Ok Chorale

So I’ve joined the Darwin Chorale.

It’s something that I’ve always managed to avoid doing, though to be honest I’m not really sure why, given that I enjoy singing in choirs. I think most of the problem is that until recently I’d never heard the Chorale sing anything that I could really get excited about. Last year they did a great all singing all dancing show full of the twentieth century’s greatest love songs.

I hate love songs.

Meanwhile, I’ve been getting my choral fixes by tagging along with the local Operatunity company. And as far as my ability to spend extended amounts of time in a room with an entire section of sopranos goes, that has been quite enough, thank you very much. Occasionally those of the Operatunity fold who were also in the Chorale (that is, most of them) would remark more loudly than was necessary about how much they were enjoying the rehearsals for the Chorale’s latest project, and how they wish they could find more tenors. This would be backed up by a meaningful glance in my direction, and followed by a stealth retreat and exit-left on my part. And so an unstable but mutual understanding has developed between the Chorale and me: They don’t bug me and I don’t bug them.

That is, until now.

Operatunity aren’t doing a show this year. And the Chorale are doing a fun show in June, which will be a review of all the best bits from Broadway shows. The usual plea for more men went out, only this time in more earnest. I got a personal phone call from the musical director, which was weird, but nice. So I went along to one rehearsal to check it out. I had kind of thought that joining a choir the size and reputation of the Darwin Chorale, even in Darwin, I might at last have the chance to sing with a decent sized tenor section.

Not so much. I discovered quickly that when they called me up to say they were desperate for tenors, they meant it. We had three on my first night there. I was ready to walk out in disgust. Then they pulled a clever political manoeuvre by offering me a solo, which I decided was too much fun to reject.

So now I’m in the Chorale. And I have to learn a part for an ensemble with proper singers. And a duet with a soprano. And I’m freaking out a bit.

Make of that what you will.




Garry with 2 Rs

Super Supreme

My new(ish) job as a researcher with the Aboriginal Interpreter Service does on occasion require me to do research. Most of the time I can do this just fine with a combination of Google, Wikipedia and … making it up and finding a source somewhere who agrees with me. But every now and again I actually have to go and look something up properly like a big boy. This week was one of those weeks.

In my capacity as legal interpreting team researcher, I’ve been granted access to the NT Supreme Court Library. That doesn’t sound very impressive, mainly because it isn’t, but the weird part is that you can’t just wander in there and use it any old time. Your name has to be on a list of approved library users. My name is now on that list. How exciting.

I presented myself at the Supreme Court lobby for an introduction to the library systems. My first challenge was getting past security; Supreme Court lawyers can smell an arts graduate a block and a half away, and won’t hesitate to press the button that releases the hounds. I showed my ID to the security guard, passed my bag through the X-ray scanner and sprayed myself with the specially made salve that would help to prevent me from catching fire once I was inside the library itself.

The security guard waved his swipe card over the lift controls and I was transported into a magical world of academic nirvana, where the walls were made of wood panels and the floor was made of gold. It was hard to believe it was the same building, just three floors up. But here, suspended high above the rabble of the public gallery, even the quiet hum of the air conditioner seemed to whisper “You don’t belong here.”

I prised open the enormous wooden doors and approached the front desk. The record keeper from the Jedi archive, or possibly her sister, greeted me with a stare that could have frozen a bottle of vodka. I introduced myself and apologised for existing, but explained that I needed a tour of the research facilities.

She was kind enough to point out which shelves held dusty old books that hadn’t been touched for centuries, and which shelves held different dusty old books that hadn’t been touched for centuries (Yes, I know the Supreme Court building is only twenty years old. These books were here before we were, I’m sure of it.) Then she introduced me to the SC online catalogue.

SC computers do not have direct access to the internet at large for whatever reason, but have access to what would probably be a very impressive list of research databases if I had any idea what they did. The librarian was very excited to show me the Lexis Nexis database, but unfortunately it wasn’t working that day due to a problem with a login script, so she decided to show me AGIS instead. That wasn’t working either. Instead she showed me how to use the simple SC internal catalogue, which was much more interesting until she pointed out that you can access that externally via the commoners’ intertron. Eventually even that logged me off and asked for more passwords, which I wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of being asked for. Even the computer system seemed convinced that I really wasn’t supposed to be there. Fortunately I had written the details of my article down, so I just went and found the book on the shelves myself. Sometimes (actually, most of the time) that’s easier.

