Tuesday, 13 December 2011

On conspiracy theories




Robert Manne had an interesting piece on why climate sceptics/deniers have gained such traction in recent years. He listed a 5 reasons why the deniers have mushroomed over the past decade. Each is plausible and makes sense. But I would add a 6th reason for the growth in numbers of climate change deniers.

To my observation there appears to be a marked rise in the popularity of conspiracy theories which mirrors the rise in denialism. The conspiracy goes like this:

The IPCC, the CSIRO and practically the entire climate scientific community’s factually based and cogent argument that the earth is warming as a result of man made carbon dioxide, is a gigantic unspoken conspiracy by them to ensure that they maintain their government funding. Governments worldwide are committed to reducing our reliance on big oil and coal (*irony on   viz the outcome at Durban. Irony off*)

So the "warmists" produce confected results, temperature measurements and modelling which comply with what the governments want. These scientists, to a person, have sold out their soul and their integrity to maintain themselves on the government teat. 

Those at the lunatic fringe take the conspiracy one step further: the aim of the warmists and the governments is to rob us of our sovereignty and form a one world government.

Why has this happened? See it’s not just climate change. It’s anything from vaccination to fluoride to the figs in Laman St. Why has this reliance on conspiracy as a means of explaining the action of those whom one opposes, taken root and flourished? Well for what it’s worth here’s my take on it.

As society has grown and evolved it has become more complex. The world around us refuses to be categorised into black and white or left and right or even good or bad. The world in which many people grew up was simple: your neighbours looked like you. They talked like you. They ate similar food. They liked football, meat pies kangaroos and Holden cars.

And the binary notions of boss and worker, men and women having pre determined roles, and the notion of class were all clear and distinct. Then in the 1960s this certainty began coming apart.

The ongoing social upheaval since has been exploited by conservatives worldwide. Parties of the left could be wedged by parties of the right appealing to the socially conservative nature of the working poor. The result was Reagan Democrats and Howard's battlers.

The focus for conservative attacks on the left were/are the so-called "elites": intellectuals and inner city trendies who were slaves to political correctness. Multiculturalism and gay rights and the republic were part of a broad left wing conspiracy to rob people of their heritage and their right to say what they like. Pauline Hanson epitomised this phenomenon. Her "ordinariness" was her greatest selling point.

Underpinning this wedging was the notion that the ordinary person was being left out of decision making. It was the elites who were making the decisions. And the decisions they were making were at the expense of ordinary people in order to take away their rights. How many email messages/facebook entries have you seen stating that schools are being banned from singing Xmas carols? How many times has someone told you for a fact that refugees or aborigines were getting special handouts?


And climate change has become yet another example of a conspiracy to make us pay more in energy charges. and to satisfy those "crazy Greens" who just wan.t to impose their political correctness on all of us.


So next time you meet a denialist give them a knowing smile and a wink. It'll make them think you're part of the resistance movement.


Oh and smile and wink at the Occupiers too. Cause conspiracy isn't confined to the right.


Or as someone wise once said: If you've got a choice between a conspiracy and a stuff up, go for the stuff up every time.




Sunday, 4 December 2011

on performing a one man play


I began writing SO IT GOES in 2000. It started out as a kind of pale imitation of Max Gillies' A NIGHT WITH THE RIGHT (I have delusions of adequacy). I started with Panky, Mr Pankhurst, my year 5 teacher. Panky was to be my first example of people in my experience who had been authoritarian right wing characters. 

I'm not quite sure what the inspiration was but the germ of an idea crept into my head that Panky could be part of a play about my journey to 2 Til 5/Youth Theatre. The trigger for the transition to SO IT GOES I think may have been the trauma of my experience of trying out for the school choir in year 5. Panky was the choir master and choir was the closest I ever got in primary school to something approaching a performance experience. 

I vomited out a fairly ordinary piece which was more PowerPoint presentation than play. I showed this to my friend Alana Thompson and we spent several hours discussing it over dinner at our place one night. Towards the end of the night Alana, demonstrating her capacity to get to the heart of any matter directly and succinctly, said to me: Barney go away and write A PLAY. 

