~ the regalia of queasiness

Sometimes it feels as if this public journal of mine - these Sails of Oblivion, these Pavilions of Lethargy, these Blue Birds of Delirium - are indeed that: the blusterings of a clueless old misanthrope at odds, utterly, with the world and determined, when he has the energy, to rail against anything that pops into his wormy green brain.

Does it feel like that to you? Sometimes ...? And exactly how serious am I when I voice such things?

To be honest, I’m not sure. Certainly, I’m not always so drained and disappointed as I might seem of late, and yet ....

The Oriflamme of Tension ... The Obelisk of Weariness ... The Cinders of Accomplishment ...

On paper, things are looking better - particularly with Jenny’s return to the household. For me, single parenting is a thorny, complex, well-nigh impossible task, and that vision of Jenny on the porch, sparkling, freshly toweled, was like the answer to a prayer. Blue beads of health gleaming in her flesh. Sclera white as the dove of peace. Sudden streaks of blonde, bleached into child-soft hair. She was, at last, an unclouded girl. My uncontaminated woman. With her bags. On the steps.

Better. On paper. But until the passing of the big black cloud, much is relative. In the half-light, my spirit is wrestling a depraved axolotl of tremendous size, while treading water at the bottom of a flooded silo in which the concrete walls are slickened by a mat of phlegm-green algae. Better is when I briefly achieve a foothold. Better is when I steal a decent lungful of air.

The Gonfalon of Apathy ... The Ramparts of Debauchery ... The Regalia of Queasiness ...

But things will change. As they always do. And I think I have some decent karma saved in the soul bank for just this eventuality. I hope though, that during the interim, I’m not boring or depressing you with my tales of gloom and bad fortune. Especially at Yuletide, when most of you will already be battling depression, anxiety, frustration, anger and regret.

Christmas is a time when quality media input is indispensable. I must have my input; it’s as sustaining for me as food and drink.

Yet Jenny says I’m shutting out the world, that I lack the courage to be quiet and listen to the murmurings of my brain. That I’m losing my interest in people other than myself.

She’s right, but only to a point. When I put my head to the pillow and close my eyes, my mind immediately turns to the potential for imprisonment and homelessness. That’s why I need my ipod.

Even today - after Di’s characteristically elegant, inevitably toothsome Christmas feast - I slipped upstairs to have a nap accompanied by my nano and by This Week In Virology. The other night, realising that my pod was low on charge, I meditated upon the possibility of drifting to sleep without Starship Sofa or Pseudopod. Or, god forbid, X Minus One.

Before long I was out of bed, feeding electrons to my constant companion, to my dear and trusted friend.

The Waters of Lethe ... The Undercurrents of Despair ...

If you can, forgive the monotony of my emotional state. And allow me to thank you for accompanying me through such a long, peculiar and eventful year. Consider yourselves in receipt of a warm and loving Christmas embrace and a flurry of New Year kisses.

The Turrets of Crapulence ... The Bulkheads of Chaos ... The Bunting of Madness ...

The Sails of Oblivion ...

~ donald's christmas fear 2008

~ the emperor’s new road toll

Many years ago, somebody told me that the road toll over the Christmas/New Year period is really not much worse than for any other two week period of the year.

It was an annoying scrap of information that has stuck with me, and bugged me, because I’ve never been sure if it’s true or not. Then, with all the Christmas road warnings, the breathless reporting of the first Christmas fatality, the grieving families, the stern editorials … I begin to forget...

But today, I was thinking about it. I read that Victoria’s C/NY road toll was a ‘sickening’ 17, two more than last year’. [Elsewhere I read that last year’s toll was 16. This may be due to a discrepancy in reporting procedures between state and national.]

Anyway, I decided to do the maths.

Let’s say 16 people died in the C/NY period of 2006/7, a period of 14 days. The year before it was 12.

The average for ANY two weeks of 2006 was 12.88 [and would be similar for any of the last few years]. So, in the last two periods it has been 3 and 2 deaths above average. In 2005/6 it was 1 below.

