Justice, not so much

In class we were looking a paradox. In Sierra Leone, war criminals- the bosses, those deemed responsible- are tried in front of the Special Court (SC). Accordingly, while detained they are provided with what are deemed to be human rights- clean water, food, max three people per bathroom, the right to lawyers. As the SC is held to the UDHR (UN Charter of Human Rights), the war criminals are guaranteed to survive, as the death penalty is seen as in violation with HR.
Meanwhile, down the road in Sierra Leone is another jail. This is for the foot soldiers, those recruited by the bosses in the fancy jail up the hill. They are often desperately poor and undereducated. The jail in which they are held is for 300, but it holds over 1000. These men have no chance of getting a lawyer, and- as it is a local jail, with no accountability to UN charters- every chance of being sentenced to death.
The men who created and perpetuated the war are being tried by the SC because, as everyone agrees, it force them to account for their actions. Justice, supposedly, will be done.
Yet in life and death, their sentences will be less severe than those who were only following their command. It would be impossible to enforce the standards of HR at the local jail, so does this mean the war bosses should be treated exactly like the foot soldiers? If so, what does this mean for HR? If not, what does this mean for justice?
It sucks balls when there's no right answer.

A half-arsed attempt at revival.

Well, my blog crashed and burned in a style far from spectacular. I suppose I will make occasional and feeble attempts to revive it, whenever I have the hankering.
The last few months have been marked on a micro scale by returning from Curtin Detention Centre, which literally turned my life around, and an election, which thus far has turned nothing around.
Sadly, I cannot post about the Centre, which is one of the reasons I haven't bothered even looking at this blog for a while, because it's all I think about these days. Australia's a very beautiful country, and I'm breathtakingly lucky to have grown up here, but sometimes things all go a bit racist.
The refugees I met are beautiful- sharing, dignified, thoughtful, selfless. Sometimes angry and upset. Sometimes hilariously funny. Thinking about their families, friends, each other, us. The kind of people I would be grateful to have in any country I live in.

For those who've come across the seas
We've boundless plains to share;
With courage let us all combine
To advance Australia fair.

-From the Australian National Anthem- Advance Australia Fair.

A Recourse of Events Happened This Day

I'm so tired that my eyes are droopy in the manner of a crack addict, but damn it, I said I'll post every day and I'll be damned if I go back on that already.
Today I did the rounds; mum's house, then dad's. My mum regailed me with stories of a recent date she went on, which to me seemed deeply unneccessary. Maybe this is me alone, but I would rather never think about my mum dating or kissing. Probably because it would make me face the uncomfortable truth that she's getting some and I'm not.
My dad and I had an impassioned debate about the burqa. One of those debates of fierce, deeply held beliefs and passionate senses of justice that are unique within the white upper-middle classes who have no personal association with the issues involved. We both argued our own opinion, refused to consider the other and left with a quiet but innate sense of being right, and thus, superior.
Good day all round then.

A Celebration of Sporadity

Is sporadity a word?

I have waved a cheery farewell (and by that I mean a sweaty, sweary, exhausted farewell) to the semester, going out on a bang by beginning my final essay, of a few thousand words and forty percent of the mark, on the day it was due. Still, such horrors are now behind me, never to be repeated again, said America, after the invasion of... everywhere. And yet, as US soldiers continue to force the uplifting and inspiring message of democracy on all and sundry, so I will find myself, mumbling swears and banging like a mad thing on the keyboard, with forty minutes to go. Such, as they say, is life.
This semester has certainly been energetic, with uni five days a week, work three days a week and.... no, actually, that's all I did. Ever.
I am all but reeling from the effort and I think some of my brain has actually given up and died (I keep forgetting what things are- I called a wooden spoon 'the brown stirry device' and a watch 'the circular time machine' yesterday) but now I have four happy days of... nothing. No work, no uni, just happily waiting to head off to Western Australia. I will attempt in this period to write a blog daily, just to ensure that I remember words.
Words like... smithereens.

On Time Passed... Or Not.

Goodness gracious, I look back and it's been a semester since I last peppered this little page with my musings. Since I last posted, I've moved out of home and out of a relationship, fallen in love with my degree and steadied my focus on my future. That's as specific as I'll get on all that, so for now I'll just leave you with a few little bits which mean things to me.

"Under the Refugee Convention, which Australia has signed, all people have the right
to seek asylum in Australia.22 They may be found to be genuine refugees, and they
may not – but seeking asylum is not illegal under Australian law or international law.
The term ʻillegal immigrantʼ, just like the term ʻqueue jumperʼ, is designed to make
asylum seekers seem alien and unworthy of sympathy."
- GetUp! factsheet... full sheet can be found here.

"She said it over and again before the line went dead. And that is what they were all saying down their phones, from the hijacked planes and the burning towers. There is only love, and then oblivion. Love was all they had to set against the hatred of their murderers."
- Ian McEwan, after September 11, here.

"Political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to the pure wind"
- George Orwell, most famously seen at the beginning of this WikiLeaks video.

A Visual Encapsulation

I just finished this book:



By this (delicious) man:




and it made me:






and




and made me think about





and





and





and with all my heart I could not recommend it enough.

