Slow Digestion

Hello my old, friendly room of thoughts.

Hope you don't mind me dropping in - it will probably be another short visit, much like last time. I was just walking past and the door was ajar, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the many dusty mirrors lining the walls, and was struck by the versions of myself I saw.

And of course now I've spent a good hour sifting through all the old clippings, and wondering what happened to the young man who poured out so many passionate, urgent words. Feeling occasional embarrassment at his naïve or foolish responses as he encountered some of life's great conundrums. But on the whole, he was doing pretty well.

And I feel I miss him a little bit. He was a lot braver than me. Less wise, true. But braver.

See, the thing is, I think he's still here with me … I just reckon he lives on the edges of my life these days. He's had to make way for other versions at the steering wheel. But that doesn't mean he doesn't have something to say. I just can't always hear him over the traffic.

I'm sitting in an apartment overlooking the beach at Albany in WA: blue water and skies and a chilly breeze. And my mind just has this feeling that it had to come back into this room for a bit. There's this overwhelming compulsion to dump the detritus gathered from the past seven years on the table and sift through the material and digest it.

Like a boa constrictor after a lucky encounter with a whole family of capybaras, I feel I've gorged myself on life's adventures, but am left with the uncomfortable sense that I've been carrying them with me without digestion. And I think I need that digestion to find peace - well, as much peace as this mind I've got will ever allow.

So how on earth do I begin to organise the digestion of such a vast array of experiences?

I guess what I'm looking for from this are the lessons from those experiences. And how those lessons guide and shape my values. And on a deeper level, I'm yearning to rediscover my creativity. I still carry it with me, a little reactive force in times of stress. But I'd like to give it more exercise and some healthier contexts to inhabit.

So, better grab the leash and get out the door.

A New Fixation

I never thought I'd find myself back here on these pages.

I'd already thrown this whole blog into the trash can in my mind. Nothing more than the embarrassing musings of the naive, juvenile me in the chrysalis, before I became the fearsome moth taking over the world today.

And yet.

A chance encounter with someone that smacked in many ways of that incarnation of me at 20 has stirred something unusual in the back of my mind. Like a flickering projector, a part of my soul feels awakened by the meeting.

Sure, this blog documents the ramblings of a kid at 17 onwards and there is much that's problematic about some of those posts. But it's also a journey...my journey, through life and for some reason I want to continue it. And although it's uncomfortable, I don't think I should censor it retrospectively. In the unlikely event it becomes the crucifying end to a public career, I guess I'll just have to live with it and be skinned alive by the Twitterati.

A lot has changed since 2012. No longer the mud-flecked sheep trying to clamber out of the pen of volunteers, I'm part of a flock offering me paid, ongoing sheep work: and I even get to use critical thinking on a daily basis! More than many good sheep would dream of being granted.

This blog has always been a form of therapy. So what has brought me back now...why is my brain demanding this somewhat hidden space to unwind and unravel its strands in a secret vacuum?

I think the thing is now I've done the things Gelati Gecko used to fret about. I've got the job, a career is on track. And yet..

As this learning curve plateaus, I wonder what I will do in this new adult world I inhabit that will be truly spectacular and world-shaking. What does that next incarnation of me look like, when I leap ahead into the next chapter of my career?

This is the question I need to answer this year. And reconnecting with this blog and writing just seems to be a part of it. We will see.

On Managing Volunteers

Seatbelts on, a mindless vent is about to be written.

I'm sick to death of managing volunteers. I'm sick of it. Unpaid slaving away trying to herd a group of sheep, most of whom don't even want to be good sheep.

I'm sick of trying to start something meaningful, trying to build on something and reach a standard of quality, only to have it crashing down because people jump ship and leave and get jobs and disappear. And then starting all over again with new sheep that don't even have any wool.

I'm sick of having people involved that I just want to slap in the face. People that mill about around the edges but aren't actually interested in rolling up their goddamn sleeves (sheep sleeves? I don't know) and doing some work. I don't have a problem if they can't commit or if things change. But I can't stand lukewarm, tepid involvement. Either be a sheep or leave the paddock.

I simply have had enough. And now, when I'm trying to jump out of this fetid, manure-strewn paddock this has become I just feel like I'm dragged back. I see a handful of strong sheep that want to make the paddock green again, but I've let them down. Because I can't even give them some budding sheep to work with.

It's exhausting. It's unrewarding. It shits me to tears. I just can't stand it. And the worst part? All the sheep in the green paddocks around me, the paid, delicious paddocks. They look down on the muddy, shitty paddock I'm trying to clamber over from and they probably think "...eww...gross...no we don't want this sheep."