I can remember as clear as day that moment and how it transformed my perspective. Two crucial aspects of the final piece gelled for me that night. The first was the concept of the character of 2 TIL 5 who would act as foil to my reminiscences, to ensure that the piece didn't degenerate into hagiography. the idea of giving life to the theatre company i helped to create proved to be a master stroke.

The second was when and how you know when the time to move on has come and how you don't always act on this moment. I then went back and wrote the play. Crucially, the creation of the 2 Til 5 character was the catalyst in the development of what was to become the major theme of the play.
 
I have never considered myself to be a writer. Writing was something other people did. When I'd listen to "writers" talk about their work and their processes they would always talk about how a character quite often took on a life of their own, created and used their own "voice". I had looked upon this as just another example of writer's wank. How can something YOU create - in YOUR head, from YOUR imagination and YOUR experience, spruiking YOUR words - have a life of its own? 

Well... it turns out it can. And it does. As I started to write 2 Til 5's words, he/it took off. Forget hagiography! 2 Til 5 had the shits - with ME, big time. I was the villain. I was the problem. I had been holding him/it back. This conflict between me and him/it provided the dynamic for the conclusion of the play. 2 Til 5 confronted me with my aging. I couldn't walk away from it:

"You wasted my adolescence and you stayed too long. And in the end what were you? Middle aged, out of synch, out of place, out of time.... Listen you can hear it. Electric clocks are silent. But you can hear it, ticking. Tick tock. Running down."

We opened in 2001 with Alana directing me. I can't describe the absolute sheer terror I felt prior to walking on stage for my first performance. I had always had stage fright. But this was extreme. A black cloud of anxiety commencing at the back of my brain and making its way forward until it became all consuming, blotted out calmness and any sense of accomplishment and confidence that my weeks of intensive rehearsal had prepared me for. Now self-doubt threatened to overwhelm me. What I was unaware of at the time was that the terror and the overwhelming anxiety that I felt prior to that performance was as a result of undiagnosed depression. The black cloud of anxiety which threatened to overwhelm me on that opening night had been with me for years. But it was made worse by the fact that i had not performed for years.

So why was I doing this? Why put myself through this torture? In an act that Sir Humphrey would describe as courageous, I had decided that along with the Night with the Right/2 Til 5 personal journey, I was going to confront a demon. Learning lines for me is like pulling teeth. It is a slog, a chore, an ordeal. But above all, the bloody lines won't stay learnt. I'm a hopeless improviser. I have to know the lines. I have to in order to get the rhythm of the line right. SO IT GOES was also intended as an opportunity to confront that demon - by doing a major one man show: no safety net; no accomplice to assist.

Saturday 19th November was the third incarnation of SO IT GOES. there was for me a lovely synchronicity in that ex 2 Til 5/Tantrum member Linden Mullard directed me.it was a fitting way to celebrate 35 years of the life of a theatre company i helped to start and which now has a life of its own. 

So what have I learned from doing and re-doing this one man show? The most important lesson is that depression medication removes the black cloud of anxiety. This was the most assured performance I have given. Not without its mistakes but a measured and (I believe) strong performance. I really enjoyed it. I enjoyed immensely the majority of my time on stage, when I was "in the moment". I loved being in control - of myself, of my audience. Above all I learnt that I miss performing. When I started work at 2 Til 5 full time I virtually abandoned acting. I actually think I'm good at it. I'm actually thinking I'd like to do some more. I'm of an age when I could play say a Lear. Any offers?

Thursday, 8 September 2011

this was my entry in the Newcastle Poetry Prize a few years ago

MY BEAT
(with apologies to Bruce Cockburn)

