The Bus Fills Quickly …

 

The bus fills quickly, city bound from its terminus at stop 33. By stop 24 its mostly standing room, no single seats, but single positions, double seats really, in which a sole occupant has territorially made sure that its singly occupied. I wonder what are the techniques of expanding ones self to enable puffing up to twice your volume, in fact to take two seats?

Tetraodontidae can. They are commonly known as puffer fish. Ugly critters which puff up to twice their volume when about to be eaten. They’re also armed with four sharp teeth to crush mollusks and crusteaceans shells they prey upon.

Our human puffers use a variety of techniques and are armed in a variety of ways.

Firstly we see the “I’m So Important That My iPod Music Can’t Be Disturbed” technique. Armed with the iPod, it’s popular amongst younger folk, accompanied by slight head rocking and the hum of several audible melody bars which leak past the ear pods. The listener’s faux attention to the traffic outside allows car crashes and pedestrian murders to occur unremarked. There is a pose adopted which barks of “I am into my music so what the f@*K”

“The Gosh I’m Busy and Overladen With My Work”, technique is passing. Its remnants are laptop bound office folk, low or highly statused, ostentasiously report compiling or spreadsheeting. Screen size is important, especially at the higher end, those baby asus computor kiddie toys just don’t cut it.

I’m sure there are more. We’ve seen it time and again. In the past newspaper reading was a technique from which a recovery could be assembled and the possible discourtesy of hogging two seats excused. By the way when did you last see a newspaper read on a bus?
So there you have it, sightings on the 630 bus from Tranmere to Glenorchy direct.
Ah the pleasure of public transport.

Advertisement

Rebecca “Heard”

Ever wondered what our political elite take us for? What better way to know than how they talk to us.

In Australia we see that Julia didn’t ” cut through:” and we had “stopped listening”. Her Brutus, aka Kevin, nows talks/reads  ‘to’ us like five year olds, but not ‘at’ us and over our heads in monologues. We are supposed to be refreshed by the change and wonder how long lasting is this?

So we turn to the Rebecca ads. She says she’s a social worker and that she’s

“……… heard that the new scheme …….”
She acually says

“……….I’ve heard…”

Ya gotta just love political ads.  So sincere.   

So somehow she’s a social worker appearing in an ad paid for by the govt, promoting their program who happens to have “heard something”

What an unutterable load of bullshit!

There’s not a clear statement of what the policy is, what it gives / takes, or any idea that she might have simply heard it wrong.
I guess that means anyone who has responsiblitiy can avoid, as the whole purpose is deniability. 

Isn’t it much better to pitch confusion, so time is spent “defending” rather than actually explaining anything?
I used to think as I got older, the sterotype is that you become crankier. It’s a common put down which needs revising. Wisdom becomes age and is not to be discounted.

So, when you hear something that is ……

“all the heat without the fire,”

” all the sizzle but no sausage”  or

” all fireworks without the gunpowder”  

its time to tell your friends that

“We didn’t vote Rebecca the social worker in to power”  and

“Enough of this bullshit!……. ‘Rebecca heard'”

The Art of Leftover Arrangement.

Leftover arrangement is a new art form which has been taking over the eating houses of Japan. This modest example of the art stands alongside the Masters of Origami and Flower Arranging.
Great poise is shown with the chopsticks to the left hand side and the casual disposition of the bill and half drunken tea cup.
It is to be noted that the five pointed chrysanthemum shape is centred on the stamen each remnant representing a course of the meal.
What better way to say “Thanks” to the host and cook, rather than tipping the slops into the can.
Look around when you finish a meal. The joint looks like a disaster, certainly not the place you would sit at.
This is a different way of thinking; leave the place as you started, without a pile of refuse waiting for some lowly paid body to come slide your slops into the can.
There are of course rules for leftover arranging, as there are for many of the Japanese disciplines. These have been developed over centuries to ensure a civil society. Not the hinged flap surround of the waste bin receptacle. The rules for leftover arrangement will be discussed in the next series of these blogs, bringing facets of Eastern culture to the West, describing their origins and some of the variants which have been adopted.
Stay tuned !

