This is what happens when I go to bed at 3.30 in the morning: I lose things; I get vague. Then I get furious with myself because I’m going to have to pay money again for things I already owned. Money that would be better spent or saved on other things. It’s like a bloody rental agreement except I don’t actually know what was being rented. Suddenly something disappears — in this case, my cherished and very cool goggles ($35) and my earmuffs (second pair lost, $1.50 or $15.00 depending on where you buy them — I’ll be going to Sydney Road for mine, the cheaper option, not the rip-off bike shop in North Carlton).

What was I saying?

I get vague. That’s the one.

I also forgot my passport today. Normally this is not something that needs to feature in my life. I’m not crossing borders all that much these days, not getting onto planes bound for foreign lands and not being asked for ID by serious people with powers to search me outside and in. That last one has never happened, thankfully.

The passport was needed for enrollment at my new course, in order to prove my Australian credentials for the government fee paying scheme I’m taking advantage of; hell, I never went to university and am now looking forward to incurring some government debt just like the rest of the population!

So I have to return to Prahran tomorrow to show my passport to the people running the course so they can say “oo, arr, a passport, and oh what an ugly photograph — that looks nothing like you. Have you lost weight?”, for which I will thank them and allow them to take a photocopy for their records.

I simply don’t understand why I can’t just take an exam to prove my credentials, thus:

1. Who was Ned Kelly?

An irishman who fought the law and went down in local history because of this top-notch effort of Sticking It To The Man. He was hanged after being found guilty of a trumped-up charge of shooting two scumbag police officers.

2. Who was Phar Lap?

A dead racehorse that has gone down in Australian history as the best piece of taxidermy in the country, and is saluted, with tears in the eyes, by all gamblers nationwide as they lose their next month’s rent.

3. Who is Don Bradman?

John Howard’s wet dream

4. Who is the Prime Minister of Australia?

What day is it?

5. Who is the Premier of Victoria?

Who cares?

6. What is the second verse of “Advance Australia Fair”

There’s a second verse?

7. You are in a bar and someone offers you a drink. Do you order VB or Fosters?

VB. Fosters is an export drink reserved for sale in Australian bars, in a multitude of European and American cities, for consumption by homesick Australian travellers to remind them of what they’re really missing by buggering off somewhere else.

8. Pick the odd one out:

• Hills Hoist
• Flymo
• Holden
• Ford
• Collingwood

Collingwood

9. What is the most appropriate response to the following question: “Got a fag, mate?”

• I’m a hetrosexual you wanker!
• Fuck off you scab and buy some yourself
• Here’s a menthol and a light

Fuck off you scab… etc.

10. Pick the odd one out:

• AFL
• NFL
• POQ
• MCG

NFL – no Victorian follows the bloody Rugby.

11. What was the best thing about the Sydney Olympics?

It was held nearly 1000 kilometers away from Melbourne

12. What is appropriate behaviour for P-plate drivers on a Saturday night?

Drive your mums car to Chapel Street with the music up full bore and scream obscenities at anyone wearing a skirt.

Riding up St. George’s road with a headwind is never a pleasant experience. Even less-so when you’re on the way to a Centrelink appointment.

I think they count on people being unwilling to deal with the complexity and the kafkaesque as shit bureaucracy (see also http://xkcd.com/798/). I have, until now been among these people and would much rather chain myself to a bike railing for a week than deal with the multitude of paperwork and bizarre half-truths that spout from the mouths of the staff.

I am, of course, exaggerating. But only just.

Silly me.

Centrelink, like Telstra and other unimaginative big corporations, has a new “voice recognition” system. And it asks you in English to tell it what you need.

The designers clearly hadn’t counted on anyone asking such questions to be outside with a wind blowing. Because every time I tried to say something, it read the wind blowing past the iPhone microphone and expressed in an apparently kind and relaxed voice that it couldn’t work out what I was saying and to please try again.

