~ a mould of note

These last weeks, my mentality has been feverishly occupied.

Many of my ideas have sunk, slowly, like a poisonous dustfall through the Glimmung’s phantasmagoric ocean, past the sunken cathedral of aeons past - and still deeper to that place where bad thoughts go to die.

But some have served to feed the ever burgeoning Encyclopaedia of Nonesuch. Choices for the name of my protagonist have been whittled down from about twenty to two: Alsus and Alsace. At present I am leaning towards the latter.

Alsace has a new tutor, a tall unsmiling man named Northy, who is more bodyguard than pedagogue - sent from afar by Alsace’s father, Ashen, as the political situation rapidly deteriorates. Touched while still a babe, Northy is formed from canon-tree wood. Another new character has emerged: Jequirity Pea, a girl from a local tribe of Emeraldim whose tattoos - with their eldritch geometries - strike to the heart of Alsace's’ sexual instinct. Jequirity is the only person with the ability to perceive Almathea, the blue spirit who walks behind Alsace. Jequirity, like all women of the Emeraldim has pale green teeth and an intriguing tablier Egyptien ...

But now, to the point:

Please observe this section of soft refrigerated tofu, abandoned for an indeterminate period in a zone reserved for non-preferred mustards, 99% fat-free French salad dressing, blue cheese salad dressing and Outback Brand lime, chilli and ginger sauce.


Mould comes in many colours - green, grey, blue etc. – which are often specific to the substance on which it grows. But upon this block of tofu there appeared an outcrop of almost fluorescent purple, which my camera could not perfectly reproduce. I made repeated attempts with different backgrounds, in various light conditions, but you’ll have to trust me that it was even brighter, even more purple and iridescent than it appears in these images.

Purple mould. Livid ultraviolet mould. Perhaps I have seen too little rancid tofu in my time, but I do find this extraordinary.

I ask myself, since the species appears so unnatural, could it perhaps be unnatural. Might some outrageous additive have spurred a providential mutation?

Further to the dreadful food-industry practices I described in a previous post, some recently announced Chinese food safety protocols have outlawed a swathe of other stomach-turning activities. Boron (among other things, an insecticide) has been used to increase the elasticity of meatballs and noodles. Formaldehyde and/or lye are routinely ‘added to water in which seafood is soaked to make the produce appear fresher and bigger’. Also banned, interestingly, is the traditional use of ‘an addictive substance made from the poppy plant ... used in hot pot, a Chinese dish where meat, vegetables and tofu are cooked at the table’.

In a culture where food colourings seem interchangeable with industrial dyes, increased regulation is certainly good news but, typically, I have veered from the subject of my post: this novel and uncommonly beautiful mycelium.


I won’t prattle on further, except to pose a series of questions.

Is the steady increase in the size of the strawberry a reflection on our society? Perhaps even on our humanity? What is the meaning behind our urge to force the species so far beyond its natural size? This very day, if one wished, one could go out and purchase a strawberry approaching the size of an apple. Why have we worked so hard to grant ourselves this dubious boon? What lies behind this strange imperative?


As the strawberry bloated under the devious hands of the food-scientists, initially the flavour did not keep pace – but now this hurdle seems to have been overcome. The hydrocephalic supermarket strains are becoming as sweet and densely-flavoured as the strawberries of yesteryear – though not, of course, the wild strawberry, which now tastes like an entirely different species.

As the concept of the punnet becomes increasingly ridiculous, broad trays of strawberries are becoming more common. Soon perhaps, we will purchase them in something akin to egg-cartons. Commercial Fruit Behemoths will develop a hardier skin, allowing the strawberry to enter the aisles, if not of golden delicious and fuji, then of the stone-fruit which it has already begun to dwarf.

And, as their genomes are mapped and turned inside-out, will raspberries and blueberries also become subject to the same process of forced gigantism?

~ the reluctant herbalist

Although I think of myself as a staunch rationalist, some of the things I do don’t quite fit the picture. For starters, I’ve always been addicted to the emotional thrill one gets from certain moments in sport, film, music and politics...

Yesterday morning I was walking around carrying dream-like expectations in my heart. Could America again be something other than a villain? With Obama in the van, it seems possible. But on what am I judging that? Probably some propaganda spillage. Media bullets aimed at wavering voters in marginal American states which hit me instead. Yet I was certainly not the only one ... And this morning the US seems like a wholly different land.