I just want the greener pastures. I want to go to work with a solid, continuous group of sheep that all want to make star formations and ride motorcycles like no other sheep can. I want to be the small fish striving for something better, instead of some kind of grotesque, muddied cod attempting to improve itself while managing incompetent sheep.

This is why I have to fight for those greener pastures.

And I want them now.

Ambition Bug Strikes Again

It's pretty inappropriate timing in one sense but spot on by and large.

I've been hit tonight by an energising wave of ambitiousness. That's the simplest way of describing it, but instead it's like my brain is buzzing and alight with a burning urge to get out into the world and carve out a name and reputation and connections of power and do it now.

It's bad timing because I'm meant to be writing an essay on superannuation (shout out to the one (?) possible reader who has been following that particular sub-plot). But I'm hoping it will tide over and power me through what I need to get done tonight.

But back to this ambition business. I've started coming back to this blog to spill these surges of mental excitement and I guess that's why I'm back here today.


It was YouTube that sparked it on this occasion: I've got some friends who are more savvy with the politics of YouTube, but I was basically looking at the extraordinary influence and power wielded by people my age who had started a YouTube channel: later invited to become YouTube Partners ($$) and still commanding impressive audiences.

Having neither the face nor the inspiration for broad spectrum appeal videos I'm not intending to start a YouTube Channel any time soon. Or will I?...

Either way, the gist is I've got to get my website together once I've got all this uni work done by Tuesday. Then I'll pull together my online self and start to chisel away until I attract an audience.

I think it's incredibly important that I start with my own online identity outside of an organisation, because I reckon that's what I'll need to fall back on, and if I've built it myself then I know I can count on it.

Don't Read! Super Musing #1

Okie doke, I'm writing an essay and am at that point where I'm about to get stuck into it. I am, I swear.

This isn't procrastination, it's just I need to write without thinking or stressing or citing or stopping myself. I need to do this or I will probably not get the essay done. In fact, I should have been blogging this whole time. It would have made this a lot easier. As things are, I've been doing a reasonable amount of reading this Semester to prepare for this 5, 000 word essay, but not much writing. Which has become a problem now, as I go to write about something I'm not completely unfamiliar with, but which does not flow naturally.

Ok, it's about super reform. Yep, there we go, lost 95% of the audience. If you're still reading then...ok. You may read on.

OR MAY YOU??!

Yes, you may.

Specifically, it's an essay that's not evaluating the various policies and aspects of superannuation that are being debated in Australian politics today. No. That would be a job for an economic student or something like that. I'm a communication student, so naturally my essay question is:

"What are the ways in which superannuation reform is being made about superannuation policy in Australia, by whom, how and to what end? And how do these arguments fit within economic debate in contemporary Australian politics?"

Whoo!

So, my plan runs thusly:

1. Let's define some kind of 'language of super': this is all about establishing the historical origins of superannuation debate. To a large extent it's about outlining the history of superannuation. It began as a policy only offered to wealthy businessmen by financial institutions. From there, the unions decided it should be something every worker in Australia can access: something to retire on so it's not straight onto the age pension once they retire. A series of battles marked by bi-partisan moments, an unusual kind of capitalist ideology driven welfare system, not-for-profit union funds, consumer choice/neolib free market conflicts with govt regulation and preference towards union funds, and more. To assist in this:
  - A Super History (great read, I'll lend it to you if you're keen)
- CanStar
- A series of uni readings on neo-liberalism etc.

I was thinking of kicking off this thrilling start to the essay with two contrasting quotes that I think capture quite neatly the two major bodies of thought on superannuation. Each one represents a part of its history, and each argument reponds to the other (bring in good old Leith and Myerson to make their point about rhetoric responding to arguments implicitly etc.).

Then going into some of that history, just enough so that the significance and history behind each side has been filled out to give full comprehension. Then, with startling speed, the reader will be plunged into the next part of the essay...estimated words spent thus far? Will probably need to be around 2, 000 which is ok!

Sites of argument/struggle today:

This will look at the issues that are being argued and fought today. They revolve around similar if not identical themes as they did during its formation (after all, only 30 years old or so). Principal among these is 'My Super', which funds are listed as default and which aren't, co-contribution/tax concessions/taxing of superannuant input (i.e. the policies that are put in place to incentivise additional super contributions or prevent tax evasion strategies at the opposite end of the pay scale), gender (links to previous, due to the fact that women's super suffers when they leave workforce to have children). These are the main fights, and they revolve around the same ideas: rational economic actors, govt support for financially illiterate population), etc.

