Two exams to go. My last ordeal for this semester has begun. If this were the X-Men I'd be feeling my mutant senses kick into gear about now. Embedded Systems later today should be a bad joke, but Information Network Systems, the final boss of my exams, has me slightly worried. I think I should reread Kafka, there are some hard lessons about the structures of this world I still need to have rammed down my throat.

I've noticed that since I started titling the entries on this page there's been a slightly more emphatic theme of negativity. Huskdom, anti-solidarity, very human anger, goaders, democracy is a crock. What a lovely list it is. My theory explaining the gloominess of my titles: a synopsis is a summary of a larger narrative. A title is a synopsis of a synopsis. And since the propaganda disseminated by the institutions of my mind (yes, my mind is institutionalised) tells me that life is an archipelago of tiny atolls of happiness occasionally breaking the surface of an ocean of ancient, poisonous misery, by the time we get to the summary of a summary of existence it's rather hard to see the isles for the black, breaking waves.

It's at times like these it's wise to remember that one hasn't always felt this way, and that one's current condition is subject to sudden changes for the better when nice things happen like one's exams ending. And so I look forward to the me of tomorrow afternoon bearing remarkably little resemblance to the me of this morning, and probably not whining about synopses of synopses of human life looking like pools of black misery. I'm not titling this entry.

I'll conclude with a brief message to Jen, who is off to Vienna tomorrow:

Jen:

The music is weaving
Haunting notes, pizzicato strings
The rhythm is calling
Alone in the night as the daylight brings
A cool empty silence
The warmth of your hand and a cold grey sky
It fades to the distance

The image has gone only you and I
It means nothing to me
This means nothing to me
Oh, Vienna!
Ultravox, 'Vienna'

I doubt you've heard the song (it was released in 1981), but it seemed appropriate. Have fun. You'll be pleased by how much cooler foreign countries are than Australia. And if you meet a really cute Austrian guy who can fight like a Saiyan, I'm sure Chas won't mind if you go astray. I might not make it to the party tonight at all, since studying for my final exam is going to occupy rather a lot of my time.

Tom.
P.S.: Send me a postcard, or at the very least an email.

Democracy Is A Crock

Go on - prove me wrong.

Originally this was set up to serve society,
Now the roles have been reversed,
They want society to serve the institutions ...
Stereolab, 'Tomorrow Is Already Here'

It's clear that representative democracy is a failed political system. Two parties, each manoeuvring for exactly fifty-one percent of the vote, with polls dominating where policy should, before each election. After each election, a series of stop-gap measures aimed at placating an ignorant, apathetic public whilst following the agendas set by other nations and large corporations. But the problem's worse than that. Oh, yes. Suppose we had a fully participatory democracy. How much would that suck? Would you trust the average Australian to have input on every decision made about the future of our society? I certainly wouldn't. So you advocate elite rule, you say. No, I don't. So you advocate anarchy, you say. No, I don't. So you have no solution, you say. Yes, that's right. Shut up, you say. Democracy may be a crock but it's the only crock we've got. No, I won't. I hate this world.

Goaders

Get a haircut, and get a real job,
Clean your act up, and don't be a slob,
Why don't you get it together like your big brother Bob?
And get a haircut, and get a real job.
George Thorogood, the eponymous ditty[1]

I've worked out what I need. I need a goader. In Irish mythology, when Cuchullain was battling the forces of Munster at the ford, he had his trusty charioteer Laeg by his side (never really thought about it, but perhaps there's some homoerotic subtext there. Nah ...). Wiping out hundreds of plebs a day will take it out of a fellow, so Cuchullain gave Laeg some rather specific orders. Whenever it seemed as if Cuchullain was beginning to tire, Laeg was to stand on the riverbank and call out the most vicious insults he could imagine at him. Casting aspersions on every aspect of his character, accusing him of weakness, impotence, you name it. In short, goading him, so that he would become angry and thereby more effectual in battle.

