This is what I choose


It went pretty much as I expected yesterday, and while I had a moment of bitter reflection I soon got past it. I’d conditioned myself to the outcome and was ready to move on from it.

Moving on, in this case, means to disengage myself from the process. I understand realpolitik, and I can respect it in aspects, but it doesn’t mean I want to be a part of it. For me, engagement means I’m all in or I’m out. I’m at the stage of my life, certainly, when I can’t be halfway engaged. I think this is more pronounced in this stage of my development, but I think it was ever so in some shape or another. I’ve always been contemptuous of dilettantes, who I’ve considered too clever for their own good. It’s not a way I want to be.

Still, I have to exist in this world. These are facts of life. Bold leadership is hard to find, anywhere, and the sort of compromise that caters to the lowest common denominator rules the day. Pure ideals and the courage to be true to them is an anachronism. I can either move with the times or be true to myself.

I think for me to be a part of that would be a compromise of my nature. That may make me an anachronism too, but I’d rather live believing in something true and noble than stoop to emulate those simply more ‘pragmatic’. I think this is one of the problems we see in society today – too many have compromised on their principles in order to be heard. Too few stand for anything these days, and this has become the new normal. It’s the narrative of our times, a spiral that has made our discourse both more confrontational and less incisive and gives power to mediocrity.

I can either be part of that or step aside from it. It goes against the grain to step aside because I always believe I can make a difference, and there is shame in refusing the fight. In this case though I feel to remain a part of it is to be complicit, and to validate its methods.

Instead, I will stay true to what I believe and closely attend to what I do. It makes for a smaller me, but then I have been craving that, haven’t I?

What many don’t understand is that I don’t work for them, or their brand; I work for myself in service of an objective. I will always do my best because anything less is a betrayal of myself. I think that confronts some and confuses others. Some, I fear, feel disrespected by it.

I accept I’m a purist, and I understand it puts me out of step. I’ve always quite liked that, though much of that was ego. Now, I just don’t want to be in step with a way I deplore. This is the choice of every person, to go their own way, to think and act for themselves, to be a true individual.

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When you care


I’m sitting in the dark in the quiet, the glow of the screen the only light. I’m meant to be doing my weekly ironing, but… I have other things in me tonight, a mix of them that leave me with a peculiar edge.

There’s some wariness in me. I fear tomorrow I will once more be on one side of a confrontation. I don’t resile from these things, but wish they weren’t necessary. I sit there wondering, are they necessary? Why not just give way? Wouldn’t that be easier?

It would be, but to what end? I don’t know if I could give way. It’s not in me. But let’s say I could, what then? I don’t know if you can understand this, but that would represent almost the worst thing I could contemplate – to go on day after day contrary to my desire and nature and rational consideration. I know people do it, but for the man I have become that feels like a living death.

People do that. Many do it easily, and lots besides rarely hold such deep-seated convictions in the first place. I do, and always have. I remember when I was barely out of my teens thinking about principles. It was something in my head, a value I held onto that I justified by rational argument: if I’m not this then what am I? It was in my head but it was also much deeper in the middle of me, something I was instinctively.

I wrote the other night in Facebook how much easier it is when you care less, which is true enough, but when you care less it also means less. I don’t care overmuch about what people make of me – that’s too much hard work. I care about what I stand for though, and for principles of honesty and decency and democracy. I care about the things I do because, among other things, there is meaning in that and purpose. Without that isn’t life a pale thing? We are our beliefs, they’re the spice of our character. Without that what are we?

I’m glad to be that way, but in all honesty don’t know any other. The value you take from things comes from the effort you put into them. The challenge I set myself is to do things with integrity. I’m not perfect, I’m deeply flawed, I fail sometimes, I don’t wish to set myself up as a paragon – I’m not by any stretch – nor do I demand it from others. We dance to our own tune. This is my tune though and it means regardless of other things I’m committed to the job at hand and giving it my best and being true to its meaning. I’m a man who puts his hand up. I believe in things. I want to make things better. I put my heart into what I do because what else is there? I’m hard at it and single-minded sometimes because there’s only one way, and that’s the right way.

