The Glory of a “White Christmas” Ancient ritual dating back as long ago as 1942.

It’s also a time for remembering to forget. 

Here at pcbycp, we’ve been forgetting events almost as soon as they happened. This keeps all of us in the editorial department in a positive frame of mind. So, when it’s time to put up the Chrissy lights, decorate the windows with tinsel and shop, we delight in the experience as if it were new. Life affirming! One of the most noble rituals beyond the Anzac Day march. 

Chaddy, Visible from MARS!

That’s why we willingly swarm to Chaddy. Yes folks Chaddy, the biggest supermarket complex in the southern hemisphere, lures us with the force of a gravitronic tractor beam. We asked for one over the counter, but were told they haven’t been invented yet.  Instead, we busied ourselves with buying stuff that would augment landfill. There’s plum puddings at Aldi a steal at $5.95, and infant milk formula for $6.95, (with a limit of 12 tins per customer), and the christmas chocolate, and coffee, fair trade at $14.95 is an absolute steal. So we filled the trolley to overflowing and made our mark. 

Cos Christmas is all about shopping. And it’s been that way more or less for over ONE HUNDRED YEARS!!

That makes it ancient as a tradition. And the whole god thingy if you look back to the Egyptians and the Neanderthals who weren’t invested with shopping it goes back thousands, Some say tens of thousands. 

Afghanistan. Now the yanks have pulled out soldier takes selfie of ” last man standing”.

But we like to be selective at pcbycp, that’s what wins awards. The monotheistic grey bearded old bloke who started the Christian religion is meant to be about six thousand years old. Cos that’s what the bible says. Now that’s a really long time. And Jesus who died so that we may be deeply flawed, died over two thousand years ago. 

For some of you, these figures are incomprehensively large. 

Let’s put that in shopping time. That’s assuming the shopping centre is open seven days a week with the odd holiday, (on which the workers are fairly docked the holiday loading by those luminaries in the Fair work Commission) That’s about 4,368 hrs of shopping for the year. And since the immaculate conception, we’ve calculated it to be about 8,736,000 hours of shopping. And that’s just on a twelve hour week. If the new enterprise agreement is fixed we can expect 14, or even 18 hr days and the workers will be docked if they slack off. 

Christmas. MATE-SHIP!

That’s what Christmas is truly about! Numbers! Beautiful figures!

As the PM said, “Go out and Shop”!

As for numbers……

It was fifty years ago man took the first photo of his planet and the entire world. 

We realised that we were a fragile bubble held in the blackness of space. 

Insignificant, Petty, less than a full stop to the shorthand of the universe and everything. 

But spare a thought for the most distant object. It’s called

Proposed Chaddy on Mars.

“MACS0647”. Its age is equivalent to a light travel distance of 13.3 billion light-years (4 billion parsecs).

EARTH. Fifty years before we knew we were WELL AND TRULY FUCKED!!!

You’d think that was astounding, but there’s no shopping beyond our atmosphere, and free parking questionable. You wonder why we’d bother with Mars and space exploration in the first place.  

Hiya,

Kirsty-Anne is Napanangka, her mother is Nampijimpa and Nampijimpa’s mother is Nungarrayi. Nungarrayi is Kirsty-Anne’s grandmother (jaja) Nungarrayi’s brother is Jungarrayi.

Hamilton Morris is Japaljarri. His father was Jungarrayi, Kirsty-Anne’s jaja’s brother.

Most non-Warlpiri residents of Warlpiri country, will sooner or later be assigned a ‘skin’ name. This is not a feather in the cap, but the cap itself. If the cap fits wear it.

Wendy was assigned Nangala, which automatically made me Jungarrayi, or was it the other way around? Hamilton Morris is our son.

All my relatives wherever they are, will probably not know it, but have a ‘skin’ classification. Even my Dutch cousin who lives in the French Pyrenees is Napurrurla and her English Husband is Japanangka (Kirsty-Anne’s brother!)

My cousin in Gippsland’s mother was Nakamarra, the sister of my mother (Nakamarra), which is why my cousin is Nungarrayi (my sister), ad infinitum.

Everyone is related to everyone. All in a concurrently complex and simple system of social glue. A truly wonderful system of mathematical and social beauty.

Everyone has others one is obligated to (has to care for) and others who care for one. No man is an Island. ‘Skin’ classification guides the nature and intensity of relationships. A feature of the system that appeals to many ‘westerners’ is “mother in law avoidance” In former stricter times it was absolutely forbidden for one’s mother-in-law to be addressed or to be in the same room. It still happens that someone might wait outside a shop because “there is no room”.

