I was in the auditorium setting up for tonight’s performance with Ryan, our sound and lighting guy.
Ryan went out to get some dinner while I kept working.
5.39PM
Person A: “Where’s Ryan?”
Me: “He’s on a mission from God.”
5.40 PM
Person B: “Where’s Ryan?”
Me: “He’s on a mission from God.”
5.41PM
Person C: “Where’s Ryan?”
Person B: “Ms X sent him to do sommething.”
I think I just got a promotion.
I’m looking forward to the pay rise.
Actually, what I really want is the superpowers.
I’ve had a wonderful idea.
It’s 40 years since the dismissal of Gough Whitlam’s government in 1975 by the Governor-General, Sir James Kerr.
Tomorrow – September 9th – will see Queen Elizabeth II become the longest reigning monarch in British history.
What if Australia were to celebrate both anniversaries by having the Governor-General sack the PM again?
Australia would have a new lease on its political life, possibly even in time to prevent our becoming unable to ever look the rest of the world in the eye again.
The economy would receive an enormous boost because people would be throwing parties and holding street parades through every town. Freedom of the press to call it as they see it would return, and Australians could celebrate being Australian without wondering if they actually were on Team Australia or not.
The ABC could continue being fully funded and independent, we could go back to funding schools, roads and hospitals, and asylum seekers would be welcomed without being “filtered” according to artificially imposed rules and guidelines that make those who dream them up almost as bigoted as the people the asylum seekers are running away from in the first place.
Australia could once again be the “lucky country” with boundless plains to share, where the little guy can achieve something great once in a while without being accused of having a “sense of entitlement”.
Stop for a moment and think about it.
It really would be the gift that keeps on giving.
It’s been a funny old day in Australian politics.
On the front page of the national newspaper today was a picture of Tony Abbott, Prime Minister of Australia, being “bunny-earsed” by some kid at a reception for the Diamonds, the Australian representative netball team.
I really enjoy this picture, because it looks like it’s Bill Shorten, Leader of the Opposition, doing it. That would be funny, too, although perhaps a bit harder to justify as an innocent prank. The second picture definitely shows that it’s a kid’s arm behind the PM.
Personally, I think someone should give that kid a knighthood, or at least a medal. With one gesture, he has summed up the feelings of many Australians. Moreover, it’s humorous and typical Aussie larrikin behaviour, without causing any harm or any significant disrespect.
Let’s face it, giving someone bunny ears in a photo has been the Australian way for generations. How many years worth of school photos do we all have where someone is doing the bunny ears, or crossing their eyes, or wearing someone else’s glasses? Those are the things that make actually getting those photos taken worthwhile.
It’s also a reminder that we are very privileged to live in a country where we can meet and mingle with our national leaders without getting tasered or spear-tackled to the ground and, in the case that we should survive that, arrested. I can’t imagine being able to get close enough to Vladimir Putin, or Kim Jong Il, for example, or daring to “bunny ears” either one of them. And taking on the POTUS bodyguards? No. No thank you. I’ll be good.
Australia really is a great country. It’s a great place to live, especially if you’ve got a bit of a sense of humour and don’t take yourself, or your politicians, too seriously.
Today I was privileged to accompany 45 students on a visit to the Courage to Care exhibition in Portland.
We heard the personal story of a man named Harry, a Holocaust survivor from Poland. Harry’s story was incredibly powerful. So were the tears he shed while telling it. You couldn’t help but be moved by this first-hand account of the terrible things that were done during World War II.
Courage to Care exists because they are passionate about telling many, many stories just like Harry’s. Given that we are celebrating the 70th anniversary of the end of the war, they know that it won’t be long before there are no survivors left to tell their stories to the generations that follow them.
The message is not just about the Holocaust. It’s a message against any form of prejudice, hatred, intolerance or bullying. Differences between people are only ever superficial; underneath our skin, we’re all the same.
Everyone who visits the exhibition is encouraged to be “Upstanders, not Bystanders”. It’s hard to leave without experiencing the conviction that you will never accept or condone discrimination again.
I cried as Harry told his story, not just for Harry but for every family who lived through the same thing. I cried for parents who lost children, children who lost parents, and siblings who lost each other.
I cried again when I read the stories of two families in Rotterdam who worked with the Dutch Resistance and help save Jewish people from the Nazis. They almost certainly knew my grandfather, who worked for the Dutch Reaistance throughout the war, and was personally hunted by the Nazis as a result.
