A Case Study on Well-Spoken, "Reasonable" Bigotry

Geoff shared this on FB. A couple of days previous I had shared the same article, commenting that Hamad's writing did a pretty good job of summing up my position of the subject. It's an article that touches on many nuances of the current climate, but ultimately boils down to the fact that symbols are empty without the accompanying action they symbolise. Wearing a pin does nothing if you're still bystanding the oppression of others.

I opened my big gob, and the following exchange ensued:

I bowed out when I said I did.

Beyond pointing out that the system in America allows the public to choose their presidential candidates (unlike here in Australia in which you can only choose your party, and no one but the actual party members get to pick the leader of that party) and they most emphatically chose the overt bigot and sexual predator as their candidate, I'm not going to break this down again. 

I am, however, going to explain why this is just another iteration of bigotry. 

This will be framed in terms of racism, although the framework should overlap with pretty much all forms of oppression. When I say 'white', I'm speaking of the Concept of Whiteness which has saturated western society, which isn't necessarily tied to one's heritage, especially given that being white doesn't stop the Polish in the UK from experience hate crimes, nor protect white Jewish people from anti-semitism. 

I will be using CALD - Culturally and Linguistically Diverse - as shorthand for non-white people. I came across this term in the essay 'Fuck Your Echo Chamber' which is also well worth a read. Previously I would have used PoC - People of Colour - but I've never been fully comfortable using it, as it is a form of appropriation, having been coined by Black African Americans, for Black African Americans. CALD appears to be Australian in source. 

For the most part I will be speaking from a position of oppression and marginalisation, and so speaking upward, at those whom have privilege. Given this instance will be focused on racism, it could be interpreted as being solely aimed at white people, but my hope is to speak broadly enough to encapsulate the general axis of privilege.

This will bleed together events in America with politics in Australia.

For some of you it will be old hat. Don't worry about it, it isn't meant for you. For others it might be new, in which case I apologise for the coming torrent of jargon, but there's only so far down I can break this before it becomes too disheartening.

Onward.

The overt bigots are easy to spot. They're yelling "Fuck Off! We're Full!" or "Grab her by the pussy!" They're dangerous - literally - and it's highly unlikely that any of them will change their world view without something extremely drastic happening to them personally. There's been much discussion on what can be done in the days following T's appointment as president-elect, and a ghastly amount of that discussion pushes for people to reach out to and understand the 'other side', ie, those who voted for him. 

This actually reeks of White Saviour-ness, even though it is targeting predominantly the white demographic. 

Bigotry already has privilege, and in this case, power. To reach out to someone is generally framed as appealing to their better nature, and someone who already has power has no real impetus to change their circumstances. Casting bigots as just misunderstood and waiting for a kind hand to show them the way is assuming that this hasn't been tried. It has. For centuries. The oppressed can tell you that asking nicely accomplishes nothing. It also appears to forgive the bigot of all the harm and damage they have already perpetrated, excusing it as "they didn't know better". This ignores the voices of those who suffer at the hands of bigotry, who have be asking for consideration for a very long time. This is not something any one should have to ask for. 

There's also the assumption that bigotry will want to have this conversation with you, the privileged ally. For the most part, bigots don't think of themselves as bigots. They see themselves as realists, or intellects, and are acting for what they perceive to be the greater good. A conversation that may change their position must alter that definition of 'good'. People do not react well to the implication that their idea of what is good is wrong. 

I've had this conversation many, many times, with many and varied people. Mostly with very good people with very good intentions. On the occasions I've actually got through to someone, it is because they were already willing to actively learn and listen. I can count the number of times I've been successful on one hand, and these were people who were already savvy to the forms of bigotry. They deepened their understanding of the nuance of oppression, but they were already allies. 

For the most part, however, I receive push back and defensiveness. I won't count how many times I've been told that I've hurt someone's feelings by pointing out what they're saying is problematic, which typically prioritises the feelings of the well-intentioned ally over the feelings of me, the person being othered. This then puts me in the position of having to point this out as well if I'm to make my point. I assure you, they don't like hearing this any better. The whole thing where it is now considered more hurtful to be accused of racism than it is to actually perpetuate racism plays out in many different ways. 

I now assume that when I point out bias/bigotry, no matter how nicely or politely, this will be the outcome. It ends with me saying my part, and then saying no more as the other party continues to justify and excuse themselves. It does not end with learning. If learning is something that comes later, very few have come back to actually acknowledge their part in the interaction, and what it cost me.

You could say that's on me and possibly I suck at conversation, which is entirely likely. I might be able to bash out a blogpost, but I can't hold my own in a conversation to save my life. However, I am not the only person saying these things. There is a resistance at play which has nothing to do with my conversation skills.

Bigotry that is not easy to spot comes dressed in good-manners, is well-spoken and often sounds perfectly reasonable. While folks being abused and/or in physical danger need immediate assistance, if you want to change the culture, then it is the well-presented bigotry you must also challenge.

Geoff's original comment probably doesn't ring any alarm bells for the privileged ally. Or, perhaps it did, but the privileged ally was unsure of what exactly was off and how to address it. I explained in my first comment the problem with his framework. And in my second. He would not engage with the subject of the article, which I tried to bring it back to, and he thus attempted to control the direction of the conversation according to what he had decided was valid.

This was a derailment of the actual subject, and a derailment used to then dismiss the entirety of what was said in the article. The net result was the dismissal of both the voices and pain of CALD people. 

He further remarks that this is 'bad and divisive journalism'. When the marginalised speak of their oppression, specifically when speaking against the privileged and powerful, they are often chastised for being 'divisive' to the cause. This is one way the privileged silence the oppressed, as this implies that these problems faced by the oppressed are not legitimate, and that the problem is the complainant, not that there is something to complain about. Shut up and fall in line is the real message.

It becomes slightly more overt when Geoff states that it goes "beyond racist whites in the US". This is partly true: the current state of US politics is a giant mess of racism, sexism, classism, and probably many more ugly -isms, and in fact the current state of politics in Australia is the same mess, just playing out differently. However, Geoff is in this case using it to dismiss responsibility from the white vote, while at the same time ignoring the fact that the 'we' he claims need to seek answers also includes the article author, Hamad, a CALD person in Australia, whose article is actually guidance for action. 

