Tuesday 21 June 2016

Is Might Right - A Reflection

I actually started writing this a few weeks ago, and it really took a lot out of me. I wanted to get it right, to make sure my thoughts come across clearly, and that I have a unified message. But as the weeks went by, and I added more and more information and reflection, and the world was showing signs of getting madder and more absurd, particularly following recent events in the UK, the increase in explicit racism, and news of slaughter and degradation from all over the world, I realised I could never get it totally right, and it can't possibly have a definitive form, this post. It can't even have a proper end, really. It's just a momentary contemplation of our nature in regard to force and its application. So i'll just get it out, and hope that for those who read it, it simply triggers their own reflection, without judgement because nobody has a definitive answer to our challenges (or if you do, please come forward!). But what we can do, is stop and think, and nourish our awareness.

We are part of a species, for whom survival is still an innate biological motive. Power and dominance, therefore, are a supreme value, which probably explains the majority of the world still living under oppression. Power is also the construct of basic population control, and is used by government, religion, any establishment where one person has charge of another - military, prison, schools. But power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Whenever one person is physically superior in size and/or strength, temptation to surrender to base instincts proves too much all too often. This is why specific legislation has to be in place to try and minimise abuse of rights of the vulnerable.2 Because there is an accepted paradigm that with great power SHOULD come great responsibility.

Concurrently and conflictingly, we are taught the way to get ahead - in life, in business, even in love - is through ruthless determination and the subjugation of others to our will, a bullish idea constantly reinforced by capitalism - might is right.4;5 If we don't comply to these standards, we're considered unsuccessful.



However, do might and dominance bring us peace? Does control over people put our fears to rest? Or does it just feed them further? Our genetic makeup is to survive and procreate, for the benefit of the species. But shouldn't over-population have caught up with our evolutionary need by now? We've pretty much beat the odds on the species survival worriment. Surely we can let that go! Why is survival of the fittest still a factor? Why is our first defensive impulse a choice between fight or flight? Could there not by now be a more sophisticated option, one of compassion, understanding, empathy?

Here's a situation - a young girl had been abused. It's affected her her whole life. She shares her trauma with her friend, who keeps her secret and is agonising over the emotional and psychological damage it's done her. Years later, he's confronted with the assailant. The friend is now frustrated by not being allowed to respond on her behalf, retribution is not his to be dished out. But, one has to consider, is his need to even the score a need to exert dominance? Would that too be an expression of the innate urge to overpower and dominate? And would it indeed restore the balance? Would it repair the damage? Could it also be an expression of his feeling of dominant possession (albeit protectively so) over her too? Even our loving, protective feelings, it seems, are channelled by territorial or possessive primal urges.

Here's another - A pre-teen boy is on the train with his friends. He is the unofficial alpha of the pack. They've had an afternoon of minor delinquency and feeling cocky. The boy sees a woman on the train standing at the doors as they're all about to disembark. As he passes her he calls out 'move, bitch'. To him, she's not a person but a thing, an object to assert dominance over, an aid in his assertion of leadership. It never is a straightforward situation, complicated relationships with parents and siblings, patterns of behaviour observed and reinforced, humiliation experienced over time - these all culminate to the moment being what it is. But the fact is now he has become a synthesised aspect of humanity. A cellular pulse, a binary digit, an on-off. He recognises the moment to overpower, and he takes it, regardless of context, outcome, impact.

Women, generally speaking, being the physically weaker of the sexes, are the one half of the world which is by and large controlled by the other. They are still viewed as a toy to satisfy men, an object to be observed, coveted and possessed. They have no rights in a some men's minds. Here to meet needs, not to have them. As John Lennon brutally pointed out - woman is the n****r of the world - referring to the term in its most intended derogatory sense, expressing the ease with which basic human rights are not acknowledged. Forced marriages, sexual slavery, and human trafficking are still the most widespread practices in the world. The latter being the second biggest criminal industry, with women comprising 49% of the victims, children not far behind. And the highest recorded numbers of slavery as a whole are recorded in countries where human rights are at the lowest levels.


It's not only women, it's any vulnerable demographic - in fact, as soon as someone's rights are removed, they are viewed as weak, the temptation to dominate them becomes strong. Our musings on such matters in progressive thought indicate that society is measured by its treatment of its most vulnerable members (Aristotle, Ghandi, Carter, Johnson, and various other leaders and thinkers). Unfortunately, in the main, what primal instincts control us in private when we're in a position of power, can still override those we display in a group with progressive empathetic norms. And those affected by a group baying for blood override the individual's strong conscientious predisposition.