‘I–”

“I can’t work out what you’re saying. Please try again. To speak to an operator say ‘operator’…”

“Oper–”

“I can’t work out what you’re saying. Please try again. To speak to an operator say ‘operator’…”

“Op–”

“I can’t work out what you’re saying. Please try again. To speak to an operator say ‘operator’…”

Screaming bloody profanities while riding a bike one-handed in a headwind holding an iPhone to your ear possibly looks a bit odd. And if you were driving down St. George’s road this morning at the times I mentioned, I’ll say a cheery “Hello”.

I finally got through to the machine that I couldn’t remember by Centrelink code-number,  and that I was calling about Newstart appointments, and it then put me on hold. I was within 100 meters of the Centrelink office when I finally got through to an operator.

The operator was quite nice. She asked for my centrelink code number and I explained the situation. I was chaining my bike up outside the office when we got to the 3 points of ID: Name, Address, Phone number, and was walking into the office by the time she found my account. I asked if she could advise the office I was now standing in of my lateness and she tried to call them but couldn’t get through either. The call was marked on my account and I sighed relief.

Then I heard my name called and found out they usually give 10 minutes leeway anyway.

20 minutes later I was out of there. The weather had changed and there was a feeling not so much of relief but an obstacle overcome.

I need a slab of cash. Anyone want to donate to the fund?

Around Melbourne I keep seeing posters decrying Israel’s blockade against Palestine. Posters which scream in 50 point white outline black letters that Israel is an Aparteid country, and that we should break ties. These are written by students, full of fury at injustice and with a need to right the world.

I use this as an example for what I’m about to say.

It occurs to me that countries, like people, can only change themselves. Imagine your reaction if a friend, or perfect stranger stomped up to you and told you off for something you did. How would you react? If you were quiet and introverted, you’d shrink further into your shell; if extroverted and loud, you’d probably give them a two-finger salute and tell them to bugger-off.

But if you were left to stew on what you had done, you could choose whether you were going to repeat the action. You can choose, to put in in black and white, to do good, or do bad. You can choose to learn from your actions or to repeat them.

It’s this choice that lies at the heart of personal, domestic and international problems. And, like people, countries with their own problems quite often find it easier to point somewhere else and start making judgements against others.

Australia has a great weeping sore at the centre of its heart: that of the awful crimes perpetrated against the indigenous population. And the further inland you get, the more obvious the racism is. The whites that came to this country saw no signs of a parallel civilisation to their own, so called those living here “savages”. The same is true for North and South America and countless other countries.

And yet in the news we see so little about the problems facing the modern-day indigenous, but plenty about the transgressions of other countries. We spend hardly any time — apart from the gob-smackingly colonial action of the “Northern Territory Intervention” (where, surprise, surprise, only two of 97 recommendations were implemented) — looking after indigenous people; we demonise boat people, genuine refugees and refuse those running from war-torn countries like Afghanistan.

And yet, like the so-called “fall” of the Soviet Union in 1990, like South Africa’s dismantling of Apartheid, beginning in 1990 and culmunating in full and open elections in 1994, the unrest in Iran during the elections of 2009, change from within has amazing impact, because it comes from those who are able to make the change, not from bullies pushing you around.

And returning to Israel, people are leading the change in the ways they can, some ways are small, some are large. It’s not for us to decide which these are:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/sep/16/palestinian-women-smuggled-israeli-beaches

Arrived at the Job Seeker office today at about 5 past 9 — slightly late. They retaliated with badly photocopied identity paperwork for me to write-up, an apparently E-addicted reception boy who was Just Having A Great Time, and a 20 minute wait; with commerical radio on a nearby boom-box. It just doesn’t get any better than this!

I didn’t really have much else to do though.

When I was seen by a very earnest young man – not sure what the job title is, but the description appears to be data-entry, handing over paperwork, asking the odd question and explaining a couple of things — the first question out of his mouth was “so what happened?”

You see, he’d found an earlier Centrelink account on-file, and discovered I’d done Technical Writing for a number of years (he didn’t know how many and had to ask me that because it apparently wasn’t clear enough on the resume on-file to have each job over 12 years marked with the years and/or months “from” and “to”) and made an assumption.

