere, tourists and the lucky few who owned holiday houses along the edge, frolicking along the edge of the lake, having late afternoon barbecues, families from Broken Hill and surrounding farms, tourists drawn to the extraordinary sight in the middle of the outback. None of its there now. Drought and cotton farmers have dried up the water. The houses still look well maintained, most of them, and the occasional retiree stands in their front lawn chatting with their neighbours. A large sign at the turnoff from the main highway declares that the Sunset Strip Progress Association meeting has been deferred until the next month due to illness. All those stories ago, all that time ago, before I had children, before I changed jobs, before the undertow of depression dragged me completely under, when the one skill I had propelled me on to the front page time and time again. And nothing happened. No futune accrued. No serenity arrived. Enlightenment never came. Here, in another country, the future, we stood on the same strip of beach. But now, without water, the lake stretched to the horizon, green, a paradise, no doubt, for snakes. Already he was frightened of them, keeping a wary eye out, as he stopped repeatedly to piss and stare and wonder, what had happened to it all? The empty boats were pulled up on the shore. A dock for the boats spread out into the non-existent water; and the flies buzzed; and when he fantasised that here, here was the place where he could finally retreat from the world at large, he knew it had been a mistake, the feverish dreams of Sunset Strip nothing but that, dreams. There would be another place, another life, but not here, on the beach without a sea, the lake without water, the holiday houses with barely a soul pottering amongst them. The flies buzzed and that was it, gone. He got back in the car and drove on, into diminished circumstance, under the vaulting sky. Posted by Picasa

Tuesday, 18 October 2005

Sunset Strip


This is Sunset Strip, a line of holiday houses in the middle of the outback, set on Menindee Lakes. Except there's no water in this part of Menindee Lakes anymore. It's about 110 kilometres out of Broken Hill, which in itself is about 1200 kilometres west of Sydney. I got in the car and drove 2500 kilometres in five days. The kids didn't want to come, they're sick of beetling or pottering around the country with dad - who wants to drive all night or potter from cafe to cafe, depending on the mood. Out there, there are different reasons for being. He slept in the car and heard the birds wake at dawn. He picked up the wierdest hitch hiker outside of Forbes, and delivered him eight hours later to an isolated part of the river outside of Menindee township. He didn't seem the least bit surprised to be plucked from one obscure part of the state and placed 500 kilometres away exactly where he wanted to go. Delivered at one a.m. down a sandy track. He was alcoholic, plus, pills or something. He couldn't talk properly, but seemed harmless enough. Everyone says I shouldn't pick up hitch hikers. I hitch hiked so much as a kid, it doesn't seem right to drive past them when I'm an adult. He was meeting up with a friend of his and they were camping by the river. He said they liked Menindee because it was free, no camping charges. I've lived this life for 20 years, he said. I believed him. At the end of the sandy track, where no cars could pass and I had been forced to turn around, he had apparently found his friend. For I saw the pair of them in the pub the next day, where I was having a steak sandwhich and gazing at the television as if it was a bit of civilisation at last. They were both bent out of place in a different time warp, and if he was wierd, his friend was equally so, equally unable to speak properly, of the same shortened stature. They didn't spot me, thankfully, as I crawled into the corner and disappeared. They bought their carton and departed, and the locals looked at each other when they had left. What's that, pot? Asked one, what does that to you? They shrugged and grumbled into their beers, the world was just too wierd and out there, where the city folk lived, was getting worse. Even they could feel it, way out here. Posted by Picasa

Wednesday, 12 October 2005

The Days We Thought Would Never End


This is Martin Portus and Katherine Brisbane. Katherine was a former reviewer at The Australian and established Currency Press, which has published plays and artistic debates and all this sort of thing for many years. Martin is now director of communications for the Australian Museum. We draw blinds across the past. We giggle and we think everything will be alright. I was standing on the footpath yacking to a neighbour, Sunday afternoon, as one does, the heat and the infinite all combined in the boiling sky, and he drove past and tooted. I used to know Martin more than a quarter of a century ago; in rambling old Adelaide houses and a world far removed. He tooted, in his old blue BMW, and I didn't recognise him at first, thinking, who the hell is this tooting at me; doing the usual how to be polite while desperately trying to remember whoever the person is. Sometimes you loom large in their lives; and they don't loom at all in yours. Or the other way around. Twisted turns. We had some good times; way back then; in shadows and curtains and cool rooms; when there was an infinite future not an infinite past. I show up, I do my time in the brutal reality of it all, and go. He sniffs; you've always been funny about money; over stray comments and strands from the past and foyers. He was going to a launch of a book on What Is Wrong with the Australia Council, the government funding body for the arts which like almost all government institutions ends up in a bureaucratic mire while virtually no money is actually dispensed to where its meant to go. Sydney is caught up in the drama of the Cross City Tunnel, an infrastructure farce from the Carr era which is costing a fortune and creating massive traffic jams and is hated by all and sundry. It is making the NSW state government look like a bunch of incompetent fools; which has never been far from the truth anyway. Carr had them boxed; sweeping into press conferences, making his announcements, picking the two softest touches in the press pack, answering their questions and sweeping out. A busy man. Far too important to dally. Or to make mistakes. Or to befriend journalists. We shared so many hopes and they never worked out. Things were complex; more complex than they need have been. It was the era. And then, with the veil drawn, he swayed and laughed, sober these days, drinking lemonade in the foyer while the usual suspects got drunk on white wine and crapped on about the allegory of the methaphor of the allegory. I couldn't understand what they were talking about, and I doubt they did either. Nothing like a few wines to rid one of the need for common sense. Hardened hack. Cynical noiw. The socialism of our youth burnt out on the flames of a thousand stories. You could chop 90% of what the government does and we'd all be better off. The dreams and the grand speaches and the white limousines; their air conditioning running in the heat; it was all a waste. Some poor bastard had worked hard in some factory so the secular left middle class could sip their wine and jostle to have the most progressive, most perfectly political views. He didn't bother. He stared and he glared and he kept on going. In those caves in Malaysia, when you had looked so beautiful, when he had been so much, so surprisingly in love, were not just decades, but universes away. He skulled his lemonade and headed for the door; after the working of a foyer barely worth working. Goodbye, goodbye, see you on Tuesday. They danced around, argued about Australian politics and what he deemed the poor state of Australian journalism. It's so boring, so conflict focussed, he said. Don't you think? No, I don't think, journalism is all about conflict, but I demur. We part and I draw the veil; but don't ever think I don't remember.
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