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My parents sent me a very strange link this week. It’s a real estate listing for our old family house.

Background? Sure!

My parents bought the house when they were first married and lived in it until they moved to Adelaide about six years ago. I was born in Royal Darwin Hospital and from the time my parents bought me home to the time I set off for university some eighteen and a half years later, 22 Kailis St was the centre of the known universe, at least as far as I was concerned. I knew every corner of the garden and was partially responsible for the destruction of a decent portion of it. I knew where to sit after school so as not to let the glare from the afternoon sun disrupt my view of the television. As I got older I learned which step not to tread on when I was coming home late because it went “clunk” and woke up the whole house (I later learned that my mother would lie awake at night waiting for the clunk so she’d know I was home safe). I also knew how close I could get to the motion sensitive light before it would go off, and how fast I could get away with moving once I was in range. I could get up in the morning, walk from my bed to the lounge room, pull out the stool, plug in the headphones and start piano practice without necessarily having to open my eyes first.

I can still remember the incomparable feeling of dislocation I felt the night my parents told me over the phone that they were selling the house and moving to South Australia. I was in my room at St. John's College in Brisbane, amongst close friends I had known for three and a half years by that stage, and yet I suddenly felt completely adrift. An image of Morpheus watching the destruction of the Nebuchadnezzar comes to mind. Thank God my friends, possibly in response to the far away look in my eyes, had the sense to declare an emergency late night pancake run.

There is something frighteningly powerful about the fact that, since that night almost six years ago, I haven’t held any one residential address for more than a year. Even now that I’m back “home” in Darwin, I’ve still managed three separate addresses in eighteen months.

It would be a fantastic story of coming full circle if I could walk into the real estate agent’s office tomorrow and put down an offer too good to refuse. Unfortunately there’s the small matter of “offers of five hundred and seventy thousand dollars or more” to contend with. I’ve done the maths on the bank website's loan calculation wizards. In my current financial situation I could get pre-approval for a home loan of just over eighty thousand, which might buy me half a parking space in Mandorah.

Besides, the current owners have completely remodelled the interior. It looks amazing, but nothing like what I remember, possibly due to most of the walls being missing. They’ve repaved the driveway, added air-conditioning, laid down polished floorboards instead of carpet and changed all the window fittings and … just about everything else. So it wouldn’t really be like living in my old home again. Those days are irrevocably gone. Plus, as my friend pointed out, while I could be the owner of the house, I wouldn’t actually be able to move into the master bedroom, because that’s my parents’ room. That would just be too weird.

No. I’ll just watch with interest to see how the sale goes, and then go back to walking along the street every so often and remembering one of the best upbringings a boy could have. And then I'll reach the end of the street and turn once again towards either the future or Tracy Village Sports Club, depending on whether we’re being literal or whimsical. And, as the great man once said:

“The future hasn’t been written yet. So make it a good one. Both of you.”

…

Garry with 2 Rs

A Collective Sigh of Resignation

I’ve recently received a revelation about what I’m doing wrong when it comes to getting people to read my blog. The penny began to drop when I noticed my sister had been asked to guest post on someone’s blog. Something about being an Australian in Canada or something, on a blog about female geeks or some such. The drop was complete and made that irritatingly unsatisfying “ping” sound on the concrete of my consciousness when Jess, who is basically my brother from another mother, (or to use the feminine, my sister from a … a blistered … twister? Never mind) started joining up with a network of blogging mums. I realised what my blogging experience is missing: a collective!

The problem is… what the hell kind of messed up collective could I possibly get away with joining? Jess suggested joining the blogging mums’ society and crying to the sexism police if I was refused membership. It sounds like great fun, except for the part where I piss off a whole social network full of pregnant and/or post-natal women. Maybe later.

I’m not sure there really exists a network that CTC would slot into naturally, as the whole point of tacently clamenting is that there’s probably no other place in the cyberverse where I could get away with it. If we did form a cranky, cynical, independent, socially awkward writers’ network, I can only see it lasting a month or so before some prawn decides he’s too cool for the collective, takes his cricket bat and goes home.

There’s a reasonable chance that prawn would be me.