By that point, it was pretty obvious to me that he was not listening. He hadn't listened to Hamad, wasn't listening to me, so I felt pretty sure that unacknowledged and unaddressed internalised bigotry - be it racism or misogyny - meant he'd already dismissed the voice of any CALD woman. There was basic groundwork he'd have to do on himself before this particular conversation was going to be in any way productive. 

Perhaps a properly white person would have had more luck. Perhaps he would have viewed my words coming from the mouth of another white person, or man, as being worth heeding. 

That particular comment thread ended civilly. This second comment thread, not quite so much. 

First of all; mad cheering to Lukas for stepping in. Bro, you have my sword. For context, Lukas is also CALD, and in the USA.

Second; Geoff's tone goes through a significant transformation. His first response to Lukas is almost conciliatory in nature. His second comment is another story. As indicated by the timestamp, it was edited. Initially it contained nothing but tags for myself and Lukas, presumably to get our attention. That's what I saw before I turned off, at any rate.

It appears that when neither of us came when summoned, that conciliatory tone evapourated and what is nothing short of white privilege having a foot-stamping tantrum came out.

For starters; no CALD person is at the beck and call of a white person, especially a white person who has previously dismissed and derailed CALD voices. Nor does any CALD person owe validation to a white person when said white person suddenly decides to project a sympathetic tone. Opportunities to do thusly had already been ignored, and as indicated by the foot-stamping, that attempt at sympathy and care was not sincere. It is likely at that point Geoff realised that he sounded like a typical privileged white person (because he did) and so was trying to alter that impression. He became aggrieved when we did not immediately appease this attempt.

This is exactly the issue with the safety pin. The words Geoff chose and when he chose to use them indicate that he was more concerned with not being seen as 'one of Those Whites' than he was with the actual experiences of CALD persons facing bigotry. When he was not rewarded for this 'goodness' he accused both of us of playing games with identity politics and of generally spouting BS. Not to mention going off at Lukas about discussing race politics in the USA, he who is actually living in the USA, which Geoff certainly isn't. It was Geoff who started with comments on the race of voters in America.

The implication here that identity politics only apply to CALD persons and is in fact divisive is based on the assumption that whiteness is not an identity, but the default. This is the basis of white supremacy. Lukas's final comment is a good summation and I will again point you toward this excellent essay as it contains a fine breakdown of how identity politics are used by the privileged and powerful all the time.

Geoff also implies that by calling for consideration, Lukas and I and the groups we signify are to blame for 'alienating' the left and centre. This is essentially tone policing, telling us we need to fall in line and know our place for the sake of white feelings. He is telling us to behave according to the expectations of the privileged. This is a means of silencing the anger of CALD people, by threatening to withhold support if said CALD person isn't 'nice'. Doing so indicates that the CALD person is not viewed as an equal person, thus the support dangled on offer is not real support. He also forgets that CALD people populate the left and centre. 

Due to the fact that the Australian media is currently fixated on American politics we have been inundated with updates on what T is doing and saying. This has had a palpable affect here. The re-election of the Liberal Party in Australia (here, the Liberal party is the conservative right, don't ask) along with the One Nation Party winning multiple seats has emboldened the bigoted elements in this country. T's appointment is further validation for many bigots, be they overt like the One Nation Party or standing in the closet door muttering about how the place is going down hill. Hate crime happens here, and the US election has seen a noticeable increase on what was already increasing. Giving platform to T and the like is giving them power. This is a great article here on the hypocrisy of Australia's obsession with the US elections, given our own track record and current practices. US politics are influencing the landscape of our society because we're listening.

Only two CALD people challenged Geoff's comments. No allies.

There are many reasons why this could have happened. This is specifically for those who didn't see the problem or didn't know what to do.

My suggestion has always been and will always be to listen to those over whom you have privilege. This isn't accusing you of bigotry, but pressing you to acknowledge the privilege you have. While I've primarily spoken here from the position of the oppressed, I have great big mountains of privilege. Within Australia, with my biracial identity, I am still in the position of coloniser over the Indigenous people of Australia. My privilege is being of Asian descent, which means in the false hierarchy of "which dirty migrants are worse" I'm actually not too bad. I'm a cis woman, largely heterosexual (tragédie), middle-class, and while chronic physical and mental illness restrict my abilities, I'm pretty much able-bodied. That is a lot of privilege. 

So when I tell you to listen down the privilege ladder, I'm not suggesting you do anything I am not already doing myself.

What this will do is broaden your understanding of the impact of bigotry, and more importantly help you to recognise the myriad forms bigotry will take. I'm guessing not many recognised the bigotry present in Geoff's initial comment; I did, because while I talk about these matters a lot, I spend even more time listening. In this instance, Geoff revealed his true colours with very little prompting. Learning to recognise nuance, recognise derailment, dismissal and erasure even when its dressed up with Cornell University figures, is the first step in challenging bigotry. You can't fight what you can't see. 

I owe a great debt to Blak and Black women, to trans, non-binary and queer people . Listening to them has helped me recognise much of my own unconscious bias and keeps me humble. The time they take to speak is a constant learning experience. I can only strive to earn what they teach. Thank you. It's from you that I have the courage, confidence and conviction to speak now.

Listening will assist you in being a better ally. An ally should not speak over or speak for the oppressed. That's once again the centring of privilege and making it about you. It may seem subtle, the difference between saying "I think X" and saying "So-and-so said this, which I agree with," but there are magnitudes of difference. The former positions you as the font of wisdom, the latter amplifies the actual oppressed and signals your support. It draws attention to the voices that should be heeded.

More importantly, listening will help you to identify the unaddressed bigotry you carry within you. We are all of us guilty of bigotry in one form or another. Growing up in a western country, surrounded by western media - the news and entertainment - and western advertising will plant so much conditioning in your unconscious that yes, you will reject the notion that there's even a speck of bigotry in you, the mere suggestion is abhorrent. I grew up surrounded by all this, and have had to, am still dealing with, all manner of internalised bias which is to the detriment of others and myself. My childhood taught me to be ashamed of my racial heritage. It takes a lot to unlearn.

Glass houses, thrown stones. You cannot challenge others for what you have not addressed in yourself. The most unconfronting way to do this is to listen, listen, listen, and assume, take for granted that you are part of the problem. 