My Opa told me stories about his experiences during the war when I was a young girl reading books like ‘The Hiding Place’ and The Diary of Anne Frank’. They were always very serious and quite emotional conversations. It was very important to him that I understood how important it is to oppose evil and to stand against hatred.
He told me more of his story when I was a little older and studying history. I guess he thought I could handle more of the horrible truth then. It certainly made my studies more personally relevant.
It also explained why he would leave the room or turn the TV off whenever there was a scene where German soldiers marched or where Hitler addressed the crowd. I don’t know why I hadn’t made that connection before, but after that, I could not watch those scenes without thinking about how powerfully real and haunting it still was for him and, doubtless, everyone else who had survived it. I was very privileged today to meet Harry, to shake his hand and talk with him. I told him about my grandfather and the connection with the stories displayed in the exhibition, and cried again. He hugged me and we shed tears together.
Honestly, I’ve never been such a sook in public. The whole experience was very moving, and not just because it made me think about my grandfather.
I saw the students responding in a similarly emotional way. They spoke up about bullying, booing at footballers, and the way different ethnic groups in Australia are perceived and treated. One of my students, a young man who generally seems to have not a care in the world, had tears in his eyes, just like I did.
I saw the light in the eyes of the Courage to Care members as they were inspired by the responses of the young people in front of them. The conversations were serious and sombre.
Every student took a wristband and put it on immediately, proud to be an Upstander.
There is hope yet for our nation and our world. Young or old, we can make a stand against hatred and vilification.
All that is needed is the courage to care and to stand up for what is right.
Tonight I did a terrible thing.
A friend and I were discussing a relationship breakup and, in response to a question, the first thing that came to mind was a lyric from a Mariah Carey song. The fact that I initially thought it might have been Whitney Houston doesn’t absolve me from quoting it to her.
My brainPod is generally rather genius at pulling up lyrics from songs in response to random words and actions, but even I was shocked at the cruelty of my memory in dredging that up. I felt kind of bad for inflicting the video clip on her, too.
Some kind of friend I am. Thankfully, we were both able to laugh about it.
Karma had the last laugh, though.
Knowing I have to get up early for work, Karma waited until I was about to drift off and then she made Tony Delroy, host of the radio program I always listen to, play the theme song from Titanic.
Freakin‘ Celine Dion.
I cannot stand her. As much as I love Canada, and as much as I don’t want to offend anyone who loves her, I think she’s bloody dreadful.
I heard the first few notes of the flute and groaned, “Kill me now!” I turned the volume right down but it was too late. The damage was done.
And here I am, wide awKe and blogging about it instead of sleeping.
Karma is, indeed, a bitch, but at least she has a sense of humour.
A conversation overheard today, in my office, between two English teachers:
Teacher A: “I’m looking for my blue ribbon. I was sure I left it in here, but I can’t find it. Looks like I’m going to have to go to the shops.”
Teacher B: “Oh! I have blue ribbon!”
Teacher A: “Oh! What kind?”
Teacher B: “You know… riboon…”
Teacher A: “And what colour?”
Teacher B: “Blue…”
Teacher A: “How much have you got?”
Teacher B: “I dunno, a length…”
Me: “You two ought to be teachers. You’ve really got that communication thing going on.”
Teacher A: “If you tell anyone about this… I’ll…”
Me: *smiles innocently*
*opens laptop to write blog entry*
I support the rights of sports spectators everywhere to not like everyone on the field. Liking everyone is not compulsory.
I do not accept that they have a right to call names, boo, hiss, swear, curse or insult anyone who takes the field / court / cricket pitch, or anyone else for that matter.
I’ve seen plenty of this behaviour directed at footballers and participants in various other sports in my time, and it sickens me. If they weren’t among the best, they wouldn’t be out there.
The colour of someone’s skin, their racial or religious heritage, or their sexual preferences have absolutely nothing to do with it.
I support the rights of all people to work in their workplace without harassment, vilification, or threats of harm. That applies to footballers as well as mechanics, teachers, doctors, nurses and everyone else. If you wouldn’t accept that treatment at work, don’t expect anyone else to. If you would feel threatened with hundreds of people “booing” at you, don’t expect others not to.
To belittle, mock or harass someone is childish. To support that kind of behaviour among people who should know better is worse. For heaven’s sake, we’re not all six years old.
Yes, sometimes people do things that we don’t like. Sometimes people do things that they regret. Sometimes, one’s actions end up having consequences that they certainly did not expect. That’s life. We’re all human, and nobody’s perfect.