A week or so ago, Laurie over at Hipstercrite republished an old piece listing tips for generating higher blog readership. It’s full of great advice that I’ll probably never follow, but it also recommends an online network known as Twenty Something Bloggers. To qualify for that network you just have to be twenty-something years old and have a blog. Being of the ripe old age of twenty-mumble, I decided to sign up.

It took them a few days to verify the account, but now I have a shiny new 20sb profile. It’s a bit like Facebook, but only for writers. Now the quest is on to find user groups for topics I’m interested in. Having decided to raise the bar for myself, I’ve typed in searches for ‘religion’, ‘philosophy’, ‘linguistics’ and ‘cricket’. There aren’t any groups for those. Can you believe it? Most of the groups were focussed on acquiring followers for their own sake, which seems a little bit wanky to me. Everyone wants more followers, but who wants followers that are only following you because you’re following them? Join the collective and we’ll all go round in circles!

In the end I joined two groups: the Australian Bloggers group (17 members, which might explain a lot) and the “I support Velociraptors” group (37 members). Most of the other interest groups centred on regions of the US or on what colour hair leads a woman to have the most sex. And as tempting as it might have been to join the ‘fashionistas’ group (763 members?) I think I might just keep my blog tucked away quietly in the obscure corners of the internet for a little while yet. The blogosphere, it seems, is still not ready for blogs by men from Australia who haven’t even read Twilight (Seriously! A 20-somethings’ network with a Twilight fan group (173 members) How does that even happen?).

Actually, blogs by men full stop seem a little difficult to come by. There’s a group for us (129 members) but I’m not really sure I could bring myself to join a group called ‘boys’ club’. Especially when we’re outnumbered by the ‘chick-lit lovers’ (363 members) by almost three to one.

Nope. I think I’m just going to have to generate readership the old fashioned way.

Osama, while planking a Harry Potter Fan Fic conspiracy theory, could cover-up the evolution of Dancing With The Stars in the Middle East. Boobs!

Google to the rescue. Make of that what you will.

Garry with 2 Rs

Oh Chaplain My Chaplain

In the days since the announcement of the federal budget, many writers, bloggers and journalists have been quick to criticise the Government’s proposed increase to funding for school chaplaincy. Critics have been upset on two fronts; firstly the amount of money being invested in the program and secondly on the notion that federal funds should be used to give religion a place in public schools in the first place. And while these concerns are certainly worth discussion, I suggest that this week the role of the school chaplain has been given a bum rap.

There are a number of points to be made here. The first is to highlight the distinction between chaplaincy and religious education. Chaplains are not teachers; they are employed as counsellors and advisors. The notion of a chaplain coming into a classroom and proselytising to your children is utter rubbish. Chaplains are employed to serve, encourage and to provide advice and/or guidance where it is sought or needed. They are not employed to impose, indoctrinate or even (heaven forbid) promote religious values in schools.

Some public schools do allow religious groups to run religious instruction classes. These are always optional; parents who would prefer their children not to receive RI have the right to ask for their child to be excused. Every RI program I’ve ever been involved with has been run under strict guidelines under the watchful eye of a school staff member in order to prevent any hint of “brainwashing”. And fair enough too. But teaching children a few bible stories and encouraging them to obey their parents and treat others as they want to be treated themselves doesn’t constitute the insidious threat to liberty and democracy that is being touted by opponents to the new funding.

Besides which, that’s not what school chaplaincy is about; school chaplaincy is a completely different occupation.

Chaplains are on hand to meet the needs of students or staff who have problems or questions of a spiritual nature.  Whether Australia claims to be a secular society or not, it stands to reason that those seeking answers to spiritual (or philosophical, if you prefer a secular term) questions, especially in the formative years, should have access to those able to answer their questions, or at least provide some direction for finding the answer for themselves. Whatever your personal position, the realisation of a spiritual identity (of any faith, or no faith at all) is an aspect of education to be encouraged, not sneered at.

Some have suggested that a religious chaplain couldn’t possibly provide any valuable help for students of a differing religious background. That’s nonsense. A skilled chaplain will recognise and respect the diverse beliefs of any who come seeking guidance. As has been pointed out numerous times, sermonising, proselytising, evangelising and any other forms of religious promotion that so incense the guardians of liberty in our society are strictly off limits. But you don’t have to promote your own religion in order to guide a young mind towards finding the answers they are looking for, or at least towards asking the right kinds of questions.

