Why I love Christmas
My favourite time of year is the period between Christmas and New Year. It's like a week of Sundays. No one expects any work to get done, the streets are empty, the pressure is off. Just getting dressed feels like an accomplishment. Sometimes during this period I will agree to leave the house and meet up with a friend. But only if food is involved. If I'm going to interrupt doing nothing with taking a shower, there has to be an incentive. Conversation isn't enough. That's what the phone is for. It allows me to continue to engage with the outside world without ever having to look in a mirror.
But no matter how much I try to convince people I'm happy not going out, there will always be those who don't believe me. They can't fathom how being alone and staying in is preferable to being with strangers making small talk while at the same time wondering how I'll get home. And that's always the main concern. Getting around is such a deterrent. I would go out a lot more if everything took place in my building. The other day a friend invited me to a Christmas party and I decided to be honest. I told her I didn't want to face the hassle of traveling there and back. "But you travel all the time," she said.
Exactly. The last thing I want is to go outside my two-block radius if I don't have to. Nevertheless, a few nights ago I ventured out to the work party, which was at a venue that couldn't have been further away. Walking to the train, waiting for the tube, taking the tube, walking to the venue, getting lost, and stopping at a newsagent for directions; they could have had the party in Paris and I would have got there sooner. Within the first five minutes of arriving I was already putting into motion the exit plan. I arranged for a pick-up so I didn't have to worry. But then the whole time I was checking my watch to make sure I didn't miss the ride.
Anticipating wanting to leave early, I'd booked the lift too soon. For the first time in ages I'm actually at a party I would have liked to stay at but I can't. I have to leave because the mate's here. This is why I don't go out at the holidays. It's too stressful. On Christmas Day in Australia, there is no public transport. What could be better? Expectations are low. There is no obligation to go anywhere or do anything because there is no way to get around. If only it could be like this every day. No public transport limits the people you see to whoever lives in the neighbourhood. Recently I was on the phone to someone I work with when we discovered we live 15 minutes away from each other. She's around - I'm around - the obligation for coffee hung in the air. "We should meet up," I said. And then, to my delight, she replied: "Nothing personal, but no." She told me she'd rather be alone. Finally, I'd found the ideal friend to have in the neighborhood: someone I'll never see.
New Year's Eve is a whole other story. If you're over the age of 25, unless you're Kate Moss, no one will question your decision to stay home. But this year, I got the perfect invitation from my friend, Lee. The e-mail arrived with the subject heading: New Year Sadsters. "I hereby invite you discerning types to drop in at my under furnished flat on the 31st in the mid or late afternoon.I would arrange for there to be some food.and then you could go. Or stay as you wished." He then goes on to say he might change his mind about meeting at his flat but we could meet at a nearby pub or restaurant instead. And, we can let him know by the 29th. What I found so pleasing about the invitation was the ambivalence. It kind of sounded like he was hoping we'd decline. So with the pressure off, I accepted.
Of course now I'm worried he'll cancel.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
The rest of the year has arrived. It's called December
You got a seat on the bus on the way to work this morning: am I right? And there were no queues at the sandwich bar at lunch today. And last night you could get a seat for a movie without having booked two months in advance. Correct?
The explanation for all this is obvious. Everyone apart from you and me is on holiday. But here's the mystery. Even though everyone is on holiday, the cinema is still screening films. There are still people behind the counter in the sandwich bar to slap a slice of ham inside your lunchtime sandwiches and to charge you double by calling them " panini". (This practice is based on the hunch that the Aussie will pay more for things with an Italian name, like Prada, or focaccia, or Monica Bellucci. If the Democrats want us to pay more in taxes they should stop trying to persuade us of the social merits of siphoning more of our income into education and instead just use the Italian word for taxes: " tasse".)
And there are still people stacking the shelves and manning the checkouts in the supermarket. And the trains are still working – not at any respectable level, but no worse than it does at any other time of year, when the largest group of employees is the one hired to mint fresh excuses to explain the absence of any trains. (If you want to buy your child a cheap, noiseless present that's easy to take on holiday without swallowing your luggage allowance, buy him a City Rail train set. When he asks when the trains that you gave him will actually appear, just say they are indefinitely delayed because of signal failure, electricity supply problems, staff shortages and so on. As a present, it's both authentic and cost-efficient.) In short, the country seems to be running pretty much as it always does.
Now, an easy conclusion to draw from this evidence would be that if the country can run during December with, let's say, a quarter of the working population absent from their desks, factories, shops and garages, do we really need to employ quite so many people during the rest of the year? Isn't this – oh dear – a job-cutter's mandate? At first glance it looks like one: but hang on! If we sack a quarter of the workforce, there will be fewer people earning a salary; which means they'll have less money to spend on the goods produced by the company that sacked them. Far from prospering, these companies might find that they are worse off than when they were employing all these apparent wastrels. So, for their own financial self-interest and wellbeing, the companies then rehire them.
But how does any company (and all the employers in a country who, between them, make up the economy) know just how many of these apparent wastrels they need to pad out their payroll in order to achieve this delicate balance – without tipping over the edge and rehiring so many that the company's wage bill swells to the point where its products are no longer competitive? And how does the broader employment market strike the right balance? Luck? Asking an economist would be a quick way of establishing seven possible explanations, all of which might be as accurate as the suggestions in a "Guess Michael Moore's Weight in Cheeseburgers" competition.
This is because economists (economists are people who, when asked by their university careers officer, "Would you like a job where people pay you large sums of money, even when your forecasts turn out to be wildly wrong?" answered, "Yes") seem to mimic the working methods of utility companies. You know how gas and electricity suppliers send you an "estimated meter reading"?
Wait a second! Isn't this the same market that is currently yo-yoing like a drunk on absinthe; sending stock prices soaring one day because everything is going so swimmingly, and the next day sending them plummeting after suddenly deciding that, on second thoughts, things aren't so rosy after all?
So, has anybody got a clue how this curious employment alchemy works? Anyone out there understand what is actually going on? It's enough to make you feel a little anxious, isn't it? Well, you and me, at any rate. Because who else is around to worry?
You got a seat on the bus on the way to work this morning: am I right? And there were no queues at the sandwich bar at lunch today. And last night you could get a seat for a movie without having booked two months in advance. Correct?
The explanation for all this is obvious. Everyone apart from you and me is on holiday. But here's the mystery. Even though everyone is on holiday, the cinema is still screening films. There are still people behind the counter in the sandwich bar to slap a slice of ham inside your lunchtime sandwiches and to charge you double by calling them " panini". (This practice is based on the hunch that the Aussie will pay more for things with an Italian name, like Prada, or focaccia, or Monica Bellucci. If the Democrats want us to pay more in taxes they should stop trying to persuade us of the social merits of siphoning more of our income into education and instead just use the Italian word for taxes: " tasse".)
And there are still people stacking the shelves and manning the checkouts in the supermarket. And the trains are still working – not at any respectable level, but no worse than it does at any other time of year, when the largest group of employees is the one hired to mint fresh excuses to explain the absence of any trains. (If you want to buy your child a cheap, noiseless present that's easy to take on holiday without swallowing your luggage allowance, buy him a City Rail train set. When he asks when the trains that you gave him will actually appear, just say they are indefinitely delayed because of signal failure, electricity supply problems, staff shortages and so on. As a present, it's both authentic and cost-efficient.) In short, the country seems to be running pretty much as it always does.
Now, an easy conclusion to draw from this evidence would be that if the country can run during December with, let's say, a quarter of the working population absent from their desks, factories, shops and garages, do we really need to employ quite so many people during the rest of the year? Isn't this – oh dear – a job-cutter's mandate? At first glance it looks like one: but hang on! If we sack a quarter of the workforce, there will be fewer people earning a salary; which means they'll have less money to spend on the goods produced by the company that sacked them. Far from prospering, these companies might find that they are worse off than when they were employing all these apparent wastrels. So, for their own financial self-interest and wellbeing, the companies then rehire them.
But how does any company (and all the employers in a country who, between them, make up the economy) know just how many of these apparent wastrels they need to pad out their payroll in order to achieve this delicate balance – without tipping over the edge and rehiring so many that the company's wage bill swells to the point where its products are no longer competitive? And how does the broader employment market strike the right balance? Luck? Asking an economist would be a quick way of establishing seven possible explanations, all of which might be as accurate as the suggestions in a "Guess Michael Moore's Weight in Cheeseburgers" competition.
This is because economists (economists are people who, when asked by their university careers officer, "Would you like a job where people pay you large sums of money, even when your forecasts turn out to be wildly wrong?" answered, "Yes") seem to mimic the working methods of utility companies. You know how gas and electricity suppliers send you an "estimated meter reading"?
Wait a second! Isn't this the same market that is currently yo-yoing like a drunk on absinthe; sending stock prices soaring one day because everything is going so swimmingly, and the next day sending them plummeting after suddenly deciding that, on second thoughts, things aren't so rosy after all?
So, has anybody got a clue how this curious employment alchemy works? Anyone out there understand what is actually going on? It's enough to make you feel a little anxious, isn't it? Well, you and me, at any rate. Because who else is around to worry?
Thursday, August 16, 2007
India 60, turning 16.
India at menopause. Wow! By the time our Independence jubilee's back-slapping is over, 60 will be the new 40. Sixty will become Sexty thanks to all the media hype — and the media icons who happen to be midnight's children. They will gild, glorify and glamorise the personal Big Sixer, which they too have hit in continuing partnership with the country.
It's stupid but true. At every decadal milestone, women especially say 'OhmyGawd, I'm 30!' or 40, or 50, as if it were the end of the world, happiness or taut butt. Then as they settle into it, they discover that it's an even better life stage. In their 30s, women have shed their giddiness, and got into professional and personal stride. In their 40s, they are in their prime and in control. As they cross 50, they aren't looking at retirement, but only at retyre-ing their Alpha Romeo. And dangling him too.
When will it end? Never, I hope, since it's not over till it's over, as some coach oft-quotedly said. Since 1 2 3 is the flavour of the month, let me cite an American, Gail Sheehy, whose 'New Passages' (1995) was truly my 'Ah-ha!' moment. This cultural observer documented how, for contemporary women, the 40s and 50s were now a second coming of age. They were doing things in their private and career spaces that a previous generation would have considered undoable, unthinkable, and unseemly besides. Sheehy labelled what had traditionally been the dread decades as the 'Flourishing 40s' and the 'Flaming 50s'.
India's experience fits into these labels too. Economically, these have really been her 'Flourishing 40s' and 'Flaming 50s'. And, the next 10 years will be far from boringly 'Serene'. She is already the global IT Girl, and, as she enters her 60s, the world is finding everything sexier about her, from her markets to her merchandise, from her software to her soft power.
What about menopause then? Today's India can forget about it just as today's women have. It's not a time of depression, but of liberation. At this stage, the country no longer needs to worry about unwanted consequences. She can go ahead and just do it.
Even the anxious hot flashes of the early years of economic liberation are behind her, and any flagging of spirits or sagging of enthusiasm can be easily set right. We have the mood-lifting hormonal therapy of the exemplary achievements of our corporate go-getters, and even already have our silicon enhancements. India will find, as women have done, that this is not a period signalling the end of productivity. Like the old Coke ad, it's 'the pause that refreshes'.
India at menopause. Wow! By the time our Independence jubilee's back-slapping is over, 60 will be the new 40. Sixty will become Sexty thanks to all the media hype — and the media icons who happen to be midnight's children. They will gild, glorify and glamorise the personal Big Sixer, which they too have hit in continuing partnership with the country.
