Imagination by Quentin Cockburn

I know the problem with politics.  I understand the problem with business in this country.  I’m uncomfortable when I hear spokesmen from the Business Council, the Australian Chamber of Manufacturing and Industry and the Victorian Chamber of Commerce.

It’s a convulsive sort of laughter, I’m finding myself subject to so many attacks these days.  I call it ‘delerium torpens’.  it’s sort of the opposite of ‘tremens’ or full blown mania, it’s a sort of laughing lassitude, where you just shake in a quiet, controlled sort of way.  The laughter suppressed into a sort of subdued guffaw, a shaking of the body accompanied by the odd snort.

It happened the other day.  I was quietly, and reflectively looking at my tax.  This can take hours, and on this occassion whilst looking at the pile of papers, I overheard an academic talking about ‘futures, moving forward and best practice’.  Just when I was about to turn it off I heard Christopher Pyne talking about ‘best value’.  This bought on another attack.  This one was more convulsive, I think because they interviewed another academic, he was an economist and talked about ‘projections’, ‘metrics’ and ‘growth in the tertiary sector’.  It was only a fear of complete and unyielding collapse that I managed to turn the radio off.

But it’s getting harder and harder to sustain my equilibrium.

For instance yesterday I hear the P.M attacking the Human Rights Commissioner about kiddies being put in detention.  I collapsed again and before I could change channels, the same P.M was talking about security.  He was flanked by more flags than I’d ever seen at Nuremberg, and he was putting his serious face on.  That brought on an attack so severe, I lost track of the rest of the day.

I’m through with General Practitioners, they’re no good.  I’ve consulted iridoligists, acupuncturists, and even went spiritual, seeking the truth to my condition from a Buddhist who just smiled.  But in desperation I came across a Faith Healer, advertised in small print at the lower margin of my local rag.  I talked about my condition at some length, and expected a barium meal diet, perhaps a colonic irrigation as a worst case scenario, and waited for a diagnosis.  I can tell you, with the imminent arrival of the next Federal Budget I was in need of it.

But I cannot describe to you the relief I felt when this scruffy, orientalist smiled after some considerable time, and I puzzled as ever looked blankly across the prayer rug, and natural fibred poof, when he spoke, slowly and with some effect.   And he said these precise words; “The problem my son, (he was paternal in an nice way) is not with you, it is with the stuff you breathe to sustain your soul.’

“My soul’? I quivered, breathing heavily. I queried, ‘Is it in the air’?

He smiled, his godhead nodding in affirmation; ‘No my son, it is not air, nor is it within’.  He patted his over round belly in affirmation.  It is the substance that sustains you body and soul, its what makes you complete’.

‘Complete’? I stuttered, wondering where this will end.

“Yes it is is a spiritual thing you so lack. Once it was all around you, but now’, he motioned in an expansive way with his hands and eyes, it has gone “ Poof”!!

‘Poof’? I opined, ‘Yes’!, he said meditatively, ‘Poof’!!

‘What you lack, is the spirit of imagination.  It is not to be found in this country’!

“But were should I go, exiled in my own imagination’.   He paused again, clasped his hands, and said one word.  I shall never forget it.

‘Greece’!