THEN

Will look at how the super industry (in particular industry super funds vs retail super funds) have communicated themselves and communicated super to their superannuants. This includes the rise in neo-liberal attempts to financially educate people so they can make their own choices about super funds, investment options (high risk vs low risk vs clean energy etc.). This also includes educating people so that they can run their own super funds. This is something pitched at wealthier Australians, and there is a certain way that financial media attempts to form them into tax-savvy savers that can find the ways to end up with buckets of golden piggy bank super etc.

Possibly there will be a brief historical aside into the image of the piggy bank in popular culture and why it accompanies so much of the coverage and discussion of superanuation and retirement income.

But yeah. 

Ok that was useful I guess, thanks blog! I'd better get stuck into it. I guess starting at the start is a good idea.     

These Lives I'm (Not) Living

Sometimes I wonder if there is some way I can pursue all the 'me's that are possible.

The musician me, who spends his life composing musical scores for non-paying films, honing his saxophone technique and taking the time to make a living of it.

The journalist me, who uproots himself as necessary, chasing everything in order to climb the journalistic ladder of any number of media organisations. Reaching the end of my life world-weary, alcoholic, obese and able to produce excellent dinner table conversation.

The public relations me, who meekly ekes out an existence in a government communications job, explaining policies until cynicism and disillusionment crushes me.

The politician me, who sets out to change things for the better, to ensure that governmental policies are founded on defensible research, fact and logic instead of the best-selling news hook or the easiest side of argument. Inevitably I emerge disappointed at the wasted years, possibly to become a journalist.

The English teacher me, who deviates from one of the above paths to teach. To go back to that institution that will forever be associated with dusty childhood, irrecoverable immaturity and a simple life.

The chef me, who decides that yes, he does really like pastries and yes, he will spend his life making delicious desserts. Buttery pastry lines the way to a jolly, early grave, even if at the moment of my death I suffocate on panic.

The doctor me, who made a choice late in high school that the pursuit of medicine was a path of such pure intention and integrity, that he would pursue it in spite of the fact that the sciences were not his strongest subject.

The pragmatic me, who scoffs at the idea of any of this, and instead forms himself as an entrepreneur, establishing his own public relations business, and looking up with surprise to find that thirty years have passed by his desk whilst his head has been buried in Gantt Charts and SWOT analyses.

The environmental advocate, who actively realises that an emissions intensive lifestyle is not natural, and is something that can be opted out of, and who proceeds to change his life with a small degree of neuroticism lest any argument about the future of the planet be derailed by secret plane trips or refrigerators or air conditioning.

There are so many of me that could come to pass.

How do I know which one is the right one? How can I hope to satisfy them all? When I die, will all these selves flash past me, sighing "well, you never knew, did you...I might've made you happier"?

And the relationships and friendships and me. The ones that slipped away, exploded with a bang or never realised full potential...what could they have been, and why do I think about them? The ones I was too scared to push - they possibly are the greatest thoughts. What could have existed between us, if I'd decided to keep dancing, or ring you, or chosen to stay at the New Year's Eve party for longer? If I'd decided to through every caution away and follow my gut?

It was so easy then, just a step away, and will probably never arise so freely again. And no organisation can bring back the magical malleability of those spontaneous moments. So instead I wallow in hypotheticals, which can be easily committed to and idolised.

And so I'll sleep on it.

Sleep and wake up tomorrow to find this mood has deserted me. I can no longer keenly feel the absence of potential life experiences, but instead am dragged into the minutiae of my life.

Night.

A Keynes to Remember

So I've just enjoyed a Semester studying economies, their communication and the theories underpinning that communication.

Interesting stuff.

And through it some central figures emerged: amongst them, John Maynard Keynes, a highly influential economist who has his own branch of economic theory - Keynesian economics - named after him.

It has recently come to the attention of me and some other students that there is a startling and wholly inexplicable absence of John Maynard Keynes fan fiction on the internet.

I set out to remedy this with a tasteful foray into the indulgently adjective-rich world that is the fanfiction genre...

Government Regulated Passion

"Penny, have you got those minutes done?"

Penny's head snapped up from the paperclip she had been working into different shapes over the last hour. It had become a horse, a poodle, a pineapple, and at one stage a giraffe.

"Yes Ms Moneybanks, they're right here," she replied meekly, handing the stack of impeccably typed meeting notes to the dour woman glaring at her from the other side of the desk.