This is the part of the discussion where someone jumps in with a moving and impassioned testimony of how some RI teacher sent him to stand in the corner because he said he didn’t believe in God, or some crazy fundamentalist tried to cast a demon out of her after playing some rock and roll at music class, and asks how we can possibly spend government money on ramming religion down the throats of those who don’t want it.

I don’t have any defence to that. That sort of vilification, where it occurs, is unacceptable in any society, religious or otherwise. But the answer isn’t just banning religion from schools altogether. Students need to have access to resources to guide them in finding answers to questions that are just as important (some might argue even more so) than anything on a NAPLAN test. It’s not the role of teachers to provide this support, nor should it be. And while the single most important role to be played in the moral upbringing of a child is that of the parents, it’s important for parents to be confident that their children have access to the appropriate support mechanisms while they are at school, which is the majority of their time during their upbringing.

Yes. The system needs work to make sure that all chaplains are properly trained, qualified and experienced and to ensure that all worldviews are being respected and catered for. I don’t pretend to know the best way to do that, but it seems to me that an increase in Government funding – if properly handled – couldn’t possibly be a bad start.

Make of that what you will.





Garry with 2 Rs

Kicking It Old School

The Arafura Games are with us once again. The city is full of lost looking athletes with ID badges on, and helpful looking volunteers in green shirts. The restaurants, souvenir shops and nightclubs are all rubbing their hands together with glee and the traffic around Marrara Stadium is above average, but not too bad.

Also, apparently there’s lots of sport on.

Last night I went to watch the sepak takraw. It was a double banger for me, because not only did I get to watch my mates playing for the NT team, I got to watch some of the really good players with the Malaysian and Thai teams. It’s pretty amazing watching those guys hanging upside down in the air and still kicking the ball with so much power.

The NT side? Not so much, but it was still awesome to see them out there representing the Territory and showing what they could do, which was a darn sight more than most people. Once again it made me feel nostalgic for the old days when I used to be able to do that. I went looking for my old NT sepak jersey, but I think it might be in the pile of stuff still in the cupboard at my parents’ house with my scout uniforms, astronomy books and various other pieces of evidence of things I used be good at. Come to think of it, I don’t know how I managed to get through high school without getting beaten up every other week. I’d love to get myself back up to that level, but somehow it seems consigned to the past almost as comprehensively as my maths competition certificates.

As if to punctuate the point, today I’ve been off work nursing a bung ankle. The mild post-viral arthropathy I get from time to time decided that this week is the week (probably due to the rapid onset of the dry season) to not be quite so mild and I’ve been having trouble walking, let alone turning back flips. I have it all under control, with a large dose of rest and an even larger dose of ibuprofen, but I can’t for the life of me figure out when I stopped being the guy out there doing cool stuff and turned into the guy sitting at home taking pills and whingeing about how the weather makes his joints ache. I’m only twenty-mumble years old for heaven’s sake.

What I should really do is stop whinging to my computer and get up and do something about it. Unfortunately my ankle is still having none of that so I guess it’s DVD o’clock. Now let’s see, will I go with Evita, or Four Weddings and a Funeral?

Yes okay, forget high school. I don’t know how I get from here to the weekend without getting beaten up.

Shove it

Garry with 2 Rs

The Rollercoaster - Part Two

What a week for celebration it’s been. It started with all the pageantry and … more pageantry of the royal wedding and ended with the well deserved end of one of the modern era’s most despised figures.

Committed republican though I may be, it was easy to feel good about joining in with the celebration for William and Kate. Everyone loves a good wedding, even one on the other side of the world.

Less salubrious were the celebrations marking the death of Osama bin Laden. Images of crowds of people outside the Whitehouse waving flags and yelling patriotic chants left me feeling just a little cold. How can killing anyone, even someone as evil as bin Laden, bring us joy and celebration?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying his death wasn’t well deserved, and I’m certainly not sorry to see him go. But when I see crowds of people cheering for a person’s death, even the death of an enemy, I can’t help but feel that something is going horribly wrong.