It's stupid but true. At every decadal milestone, women especially say 'OhmyGawd, I'm 30!' or 40, or 50, as if it were the end of the world, happiness or taut butt. Then as they settle into it, they discover that it's an even better life stage. In their 30s, women have shed their giddiness, and got into professional and personal stride. In their 40s, they are in their prime and in control. As they cross 50, they aren't looking at retirement, but only at retyre-ing their Alpha Romeo. And dangling him too.
When will it end? Never, I hope, since it's not over till it's over, as some coach oft-quotedly said. Since 1 2 3 is the flavour of the month, let me cite an American, Gail Sheehy, whose 'New Passages' (1995) was truly my 'Ah-ha!' moment. This cultural observer documented how, for contemporary women, the 40s and 50s were now a second coming of age. They were doing things in their private and career spaces that a previous generation would have considered undoable, unthinkable, and unseemly besides. Sheehy labelled what had traditionally been the dread decades as the 'Flourishing 40s' and the 'Flaming 50s'.
India's experience fits into these labels too. Economically, these have really been her 'Flourishing 40s' and 'Flaming 50s'. And, the next 10 years will be far from boringly 'Serene'. She is already the global IT Girl, and, as she enters her 60s, the world is finding everything sexier about her, from her markets to her merchandise, from her software to her soft power.
What about menopause then? Today's India can forget about it just as today's women have. It's not a time of depression, but of liberation. At this stage, the country no longer needs to worry about unwanted consequences. She can go ahead and just do it.
Even the anxious hot flashes of the early years of economic liberation are behind her, and any flagging of spirits or sagging of enthusiasm can be easily set right. We have the mood-lifting hormonal therapy of the exemplary achievements of our corporate go-getters, and even already have our silicon enhancements. India will find, as women have done, that this is not a period signalling the end of productivity. Like the old Coke ad, it's 'the pause that refreshes'.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Doc, I think I've got techno droop
It was seven o'clock on Thursday night when I walked past the Apple store in Sydney C.B.D, where details about Apple's new iPhone which had gone on sale three hours earlier – for the bargain price of $599 were being beamed on a flat screen. If you believed the news, Americans were queueing up across the country for this shiny black gizmo.
On eBay, one of the first iPhones had just been resold for $12,500. By the looks of things, however, the hysteria had yet to reach Sydney. Inside the store, I could see a sales assistant sitting alone. "Are you gonna get one, where is your dedication?" "Nah," I concluded, not yet at least.
Now, for as long as I can remember, I have been an "early adopter". I bought a laptop when they were still made out of wood and cost more than a space shuttle. I practically remortgaged my kidney for a high-definition DVD recorder, the model of which was discontinued a fortnight later and replaced by a generic model, which came free with satellite TV subscriptions.
So why not become one of the half a million or so people who became early iPhone adopters on its debut weekend? The problem, I think, is this: I have lost my technology libido. My interaction with the world's most beautiful gadgets has become chilly and dutiful. You could say that I've got an embarrassing case of iPhone dysfunction.
Personally, I blame it on environmentalists. If it wasn't for environmentalists, I wouldn't know that when you plug an iPhone into a power socket in Sydney, it charges up with electricity that has in all likelihood been made by burning coal. And coal, when it comes to gadgets, is the ultimate passion killer. When Apple's founder, Steve Jobs, unveiled the iPhone back in January, do you think he asked Bono to stand in silhouette against a white background, holding an iPhone in one hand and a lump of coal in the other? No, he did not.
And yet, with coal being the world's largest single source of fuel for electricity, the iPhone could barely exist without it. That cool widescreen that changes aspect when you move it from portrait to landscape? It runs on coal. The built-in iPod? Coal-powered. And what about that clever "visual voicemail" function? Made possible by setting fire to black lumps of half-a-billion-year-old plants, thus releasing planet-killing quantities of carbon dioxide and other nasty gases into the air.
Which is why, as we begin yet another cycle of droughts, storms, floods, hurricanes, twisters, heat deaths, famines, species extinctions and so on, there is a limit to my excitement at the prospect of owning a coal-powered device that can display a tiny YouTube video of a skateboarding bulldog. Nothing against Apple, of course. I wish Mr Jobs all the best. But if he needs another product to revolutionise – electricity might not be such a bad idea.
It was seven o'clock on Thursday night when I walked past the Apple store in Sydney C.B.D, where details about Apple's new iPhone which had gone on sale three hours earlier – for the bargain price of $599 were being beamed on a flat screen. If you believed the news, Americans were queueing up across the country for this shiny black gizmo.
On eBay, one of the first iPhones had just been resold for $12,500. By the looks of things, however, the hysteria had yet to reach Sydney. Inside the store, I could see a sales assistant sitting alone. "Are you gonna get one, where is your dedication?" "Nah," I concluded, not yet at least.
Now, for as long as I can remember, I have been an "early adopter". I bought a laptop when they were still made out of wood and cost more than a space shuttle. I practically remortgaged my kidney for a high-definition DVD recorder, the model of which was discontinued a fortnight later and replaced by a generic model, which came free with satellite TV subscriptions.
So why not become one of the half a million or so people who became early iPhone adopters on its debut weekend? The problem, I think, is this: I have lost my technology libido. My interaction with the world's most beautiful gadgets has become chilly and dutiful. You could say that I've got an embarrassing case of iPhone dysfunction.
Personally, I blame it on environmentalists. If it wasn't for environmentalists, I wouldn't know that when you plug an iPhone into a power socket in Sydney, it charges up with electricity that has in all likelihood been made by burning coal. And coal, when it comes to gadgets, is the ultimate passion killer. When Apple's founder, Steve Jobs, unveiled the iPhone back in January, do you think he asked Bono to stand in silhouette against a white background, holding an iPhone in one hand and a lump of coal in the other? No, he did not.
And yet, with coal being the world's largest single source of fuel for electricity, the iPhone could barely exist without it. That cool widescreen that changes aspect when you move it from portrait to landscape? It runs on coal. The built-in iPod? Coal-powered. And what about that clever "visual voicemail" function? Made possible by setting fire to black lumps of half-a-billion-year-old plants, thus releasing planet-killing quantities of carbon dioxide and other nasty gases into the air.
Which is why, as we begin yet another cycle of droughts, storms, floods, hurricanes, twisters, heat deaths, famines, species extinctions and so on, there is a limit to my excitement at the prospect of owning a coal-powered device that can display a tiny YouTube video of a skateboarding bulldog. Nothing against Apple, of course. I wish Mr Jobs all the best. But if he needs another product to revolutionise – electricity might not be such a bad idea.
Good TV is now obscured by all this trash
I don't watch much television, though this is not because I am too busy composing operas, or indulging in my passion for quantum physics, or taking part in bikram yoga, or teaching disadvantaged children how to do bikram yoga.
It is because I am always out, along with the 7,999,999 other problem drinkers in the country, and if I do happen to switch on the television, I rarely remember what was on it at the time. This means that the following day distressing images of high-octane people imploring me to phone in for big prize money come flashing into my mind, and I can't work out if I dreamt them, met them, have gone mad, or very possibly all three.
But I digress. Because circumstances - which I mentioned in my earlier blog - had forced me to stay at home quite a lot lately, and tiring of talking to my non-existent house plants, I have had to switch on the television. And if watching television for the past few weeks has taught me anything - and quite frankly, it hasn't taught me much at all - it's that Channel 9 has become even trashier and tackier than its neighbour 10.
Went overseas and watched loads of satellite television. Nothing positive to report over there either. Boring reality televisions shows and pathetic attempts at news broadcasting by Fox and Sky news. Others might suggest that TV died when some "celebrity" Big Brother contestants referred to an Indian woman as a "paki" - which is wrong on so many levels, not least factually - only for the channel to cover it up and deny that she was suffering racist abuse.
And some might argue that it was the night, when a channel aired pictures of a dying mother, despite her sons begging them not to. Diana - The Witnesses in the Tunnel, I haven't seen it. On principle, I won't see it. However, colleagues of mine who have watched previews tell me that it was actually a rare example of quality programming on the channel; what a shame, then, that good programming has been obscured by the station's ever-increasing desire to spark controversy.
Television has always been controversial. It was, after all, set up as an alternative, experimental channel. But now it seems to create controversy for the sake of controversy - of what interest are these pictures to any of us, other than to indulge in some rubber-necking? - and I am struggling to see anything in its schedules that is either alternative or experimental.
Big Brother - when this started eight years ago it was an interesting and innovative piece of television; now it's horribly contrived and full of grasping 18-year-old girls who think going on the show is perfectly normal; who have been taught by the programme - and therefore by Channel 10 - that there is nothing more honourable in life than arguing about hair straighteners on camera. It's enough to make you want to call for the return of public hanging; until, of course, you realise that Channel 10 would probably just try to televise that, too.
I don't watch much television, though this is not because I am too busy composing operas, or indulging in my passion for quantum physics, or taking part in bikram yoga, or teaching disadvantaged children how to do bikram yoga.
It is because I am always out, along with the 7,999,999 other problem drinkers in the country, and if I do happen to switch on the television, I rarely remember what was on it at the time. This means that the following day distressing images of high-octane people imploring me to phone in for big prize money come flashing into my mind, and I can't work out if I dreamt them, met them, have gone mad, or very possibly all three.
But I digress. Because circumstances - which I mentioned in my earlier blog - had forced me to stay at home quite a lot lately, and tiring of talking to my non-existent house plants, I have had to switch on the television. And if watching television for the past few weeks has taught me anything - and quite frankly, it hasn't taught me much at all - it's that Channel 9 has become even trashier and tackier than its neighbour 10.
Went overseas and watched loads of satellite television. Nothing positive to report over there either. Boring reality televisions shows and pathetic attempts at news broadcasting by Fox and Sky news. Others might suggest that TV died when some "celebrity" Big Brother contestants referred to an Indian woman as a "paki" - which is wrong on so many levels, not least factually - only for the channel to cover it up and deny that she was suffering racist abuse.
And some might argue that it was the night, when a channel aired pictures of a dying mother, despite her sons begging them not to. Diana - The Witnesses in the Tunnel, I haven't seen it. On principle, I won't see it. However, colleagues of mine who have watched previews tell me that it was actually a rare example of quality programming on the channel; what a shame, then, that good programming has been obscured by the station's ever-increasing desire to spark controversy.
Television has always been controversial. It was, after all, set up as an alternative, experimental channel. But now it seems to create controversy for the sake of controversy - of what interest are these pictures to any of us, other than to indulge in some rubber-necking? - and I am struggling to see anything in its schedules that is either alternative or experimental.
Big Brother - when this started eight years ago it was an interesting and innovative piece of television; now it's horribly contrived and full of grasping 18-year-old girls who think going on the show is perfectly normal; who have been taught by the programme - and therefore by Channel 10 - that there is nothing more honourable in life than arguing about hair straighteners on camera. It's enough to make you want to call for the return of public hanging; until, of course, you realise that Channel 10 would probably just try to televise that, too.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Psst! Wanna see my smash-up pictures?
Innocence, freedom, individualism, mobility - the belief that one can leave a constricting or violent history behind and remake yourself in a new form of your choosing - all part of the new economic migrant's dream. As a young boy who has ventured into the world believing that things are as they seem to be; that a person's story begin when they are born and their relations with other people when they meet them; that you can leave your home without fear of injury or loneliness because people everywhere are more or less alike.
How wrong, naive, churlish are these thoughts. There are times in life when good things happen unexpectedly. Recently I experienced one of those. In January, I got a call from an agent offering me a Technical Analyst position with Optus Communications. Aced the interview and got the position, I felt that a recovering carrier was absolutely essential to my recovering emotionally. And things had started to look up indeed. Apartment check, flatmate check, carrier check, health check - in short things were looking up. As Daniel Craig mentions in Layer Cake, "could taste it in my spit". Social life is despicable, but hey am learning golf.