Put another way – the daily average of road fatalities is 0.92. During the 2006/7 holiday period it was 1.1. 2005/6 = 0.86 2007/8 = 1.21

I am no statistician, but you could hardly call this a horrifying spike.

Yet still we hear of ‘the road carnage that usually takes place over the Christmas holiday’, ‘the festive-season toll count’, the ‘appalling statistics’. That we have 'no new weapons to fight the Christmas road carnage’.

And, if there is more traffic on the road during this period, as one constantly hears, would this not bring the numbers even closer to average? [Personally, I think there’s less traffic, but that’s just my experience.]

Why do the authorities campaign so heavily and the media follow along so enthusiastically? Have they forgotten that it’s not too much different from any other period? Did they ever know?

Could there be a reason that is independent of the figures?

Perhaps it lies in the historical toll for the period?

Or with a media desperate for stories in a slow period? Accidents do form a large part of holiday news bulletins. There’s good copy in a suffering family on Christmas day …

Perhaps the powers that be believe it is a time for meditating on road safety so instead of press releases and sober awareness campaigns, they embark upon a massive nationwide hoax…

Whatever the reason, I’ll trust it is for the public good - but I’ll bet you the man in the streets believes the toll to be a lot higher than it in fact is. And an act of public deception by authorities is never a good thing. Especially if it is invoking of fear …

It still frustrates me. Any ideas?

~ the red man

Nicholas the Byzantine – destined to become a Saint and enter heaven – stared intently into a crystal globe which sat exposed upon the dark red velvet cloth in which it had been wrapped. At his shoulder stood the celebrated scryer, John Dee, who had travelled from London for this consultation.

- Do not concentrate, he said. Observe the sphere as you would observe your face in the mirror. Idly. Casually. Do not force your attention upon it.

- This act may be sinful, Doctor.

- Please, spare all your thoughts for the glass.

- You are thought to be an enemy of the Church.

- Will you waste my time, now that I am here?

Nicholas sighed. His gaze strayed from the globe, then flicked back suddenly, catching signs of movement, a swirling fog ... a miasma of queer potentials… Quickly, he scanned his surroundings. There was no chance that it was a reflection.

- What do you see? asked the scryer, smiling.

A cloudy mass, roiling ... Disturbing contours… Elusive shapes, dissolving even before they had taken form.

- Be calm now.

As clear as day, a figure was standing in the glass, staring directly back at Nicholas as if, indeed, he was regarding his image in the mirror. It’s face was lined and old. It wore a long white beard. Its eyes bore a hint of amusement… and kindness …

- A daemon, whispered Nicholas, breathlessly. I should never have …

- Hold! It is no daemon.

Dee furrowed his brow. He considered the grotesque sprite. It was robed in common bright red, possibly amaranth. Its clothes were trimmed with something that might have been fur. Perhaps of the mink, thought Dee, or the rabbit …

Nicholas felt sweat running down from his armpits. He longed to divest himself of his ecclesiastical garments, but dared not in the company of this man.

- Sight is but one of the senses, instructed Dee. Use it as your base to explore sounds, scents … To see inside the mind of this apparition. To deduce its meaning.

- Is it ... a man?

- I have read it in the gases. Sigils form in their ebb and flow. Dee paused. I believe this is your future.

Nicholas stared uncomprehendingly. The extraordinary homunculus redirected its attention to a vast sleigh of a design used in Lapland and the far Northern reaches. He saw eight reindeer bridled. Handsome looking beasts, but for one, whose nose burned red as if there was a fire in its very flesh.

- How? This cannot be our world. Do you see the imps? Their wicked little smiles? I am in the imagination of a village witch.

The red figure was bowed beneath the weight of an enormous sack, which he unloaded into the cargo space of the sleigh with the assistance of his ‘imps’ - their ears large and cuspidate, their martial uniforms a bilious shade of green.

Nicholas caught sight of what could only have been treasure: boxes of many shapes and sizes, wrapped in magnificent materials that gleamed beguilingly in the pale winter sun.

- base greed.. avarice … mumbled Nicholas, his lips sour.

- Of all people, you should know that only the corporeal existence is terminated by death. What you may be seeing is your soul …

- Then my soul has passed into Hell.