ANZAC DAY 25 APRIL 2012 – DAWN

            Dawn waits lower than the horizon. In dark knots folk find themselves drawn to the cenotaph, to find a space on the wet pressed grass behind the cordoned official area. Somehow a civic protocol is observed with hushed conversation in tones murmured as if in prayer.

 

            In this near silence we stand, though together, each alone with the thoughts that have brought us here. Thoughts of war, of peace of sacrifice, of pain, suffering, loved ones here, now and gone. In the dimmed glow of the spotlights arrayed at it base the cenotaph golden inscriptions glisten in the misting rain. Writ large read on the columns base plinth.

 

The Great War

1914 1918

 

            And immediately below on the same block  is added

 

1939 1945

 

            It was “The Great War, the war to end all wars” yet the inscription reveals a scant 21 years pass before another war is great enough to warrant an addition.

 

            Are these not then “The Great Wars”. We know them as such, World War 1 and World War 2, but through which world’s did they wreak their havoc?

 

            WW1 laid waste the Old World, a Eurocentric world, bringing down the old,  ushering in a new order. WW2 challenged the new order. For both wars the nation’s plea is chiseled into the base

 

Lest We Forget

 

            “Lest we forget”, the words rattle in my brain.”Lest?” I find myself silently repeating, “Lest, what exactly does that mean?”. Is it “in case” or ” just in case” or ” be careful not to forget”. Does it mean that this monument stands here in case we forget? Maybe.

 

            But what about when we repeat “Lest we forget” at the local RSL when the whirr of the pokies dulls, along with the lights at 9pm. Are we as affected by “lest” as we are by that other Aussie four letter word,which has the same low low level of usage?

 

            Yes good old “girt” as in “….. girt by sea”. Somehow girt has coped a bum rap. We wince we sing it, I know I do and mumble my way through it as Australia advances fair. My guess is olympic athletes are coached in girtness in case of an unexpected press conference question. Shot put and hammer throwers may have mistaken it for girth by sea.

 

            I decide that “Lest we forget ” is a simple pledge to remember. Inscribed  below it,

 

The Korean War

The Malaysian insurgency

The Indonesian counterinsurgency

The Vietnam war

Peace keeping operations

 

            And on the right side face of the rectangular base

 

The Gulf War

Afghanistan

Iraq

 

            I am struck that the serious wars need to be referred to as “THE so and so war”. Perhaps as public commitment to warring has waned war titles are downgraded.

 

            Dawn eases it’s way into the night. The bugle’s cascading notes strain emotions, tears well in my eyes. I try not to forget.

 

 

.

            Dawn waits lower than the horizon. In dark knots folk find themselves drawn to the cenotaph, to find a space on the wet pressed grass behind the cordoned official area. Somehow a civic protocol is observed with hushed conversation in tones murmured as if in prayer.

 

            In this near silence we stand, though together, each alone with the thoughts that have brought us here. Thoughts of war, of peace of sacrifice, of pain, suffering, loved ones here, now and gone. In the dimmed glow of the spotlights arrayed at it base the cenotaph golden inscriptions glisten in the misting rain. Writ large read on the columns base plinth.

 

The Great War

1914 1918

 

            And immediately below on the same block  is added

 

1939 1945

 

            It was “The Great War, the war to end all wars” yet the inscription reveals a scant 21 years pass before another war is great enough to warrant an addition.

 

            Are these not then “The Great Wars”. We know them as such, World War 1 and World War 2, but through which world’s did they wreak their havoc?

