The Self-made Rage

Rage! A bitter pill
When one's rage is cast oneself
Fruit of own free will
Yet set one's purpose 'gainst itself
Choices made, action taken
Backfired, brought undone
Though remembered, now forsaken
Rage still, done is done.
Act in folly, repent at leisure
Caught against uncaring fate
My own fault, by every measure
So it's myself that I must hate.

E-Rudd-icated

The brutal denouement to Kevin Rudd's term as Prime Minister puts an exclamation mark beside many points.

First, it marks Australia's first female Prime Minister, and there will be none who now question her killer instinct.

Second, it reinforces that power in the ALP is still governed by factionalism. Whilst Kevin Rudd lack of factional alignment initially helped him to become leader, it ultimately consigned him to his political grave.

Thirdly, shockingly, this sudden political execution marks the victory of the media over the policymakers they ostensibly report on. The news media have consistently agitated against Mr Rudd, waging a hate-filled vendetta against the man that dared defy them. Now they have their prize.

I hope that Australia is ready for the brave new world of government by media. Disturbingly, they are getting a taste for it.

Our Kevin

With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe. Sorry dude, I butchered your poem.

Once upon a midyear needy, Twiggy pondered, great and greedy,
Over many a profitable mine of gold and iron ore—
While he plotted, neatly mapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the office door.
“’Tis some investor,” he muttered, “tapping at my office door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Soon Fortescue’s gold grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Twiggy said, “Dear sir, truly your investment I implore;
For the fact is I am racking, so much money up from ransacking,
Our own country’s natural trappings, trappings of such precious ore,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” - here he opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Open here he flung the shutter, when, with much of spin and splutter,
In there stepped a stately Kevin of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; nor mining magnates obeyed he;
But, with demeanour slightly shady, haunched beside the office door -
Haunched upon a bust of Howard just beside the office door -
Haunched, and taxed, and nothing more.

Then this spectacled man beguiling Twiggy’s fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the tax measures he bore,
”Though thy tax be law to leaven, it,” Twiggy said, “will be no Heaven.
Ghastly grim and ancient Kevin now claiming my rightful ore—
Tell me when thee shall return this share of super-profitable ore!”
Quoth our Kevin, `Nevermore.'

Twiggy marvelled this unpopular man to here his answer stop,
Though his discourse little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For no living human being could have ever helped agreeing
That Kevin would be seeing none of his precious ore—
By a tax or gift or mutual trust none of his precious ore,
Neither now nor nevermore.

But our Kevin, sitting lonely by the broken bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his plans in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing on super had he uttered - not on infrastructure started -
Twiggy scarcely more than muttered “Ministers have gone before -
I will have him voted out, and super profits will be restored.”
Quoth our Kevin, `Nevermore.'

Then, the whole debate grew denser, driven by an unseen censor,
Swung by editor’s whose ethics tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' cried Twiggy, “my money lent thee – for these projects I have sent thee
Over five percent – plenty of my profits from this ore!
Enough, oh enough taxation, as it always was before!”
Quoth our Kevin, `Nevermore.'

”Profit!” cried Twiggy, “isn’t evil! – my profit, you Labor devil! -
Whether treasury, or whether treasured votes brought thee to my door,
Unpopular but all puffed up, to this desert I’ve dug up-
Lift this tax, a total stuff up – or I will go offshore -
I will – I will go to China! – and take our profits offshore!”
Quoth our Kevin, `Nevermore.'

And our Kevin, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
By the hollow bust of Howard just beside the office door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a public servant’s scheming,
And the review through him streaming throws his tax upon the ore;
Twiggy’s profits from this tax that now lies upon the ore
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Politics

The word ‘politics’ is derived from the Greek polis, meaning both outraged and ignorant. Simultaneously. True to its roots, modern politics polarises opinions generally between two extremes of ignorance.

Hardcore lefties believe that everyone should enjoy bleeding through the wallet for the sake of those who work less hard. Thus, everyone can be equally lazy, and those that continue to work for the sake of their fellow man can be safely categorised as mentally ill.

Similarly, the leading edge of the right wing supposes that any given business should be quite free to suck the financial blood from as many people as practicable. In that way, wealth is channelled into the organizations that will best look after it, before trickling down to benefit the initially less well off. Much like the blood of a Romanian peasant village is nicely channelled into a vampire, and trickles down his chin for the town dog.

Sensibly, most modern politicians balance these competing ideologies by sucking taxpayers mostly dry for their own ends, and then giving business free reign over sloppy seconds. Interestingly, this process generates debate, which is formed from another Greek word, meaning hot air.

There are, among us, people who actually believe that they know what they’re talking about when it comes to politics. These people will carefully weigh the arguments emanating from both sides, note the faint whiffs of gas in their allegedly clean emissions, and present a measured conclusion about the irrelevant issue at hand.