It's even been recently discovered that, overall, only the Neanderthal female genes remain in today's species, but no males. It's theorised that the females interbred with the homo-sapien males, as the Neandrethal males suffered from a genetic defect in their sperm causing low success rate of breeding. However, it's difficult to ascertain whether the homo-sapiens were carrying out atrocities to wipe out male Neanderthals and take charge of the women, or whether Neanderthal women got rid of their own men in order to breed. Either way, this implies that as a part of society exhibited inadequacy which was deemed as weakness, the other part exerted dominance, either by males or females.

In light of recent events in the UK, it is clear we are far from having evolved out of our fear of tribal extinction, still controlled by strong irrational impulses to reject the foreign as a threat, and keep our tribe perceptibly familiar and safe by minimising "foreign" surprises. This is apparently more easily achievable through fear-mongering towards homogenisation, using manipulation, propaganda, and sheer violence.

But most societies are periodically visited through history by ameliorating influences, morally progressive political and cultural leaders, however brief that affect may be. Progressive efforts shine with the likes of occasional crusaders such as Canadian Prime Minister Justin can-do-no-wrong Trudeau. However, even the self-proclaimed feminist and social reformer has recently stumbled, reacting with force against provocateurs in the House of Commons, when discussing a bill relating to assisted dying. How can power and progressiveness be reconciled? Can one be both forceful and progressive? It may be that the key lies with that balance exactly - the two sides of existence, yin and yang, masculine and feminine, softness and power. In which case, gender equality would be a definite step towards reform, and the reason to keep pushing for this more than ever. Because using softness as a force, instead of stubborn blind forcefulness, is a much more sophisticated way of achieving results.

Martial arts is a great example for how that works, as it takes the base atavistic need for power and aggression, and with guided awareness raises it from the gut level up to the heart level, via an artful skill. It teaches mind-body connection, the true consequences of power, basic discipline and responsibility. Through these comes compassion, and a sympathetic joy in encouraging and helping others in their practice, and a friendly
competitive delight in a safe environment to train and hone your skill. On the other end of the competitive spectrum, we have the fight clubs - those connect the participants with the base level aggression only, our primal selves, but do they elevate our humanness to a higher level? Could it be possible that through allowing aggression out in a consensual fashion, comes human connection and a channelling of that aggression using a positive outlet?


Internally, control over another human being seems to stem from a need for connection - with our own kind - whatever we consider "our kind", with the person we are trying to control, with feelings we are not able to fathom and may be scary to face. In any case, our need for dominance is surely at as stage where it does more harm than good, we have outgrown our use for it and must strive to evolve beyond it, transcend to empathy and love instead.


Some sources:

1. The Breakdown of Nations / Leopold Kohr, ch. 2 The Power of Aggression, 1957
2. Anti-Discriminatory Practice 3rd ed / Neil Thompson
3. Addressing Violence, Abuse and Oppression: Debates and Challenges / Barbara Fawcett, Fran Waugh
4. Might Is Right (The Logic of To-day) / Ragnar Redbeard, 1896
5. The Economic Institutions of Capitalism / Oliver E Williamson, Yale University 1985
6. Applying Political Theory: Issues and Debates / Katherine Smits

 

Friday 17 June 2016

The Gates of Hell, Complete with Devils


More Art by Susan
We arrived at the charming town of Wilmot, just south of Devonport, not far from Cradle Mountain - a World Heritage Area - entering a pleasant little cottage with a bountiful garden, clearly lovingly cared for. Susan explained that as far as she was concerned, Wwoofing is not only about work, but also about learning, a philosophy I could not disagree with. As I discovered - at first to my delight - she  meant it , and as the next few days progressed, she instructed me on correct weeding, wrapping trees in wire and mulching, and I got down to some hard graft.

 
 
Alas, the balance was quickly disproportionately tipped as I was listening significantly more than working. Susan talked NON-STOP, albeit enthusiastically and knowledgably - on Tassie's disappearing indigenous forests and wildlife, the problems of logging and mining, and rather a lot of general tree chat. But more than that, acres of talk of her past ailments, of being hounded by the local farmers angered by her anti-pesticide and anti-forestry propaganda, who would throw dead wallabies over her gate, and of dejected berserk lovers setting fire to her front porch.