"Good girl," Ms Moneybanks said blankly, taking the papers and walking off to another office somewhere where, Penny rather suspected, they would be placed on another desk, to be sorted by another person, and placed further and further into the bureaucratic jungle until it would be impossible to find, even in the unlikely event that someone wished to read them. But these were her secretarial duties in the economic policy department, and she did them well. The blonde, blue-eyed, young and ambitious Penny was not used to feeling anxious.

But she didn't suppose there was much else she could feel, not when she'd just been told that the century's most influential economist and policy advisor John Maynard Keynes had specifically requested her secretarial assistance with his latest policy initiative.

She had barely met him, yet she remembered each moment of that first gaze with an intensity that made her blush. She had been taking the water into the meeting - that was all - but as she placed the overflowing jug down she caught his eye. He had looked at her, his moustache quivering as he continued talking to the other meeting members. "The free market is not without faults," he was saying, but his dark, intensely intelligent brown eyes were locked into hers. His words (an objection to the privatisation of social projects) faded into the background and she feared she would lose herself in his chocolate button drop eyes. Finally she tore herself away...

...Penny exhaled slowly, picked up a leaflet explaining austerity measures and began to fan her bright pink face, shocked at the power of a casual recollection. She had just begun to settle back to work (though the phantom image of Keynes floated in her mind) when the office door opened. Even without looking, she knew it would be him. 3pm exactly. She raised her head as casually as she could manage, to find with a shock that the impeccably groomed economist was standing in front of her desk.

"Miss Farthing?" he said with a smile. His voice seemed to slide over her like melted butter, the rich tones warming her from head to toe.

"Yes Mr Keynes," she replied with a smile. "But please, just call me Penny."

"Very well...if you could come along to my office now we can discuss how we're going to work together on putting together this next policy proposal."

"Very well sir," replied Penny.

"Please...call me Keynes," he said, a cheeky grin spreading across his tastefully groomed face.

His room was, as she might have expected, practical but comfortable. There were no irresponsible excesses, save for a thick red rug in the centre, and a fireplace to one side, which was crackling merrily away.

"Now," he said once they were seated opposite one another at the desk. Penny noticed that the desk was not quite large enough to seat two opposite: their legs brushed against one another underneath. Neither of them commented or made any move to adjust their seating position, silently sharing the touching of limbs. "Just a few formatting things first. I like my policy documents typed up with a 3cm margin, the title of the document and chapter at the top of each page."

"Yes sir," she said with a small nod.

"...Are you going to write this down?" asked Keynes.

"Oh...if you please sir, I just remember it all myself," said Penny with a touch of pride.

"Ah, very well then," Keynes replied, his eyes sparkling with amusement or annoyance, she couldn't tell which. "Well, so overall the policy document..."

The meeting seemed to last for only half an hour, so it was with surprise that Penny glanced across at the clock on her way out and saw it was 5 o'clock. Keynes smiled at her from his desk as she left. "Very good, Penny. I shall see you tomorrow..."

As Penny caught the train home, her head was abuzz with all the ideas Keynes had shared with her. Infrastructure investment policies and lines about definancialisation buzzed through her mind, which seemed to be zipping about with more clarity and precision than she had ever believed possible from her job.

It was an unusually warm summer, and that night Penny slept with the window open, a balmy draught flowing into her room as she tried to get to sleep. Finally a dreamful slumber took her...

She was outside the office. Raising a trembling hand, she knocked a pathetic knock. She shook her head, steeled herself, and then knocked again.

"Enter," came the response from inside the room. She grasped a gold handle and opened the door. She was instantly struck by a wave of warmth, as the fire was roaring, and Keynes stood there watching her. "Well don't just stand there, come in, Penny!" he laughed - and it was a full laugh, full of energy, vitality and vigour. His moustache twitched into a smile as she stepped across the red rug, and she felt his analytical eyes roving over her crisp blue suit, the one that Mother said made her look like 'a real fancy lass'. Finally his eyes met hers again, and she felt that same giddiness seize her body.

"Penny..." he began, his considered tone reverberating through every fibre of her being, soothing her nerves like a cooling balm.

‎"What?" she replied breathlessly as he stepped closer.
"I believe that the financial sector is an irresponsible exchange of money which is fundamentally flawed, marked by greed and irrationality: an irrationality which is at odds with the dominant neoliberal economic governing regime."
She gazed at his sensible leather shoes as he stepped closer again. She could see his crooked tie, and as he reached out with one hand and brushed away a stray lock of her curly golden tresses she felt a blush steal into her already rosy cheeks.
"Maybe..." she began, looking across at the fireplace, which crackled and radiated heat. "Maybe we're all a little irrational...sometimes..." she brushed a hand across her feverish temple.
"Maybe we are...and maybe we need governments to regulate our behaviours so that human failures don't become market failures," he said, gazing into her clear blue eyes.