A Re-Examination Of A Literary Form And All The Delights Said Re-Examination Brought Forth

As my blog perhaps attests, I'm rather fond of a spot of poetry here or there. A form of poetry that has been vastly neglected by me is the haiku. I suppose it's because it seems a bit like the cheaters poetry- anything can sounds profound in 17 syllables or less. Thus, I spent less time appreciating haiku's than I did traffic jams, or salad.
I have been sadly misinformed.
My recent discovery of Godzilla Haiku has been one of great joy. The pathos, the existentialism, the desolate eloquence- I can't get enough. I proudly present my 'Best of Godzilla Haiku'

Lovesong- Ted Hughes

He loved her and she loved him
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Off that moment's brink and into nothing
Or everlasting or whatever there was

Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His words were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assassin's attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon's gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
Her vows put his eyes in formalin
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall

Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other's face

With Apologies Galore

It is sheepishly I write these words. After vowing that this blog wouldn't join the myriad of other petered-out blogs peppered about the intehnetz, I immediately forsook it to attend to the rather more pressing concern of University. However, university has paused for breath (or, less metaphorically, Easter) and thus here I am, armed with Earl Grey (my cups of earl grey are the classiest moments in my days), typing away.
I'll be honest, I do know that no-one reads this. There, I said it! But to me, it doesn't matter, because I know how much I love reading back over things I read when I was young. I was incredibly self absorbed. The more things change... anyway.
So here I am, back again. I have another poem and other things to post once I'm done here.
Why do I post poems? I love poetry endlessly. I annoy all and sundry by sitting them down and forcing them to listen to lines I've privately wept over. This particularly does not go down well with my boyfriend, who is more into maths jokes (he's a MASSIVE nerd) than the subtle nuances of delicate phrasing. Nonetheless, he and all are stuck with me and that involves listening to poems. And that includes YOU, blog! So suck it up.
Reading over the last three words, it appears this apology has not at all gone according to plan. How awkward. Moving on.

A Meditation on An Unsuitable Adjective

Today I was watching the Olympics on my NEW SOFA (wonderful, thanks for asking, like sitting in beige suede clouds). Anyway, the men’s downhill skiing was on- you know, flailing wildly around poles as flexible as my sexually adventurous friend- anyway, the commentator, clearly a little randy, remarked that one of the skiers was ‘on scintillating form’.

‘Scintillating.’

The only thing remotely scintillating about downhill skiing/ers are the rather fetching lycra outfits. I can think of many scintillating things (sultry Cypriot gentlemen, for example, or the Young Liberals) and even many scintillating things about the winter Olympics (the women’s risqué ice skating outfits, adorably cheesy snowboarders.) The ‘form’ of a lycra clad skier barrelling between flimsy poles is not on my top twenty of either list.

Furthermore, since when could form be described as scintillating? Perhaps when referring to a sex worker, yes- or a Victoria’s Secret model (I’m not above being scintillated by Alessandra, myself). But regarding the form of an athlete, and particularly in the sport so decidedly unsexy as skiing- sorry, Alyssa Camplin, you too- ‘scintillating’ has never been my adjective of choice.

Until now! I resolve to henceforth apply this excellent word whenever form causes my nether regions tingle and on a few select occasions when they don’t. And that is what the men’s downhill skiing commentary has brought to my life.

Maybe the commentator was on crack, maybe he really does get a hard-on watching skiing. I’ll never know. I do know that I’m always up for a bit of homoeroticism in the commentary. ‘Homoeroticism’ is my favourite ‘homo’, above ‘homogenised’, or ‘hommos’.

Theme for English B

The instructor said,

Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you---

Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me---we two---you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York too.) Me---who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records---Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me NOT like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white---
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me---
although you're older---and white---
and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

Tragedy at the NRMA

Today at work I got a flat tyre. I think I may have caused said flat tyre by driving over a curb- but this is a mere irrelevance. I called the NRMA. The nice lady said they'd be an hour. I mentioned that it was very hot and I had four disabled people with me, all of whom needed to be places. I didn't mention that we were parked outside their air conditioned home and all could have very easily returned to the leather sofas upon which they were formerly positioned. Again, irrelevancies. Anyway, having dropped this seemingly minor detail, I hung up, sent a text ('you wish. You're not nearly flexible nor well-endowed enough') to a friend and the NRMA man pulled up. It was that quick. From now on I'm ALWAYS going with the 'four disabled people, heat, etc' line. To think they've had me waiting for hours, like a chump! Chumps.
Gary the NRMA man was utterly unspectacular, however he did make one rather interesting statement, which stays with me. I was telling him how I drove a bit on the tyre before I realised it was flat and how I hoped it didn't damage anything important and he told me that it was fine to drive for a little bit to get to a safe place. He sagely finished with (and I quote (no, seriously (this is word for word))) "I've seen too many people die for the sake of a flat tyre".

"Die for the sake of a flat tyre"

"Die for... flat tyre".