i. MONDAY TO FRIDAY
Hard grind.
600 metres to the top
Gradient: One in ten? Feels like it
Much less though.
And then swing right and then left across Dudley Road avoiding cars both ways
(What traffic laws?)
To the pedestrian crossing,
then left and down the hill
Make sure you miss the gouged out holes near the top (two broken ribs 4 years ago)
and it’s onto the track.
The track.
Twenty years ago it was….
Bitumen. Even, Flat,
Measured conformity,
punctuated by
darkened, patchwork, patch work.
Past familiar faces.
No names. Just faces.
Each out for their morning constitutionals.
Greetings.
on the run.
Same each morning:
“’Morning”
“G’day”
Seasonal acknowledgements:
“Cold this morning.”
“Merry Christmas.”
My online on track community: old, young, men women, Christians, Muslims, Calathumpians, multiculturalism in motion.
Anonymous. Familiar.
Occasionally a fleeting additional intimacy as regulars partner up:
The women in a pair walk dutifully ten paces behind their husbands:
“Have they got boy germs this morning?”
Followed by a laugh and a wave.
4 kilometres and I’m gone.
The serenity of the track behind me as I confront
The daily dodge of traffic.
My senses assaulted by fumes and noise and movement.
City Road. Impersonal.
Wait for the red light at Brunker Rd to temporarily halt the traffic flow into town
before crossing to the right (LEFT) side.

Down the hill and on into the city.
The only pleasantries exchanged during the next 6 kilometres
are with the newspaper seller outside the Civic Hotel in Hunter St.
We wave.
Silently


ii. SUNDAY
Summer.
Dry. Parching
Strength sapping Humidity.
Sunday,
And I’m alone.
With my thoughts.
Glenrock rises up to meet me as I leave Fernleigh.
Tracks!!
A multitude of tracks weave their way.
Worn. Weathered Beaten.
By Europeans?
Or much older, wiser steps?
By people who knew their place
in this
PLACE.
In tune. In synch. In essence with
At one with….
I am on a track.
But on track?
A path wends its way before me
But I seem to have
lost
my
way.
Cicadas. Deafening
as I pass through a glade of Angophera.
Angophera
Is there a more beautiful word?
Say it. Ang - gof - ra.
Silkily sliding off the tongue and lips.
The hard “g” transformed as the smoothness of every other sound elides
Across... Around... And
over it
borrowing.. capturing... stealing... invoking
their softness...

ANGOPHERA: Red gum.
Bark as smooth as its name.
Each branch twisted, gnarled,
Bifurcating Into its own Mandelbrotic beauty
gravity-defying, Down, then up in their reaching for…
what?
Sunlight?
Moisture?
Immortality?
As with us all.
As I stop to admire
I get a fleeting, half sensed notion of
Trees…
Breathing...
I can almost ….
touch it.
Touch it.
Touch…
Inhale/exhale
Touch…
Touch…
Is this what they feel?
Is this what it means?
Is this the key?
To being at one with the land?
Is this what we lack?
The gap?
In our lived experience?
Experience beyond just existence?
Being rather than subsisting?
Is this why we feel unfulfilled
Strangers in our own land?
Strangers
In
A
Familiar landscape
Familiar strangers?
Because we…
I …
can’t……
Quite…
Get…
To….
I stall, Mr Ramsay–like....
Reaching... grasping... yearning
for insight,
for the letter “R”
“Q!”
“Q!!”
“R!!!!!”
It’s there
There!
THERE!
To the lighthouse
on the hill
it…

The moment passes.
The sea, the ocean opens up to me, magnificent in its blueness and clarity.
To my left
The telltale signature of the sewerage works wafts across the landscape
Like a Protective veil.
Ironic, the symbiotic interaction
Between sewerage and recreational open space.
There but for the grace of shit goes
GLENROCK MEADOWS:
EXPERIENCE YOUR OWN LITTLE PIECE OF COUNTRY.
RIGHT NEXT TO THE SEA
PERFECT FOR MODERN FAMILY LIFE
JUST 3 KILOMETRES
FROM THE CENTRE OF
NEWCASTLE.
SELLING FAST


III. INTERLUDE
This morning I fail to acknowledge a number of regulars
This morning I am distracted.
Yesterday I received a letter in the mail.
It begins
“YOU ARE A TRAITOR TO THE CAUCASIAN RACE”
and was signed
REALISTIC RACIST
Last week I wrote a letter to the editor defending African young people against people who call themselves

“NATIONALISTS”