- Who of us can claim to understand the aethereal realms? asked Dee, himself wholly mystified by the vision. He struggled for understanding. If one’s memory is preserved in the minds of people – as I am certain yours will be, Your Worship – then may we not be witnessing…. a form of incorporeality independent of the Divinity, one that endures in the memory of men …

Dee’s voice faded from Nicholas’ awareness. Fascinated, and against his better judgement, he let himself be drawn further into the phantom world.

The bearded fat man in his tight red costume flew across a broad ocean lit by starlight. Ahead, appearing across the horizon, was a vast city spangled with light; burning so fiercely as if to abolish the very notion of darkness. And there were golden, mirrored towers that reached towards the clouds …

Is this heaven? Nicholas asked himself.

To his consternation, the spectre divided in two, in four, in eight. Before Nicholas could blink, there were thousands of red men diving towards the city with clear intent. Some, to his amazement, squeezed themselves down chimneys and feasted on cold meats and brandy. In each of these houses was a small tree weighed down by voluptuous baubles and flashing tinsels that might have graced the vestments of the Pope himself.

Before leaving, the red men emptied a sack of breathtaking abundance at the base of the tree.

Other red men appeared in vast, alien market places, where there were no rats or fleas, nor the stench of sludge pits; where merchants displayed luxuries of mysterious manufacture and utility - which people, in bewildering attire, fought amongst themselves to obtain. Here the red men would seek to lure children from the crowd - sometimes with the assistance of writhing harlots - to who they would dispense gifts from their bulging sacks.

A form of conditioning? mused Nicholas.

Not always did the red man appear in physical form. Sometimes its likeness could be seen on boxes, in which captive universes were rendered into two dimensions. The image appeared also in grossly illuminated manuscripts, enlarged massively on walls, even drawn in light – but always in association with wondrous treasures.

The symbolism was not lost on Nicholas. These treasures, despite their gorgeous appearance, had no value. For most items, Nicholas could not even discern a purpose. They were mirages. Bait. Tools to distil the low emotions from the hearts of God’s people. Before his very eyes he had seen innocents openly educated in the mortal sins of Greed and Avarice. The red men brought selfishness and venal desire to all - and sometimes, sadly, a fear that their gifts may not be obtained.

Always, the infernal red men travelled beneath the orison of good cheer, giving and – appallingly – the Christ-Child’s birth in Bethlehem. Always, they carried irresistible treasures in their sacks - luring, tantalising, wrenching the soul free of its innate goodness

He had observed negotiations between the red man and a powerful guild of merchants. A contract was drawn, allowing them freedom to associate their popular brown beverage with the red man's name and reputation. It was here, he learned, that the horrific red and white apparel had its genesis

As Dee covered the glass, Nicholas fought to control his horror.

- Thank you very much, Doctor, he said in a tremulous voice.

- My pleasure, said Dee. I hope you… were satisfied? That you learnt something of use?

- Of use? Tell me, esteemed Doctor, is it useful to know that in the future you will join hands with Lucifer and become his regent on Earth?

[Dysthymiac sparked this off]

~ Chadstone: a writhing pit of crapulence

I happed to do some driving on the Monash freeway yesterday. Ahead of me, as I approached Warrigal Road, I saw a banking up of traffic and a couple of those big portable signs that scroll important messages.

I quickly ran through the possibilities in my mind. There’s some obstruction ahead. Should I get off the freeway at this exit like everyone else? I must act quickly…

Then the signs swam into focus. I saw the word ‘Chadstone’ and immediately understood. Chadstone: that lodestone of venality.

Both exits – inbound and outbound – were stalled with three lanes of traffic. Presumably the many other approaches to this monolith of consumption were similarly occluded. It is difficult to imagine what it might be like at the actual shopping centre – for there is, with absolutely no doubt, insufficient parking there for so many cars…

But who was in those cars? Why were they going there? They’ve had a year to purchase their Christmas gifts. Supplies they could get at their local supermarket. Were they all so disorganised that they had to pile upon each other in a last desperate giga-scrum to get what they think they need?