No one can see you listening. You'll have time to apply what you learn to yourself, be disappointed in yourself, figure out how to do better by yourself, and this is far more comfortable than, say, having me decide to make an educational moment out of your comments.

But finally, listening empowers the oppressed. 

The oppressed demographics have been oppressed in western countries fooooorrrrr aaaaaggggeeeesssss. They have been repeating themselves foooooooorrrrr aaaggggeeesssss. What I'm saying now is what so many others have said before me. I am not saying anything new. 

If you want to know what to do: listen.

If you want to know where to donate: listen.

If you need the tools to take up this fight: listen.

In not listening to the oppressed, but heeding and following the privileged, we have ended up here, now. What needs to change; the oppressed have already figured that out. What needs to be done to bring about that change; the oppressed have already figured that out. The only thing needed to bring this about is for you, me, us, the privileged, to listen.

If you think by writing this I am out of line, mean, "bullying" or the like, I suggest reading through all this again. So often the onus of education is put on the oppressed. We are the ones who have to argue for our own humanisation. You can see me entering into a discussion in these comment threads, and I deliberately policed my tone to make it palatable. When those tools don't work, then I will use other tools. If you wish to control the manner of your education; educate yourself. Policing how the oppressed educate their oppressors is yet another example of privilege speaking, again. Pointing out that Geoff was not seeking education is once more centring on the privileged. The oppressed are not going to wait for their oppressors to wake up. 

The worst that may come of this is Geoff having his feathers ruffled and ego hurt. T is a clear example of the consequences a white man will suffer when exposed as a bigot, ie, none. I've done Geoff a mercy and not put his name in text, removed his surname from the screencaps. No search engine will link this to him.

What comes from the views Geoff broadcast is the further entrenchment of insidious bias and privilege, which enables the violent and abusive bigotry so many are focused upon. 

This isn't a call to dogpile. If you perceive it as such then you haven't been listening and I'm not sure I want what support you were going to offer. It would have been nice if some allies had stepped in to simply say "I agree." That time has passed; he's completed his emotional cycle. Because Geoff's position is founded on unacknowledged and unaddressed white privilege he was never going to hear me. He might have heard his peers though.

Geoff isn't throwing bricks through windows, nor hurling abuse. Regardless, his expressed views are bigotry. This unacknowledged, unaddressed bias and privilege won't lead to him starting fires, but it is this exact same unacknowledged, unaddressed bias and privilege that enables bigotry to flourish, to normalise, to become overt. 

Chances are that most of us will never actually have the opportunity to intervene on an abusive bigot and play the hero. Should such an instance arise, then hell yes step in. However, for the most part, fighting bigotry is unheroic. It involves frustrating and uncomfortable and tedious conversations with people you respect and admire, with your close friends and distant friends, it involves upsetting people, it involves being 'mean', it will end with people being angry at you, relationships marred and possibly ended, and it needs to be done.

It is just as important to challenge insidious bigotry as it is to stand up to overt bigotry. This must be fought, at all levels.

This was sent after I'd left the conversation, and before his foot-stamping.

I was not having a conversation.

I was challenging the bigotry.

Clothes, Body Image & Mental Climate

When I was a kid, I would wear the wildest clothes. My favourites included funky purple boots and a multi-coloured jumper dress. Mum didn’t like gender stereotyping, so I rarely had pink. I rebelled against this in my teens and declared that HOT PINK was my favourite colour.  

In university years, I had great depression and wore dark colours. I remember a favourite outfit was Dr. Martens boots or navy sneakers, with navy tights, navy mini-skirt, navy sweater, and fairy wings that a child-friend gave to me. I wore wings because I was upset about how boring the world was: how serious and uptight and money-hungry. People would stare at the wings. 

This post by Fox Woods tied in nicely with the theme my thoughts have taken the last few days, and the conversations as well.

As a child, I dressed comfortably. I have memories of favourite t-shirts displaying sharks, or Dickie Knee from Hey! Hey! It's Saturday!, and favourite shorts. I remember one skirt of a brilliantly gaudy tartan, out of place in the drawers. No pink. Never any pink.  I wanted to dress like Princess Leia on Endor in Return of the Jedi. The fashions that came and went in the playground just weren't a priority for me.

The worst thing that happened to my stunted dress sense was puberty.

As a child who was unhappy with and went to lengths to avoid attention, the sudden appearance of breasts - huge ones - was horrible, awful, terrible and a trauma that haunts me to this day. First girl to sport them in your year level? First girl in a bra? Suddenly running was an act to be feared, and all those enforced sports afternoons went from disliked to dreaded. 

"Do you push up?" We were camping at Barwon Heads. She was at a nearby site. We had just got back from the beach, and the group of them, girls and boys, were sitting in a hammock. I was confused, honestly having no idea what she was talking about. 
"The hammock?" 
They giggled. "No." She tossed her hair, put her shoulders back. "Your bra." 
11 years old and painfully self-conscious, a body full of sexual awakening and a mind that wouldn't consider boys or girls for years to come, they didn't believe my denial and I walked away, upset and humiliated and unsure why. 

 From then on, clothing became about hiding my body. Big baggy t-shirts, jeans and boots. Everything designed to hide my shape. Dressed to be invisible, to draw as little attention as possible, and if attention was directed at me, dressed to deflected it as quickly as possible. Breasts and hips that were more forward than my personality could cope with.

I look at this photo and. Oh, girl. Arms folded to try and hide how much my breasts jut out, and also supporting them, and plain grey, and shoulders forward, and the awkwardness of an adult body is painful to behold. I am 17 years old. One boy has kissed me. No others have shown interest in me. I do not understand how to want to make myself attractive. There are no beauty role models for short curvy Eurasians.

After leaving home I became something of a chameleon, copying styles from the people in my life, which is another sort of cultivated invisibility. I was terrible at it. My refusal to accept my body shape meant it was impossible for me to dress my body well. Branching out from t-shirts into tops that I might like the shape of, but did not fit me. Skirts that did not suit my hip-width to leg-length ratio. Endless black cloth, because ill fitting clothes already made me subconsciously self-aware of the hopelessness of my presentation and somehow I knew that adding colour co-ordination as yet another thing I must consider would be too much at that point.