Of course, you say – there’s your right way, and there’s mine. I’m not pushing ideologies though, that’s every mans own business and if I take you up on that then that’s something completely different. I’m not going to tell you what to think, or how to live your life, and if you choose to do your thing differently to mine then that’s your business. There are some things less ambiguous. If it’s meant to be fair then it should be fair. If it’s supposed to be democratic then it ought to be democratic. And always we should be decent and honest. I won’t accept any back-sliding there and so that leads, sometimes, to disagreement.

It seems to me this stubbornness leads me to regular conflict. I’ve been called a warrior again and again, and I understand why. I don’t crave these confrontations though. I’d rather we agreed, I’d rather that we all understood the same thing. I understand how self-interest works, I can even respect it in a way because in a way it’s honest. I’ll oppose it still when it crosses the line, but what I really can’t abide is the craven submission to it by some because it becomes simpler. I can’t abide these moral bullies getting their own way to the detriment of some higher principle because those who could stop it, don’t – and because it’s easier to compromise than it is to stand for something.

I could be talking about anything these days – certainly it sums up much of our parliament.

So this is something of what I face tomorrow. I dread it, but I won’t back down. I suspect I’ll be defeated, but a point will be made.

So all of this in me now, but at the same time, there’s a fantastic sense of poignancy in me. I cherish the fact that I’m capable of feeling so delicate and sensitive. I tremble with feeling unrelated to anything I’ve written above. If I am a warrior then I am also a man riven by deep feeling. It feels like a flaw, a crack in me, a vulnerability if you like, but because I’m cracked in such a way I have a direct sense of the mystery about me. It’s like my skin has been peeled back and upon the raw flesh I feel life, stinging and oppressive in a way, but true and pure and real as well.

I can say none of this to anyone, which is a pity. Something like this is made to be shared. I feel wonders. I feel illuminated. I feel something more than the man contained in this body. Sometimes I preen, I’m a man full of vanity and it delights when I can make a girl smile with my clever words or impress with my smarts. I realise though what I want is to be loved for what I have inside me, this delicate thing I can’t begin to understand, no matter how many words.

The fight justifies itself.

Random perspectives


There’s been a bunch of things happen in the last ten days which have exercised my mind but which I haven’t commented on. More often than not I’ll never comment because I won’t get around to it, but today I reckon I’ll set my thoughts down to the lot of them and be done with it.

One of the big issues last week was the Mark Knight cartoon referencing the Serena Williams eruption at the US Open. As soon as I saw it I thought, uh oh. Very clearly it features a racist caricature of Williams, and anyone who doesn’t recognise it is either terribly ignorant or deeply racist. I can’t see any ambiguity in it, though Knight himself reckons it was drawn without racist intent.

There’s a couple of problems with that. To start with, Knight has history. Not long ago he depicted black gang members in very broad and offensive terms also. On that occasion, he drew the figures in scurrilous detail, while perpetuating a false stereotype of black youth gangs over-running Melbourne – which, as anyone sensible living here will tell you, is utter nonsense. He has drawn similar cartoons in the past, and though cartoonists are permitted some artistic licence – much of what they do, after all, is exaggerated and made a caricature – there must be sensitive to culture and history, which is where the second problem emerges.

I remember about ten years ago there was a huge outcry when a local TV program had a talent show in which some contestants got up in blackface. It took me a long time to get my head around that. Unlike North America, blackface has not the same resonant and racist overtones, and the contestants themselves likely did it as a bit of fun, rather than looking to perpetuate a stereotype. That was my view then, but it has evolved since as I, and we, have become better informed. It’s safe to say we’re much better educated on these matters now, which is why I knew it was racist the moment I saw the cartoon. Knight pleads innocence in this matter (and has since doubled down), but that no longer washes in this day and age, though I believe there are still many uneducated who are effectively ignorantly racist.