Or is it something else entirely? Is it something they may actually enjoy? A cherished custom? Something to which to take the family, to look forward to? Is there some innate drive that pulls them there, to congregate in celebration of gross consumption, to kneel before the belly-god in tacit agreement that the base desire for material objects is actually a good thing; that covetousness is no longer a sin?

Do they yowl together in primitive ecstasy, decerebrated by droning carols, rendered mindless by the devious enchantments of the Advertiser Arch-Mage? Does that tinsel tickle something in their groins? Do those baubles send a shiver down their spines? Do they fall together in a ravening cluster of glitzy bags and cellophane wrap, in a pseudo-sexual bog of want? Do they bow low to the iconography of chain stores, brand names and the latest, most mouth-wateringly desirable manufactured good?

Do they?

I’m sure that lobotomising hellhole is even thicker with worshipers today. Shops stay open till midnight on Christmas Eve, don’t they? I can only guess what sick-making mass-wedding of consumer to consumer item is being enacted there as I write.

But despite that, Happy Christmas to you

cheers,

Sam

~ tinselled excruciations, baubled spores

Weariness and worry – keywords of the holiday season.

Polly’s crèche held its Christmas do on Friday afternoon and we were obliged to attend – not least because Santa was arriving on a fire-engine. Polly has seen a lot of Santas lately and there has been much private churning in that growing head. For now, she has decided that all Santas but for the crèche Santa are false, particularly if they charge money for photographs.

We collapsed on some dry yellowing grass and swatted flies as we waited for our child to get satisfaction, which in time she did. Then we were away, by train, with Polly’s sweet little friend Mia, to the ‘Gala’ performance of Roald Dahl’s The Witches at Kaleide [RMIT]. This is Lynne Ellis’s kid’s show for 2007/08 and as usual it was hilarious, but I wasn’t quite in the mood. Neither was Mia; unlike Polly she hasn’t had much exposure to theatre and within seconds she was bawling with fear. A half hour of gentle cajoling resulted in her sitting up front with the other kids and loving it.

There was a celebration afterwards, but I didn’t enjoy it. I’m too worried about my partner. She’s too worried about money, and Christmas. I’m worried about money too – I think I’m the most penurious I’ve been in recent times and for some stupid reason it shames me. And – big surprise – the Spores are out, bedecked in Christmas regalia, revelling in the dark reaches of the soul, and sucking the will from my other half.

During the week, I had a meeting with a Romanian. I gave him some ‘quarantined’ money and explained that some of his business methods were destroying my family and would he cool off just a little. He said, sure, and then let me know that he’d found god. And that I should clean up my garage. Right. Sadly, some one has let him know where we live, against some very explicit instructions …

It just goes on and on. Horror without end. I wonder if I might obtain results by assuming the role of father, not only to my daughter, but to my wife? There are real trust issues in play here. There are lies being told. Things being stolen. Lines crossed which have not been crossed before… But before I can take any moral high ground, I must curtail are my own occasional lapses… I have to become without fault, and walk like a Jesus upon this Earth … if only …

Yesterday, Polly and I watched a choir recital. Her grandmother Di is one of the singers and it was pleasant to close my eyes and listen to those sweet voices. It had been my plan to join this choir next year, but now I am in two minds. The leader made the audience wait almost twenty minutes for her family to arrive. There’s something strange about that, isn’t there? Something a little, well … selfish? You see, I thought it was a community choir type thing, but the leader kept referring to it as her ‘job’ and later I learned that the members pay $15 a week to participate … If it’s her ‘work’ and everyone’s paying, isn’t it just a little much to hold a [paying] audience that long because her husband was waiting for their two year old to wake up?

See the mood I’m in? To make matters worse, when Di introduced me to this choir leader as a possible future member, she – crime of all crimes – briskly nodded, didn’t even turn to look at me and resumed a conversation with someone else. But if not this choir, then another. I really need to start singing again – I think I’ll be better for it, all round. Music is the universal panacea.

Tonight, I’m going with Lynne to see The Church and The Divinyls. I may be in a better mood by then