It took approximately 28 years for me to learn how to dress myself. That's a lie; for 27 years I wore clothes. In that 28th year I had a fling that gave me no choice but to accept that someone else thought my body was the hottest shit on the planet, and were so sincere with their appreciation that not only did I have to accept it, but recognise it in myself. 

Hard to believe they're both photos of me. Also; goddamn. 

I don't know that I learned to love my body, nor even like it, but I came to understand that it was not something to be ashamed of. Not all attention was bad. In fact, for a little while there I was in danger of becoming a narcissic prima donna who had to be the prettiest in the room. It was not so much about loving my body, per se, more about really liking the power my body could have over others. With that as motivation, I learned to dress myself very well in a very short period of time. 

There is something to be said for waking so late into proceedings. Having never succumbed to fashion (90% of fashions doing exactly what I didn't want clothes to do - draw attention to me) meant it had never become something I took into consideration, and thus before I knew it I had my own style. I became good at recognising what cuts were flattering on my shape, what cuts I felt comfortable wearing, and what cuts I liked. The three are rarely combined, but I learned not to compromise on any of them. Being well-employed I could afford to buy quality pieces over a fair length of time, amassing a wardrobe that would - and has - lasted years. 

As such, much as Fox mentioned above, I do tie my clothing in with my state of mind, precisely because that is exactly what it signifies. Putting on clothing isn't only choosing an impression you wish to make upon others, but it signifies, for me, the projected mental climate for the day. If, for example, I'm feeling damn perky and sassy and worthy of admiring glances then I will choose that dress which is not entirely comfortable and requires regular tugging and maintenance to keep it behaving, because I have adequate resources prepared to invest in keeping that forecast of awesomely smoking attractiveness going, and also because I am prepared for the attention that will come to me, be it welcome or gross. There's a wonderful power that lies not just in looking good, but knowing it too. It becomes a positive feedback loop, and it's a pretty awesome thing to have.

Of course, getting my sense of self to a point at which that previous photo was possible took a significant amount of time and work, and it takes very little to undo it all. 

Glasgow was not unkind, but not easy either. A hard punch of depression combined with winter and a stodgy diet and the fat I put on is still sitting around my hips and belly. I've been fortunate in my life to be pretty consistent in my shape and weight, but Glasgow, oh Glasgow.

I tried on one of my favourite tunic dresses the other day, and it no longer fit. 

This is a blow to self-confidence, which is already shaky simply because in the last year and a half of jeans and t-shirts I've forgotten how to play dress up with myself and feel like a fraud when I put on my lovely things. Suddenly, a great swathe of my wardrobe is no longer accessible to me and I'm faced with the reality of having to buy new clothes because I'm too big for my current ones.

Now, I am not brave enough to be attractive, but nor do I wish to hide in frumpiness either. I don't have the emotional fortitude for daring clothing that requires constant adjustment, that is bolder than I feel, or familiar clothing that no longer sits well. 

"You can tell, you know, when you're having a bad day." The shop assistant could talk. We'd already covered the introvert/extrovert gap and that it was great she was in retail because she could talk all day. "My friend, she loves crazy undies, like cartoon undies and colours, that sort of thing. That's normal for her. But if she's having a bad day? Plain black, that's it. You know if you're having a bad day when you look at what you're wearing."

For the record, I was wearing all black.

New clothes that will fit, that I will not view as some ridiculous symbol of defeat. Jeans. Jeans that will slide under the radar at work, that will neither accentuate nor hide my shape, that I won't have to worry about blowing up in the breeze or showing my butt crack when I sit. Fabric that does not irritate me, stiff fabric that will stop the flab from wobbling so. Dark colours. Clothes that compromise between comfort and confidence.

Much discussion on fashion, style and appearance centres on what others can take from your image, and there is power in that. There is a different power to be found in what your clothes can do for you alone which is often forgotten at the edge of the spotlight. 

It will be some time before the weight is shed, let alone before my state of mind is strong enough that I wish to be a bright spark in the room. I am not as comfortable in my body as I was, but I am comfortable in knowing that the foundation has already been established. It isn't just about what I look like, but what I believe I am worth looking like.

I can strike this balance between bravery and bashfulness, and strike it in my own style.

Girls Goin' a Roamin'

Most hostels offer female only dorm rooms for those of us who are for whatever reason uncomfortable sharing a room with the sausage-wielding sex. I've even seen a few places that offer male only dorms as well, as is only fair. Typically beds in such dorms cost a little extra, so I've been bunking in mixed dorms. Until now.

This room is very pink.



On seeing the wall fitted out with 3 mirrors, stools, dressing table as well having a hair dryer and hair straightener (!!!), my initial reaction was somewhat indignant. Who wants all that cliched crap?

Well, to be honest I was pretty damn excited to see the hair dryer. Wet hair in this climate is a little uncomfortable. It only works for two seconds on the highest setting before entering torpor, as I discovered.

This led me to consider the hair straightener, because dammit I wanted to go outside and I did not want wet hair at the same time. Now, I've never used a hair straightener in my life. Partly because my hair is pretty damn straight, but mostly because I'm lazy and don't believe in high maintenance hair. Pfffft.

The general theory behind hair straighteners I understood, but exactly how one uses them...uh, are they supposed to vibrate anxiously when you clap the tongs together? Because this one did. I gave my hair a few swipes before being far too disconcerted by the trembling appliance and thus ended my first and probably only experiment with hair straighteners.

Huh. Sniff. Disdain.

It was a full house last night, and in the morning I was woken by the others springiness out of bed to stand in front of the mirrors and do...things. I have no idea what any of them were doing but there was a lot of it. The hair straightener was used. The hair dryer was used (on a lower setting). There were all sorts of tubes and powders and touching of hair. All this before they were even out of their jammies.

Me, I rolled out of bed, changed into be-seen-in-public clothes, and staggered downstairs for breakfast without even putting deodorant on.

I don't think I'm very good at being a woman.

Still, there is some merit to gender stereotyping. For example, "girls snore far less than boys" IS THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.

Caving! In ancient lava tunnels! Holy Magma!

Summary!

1. I am tired.
2. It was dark.
3. I am tired.
4. Ice is insane.
5. I am tired.

In addition, a sound clip I took while alone. That manic hiss is simply my poor old iPhone, unable to process the quiet.