Sometimes I just take it on trust and hope and faith. Because it’s so important that I mollycoddle my liver, my ears are open to tall tales of herbs that can protect or nourish it. Or even ‘aid in the secretion of bile’.

Western medicine recognises these substances, but rarely recommends them. You are left relying on the wisdom of the naturopathy industry which is veined with homeopathy, witchcraft, Ayurvedic, Chinese and Thelemic medicines, and a whole lot of other things which, though interesting, aren’t strictly evidence based science, and which provide green fields for mountebanks and quacksalvers.

Never mind, I’ve decided to trust Microgenics. I’m fairly certain what they sell is actually Milk Thistle. And they’re one of the few companies that supply the high dosages used in clinical trials. The medical establishment does take the active ingredient, silibinin, seriously. After all, House even mentioned it once, (albeit at a moment of desperation). And a company in Belgium has created an injectable form, (primarily to treat poisoning by Death Cap toadstools).

Turmeric with its active ingredient curcumin is something no one’s going to make a lot of money on – somewhat like aspirin - so perhaps that makes it a good safe bet, as unpleasant as it is to ingest. Currently, I’m mixing 2 measured grams with a teaspoon of marmalade to form a semi-edible bolus. Curcumin is said to dissolve amyloid protein deposits in the brain. This, apparently, is why Indians have far less Alzheimer’s. It’s also supposed to be good for the liver, but at least one naturopath has told me this is ‘because of the colour’. I’ll have it just for the brain thing, thanks.

Shisandra, the five-flavoured-fruit, is the latest addition to my regimen. It’s an ancient Chinese herb with a good safety record. It’s easy to find as part of a liver tonic, but not in a discrete form. I’m getting mine from a Chinese herbalist in Springvale. Wikipedia speaks of studies done in China which suggest benefits for sufferers of chronic hepatitis. Should one trust studies done in China, after the hair-sauce thing? I don’t know, but this herb is really delicious as a tea. Something like rosehip.

After watching a recent episode of Sixty Minutes, I’ve started buying a trans-resveratrol formulation. Now this is a very good money maker, as it’s showing marked life prolonging properties in laboratory mice. Only problem is the dosage. T-resveratrol is made from red grape skin. My current daily dose is equivalent to 6 bottles of red wine. The dose that helped the mice was a massive fifteen hundred bottles of red wine.

I also consume dandelion, goji berries, artichoke tea and probably others I can’t recall just now. I spend a fair amount of time on what is ultimately an act of faith. You swallow this pill or drink the tea and then what? It all melts and joins the complex digestive soup in your stomach. Certain molecules shear off and work their certain magic in a biomechanical operation of mind-boggling intricacy. Without vast scientific expertise, how can you really know what's going on?

I’ve no idea whether I’m feeling better as a result. I am feeling good, but that could be the exercise, or the almost-vegetarianism, or the near-total exclusion of alcohol. I’d hate to think I was being taken for a ride. Especially someone as rational as I. But then a sense of looming mortality can lead you in directions you might otherwise not take.

~ hair sauce

I remember little about Camberwell market. I was too tired. But I did come away with a wad of small denomination bills, a jacket heavy with coin, and far fewer books. No sign of the recession biting.

Polly, whose mother blanched at the idea of rising earlier than six o’clock, set up her own micro-stall, selling small shoes and videos. She made a few dollars too, but I was particularly intrigued by an obvious growth of her interest in commerce. With the prospect of a pay-off, any shyness evaporated, and she was happy to sit right up the front, hawking her wares with a combination of cuteness and rock bottom prices.

Countless times, I’ve tried to get her on stage in front of an audience, but failed. Perhaps I should have been offering a fee? I’m going to attempt to do a stall at Oakleigh market in a couple of weeks and this time I’ll set Polly up properly. My neighbouring stallholder at Camberwell – who was very impressed at Polly’s mercantile skills - suggested baking bread and getting her to sell it. Perhaps biscuits will do. Or chocolate crackles ...

With perfect timing, Barack Obama’s grandmother has just died. There was a sound bite from him on the radio this morning, culled from one of his speeches. He was speaking of his grandmother, who had a large hand in raising him. “She poured everything she had into me.”