It wasn’t a particularly clever cartoon in any case. He’s a fine draughtsman, but he has none of the wit or insight of a Rowe or Pope or even a Wilcox.

There was a great outcry also over Steve Bannon being interviewed for 4 Corners. 4 Corners is a venerable ABC program. I’ll watch it most weeks, and it’s record of breaking news and catalysing change is unequalled in Australian television.

On this occasion, it was the left that felt by giving a voice to Bannon the ABC was condoning his views.

My instinct on this is almost the opposite. I recognise there are limits, people unworthy of airtime, or who are so dreadful that any exposure is poisonous. We don’t need to see them on TV. But otherwise, in the spirit of free speech and equal opportunity, as well as in the hope of being educated, my strong belief is that we shouldn’t be shutting down the voices we don’t agree with. That amounts to censorship.

I’m of the left myself, though I’d call myself a moderate liberal. I don’t believe in the extremes on either side, where it tends to get rabid, and I’m a great advocate for the democratic principles our society is founded on. That means allowing for a broad range of voices to be heard. Speaking for myself, I like to understand. I’ll often read opinions I disagree with or find offensive, but it’s useful for me to understand what their arguments are and how they think.

In the case of Bannon, I think that applies very neatly. He was the guiding philosophy behind the current American president, and his broad manifesto has many advocates around the world, including in Australia. I think that makes him a relevant opinion, even if toxic. So, on the one hand, I believe he was a worthy subject for the program, but unfortunately, that required a more rigorous interview than what occurred. Bannon, a savvy player, manipulated the interview to his advantage. I’m a great admirer of Sarah Ferguson, but in this instance, she didn’t hold Bannon to account.

The ABC, being the national broadcaster, has a responsibility to present a range of views and opinions. They get unfairly criticised by the right for being partisan to the left. Here they present a right-wing view and get pilloried by the left. Somewhere in this democratic principles are lost, which is one of my great fears these days.

As I’ve noted before, we live in a binary age when everything is either black or white, right or wrong, left or right. Our public discourse has become unsophisticated and hostile. There’s little nuance and often no acceptance of contrary views. This is true of both sides. It’s dispiriting observing the battles between the rival views, and though I’m inclined to a left perspective I find myself dismayed still reading intractable and inflammatory views in support of that.

Let me make this clear. I’m not going to tell anyone how they should lead their life. As a general rule, I’m not going to abuse someone who disagrees with me, exceptions possibly being rabid bigots and fascists. If possible I’ll sit and listen and then unpick contrary arguments – I’d rather debate than pronounce. I believe in individuality and fear that if we get our way we might end up with a society of drones. I believe in difference, which is where creativity springs from. And, regardless of my personal ideology, I’ll attempt to approach every issue with a rational mindset. Finally, I don’t believe anything is one thing or another – we live in a world of degrees, imperfect and flawed but amazingly diverse. Any other notion is nonsense.

So it goes


I’m posting something here I wrote for Facebook, but never published.

I’ve got into the habit of being quite candid on Facebook, which is quite different from being candid here. On Facebook, they know my name, and the people I’m connected to know me, either intimately or more distantly.  Once upon a time, I was someone who would never post anything personal on Facebook, but that was who I was as a man. I’ve tried to change that because I’ve tried to change myself in key ways. One of the best ways to do that, I thought, was to expose myself in ways that made me uncomfortable. In time it gets easier, but it feels good too.

This time I’m not posting it because it raises speculation about others I’d rather not discuss. Personally, I’m happy to speak about these things all day and all night, but when there are other people involved it’s unfair to post things that people will read who also know the other.