1350m long lava tunnel, the sound of rain underground. by sirtessa

This isn't so much a self-portrait, as that term implies some sense of purpose, a point to that particular portrayal. This is one of those CHECK THIS OUT photos. My hair isn't wet. That's purely sweat.

Sir Tessa accidentally all over the concept of video blogging. Whoopsie.

In summary;

• My hands are not cooperatinq enouqh to bloq reqularly or edit all my photos
• There are videos from the Qolden Circle around Reykjavik
• I have a hat

PEACE OUT, YO.

you are angels and drunks, you are magi

First Pristiq tablet yesterday at 0840 hours. No immediate effects noticed. MASSIVE NIGHT SWEAT.

Second Pristiq tablet today at 0840 hours. No immediate effects noticed until I realised I was chipper to the point of manic. Those of you on twitter copped the brunt of it. Below is the gist of my tweeting for the day, and by 'gist' I mean 'everything but the yes/no @ replies'. It's very shouty. (Start at the bottom and work your way up. It's a pain I know.)

• Extra points if the lie involves lemon meringue pie.
• Yeah, I'm clocked off, but you can still sit on my lap and have your ear licked. Just tell me a lie and make me believe it.
• Our hero enters the train mid-flight, the doors closing in on her, and squealing like a stuck schoolgirl piglet. #stylin'
• Now; lion hunting.
• Oh thank fuck I can stop being so loudly awesome. Was giving myself a headache.
• HOME TIME HOME TIME THIS IS YOUR CASE WORKER AT THE MINISTRY OF LOVE, SIGNING OFF. SNOGS AND PAWINGS, MY FREAKY DARLINGS, SNOGS AND PAWINGS.
• @battledinosaur SWEET LITTLE PEACHASAURUS YOU ARE WALKING CUTENESS EVEN IN YOUR SLEEP
• @ZacDavies NAH MATE I JUST REALLY LOVE TEA CHEERS MATE
• I WOULD LOVE A THIRD CUP OF TEA. LOVE ONE. LOVE IT. SWALLOW THAT FUCKER WHOLE. PHWOAR.
• @trickyidnego YOU LEARN WELL, GRASSHOPPER. HAVE SOME ROSES.
• @tyronotron @emlypie MAY THE LOVIN' BE IN YOU.
• DOES THIS SMELL LIKE CHEAP ROMANCE TO YOU?
• I WANT YOU TO WANT ME TO LOVE YOU. SO I CAN SPURN YOU. SCHOOL OF LIFE, CLASS IS IN.
• @emlypie @tyronotron SING IT BACK BRING IT BACK SING IT BACK TO MEEEEEE
• @emlypie WELL I LOVE HER ANYWAY. SHE GAVE ME A BISCUIT.
• @idreamofcodeine AND BY THROW YOU MEAN HURL IN THEIR FACE. AWWW. YOU KNOW ME SO WELL. C'MERE YOU SACK OF SUGAR.
• HEY @emlypie I'M GONNA STAND OUTSIDE @tyronotron's DOOR I KNOW HE'S HOME.
• @emlypie WELL DAYUM WOMAN YOU SHOODA CALLED AHEAD YOUR MUM IS LOOKING AT ME FUNNY I THINK SHE JUDGES MY LOVE
• @ZacDavies MORON 1+4 LAWL
• I'M GOING TO WALK 100 MILES TO STAND OUTSIDE @emlypie's DOOR, WHICH ISN'T CREEPY AT ALL.
• @ZacDavies NO REALLY. THAT SHIT IS BANANAS.
• 4 hours ago
• I'M FROM THE MINISTRY OF LOVE, I'M HERE TO HELP. YOU WILL BE LOVED. LIKE A MAROON5 SONG. NO I DON'T CARE IF YOU DON'T LIKE MAROON5. FFS.
• @Marxamus @simonnix IF I DO IT REALITY DISTORTS AND IT DOES NOT SUCK
• @simonnix BA-DUM-CHING
• THE LACK OF FLOWERS YOU HAVE BROUGHT ME HAS NOT GONE UNNOTICED.
• I think when she's drinking she's drowning some riot, what is my friend trying to hide...
• @tyronotron TALK TO YOUR ANCESTORS, THEY'RE THE ONES WHO EVOLVED EARS.
• @simonnix FUNNY IS PROBABLY GOING TO FILE A SEXUAL HARASSMENT CLAIM.
• RT @charlesatan: @sirtessa I FIGURED EVERYTHING WOULD STILL BE IN ALL CAPS IF YOU WERE SPEAKING IN REAL LIFE
• ALTHOUGH I WAS INDEED YELLING AT YOU BEFORE BECAUSE YOU ARE A JERK. BRING ME A CUP OF TEA AND I SHALL CONSIDER YOUR PARDON.
• IT IS NOT ALLCAPS, IT IS MY AWESOMNIC FIELD DISTORTING REALITY.
• [cries, rides off into the sunset.]
• SURE, TAKE MY LOVE, BUT YOU SHOULD KNOW I DON'T LIKE YOU, NEVER LIKED YOU, YOU'RE A JERK.
• NO REALLY THAT IS JUST FINE.
• WHATEVER.
• FINE. JUST FINE.
• I'LL LOVE YOU IF I WANT YOUR ARGUMENT IS INVALID
• You dispute my love? What are you saying, that I have bad taste in love? Who the fuck are you to tell me who to love?
• [The previous tweet true for a limited time only.]
• I love you, and am prepared to go to war if you refuse this love. Think carefully. I have elephants, triceratops and velociraptorbearsharks
• @PoppyGallico you are ahead of me, and clearly branched off into an alternate universe in which lunch was uh maze ink.
• Those of you in lagging time zones, here's a heads up: your lunch for Thursday is pretty bland. #youarewelcome
• I DUB @tyronotron THE NEXT STAGE OF HUMAN EVOLUTION.
• @Jazpuh_ special clauses and amendments for you, milady.
• 7 hours ago
• @Genghis_Dong I like to play benevolent dictator now and then.
• SEE I DON'T SUCK RT @idreamofcodeine: @sirtessa you're adorable...your existence on my twitter feed brightens my day :)
• @tyronotron I ACKNOWLEDGE YOUR EXISTENCE YOU REQUIRE NOTHING ELSE IN LIFE
• @hannahrochelle I am not. Everyone else is irrelevant.
• I have risen from my morose depths and lo the sun doth hide its face because verily I am a badass muthafucka like that. #sorrymelbourne
• @hannahrochelle BOYS BOYS HAVE ALL THE FUN WE SAW @allyouzombies WITH HIS PANTS UNDONE
• @jamesgorman the city sirens are BLARING IN MAH EARS
• PHRASE REPETITION. SEPPUKU YOU FILTHY WORD ABUSER.
• Right now @purrsikat & @_twertle are the most adorable things in my world right now. Dare you to usurp them.
• Mirrorball is an appropriate soundtrack for burning buildings and toasting souls.
• Spirals down 11 flights with the music up to awesome.
• Of course they call a fire evacuation drill as I'm evacuating my bladder.
• @nosubstance headbop sidestep blinky-blink headbop sidestep blinky-blink
• @Genghis_Dong blink
• @nosubstance blinky-blink headbop headbop headbop HUGE STARING EYES GLARE GLARE GLARE STOP hammer time
• blinky-blink turn head all the way around squint blinky-blink-blink
• i feel owlish. Like, i'm doing that suspicious blinky-blink thing owls do.
• Dear friends; you are angels and drunks, you are magi...
• Bayonets and banana bread; let me share the glorious death of this day with you, over and over, we rise as kings and rest as usurpers.
• @hannahrochelle congratulations on leveling up, minihannah!
• Is the abseiling window-washer harassing the seagulls, or are they harassing him? (Would love to have that job.)
• Last night my body attempted to commit suicide via massive dehydration. #nightsweat