I immediately felt inadequate as a parent. But, I guess, so would any other parent.

Again on the radio: a news item on the melamine milk-poisoning scandal. Apparently, in China, there are many other incidences of food substitution by greedy manufacturers. The reporter reeled off a list. What stuck in my mind was ‘soy sauce made from human hair’.

Could this truly be? I did some googling and found what was clearly the text I had heard broadcasted ...

‘They've found meat filled with hormones, eggs containing poisonous paint, soy sauce made out of human hair ...’

Are unscrupulous operators setting up deals with hairdressers? Sending their trucks on weekly hair pickups? Like the biodiesel freaks who buy used oil from fish and chip shops. [note: instant noodles are said to be fried with pre-loved oil sourced from hotels and restaurants]

Do impoverished families, with no other option, surrender their hair to the soy sauce people for a few measly yuan? In what system can human hair be a cheap substitute for soy beans? Or does it add a certain texture, colour or odour? Is there anything wrong with using it? I believe hair contains a fair amount of protein. Or is it just cannibalism?

And the process? What do they actually do to the hair to turn it into sauce? What’s the recipe? Is there a purpose built machine? A hairdresser once told me that by the end of the week the hair-bin at her salon was always very full, and if you burrowed right down to the bottom you would find that the oldest hair had begun to liquefy. Perhaps this is a clue ...

Investigating further, I learnt, on a particularly breathless site, that soy sauce was also made from blood clots and animal bones. I began to feel sick. Whatever the truth of it all, I think I’ll buy a better class of soy sauce from this time on.

PS: Interestingly, this site also speaks of ‘toxic fungi processed with trashed fungus products and soaked with ink’, ‘toxic shredded meat made from dead pigs and processed with bad bread crumbs,’ and ‘toxic duck blood made from cheap pig blood.’

~ dragons, pandas and shipping containers

On the front page of The Age today there are some indistinct pirated images of rehearsals for the Beijing Olympics opening ceremony. One of them appears to show an enormous stack of rectangular white boxes.


Could it be that the hyper-sensitive, deeply paranoid nation of China has shrugged its profound humorlessness?

Do these boxes represent shipping containers?

The universal instruments of trade which would so accurately typify China’s relationship with the rest of the world.

A vista of anonymous oblongs, reaching to the horizon …

Bursting open, theatrically, before a global audience, to reveal cheaply manufactured goods of almost infinite variety …

The irresistible current of plastic gew-gaws and gaw-gews which serves to make our lives in the Western World so comfortable, so cheap, so unsustainable …

What could be more appropriate at this ceremony? What better to symbolise China’s victorious exploitation of our greed?

Indeed, the likeness of a shipping container would not be out of place on the Chinese national flag. Forget dragon dancers, peonies and giant pandas, in this modern age the shipping container trumps them all.

The image above immediately brings to mind a dockland scene. Every large port in the world has stacks of shipping containers which look like this. Mind you, these ones, though of the correct proportions, are standing on their heads, but there could be a million explanations for that… [to make them look less like shipping containers, perhaps?]

If these boxes are indeed containers - and, sadly, I doubt they are - wouldn’t it be a great leap forward for this somewhat retarded global citizen - stressed by gigantism, delusions of grandeur, issues of trust, behaviour and perceived inferiority – to portray itself to the world with some genuine wit?

PS: I’ve recently finished reading William Gibson’s 'Spook Country', so it could be I’ve got shipping containers on the mind.

~ blue streaks of paranoia

I know it’s late days, but my disquiet over those replicants in pale blue tracksuits has reached critical mass.

Currently, these cyborgs are in Nepal organising the Olympic flame’s ascent of Mt. Qomolangma [aka Mt Everest]. There has been a veil of secrecy over the mountain these last few days, but I saw their arrival on TV - those bland-faced torch attendants milling maternally around their symbolic object, as if it contained something materially valuable, like, let's say... the mummified brain of Confucius.

I could only wonder – was mountain-climbing also a part of their obviously exhaustive training?