Decades ago I explained the system to a visiting professor from Beijing University. When the Professor asked what his ‘skin’ was, I jocularly suggested to Japanangka he should make him a Jampijimpa (and “because then I can marry his daughters” under my breath). When Japanangka duly declared to the professor he was a Jampijimpa, the professor jumped up, applauded, bowed, and said he was honoured. We had thrown a pebble into a pond. Ripples radiated from Beijing like dominoes or tentacles and countless unaware Chinese had been assigned a ‘skin’. Incidentally, once he had been placed in it, the Professor took only minutes to get a grip on the system. Japanangka declared he’d never met a ‘foreigner’ who ‘got it’ so quickly. Which prompted the French DAA (Dept of Aboriginal Affairs) worker who’d been given the task to show the Chinese Professor around Central Australia, to exclaim: “ but of coerrse, eesnot a proffesseur forr nutting! “ Ah, the joys of eclecticism. Yuendumu the place to be!

Assignment of ‘skin’ is not as frivolous as the above may suggest. From the moment a Warlpiri person is born they have a pre-determined ‘skin’. It is not who they are but what they are, how they relate to others, they just are.

‘Foreigners’ need to have a ’skin’ to make it more comfortable for locals to relate to them. When my niece (my sister Nungarrayi’s daughter) came to visit, introducing her as Mrs. Hunter would have been meaningless to locals, but when I introduced her as Nampijimpa, she was immediately accepted and everyone knew how she was related to me (and them) and her son who travelled with her was immediately identified as Japanangka (Kirsty-Anne’s brother)

For those ‘foreigners’ who don’t arrive with a derived ‘skin’, after some trust and mutual respect is gained someone will declare, sometimes with an aspect of ritual pomp and ceremony: “you are ………….. because………”. A bit like handing someone an acting award. This ‘skin’ quickly gains currency and all and sundry know it. ‘Skin’ forges bonds.

A few days ago Kirsty-Anne burst into the shop bearing a big grin and the big brass Best Actor award her “great uncle” Hamilton Morris had won at the Australian Academy of Cinema and Television Arts Awards in Sydney. Hamilton modestly followed out of the car Kirsty-Anne had extracted the award from. The award, he declared, was something we could all be proud of, all of us Yuendumu and Nyirrpi wardingki. He saw it as a Warlpiri achievement, not his own.

It is this communalism which makes being Warlpiri or amongst the Warlpiri special. It also makes the Warlpiri vulnerable, to be modest and generous in a world of greed and individualism and political and commercial opportunism, can be perilous.

To turn Warlpiri society from communalism to individualism (supposedly “for their own good”) is the imperative of the assimilationists.Neo-colonialism hasn’t yet reached its ultimate aim- ethnocide. I hope the bastards never do! We will all be the poorer for it.

If and when the assimilationists succeed, we will no longer be able to feel proud of such as Hamilton’s award. We may even be minmayi (jealous) of it. We will no longer have a sense of ownership of ‘Sweet Country’

The film ‘Sweet Country’ is unusual in that it has a virtually music-free soundtrack.

The only song in the film which can be readily found on Youtube is Jonny Cash’s rendition of ‘Peace in the Valley’, so here it is:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdxC68JLW2Q

I wish you all Peace in your valley.

Alsalam, Shalom

Jungarrayi

The New GG. Representing “Mainstream Australian Values’!

The recent decision bravely made by the Morrison government to make another retired army officer a Governor General demonstrates real leadership. 

In the face of all the shenanigans from Andrew Broad and the flawed concept of Climate Science it is reassuring to see that this government has  dumped more women from preselection, and put its weight behind Craig Kelly, to prove the when push comes to shove. It can shove it!

The Christmas message from this government is that it’s “in control”. And we’re deleriously happy. 

Previous GG Candidate, for valour!

Cos it shows a demonstration of “Mainstream Australian Values”, and perfect timing. 

Today heralds the Start of the long hot summer. Of the Boxing Day test.  The excesses of plum pudding and the anticipation on all the kiddies faces of plucking therein, a freshly minted sixpence. Of the Hills Hoist, the Victa 18, and the certainty that nothing will ever ever change. Cos change is UNSAFE!

Frontrunner, till we discovered, (via New Idea), that Chesty WASN”T REAL!

There are those who would worry us and say that there are amongst us now a vast array of individuals living legitimately, and with full rights of citizenship who don’t get cricket. Who don’t understand the value of Bradmans’ batting average, and who just cannot understand as the worlds mightiest sporting nation that cultural icons as noble as Shane Warne, as illustrious as the beaming visage of Chesty Bond, are currency of inestimable value. And  most importantly more “whiter than white”.  These are the cultural values we took to Poland, (Katowice), to reneg on  climate change. To prove that we are world beaters, and send the world a very clear message, we don’t like progress, we don’t like change, and unless caught, our National Party pollies are the best shaggers in the world. 