Still, Susan was a genuine hippy with the best of intentions. She was a true believer in community, a non-dual universe and accountability for each other, forever exploring ways of improving the environment and helping others. We had some bonding moments of warmth and kindness - after I'd suffered bad sunburn at the end of the first day's work, with the UV index being clearly harsher than in Victoria, she provided a soothing rub with her aloe vera plant, which certainly saved me from several agonising days.

This was also where I'd  encountered the first hint of Tassie's strong link to spiritual practices, in particular influenced by indigenous ritualistic paganism and shamanism. On the bookshelf in my room I found a Book of Shadows of disreputable and mysterious origin, and I was so fascinated and delighted with it, Susan offered to give it to me. However, already aware that her gifts invariably carry a hefty price tag in various unexpected forms, I declined, a decision I regret to this day. It was quite a special book.

Most serendipitously, Susan showed me a letter of introduction she had received from a fellow Wwoofer, which made rather an impact. Sent to all hosts in the Wwoofing community, this initiative was unprecedented and very old-worldly. It carried a certain gallantry and consideration I was impressed with. The person's name itself struck an intuitively familiar chord, such that I knew we would have a significant connection, despite the chances of us bumping into each other, or being at the same location at the same time, being entirely negligible. Leo was out there, and his presence vibrated through the molecules of air, and gently mingled with mine.

There was no doubt Susan's immense expanse of knowledge was illuminating, as it turned out she was also one of the first permaculture instructors, working with Bill Mollison, the "Father of Permaculture", and teaching it for 14 years. However, the incessant chatter was growing more and more controlling, with any attempted input from me completely shut out and unwelcome. She began following me around, criticising things like my method of preparing an egg, or arguing - with no one in particular - about the basics of a band setting up their instruments for recording, me having mentioned I played in a band. Any work I attempted in the garden was scrutinised to an inch of its life. Basically I could do no right.

She also grew erratic in her expectations. She cried a lot. She told me to have time off then huffed at me about how she'd been working non-stop and what have i been doing. It was getting difficult, in particular as I depended on her for making contact with my family, trying to keep track of how things were progressing with my sister, as she now had a treatment plan and was shortly due to begin chemotherapy.

The idea behind Wwoofing, as previously explained, entails working for your host 4-6 hours per day, and, depending on whatever was agreed, you get a bed or shelter and 3 meals a day in return. Supposedly you work about half a day, which leaves the other half for exploration and, well, for making the most of your stay in the area, as essentially this is an ethical and pan-beneficial way of travelling. If you're at all unhappy, or the host is being unreasonable, you're only required to stay a minimum of 2 nights. 

Thankfully, despite all of her manoeuvres and attempts to control my whereabouts, I did manage to go on one fantastic hike to the local falls, off the Forth River and through a beautiful rainforest. Setting off trepitatiously on a trail not far from Susan's house, plenty of wallaby, rabbit and wombat rears were spotted disappearing into the thicket upon hearing my clumsy footsteps. However, it was mainly the eerie silence with the occasional bird squawk and man-sized ferns growing amongst the gum and pine trees, which made it a memorable experience. It was really just me and the animals, and i kept having to reassure myself that i was still on the right track. My marks were bright pink ribbons tied to a branch every so often. There were several occasions where I experienced anxious rapid heartbeat, and i kept expecting to stumble upon those fabled snakes, having been warned about them so many times, but no - none were to be seen. I suppose my stumble through the forest was making enough noise to scare them off. Or perhaps THEY NEVER EXISTED.

The walk took me past Lake Barrington and eventually, at a crossroads, I mistakenly took the upper route viewing the Forth Falls from the less frequented vantage point above them, rather than the conventional water's edge. Not the intended destination, but a beauty spot nonetheless, I chose not to regard this as an accidental pioneering attempt of unchartered territory, but mark the expedition a success.


Forth Falls
On my third day at Susan's she informed me she was going to nearby Sheffield - the town of murals, apparently - to pick up her alcoholic lover, Colin. I was welcome to tag along for the ride, but she was only going to be there a mere half hour. Happy to get out of the house for however short a time, and with the prospect of an extra person around the house to take the pressure off me, alcoholic or not, i agreed. I had a quick wander around town - yet another mysterious oddity of a place with the main street decorated in wall sized outdoor murals, western-style, on the walls of the shops, featuring scenes from a bar, a stable and other 19th century imagery.








The olden days, Sheffield, Tassie
It also had, for some unknown reason, a completely out of place specialist Scottish café, complete with an in-house bagpipes player, demoralising and irritating the customers, and a world weary waitress, both dolled up in tartan. Hmmm. 
 