He seemed a little flustered when I replied that I’d decided to step away from corporate IT for a while to run a web design and copywriting business, and was only here ultimately because of the sheer boredom of chasing recalcitrant clients for money.

Which was true. Also I was getting a little socially isolated working from home.

I said I’d worked in a shop for a while to “press the mental Reset button” and just needed a little bit of a hand while looking for work. And that I’d applied for several jobs this week and had a potential interview next.

This basically removed the need for any other questions. I’d even printed out my resumes (IT and Other) for him. At the point where he started showing me the photocopies he had for me, I think he might have been a bit embarassed about the pages showing “how to write a resume” and “how to write a cover letter”. Presumably he needed to show them because he had nothing else to do.

All part of the service really.

Here’s to the Centrelink interview Monday. Looking forward to it.

Am finding it hard to get going today, on anything in particular. I’d like to be working on the re-jig of the DaisyDonnie book 1, to make it a bit more coherent. I’d like to be scouring the interwebs for potential publishers. I’d also like to convert it to eBook format so I can distribute in other mediums (iphone app store?). But I’m not.

My problem is this: I have grown to loathe computers. The use, the aesthetic, the whole typing onto a screen.

And this problem is being fixed in-part by my decision to hand-over all my web development and copywriting work to J & J (among others). But this can’t happen overnight (although it’d be really nice if it could).

The issue spills over into my writing. As I write the books on my mac, and also work on my mac, I’m having trouble distinguishing between the two. One supposedly is a good way to make money (as long as clients pay me of course), the other is a good way to maintain my creativity and my sanity. So I’m looking forward to being able to just step away very, very soon.

Of course, what comes next is anyone’s guess. I’m going to do a course in June (as long as they run it of course) in transpersonal counselling, held at the Phoenix institute in Prahran. This will be totally different from what I’ve done for the last 12 years and thus restore my balance. It’ll also give me the chance to be a uni student for the first time and do the learning thing again, only this time in something I’ve actually chosen rather than being compelled by others (long story, don’t even ask).

But for now, there perhaps needs to be a plan drawn up to extricate myself from my current clientele, and for the passing of work to others. I also need to just relax and go with this: every time I’ve stood my ground and done something I know is right for me, I’ve landed on my feet (rather than my arse).

So, here goes…

I am a frustrated writer. It’s the kind of low-level irritation that, if it were an audio frequency, would be carried for miles and miles by the perfectly configured woofer; it’s that bass frequency that you can hear from across the continent.

Here’s my frustration:

As a writer, I can churn out stories relatively easily (given the right circumstances and the presence of the Muse – more on her later). A fortnight ago I wrote 10,000 words in 3 days, which is pretty good given a book is on average 80-100,000. The muse was with me that night. She’s hanging around nearby but I’ve yet to get her attention; she’s a bit drunk on what looks like a quart of absinthe… yes, Absinthe, she just swigged the bottle and giggled, the bitch.

What I find irritating is that there seems only to be one way to get work “public” – to rely on publishing companies that are inundated with manuscripts, or to try to find a magazine that has a gap or likes your work.

I’ve whined about this issue to friends: artists have the option of galleries (and I’m not talking the major ones as they’re the equivalent of the publishing companies). Art is something you can look at, regard, like or dislike in a community setting. There are many different open galleries that can exhibit your work.

Musicians have a similar way of getting work out there. My fabulous housemate is at an open-mike night in Northcote tonight (I’d be there too if it wasn’t that I finished work only about an hour ago and was ravenous to the point of tears. Not going into that at present). A musician can stand on a street corner and strum. If I stand on a street corner and start reading, odds-on I’ll be heckled as a religious nut. Could be amusing though.

I’m aware this could be sounding like sour grapes. It’s my blog and I’ll whine if I want to.

A writer is, by definition, a lonely person, slaving over a hot processor creating work of potential genius… for… what? Sure, we can submit work to competitions. We can try and get things published, but there appears to be no way to cut out the middleman and just perform the work in some way, get it out for general consumption without involving the money-men and what’s “likely to sell”. Publishing is, after all, a business.