To be fair, it’s a bit long-winded for Facebook anyhow:

So I’m sitting here on a Sunday morning thinking as I have been lately, and as always I do. I’m listening to Sam Cooke and Marvin Gaye and Etta James and munching on a bolognese roll for an impromptu brunch and wondering, among other things, if I’m in love. The answer seems immaterial somehow. It’s just a word, a state of being that arrives sometimes and departs often.
“If I were but a simpler man,” I think, which is a bit like a grandfather clock wishing to become digital: it won’t happen because it can’t. And like all of this it just is, a moment in time, which brings me to Vonnegut because I watched Slaughterhouse 5 again recently, the book of which I read, when I was young, left me pondering for weeks.
It seems to me as I get older that my view of things becomes simpler, even if I do not. In the book, we learn that every moment, past, present and future, have always existed, and always will. Elsewhere he said we are what we pretend to be, so must be careful what we pretend. He also said in a quote most now know, that we should enjoy the little things because one day we’ll look back and realise they were the big things.
It’s good to be mindful, this, here, this moment. This is what I know and feel. This is how I yearn and this is what I wonder. This is what I cherish. What happens next I don’t know. I can only be me and true to whatever that means, and honest, which is harder yet. Nothing counts until you put it on the line.
Time soon to let some secrets go which may make more sense of these words, but not yet. Till then, let me leave you with another Vonnegut quote which is eloquent in its brevity:

What I write about


Generally, when I come to post something to this blog I have a range of things that have crossed my mind I might choose to expand upon in writing. Sometimes what I post will be more spontaneous, though less often. Something will have triggered, either in the personal realm or more broadly current affairs which makes for a response I want to put on the record. Generally, there’s no shortage of anything to write about, because something’s always happening.

There is a range of things I could write about today, for example. At some point, I want to share something about my recent writing. Or I could comment on the recently announced merger of Fairfax with Nine – a shocking development for so-called media diversity. There’s always something I could write about the variety of women in my orbit (or I’m in theirs – one of many things I’m never sure about). Then I could post something about work, but really that will just make me feel more sour. Or Mad Men, my favourite show just about I recently began watching again from episode one. Then there’s the weekend, the Tour de France, the engagement committee stuff, even a memory from when I was about 13 years old and got appendicitis while on a school camp, and so on. Realistically, I couldn’t be bothered about writing any of that – instead, I’m writing about how I couldn’t be bothered.

One thing I’m trying to do lately is live in the moment. The past has gone, I can do nothing about it, and the future is unknown. What I have is now. It’s a perspective that seems to be framing my outlook on adding to this blog. I’ve no doubt that I’ll end up writing about some of the things I referred to above (though I’m certain that some will go without), but right now all I want to write about is right now.

That’s a lost perspective, really. We write about things – things that generally exist within a timeframe, and often within a theoretical viewpoint. The here and now is something that just passes by. We leap from one thing to the next, but the bits in between are transient and disposable.

But here I am now, sitting at my familiar desk at work writing this at 3.34pm. Over my right shoulder is the window which from my 18th floor looks over the east of the CBD. There’s the usual hum of conversation and the tap of fingers on keyboards, and a slightly raised voice in the middle distance – the English guy, the guy who makes his own beer.

Before I started writing this post I had asked my direct manager a question which she bristled at. It was a reasonable question but sometimes she takes umbrage at these things as if I’m having a go at her. In this case, I was asking something on my offsider’s account. He’s on secondment to his role and is a champion at it, but is becoming impatient because though he’s been promised for a while there seems no action on formalising his role. And that’s the question I asked: what’s happening with his role?

I’m sure she knows she should have done something before now – certainly that’s what she promised, though promises are cheap these days. So she tried to shut down the conversation and drop the heavy hint I should not go on with it, but I have a policy that I do not take hints – tell it to my face, straight out. So I didn’t drop it and she became antsier, but eventually answered: it will happen, but not yet.

In a moment I’ll get up from my seat. I’ll do a circuit of the floor. One or two might call me over. Generally, it will be something to do with work, but it might be something else too: how was your weekend? The Bombers are looking good. And so on. I might stop at one or two desks myself. I might catch the eye of the pretty one, she might smile, I might pause, though I have no intention of anything happening. And I’ll think of A., who I caught glimpse of earlier but didn’t speak to. I’ll stop by one of the guys I manage. What’s happening? I’ll ask him. Anything to report? Eventually, I’ll end up at my desk.