 

            WW1 laid waste the Old World, a Eurocentric world, bringing down the old,  ushering in a new order. WW2 challenged the new order. For both wars the nation’s plea is chiseled into the base

 

Lest We Forget

 

            “Lest we forget”, the words rattle in my brain.”Lest?” I find myself silently repeating, “Lest, what exactly does that mean?”. Is it “in case” or ” just in case” or ” be careful not to forget”. Does it mean that this monument stands here in case we forget? Maybe.

 

            But what about when we repeat “Lest we forget” at the local RSL when the whirr of the pokies dulls, along with the lights at 9pm. Are we as affected by “lest” as we are by that other Aussie four letter word,which has the same low low level of usage?

 

            Yes good old “girt” as in “….. girt by sea”. Somehow girt has coped a bum rap. We wince we sing it, I know I do and mumble my way through it as Australia advances fair. My guess is olympic athletes are coached in girtness in case of an unexpected press conference question. Shot put and hammer throwers may have mistaken it for girth by sea. 

            I decide that “Lest we forget ” is a simple pledge to remember. Inscribed  below it,

 

The Korean War

The Malaysian insurgency

The Indonesian counterinsurgency

The Vietnam war

Peace keeping operations

 

            And on the right side face of the rectangular base

 

The Gulf War

Afghanistan

Iraq

 

            I am struck that the serious wars need to be referred to as “THE so and so war”. Perhaps as public commitment to warring has waned war titles are downgraded. 

            Dawn eases it’s way into the night. The bugle’s cascading notes strain emotions, tears well in my eyes. I try not to forget.

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Graduation and the Wanabe Pedophile

From a freewheeling lifestyle it comes to this. Mortarboards, gowns, cloaks and paraphernalia.

 

Then they come, we stand, as we stand at a football match. The players arrive following a medallion mascot masquerading as a legionnaire’s standard. It is carried aloft though at an angle, almost casually, with little pride. Who is the bearer? It’s a $20/hr clerk. Pageantry processes, capes and cloaks, caps and tassels, suppressed “oohs and aahhs”; we’re in for a fun night.

 

The audience sits only when told do do so, and with doffing of caps, the players speak to themselves. Formalities, which add weight to the occasion, ritualise the moments. Standing the candidates are presented, then suitably blessed the graduands become graduates, fit for vice chancelloric  presentation.

 

Row upon row of graduates, stand in turn, their dance cards in hand, to line the blank left hand wall. Shuffling forward every ten to fifteen seconds towards the podium,they look like a herd of something, maybe black cows with hats, waiting to be milked. Their parents have in some cases been milked dry already, for others the debt is against their future earnings, but for twenty five percent a debt never to be paid, payment for society’s guilt of the economic underclass.  Some girls teeter and tremble, the tentative talking ceases as they rise up the ramp to the introduction zone. Handing their dance card to the red gowned official they say their name, then wait.

 

A gap of twenty meters has opened between them and their queue predecessor, who by now is being congratulated and welcome into the university by the vice chancellor.

 

Dressed to the nines the girls sparkle five to one over the boys. Most Asians creep across the stage, that eleven seconds of dread, what hand do you shake with, which hand do you receive with, such a lot to remember.

 

“Celina Rose Poon”, and she’s off. From around me the wolf whistles and cat calls boom out, others look around to see who is associated with this Poon woman. Is their pride or embarrassment at the attention? The clapping only returns to it’s former low murmur when she strolls down the off ramp, papers in hand, graduated.

 

It’s a long walk around the right hand wall, behind the sloping grand stand on which we sit, walking back down to the front of the stand, and across the front of it to the centre aisle before finding her seat again.

 

A valedictory speech from the present, in hope of a future. Then a homily, delivered by an esteemed alumni,  words for a future, crafted from the past.

 

When it’s over the halls are crowded, the free food and grog at the centre of the marquee  is on for 30 minutes only and we barely take the edge off of our hungries, elbowing through the crowd to the marquee perimeter, congratulations fill the air.

 

Some pics under a sign with the uni logo and the year to perpetuate the occasion, where an African mum graduate poses and manages her oh so cute five year old. He could be Satchmo reincarnated, he moves with fluidity, suited and hyper active.