On the train ride home I switched from twitter to texts, and sent a lot of shouty texts to people who would not get in trouble or freak out to be the recipient of shouty amorous texts.

High as my yellow diamond kite with blue and green streamers. Cheery and directionless and useful as a marshmallow. I meant everything I said. I mean everything I say.

This message is for you II by sirtessa

I don't care if this is an artificially and medically induced high. It is here, and I must use and abuse the shit out of it while it is. I will suck it dry and leave myself empty and hollow, because when it leaves - and it is leaving - I will not be able to say any of these things with the fierceness they deserve.

You are magnificent. Be flawed and make magic.

I apologise for none of this.

Why haven't I been made King of the World yet?

It started, as most things do, with cheese.

I'd run out. This is one of those circle of life type things; you put cheese in sandwich, you eat sandwich, repeat until you run out of cheese/bread/butter/vegemite. My lunches are not complicated things, but I do like a little bit more than just a spread. (Unless it's toast, in which case a wad of peanut butter is just fine.)

So I went to the supermarket, as one does, and I went to the dairy aisle, as one does, and I stood in front of the cheese, as one does, and spent the next twelve minutes struck dumb with indecision.

A wall of cheese, from floor to ceiling. Cheese in different brands, of different types, reduced fat or full, sliced or not. So much cheese, so many cheese, and too much choice.

When the shelf-stacker gave me a funny look on passing me for the third time, I realised what I was doing, grabbed without looking, and walked away.

That is what stress can do, that is what depression can do, that is what not having all your mental resources operating at normal capacity can do. The ability to process and compare information is significantly reduced, and the capacity to commit to a decision is practically nil. That is how cheese can steal twelve minutes of your life.

At the check out, bewildered as I was having passed by soup (Do I need soup? I don't know!) and tea (What about some nice tea? I don't know!) and chocolate-covered honeycomb (Should I get a treat? I DON'T KNOW!), I figured there must be a niche in this anxiety-driven and consumer-based society for a supermarket that caters to the perpetually overwhelmed. A supermarket that stocks milk in milk cartons that say milk and with no options on offer, cheese in a packet labeled cheese and no options on offer, museli in a bag labeled museli and no options on offer.

This is a supermarket I would really appreciate right now. A place at which I will be able to find the basic necessities to feed myself without being confronted with choices.

You could even have levels of the Stressed Supermarket, for those who may be coping a little better but still not ready for a wall of cheese; full cream and skinny milk and only those two to choose from, jarlsberg or chedder cheese and only those two to choose from, swiss museli or natural museli and only those two to choose from. Baby steps. We have to work our way up through the ranks, get practice at processing and streamlining information until we are prepared, at last, to face a wall of cheese, and make a selection in a mere moment.

And not be stricken with indecision.

And not feel weak for the time wasted.

The Dysfunctional Relationship Artists Have With...Everything

For this post to make sense you'll need to reference the previous and watch that video.

I spent the night, probably my sleep, and most of my snooze button soft crash into wakefulness chewing over the notion of 'having genius' instead of 'being genius'. I'm a little besotted with the idea.

At a glance I imagine it's distasteful to some, pushing, as it does, the idea of invisible entities be they called muse, daemon, genie, angel, faery, spirit, Fred. What Gilbert is trying to sell, however, is not belief in these things - that's a whole other conversation in which I admit I'm not much interested in - but the usefulness they serve as a mental construct.

She speaks of the emotional risks inherent in the creative process, which resonated with me. There are the obvious stresses associated with placing a work in the public eye; will it be liked, hated, understood, will it be successful, will it be rejected entirely and never be consumed by the public because you are the crappiest artist in all the history of all the cosmos; these are the natural doubts when you put yourself forward for anything.

However I choose to believe that she was speaking of the other risks that come well before considerations of audience reception come into play, the risks we take with ourselves while in the process of creating the work. We pour ourselves into it, we draw upon lessons, memory and knowledge that we may not wish to visit, we take on aspects that do not come naturally to us. I've always said that for writers in particular, the act of writing a story is not unlike forcing the literal definition of a split personality upon yourself.

And, I don't know, the creative process defies predictability and repetition, and I do not believe it is destructive, but it is not always nice, and doing these things to yourself because you love what you do, tearing yourself up because the work requires you to do so, they are hard things.

To then be able to say, "That kinda sucked, and you could have been a little gentler about it," in a disgruntled, passive-aggressive manner to some intangible thought construct and lay some of the responsibility for what happened upon it, well, any less ammunition for the artist to use upon themselves is a good thing, right?

It's this idea of distance. It smells fantastic, like freshly crushed coriander and cummin all mixed together. I'd eat it but I can't stop sniffing it. Distance not only from the work, but from the idea of talent as well.