And if you want men of principle and unswerving character who represent all the sacred values of old Australia, seek no further than our military’s finest. 

Chesty ruled out for inappropriate use of coal.

Pity though that this ex military, former governor of New South Wales, hasn’t killed that many people, but we’re hoping that when the real autobiography comes out he may be able to proudly put up his hand for having a reasonable share of the millions killed in piddly little wars since the end WW2.

Nothing like a peacetime war hero, to swing the baton when we march in glorious unison to Anzac Day and all the Anzackery that makes this country so profoundly SAFE!

Better still that with a booming defence budget, we can buy more material to demonstrate to the world at large that we’ll buy anything to prove a point that out foreign policy is “Somebody Elses”!

And legitimise if through another military man of great standing. Who understands loyalty and taking Orders!  An emissary to the Queen so that he can advise her on which bits of text to white out when the next sacking of a democratically elected Prime Minister is due. 

New GG’s Bio.

We love a sunburnt country.

We at pcbycp are deeply worried about religious freedom. 

Obi Wan, founder of the Jedi Religion. Not an AUTHENTIC religion.

We’ve just go this funny feeling that it engenders INTOLERANCE!

Cecil is a Jedi. This is one of the more popular religions. Though it is not considered ‘Mainstream’.  The Jedi’s worship a  Grand Knight. His name is Obi Wan Kenobii. 

Obi’s origins are shrouded in mystery. It is believed that Obi is descended form one of the original Jedi, His name, Lord Rupert of Murdoch. Rupert invented the Death Star. 

The Death Star represents all that was good and positive about Lord Ruperts view of the world. 

The true and ONLY Authentic GOD!

Until he went WRONG!

Cecils problem is that he wants to wear his light sabre to school. 

Authentic religions get old men to authenticate Cricket Bats

It’s against regulations, And the school chaplain is a bit angry cos he thinks that light sabres are irreligious. This is where the conundrum sits.  Cecil believes his light sabre is a legitimate religious icon.  The school chaplain thinks it’s the cross he has put up in every classroom. The School chaplain thinks that his cross represents the only true and correct religion. 

Cecil is very upset. If he’s asked to go home again, because he’s wearing his Jedii cloak, light sabre and belt he’ll be pretty disenchanted with religion altogether. He reckons the school is impinging on his civil liberties. But the chaplain reckons that Cecil’s religion is concocted, and a false god of sci fi puppetry and fictional demi-gogery.  And we spose that’s why he goes to the Full Gospel Reform Christian College. To be the Full-Bottle on God and religion and all that stuff.  

Authentic hand kissing in front of Authentic cross. Though authentic religions do not encourage MEN KISSING!

Cecil is so confused. He’s struggling with the ‘correct’ religion.  Cos he thinks that man being born from a rib, and women being stoned is daft. He also reckons that if there was a God, why then did he invent death, disease, plague, reality television and The Liberal National Coalition? How could Tony Santamaria be religious, when all he’s interested in is authority and punishment. 

Still the chaplain threw the rule book at Cecil, and said once the new religious freedom act is legislated, Cecil wont have a leg to stand on. He can just go and Fuck Off!! Cos that’s his religious right. 

Only Authentic religions approve of mass killings as being genuinely AUTHENTIC!

Cecil is now isolated and marginalised, As a transgender he is doubly marginalised. Cos the “so called” true religion reckons they don’t accept gays as being equal. As a matter of fact they don’t accept, science, rational thought, and women in general as being equal. But in order to survive they must enjoy their freedom to go on stoning women. And the other religion wants to preserve its freedom to mutilate little girls. Whilst the other religion wants the freedom to fiddle with kiddies, and the other religion just wants to kill non-Buddhists in Myanmar. 

Cecil reckons all these religions have one thing in common. Old blokes who are totally insecure about women, sexuality, and liberalism in general just compensating for their appalling inadequacy by wanting to subjugate the masses by fear and persecution. 

We’re not sure, and why is this so? Cos the Jedi’s don’t need to do any of that sort of thing, they ask their adherents to just, “use the force,” and say, “ may the force be with you”. 

Maybe that’s why it’s not recognised as a religion, it hasn’t got enough HATE and INTOLERANCE to be protected. To be “Mainstream” enough. 