I think it’s about time a lot of Australians took a long, hard look at themselves, got over their arrogance, and learned to play nicely with others, both on and off the field.
I’ve had a really productive and creative month, especially in my writing. This is a good thing in one way, but I’ve often observed that I am at my most creative when I feel oppressed or angry about something. This has, in fact, caused me to wonder what sort of mood I’d have to be in, and for how long, if I were to actually try to write a whole book.
Perhaps luckily for my family and friends,, that’s not what I’ve been inspired to write. More than ever before, I’ve become really serious about writing poetry. There have been times when the ideas and words just poured out of me and landed on the page rather effectively. There have also been plenty of times when the writing and crafting of meaning was far more labour intensive because I wanted to make sure it was exactly right.
Last week, as I was driving home from somewhere – I can’t quite remember which day it was – the thought struck me that I should try my hand at a more conventional classical ballad style of poetry, like so many of the longer poems that I know and love. I’ve spent my life loving the work of poets such as Tennyson and Wordsworth, and while I am not pretending for a moment that I am anywhere near as good as them, the rich narrative style of their poems is something I thought I’d like to try to emulate.
Inspiration struck as I saw a picture in my mind’s eye and decided to develop it as an allegorical ballad with a fairy tale feeling and style about it. Parts of the poem have flowed quite naturally, and others have been painstakingly written and rewritten. At one point, I nearly threw the whole thing away and gave up on the whole thing as a ridiculously bad idea. I had hit the cold, hard barrier of writer’s block, and for several days this unfinished piece taunted me. Who was I kidding, anyway? I might be good with words, but I would never be that good.
In typical fashion, this famine of ideas turned out to be the ironic part of my life having a good old laugh at my own expense. At the end of a week where I had three very long days at work, survived a stressful meeting, and was playing cordial host to a four-day-long tension headache, my brain woke me at 2am on Saturday with some lines that I had to either write down that instant or lose them forever.
I wrote those lines rather clumsily into my phone, hoping that autocorrect and my headachey,sleep deprived eye-finger coordination didn’t play merry hell with what I thought I was writing. You can imagine my surprise the following day when those lines actually turned out to be just what I had wanted.
The poem isn’t finished yet. I am not sure how long it will take before I am happy enough to publish it. When I do, though, it won’t matter if nobody else likes it or understands it, or if it is not hailed as a work of literary genius. I’m pretty sure that won’t happen. What matters is what the poem means to me.
For now, it’s a labour of love. Hopefully I will be ready to share it with the world soon.
Last week I was talking with Sean about my poetry. He challenged me to write something that wasn’t dark and negative. I had to admit that while my prose writing is quite varied, there was definitely a mean streak in my poetry.
I promised that at some point, I’d give writing some more positive poetry a shot.
That got me to thinking about why I write the way I do.
Lately, my poetry has been the place where I’ve been able to say what I think and feel when it would be inappropriate to say those things aloud to the people who need to hear them. Keeping one’s friends and one’s job is generally considered to be a good thing. Writers have long considered their work a place of refuge and sanctuary from the world around them, and a safe venue in which to voice their thoughts and responses to the difficulties that life throws at them.
This week was a tough one on a number of levels, and it’s not unusual for me to get very creative when I’m feeling oppressed. On Thursday night, another friend told me that she was concerned that my writing might get me into trouble if the wrong people were to read it.
“How?” I asked her. “Nobody is identified, not even me. No place or situation is specified. It could be about anyone, or anything.” Besides, I thought to myself, those would be the right people.
To be honest, if someone reads one of my darker poems and thinks it’s about them, which it most likely is not, they probably need to take a long, hard look at themselves to see if there’s an issue they need to address. As they saying goes, “If the shoe fits, lace that sucker up and wear it.”
My writing is about my experiences and my feelings, or those of the people close to me, but it’s not specific to us. Sometimes, it’s pure fiction. My intention is to share glimpses of human experience, emotions, and responses to the challenges of survival in a difficult world. I’m really not always angry; those are just the poems that are the most cathartic to write. It’s the least expensive therapy known to mankind.
This week, I’ve managed two poems in a row that are not angry. In my writing “career” so far, that’s quite an accomplishment. Sean’s challenge has reminded me that I can still tap into powerful feelings and experiences without sounding like I want to hurt someone. That’s probably a very good thing.
If you’d like to read my writing, you’re more than welcome.
It’s not about you.
Honest.
WordyNerdBird 