Well, life has a manner in which it puts everything in perspective. Two weeks ago, I was mugged on my way home from work. Was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Amnesia - how very convenient. I was in ER, hospitalised, fractured, uncharted territory for the young lad. Then it hit me: it was so exciting, it was depressing. All the phone calls, cards, cookies and care. It could ruin my life, because I didn't want to be injured. And this one-off experience would make going back to normal life so much more difficult. Then again, it was a bittersweet experience I could live with.
Someone mentioned that I didn't complain throughout the ordeal. It got me thinking about how my life would be if I never complained. There are so many perks I'm missing out on. For instance, in a relationship. What's the reward for staying silent and being patient' Not breaking up.
Every time I meet the new boyfriend of ex-girlfriends, they are nothing like me. They don't seem difficult at all. I've always assumed it meant they weren't as interesting, but maybe they're interesting in a different way ' a less confrontational way.
The ex who I'm now friends with introduced me to her boyfriend last time i visited Bombay. As soon as I met him I could see why she's with him: he was exceptionally agreeable. Whenever she's spoken about why it works so well with him, it comes down to one thing: he doesn't ask questions.
No wonder I'll die alone. All I do is ask questions. And it's the root of all turmoil. Especially questions that provoke an internal search. 'What political party you belong with?' and 'What do you feel about the current Middle East situation?' Bad idea.
Especially after sex. Or when the TV is on. Or if the sun is out. Or if she's breathing oxygen. Questions that attempt to get information in general are never welcome. 'What are you thinking?' Doom. 'When is Howard going to resign?' Armageddon. The problem with these questions is, after time and perseverance, they invariably lead to an answer, which leads to a complaint.
And not answering is a mistake. It solves nothing. Or worse: an answer along the lines of 'You don't want to know.' Telling someone like me that I don't want to know is the verbal equivalent of sleeping with my sister.
A complaint is never in isolation. It's engulfed by wanting to know more and what can be done to fix it. And there lies the biggest question of all: would I be happier if I never complained? Probably not.
Innocence, freedom, individualism, mobility - the belief that one can leave a constricting or violent history behind and remake yourself in a new form of your choosing - all part of the new economic migrant's dream. As a young boy who has ventured into the world believing that things are as they seem to be; that a person's story begin when they are born and their relations with other people when they meet them; that you can leave your home without fear of injury or loneliness because people everywhere are more or less alike.
How wrong, naive, churlish are these thoughts. There are times in life when good things happen unexpectedly. Recently I experienced one of those. In January, I got a call from an agent offering me a Technical Analyst position with Optus Communications. Aced the interview and got the position, I felt that a recovering carrier was absolutely essential to my recovering emotionally. And things had started to look up indeed. Apartment check, flatmate check, carrier check, health check - in short things were looking up. As Daniel Craig mentions in Layer Cake, "could taste it in my spit". Social life is despicable, but hey am learning golf.
Well, life has a manner in which it puts everything in perspective. Two weeks ago, I was mugged on my way home from work. Was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Amnesia - how very convenient. I was in ER, hospitalised, fractured, uncharted territory for the young lad. Then it hit me: it was so exciting, it was depressing. All the phone calls, cards, cookies and care. It could ruin my life, because I didn't want to be injured. And this one-off experience would make going back to normal life so much more difficult. Then again, it was a bittersweet experience I could live with.
Someone mentioned that I didn't complain throughout the ordeal. It got me thinking about how my life would be if I never complained. There are so many perks I'm missing out on. For instance, in a relationship. What's the reward for staying silent and being patient' Not breaking up.
Every time I meet the new boyfriend of ex-girlfriends, they are nothing like me. They don't seem difficult at all. I've always assumed it meant they weren't as interesting, but maybe they're interesting in a different way ' a less confrontational way.
The ex who I'm now friends with introduced me to her boyfriend last time i visited Bombay. As soon as I met him I could see why she's with him: he was exceptionally agreeable. Whenever she's spoken about why it works so well with him, it comes down to one thing: he doesn't ask questions.
No wonder I'll die alone. All I do is ask questions. And it's the root of all turmoil. Especially questions that provoke an internal search. 'What political party you belong with?' and 'What do you feel about the current Middle East situation?' Bad idea.
Especially after sex. Or when the TV is on. Or if the sun is out. Or if she's breathing oxygen. Questions that attempt to get information in general are never welcome. 'What are you thinking?' Doom. 'When is Howard going to resign?' Armageddon. The problem with these questions is, after time and perseverance, they invariably lead to an answer, which leads to a complaint.
And not answering is a mistake. It solves nothing. Or worse: an answer along the lines of 'You don't want to know.' Telling someone like me that I don't want to know is the verbal equivalent of sleeping with my sister.
A complaint is never in isolation. It's engulfed by wanting to know more and what can be done to fix it. And there lies the biggest question of all: would I be happier if I never complained? Probably not.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Musings
As I close my eyes, the mind grazes high,
The memories of the journey flashes by
Wondering, I ask myself again and again
Why and what is it that I am heading to?
And what is it that I am leaving, too.
A few friends may be here and there,
A few faces that barely care,
A few places not far away from here,
A few fears that I surpassed with the flair,
And a few fears that still persist to scare.
A few sad tears of matters gone so bad,
A few happy tears of the joys I had,
Success and failures that drove me mad,
Long days of desperate wait and vacant stare
And a few sweet moments not long but rare.
As I scan these different scenes of my life
I relive those ups and downs without strife
These have made me wonder what is there in store,
And so I shall never fail to realize meanwhile
That these memoirs make the trip so worthwhile.
As I close my eyes, the mind grazes high,
The memories of the journey flashes by
Wondering, I ask myself again and again
Why and what is it that I am heading to?
And what is it that I am leaving, too.
A few friends may be here and there,
A few faces that barely care,
A few places not far away from here,
A few fears that I surpassed with the flair,
And a few fears that still persist to scare.
A few sad tears of matters gone so bad,
A few happy tears of the joys I had,
Success and failures that drove me mad,
Long days of desperate wait and vacant stare
And a few sweet moments not long but rare.
As I scan these different scenes of my life
I relive those ups and downs without strife
These have made me wonder what is there in store,
And so I shall never fail to realize meanwhile
That these memoirs make the trip so worthwhile.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Losing in Style, Arsenal: a nation mourns
How Arsenal discovered an ugly truth about the Beautiful Game! They lost the Carling Cup final, despite playing better than Chelsea. They were knocked out of the FA cup, despite playing better than Blackburn Rovers over two matches. They have lost all chances of winning the Barclays Premiership, despite playing better than Manchester United, Chelsea and Liverpool. They are in danger of failing to qualify for the Champions League next season, despite playing better than all the clubs below them. And now they are out of Europe's premier club competition this season, despite playing better than PSV Eindhoven over two legs and playing better than all eight clubs that remain in the competition.
It's not really fair, is it? But then Arsenal's football was not better in terms of goals and victories and all that; it was better morally. Arsenal play the right way. They play with style and brio, with beautiful passes, with intricate patterns, with wit and charm. They also play with youth, plucked from the ranks and taught to seek and find greatness.
This season Arsenal produced a team of pure and dizzy talent, the distilled essence of football. They embodied every kind of footballing virtue. Question: does defeat in four competitions destroy the moral argument? Does rightness depend on victory? Or is there really a right way and wrong way to play? Is it better to lose the right way than win the wrong way?
How Arsenal discovered an ugly truth about the Beautiful Game! They lost the Carling Cup final, despite playing better than Chelsea. They were knocked out of the FA cup, despite playing better than Blackburn Rovers over two matches. They have lost all chances of winning the Barclays Premiership, despite playing better than Manchester United, Chelsea and Liverpool. They are in danger of failing to qualify for the Champions League next season, despite playing better than all the clubs below them. And now they are out of Europe's premier club competition this season, despite playing better than PSV Eindhoven over two legs and playing better than all eight clubs that remain in the competition.
It's not really fair, is it? But then Arsenal's football was not better in terms of goals and victories and all that; it was better morally. Arsenal play the right way. They play with style and brio, with beautiful passes, with intricate patterns, with wit and charm. They also play with youth, plucked from the ranks and taught to seek and find greatness.
This season Arsenal produced a team of pure and dizzy talent, the distilled essence of football. They embodied every kind of footballing virtue. Question: does defeat in four competitions destroy the moral argument? Does rightness depend on victory? Or is there really a right way and wrong way to play? Is it better to lose the right way than win the wrong way?
After one season in which Arsenal had the upper hand over United, Sir Alex Ferguson, the United manager, said that his team may have lost, but they played the better — ie, the more attractive — football. The comment of Arsene Wenger, the Arsenal manager, has gone into legend: "Everyone thinks he has the prettiest wife at home."
But this season, Arsenal really are the prettiest. None but the most besotted and uxorious of one-eyed fans can deny this. They are better than everyone else, but not good enough to win anything. Where does that leave us?
Well then, what does being the best, the prettiest and most morally perfect football team entail? It is not a question of good behaviour, keeping to the rules, not diving, not kicking opponents. Arsenal have been guilty of all these things, but that does not contradict the belief that they play "the right way".
No, a team that play "good" football are one that please the senses of the observers. They are just nicer to watch. There is unquestionably an aesthetic dimension to football. The famous Danny Blanchflower dictum — that the game is not about winning but about glory and doing things in style — still has a deep resonance.
In 1988, when Liverpool played Wimbledon in the FA Cup Final, people wrote that Liverpool were "playing for the good name of English football". Liverpool were morally good because they played a game based on passing and cute triangles. Wimbledon were morally bad because they lumped the ball up the middle at a beastly centre forward. One team were moral, one team were immoral. The immoral team won 1-0, proving what?
In the early 1980s, football people were outraged by the theory of POMO: the Position Of Maximum Opportunity — ie, whack the ball into the penalty area as many times as possible and it will end up in the net by sheer statistical inevitability. This was rejected by many as heresy, not just because it is less effective than pretty football, but because it is morally wrong.
Cesc Fàbregas, the heart and soul of the young and lovely Arsenal team, rebuked Mark Hughes, the Blackburn manager and a former Barcelona player, because his team — successful against Arsenal in the FA Cup replay — did not play "Barcelona football". As if this failure was a moral outrage.
Blackburn played defensively, sought to stifle and intimidate, imposed themselves as far as the laws and the referee would allow them. Is that immoral? Would they have been more moral if they had, despite lacking the playing resources, attempted to play like Barcelona (or, for that matter, Arsenal) and lost 4-0? You tell me. We all know that football has no marks for artistic impression, but as a neutral I still wanted Arsenal to win. I can argue long and hard and probably correctly that Arsenal's moral stance is utterly bogus, but I am still a sucker for glory and doing things in style.
We all are, except when we have partisanship to deal with. In the rugby union World Cup of 2003, England were criticised for their lack of style. Is that all you've got? Look at the bloody scoreboard, we replied. Style is for wimps, we've got Jonny and Jonno.
Yet, when England choose to kick a penalty rather than run it at Twickenham, there are always boos. The crowd wants victory, but the right way, with lots of running and passing and rolling mauls and line-breaking forwards. A bit of glory. So why aren't the Barbarians everyone's favourite rugby team? They always go for glory. But it doesn't convince us because we know that there is nothing at stake. It's not real, it's just a bit of fun. We want glory in the context of the search for big prizes and persuade ourselves that there is a moral rightness in that course.