Supposing, then, (and this may be a little bit of a stretch) that I can be a hypothetical Cuchullain, and that studying is some hypothetical equivalent of murdering thousands of innocent plebeians sent into battle by a merciless nonexistent devious Irish war queen like Maeve, then what I need is a Laeg. Someone who, while I sit here procrastinating by writing tangential, uninteresting entries in my weblog, will walk in, box my ears and declaim 'Entro! You study like a girl!' or 'Call that studying? I've seen dismembered cockroaches who would make better students of telecommunications than you! And they had friends, and better web-logs, too!', sending me into a fury which would allow me to actually get some work done.

Anyway, applications are welcome: send relevant details together with a couple of sample insults to this email address.

Actually, I think what I need is a copy of myself to compete with. I'm sure we could goad each other quite well, and I'd know it'd be satisfying to beat the snotty git, since it'd always be a close run thing. Such an individual might also be useful for tandem suicide attempts.

[1] This song by George Thorogood is an insult to music. However, it does contain a modicum of salty, unreconstructed good ole boy wisdom.

Anti-solidarity

I went to a rally in support of the inmates of detention centres around this country yesterday. By the time I left it, I was distinctly disillusioned. The people present seemed a comfortable minority. Comfortable in themselves, because they were there, doing the right thing. Comfortable for Howard who can easily dismiss such people as the 'loony' Left. And comfortable because they were in the minority, perhaps. Admittedly my mindframe was a little negative. But the speakers were uninspiring, by and large even inarticulate, and preoccupied with their own unrelated causes to the detriment of the cause of the day. Saw some old faces there: Phil from the ISO MCing the demonstration, with his usual hip-swaying strident political delivery, and sideways glances at the bimbo running the Refugee Rights Action Network. The bimbo herself, who whilst presumably no lightweight intellectually seems more interested in organising parties than getting anything meaningful done. Spent some time consciously avoiding the ISO people many of whom I know from my earlier flirtations with Marxism. Saw Alex Whisson wearing a red beret and a red scarf and looking like a prat. If he gets his picture on the news it'll probably swing another ten votes Howard's way. In any case, I thought the whole demonstration was crap. I hope something useful does eventually get done for all the unfairly incarcerated people in this country.

I couldn't be bothered going on the march, so I went and browsed a few shops instead. J.G. Ballard's Complete Short Stories and Egan's new book Schild's Ladder have been released, I will have to buy and read them both.

Nothing has to happen somewhere.
Philip Larkin

Larkin said that of Coventry, but you might as well say the same of Perth. Not true, but quite cutting all the same.

Very Human Anger

Yes, I am blind, but I do see,
Evil people prosper over the likes of you and me ... always,
Little lamb on a hill, run fast if you can,
Good Christians, they wanna kill you,
Although your life has not even begun.
Morrissey, 'Yes, I Am Blind'

I feel like the poor sign-gluer from The Bicycle Thieves. The reason? Some complete and utter bastard stole my bicycle. I hate the human race. I hate having to stoop to narrow-mindedness, mean-mindedness, untrusting paranoia just to get by. I hate having to lock doors, keep track of valuables, haggle with insurance companies, mute advertisements, worry about friends late at night, repair vandalism, and pity streetwalkers. The solution to the problem is clearly to become a destructive, thieving, raping and murdering, corrupt, polluted, heartless, violent pimp. Unfortunately I'm rather underqualified for the position. But I am so very angry and unhappy about this violation of my life. I loved that bike. The name: 'Vector', appealing to my mathematical background. The crossbar: slightly crooked, leading ignorant hicks who thought it was funny to accuse me of riding a ladies' cycle. The colour: shiny red, contrasting with my ordinarily sombre taste. The simple mobility it provided me. Fifty trips to the beach last summer. Two bald tyres and two hundred dollars of repairs this year. If I'd met the person that did this to me at about six o'clock yesterday evening I think I would have set on like a wolf and tried to tear them to pieces, never mind the consequences. Ach!