We collected Colin and his aggressive dog, Rock, and hurried back. But my oh my if for a moment I thought things were going to improve. The atmosphere was intense, every word the man uttered was hissed at and belittled. It wasn't pretty. I really felt for the poor chap. I went to bed early, leaving them to their charming dynamic, not before I'd been coerced into watching a sort of Aussie music revival festival on TV, featuring stars of the 60s 70s and 80s making a spectacle of themselves in overly tight sparkly leotards and smeared tired makeup. Needless to say none of the songs were familiar. That is until Leo Sayer appeared on the screen. That man is a truly hard working guy. 

The next morning I woke up feeling suffocated. Susan was already pottering around passive-aggressively, commenting out of the corner of her mouth that 'maybe you should have the day off' but didn't seem convinced about it, and I sensed a definite angry rant in the works if I had. I knew I had to get out, for good. The plan had been to spend a week or two at Susan's, visit the Cradle Mountain and Lake St Clair National Park for a couple of days, then head off to the next Wwoofing spot, which had already been tentatively arranged, pending confirmation of exact dates. But this plan, as it stood, was clearly not going to work out. I made some excuse about going to the nearest shop - 1.5 miles away, where I sought advice about the quickest way out of town. They seemed very sympathetic over my predicament, and said I could easily hitch a ride out of there if I just hang around outside the shop for the next hour or two, as there'll be plenty of people stopping for petrol on their way to Cradle Mountain. Very kindly they offered to ask about a lift on my behalf.

I went back to the house and warily informed Susan i was leaving. In response I got a vicious snarl and was manipulated to hang on till after lunch, despite me mentioning the time factor - Wilmot is not a place you can easily get out of after dark. The bus service runs twice a week. I rushed the meal and our awkward goodbyes, and headed back down to the shop, to make it just in time for a sweet Goth girl in a tiny red Fiat, who happened to be a staff member of the Cradle Mountain Lodge, walking in for a can of Red Bull on her way to work! Well, that extraordinary bit of luck couldn't be ignored, and I knew I was making the right decision after all - I did feel a bit bad things didn't work out at Susan's, and I was wondering if I should've grit my teeth and bore it just a few more days. But no, all signs pointed out and away! 

A sign of good things to come

Baby Echidna
The Tassie Goth Melanie drove me all the way to the Cosy Cabins campgrounds at the Cradle Mountain resort, a stunning national park in the north west, where I got out of the car and immediately encountered an alive and well echidna munching some button grass around the campsite welcome plaque - another sign!





I registered at reception with the most cheerful and remarkable George Dubbuya Bush doppelgänger, and spent the rest of the afternoon at a presentation about the all the park had to offer, followed by a feeding demonstration at the Tasmanian Devil centre.



‘Devils @ Cradle’ managing director, Wade Anthony, and devil keeper Nicole Dyble with Ossa and BJ
Here I went mad taking photos of these odd animals running around with bits of rabbit in their mouths, chasing each other and screeching, a most amusing display. I even got to pet one, although the handler seemed unnaturally attached to the creatures, in particular to the female - we could touch her " but only on the back from the waist down please!". To be fair though, he was very passionate and dedicated, and as such, great to listen to speaking about them. These animal have become endangered due to the spread of an extremely nasty disease known as DFTD (Devil Facial Tumour Disease), at first thought to have been a type of genetic cancer, several affected animals having been first spotted in 1996, but has since been discovered to be a transmitted viral disease, impacting only this species. The causes are still speculated on but may have something to do with carcinogenic flame retardant materials, perhaps linked with various detrimental industries around the forests. Susan's calls for environmental injustice rang in my ears! There has been a campaign ever since to preserve the species, with a strategy of developing an insurance population in captivity. Cradle Mountain National Park was one of the spots where this was in place.

A Demanding Devil

I ended the day with a lovely light evening's walk, where I saw a wombat for the first time - probably the sweetest creature ever and a close relative of Winnie the Pooh! Or perhaps an inspiration for the much maligned Ewoks.  Saw some wallabies too.




Winnie the Wombat






Wallaby Scuffle
I enjoyed to an unnatural measure a bowl of pot noodles and bottle of beer, more so than all the healthy hearty meals I've had at Susan's put together, and knew once again I was finally on the right track. After some light chat with the other travellers at the communal kitchen I went to bed feeling positive for the first time in days. 