There is a tendency to see all those who play extravagantly as morally right because they entertain us. But do we really want every athlete to be like Henri Leconte, a tennis player who cared little whether he won or lost so long as he went the pretty way? Ilie Nastase was adored at Wimbledon for his style and swagger; he was twice a finalist but doomed to lose. Pete Sampras, one of the all-time greats in all sports, was disliked because he was "boring"; this was seen by some as a moral failing.
In the 1960s, cricket became so attritional, so totally based on defeat-avoidance, that they had to invent a new form of the game. One-day cricket came about because the traditional version of the game had turned its back on style and glory. The primacy of one-day cricket in the sub-continent can be traced to the hideous excesses of negativity in Test matches orchestrated by Sunil Gavaskar, the India captain from the late 1970s to the mid1980s.
Logically, we must always support every athlete's right to seek victory in whatever legal fashion he chooses. Logically, we must accept that sport is only incidentally entertaining; that the only duty of the athlete is to struggle for victory with perfect sincerity; that when an athlete seeks to be an entertainer, he loses the sport in himself.
But all the same . . . Sobers, Best, Campese, Warne, Pelé, Maradona, McEnroe, Jayasuriya . . . Pietersen, Muralitharan, Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Robinson, Federer . . . yes, even Fàbregas, Henry, Denilson, at least to an extent. Style may not be a moral imperative in sport, but sport is more amusing for its presence. To say that style doesn't matter in sport does not mean that there is no style in sport. It only means that you lack this quality yourself.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
I hate money and I'm useless with it.
Only a few things separate us from the apes: 1) there's no direct ape equivalent of The Apprentice; 2) apes are hopeless at changing duvet covers (they pull them over their heads and panic because the sun's disappeared); and 3) apes don't use money. This third fact alone makes them vastly superior to humankind.
Money is the most terrible thing in the universe. It causes more stress, disputes and wars than religion, which ought to be impossible. Everything about it drives me up the pole, which is why I'm useless with it. I pay bills at the last minute, rarely check my bank balance, and get ripped off left, right and centre because I just can't bring myself to care about it. Friends gasp at my ineptitude. A few think me insane.
Immediate convenience. That's important. Not money. It's a wonder I bend down to pick up coins I've dropped. And it's nothing to do with how much money I have at any given moment. It's always been this way. In my early 20s, when I worked for peanuts in the university, I'd regularly take cabs to work because I'd overslept and couldn't wait for the bus. And at the end of the day, I'd often take another cab home because I was tired, thereby blowing my entire daily wage ferrying myself to and from a job I despised. This was, admittedly, astronomically stupid, but so what? I'm still alive, thanks to dumb luck.
As you might imagine, I'm incapable of haggling. I avoid it like beasts avoid fire, because any discussion about money depresses me into a coma. So my current situation is my worst nightmare - my day-to-day comfort is not under direct threat, and the only way out is to plunge headlong into a protracted financial negotiation. I live in a rented flat and the lease is about to run out in two months. The thought of moving genuinely makes me pray for death. Looking round flats, signing contracts, packing things up, lugging them around, sorting out the phones and the bills and the countless petty irritants - just crack me over the head with a paving stone and have done with it. Please. Anything but that.
Am earning some money and trying really hard to save. Folks want me to buy an apartment – quiet insistent on it too. Trouble is, I live in Sydney, where houses are a) satirically expensive and b) people crawl over themselves like rats, scraping each other's eyes out with their selfish, grasping claws at the sight of a halfway desirable property.
And as luck wouldn't have it, my place is slap bang in the middle of the catchment area for about 10,000 flouncey schools full of horrible, bawling little Hitlers called Josh and Jake and Jessica, every single one of whom will doubtless grow up to be as effortlessly brilliant with money as mummy and daddy, while I rot to mulch in the old folks' home equivalent of a pound shop, beaten and abused by underpaid care workers who will film my misery on their cameraphones and upload it to the internet for chuckles because I was too financially apathetic to sort out a pension.
Everyone has their success stories and secret formulas. Save here, invest there, do this, do that – I don’t want to do anything. When I see money in my account I panic – am I not being a good citizen by not spending this disposable income. Shouldn’t I be supporting the economy and making sure that the consumer confidence index is high by buying another pair of shoes.
... Dance the financial tango. Get your money's worth. Play the game.
But I hate the game. Hate it. It's a boring game, of interest only to the soulless. A fool and his money are soon parted. A bastard and his money are best friends. Financial negotiation is the opposite of music, of laughter, of sunshine, of ideas, of absolutely everything that makes life worth living. It's hell.
Do your worst, you awful, boring, terrible world of finance, you. Then leave me alone. For ever.
Only a few things separate us from the apes: 1) there's no direct ape equivalent of The Apprentice; 2) apes are hopeless at changing duvet covers (they pull them over their heads and panic because the sun's disappeared); and 3) apes don't use money. This third fact alone makes them vastly superior to humankind.
Money is the most terrible thing in the universe. It causes more stress, disputes and wars than religion, which ought to be impossible. Everything about it drives me up the pole, which is why I'm useless with it. I pay bills at the last minute, rarely check my bank balance, and get ripped off left, right and centre because I just can't bring myself to care about it. Friends gasp at my ineptitude. A few think me insane.
Immediate convenience. That's important. Not money. It's a wonder I bend down to pick up coins I've dropped. And it's nothing to do with how much money I have at any given moment. It's always been this way. In my early 20s, when I worked for peanuts in the university, I'd regularly take cabs to work because I'd overslept and couldn't wait for the bus. And at the end of the day, I'd often take another cab home because I was tired, thereby blowing my entire daily wage ferrying myself to and from a job I despised. This was, admittedly, astronomically stupid, but so what? I'm still alive, thanks to dumb luck.
As you might imagine, I'm incapable of haggling. I avoid it like beasts avoid fire, because any discussion about money depresses me into a coma. So my current situation is my worst nightmare - my day-to-day comfort is not under direct threat, and the only way out is to plunge headlong into a protracted financial negotiation. I live in a rented flat and the lease is about to run out in two months. The thought of moving genuinely makes me pray for death. Looking round flats, signing contracts, packing things up, lugging them around, sorting out the phones and the bills and the countless petty irritants - just crack me over the head with a paving stone and have done with it. Please. Anything but that.
Am earning some money and trying really hard to save. Folks want me to buy an apartment – quiet insistent on it too. Trouble is, I live in Sydney, where houses are a) satirically expensive and b) people crawl over themselves like rats, scraping each other's eyes out with their selfish, grasping claws at the sight of a halfway desirable property.
And as luck wouldn't have it, my place is slap bang in the middle of the catchment area for about 10,000 flouncey schools full of horrible, bawling little Hitlers called Josh and Jake and Jessica, every single one of whom will doubtless grow up to be as effortlessly brilliant with money as mummy and daddy, while I rot to mulch in the old folks' home equivalent of a pound shop, beaten and abused by underpaid care workers who will film my misery on their cameraphones and upload it to the internet for chuckles because I was too financially apathetic to sort out a pension.
Everyone has their success stories and secret formulas. Save here, invest there, do this, do that – I don’t want to do anything. When I see money in my account I panic – am I not being a good citizen by not spending this disposable income. Shouldn’t I be supporting the economy and making sure that the consumer confidence index is high by buying another pair of shoes.
... Dance the financial tango. Get your money's worth. Play the game.
But I hate the game. Hate it. It's a boring game, of interest only to the soulless. A fool and his money are soon parted. A bastard and his money are best friends. Financial negotiation is the opposite of music, of laughter, of sunshine, of ideas, of absolutely everything that makes life worth living. It's hell.
Do your worst, you awful, boring, terrible world of finance, you. Then leave me alone. For ever.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
How I hate Deepak Chopra
Different things spark off migraines in different people. An allergy to the smell of onions. A sharp strike to the temple with a refrigerated dessert-spoon. Kryptonite. That sort of thing.
For me, flickering vision and an abrupt and piercingly painful torsion of the optic nerve are the infallible signs of having received a press release announcing a new book by Mitch Albom, Paolo Coehlo or Deepak Chopra.
I have a conviction, perhaps irrational, but no less deeply felt than the Pope's belief in a benevolent and omnipotent God, that anyone who goes for this kind of tree-hugging hippie crap is a morally and intellectually defective human being.
The new one is from Chopra, the endocrinologist-turned-spiritual guru.
Mr Chopra, something of a jack of all trades, has written about the relationship between quantum physics and healing, has speculated freely about the origins of life on earth, and argued that a key move towards peace in the Middle East would be to open a branch of Disneyland. His ideas, we're told, are helping to change the way the entire world thinks about "emotional wellness". He is, in other words, a complete booby.
Now he seems to have decided that the Kama Sutra would benefit from being anointed by the Chopra brand. It's now Deepak Chopra's Kama Sutra. Sorry, ancient Sanskrit-writin' dudes!
Here's how the puff for the paperback edition puts it:
Deepak Chopra's Kama Sutra brings together India's greatest living writer and ambassador of culture, Deepak Chopra, and India's most cherished and well-known text, the Kama Sutra.
Acclaimed and international bestselling author Deepak Chopra explores the universal themes of spirituality and sexuality and their role in connecting lovers emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Deepak Chopra's loyalty to the original Kama Sutra and ability to find its sacredness makes this unique book a modern classic and a definitive version for generations to come.
The text also includes The Seven Spiritual Laws of Love, Deepak's intensive meditation and affirmation of simple, practical applications that partners can bring to their relationship to enhance and entice their intimacy.
Favourite phrases? "Acclaimed and international… ability to find its sacredness… unique book... enhance and entice…" Find that sacredness, and entice that ole intimacy: "he-e-e-e-re, intimacy, intimacy… that's a good little intimacy… just a bit closer… there's a good intimacy… ye-e-e-e-s."
Personally, I think Deepak does have something to contribute to our love lives. Make sex last longer by waiting until the crucial moment, and… thinking of Deepak Chopra! No good for me, of course. I have a headache
Different things spark off migraines in different people. An allergy to the smell of onions. A sharp strike to the temple with a refrigerated dessert-spoon. Kryptonite. That sort of thing.
For me, flickering vision and an abrupt and piercingly painful torsion of the optic nerve are the infallible signs of having received a press release announcing a new book by Mitch Albom, Paolo Coehlo or Deepak Chopra.
I have a conviction, perhaps irrational, but no less deeply felt than the Pope's belief in a benevolent and omnipotent God, that anyone who goes for this kind of tree-hugging hippie crap is a morally and intellectually defective human being.
The new one is from Chopra, the endocrinologist-turned-spiritual guru.
Mr Chopra, something of a jack of all trades, has written about the relationship between quantum physics and healing, has speculated freely about the origins of life on earth, and argued that a key move towards peace in the Middle East would be to open a branch of Disneyland. His ideas, we're told, are helping to change the way the entire world thinks about "emotional wellness". He is, in other words, a complete booby.
Now he seems to have decided that the Kama Sutra would benefit from being anointed by the Chopra brand. It's now Deepak Chopra's Kama Sutra. Sorry, ancient Sanskrit-writin' dudes!
Here's how the puff for the paperback edition puts it:
Deepak Chopra's Kama Sutra brings together India's greatest living writer and ambassador of culture, Deepak Chopra, and India's most cherished and well-known text, the Kama Sutra.
Acclaimed and international bestselling author Deepak Chopra explores the universal themes of spirituality and sexuality and their role in connecting lovers emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Deepak Chopra's loyalty to the original Kama Sutra and ability to find its sacredness makes this unique book a modern classic and a definitive version for generations to come.
The text also includes The Seven Spiritual Laws of Love, Deepak's intensive meditation and affirmation of simple, practical applications that partners can bring to their relationship to enhance and entice their intimacy.