To be talented is a crippling thing.

I have been told that I have talent. The people who have said this to me are not individuals with a vested interest in keeping me on side and gain nothing from stroking my ego. They were not speaking of craft, but of that part of art that cannot be learned, that essence of creativity that can't be picked up or passed on.

For the creative mind to consider the fact of its own talent is probably one of the most dangerous thought paths to follow. Might as well drive a steamroller over a minefield.

It's one thing to entertain dreams of grandeur and quite another to realise they could be a reality. That maybe you have something that is unique, and that others can see. Suddenly, there are ramifications to everything you do. Are you living up to your talent? Have you wasted it? Do you meet the expectations of those who have recognised it? By having this talent you did not earn are you bruising the already sensitive egos of the creators around you? Will there be a price for using something you haven't earned? Is it possible to exercise control over something entirely unconscious? What if you come to depend on it? What if it goes away?

This is not about any alleged talent I may have, but the weight and damage that merely considering it did. To consider talent left me terrified of using it. It has taken years to be reconcile myself with the idea, all of which has nothing to do with anything I've produced. The work goes on (or not) regardless.

But if someone had given me permission to disown the idea of talent, I daresay those years would have been spent being decidedly more relaxed about my writing.

There is a parallel with photography. I have absolutely no technique, skill, technical or theoretical knowledge, and so I don't feel I can claim ownership of any of the compliments my photographs garner. "I didn't do that," I say. "The world was there, I pressed the button and the camera did the rest."

Now of my stories I can say, "I didn't do that. The story was there, I opened to a new page and the [ ] did the rest."

The difference between being a vessel and a conduit. Gilbert's speech resonated so powerfully with me because she gave voice to a practice I've been slowly and stealthily ninjaing upon myself for some time. A space that is me, but not me. A trapdoor to the subconscious, down which I will deliberately shove stories and let whatever it is down there do whatever it is it does until it is ready to release the story back to me. There is something that is me, but not me. Something over which I have no control. Something that does not come from me.

I'm not going to call it Fred.

But, there is always a but. When you change the creative process from one of dictation to a conversation, then there must be another party with which to have the conversation, which means you are essentially engaging in a relationship with something that is Not Called Fred.

And when I turned this over in my mind, all I saw was a whole lot of issues. Like, not trusting NotFred to actually contribute. Feeling betrayed and rejected when NotFred does not produce the goods. Trying to make myself infinitely more attractive to NotFred, or NotFred's friends. Wondering what is wrong with me that NotFred&Friends talk to everyone else but not me. Deciding this is because I am hopeless and useless and worthless.

Etc, etc...

Which probably says more about me than anything else, but I believe that that poor, insecure, fragile, hopeful and despairing creative mind can find weapons to use against itself no matter what thought constructs are in place.

Still, I prefer NotFred to the thought of inspiration being sourced solely from within.

I find I disagree with the very end of Gilbert's speech. She has put forth the idea that creative transcendence - which we have all felt all too briefly - is not something we can find within ourselves but are graced to feel or not feel its touch according to the whims of something unknowable and unreasonable, and that a word for that something may as well be 'god'. When we are caught up in that passion which is equal parts exhilaration and desperation and in the paws of which we are tiny furious creatures, there, in our work, is god. And if god, the genie, NotFred has touched us...olé.

But then she says that even if god, the genie, NotFred never comes near us again, or never noticed us at all, yet still we labour at our craft...olé, she says, there is god anyway.

And by doing so, by putting god back in the artist when there is no god at work, she undermines that brilliant, necessary idea which was the point of her whole speech.

No. If god isn't there, then god isn't there.

Maybe god will only rip through us once, and never again. Maybe we will never channel god in our work. We can sit down and write, paint, design, draw, mould, stitch, whatever it is you are creating, and there will be no god in the end product. We can wait, and work, but diligence does not equal divine inspiration.

The work produced may be flawed, technically sound, thorough, clever, cliché, bold, unbalanced, dull, merely okay. The work produced may be the lewd loud shit of those who have not yet even begun to realise the challenges involved in creativity, or it could be the crisp precision of a master of the craft and years of rich experience.

It will not have that frightening fire to it, will not smell of freshly crushed coriander and cummin, and god won't know it exists.

It will be yours, and only yours.

And that is a thought construct worth taking pride in as well.

This week several people around me confessed to having dreams about sex. Some of them had more than one in a single night.

Yesterday I dreamed that a hostile foreign army filled the woods around my lovely summer palace and proceeded to slay everyone around with a torrent of arrows. I had to learn to fly to stay alive.

This morning I dreamed that assassins were out to get Michelle Obama, but instead of shooting her, they shot me. In the butt.

I'm getting the short end of the stick here.

Can I get a swapsies? Who do I speak to about this?

IT'S ON THE INTERNET IT MUST BE TRUE (NOW)

Someone landed on my blog by googling "what else does volcanoes spit out" sans question mark.

Answer:



Unicorns.

To The Knuckle, Ya Hear?

After nearly a week back in Oz, I think I’ve expelled the last of the junk that China, Tibet and Nepal laid in my nose.

Most travels become centred on the excretions of the bowel, whether or not this is admitted in polite company. Mess with the diet, never know where the next loo is and have to conquer squats and cesspits – it’s all about the poop.

This trip was equally focused on the excretions of the nasal cavity, as you just can't have too many orifices expelling at the same time, and upon which I shall elaborate upon now.

Beijing

Beijing has no sky.



That is the first photograph I took on Chinese soil, the first thing I saw upon leaving the airport, and yeah, I totally freaked out at the thought of breathing for the next few days.

I’m exaggerating. Mildly. There were blue skies while I was in the city.

But the pollution. The pollution! Blasphemy.

At Tiananmen Square they raise the Chinese flag every sunrise, and lower it every sunset. It’s quite the ritual, with a squad of the People's Liberation Army marching out from beneath Chairman Mao’s portrait over the gate to the Forbidden City, perfectly choreographed so they take 108 paces per minute, 75cm per pace, and timed so that the flag comes down exactly when the sun disappears below the horizon.

It would be more impressive if the sun had not disappeared behind the pollution half an hour before hand.



There it goes.