Someone sent a response
To my home address.
My home address.
Home
HOME!
As I ride to work this morning I find myself consumed by this missive.
Pre-occupied, deep in thought. The letter reminded, scolded me:
SEAGULLS DO NOT FLY AROUND WITH CROWS…..
THE SEWERS OF THE WORLD ARE NOW EMPTYING INTO THIS COUNTRY.
And, most vile:
IMPORTING KAFFIRS.
And then,
Fearful that I would not be aware of the meaning of a word which
oozes, drips, spits, spews,
colonialism
and
racism
and
hatred
and
insult
in Africa,
they provided me with the following helpful bracketed definition
KAFFIRS (AFRICAN NEGROS)
As if this knowledge was only available to the chosen few,
Who alone are aware of its iconic status
as the invective of choice
Of white supremacists.
The last vestige of Apartheid.
I respond with equal parts anger and fear.
My daughter is shaken by the experience
“They know where we live Dad.”
And my sin? I wrote a letter.
A letter!
I wrote a letter!

I want to expose this ignorance.
My mind darts about with ideas:
An open letter to the REALISTIC RACIST, an op ed piece for the Herald
Wiser heads prevail.
Ignore. Don’t provide oxygen.
Don’t expose your family to any further……….
I compromise and report it to the police.

iv. HISTORY
1988
My first mountain bike
It was like re-discovering myself
At 12 years of age.
My first job: riding my bike
Delivering Chemist prescriptions. ₤1/10s per week.
Forced at 5.30 every night to ride up the Loftus Hill.
Getting off and walking at the halfway point.
And then……
A 25 year hiatus.
GEARS!!!!
My mountain bike has gears!
No more getting off and walking
No more Loftus hills
I am liberated.
Free to explore
To become
An explorer
And I ride the old Fernleigh rail line
Overgrown, grown over
All the way to Belmont.

Back then It is rough.
Sleepers-exposed
Rutted.
Each sleeper separated by up to 8 inch trenches
Deadly for the front wheels of unwary travellers.
lured,
tempted
by the false certainty
of the notion
of a pathway through
the bush
resulting in uncontrolled
somersaulting,
cartwheeling
 over handlebars
ending up lying spreadeagled on the track.
I ride every track in Jewells swamp until each gradually fades and disappears
into a sandy nether area
Inhabited only by brown snakes
And unseen frogs
I discover Glenrock
With its myriad tracks
And hidden treasures
Nooks
Glades
Gullies,
Retreats
Creeks
Waterfalls
And fauna!
The most unusual
a pair of metre long goannas
Copulating
Spooning
Rutting
Silently
Not more that a metre in front of me
As I climb a stepped track.
Distracted by their friction-motivated activity,
They ignore me
As I stand transfixed
By this display of reptilian sensuality.
How many people would have seen such an act?
How many would want to?

v. IMPRESSIONS
Cloudburst prompts me to
shelter at Souths Leagues in a
forlorn hope of sun
Winter track at night
Can be five degrees colder
Headlamp shows the way
Tunnel funnels wind
as you negotiate the
arc of the Cov’ring
Frill-necked lizards bask
In summer swelter until
Startled, they scamper
Nine pm stillness
Disturbed by overhead swoop
Of a startled owl
Thirty five trees Down
Fence slipped, smashed. Devastation
samaritan clears.

Vi. MY BEAT
Riding was my crutch.
In my serotonin-deprived previous life.
It offered a haven,
A retreat
From the black cloud
As it weaved its way
From the back of my brain
To the front
I would push
Harder
Faster
Sweat-induced
Exertion
Suppressing
Repressing
Depressing :)
The wave of….
Fear
And
Loathing,
Self-loathing
Self-flagellating
Of the
Chemically imbalanced
Interactive higher order organism
That was …….

Me.
That was then
This is now.
It’s Friday 29th June.
Deadline. Closing date.
This poem requires an ending.
A neat, pithy, bicycle themed ending
Which ties together its multiple themes in a succinct manner.
Because this poem is about product,
 not process.

Excellence
And……..

But…
What about the journey?
The journey?

“It’s not the winning, it’s the struggle”
- Ben Chifley
The struggle

From Loftus hill to Glenrock.
As I cycle with my newly acquired
Pharmaceutically-induced balance
Across the highways and byways
I find that my enthusiasm for riding has diminished.
Black cloud has receded
Less of a struggle
but
replaced by…
Ennui


Swings and roundabouts

Aye there’s the rub.