Favourite phrases? "Acclaimed and international… ability to find its sacredness… unique book... enhance and entice…" Find that sacredness, and entice that ole intimacy: "he-e-e-e-re, intimacy, intimacy… that's a good little intimacy… just a bit closer… there's a good intimacy… ye-e-e-e-s."
Personally, I think Deepak does have something to contribute to our love lives. Make sex last longer by waiting until the crucial moment, and… thinking of Deepak Chopra! No good for me, of course. I have a headache
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Karuna
It's one of Buddha's words, Pali for compassion, for the immanence of all living things in each other, for the attraction of life for its likeness.
Teak is a relative of mint, tectona grandis, born of the same genus of flowering plant, but of a distaff branch presided over by that most soothing of herbs, verbena. It counts among its close kin many other fragrant and familiar herbs - sage, savour, thyme, lavender, rosemary and most remarkably holy basil, with its many descendants, green and purple, smooth - leaved and coarse, pungent and fragrant, bitter and sweet.
But nothing seems to have any shape for me. It's something you don't see until it's gone - the shapes that things have and the ways in which the people around you mould those shapes. I don't mean the big things - just the little ones. What you do when get up in the morning - the hundreds of thoughts that run through your head while you're brushing your teeth: "I have to tell you about the dream I had" - that sort of thing. Over the last few years I had someone to share these thoughts. Now, when I wake up in the morning those things still come back to me in just that way - I have to do this or that, for someone. Then I remember, No, I don't have to do any of those things; there's no reason to. And in an odd way, what you feel at those moments is not exactly sadness but a kind of disappointment. And that's awful too, for you say to yourself - is this the best I can do? No: this isn't good enough. I should cry - everyone says it's good to cry. But the feeling inside doesn't have an easy name: it's not exactly pain or sorrow - not right then. It feels more like the sensation you have when you sit down very heavily in a chair; the breath rushes out of your body and you find yourself gagging. It's hard to make sense of it - any of it. You want the pain to be simple, straightforward - you don't want it to ambush you in these roundabout ways, each morning, when you're getting up to do something else - brush your teeth or eat your breakfast...
I have known a lot of people in the short span of life. What comes back to haunt me, is the fact that someone told me that I will end up all alone, bitter and lonely. Am I on my way there...the march to existence with no purpose. The men or boys I have known as mates, colleagues, buddies, figure only as abstractions today. A faceless collectivity imprisoned in a permanent childhood - moody, unpredictable, fantastically brave, desperately loyal, prone to extraordinary excesses of emotion. Yet, I know it's all in the past. Watched a movie this afternoon which had a quote, "Salvation lies within." People of completely different background, existence, personality, come together - share experiences, create and destroy things and part ways. I suppose this is what life is supposed to be, a collection of an individuals experiences. Will I ever become a better person, or the dog is just waiting for its opportunity to strike. Shutting my eyes, am running hard and fast towards the unknown. Because, one thing which is known for a fact is that the one thing am not capable of is to return compassion. So many people in my life have been wonderfully kind to me, and in return I have been selfish, cruel, foolish and stupid. Teak - different yet useful, big yet protective, fruitless yet charitable.
I always wanted to be an elusive, unfathomable creature, a whipsmart Yale graduate and polymath who would speak fluent French and Japanese, would be conversant in politicial history and social anthropology, fly planes, direct charities, write music, play guitar and date power babes. Today, I present a defiantly reluctant front. I might be the essence of quiet civility, speaking in precisely meditated sentences about my craft with focused eyes and a furrowed brow. But what am I, and above all why am I? It's not about what who you are, but about what you can do or give to the society. Karuna is what I want to give...something I myself don't have.
It's one of Buddha's words, Pali for compassion, for the immanence of all living things in each other, for the attraction of life for its likeness.
Teak is a relative of mint, tectona grandis, born of the same genus of flowering plant, but of a distaff branch presided over by that most soothing of herbs, verbena. It counts among its close kin many other fragrant and familiar herbs - sage, savour, thyme, lavender, rosemary and most remarkably holy basil, with its many descendants, green and purple, smooth - leaved and coarse, pungent and fragrant, bitter and sweet.
But nothing seems to have any shape for me. It's something you don't see until it's gone - the shapes that things have and the ways in which the people around you mould those shapes. I don't mean the big things - just the little ones. What you do when get up in the morning - the hundreds of thoughts that run through your head while you're brushing your teeth: "I have to tell you about the dream I had" - that sort of thing. Over the last few years I had someone to share these thoughts. Now, when I wake up in the morning those things still come back to me in just that way - I have to do this or that, for someone. Then I remember, No, I don't have to do any of those things; there's no reason to. And in an odd way, what you feel at those moments is not exactly sadness but a kind of disappointment. And that's awful too, for you say to yourself - is this the best I can do? No: this isn't good enough. I should cry - everyone says it's good to cry. But the feeling inside doesn't have an easy name: it's not exactly pain or sorrow - not right then. It feels more like the sensation you have when you sit down very heavily in a chair; the breath rushes out of your body and you find yourself gagging. It's hard to make sense of it - any of it. You want the pain to be simple, straightforward - you don't want it to ambush you in these roundabout ways, each morning, when you're getting up to do something else - brush your teeth or eat your breakfast...
I have known a lot of people in the short span of life. What comes back to haunt me, is the fact that someone told me that I will end up all alone, bitter and lonely. Am I on my way there...the march to existence with no purpose. The men or boys I have known as mates, colleagues, buddies, figure only as abstractions today. A faceless collectivity imprisoned in a permanent childhood - moody, unpredictable, fantastically brave, desperately loyal, prone to extraordinary excesses of emotion. Yet, I know it's all in the past. Watched a movie this afternoon which had a quote, "Salvation lies within." People of completely different background, existence, personality, come together - share experiences, create and destroy things and part ways. I suppose this is what life is supposed to be, a collection of an individuals experiences. Will I ever become a better person, or the dog is just waiting for its opportunity to strike. Shutting my eyes, am running hard and fast towards the unknown. Because, one thing which is known for a fact is that the one thing am not capable of is to return compassion. So many people in my life have been wonderfully kind to me, and in return I have been selfish, cruel, foolish and stupid. Teak - different yet useful, big yet protective, fruitless yet charitable.
I always wanted to be an elusive, unfathomable creature, a whipsmart Yale graduate and polymath who would speak fluent French and Japanese, would be conversant in politicial history and social anthropology, fly planes, direct charities, write music, play guitar and date power babes. Today, I present a defiantly reluctant front. I might be the essence of quiet civility, speaking in precisely meditated sentences about my craft with focused eyes and a furrowed brow. But what am I, and above all why am I? It's not about what who you are, but about what you can do or give to the society. Karuna is what I want to give...something I myself don't have.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Are you a rigid PC or a flexible, creative Mac?
What this tendency of mine to segregate, classify and list also points to is another key division of our times - perhaps the most significant dichotomy in our society. In the great debate over whether or not you’re a PC or a Mac I know that I’m a Pentium-driven, neatly filed, inbox-cleared, spreadsheet-obsessive PC.
Over the past few weeks it has been impossible to escape an advertising campaign which features the comic partnership of Mitchell and Webb in which one (David Mitchell) plays the nerdy, pie-chart obsessed, virus-prone PC and the other (Robert Webb) represents the funkier, more freewheeling and flexible Mac.
Now I know that drawing inspiration from contemporary advertising campaigns marks, in many ways, a surrender to the soulless commercialisation of our times. But as a PC myself I’m not particularly averse to - indeed, I’m rather at home with - soulless commercialisation.
Which, sadly, puts me at odds with my flatmate. For while I am, in every respect, a PC - fussy, precise, never happier than when bringing administrative order to any aspect of our lives - he is a full-on Mac. He is creative, spontaneous, colourful, much better attuned to design concerns, easier to communicate with, much happier free-associating and having fun, than tied to the office, and overall much more human.
Now, happily, the divide between PCs and Macs is not as wide as it used to be. We can both use Microsoft Office and it’s possible to send e-mails between one and the other entirely freely. But while the formal process of communication couldn’t be easier, we’re still speaking slightly different languages and living out very different existences.
When I’m in meetings, as a PC, I take copious notes and then formulate a to-do list of desired outcomes at the end. When my flatmate is in meetings he treats the printed agenda much as a medieval monk would have treated a piece of vellum parchment - making an illuminated manuscript out of it with elegant floral doodles while simultaneously forming acute, novelistic impressions of the character of each of the participants.
He will bring to the meeting an artistic sensibility and come away from it with the raw material for further acts of creativity, as well as anecdotes to spice up a lunch-time gossip. I will leave the meeting with a tightly focused agenda, a reminder to self to now rejig appointments for the third weekend in September and mild acid reflux.
And talking of system malfunctions, one of the ways in which I am a pure PC and my flatmate is all Mac is the manner in which I am prone to all manner of viruses, like most hypochondriac males, while he enjoys the robust health of a more highly evolved creation.
The division between PC and Mac is not, however, simply a matter of gender. Hillary Clinton, for example, is a PC while both her husband Bill and her principal rival, Barack Obama, are Macs. She exudes the chilly efficiency of a machine politician while they communicate a creative spontaneity in which the division between work and play has been relaxed (indeed, in Bill’s case, the division between work and play became so relaxed that hearing that the President was on the job became no sort of reassurance at all for his wife).
And, talking of politicians, the PC/Mac divide easily transcends party and ideological divisions. If I am a PC, and I surely am, then I can recognise that Peter Costello is the pie-charting, spreadsheeting, organogram-designing, megabyte-memory PC of all PCs. Whereas both Tony Blair and Bob Hawke are Macs. Both of them, unlike Peter Costello, look as though they treat managing the work-life balance as a practical daily requirement rather than the title for a new pamphlet, and both of them, unlike Peter Costello, look as though they’re happier in conversation and out of a suit rather than on a podium and wearing a tie.
The PC/Mac dichotomy can, of course, be applied well beyond politics. Alex Ferguson is a PC, José Mourinho a Mac. Johnny Wilkinson is a PC, Kevin Pietersen a Mac. Kostya Tszyu is a PC, Anthony Mundine is a Mac. So far as I can see, there’s not a single person I know who can’t be slotted into one category or another. But then, of course, as a PC myself, I’m hard-wired to see it that way...
I’m a great believer in binary divides. Sheeps and goats. Left and right. White and Blue Collar. Punks and hippies. Dog-owners and cat-lovers. Almost everyone, with a little thought, can be classified as one or the other. Even those who have never strayed anywhere near a hunt, or who can’t afford any pet at all, are, spiritually, one or t’other. And I am only too happy to tell you who is which, using my patent process of analytical personality classification.
What this tendency of mine to segregate, classify and list also points to is another key division of our times - perhaps the most significant dichotomy in our society. In the great debate over whether or not you’re a PC or a Mac I know that I’m a Pentium-driven, neatly filed, inbox-cleared, spreadsheet-obsessive PC.
Over the past few weeks it has been impossible to escape an advertising campaign which features the comic partnership of Mitchell and Webb in which one (David Mitchell) plays the nerdy, pie-chart obsessed, virus-prone PC and the other (Robert Webb) represents the funkier, more freewheeling and flexible Mac.
Now I know that drawing inspiration from contemporary advertising campaigns marks, in many ways, a surrender to the soulless commercialisation of our times. But as a PC myself I’m not particularly averse to - indeed, I’m rather at home with - soulless commercialisation.
Which, sadly, puts me at odds with my flatmate. For while I am, in every respect, a PC - fussy, precise, never happier than when bringing administrative order to any aspect of our lives - he is a full-on Mac. He is creative, spontaneous, colourful, much better attuned to design concerns, easier to communicate with, much happier free-associating and having fun, than tied to the office, and overall much more human.