I commented to a local who was “practicing his English on me” that no one would know if the timing was out with the pollution hiding the sunset. He told me that oh, the air pollution had improved so much since the 2008 Beijing Olympics, when all the big factories had been moved away from the city. It was so much better now, amazing.

This was an improvement?

Don’t think I did a good job of hiding my horror.

China Proper left black boogers in my nose, solid like concrete. Took some blowing and then poking to get them moving.

Tibet

The Tibetan Plateau is free of China’s air issues, much to my relief. It is, however, dusty.



No, I mean it. The whole country is dusty.



Seriously.



Really.



We spent a day in this dust storm. There was more dust than air about, visibility was frequently zilch and we spent a good deal of time stopped, hoping no one ran into us while the dust washed up against the windows like water.

And that shit gets everywhere, and you would not believe how much dust your nasal cavity can contain.

The air is also incredibly cold and bone-dry. Combined with the altitude, I had a permanent blood nose. No major gushing, but a perpetual ooze.

In this regard, the dust was useful. I let it collect and act as a clotting agent. While the others were occupied with clearing their noses at every opportunity, I only got the tissues out of an evening, and proceeded with the excavation before bed. With body systems slowing down with sleep, the body struggles even further getting oxygen around at altitude, so you need all the space in your nose you can get.

This did mean that I was blowing a day's worth of junk out, and oh my lord Buddha. Some of those chunks were as big as my thumbnail, no exaggeration. Green and brown, and with blood clots. First time I was afraid I'd blown out a bit of my brain. The stuff down the nostril passage was dry and caked on too. It was amazing. Seriously, could have used this stuff as mortar in the Great Wall.

Wasn't just the poor soft foreigners either. I have a very clear and distinct and unfortunately precise memory of witnessing a woman who ran a food tent snot into her palm, try to wipe it on her shoe and then turn her hand over to inspect it when it didn't come off. I saw. Oh, I saw. It was fucking huge. Then she gave me my pot noodle.

Nepal

Coming down from altitude, we were told we'd be near high with oxygen. Oxygen!

This was a lie, as the water to oxygen ratio in the air was about equal. Plus, Kathmandu Valley does not boast particularly clean air either.



Left over blood nose from Tibet plus pollution, but less dust and actual moisture in the air meant a downgrade in the alert status of what came out my nose, which, given that normally nothing comes out my nose, still meant those boogers had punch.

Didn't need to know all that?

This is the real world, kids. Snot happens.




Nose is still bleeding, actually. I think it's a touch traumatised.

Monday I was back.
Today is Thursday.
I am not unpacked.





Tired.

I just knowingly and deliberately damaged a book.

Hold me.

Home: Three Things I Appreciate

Water

In the month I spent in Chile and Argentina there was only one place that had drinking-quality water on tap. That was in Torres del Paine, and was purely because, being in a national park, the refugio had to be entirely self-sufficient and didn't have the option of nipping around the corner to buy water.

Water was kept on the truck in jerry cans, with water purification tablets thrown in. The other option, if you did not happen to have your bottle handy or were not near the truck, was to buy water.

I take the presence of drinking water for granted, yet I do not. I don't seem to have much in the way of water retention given the speed at which I dehydrate and start to feel bad, so I always carry water on me. I've fainted a few too many times not to. What I take for granted is being able to fill up from any tap.

I was constantly buying water, and feeling guilty for churning through so many plastic bottles, and getting my ire up at having to pay for water in restaurants.

It drove me nuts. Sobering to think that there are people who don't even have non-drinkable water on tap.

Fruit

Actually, I gripe about this whenever I get back home from overseas. Australia is just insane for brilliant fresh produce. Patagonia, with the distances and largely arid land involved, is not. The fruit was limited to the basics - apples and bananas - and they were sad little things. I practically live on fruit. My body was starving for vitamins within a couple of days. I've been gorging myself on nectarines and apricots since getting back. So far, in my not particularly wide sampling of the world's bananas, Australia is a clear winner.

Toilet Paper

Outside of Buenos Aires, there is no toilet paper in the public toilets. For a day or so there I was living very dangerously. It's nice not to have to carry a wad of toilet paper in my back pocket. Just sayin'.

"Don't close the blast doors!" [to your heart!]

A wee while back, Jeff VanderMeer offered me a copy of Star Wars Punch Out 'n Play, to give it user acceptance testing on Omnivoracious over on Amazon.

I accepted the mission, as it has been a while since I futzed around in Comic Life. The results are as follows.







(Instructions in the back of the book ordered me to decorate my home and office with them, and then play! Hours of fun! So I introduced them to my home, my office, and all the local, er, wildlife. Actually, that isn't even half the junk on my desk.)






Anyone else want me to do PR for them?

Round 1: blaaaaargh!

January: I walk along the tram tracks on Flinders Street, because I can.

February: FIRST: Deb will be in Melbourne this weekend, just in case you missed it and wanted to make the most of this rare opportunity to observe her in the wild.

March: Herr Bear

April: When I raise the blinds, I see jellyfish.

May: Here's the deal: instead of 7wishes, you get MS Paint doodles.

June: Somewhere, there is a committee, and that committee decided that security was paramount, and while Britain’s emulation of Orwell’s 1984 is a sterling effort, it isn’t enough.

July: never say yes to garlic sauce. even when it's free.

August: I’ve been thinking about vengeance.

September: Philip Glass will be performing at the Melbourne International Arts Festival in October.

October: “I beg your pardon,” the ButlerBot says.

November: What a pleasant day!

December: Come closer, I have something to tell you.

Methinks I need to exercise my wit around the first of the month more often, or pointless summations such as this fail to even be passingly amusing. Got caught by less nightshift exercises than I thought. I'm very partial to November, there.

Maybe I should declare themes for each month of 2009? "This month is the month of Vegemite Sandwiches!" and the like. See how I totally fail to live up to a month of vegemite sandwiches.

Well, a month of vegemite sandwiches is just not sensible. BUT! This the perfect excuse to go out and buy more finger puppets, one for each month. WHAT MY LIFE NEEDS IS MORE FINGER PUPPETS. YOUR LIFE NEEDS MORE FINGER PUPPETS. SO DOES THE INTRAWEBZ. Clearly, this is my destiny.



"NEVAAAR! THIS IS MY BLAAARGH! MIIINE!"

Shut up, shark puppet. You look like a right twat with a finger up your cloaca.