This is today. I caught up with a friend for coffee early on at Kirks. At lunch, I wandered down to a bookshop that’s been opened up in an old cinema (Hylands). Just now as I was typing this I asked my offsider, just back from lunch, what the new spicy chicken nuggets from McDonald’s are like. Tonight I’m having coconut curry. And so on. Tomorrow something similar will happen.

Frailty and power


I went out for dinner last night with Donna. It happened to be the date of my mum’s birthday, and it’s become a tradition that we catch up on that date to celebrate.

We didn’t dwell on it. I don’t think we mentioned mum once except towards the end to mark the occasion. I wasn’t maudlin or sad. I’m glad to remember and I think it’s a fine thing, but I’m past the point I dwell on it for too long.

But then this morning as I’m heading to work on the train I’m listening to an audiobook and there’s a scene where there’s someone who had gone away many years ago returns to the town he grew up in and reunites with the friends and family and the woman he loved. He’d gone off, had adventures, made a name for himself, and to some he’d become a hero. But then he is undone meeting these people he once cared so much about, all of whom had missed and wondered what had become of him. Their affection for him was undiminished and he is embraced, forgiven for his absence and loved for his essential qualities, buried deep within his hardened exterior. He had gone away, become tough through experience, then returned, and in his return he connected not only with his loved ones, but with his sensitive self, so long neglected.

I listened and felt incredibly moved. I could understand completely, as if it reflected my life – though it doesn’t, not directly. Then, as he is held by his adoptive mother I found myself gazing out the window of the train with tears in my eyes. I felt as he did at that moment, though in a different context.

I have not gone away from my mother, she went away from me, and she won’t be coming back. I remembered that feeling as he is comforted by his mother, the strong man made frail by love and I missed that and envied it and realised that it was something I could never experience again.

I have lived without it. He went away, I stayed, but both of us became hardened in the interval. Love was not something we encountered and we took its absence for granted. He didn’t know what he had forsworn until he was wrapped in its arms again. I forget too what I no longer have, but am reminded – unsatisfactorily – when I witness the experience of others.

As I said, I’m not about to get my mother back and that’s a fact of life. That’s not to say I can’t experience variations of that, and I earnestly hope, expect, and plan to do so. Like a lot of things, that’s just the situation now.

I have these moments but the truth of it is that I’m an incredibly resilient character these days. I get knocked off course sometimes or experience a wobble, but it doesn’t take long before I right myself again and some innate quality is reasserted.

That was at 8 o’clock this morning. By 10am I was sitting in a fancy office high in a tower at the bottom end of Collins street being interviewed for a job. I blitzed it, though it’s only the first of a few. I found myself inflating to my persona, confident and articulate and in control, tall and stylish and direct. It felt my element, as if I knew the moves before they were made, aware of the impression I was making. It’s all performance, though largely unconscious. I left knowing I’d killed the interview and thinking how odd it was that so recently I had been touched by frailty – and now was a master of the universe.

Mum would be proud.

Pathetic men


Volatile times these days, not the least in terms of the relationship between men and women. There’s still a lot in flux, but there’s a sense that it must inevitably result in something – something being a resolution perhaps, an understanding, or perhaps something to the contrary. I think that’s true across large parts of the world with the #metoo movement, and certainly true in Australia also.

It’s a disruptive time. The combination of recent news and awful events have cracked the old and settled ways. Women, who have been subject to harassment and mistreatment for so long, are speaking up and speaking out. Many men are confused by this. Some are hostile. Others, like me, become enlightened. As always when the first tremors of what may be a seismic shift are felt there’s a sense of turmoil. For me, and others like me, it’s a positive, though there’s a long way to go. For others they take it as a threat to their very identity.

#metoo set things off, but in Oz in the last few weeks there have been two events which have illustrated the scale of the issue.