Now, happily, the divide between PCs and Macs is not as wide as it used to be. We can both use Microsoft Office and it’s possible to send e-mails between one and the other entirely freely. But while the formal process of communication couldn’t be easier, we’re still speaking slightly different languages and living out very different existences.
When I’m in meetings, as a PC, I take copious notes and then formulate a to-do list of desired outcomes at the end. When my flatmate is in meetings he treats the printed agenda much as a medieval monk would have treated a piece of vellum parchment - making an illuminated manuscript out of it with elegant floral doodles while simultaneously forming acute, novelistic impressions of the character of each of the participants.
He will bring to the meeting an artistic sensibility and come away from it with the raw material for further acts of creativity, as well as anecdotes to spice up a lunch-time gossip. I will leave the meeting with a tightly focused agenda, a reminder to self to now rejig appointments for the third weekend in September and mild acid reflux.
And talking of system malfunctions, one of the ways in which I am a pure PC and my flatmate is all Mac is the manner in which I am prone to all manner of viruses, like most hypochondriac males, while he enjoys the robust health of a more highly evolved creation.
The division between PC and Mac is not, however, simply a matter of gender. Hillary Clinton, for example, is a PC while both her husband Bill and her principal rival, Barack Obama, are Macs. She exudes the chilly efficiency of a machine politician while they communicate a creative spontaneity in which the division between work and play has been relaxed (indeed, in Bill’s case, the division between work and play became so relaxed that hearing that the President was on the job became no sort of reassurance at all for his wife).
And, talking of politicians, the PC/Mac divide easily transcends party and ideological divisions. If I am a PC, and I surely am, then I can recognise that Peter Costello is the pie-charting, spreadsheeting, organogram-designing, megabyte-memory PC of all PCs. Whereas both Tony Blair and Bob Hawke are Macs. Both of them, unlike Peter Costello, look as though they treat managing the work-life balance as a practical daily requirement rather than the title for a new pamphlet, and both of them, unlike Peter Costello, look as though they’re happier in conversation and out of a suit rather than on a podium and wearing a tie.
The PC/Mac dichotomy can, of course, be applied well beyond politics. Alex Ferguson is a PC, José Mourinho a Mac. Johnny Wilkinson is a PC, Kevin Pietersen a Mac. Kostya Tszyu is a PC, Anthony Mundine is a Mac. So far as I can see, there’s not a single person I know who can’t be slotted into one category or another. But then, of course, as a PC myself, I’m hard-wired to see it that way...
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
A non-shopping day: I would celebrate that
My cynicism about Valentine's Day is ancient and gnarled. It's not that I'm against celebratory days, not at all. We need more. It's just that this has become another in the endless series of cynical marketing fiestas that stud the year. It compares with Easter (festival of chocolate), Father's Day and Mother's Day (both devoted to the greeting card industry, with walk-on parts for golfing sweater manufacturers, gin distillers and market gardeners in the flower racket), Christmas (everything that can be bought and sold) and the new, wholly unabashed shopping festivals known as The Sales.
Oh yes, we do our duty, which is to trudge yet again to the shops, in this case for vile raspberry-coloured champagne, heart-shaped confectionary and so forth. But since shopping is what the country spends most of its time doing anyway, there is nothing special, or out of the ordinary, about it.
Wouldn't it be better to have new festivals that have nothing to do with buying things? There could be one day a year devoted to making up ancient quarrels - in person. That would be exciting. It would be full of high emotion, attempts at reconciliation going hopelessly wrong and confused debates about who was at fault, as if the country were suddenly dripping with real-life short stories.
Or, in this age of hyperactivity and stress, what about a day in which we all tried to stay in bed from dawn to dusk, doing absolutely nothing beyond a little gentle musing?
And I've always loved the idea of the Saturnalia, when roles were reversed. What about a topsy-turvy day, when city tycoons march out to man the Coles checkouts, parents are forced to obey their children, and the boy from Liverpool with the most Asbos becomes Home Secretary for 24 hours? There we go: Sorry Day, Snoozefest and Somersault Day.
My cynicism about Valentine's Day is ancient and gnarled. It's not that I'm against celebratory days, not at all. We need more. It's just that this has become another in the endless series of cynical marketing fiestas that stud the year. It compares with Easter (festival of chocolate), Father's Day and Mother's Day (both devoted to the greeting card industry, with walk-on parts for golfing sweater manufacturers, gin distillers and market gardeners in the flower racket), Christmas (everything that can be bought and sold) and the new, wholly unabashed shopping festivals known as The Sales.
Oh yes, we do our duty, which is to trudge yet again to the shops, in this case for vile raspberry-coloured champagne, heart-shaped confectionary and so forth. But since shopping is what the country spends most of its time doing anyway, there is nothing special, or out of the ordinary, about it.
Wouldn't it be better to have new festivals that have nothing to do with buying things? There could be one day a year devoted to making up ancient quarrels - in person. That would be exciting. It would be full of high emotion, attempts at reconciliation going hopelessly wrong and confused debates about who was at fault, as if the country were suddenly dripping with real-life short stories.
Or, in this age of hyperactivity and stress, what about a day in which we all tried to stay in bed from dawn to dusk, doing absolutely nothing beyond a little gentle musing?
And I've always loved the idea of the Saturnalia, when roles were reversed. What about a topsy-turvy day, when city tycoons march out to man the Coles checkouts, parents are forced to obey their children, and the boy from Liverpool with the most Asbos becomes Home Secretary for 24 hours? There we go: Sorry Day, Snoozefest and Somersault Day.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Q: Who will make me a perfect wife?
A: A woman divorced from everything I've been looking for in a girlfriend.
For the most of my life it has been a complete mystery to me how you choose a girlfriend. Over and over I would meet some disco minx at a party - noticeable because despite being in a room of screamingly drunk people she would be the loudest, most drunk person in the room - and for some reason, probably to do with being drunk and loud myself, I would find this devastatingly attractive.
Then, and mates in Brisbane will be familiar with this sitcom of stupidity, I would wake up the next morning, declare myself in love. A month later I'd be asking, "Are all women mad?" A month after that one would get the self-reflective,"What is it about me? Why do I always go for nutters?" And then, as the relationship hit three month of its doomed trajectory, we get the "That's it, I'm done with females" whine and have been in this state of grumpy singledom for ages now.
Now I think it is time to face reality. For goodness sake, even my new found frisbee coach is in love. Keeps renditioning his new found love and his intention to send flowers to the lucky girl for Valentine's Day. Its like saccharine coated disease everyone around me is smitten with. Despite the fact in every other area of life we assume that a day older will mean a day wiser, when it comes to women this does not seem to hold true. I assume that this year I am better at being a person than I was last year. I take it for granted that I will get better in my career. So, how come, despite 08-odd years of involvement with women, I seem to have learnt nothing about how to pick a girlfriend? Are we destined to all be slaves to our hearts and our loins for ever and ever? And if so, what a world of pain that is - to be ruled by the cock and the insane glimmer that is the attraction of a mad woman across a crowded bar.
No, it is the time to say, "Stop!" Just as I once had to accept that no matter how hard I tried I was never going to be able to master that most primitive musical instrument, the tabla, so now the time has come to admit that I am never going to have a clue on what it is that makes for a good girlfriend, and so I must give up on that as well. Instead, I've decided to up the ante, to take game to a whole new level - I have decided to look for a wife.
On the surface, this may look like an act of gross folly - like accepting that I'm never going to master the tabla, and yet decide to approach Ustad Zakir Hussain (the most famous classical tabla player in India today) to become my guru.
But I think it makes sense, If you can't find a girlfriend who isn't a nutter maybe it's the quest at fault, not the object of the quest - maybe it's unrealistic to expect women to be anything other than cocaine-addled sociopaths who live for shoes and parties, when you go out to meet them at parties and find the ones with really high heels doing coke in the loos particularly attractive. Clunk! The sound of penny dropping...
But how does one find a wife, exactly? Well, like everything else in modern life, if you want advice you head to the Internet. Despite being a clever idea originally thought up to held research scientists share data, one of the best thing about the web is the huge outlet it gives to human bitterness - and firmly within this category you will find the excellent website nomarriage.com (motto:"If it flies, floats or fucks, you are better off renting it"). Now, this may give the impression that the site is biased against the ultimate commitment, but in fact the author (one presumes a hugely bitter and massively overweight, divorced, Internet-porn addict) provides what I, a newcomer to wife searching, consider to be some useful tips.
His first one is,"Be selfish. Look for wifely qualities, not girlfriend qualities." And immediately, I'm thinking,"Yes, Yes, oh overweight lord of loneliness." How many times have I fallen in love with someone who was great at dancing but couldn't rustle up breakfast unless it involved a trip to Starbucks?
The next one is, "Never marry a woman who has the same career ambitions as you do." That's not an issue here, cause finding woman in IT and peace in Middle East are both non-existent. "Avoid anyone in therapy," he says, "she is getting 50 minutes a week of 'how to hate men' brainwashing. It's expensive and you'll be expected to pay." Check. "Fidelity is important; never go out with a woman who, even occasionally, goes clubbing 'with the girls." Noted.
Other qualities to look for are:"Not complaining, not being moody, not being mad, no drug addicts, never marry a woman whose father is lawyer, never marry a woman you don't fancy - marriage is a long time so there will be rows and frostiness, and at least if you can fuck and forget it'll stop you straying."
To which I would add a couple more; if you have an obsessive interest (be it music, fishing or mountaineering) it's essential that you future wife doesn't share this, otherwise when are you ever going to get away from her? She should have nice breasts - we're all human and, as someone once said,"We all need a nice cleavage to nestle into come a winter's evening." And most important of all, make sure that she is solvent so that when you buy a house together you can afford a garden shed.
Apart from that, I leave you with a quote.
"Women are life elephants. Everyone likes to look at them but no one likes to keep one." Well, maybe it's time to invest in a pachyderm.
A: A woman divorced from everything I've been looking for in a girlfriend.
For the most of my life it has been a complete mystery to me how you choose a girlfriend. Over and over I would meet some disco minx at a party - noticeable because despite being in a room of screamingly drunk people she would be the loudest, most drunk person in the room - and for some reason, probably to do with being drunk and loud myself, I would find this devastatingly attractive.
Then, and mates in Brisbane will be familiar with this sitcom of stupidity, I would wake up the next morning, declare myself in love. A month later I'd be asking, "Are all women mad?" A month after that one would get the self-reflective,"What is it about me? Why do I always go for nutters?" And then, as the relationship hit three month of its doomed trajectory, we get the "That's it, I'm done with females" whine and have been in this state of grumpy singledom for ages now.
Now I think it is time to face reality. For goodness sake, even my new found frisbee coach is in love. Keeps renditioning his new found love and his intention to send flowers to the lucky girl for Valentine's Day. Its like saccharine coated disease everyone around me is smitten with. Despite the fact in every other area of life we assume that a day older will mean a day wiser, when it comes to women this does not seem to hold true. I assume that this year I am better at being a person than I was last year. I take it for granted that I will get better in my career. So, how come, despite 08-odd years of involvement with women, I seem to have learnt nothing about how to pick a girlfriend? Are we destined to all be slaves to our hearts and our loins for ever and ever? And if so, what a world of pain that is - to be ruled by the cock and the insane glimmer that is the attraction of a mad woman across a crowded bar.
No, it is the time to say, "Stop!" Just as I once had to accept that no matter how hard I tried I was never going to be able to master that most primitive musical instrument, the tabla, so now the time has come to admit that I am never going to have a clue on what it is that makes for a good girlfriend, and so I must give up on that as well. Instead, I've decided to up the ante, to take game to a whole new level - I have decided to look for a wife.