Am I wrong? Have I missed something?

I just can’t find anything. Writers groups have meetings and chat about their work. It’s a community, sure, and by joining one I get a stack of magazines I’m not interested in, cheap courses that I don’t want to do, the right to go along to meetings (which is nice) and I can even get, in some cases, a professional assessment of my manuscript (for a few hundred dollars that I don’t have. I’m a penniless writer as well as a frustrated one). It’s like when I joined the Australian Society of Technical Writers; what did it get me? A place on a mailing list and nothing else in particular. I’m thinking in purely selfish terms here, I’m aware: the society is great for many people, as are writers groups. But I know (pretty much) how to write, and throughout my life — regardless of courses on offer, being told I should read a great big book cover-to-cover — I’ve learned how to do things by simply DOING them: Practice Makes Perfect. I’m simply not interested in courses on writing, in someone standing at the front of the room telling me “this is what makes a story good” and “this is what makes it bad”. I’m not for formula, I’m for innovation through experimentation. And I know this won’t necessarily make me a bucket of money, either. I’m in it for the enjoyment of the writing; I’m in it to see where the muse takes me.

So what’s the answer?

It’s looking increasingly like I have to get off my arse and just do something myself. Have duplex printer, will produce zines. The magazine I produced with good friends back in 2004-5 worked to a degree. The magazines certainly disappeared from their spots in cafes. And I even managed to sell some. Perhaps that’s the short-term answer to my bleating: take it to the people.

Opinions greatfully accepted at this point. Me, I’m going to eat my rapidly cooling dinner. Au Revoir.

I just watched Vampire Hunter D again — an anime with a real set of vampires. You know the ones, don’t like sunlight, suck the blood, hunted, pale skin and definitely don’t like sunlight.

The burning in UV kind of Vampires I’m talking about, not these sparkly tossers that someone has used as a warning against sex.

It occurred to me that there are quite a few cures for this monstrous approach to our pointy-toothed friends of the underworld.

For a start is the aforementioned Vampire Hunter D — a quite interesting story with NO spidermonkeys:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dKYye2m19pU&hl=en&fs=1&]

Interview with the Vampire, the movie of Anne Rice’s novel is next on the list.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zEY6taM15iE&hl=en&fs=1&]

Then there’s the modern take on Vampires — or at least the late 20th century take with Ultraviolet:

Buffy the Vampire Slayer – Joss Whedon’s long running series (and this video does to Eduardo what we’ve all wanted to do!)

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZwM3GvaTRM&hl=en&fs=1&]

And, of course, Angel.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Ny_Om6GtaQ&hl=en&fs=1&]

I’ve yet to see TrueBlood, but I’m told it’s good.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxINMuOgAu8&hl=en&fs=1&]

Bottom-line though, there’s plenty to cancel out the horror of Twilight and its soon to be rushed into a cinema near you abomination… god, I don’t even know the name of the next one. And I don’t care either.

I call this haiku ‘internal disquiet’

Vegetarians
Should not find attractive the
Smell of KFC

Holy crap.

In answer to the question “should I do the testimonial”, I got the following card on the osho zen tarot site…

33. Fighting

Commentary:

The figure in this card is completely covered in armor. Only his glare of rage is visible, and the whites of the knuckles on his clenched fists. If you look closely at the armor, you can see it’s covered with buttons, ready to detonate if anybody so much as brushes up against them. In the background we see the shadowy movie that plays in this man’s mind – two figures fighting for a castle.

An explosive temper or a smoldering rage often masks a deep feeling of pain. We think that if we frighten people away, we can avoid being hurt even more. In fact, just the opposite is the case. By covering our wounds with armor we are preventing them from being healed. By lashing out at others we keep ourselves from getting the love and nourishment we need.

If this description seems to fit you, it’s time to stop fighting. There is so much love available to you if you just let it in. Start by forgiving yourself: you’re worth it.

My horoscope said there would be more change between now and December. My initial reaction was “bloody hell, not more, howsabout some quiet time for me to regroup”… but then, as my housemate commented “not all change is negative”.