You understand that I was suitably impressed and more than a little curious. I didn't want to seem to be questioning Gary's incredibley unlikely statement so I instead maintained an awed silence and failed to hand him the correct tool. Disappointingly, he did not elaborate on even one tale of how a flat tyre eventuated into tragedy.
This is where the story ends. All I took with me is the hope that somewhere, someday, Gary and I meet again, and I learn every sorry tale of death resulting from a flat tyre that he has witnessed.

A Winner Idea

Curd should be called cream. Or Mousse. Or something. Curd is such a filthy word that it makes my Dirty Vego recipe hunt mightily disheartening. 'Bean curd burgers" sound like burgers make out of camel spit. Bean cream burgers sound like eating clouds.
One day in.
I really miss you, meat.
I'm ready to be friends again.
Ha! I got you. Seriously, you should go, it's getting kind of awkward. You're making curd here embarrassed.

Why I am Not a Painter

I am not a painter, I am a poet.

Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.

Today: A Review.

Today comprised two major incidences, one major decision, one minor decision and a couple of themes.

The incidences were going to work and uni. I went to uni so I could find out where all my classes are ahead of time instead of spending the first week being hopelessly lost like a sap. Anyway, I went to all my classrooms. I still have nary an idea of how to get to them though. I hope that the routes imprinted subconsciously on my mind. This is unlikely.
At work I took a couple of clients to the gym. I always volunteer to do this for a reason I wouldn't like people in my real life to know. As follows:
1) There are always rather attractive men at the gym, 'working' 'out'.
2) Accompanying two disabled people makes me seem saintly.
3) Therefore attractive men see me as saintly and smile upon me and my good deeds.
4) I enjoy this.
I know this is somewhat unseemly, but whatever.
My major decision was to become a vegetarian. I have been dallying with the idea for some weeks now after reading a review of a book by the ever-luscious Jonathan Safran Foer (I'd eat him instead of meat AMIRIGHT). I actually decided to go vego last night at about midnight and when I woke up did not remember. I didn't remember until about 5pm when my man-candy interrupted my description of the satay chicken I was planning with "aren't you vegetarian now?". I am.
My minor decision was to join Young Labor at uni. As well as my actual and enthusiastic support for ALP (I did work for Labor, or something), I wanted to piss off the Young Liberals (who all looked amusingly exactly how I pictured young Liberals) who had set up camp directly opposite.
The themes were Friendship as I hung out with my deeply gloomy and cutting friend Jordan, and Food as becoming a Dirty Vego has made me incredibly hungy. RIP steak. And cow. Oh, the irony.

Onwards and Upwards

Tonight is chilly.
This may seem like small news. A chilly night? Wear a cardigan. Chump.
However, I do have a penchant for assigning symbolic significance to events that aren't really significant at all (though the SMH also seemed to find tonight's chill newsworthy, if only in comparatively), so humour me, readers.
Why am I feeling inordinately sentimental about a cold snap? (If my English grandma heard me say that she'd have my head- it's about 23 degrees still). Only because to me, the first cold night means the End of Summer.
This was the summer where I got into the university course of my dreams. Saying an awkward goodbye to all my friends who are satisfied with my old uni. Starting all over- new friends, new classes, new TERRIBLE student card (I look more like Dennis Fergusen the pedophile than ever) and so on.
This was the summer where I went to Fiji, went snorkelling, got the worst sunburn of my life, slow danced with a Fijian man to Take That and discovered that I need to travel.
The summer where I went to Falls Festival with old friends and new, got high at eight in the morning, showered under the stars, danced on the shoulders of some tripper to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and rediscovered an old passion for Cheese-O's.
The summer where I went to Forster and climbed an absurdly large sandbank for no good reason but all-american clean fun. Where I discovered my distaste for all-american clean fun and spent the rest of the week on a lilo drinking my body weight in beer.
The summer of playing trivia at the RSL and coming last by a dramatic margin every week.
The summer of Homebake and Big Day Out. Of Tropfest. Of a misjudged night at Soho in Kings Cross and many misjudged nights in Manly.
So EXCUSE ME for getting a little sentimental. However, as Lena, Bridget, Carmen and Tibby- and indeed, I- learn, there's always another summer ahead and always more adventures to share with three wonderful friends and a pair of magical pants. Except that I think the series ended at book three. BUT NOT ME. NOT MY SERIES. ME AND MY MAGICAL PANTS WILL TRAVEL EVERY SUMMER.

Upon reflection, I think I took that analogy a little too far.

Your Rocky Spine

I was lost in the lakes
And the shapes that your body makes
That your body makes, that your body makes
That your body makes.

The mountains said I could find you here
They whispered the snow and the leaves in my ear
I traced my finger along your trails
Your body was the map, I was lost in it.

Floating over your rocky spine
The glaciers made you and now you’re mine
Floating over your rocky spine
The glaciers made you, and now you’re mine.

I was moving across your frozen veneer
The sky was dark but you were clear
Could you feel my footsteps
And would you shatter, would you shatter, would you

And with your soft fingers between my claws
Like purity against resolve
I could tell, then and there, that we were formed from the clay
And came from the rocks for the earth to display

They told me to be careful up there
Where the wind blows a venomous rage through your hair
They told me to be careful up there
Where the wind rages through your hair