Friday, October 31, 2003
This last week I have been desperately editing and rewriting my final undergraduate essay.
It's called Iranian Balloons: Pahani and the West and in it I have aimed to connect the recent festival interest in Iranian film to a cultural history heavily burdened by the machinations of imperialism.
Enjoy (or not)
It's called Iranian Balloons: Pahani and the West and in it I have aimed to connect the recent festival interest in Iranian film to a cultural history heavily burdened by the machinations of imperialism.
Enjoy (or not)
Saturday, October 25, 2003
I would like to thank Zeyad for getting me on to a commenting service, as well as being a none too uninteresting blogger.
Tourists, the lot of them
I want to forget the Americans running all over the world creating havoc for a moment to focus on a threat a lot closer to home, and with a deeper historical relationship with this sometimes beautiful land. I'm talking, of course, of the humble British backpacker, resplendant in his or her matching rugby sweaters and thongs.
A story. I was coming home from the bar, and granted, I'd had a bit to drink. So I was traipsing through the alleys and backlanes and tripping up on my own shadow when I rounded a corner and almost ran into two fine specimens of the species we are currently studying. They, for their part, were just off the plane and were looking for a place to "find some ladies...maybe a sports bar." One of them asked me "How far is Crown from here?" Me, being slightly spooked by these strange fellows, rattled off a whole heap of dubious directions to out-of-the way bars and added a general sweep of Swanston and Bourke Streets to send them on their way.
Walking on, I thought of an interesting article I might have read sometime. It went its way to explaining the phenomonen of British school leavers, who must take a mandatory year off between 'matriculation' (year 12) and any decisions regarding further education. The article might have mentioned that 47% of these 'schoolies' decreed to come to these fatal shores for that year (results unverified), generally spending the time working in pubs, call centres or for charity organisations up and down the east coast.
Getting to the roundabout near the cesspool which is our local hostel I saw another couple of British lads walking towards me but looking over at some public art that had recently been erected. As they passed me, I heard one of the ugliest people I've ever seen say to the other ugliest person I've ever seen, "Fucking disgusting".
Assuming they were commenting on Melbourne's urban art scheme and not some completely unrelated topic of conversation, I turned around and said "You come all the way around the world to whinge about public art? Is this why Cook and co. came snooping around, so you could eventually prance on over, drink the shittiest Australian beers, watch sports your team will invariably fail at, give an expert analysis of the 'Aboriginal situation' and critique the aesthetic ineptitude of particulary Melbourne public art?" And he said "..." well, nothing because I didn't actually turn around, and it was more a gritted whisper than an exhortation.
A paranoid person can think of infinite instances in one.
I now choose to direct my readers to the second last essay I will write for RMIT University. It's called 'Get lost, Bitch; Australian anxieties and cinematic representations.'
I want to forget the Americans running all over the world creating havoc for a moment to focus on a threat a lot closer to home, and with a deeper historical relationship with this sometimes beautiful land. I'm talking, of course, of the humble British backpacker, resplendant in his or her matching rugby sweaters and thongs.
A story. I was coming home from the bar, and granted, I'd had a bit to drink. So I was traipsing through the alleys and backlanes and tripping up on my own shadow when I rounded a corner and almost ran into two fine specimens of the species we are currently studying. They, for their part, were just off the plane and were looking for a place to "find some ladies...maybe a sports bar." One of them asked me "How far is Crown from here?" Me, being slightly spooked by these strange fellows, rattled off a whole heap of dubious directions to out-of-the way bars and added a general sweep of Swanston and Bourke Streets to send them on their way.
Walking on, I thought of an interesting article I might have read sometime. It went its way to explaining the phenomonen of British school leavers, who must take a mandatory year off between 'matriculation' (year 12) and any decisions regarding further education. The article might have mentioned that 47% of these 'schoolies' decreed to come to these fatal shores for that year (results unverified), generally spending the time working in pubs, call centres or for charity organisations up and down the east coast.
Getting to the roundabout near the cesspool which is our local hostel I saw another couple of British lads walking towards me but looking over at some public art that had recently been erected. As they passed me, I heard one of the ugliest people I've ever seen say to the other ugliest person I've ever seen, "Fucking disgusting".