On the surface, this may look like an act of gross folly - like accepting that I'm never going to master the tabla, and yet decide to approach Ustad Zakir Hussain (the most famous classical tabla player in India today) to become my guru.
But I think it makes sense, If you can't find a girlfriend who isn't a nutter maybe it's the quest at fault, not the object of the quest - maybe it's unrealistic to expect women to be anything other than cocaine-addled sociopaths who live for shoes and parties, when you go out to meet them at parties and find the ones with really high heels doing coke in the loos particularly attractive. Clunk! The sound of penny dropping...
But how does one find a wife, exactly? Well, like everything else in modern life, if you want advice you head to the Internet. Despite being a clever idea originally thought up to held research scientists share data, one of the best thing about the web is the huge outlet it gives to human bitterness - and firmly within this category you will find the excellent website nomarriage.com (motto:"If it flies, floats or fucks, you are better off renting it"). Now, this may give the impression that the site is biased against the ultimate commitment, but in fact the author (one presumes a hugely bitter and massively overweight, divorced, Internet-porn addict) provides what I, a newcomer to wife searching, consider to be some useful tips.
His first one is,"Be selfish. Look for wifely qualities, not girlfriend qualities." And immediately, I'm thinking,"Yes, Yes, oh overweight lord of loneliness." How many times have I fallen in love with someone who was great at dancing but couldn't rustle up breakfast unless it involved a trip to Starbucks?
The next one is, "Never marry a woman who has the same career ambitions as you do." That's not an issue here, cause finding woman in IT and peace in Middle East are both non-existent. "Avoid anyone in therapy," he says, "she is getting 50 minutes a week of 'how to hate men' brainwashing. It's expensive and you'll be expected to pay." Check. "Fidelity is important; never go out with a woman who, even occasionally, goes clubbing 'with the girls." Noted.
Other qualities to look for are:"Not complaining, not being moody, not being mad, no drug addicts, never marry a woman whose father is lawyer, never marry a woman you don't fancy - marriage is a long time so there will be rows and frostiness, and at least if you can fuck and forget it'll stop you straying."
To which I would add a couple more; if you have an obsessive interest (be it music, fishing or mountaineering) it's essential that you future wife doesn't share this, otherwise when are you ever going to get away from her? She should have nice breasts - we're all human and, as someone once said,"We all need a nice cleavage to nestle into come a winter's evening." And most important of all, make sure that she is solvent so that when you buy a house together you can afford a garden shed.
Apart from that, I leave you with a quote.
"Women are life elephants. Everyone likes to look at them but no one likes to keep one." Well, maybe it's time to invest in a pachyderm.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Confessions of a confused mind
I’ve learnt the hard way that there’s nothing I like about having my most personal experiences become anecdotal. There’s absolutely no spiritual upside for me in having a lot of strangers know about my life. But, still I continue speaking about my adventures and experiences.
Have you read that Hemingway story – Soldier’s Home? It’s about a soldier back from the first world war realising that sitting in places and telling people about the experiences he’s had over there is giving him this incredibly sick feeling, because he feels he’s sold out. That has kind of been my experience every time.
In Hemingway’s story, the character, Krebs, felt compelled to exaggerate his stories because he thought it was what people wanted to hear, and this desire to satisfy, to need to be listened to, resulted in the sickening feeling.
The feeling of having sold out has less to do with personal shame than the professional consequence. Everybody goes through certain experiences and, if you’re lucky, even with the worst things, you come out of them and they induce in you an altered perspective on the relative importance of things. With tragedy comes perspective. It dials the volume down on everything that stressed you out previously.
We’re very disconnected from fundamental things. Only wealthy cultures have the luxury of worrying about face creams that prevent ageing. Beauty, fashion – they’re the indulgences of the wealthiest cultures, and I think that along with that comes a tucking under of things you don’t want to confront. The more people sell you the idea of spiritual peace through what you drive and how you look and how you live, the less connected you become.
This theme is what attracted me to Fight Club. It still makes me laugh – that part where, if the character could just get that last unit from Ikea in place, he knew that he’ll be calm. It cracks me up. Fight Club was so much about the hilarious chagrin of recognising what a slave you are to consumer advertising – there’s no way you could not relate. How a certain part of modernity has bent people and left them extremely adrift and disconnected from the adult world they’re expected to engage in. It asks you to confront your feelings about what’s transpired, and confront mixed emotions. That is life – it is in equal measure beautiful and poetic, but it’s also painful.
The perception that I am serious, sombre and intimidating is largely due to my nerdy appearance and my deep interest in politics. Sometimes, I tap so effectively into the rage that it seems impossible that I do not inhabit this quality in real life. But my placid manner is one of my most salient features. Am soft-spoken, even-tempered; you can see me working out a thought, processing it like a philosopher. Even if I am talking about something I have talked about a million times before, I am trying to find a different way to say it.
Mountains beyond Mountains: The Quest of Dr Paul Farmer, a Man Who Would Cure the World, by Tracy Kidder, was one of the most significant reading experiences of his life. It had paradigm-shifting ideas about poverty and healthcare. Here was someone with no ambition for fame or money. His ambition is to fundamentally change the way people look at the most intrinsic problem – poverty and health. I came away from the book feeling it had vaulted him to the ranks of the Gandhis and Martin Luther Kings. You read that and you go, What the hell am I doing with my life?
I keep written blogs. When I reread them, sometimes I think you tell yourself you’ve learnt certain things – you know, those moments when you really see the gulf between the vision of yourself you project and the actuality. It’s pretty fascinating how much of our behaviour is based on compulsion rather than conscious choice. I think we can learn how to rewire our behaviour – just not as easily as we think. It takes twice as many passes through an experience as you think it will.
I’ve learnt the hard way that there’s nothing I like about having my most personal experiences become anecdotal. There’s absolutely no spiritual upside for me in having a lot of strangers know about my life. But, still I continue speaking about my adventures and experiences.
Have you read that Hemingway story – Soldier’s Home? It’s about a soldier back from the first world war realising that sitting in places and telling people about the experiences he’s had over there is giving him this incredibly sick feeling, because he feels he’s sold out. That has kind of been my experience every time.
In Hemingway’s story, the character, Krebs, felt compelled to exaggerate his stories because he thought it was what people wanted to hear, and this desire to satisfy, to need to be listened to, resulted in the sickening feeling.
The feeling of having sold out has less to do with personal shame than the professional consequence. Everybody goes through certain experiences and, if you’re lucky, even with the worst things, you come out of them and they induce in you an altered perspective on the relative importance of things. With tragedy comes perspective. It dials the volume down on everything that stressed you out previously.
We’re very disconnected from fundamental things. Only wealthy cultures have the luxury of worrying about face creams that prevent ageing. Beauty, fashion – they’re the indulgences of the wealthiest cultures, and I think that along with that comes a tucking under of things you don’t want to confront. The more people sell you the idea of spiritual peace through what you drive and how you look and how you live, the less connected you become.
This theme is what attracted me to Fight Club. It still makes me laugh – that part where, if the character could just get that last unit from Ikea in place, he knew that he’ll be calm. It cracks me up. Fight Club was so much about the hilarious chagrin of recognising what a slave you are to consumer advertising – there’s no way you could not relate. How a certain part of modernity has bent people and left them extremely adrift and disconnected from the adult world they’re expected to engage in. It asks you to confront your feelings about what’s transpired, and confront mixed emotions. That is life – it is in equal measure beautiful and poetic, but it’s also painful.
The perception that I am serious, sombre and intimidating is largely due to my nerdy appearance and my deep interest in politics. Sometimes, I tap so effectively into the rage that it seems impossible that I do not inhabit this quality in real life. But my placid manner is one of my most salient features. Am soft-spoken, even-tempered; you can see me working out a thought, processing it like a philosopher. Even if I am talking about something I have talked about a million times before, I am trying to find a different way to say it.
Mountains beyond Mountains: The Quest of Dr Paul Farmer, a Man Who Would Cure the World, by Tracy Kidder, was one of the most significant reading experiences of his life. It had paradigm-shifting ideas about poverty and healthcare. Here was someone with no ambition for fame or money. His ambition is to fundamentally change the way people look at the most intrinsic problem – poverty and health. I came away from the book feeling it had vaulted him to the ranks of the Gandhis and Martin Luther Kings. You read that and you go, What the hell am I doing with my life?
I keep written blogs. When I reread them, sometimes I think you tell yourself you’ve learnt certain things – you know, those moments when you really see the gulf between the vision of yourself you project and the actuality. It’s pretty fascinating how much of our behaviour is based on compulsion rather than conscious choice. I think we can learn how to rewire our behaviour – just not as easily as we think. It takes twice as many passes through an experience as you think it will.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Skill and Chance: Two Sides Of the Game of Life
A club owner in London charged with hosting poker games without a licence defended himself on the plea that poker is a game of skill, not chance. The UK's Gaming Act requires that clubs hosting games of 'chance' such as roulette get a licence to do so.
This is not required for games of 'skill' like chess. The jury was asked to deliberate and decide whether poker was a game of skill or chance, or a combination of both.
The question, of whether a game of cards is all about skill or chance has been the subject of debate for long. From a philosophical perspective, many see in it a striking parallel to the question of determinism vs free will: Are our lives governed by destiny — by the "cards" dealt to us — or is the final outcome of the game a testimony to our efforts, that is, in the manner in which we play those cards?
That brings us to the eternal question: Is life a game of chance or skill? Voltaire believed "Each player must accept the cards life deals him. But once they are in hand, he alone must decide how to play in order to win the game".
S Radhakrishnan echoed this thought while commenting on the Bhagavad Gita: "Life is like a game of bridge... We did not invent the game or design the cards. We did not frame the rules and we cannot control the dealing... to that extent, determinism rules. But we can play the game well or play it badly. A skilful player may have a poor hand and yet win the game. A bad player may have a good hand and yet make a mess of it... By exercising our choice properly, we can control steadily all the elements and perhaps eliminate altogether the determinism of nature".
The belief that we make or unmake ourselves extends from the atheist to the scholar of scriptures. We needn't worry about what's on the cards, since we can't change that. What we can do with what's on the cards is left to us, however. Which is not to ignore the factor of luck, or whatever else one might call it.
The defendants in the poker trial made the point that if a 'game of chance' includes all games where chance and skill both have a part to play, every possible game could be des-cribed as one.
In the game of life too, the element of chance may not be in our control, but our skills are. Indeed, having to play in a situation where you have little control is hardly limited to card games.
The next time you're watching a one-day international and a batsman walks into the stadium, ponder over what choices has he been given. He did not choose whether he would bat in the first session or the second; a toss of the coin and his captain's call in response did that. He did not know when the wicket would fall that required him to walk in. No one gave him a choice of weather, pitch, or quality of bowling that he could be subject to. He has no choice over who will bat at the other end nor predict how he will respond.
Yet, from the moment he steps in, he is expected to perform. No one gives us a choice in many things when we begin our innings in life either, but how we play the game is up to us.
A club owner in London charged with hosting poker games without a licence defended himself on the plea that poker is a game of skill, not chance. The UK's Gaming Act requires that clubs hosting games of 'chance' such as roulette get a licence to do so.
This is not required for games of 'skill' like chess. The jury was asked to deliberate and decide whether poker was a game of skill or chance, or a combination of both.
The question, of whether a game of cards is all about skill or chance has been the subject of debate for long. From a philosophical perspective, many see in it a striking parallel to the question of determinism vs free will: Are our lives governed by destiny — by the "cards" dealt to us — or is the final outcome of the game a testimony to our efforts, that is, in the manner in which we play those cards?