But there is another option, 

“A long time ago, in a  galaxy far away”, 

Heretics opposed to Saint Tone of Santamaria storming Constantinople because it proclaimed Science as “truth” and we know that is apostasy!!

Sounds like a pretty good religion to us. 

A BRAVE AND STARTLING TRUTH by Maya Angelou

 

We, this people, on a small and lonely planet
Traveling through casual space
Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns
To a destination where all signs tell us
It is possible and imperative that we learn
A brave and startling truth

 

And when we come to it
To the day of peacemaking
When we release our fingers
From fists of hostility
And allow the pure air to cool our palms

 

When we come to it
When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate
And faces sooted with scorn are scrubbed clean
When battlefields and coliseum
No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters
Up with the bruised and bloody grass
To lie in identical plots in foreign soil

 

When the rapacious storming of the churches
The screaming racket in the temples have ceased
When the pennants are waving gaily
When the banners of the world tremble
Stoutly in the good, clean breeze

 

When we come to it
When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders
And children dress their dolls in flags of truce
When land mines of death have been removed
And the aged can walk into evenings of peace
When religious ritual is not perfumed
By the incense of burning flesh
And childhood dreams are not kicked awake
By nightmares of abuse

 

When we come to it
Then we will confess that not the Pyramids
With their stones set in mysterious perfection
Nor the Gardens of Babylon
Hanging as eternal beauty
In our collective memory
Not the Grand Canyon
Kindled into delicious color
By Western sunsets

 

Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe
Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji
Stretching to the Rising Sun
Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor,
Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores
These are not the only wonders of the world

 

When we come to it
We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe
Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger
Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace
We, this people on this mote of matter
In whose mouths abide cankerous words
Which challenge our very existence
Yet out of those same mouths
Come songs of such exquisite sweetness
That the heart falters in its labor
And the body is quieted into awe

 

We, this people, on this small and drifting planet
Whose hands can strike with such abandon
That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living
Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness
That the haughty neck is happy to bow
And the proud back is glad to bend
Out of such chaos, of such contradiction
We learn that we are neither devils nor divines

 

When we come to it
We, this people, on this wayward, floating body
Created on this earth, of this earth
Have the power to fashion for this earth
A climate where every man and every woman
Can live freely without sanctimonious piety
Without crippling fear

 

When we come to it
We must confess that we are the possible
We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world
That is when, and only when
We come to it.

“A Brave and Startling Truth” was published in a commemorative booklet in 1995 and was later included in Maya Angelou: The Complete Poetry (public library).

(First posted 6/12/14)

Yaxşı gün dostlarım,

The 1980’s were a time when there was live music everywhere. Yuendumu was no exception. Papunya’s Warumpi band was formed in 1980, Broome’s Scrap Metal in 1983 and the most famous Aboriginal Band of them all, Yothu Yindi in 1986. At some concerts all I had to do was wave my trumpet about, to be invited on stage. That I wasn’t quite up to scratch didn’t bother the musicians, it was an inclusive scene, and I didn’t overstay my welcome and only joined in a few tunes.

In 1987 we decided to travel overseas as a family (our oldest son was 18). It was the year of the stock-market crash and the coldest European winter in a half a century. Christmas 1987 we were in London, and I got to “sit in” with Howlin’ Wilf (no folks, I know how to spell)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YhEPPTzDlns

My trumpet playing days are all but over, and I certainly haven’t been responsible for any walls tumbling down.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u02t3-QoO7c

Last week in Yuendumu some walls came tumbling down. The walls of the Police Station. They’re making room for our new Police Complex. A friend sent me a copy of the media release announcing the proposed $7.6M Complex, which was headed: “Improving safety in Central Australian communities” . My friend wanted to know if I was feeling safer. It goes without saying that I’ll continue to cringe in  fear(Lani kana pandarimi) until the complex is completed.

I suspect that when the Larrakia people of Darwin heard about the Police Complex on Warlpiri land, they got minmayi (jealous), and demanded they also get  something from the NT Government. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MRAiz5VvIVs be careful what you pray for….

My friend duly sent me a copy of a subsequent media release: “New toilet block for Casuarina Coastal Reserve”

“We’ve listened to concerns of visitors to the reserve and have made sure the new toilet block will be located out in the open with good lighting to make it safer and less intimidating for people to use,” and “This government is investing $410,000 for the toilet, which will make the area more attractive for possible investors wanting to submit an Expressions (sic) of Interest for the reserve” “It is proposed to have Larrakia Traditional Owners paint the new toilet block with images of Casuarina Beach and in particular the turtles that nest there.”

$410K, another bargain I say. Safety at all costs. When you’re down and troubled….