The death of Eurydice Dixon caught the imagination of the public, as occasionally such events will. It paralleled the reaction to the murder of Jill Meagher some years ago, but, I think, with one significant difference. There was a huge outcry when Jill Meagher was stalked and murdered. The public was rightly outraged. There was talk about how it was a part of a pattern of male abuse, but as usually these things do it died away. It became a horrific crime. It certainly wasn’t an isolated event, but there wasn’t the momentum at that time to make it a rallying point.

The murder of Eurydice Dixon was horrific. It caused an outcry and created outrage. It was another instance of a male perpetrating violence upon a woman, but now the time was ripe for it to catalyse into a movement. In the years between these two terrible murders so many of us have become woke. The outrages of #metoo opened the eyes of so many to the perils women face on a daily basis. I count myself enlightened and thoughtful, yet I had no idea of the scale or depth of the issue. One reason for that is that so many victims, disillusioned with an indifferent society, accepted it as their unsavoury lot. Now they too have been activated: no more.

The murder of Eurydice Dixon then became a cause celebre, typical of what women have had to suffer but the tipping point at which the reasonable said this cannot go on: change must come. It forced us to consider what it said of us as a society, then forced some of us to consider what it said of us as men. That was confronting for everyone – as it should be – and I’m hopeful will lead onto changed behaviours. For some though, it was a bridge too far.

This leads us to the second event. In parliament last week an independent senator known for his extreme views basically called a female senator a slut, and accused her of misandry.

I reckon a few months ago no-one had much idea what misandry was – basically the other side of misogyny. Nowadays it’s become a popular rallying call for men disaffected by recent developments. I think it’s pathetic.

There’s good reason that misandry was such an obscure term: it’s a rare phenomenon. It exists I know, and to be fair there has been some pretty rugged commentary in recent months, but like every movement there are extremes. The ratbag fringe aren’t worth worrying about, and the undeniable truth is that misogyny is a thousand times more common than misandry, and much more dangerous.

The problem is that the status quo that so many men have benefitted from since forever is being threatened by women wanting to assert their rights. It’s a fault of our culture and education that for so many men their sense of identity is so tenuous that it must be asserted in masculine terms. Those terms are archaic and often toxic. For generations it meant that men could feel cosy in their false manhood and women knew their place. With the tide turning – women raising their voice and liberal society joining them – these very same men are feeling disempowered because that tenuous sense of identity is under threat. (That’s the problem when you root your identity in concepts rather than self). They hit out in response, they abuse, they elect to act out their corrupted notion of manhood, and look to put women back in their place – calling them sluts and accusing them of abuse. As I said, pathetic.

Of course it’s deeply unintelligent, as has much of the male reaction to recent events.

When women attacked men after the murder of Eurydice Dixon it was not individual men who were being abused but the state of manhood. I was not offended. I thought it a fair cop. If I am a member of a state that is notorious for being violent and abusive then why should I be surprised if I’m treated with suspicion? It’s a sorry situation, but hardly shocking. Sure, I’ve never done any of that and don’t think I could, but it’s not about me. Ultimately it’s about the women who have had to exist with that state, wary and often afraid and uncertain and sometimes harassed, victimised, and worse. I’m glad it’s come to the point that women are speaking up, and as a man it’s now up to us to change.

For me a lot of it comes down to education and how we raise our sons. There is some arrant nonsense about masculinity and manhood. To hang your sense of self upon such a warped concept can only lead to trouble. We need to raise our sons, as well as daughters, to be good people. Many of those attributes we know: kindness, generosity, compassion, courage, honesty, gentleness, and so on. The rest must come from within, and for me that means our sense of self must come from within ourselves, and not be derived by external concepts.

I don’t know if that will be easy to achieve, but I sense a change and I don’t think we can go back now. Too many people are woke now, too many people activated, too many conscious that change must come. The actions of old dinosaurs claiming misandry will only hasten that along because it causes outrage and is seen for what it is – nonsense. All we need is for some of our institutions to catch up.

All this I am across and fervently hope for. At the same time it asks questions of notions I have believed in without consideration. It’s a curious thing, but I’ll take that up in another post.