That brings us to the eternal question: Is life a game of chance or skill? Voltaire believed "Each player must accept the cards life deals him. But once they are in hand, he alone must decide how to play in order to win the game".
S Radhakrishnan echoed this thought while commenting on the Bhagavad Gita: "Life is like a game of bridge... We did not invent the game or design the cards. We did not frame the rules and we cannot control the dealing... to that extent, determinism rules. But we can play the game well or play it badly. A skilful player may have a poor hand and yet win the game. A bad player may have a good hand and yet make a mess of it... By exercising our choice properly, we can control steadily all the elements and perhaps eliminate altogether the determinism of nature".
The belief that we make or unmake ourselves extends from the atheist to the scholar of scriptures. We needn't worry about what's on the cards, since we can't change that. What we can do with what's on the cards is left to us, however. Which is not to ignore the factor of luck, or whatever else one might call it.
The defendants in the poker trial made the point that if a 'game of chance' includes all games where chance and skill both have a part to play, every possible game could be des-cribed as one.
In the game of life too, the element of chance may not be in our control, but our skills are. Indeed, having to play in a situation where you have little control is hardly limited to card games.
The next time you're watching a one-day international and a batsman walks into the stadium, ponder over what choices has he been given. He did not choose whether he would bat in the first session or the second; a toss of the coin and his captain's call in response did that. He did not know when the wicket would fall that required him to walk in. No one gave him a choice of weather, pitch, or quality of bowling that he could be subject to. He has no choice over who will bat at the other end nor predict how he will respond.
Yet, from the moment he steps in, he is expected to perform. No one gives us a choice in many things when we begin our innings in life either, but how we play the game is up to us.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
No pain no gain (and no point)
On the surface the human being appears to be a flawed design. Obviously our brains are magnificent and our thumbs enable us to use spanners. Something an elephant, for instance, cannot do.
However, there seems to be something wrong with our stomachs. It doesn’t matter how many pints of refreshing beer we cram into them, they always want just one more roast potato. And then, instead of ejecting all the excess fat, they feed it to our hearts and veins, and we end up all dead.
Of course, we can use willpower to counter these demands, but this makes us dull and pointless. You need only look at the number of people in lonely hearts columns who neither drink nor smoke to know I’m right. If they did, they’d have a husband. It’s that simple.
What I tend to do when it comes to the business of being fit is not bother. I eat lots, and then I sit in a chair. The upside to this is that I have a happy family and many friends. The downside is that I wobble and wheeze extensively while going to the fridge for another chicken drumstick.
Unfortunately, all this has to stop because am trying to ape the white man. And that if it all goes right, I may have a healthy body.
Last week then, I went swimming in the ocean. The idea was to move my body until the shoulders were screaming so loudly that they are actually audible.
Eventually, that didn't go according to plan, I’d not made enough electricity to power Glasgow and I’d not reached my goal, so I tried to turn around. But it was no good. My magnificent brain was so stunned by what had just happened that it had lost control of my legs. I also felt dizzy and sick. Fondly, I also imagined that I had a tingling in my left arm and chest pains.
Part of the problem is that to go on this new body drive, I must be indulging myself in such activies religiously. This means losing a stone so I have been living on a diet of soups and cereals, which simply doesn’t provide enough calories to rock back and forth in my conservatory for half a day.
Now, one of the things I should explain at this point is that I am always hugely enthusiastic about new projects, but only for a very short time. If I was to get fit and thin, it needed to be done fast, before I lost interest, so once some feeling had returned to my legs, I went for a swim again.
All this has made me dull, thick and, because there’s no beer or wine in my system at night, an even bigger insomniac. And all the while I have this sneaking suspicion that what I’m doing is biologically unhealthy.
Pain is designed to tell the body something is wrong and that you’d better do something fast to make it go away. So why would you get on a tread machine and attempt to beat what God himself has put there as a warning? That’s like refusing to slow down when an overhead gantry on the motorway says “Fog”.
Today, then, my magnificent brain is questioning the whole philosophy of a fitness regime. If God had meant us to have a six-pack, why did He give us the six-pack? In the olden days, people had to run about to catch deer so they all had boy-band torsos and good teeth.
But now, we Darwin to work in a car. Trying to look like a 12th century African is as silly as a seal trying to regrow its legs.
No really. The thing about evolution is that each step along the way has a point. Cows developed udders so they could be plugged into milking machines. And humans developed the remote control television so they could spend more time sitting down.
Fitness fanatics should take a lead from nature. Nobody looks at water and suggests it would be more healthy if it spent 20 minutes a day trying to flow uphill and nobody suggests a lion could catch more wildebeest if it spent less of its day lounging around.
Plainly, then, our stomachs are designed to demand food and feed fat to our arteries for a reason. I don’t know what the reason might be but I suspect it may have something to do with global warming. Everything else does.
On the surface the human being appears to be a flawed design. Obviously our brains are magnificent and our thumbs enable us to use spanners. Something an elephant, for instance, cannot do.
However, there seems to be something wrong with our stomachs. It doesn’t matter how many pints of refreshing beer we cram into them, they always want just one more roast potato. And then, instead of ejecting all the excess fat, they feed it to our hearts and veins, and we end up all dead.
Of course, we can use willpower to counter these demands, but this makes us dull and pointless. You need only look at the number of people in lonely hearts columns who neither drink nor smoke to know I’m right. If they did, they’d have a husband. It’s that simple.
What I tend to do when it comes to the business of being fit is not bother. I eat lots, and then I sit in a chair. The upside to this is that I have a happy family and many friends. The downside is that I wobble and wheeze extensively while going to the fridge for another chicken drumstick.
Unfortunately, all this has to stop because am trying to ape the white man. And that if it all goes right, I may have a healthy body.
Last week then, I went swimming in the ocean. The idea was to move my body until the shoulders were screaming so loudly that they are actually audible.
Eventually, that didn't go according to plan, I’d not made enough electricity to power Glasgow and I’d not reached my goal, so I tried to turn around. But it was no good. My magnificent brain was so stunned by what had just happened that it had lost control of my legs. I also felt dizzy and sick. Fondly, I also imagined that I had a tingling in my left arm and chest pains.
Part of the problem is that to go on this new body drive, I must be indulging myself in such activies religiously. This means losing a stone so I have been living on a diet of soups and cereals, which simply doesn’t provide enough calories to rock back and forth in my conservatory for half a day.
Now, one of the things I should explain at this point is that I am always hugely enthusiastic about new projects, but only for a very short time. If I was to get fit and thin, it needed to be done fast, before I lost interest, so once some feeling had returned to my legs, I went for a swim again.
All this has made me dull, thick and, because there’s no beer or wine in my system at night, an even bigger insomniac. And all the while I have this sneaking suspicion that what I’m doing is biologically unhealthy.
Pain is designed to tell the body something is wrong and that you’d better do something fast to make it go away. So why would you get on a tread machine and attempt to beat what God himself has put there as a warning? That’s like refusing to slow down when an overhead gantry on the motorway says “Fog”.
Today, then, my magnificent brain is questioning the whole philosophy of a fitness regime. If God had meant us to have a six-pack, why did He give us the six-pack? In the olden days, people had to run about to catch deer so they all had boy-band torsos and good teeth.
But now, we Darwin to work in a car. Trying to look like a 12th century African is as silly as a seal trying to regrow its legs.
No really. The thing about evolution is that each step along the way has a point. Cows developed udders so they could be plugged into milking machines. And humans developed the remote control television so they could spend more time sitting down.
Fitness fanatics should take a lead from nature. Nobody looks at water and suggests it would be more healthy if it spent 20 minutes a day trying to flow uphill and nobody suggests a lion could catch more wildebeest if it spent less of its day lounging around.
Plainly, then, our stomachs are designed to demand food and feed fat to our arteries for a reason. I don’t know what the reason might be but I suspect it may have something to do with global warming. Everything else does.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Sydney Summer '07
Summer is acting like a seductress - the great undresser of people of all shapes and sizes. As summer settles across the land, a certain wistfulness invades the mind. A longing for other times, a sweet nostalgia both melancholy and pleasurable, like the takes of a biscuit recalled across the decades: a remembrance of things past.
Well, am in a confessional mood. Women have nice friends. They listen to each other. They empathize and weep for each other’s woes. They talk honestly about sex. They do not, for example, lie to each other about how big their clitorises are or pretend to have lost their virginity to the au pair when they were 12 or so as to make their friends feel small and miserable and childlike. Men’s mates, on the other hand, just talk. They don’t listen. They wait for you to finish talking so they can say something better. This is because men are boring. Men talk about football and beer. They are interested only in cars and tits and…no, just cars and tits.
Men compete. Men tell jokes to make themselves feel good, not to make you laugh. With mates you spar and occasionally giggle at shallow things. You argue about ideology and international politics if you are educated, and about 4-4-2 (football) if you’re not. But the level of human interaction is the same. Women I have met three times know me better than men I’ve known since I was ten. When things go wrong in your life you go out with your mates and you get wasted. You get wankered, fucked up, mullered, caned, schindlered, shindered and shitfaced and then you have another drink and you think of more words for the only thing you ever do together. But you don’t share feelings. And they don’t give a toss, really. Hence, cherish the mates you have and try to grasp the joys of life with both hands.
‘The horse of time is galloping fast: let us see where he halts.
Neither is the hand on the reins nor the foot in the stirrup.’
PS. Am part on a infamous statistic which one would have loved to avoid. Despite the 'Beach Closed' signs at the Tamarama Beach, yours truly dived in and headed straight into the rip. To put it straight the Surf live savers' were to the rescue. Am embarrassed as hell to confess. That moment stuck in the rip, was life supposed to flash in front of my eyes - because the salt water made visibility quiet difficult. Aah well, yet another tale to an eventful summer.
Summer is acting like a seductress - the great undresser of people of all shapes and sizes. As summer settles across the land, a certain wistfulness invades the mind. A longing for other times, a sweet nostalgia both melancholy and pleasurable, like the takes of a biscuit recalled across the decades: a remembrance of things past.
Well, am in a confessional mood. Women have nice friends. They listen to each other. They empathize and weep for each other’s woes. They talk honestly about sex. They do not, for example, lie to each other about how big their clitorises are or pretend to have lost their virginity to the au pair when they were 12 or so as to make their friends feel small and miserable and childlike. Men’s mates, on the other hand, just talk. They don’t listen. They wait for you to finish talking so they can say something better. This is because men are boring. Men talk about football and beer. They are interested only in cars and tits and…no, just cars and tits.
Men compete. Men tell jokes to make themselves feel good, not to make you laugh. With mates you spar and occasionally giggle at shallow things. You argue about ideology and international politics if you are educated, and about 4-4-2 (football) if you’re not. But the level of human interaction is the same. Women I have met three times know me better than men I’ve known since I was ten. When things go wrong in your life you go out with your mates and you get wasted. You get wankered, fucked up, mullered, caned, schindlered, shindered and shitfaced and then you have another drink and you think of more words for the only thing you ever do together. But you don’t share feelings. And they don’t give a toss, really. Hence, cherish the mates you have and try to grasp the joys of life with both hands.
‘The horse of time is galloping fast: let us see where he halts.
Neither is the hand on the reins nor the foot in the stirrup.’
PS. Am part on a infamous statistic which one would have loved to avoid. Despite the 'Beach Closed' signs at the Tamarama Beach, yours truly dived in and headed straight into the rip. To put it straight the Surf live savers' were to the rescue. Am embarrassed as hell to confess. That moment stuck in the rip, was life supposed to flash in front of my eyes - because the salt water made visibility quiet difficult. Aah well, yet another tale to an eventful summer.
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