 

He’s so damn cute I take a snap or two while we wait Celina’s turn under the dating sign.

Seen a few graduations here now, Nick, Timbi, Elisa and now Celina. It’s been long time. How long I idly wonder?

“Hey Dad, don’t take the little kids pic, they might think you’re a pedophile!”

That long!

The time between when graduation pics of others celebrating used to be just graduation pics of others celebrating, to the time when graduation pics of others celebrating earn a father the epithet from his kids, that such behaviour brands him as a wannabe pedophile.

 

 

the Lease Renewal

It all starts easily enough.

The notice for a house lease renewal. no big deal really, I’ve already been in the quaint little cottage perched on the hill for a year. I’d felt fortunate to have found it so soon after my arrival in Hobart and settled in quickly. Slowly I added nick nacks to its white walled interior,firstly Ted Proctor’s paintings, lacquered paper umbrellas and the unglazed off white slashed pottery vase in the fireplace.

“We must have a twelve month lease” Bob had said during those initial conversations.

He said it more than once, sometimes in response to my letting him know that,

 “There’s nothing being said by the department about job security past June, so I could be out of work by then.”

I offered to stay at the place on a month by month basis. Real estate rental usually work this way but Bob told me again that

 “We have to have a six month lease, its our superannuation.”

I gained the impression Bob didn’t share my concerns about being able to afford a lease without work.

“Well if you can’t sign a long term lease then we’ll serve a notice to vacate, anyway we need to inspect the property, so that will be next Tuesday,” he hissed through the phone. By Monday night he had slipped a notice to vacate under the front door and into the letterbox, as required under Act section 2 sub section 52 para 3G.

The conversation after the inspection was as we say a doozy.

Bob told me, “The boxes in the second bedroom might be causing structural damage to the floor, they were too close to the walls and needed to be moved to prevent damp, and he would move the white iron framed bed from the house to give me more room.”

Punitive I felt. I had moved the single bed into the second bedroom to accommodate my larger futon in the main. It worked well for the occasional guest.

“Besides that, you didn’t bother to wash the dishes in the kitchen sink for when we came through” Bob said, “The  dishes were all there unwashed”

Gasping I told him, “Don’t tell me how to live, it’s a house inspection, get real.” fuming I went on “And besides that the tenants union say that I don’t have to sign a six month lease.”

I was inclined to tell him about the ants, the sloping floors, the drafts, the I hot hotwater but I tried to stay focused on the cleanliness of the floors, toilet and walls which is what I thought I was renting.

Bob went quiet then started mouthing on about his super and how he would be back for a further inspection to see if I had rectified the “breaches”.

“Cool it ” I thought.

Sun Tsu in the Art of War says “To know your enemy” and I could see he thought he had all the power. If I could find another place to rent, and there were many around, I could move stealthily and Bob’s super might suffer a several thousand dollar deficit from lost rent.

“Ok, Bob” I said, what about next week, say Tuesday.”

He foolishly agreed, the trigger for me to find the weekend papers and find a new spot post haste.

There was. Blessed surfeit of places, all wanting to suck in a tenant like soft drink up a straw. I could have taken either of two, but the third came with no lease, just a handshake, and my job uncertainty was not an issue.

A white rental truck was hired for the weekend, the boxes which had so offended we’re the first to be loaded. the shed emptied quickly, we’ll at least my side of it and numerous trips to and for had the bulk of me moved in a day and a bit.

Bob must have been resting on his most abundant laurels. With all the power, he sensed I would be cleaning and scrubbing to maintain the tenancy to his whim. I was. To get my bond back!

And so by Monday night I emailed him to say the tenancy would end on the Thursday next, the day on which he had formally given me notice, but for which I had been unable to empty the sink.

I said the keys would be on the dresser and my bond could be returned to my account, the one from which the rent was paid.

The  bond came back.

The house stayed empty for at least three months