I was recently party to an online discussion on whether the assassination of bin Laden is better classified as justice or revenge. Some were firmly of the opinion that killing bin Laden did bring a measure of justice to those who lost loved ones in the world trade centre attacks or in the numerous terrorist bombings that followed it. Others felt that it was nothing more than a revenge killing and won’t bring closure to anything, least of all the ongoing feelings of resentment against the West that fuel organisations like al Qaeda in the first place. Still others didn’t think it made the slightest difference. He’s dead either way, and got what he deserved.

In the end, I’m not sure what to call it, but I am convinced that justice and revenge are not the same thing. If those who have lost loved ones to terrorist attacks in the past decade can take any solace from the death of bin Laden, then that’s great. I sincerely wish them peace and comfort. But I’m not convinced justice is the right word for it. Surely we in the West, even our brothers and sisters in America who still endorse capital punishment, have developed a moral-ethical framework that can move beyond “You killed us, so we’re going to kill you right back”. And even if we haven’t, “an eye for an eye” doesn’t really cut it for a man who orchestrated the death of thousands, but whom we only get to kill once. And as Ghandi put it “an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind”.

The hard fact is that there is never a nice, satisfying way to end the hunt for a mass murderer. A sense of real justice in a post-modern world is as elusive as it has ever been. I’m as glad as everyone else that Osama is gone. But just the same, this is not the time for celebration. This is a time to reflect on the people, both good and bad on both sides, who have lost their lives for the sake of the war on terror. Or whatever the other side calls it. Osama bin Laden makes just one more.

But at least he’s one who had it coming.

Garry with 2 Rs

The Rollercoaster - Part One

As a writer, aspiring journalist and one who takes an interest in current affairs, I do my best to take in my share of news. I generally have a news website open at work (don’t tell my network admin. I don’t want to go back to that month or so where they decided blocking the news would increase productivity) and I occasionally read other opinion sites recreationally.

Unfortunately the dark side of consuming a lot of news is that for every well written, researched and properly considered piece that gets filed, you have to sift through an enormous amount of inconsequential or poorly written or unprofessionally produced garbage to get at it.

And then every so often, a weekend comes around that just sets the whole online media community on fire.

It started out with me being all scandalised and indignant about the ABC being forced to cut the Chaser’s commentary of the royal wedding on account of the Monarchy changing the conditions of the broadcast rights with under a week to go before the wedding to disallow the use of the footage for humour or satire.

I’m still pretty annoyed about that. Not so much for the Chaser, as for the fact that apparently England are allowed to tell Australian media what they can and can’t do with footage of a public event like the wedding. Sure, obviously no-one wants to go around ruining the big day for the couple. But honestly, if England thinks it can’t handle people poking fun of the monarchy, if it really thinks that people having a joke at it’s expense is something that warrants a global ban, then in my opinion there’s really only one word for that:

Coward.

Okay, there are others. I’m not going to print them here because K.Kim gets upset with me when I use mildly offensive language.

But then when Friday night Aussie time finally rolled around, I found I was compelled to turn the footage on. Prior to that, I had been planning to boycott, based largely on my antagonism for all things English and my distaste for the sort of frivolous and vacuous nonsense that goes along with the build up to this sort of thing. I was legitimately concerned about the possibility of damaging my TV by getting frustrated and throwing things at it.

Unfortunately there really wasn’t anything else to do, because every other person I knew was either working or watching the wedding. In despair I eventually caved in and switched on the ABC’s coverage, minus the Chaser.

I’m glad I did. I timed it to perfection, and managed to skip all the pre-service nonsense and fashion commentary and arrived just in time to hear the priest say “Dearly beloved”. The service itself was pretty good, and most of the music was really nice. Except of course “Jerusalem”, which by common law has to be sung at every English wedding, and must be sung in a different time signature by every person in attendance.

I really hate that ‘hymn’.

After all the festivity I was faced with brain splitting decision of whether to blog about it or not. I felt like I should add my voice to the other billion or so, but then, I also didn’t feel like I had anything really consequential to add to mountain of other inconsequential bits of royal gunk getting around. Of course that hasn’t inhibited me from writing a page and a half about it so far without any signs of slowing up, but that’s exactly the point. An event like this seems to generate idiotic ramblings like this one by its sheer weight of existence.

And that really pisses me off (Sorry Kim)

Garry with 2 Rs

P.S. You know what else pisses me off? Waiting just one day to post and then…