Assuming they were commenting on Melbourne's urban art scheme and not some completely unrelated topic of conversation, I turned around and said "You come all the way around the world to whinge about public art? Is this why Cook and co. came snooping around, so you could eventually prance on over, drink the shittiest Australian beers, watch sports your team will invariably fail at, give an expert analysis of the 'Aboriginal situation' and critique the aesthetic ineptitude of particulary Melbourne public art?" And he said "..." well, nothing because I didn't actually turn around, and it was more a gritted whisper than an exhortation.
A paranoid person can think of infinite instances in one.
I now choose to direct my readers to the second last essay I will write for RMIT University. It's called 'Get lost, Bitch; Australian anxieties and cinematic representations.'
Friday, October 24, 2003
Google...and Commit No Nuisance
It seems that to get an mention in the Google directory it is not enough to merely title one's blog Commit No Nuisance. One has to instead mention the phrase (Commit No Nuisance) a number of times within an entry for it to arouse attention. So, apart from an obvious exhaltion for the world to "Commit No Nuisance" I will also say to Google, please, Commit No Nuisance and put my blog on the most relevant page.
Thank you (and commit no nuisance)
*cnn
It seems that to get an mention in the Google directory it is not enough to merely title one's blog Commit No Nuisance. One has to instead mention the phrase (Commit No Nuisance) a number of times within an entry for it to arouse attention. So, apart from an obvious exhaltion for the world to "Commit No Nuisance" I will also say to Google, please, Commit No Nuisance and put my blog on the most relevant page.
Thank you (and commit no nuisance)
*cnn
Thursday, October 23, 2003
Michel Houellebecq
...is an often profound, sometimes enraging writer. Allow me to explain.
"It's curious to think of all these human beings who live out their whole lives without feeling the need to make the slightest comment, the slightest objection, the slightest remark. Not that these comments, these objections, these remarks are addressed to anyone in particular, nor intended to have any sort of meaning; but, even so, it seems to me to be better, in the end, that they be made."
Or
"'It was you who told me', I said gently, 'that capitalism, by its very nature, is in a permanent state of war, a constant struggle which can never end.' 'That's true', she agreed without hestitation, 'but it's not always the same people doing the fighting.'"
Or
"We have created a system in which it has become impossible to live; and what's more, we continue to export it."
He has recently collected his share of the literary flak for writing characters that express a clearly anti-Islamic sentiment. Artistic types have rallied to his defense in the age-old Mirror vs. Window debate that transfixes all criticisms. I will transcribe a interesting lecture an Egyptian has with our protagonist in Platform and let you be the judge.
"'Since the appearance of Islam, nothing. An intellectual vacuum, an absolute void. We've become a country of flea-ridden beggars. Beggars covered in fleas, that's what we are. Scum, scum!...'(with a wave, he shooed away some boys who had come to beg for small change). 'You must remember, cher monsieur,' (he spoke five foreign languages fluently: French, German, English, Spanish and Russian), 'that Islam was born deep in the desert amid scorpions, camels and wild beasts of every order. Do you know what I call Muslims? The losers of the Sahara. That's what they deserve to be called. Do you think Islam could have been born in such a magnificent place?' (with genuine feeling, he motioned again to the Nile valley). 'No, monsieur. Islam could only have been born in a stupid desert, among filthy Bedouins who had nothing better to do - pardon me - than to bugger camels. The closer a religion comes to monotheism - consider this carefully, cher monsieur- the more cruel and inhuman it becomes; and of all religions, Islam imposes the most radical monotheism. From its beginnings, it has been characterised by an uninterrupted series of wars of invasions and massacres; never for as long as it exists, will peace reign in the world. Neither, in Muslim countries, will intellect and talent find a home; if there were Arab mathematicians, poets and scientists, it is simply because they lost their faith. Simply reading the Koran, one cannot help but be struck by the regrettable mood of tautology which typifies the work: "There is no other God but God alone:, etc. You won't get very far with nonsense like that, you have to admit. Far from being an attempt at abstraction, as it is sometimes portrayed, the move towards monotheism is nothing more than a shift towards mindlessness."
Any and all comments will be posted (I'm working on the technology).
...is an often profound, sometimes enraging writer. Allow me to explain.
"It's curious to think of all these human beings who live out their whole lives without feeling the need to make the slightest comment, the slightest objection, the slightest remark. Not that these comments, these objections, these remarks are addressed to anyone in particular, nor intended to have any sort of meaning; but, even so, it seems to me to be better, in the end, that they be made."