I thanked the lady for her time and got myself the hell out of there. I had passed my initiation, and strode from the lobby with my head held a little higher with the knowledge that I was one of the elite now. I was a library user. Fear me. And while it may not have been particularly useful, my visit to the elite world of exclusive libraries has at least given me something to write about, which is, I suppose, what libraries are for after all.

Make of that what you will.

Garry with 2 Rs

Mad as Hell

Well, that’s torn it: Two thickly religious posts in a row. Apologies if it’s not your thing; I’ll get back to idiotic and self obsessed daily commentary eventually, I promise. But I can’t let this one through to the keeper: It’s just got me too mad.

I read this on The Punch yesterday.

Apparently now we’ve gone past the part where Christians aren’t allowed to impose their views on others (debateable, but understandable). We’ve gone past the part where the fact that we have faith automatically discredits any moral or even sociological position we might take (ridiculous, but not unexpected). Now we’re seeing calls to stop Christians being involved in government altogether.

Fiona Patten’s article expresses concern about the proportion of Christians in Parliament as compared with the proportion of Christians in society in general. Apparently the fact that as many as ninety of the two hundred and twenty six members of federal parliament might identify as Christians is a matter that we need to be extremely concerned about. How will we ever cope if we have a bunch of politicians subverting the normal course of government with their seditious compassion, selflessness and desire for social justice? What is the country coming to?

And her casual assertion that Christians are probably all flat-earth, literal creationists merely highlights the general ignorance that has led the atheist movement to cede any intellectual high ground they might have imagined they once had.

I mean, what the hell? In the digital-age, media saturated democracy in which we now live, does Ms Patten really suggest these MPs have gotten themselves elected to federal parliament by keeping their religious affiliations a secret from their electorates? That somehow researchers for the other side of politics have researched and aired every dark secret they could find through the election campaign but somehow failed to notice that the candidate is a “God-botherer”? Have we somehow been tricked into voting for MPs whilst under the comforting illusion that they are completely godless? And even if we have: so what? Is it so hard to accept that people who acknowledge a greater cause than themselves, who subscribe to values of aiding those in need, promoting peace and working for justice might make pretty good community leaders, whether they agree with your theory on the origin of the universe or not?

If anyone is concerned that Christianity is over-represented in our democracy, then the path is clear: go find some alternatives, and get them elected. Or better yet, go chuck a fascist revolution, as that’s probably a more efficient way to make rules about which religions aren’t allowed to participate in government.

Andrew Bolt is someone I wouldn’t normally find myself recommending to anyone. In fact, in certain circles I walk in, just mentioning his name will spark a tirade of disapproval. And sometimes that’s fair enough. But he published this over Easter which is well worth thinking about, even if you don’t like Christians or Bolt.

There is no reason for intelligent men and women of faith to be frightened, ashamed or apologetic for their beliefs, any more than there is any reason for atheists to be frightened of Christians. When we start to see arguments like this being touted, it’s time to ask just who is trying to indoctrinate whom.

Make of that what you will.

Garry with 2 Rs

I Am Religious

I am religious.

I’m not really supposed to say that these days, even (some might argue especially) on Good Friday, because apparently it’s not a very comfortable idea.  Most modern churches suggest (with a certain degree of merit, I’ll concede) that we shouldn’t aim to be religious, but that we should aim to be loving, faithful and spirit-filled and evangelical. But not religious.

Religion, they tell me, is just a bunch of rules from traditions that just want to tell us what we should and shouldn’t do. And that’s not what Christianity is about, they tell me. So I really shouldn’t be religious.

Bollocks to that. I’m religious and I’m proud of it. I’m all in favour of telling the establishment where to get off, and I’m the last person you want to try and boss around, but I have absolutely no qualms in calling myself religious. Possibly that is simply because they told me not to, and I have a pathological compulsion to not do what I’m told, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today, and I’ve decided it’s more than that.

I get into a very loving and well-intentioned argument with people from my church every year because, for reasons I don’t really understand (I’m certainly not going to use words like “laziness” or “ignorance”) we don’t run a Good Friday church service.  My argument usually starts out with something like “Of course we have to a have a Good Friday service, we’re freaking Christians. Who else is going to run it?”

The counter argument they come up with is usually something along the lines of “We’re not running one because we don’t really feel we have to. If we’re only doing it out of tradition, obligation and religion, then it’s better not to do it at all.”