Then, there are the people that vote.

In Australia, voting is not just a right, but an obligation, which is both excellent and horrific. On the one hand, governments are forced to govern for all Australians. On the other hand, governments are obliged to appeal to all Australians in order to get into office in the first place. There are few things more horrifying when encountering an utter moron of the Australian persuasion than realising first, that they can vote, second, that they must vote, and finally that the politicians who run our country must appeal to said moron for their precious vote! Here, one begins to understand the origins of the TV ads saying ‘Me good. Him bad. Vote me, or Asian hordes invade in leaky boats.’ – and is left to hope only that the moron in question doesn’t breed.

Sadly, the Liberal party of late has proven significantly better at appealing to the leaky boats are bad brigade, and thus we are left with the seemingly realistic chance that Tony Abbott, the Arch-Moron, will be elected to the land’s highest useful office.

Which is Greek for ‘get in your leaky boat and come to Greece, while there’s still time’.

Prison

I live my life trapped in a metal tube.

Occasionally, if I've been good, I'm released for a short time. It always feels good to stretch out my aching legs, and uncrimp my back.

But the funny thing is, that after I've had my all too brief respite, squishing into the tube once more is so much worse. I try to console myself, reminding myself that other people are trapped inside tubes too, and other things even worse than tubes, like boxes. Even when it seems that other people get more time out of their confinements than I do, I tell myself that its all in my head.

After all, if we're all miserable together, then its not so bad, right?

Right?

Trains are a Decivilising Influence

I don't think I'm alone in travelling an hour to work on the train. In fact, I know I'm not alone, because the damn train is overflowing with like-minded people. And it's bad for our culture.

At first, one might enjoy a certain sense of community on the train. We're all in it together! We can pull through this latest delay. One might share a conspiratorial dig with another commuter, at how the latest unforeseen problem is somehow exactly the same as the unforeseen problem that happened yesterday. Shared discomfort, shared experience, shared bond.

However, in the long run, trains break civilisation.

As trains get more and more crowded, the competition for seats grows heated. The frequency of cancellations, breakdowns and delays grows, because the system can't cope with the numbers of people using it. And the people that subject themselves to the system are driven insane.

In the back of my mind, I know that I endure the crowded trains of my own free will. I know that if I just got a job closer to home, or moved closer to work, or something, then I wouldn't need to catch a train. And so I put up with the privations of the public transport system, because I have failed to make a better solution elsewhere.

But, that fact doesn't stop me hating it. It merely helps me tolerate putting myself into a situation that I despise. And I'm sure that's true for a large number of people that catch the train daily. In short, everyone hates the trains, yet catches them anyway, because it seems preferable to the other alternatives.

So of a morning, or afternoon, too many people get together in too small a space to do something that they all hate. Frankly, it's a wonder that more things don't happen.

What does happen is that regard for one's neighbour vanishes. When a seasoned traveller enters the door of a peak hour train, humanity is left on the platform. If a seat is available, first through the blocks claims it. On my line, it is almost unheard of for a seat to be given up for someone in more need.

I gave my seat up this morning, but not because I wanted to, or even because I thought it was the right thing to do. I gave my seat up to a middle-aged woman who was of the opinion that my four year-old daughter (whose ticket I paid for, and who sometimes attends a kinder near my work) did not deserve a seat when full-fare paying passengers, such as her good self, did not have that luxury. So I stood to defuse an argument.

If people were as consistently rude through their daily lives as they are on the train, civilisation would cease to exist.

At least we would all be savages together.

Time

... waits for no man, and wastes for most.

I have less than two hours left of my twenties. So naturally, the best possible way to spend the sharply limited coin of my youth is to start a blog.

After all, what I've really longed for is a means to simply spray words and thoughts into the ether, regardless of whether no-one is listening. Especially if no-one is listening.

Is there something liberating about speaking without an audience? Certainly, if I were to pontificate into thin air, while people went about their business contentedly ignoring me, I would be thought mad. I get tired of talking at parties when it becomes clear that no-one is paying me the slightest attention.

And yet, spraying empty ramblings and voiceless thoughts into the empty Empyrean frees one from the terrible burden of making sense. Cohesion need not apply. The point is hardly required. The thought, the communique, the word... simply is.

So in a sense, then, the blog epitomises the world from which it was born: essentially pointless, devoid of meaning, yet extant all the same.

For when we exist, what else need there be?

Under 100 minutes now. A slightly larger number of years beckons. Tempted as I am to count them down, I shall soon toss them on the altar of Morpheus.

In this way I will soon have passed youth for something else, equally devoid of intrinsic meaning.

Perhaps I have wasted my time.

Yet time enjoyed is not time wasted.

Time will always be there, waiting. It is life that does not wait, and one must not waste.