Or
"'It was you who told me', I said gently, 'that capitalism, by its very nature, is in a permanent state of war, a constant struggle which can never end.' 'That's true', she agreed without hestitation, 'but it's not always the same people doing the fighting.'"
Or
"We have created a system in which it has become impossible to live; and what's more, we continue to export it."
He has recently collected his share of the literary flak for writing characters that express a clearly anti-Islamic sentiment. Artistic types have rallied to his defense in the age-old Mirror vs. Window debate that transfixes all criticisms. I will transcribe a interesting lecture an Egyptian has with our protagonist in Platform and let you be the judge.
"'Since the appearance of Islam, nothing. An intellectual vacuum, an absolute void. We've become a country of flea-ridden beggars. Beggars covered in fleas, that's what we are. Scum, scum!...'(with a wave, he shooed away some boys who had come to beg for small change). 'You must remember, cher monsieur,' (he spoke five foreign languages fluently: French, German, English, Spanish and Russian), 'that Islam was born deep in the desert amid scorpions, camels and wild beasts of every order. Do you know what I call Muslims? The losers of the Sahara. That's what they deserve to be called. Do you think Islam could have been born in such a magnificent place?' (with genuine feeling, he motioned again to the Nile valley). 'No, monsieur. Islam could only have been born in a stupid desert, among filthy Bedouins who had nothing better to do - pardon me - than to bugger camels. The closer a religion comes to monotheism - consider this carefully, cher monsieur- the more cruel and inhuman it becomes; and of all religions, Islam imposes the most radical monotheism. From its beginnings, it has been characterised by an uninterrupted series of wars of invasions and massacres; never for as long as it exists, will peace reign in the world. Neither, in Muslim countries, will intellect and talent find a home; if there were Arab mathematicians, poets and scientists, it is simply because they lost their faith. Simply reading the Koran, one cannot help but be struck by the regrettable mood of tautology which typifies the work: "There is no other God but God alone:, etc. You won't get very far with nonsense like that, you have to admit. Far from being an attempt at abstraction, as it is sometimes portrayed, the move towards monotheism is nothing more than a shift towards mindlessness."
Any and all comments will be posted (I'm working on the technology).
Thursday, October 16, 2003
Yesterday was my last day of classes...ever. Today the entire teaching staff at my university went on strike, angry at proposed changes to higher education as espoused in Education Minister Brendan Nelson's review. These are changes that neither students, academic staff, nor vice-chancellors support. I am lucky to have finished my degree as these changes are being debated. I would not have gone to uni if this proposed system were in place four years ago. I am dismayed by the indifference expressed by so many reasonable people that I have spoken to on this issue. Their general outlook is 'well I've got my degree, what does it matter?' It matters because in ten years time the only people at uni will be the ones with rich daddies, and the only people able to get a decent job will be the ones with a higher education. So the talented poor will be locked out of a future that should have welcomed them; the class divide will only get wider and deeper. With no education and no prospects huge numbers will fall into the welfare net. Only problem is...that net has already been taken down and sold off to the highest bidder. By the time this country wakes up and votes them out the Howard government will have added a further legacy to their reign; the death of a compasionate, intelligent society.
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Le Enterrement, une histoire pour Rachel
A crowd of roughly forty mourners had gathered when the black Ducati came to a halt some thirty metres from the freshly dug hole. Each one watched in their own version of espionage as the rider disembarked, removed his helmet, and began to cross the distance between them. For his older sister, situated at the nucleus of this atomic grouping, the chasm between them was insurmountable. Seeing him return to the family brought up feelings of resentment that she could not reconcile. After all, she was the one left to negotiate the mess he created. She watched as her friends, on the periphery of the congregation, looked her brother up and down, noting his broad shoulders and chiseled facial features. Their disloyalty only made her loathe him more. She wanted to ignore him, wait for him to catch the next flight back to London, and get on with the difficult, but by now habitual task of placating her mother’s wild agonies, her aunts’ gossip, her husband’s threats of violence and her best friends’ uncontrollable libido. But all this, she knew, was a Sisyphean task.
He sidled up to her and whispered, “Have I missed anything?” coupling it with the cheeky grin that allowed him to get away with too much in this family and elsewhere. She glanced at him quickly then lowered her head. He often read his sister’s gruff countenance as a symptom of Older Sibling Syndrome, an affliction causing irrational jealous of successes, but an underlying duty of pride and unconditional love. But this time he recognized a deeper hurt hidden below her resignation. He tried to concentrate on the pastor’s words.