"But human failures can sometimes be so difficult to stop," she countered. "Greed is just one of our failings. There are other weaknesses...other sins...."

"True, there are other sins. But the selfishness of greed is amplified when extended to the level of financial markets. Other, smaller selfish deeds can go surprisingly unnoticed, and without ramifications...." He again deliberately stared into her eyes, and she felt her face magnetically drawn to his. Their cheeks were almost touching now, and Penny felt that if they did she should combust.

His stiff, quivering moustache brushed against her as he leaned in and gently murmured "but ultimately I believe that the government has a valid role to play in correcting market failures through the careful implementation of intelligently designed regulations and restrictions" into her ear, his hot breath tingling against her burning skin....

The next day the minutes dragged by. Penny could not wait for 3pm to arrive. Her fingers itched to type, and so she began to type furiously, as words flooded her mind, pouring out through her lightning-fast fingertips like an electrified river of passion:

Oh Keynes, oh Keynes,

You wanted government regulation of the market.

Oh Keynes, oh Keynes,

Your eye has fixed itself upon my heart as target.

Oh Keynes, oh Keynes,

You believe in the introduction of government policies to ameliorate the inequitable distribution of wealth,

Oh Keynes, oh Keynes,

I replay your words, replay your words in my heart, and I flourish as a daffodil into full health.

Oh Keynes, oh Keynes,

You reject the neoliberal assertion of the free market as flawless,

Oh Keynes, oh Keynes!!

Stop my pounding heart, afore it compel me to actions most lawless!

She supposed she was no poet, but she knew that already. She consoled herself by moving to her work, typing up notes penned by Keynes's capable, dextrous, powerful hands. As she typed up notes on the stimulus of economic activity through government spending, she felt a shiver pass through her fingertips. As she engaged in the intimately sensual act of transposing the marks Keynes had put to paper with his sturdy fountain pen into a neatly typed document, she entered another plane of existence. As she continued to type she lost herself further and further in the rough etchings made with his well-inked nib, and she began to lose track of time, and so it came to pass that 3'o clock arrived after a tolerable intermission of transcription.

Penny set off straight up to the fifth level without waiting for Keynes to come and get her. As it was they met on the carpeted stairwell between levels. He was looking down, and almost continued past her, but she put out a hand and brushed it against the navy blue sleeve of his suit.

"Penny!" he exclaimed with a chuckle, a chuckle that faded and was replaced with seriousness as they engaged in what had now become a ritualistic moment of eye-gazing. The intense bond they were forging as they stared directly into the consciousness of the other would have continued for much longer were they not interrupted by the backlog of people they had blocked from going up and down the stairs (such was their absorption in their moment of eyeball-mediated intimacy).

As he shut the door behind him, Penny noticed that the fireplace was not roaring this time: it was smouldering. The lights too, seemed dimmer than last time: the shadows were softer, and as Keynes turned to face her, the lines of fatigue which frequently creased his face were gone, and only his magnificent moustache commanded her attention.

"Capitalism is the astounding belief that the most wicked of men will do the most wicked of good of everyone," he sighed. "The very premise of economic man assumes we are selfish actors, it assumes we are rational actors. From this, a system is created where the selfishness of each individual maintains a balance." He sighed again, and she felt the weariness of a man who did not believe that the free market is the best instrument to deliver social equality.

"Well that's why it's important to continue to challenge the hegemony of the neoliberal economic doctrine, isn't it?" said Penny, striding forwards and taking his hand with a boldness she had not known before. He smiled at the recognition of his own words, spoken back to him by our bright-eyed and inquisitive heroine.

He squeezed her hand.

"Yes, Penny Farthing. That's why we must challenge the dominance of ideas...the difficulty lies not so much in developing new ideas as in escaping from old ones."

She took his other hand and took a step closer, barely daring to breathe as she whispered, "and perhaps the most pervasive of these is the idea that we are all rational actors...for I fear I am about to do something that is quite without reason of any kind..."

Keynes didn't say anything, and there was silence but for the patter of rain on the window. His brown eyes came closer towards her, and --

Out in the street, the rain began to intensify into furious torrents, and people began to run in different directions, holding newspapers over their heads to stay dry.