She’s a deep one.

How to begin?

At the beginning?

I’m at the other end of an experience where my sense of self was questioned. But it was an aspect of myself; that I am a writer.

A series of statements were made about a piece of writing I’d done. What was perceived by the other person as simple questions and statements, criticism and banter was taken by me as an attack because of the manner and approach. I reacted to the words that were said, took them to heart… and things went downhill for a while.

The event is over now; apologies made, no ill meant… but I’m still interested in the way I reacted. 

It began as feeling uncomfortable and escalated into horrible depression (sort-of a contradiction in terms of course as depression is felt to be down and escalation is more of an up-word), terrible sadness… my confidence disappeared, I felt like I had been stripped bare.

Uncomfortable doesn’t even come close.

And now I find myself feeling uncomfortable once more.

I’m sitting here watching an episode of The Prisoner, called Schizoid Man.

In summary, it’s where The Prisoner — number 6 — is brainwashed into thinking he’s another person. This new person — number 12 — is to put “number 6″ (the real replacement) off-balance and replace him. The story revolves around identity, an identity which the man who is labelled number 6 has resisted since he was kidnapped.

Long story short, I find much of this episode unnerving. As I do with anything I see or watch that revolves around identity and having it removed, ignored or forcibly changed.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve had such a difficult time with identity for much of my life, I find any challenge to the person I define myself as very difficult to bear.

I define myself as a writer; professionally-so for 10 years, personally for longer. It’s the one part of myself that’s remained clearly defined in my own head for the longest time. Other than my gender of course — but that’s another story that I’m unwilling to speak of (the reasons will become apparent one day).

But I think the whole “I am a writer” has become the overriding identity, simply because it’s remained consistent.The gender stuff… well, those that know me will know that it’s not that simple.

So when my identity, my writing which I identify myself with so much, is challenged, I…

Well, looking back, the reaction was much the same of the ill-fated Prisoner. I was off-balance, my sense of self and my identity questioned, it set my mind off like dominoes falling, one knocking into the other.

Who was I? Why wasn’t my friend accepting what I was saying. This IS me…

…isn’t it?

Identity is a funny thing. I can define myself as “A” or “B” or even “C” (sorry, another obtuse The Prisoner reference) but am I really any of these things?

Personality, like so many other things, is a continuum; changeable given the right circumstances. This leads perhaps to the question: “who am I not?”

Not even a good question unfortunately. At this point, I can no more define myself that way as I can in the more obvious.

The ultimate question then:”Who am I?”

And I don’t think I’ve ever known that.

I’ve tried defining myself as a gender, but that’s not worked. I am that gender, but it’s only one dimension. I define myself as a writer, but that’s a passtime, a job, a love.

A good person? Well, mostly. No, that’s not fair to myself. I have moments of instability, but then don’t we all?

I aspire to better myself. Now I’m quoting Star Trek.

A geek? Well, I use technology to achieve aims and goals… and it interests me to be sure.

A vegetarian then?

No, defining yourself by what you do or don’t eat is as pointless as the rest.

A happy person? Bland but true. Mostly. Unless my identity is challenged.

But seeing as I’ve now identified that I don’t know what my identity is, can my identity can ever really be challenged?

It’s a circular argument, with no beginning and end; a moebius loop of black nylon, stretching and twisting but never going anywhere. It can no more be challenged than a flickering flame can be extinguished by a glance. It is but what it is is not defineable. I think therefore I am.

And where does that leave me?

It’s kind of odd now I’ve identified the underlying issue, and I realise now that perhaps not knowing who I am gives me the very freedom I’ve craved my whole life.

I don’t have to be what you want me to be. I don’t have to be what society wants me to be. I don’t have to be what work or play or custom make everyone else. I am fluid and can be whatever I need to be depending on the moment.

There are two things to be careful of mind you: first that I don’t just change myself and my mind to suit others or circumstance, and second, that if my awareness of this slips — if I forget — then I may land where I did with my friend: fixated on a single aspect of myself which is being questioned.

As with everything though, awareness is the key.