“We will remember Peter as a loving husband to Mary and caring father to Jacqueline, Lachlan and Cameron, as well as a bedrock to his younger sisters Caroline and Mary. He was the rock on which his family was built…
This particular excerpt amused Lachlan a great deal. If ever a foundation was unsuitable for construction upon, its name was Peter O’Connell.
From ashes to ashes, dust to dust, etc…”
The crowd, mainly the offspring of relatives, and now even the offspring of offspring of relatives, murmured in solemn agreement with the reverend’s spiel. Both Jac and Lachlan felt uncomfortable, an aversion to their inherited religious history one of the only traits they shared. Cameron, who was placed near to the crook of his mother’s arm, caught Lachlan’s eye. “How’s kiddo doing these days?” he whispered, still trying to initiate a secret conversation with his sister. She replied in a not uncurt manner, “His nineteen now, at uni, moving on, he’s fine.” Cameron had often been an unwitting pawn in the playground politics of his older siblings, the victimized battleground of their adolescence.
As the coffin was lowered…
A crowd of roughly forty mourners had gathered when the black Ducati came to a halt some thirty metres from the freshly dug hole. Each one watched in their own version of espionage as the rider disembarked, removed his helmet, and began to cross the distance between them. For his older sister, situated at the nucleus of this atomic grouping, the chasm between them was insurmountable. Seeing him return to the family brought up feelings of resentment that she could not reconcile. After all, she was the one left to negotiate the mess he created. She watched as her friends, on the periphery of the congregation, looked her brother up and down, noting his broad shoulders and chiseled facial features. Their disloyalty only made her loathe him more. She wanted to ignore him, wait for him to catch the next flight back to London, and get on with the difficult, but by now habitual task of placating her mother’s wild agonies, her aunts’ gossip, her husband’s threats of violence and her best friends’ uncontrollable libido. But all this, she knew, was a Sisyphean task.
He sidled up to her and whispered, “Have I missed anything?” coupling it with the cheeky grin that allowed him to get away with too much in this family and elsewhere. She glanced at him quickly then lowered her head. He often read his sister’s gruff countenance as a symptom of Older Sibling Syndrome, an affliction causing irrational jealous of successes, but an underlying duty of pride and unconditional love. But this time he recognized a deeper hurt hidden below her resignation. He tried to concentrate on the pastor’s words.
“We will remember Peter as a loving husband to Mary and caring father to Jacqueline, Lachlan and Cameron, as well as a bedrock to his younger sisters Caroline and Mary. He was the rock on which his family was built…
This particular excerpt amused Lachlan a great deal. If ever a foundation was unsuitable for construction upon, its name was Peter O’Connell.
From ashes to ashes, dust to dust, etc…”
The crowd, mainly the offspring of relatives, and now even the offspring of offspring of relatives, murmured in solemn agreement with the reverend’s spiel. Both Jac and Lachlan felt uncomfortable, an aversion to their inherited religious history one of the only traits they shared. Cameron, who was placed near to the crook of his mother’s arm, caught Lachlan’s eye. “How’s kiddo doing these days?” he whispered, still trying to initiate a secret conversation with his sister. She replied in a not uncurt manner, “His nineteen now, at uni, moving on, he’s fine.” Cameron had often been an unwitting pawn in the playground politics of his older siblings, the victimized battleground of their adolescence.
As the coffin was lowered…
Monday, October 13, 2003
Bugs
I am still working through the bugs that accumulate once one downloads freeware of the internet, and am awaiting delivery of my free(^) mail order bride courtesy of eBay and the Shoppers Network. Once she arrives I'll set her to work updating this site daily in my absence, and ensuring the pics and audio are streamed to you 24/7.
*CNN
(^)conditions apply
I am still working through the bugs that accumulate once one downloads freeware of the internet, and am awaiting delivery of my free(^) mail order bride courtesy of eBay and the Shoppers Network. Once she arrives I'll set her to work updating this site daily in my absence, and ensuring the pics and audio are streamed to you 24/7.