Friday 3 June 2016

Ode to the Freezer

Growing up, my parents had the anxiety of recession hammered into them, a traumatic hangover from wartime Europe. They themselves lived in a city that was young and new, low on resources but high on hope. Essentials were scarce and nobody had more than barely enough, yet everyone shared and shared alike, sang and danced in the streets, there was no crime and everyone was beautiful. Ah the good ol' days eh?

One of the aspects, though, of growing up with scarcity is the deeply ingrained panic of the poor, to which people have different emotional responses. My mum was always the one to throw caution to the wind and say 'live!' whereas my dad's predisposition has been the counterbalance of frugality. More than that, he needed to know there was enough to spare. In particular, bread. And in extra particular, frozen bread.

Daily he would peek into the freezer and with a stern expression and pursed lips declare "need bread". That would be the linguistic approximation of what he said, as it had more emphasis on "need" and not much of a pronoun. Or maybe the nearest would be "must have bread". It had the quality of a guttural grunt.

It's a low-on-bread situation
It's not that we didn't have bread. No no no. We had a minimum of one fresh and two frozen loaves at all times, and therefore whenever our supplies dropped to one frozen and one fresh, my dad would take the family's level of peril up a notch from 'substantial' to 'severe', and not rest until he's retrieved an additional loaf or two from the nearest supermarket.








Likely scenario
Our freezer therefor functioned as a security blanket of food. Contained within it were always endless plastic containers of broths, stews, herbs, cooked and uncooked meats, pastry, bits of suet, frozen vegetables, and a couple of ancient containers of the worst and cheapest ice cream money can buy, now all crystallised and revolting, only taken out on special occasions or when my sister would feel psychologically sturdy enough to resist the glare of criticism from my parents.

Some people's ideal vehicle
Later on, my parents purchased a second freezer. At first, it was a honeymoon of sorts - no longer shall we suffer the threat of starvation (none of us has ever been anywhere in that vicinity). Now, years later, our second freeze box stands sad and under-appreciated, still full of meals and meats long forgotten, at the ready to reveal its glut if ever called upon.
My own perception of food's role as a reassurer has, unsurprisingly, been a powerful composite in my relationship with it. I won't go into the psychological and emotional implications, enough material there for a thick volume... but this became particularly noticeable at my previous beloved yet tiny flat, where all I had was a mini-fridge with an ice-box. The kitchen itself, too miniscule for adequate facilities, came complete with a shower cubicle in the corner to save on space. Here, despite my best efforts, I could never meal-plan ahead to my satisfaction - at best I could fit one small container and some herbs into that compartment. I couldn't see it then, but I was constantly on the verge of anxiety.
 
When this year I upgraded to a proper kitchen, the first thing I purchased was a full-sized fridge-freezer. Hideous wallpaper? Bit of a paint job. A cooker which is a serious electrical health and safety hazard? I'll wear rubber gloves when I use it. A rickety wardrobe? Stick some cardboard under it, it'll be alright. My budget prioritisation process became utterly blinkered, and like an out of control untamed horse galloped ahead wildly and unstoppably into the nearest white goods retail website. With fingers that are shaking with glee and anticipation I typed the words "fridge-freezer". Ohhhh the options! The items on sale! The user reviews! The features to choose from! And when I finally chose, and had to speak to a customer service adviser regarding the delivery, she exclaimed 'ooh I've got the same one - I. Love it.' That was enough for me, a spontaneous and earnest endorsement from someone like me. I knew we'd be very happy together, me and my new appliance.
My beloved

The immense sense of calm I gain by filling my freezer with nourishing consumables - soups, stews and dough I've concocted, herbs, and yes - bread, is invaluable. Not only does it put my mind at ease about The Future, as vague and intangible a term as that may be, but it gives me the delusion I'm fulfilling my role as a responsible adult to a satisfactory degree - without actually having to be one - as I sensibly look after, at least, one aspect of my expenditure, by not frivolously frittering money away on extravagant lunches.


Lunches for the next year - sorted
And lastly, it beautifully closes a full circle by providing me with a real sense of home - here is the frozen chicken broth (what's an Ashkenazi household without it); here is the leftover goulash my mum made when she visited months ago; here is my own kitchen triumph of a stir-fry captured and immortalised in ice as proof of competency at something, at least; And even though I don't even particularly eat bread these days - the evils of modern refined carbs etc - I still habitually hoard a loaf as a tribute to my dad; all providing a deep root of confidence in longevity and continuity - survival, if you will; and more than anything - belonging. A home.