I have a lot of respect for that line of argument, except that it’s completely wrong. Tradition and Religion don’t have to be some big scary institution telling us what to do (though unfortunately sometimes that does happen). At its most fundamental, religion is just the schema through which we all take our personal faiths and beliefs and share them corporately. And I don’t just mean corporately as a congregation, which I think is where I think "They" and I aren't quite connecting; I mean corporately in the sense of a world wide religion. It’s a way of unifying ourselves and strengthening one another through our common experiences. And on Good Friday it’s an opportunity to reflect on the Earth-shaking events that made that unity possible in the first place.

“Oh, but it’s just a personal thing. I don’t need to go to church, I just reflect on Good Friday at home with my hot-crossed buns.”

Wrong again.

No matter how important we might imagine our individual selves to be, the celebration of Good Friday is bigger than any one person. We don’t just celebrate it as individual Christians. We don’t even celebrate it (or not, in our case) as individual churches. The crucifixion of Jesus is commemorated by Christians all over the world, and rightly so since it forms the foundation of our beliefs. As a world-wide movement, we should be marking events like Easter corporately, and setting them apart as important days.

And if that means I have to subscribe to the term ‘religion,’ then colour me religious. I go to church on Sundays to meet with other Christians. I only eat hot-crossed buns on Good Friday. I take my Christmas decorations down at Epiphany. I know what Epiphany is.

Do I have to do these things? Of course not. But by deliberately doing them I take my place in something much bigger than myself, and take a moment to consider that there might be something larger and more important than what the latest vision for our congregation of fifty people might be.

I mean there’s no point in just doing those things for their own sake. The sort of religion that just goes through the traditional motions and doesn’t actually love anyone is completely useless. But conversely, the sort of religion that is all very lovely but doesn’t actually do anything isn’t much good either. It’s no good trying to convince everyone how our lives have been transformed and we’ve been completely remade if we can’t even set ourselves apart for one day to celebrate it. That's why we have festivals and traditions. It's why we get married by ministers of religion. And it's why we go to church on Good Friday.

I'm religious. Deal with it.

Garry with 2 Rs

When Bad Things Don't Happen To Good Characters

I’ve reached an emotional impasse in the novel I claim to be writing.

I say “claim,” because although I’ve claimed to be writing it for more than decade now, I haven’t actually added anything to what’s already there (I’m about three quarters through on the first draft) for several months now. The problem is that I know exactly what has to happen next, but I really don’t want it to.

Basically, I have to take one of my main characters and break her. I’ve spent the last eight chapters or so bringing all the players in to place, and now comes the part where I deliberately and methodically smash her heart to pieces.

And I can’t do it.

They say everyone’s first novel is autobiographical to a certain extent. This character is a tightly wound, socially appropriate female orphan, so you can make of that what you will. But while she isn’t based on me in any literal sense, in another sense she has been written to personify all the things I hate about Church culture. And since these days I’m so enveloped in Church culture that it’s hard to tell where I finish and the worship band starts sometimes, in a sense I’m taking a very large knife and pointing it at myself.

But when I first started writing, way back when I was fresh out of school, full of bravado and ready to take down any institution that thought it could tell me what to do, I wrote this character and put a skeleton plot together that would give me a way to show the Church exactly what I thought of it. As far back as 2001, this character has always been heading for this. I have purposefully crafted the plot in order to bring her to it, and at last the moment has come.

And I can’t do it.

It’s a very strange sensation to discover that you have grown emotionally attached to a character who is not only fictional, but is quite literally a figment of your imagination. Especially when I don’t particularly like her. But, perverse as it sounds, I think that’s some of the problem. Not only is this character not real, but the only reason she has even been conceived of and written down is because I invented her. She is entirely dependent on me for her unreality, and I’m about to drop a piano on it.

Not an actual piano, you understand, nor even an unreal piano. I mean in the story, it’s not an actual…she not going to... She’s just…

Oh shut up! It doesn’t matter whether it’s a slightly unreal piano or an entirely metaphorical one. The point is I can’t do it.

And it’s not as if I’m only in this for all out destruction either. Without giving too much away, this isn’t the end for my unfortunate fictional acquaintance. I’m a loving, merciful and gracious author, and the story’s really only three quarters written. I have every intention of picking up the pieces I smash her into and making something new and more interesting out of them. From my omniscient perspective (ie. perched in front of my laptop, surrounded by empty coke bottles and an assortment of clothes in various stages of the laundry cycle) I can see where all this is leading. I can see the resolution I’m trying to get her to, and I can see why there’s no way to get her to it without seriously hurting her. I know that if I want to this plot to advance to the next stage and get past this difficult moment, then there’s nothing for it. I have to break her.

And I can’t do it.

Garry with 2 Rs