Of course, they probably won’t serve as the actual mountaineers, but it’s hard to imagine them happily relinquishing their object. In recent weeks we have seen their preparedness to do almost anything in defense of it – bullying both protestors and police alike, barking commands, forcibly raising the weary arm of a Blue Peter presenter during her stretch. Their focus on the object - an elongated aluminium cone comparable to a cigarette lighter in functionality – is intense. You can see it in their eyes when they gaze upon it. There is no doubt in my mind that they would kill to protect it.

These semiotically-charged blue streaks are elite members of the People’s Armed Police. Zhao Si, leader of this special ‘Sacred Flame Protection Unit’ describes his men as ‘tall [none under 6ft 3in] and large and ... eminently talented and powerful. Their outstanding physical quality is not in the slightest inferior to that of specialised athletes.”

Clearly someone has put thought into how they will appear to the world – best evidence: the choice of apparel. But it must have been done in a void – as soon as these torch attendants hit the world at large, it was clear something was out of kilter. The cool blues of their tracksuits only made their behaviour seem more monstrous

These kind of operatives should be invisible, instead they have become iconic. Their methods should be subtle and effective, instead it would not surprise me if the blue goons were featuring in children’s nightmares. They currently are as much a symbol as the torch itself.

The torch attendants, it seems, have provided a window on the heart of a myopic, paranoid, totalitarian regime. As such, they feed our incipient concern over our giant inscrutable neighbour, which we just thought we were beginning to understand. A public relations disaster if ever there was.

And then there were the reactions of the Chinese students to the Tibetan protestors. A friend of mine from Deakin Uni in Burwood said the campus was cleared of Chinese students the day the torch came to Canberra. They happily filed into their buses and were ported to the pro-Chinese demonstrations. Someone was organising it. The Embassy denied responsibility, claiming the reaction was spontaneous, but Zhang Rongan, “a Chinese Australian student organising pro-Beijing demonstrations, told the press that Chinese diplomats were assisting with the organization of buses, meals and accommodation for pro-Beijing demonstrators, and helping them organise a ‘peaceful show of strength.’" “The Chinese Students and Scholars Association for Chinese Australian told students to ‘go defend our sacred torch’ against ‘ethnic degenerate scum and anti-China separatists’”

I would guess that the majority of pro-Chinese demonstrators had little idea what they were doing or why. This was evidenced by my friend who actually questioned one. A few organisers were all that was necessary. These are the products of totalitarian rule. They are conditioned to obey authority without question. When the gang leader says get on the bus, they get on the bus. At least that’s how it seems to me.

What resulted was something very disturbing. China, with very little effort, mobilised massive support within the borders of a free democratic country. Students, who seemed thoroughly inculcated with the dogma of their motherland, were willing to exploit the freedom we enjoy by riotously showing support for a country that would grind them to mince under tank treads if they were to try the same kind of thing at home.

The point of this diplomatically-sanctioned pro-Chinese mobilisation? If it was to snuff out the poor Tibetans, it was overkill. I agree with Zhang Rongan – it was a show of strength.

The torch relay began as the brainchild of the Nazi propaganda machine. But of course you know that - it’s been mentioned rather a lot recently.

*

Alert: New developments (Posted September 2008)

Around the time of the Beijing Olympics, I was interested to read an article describing the rise of a new sex symbol in China. His name: Second Brother On the Right, and who should he be but one of the mysterious agents discussed above. The sensitivity of his work makes his name a state secret, though an almost sultry photograph attended the article.

If I was this man - and twenty years younger - I would detonate. I would demand my just desserts - the 'homage, gifts and would-be wives' - even if it meant time in a re-education camp. It is hard to imagine a more frustrating situation for a young man ... sexual obstruction, not merely personal, but on an almost planetary scale ... all that steamy erotic energy rising from the cities of China like car exhaust, seeking out a target forever denied ...

Denied an outlet, this tremendous power will form deadly Vortexes of Exasperation and vicious Maelstroms of Impedance ... Expect an epidemic of poltergeist activity as the sexual auras of adolescent girls react against curtailment ... Expect epidemics of psycho-somatic and auto-immune disease ... Expect vast manifestations of Kundalini - suddenly granted physical form - to writhe and thresh beneath the Gobi desert, besieging the land of China with a plague of Earthquakes

Perhaps Second Brother On The Right should join the uncelebrated inventor of The World Bag in commiseration. Two magnificent anti-heroes condemned to obscurity ...