21 December 2011

What To Do With Dark Corners

Christopher Hitchens and Kim Jong Il both died this week and I've just been pondering the difference in their contributions. Between them, they represent the extremes in our ability to face 'the truth' and illustrate how those differing abilities can have serious consequences.

First to The Hitch. Atheism has found a natural home on the net. It suites us in so many ways from the most trivial to the most serious. Organising a group of people who are naturally suspicious of formalised organisations is best done by a shapeless, organic entity that is hard to pin down. That's the net. There's no gathering under big arches and spires to abase yourself in front of a pitiless god. It allows broad ranging interests to be pursued from any location and it allows it to be done anonymously. Anonymity is very important to atheists in some parts of the world. I don't need to explain why – but again, that's the net.

Remembering Hitchens in A Grey Area will only represent the tiniest percent of the tiniest percent of what has and will be written about him and by much more serious thinkers. But, the fact there is so much activity on the net surrounding his death is interesting. The medium has enabled a growth in a particular philosophy of life that is hard to imagine without the enabling technology. I only get a keyhole view (I am only one person) but my feeling is that non-belief, reason, and the humanist movement has got an enormous lift from the net. The truth will out and it outs much more easily when it's democratic.

Christopher Hitchens faced the most unpleasant truths unflinchingly and with open eyes. He was not a foxhole atheist who converted in the face of his demise. He had worked too hard at uncovering and exposing the hypocrisy of religion and I have nothing but contempt for the religious who either a) prayed for him to get better so that they could shanghai him into the ranks of belief, or b) those that relished his painful death and gloatingly make statements about hell and damnation. A pox on both your idiotic and immature houses.

Hitchens made the world a better place. He might have changed a few minds, he certainly put a few plonkers back in their place and he entertained. Be anything, but don't be boring. He was never that. I'm going to miss him.

Similarly, I don't relish the thought of the demise of Kim Jong Il. Not because he was a blessing to his people, not because he was a blessing to comedy, but because he was the devil we knew. This next fat little porker is entirely unknown and I can only hope that he follows the rule of the third generation in a dynasty that inevitably fails its father and grandfather.

I have been reading for years the horrors that come out of North Korea. The profligate spending on the military while the locals are forced to eat the bark off trees and finally resort to eating each other before burying what remains of an emaciated corpse. I've been astonished at the level of brainwashing that has been maintained in the peninsular. Dear Leader really had most of them fooled and it's to his credit that he did this in the face of the growing news content on the web.

Some years ago, I saw a doco on an ophthalmic surgeon who went over the DMZ and did a few hundred simple eye operations that restored sight to all of the recipients. It was an operation that the North Koreans were unable to perform. The reaction of the patients was chilling.

As the American surgeon pulled the padding from the eyes of the afflicted, they'd look up at the beatific picture of KJI that can be found everywhere and thanked Dear Leader for returning their sight.

To be so literally and figuratively blinded is the work of a religion and I don't think that KJI is being given enough dues when his leadership is simply described as a cult of personality. It sounds a little paltry.

Kim Jong Il closed eyes, Christopher Hitchens opened them. It's about light. It's funny how that word means both not being a burden and illuminating.

20 December 2011

You Could Go Farming In Here

I'm driving Emergency Contact's little car. She's in the passenger seat. The following exchange takes place.


Me: The inside of this car is disgusting.

EC: It's not that bad. Stop carrying on.

Me: It is exactly that bad. Look at that. And that. And how in the hell do you get coffee into there?

EC: It's the schoopid boys up the road.

Me: What, they lean in and splash it around?

EC: No, I had my coffee and had to make a few calls and send messages and the traffic was really stop-start and those guys up the road always fill the cup to the absolute top.

Me: I see. Why don't you drink a bit before you set off.

EC: Too hot.

Me: Ask them to put a little bit less in.

EC: It's all I can do to get them to remember, “Soy flat white, one sugar.”

Me: I'll grant you that. They confused my order with the order of a four foot, white haired 90-year-old, Greek lady the other day.

EC: See?

Me: Ok, the coffee I get, no matter if it is visually offensive. But it doesn't explain a whole lot of this other stuff. What's that?

EC: Sunscreen.

Me: How'd it get on the window and why is there soooo much of it?

EC: You know how it is.

Me: No. And is that yoghurt?

EC: Oh, is that what that is? Good one. I'd been wondering. Interesting.

Me: I'm getting a disease just from looking at the dashboard.

EC: Oh stop it. It's really not that bad.

As she's finishing the phrase, “that bad”, I am breaking at a red light. A petrified potato comes rolling out from under the passenger seat and lolls up against the handbag at her feet.

I look at her and raise an eyebrow. She says, “Goddamnit!”

15 December 2011

Not At All Dangerous When Cornered

On Saturday, I leaned across to Emergency Contact and hissed, “Remember me telling you stories about that horrible Miss G?”

“Yes”, hissed back EC.

“Well, that’s her. Eat what you can as fast as you can, we’ve got to time our escape.”

EC and I were in a cafĂ© having breakfast and Miss G was filling the doorway. She’d had to lose weight before even being allowed to have lap band surgery. After the surgery, she made up for the lack of room in her stomach by permanently having a straw attached to a flavoured milk carton hanging out of her head. The surgery procedure was doomed to failure. Filling a doorway was no challenge.

While Miss G was eating two cakes washed down with litre of Diet Coke (diet, so it’s alright) I threw a handful of cash at the counter and we made our break for the car.

A little later, realising we needed to stop at a supermarket, EC started to reverse-park into a spot right out the front. I started to panic.

“She’s there. Oh Christ she’s there. Fuck. Don’t stop. Don’t park. We’ve got to go.”

EC’s panic reaction was to lapse into helpless giggling and stop dead, halfway through the parking manoeuvre. I had turned my back on the window and was facing into the car so Miss G wouldn’t recognise me. I was terrified and staring wildly at EC who was really starting to laugh.

I couldn’t stand it, “I can see her in your sunglasses. We HAVE to get out of here. Oh god oh Christ oh shit.”

“What’s soooo bad?” Asked EC, finishing the park.

“She liked me,” I explained, adding Puss-in-Boots eyes to the affect.

“Oh,” said EC.

Watching Miss G in EC’s glasses, I timed my exit from the car and went as quickly as I could without running, to the nearest knot of people so I could lose myself in them.

While EC was in the supermarket, I kept an eye on Miss G using reflections and glances. To make it look more natural, I engaged with the small group around me as naturally as I could. They had a card table and some pamphlets and were really interested in me. I gave them two neurons of attention. What was really getting to me was why hadn’t Miss G moved on? She was just hanging around the side of our car. Why wouldn’t she just, bloody, move on? Get a life! Get away from the car!

As I was concluding whatever it was I was doing with the card table mob, EC came out of the supermarket and thankfully, Miss G started to move down the street. We could make it back to the safety of the car and then all would be alright.

In the car, I looked at the envelope, key ring, tax forms and various other bits of paraphernalia I’d collected while I was performing surveillance on the car.

It turned out that I had signed up to give the UNHCR $40 a month for the next year.

And in a couple of ways, I don’t mind. The thought of undernourished people getting dollars from me because I was scared of an over-nourished person, appeals to my sense of universal balance. That, and the fact that it could have been so much worse than saying goodbye to $480.