*CNN
(^)conditions apply
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
Absence
I apologise to my legion of tech-savvy fans, for I have been well and truly grounded this last week. For thirty-six of the last forty-eight hours I have been staring at this screen and trying to get voiceovers and grabs and music to all fall harmoniously into place. It has not been easy. It has not been fun. But it might produce results in the form of access to *cnn radio via *cnn web. Stay tuned for the frequency once I get some sleep.
I apologise to my legion of tech-savvy fans, for I have been well and truly grounded this last week. For thirty-six of the last forty-eight hours I have been staring at this screen and trying to get voiceovers and grabs and music to all fall harmoniously into place. It has not been easy. It has not been fun. But it might produce results in the form of access to *cnn radio via *cnn web. Stay tuned for the frequency once I get some sleep.
Thursday, October 02, 2003
Guevara and Yorke
I opened up the ‘puter with good intentions. But then all of a sudden I put Radiohead on…and a pictorial biography of che was handed to me…I had a little smoke…and the smoke got in my eyes.
Who's in bunker, who's in bunker? / Women and children first / Women and children first / Women and children / I'll laugh until my head comes off / I swallow till I burst / Until I burst / Until I..
Who's in bunker, who's in bunker / I've seen too much / I haven't seen enough / You haven't seen enough
I'll laugh until my head comes off / Women and children first / And children first / And children..
Here I'm alive, everything all of the time / Here I'm alive, everything all of the time
Ice age coming, ice age coming / Let me hear both sides / Let me hear both sides / Let me hear both..
Ice age coming, ice age coming / Throw me in the fire / Throw me in the fire / Throw me in the..
We're not scaremongering / This is really happening, happening
We're not scaremongering / This is really happening, happening
Mobiles working / Mobiles chirping
Take the money and run / Take the money and run / Take the money..
Here I'm alive, everything all of the time
A picture of young che, maybe twenty-two years old, with his possessions strapped to a bicycle. Exuberant at the thought of challenging the world.
At the time he wrote “I realize that something has been maturing in me which for some time had been growing amidst the hubbub of the city; the hatred of civilization, the bebased image of people rushing around in circles to the beat of that appalling din."
As my good friend Shimon would say "Nuff said".
I opened up the ‘puter with good intentions. But then all of a sudden I put Radiohead on…and a pictorial biography of che was handed to me…I had a little smoke…and the smoke got in my eyes.
Who's in bunker, who's in bunker? / Women and children first / Women and children first / Women and children / I'll laugh until my head comes off / I swallow till I burst / Until I burst / Until I..
Who's in bunker, who's in bunker / I've seen too much / I haven't seen enough / You haven't seen enough
I'll laugh until my head comes off / Women and children first / And children first / And children..
Here I'm alive, everything all of the time / Here I'm alive, everything all of the time
Ice age coming, ice age coming / Let me hear both sides / Let me hear both sides / Let me hear both..
Ice age coming, ice age coming / Throw me in the fire / Throw me in the fire / Throw me in the..
We're not scaremongering / This is really happening, happening
We're not scaremongering / This is really happening, happening
Mobiles working / Mobiles chirping
Take the money and run / Take the money and run / Take the money..
Here I'm alive, everything all of the time
A picture of young che, maybe twenty-two years old, with his possessions strapped to a bicycle. Exuberant at the thought of challenging the world.
At the time he wrote “I realize that something has been maturing in me which for some time had been growing amidst the hubbub of the city; the hatred of civilization, the bebased image of people rushing around in circles to the beat of that appalling din."
As my good friend Shimon would say "Nuff said".
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Contacts and Contracts
Slowly, ever so slowly, the word is getting out about cronyism in the Bu'shit regime. A NYTimes article today did more than insinuate that reconstruction and renetworking in Baghdad is being controlled by a mafia-like organisation. Unfortunately for the free world, the links go right on up the chain to men like Dick Cheney and families like the Bushs. Where are the local networks that should be investigating such lewd acts of misconduct? Well, they were barred from broadcasting by Chalabi and friends of course, a subsiduary of US Government Pty Ltd.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the word is getting out about cronyism in the Bu'shit regime. A NYTimes article today did more than insinuate that reconstruction and renetworking in Baghdad is being controlled by a mafia-like organisation. Unfortunately for the free world, the links go right on up the chain to men like Dick Cheney and families like the Bushs. Where are the local networks that should be investigating such lewd acts of misconduct? Well, they were barred from broadcasting by Chalabi and friends of course, a subsiduary of US Government Pty Ltd.