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhlMWtk7-0E  …. You’ve got a friend…

When Kevin 007 ousted the instigators of the Northern Territory Emergency Response (NTER) we waited for the “roll- back” of the Intervention. The pre-election promise of the roll back morphed into a review of the NTER after one year. The thorough Peter Yu review cost a few million dollars- another bargain we thought. In October 2008 Paul Toohey in an article in The Australian reported that the official version of the report dramatically differed from the leaked draft report. The highly critical draft had morphed into a bland report that supported the Intervention.

“Too frequently, often at a subliminal level, indigenous culture is regarded by policy makers as an impediment to the future development of remote communities, rather than an essential resource for their development.” Appears in the leaked draft, but is not to be found in the final report. Pourquoi pas?(Why not?)

From an illustrated Yuendumu school book Mangkurdu-kurlu (pertaining to clouds) (Warlpiri Reader Level 3):

Kurdu-kurdu: Nyampuju mangkurdu kurdu-kurdu wita-wita ka panu-jarrimi ngapa-ku ngarnti ngula kapu wantimi.

Milpirri- Nyampuju mangkurdu wiri karlipa ngarrirni ngulaju milpirri ka karrimi manu ka ngalpa ngarrirni ngapa wiri ka yanirni ngula kapu wantimi.

Matayi- Nyampuju mangkurdu ngulaju matayi maru-nyayirni ngapa palka ka kanjayani wantinjaku-ngarnti

The first are ‘fair weather cumulus’ the next are cumulus and the third are cumulonimbus.

Kurdu-kurdu is synonymous with ‘children’…. The small clouds grow into larger clouds that foretell rain and eventually mature into very dark clouds that bring rain.

“To deny a people an education in their own language where that is possible is to treat them as a conquered people and to deny them respect.” (The Hon. Kim E. Beazley Sr., 1999)

The current Federal Government is putting lots of resources into the ‘Remote School Attendance Strategy’. They even employ (part time) some Warlpiri people and provided them with a (second hand) bus and those ubiquitous bright yellow jackets (presumably to keep them safe). Federal support for teaching in the vernacular is distinctly lacking.

My Warlpiri friends are far less likely to bash their heads against brick walls in the hope they come tumbling down than I am.

I try to follow their example.
I do this by listening to music. ..

Take this silver lining
Keep it in your own sweet head
Shine it when the night is burning red
Shine it in the twilight
Shine it on the cold cold ground
Shine it till these walls come
Tumbling down

We were born with our eyes wide open
So alive with wild hope
Now can you tell me why
Time after time
They drag you down
Down in the darkness deep
Fools in their madness all around

Do yourselves a favour …. Take the 7 minutes it takes to listen to this:
zövq almaq
http://youtu.be/kcDaAr3EPqI

Frank

And if you have (or make) the time, a little bonus:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Mylo0piAgc

And yet they saw her passing by, and some may ask; the reason why?

Dear reader, we are often asked; “what should I wear’? when those amongst us must journey abroad. But not for them the safety of Europe. Theirs is a different journey. Into the heart of darkness. For it is the obligation of white persons to serve a tour of duty into those places they seldom see. To spread the enlightenment of incarceration, colonialism and manifest destiny.

May Singapore remind us of what happens when natives get the upper hand.

Though these tours are dangerous, we have been responsible for equipping quite a few expeditions as far north as Moree, and can vouchsafe that sensible attire is what is required to keep natives in their place. One cannot be too casual, for if discipline, self discipline is lax, the air of authority, once tarnished is lost for ever. 

We suffered the humility of such a disgrace at Singapore. And one should never let it happen again. For a subject peoples are grateful peoples, and are happy in knowing their place.  

Lucky the Orphans. They march gloriously to match the colour of Melania’s boots.

Therefore it is with some delight that we report on the sensible attire worn by the first lady of America in her recent foray it the dark continent. 

As an envoy yes, as a representative of her people, well yes to that, but moreso as a symbol of what coloured people should emulate if they want to sit at the big table. 

Permission was granted by H.M Her Majesty the Queen, on this occasion of State to use the Royal Wave. (Crown Copyright Pending)

Following in the wake of her husbands recent trip to Nambia, Kenjo and Nignogeria. Melania has instructed the people of these countries by example.  Not necessarily by the power of her oratory, nor the singular vision she brings in galvanising imaginative forces unleashed by untapped human potential, but appearances.

Melania takes great stock in appearances, and the natives give her the big thumbs up. 

Sensible attire for dealing with natives in the field. Australian Aid workers delivering gifts, (a blanket, bible, and length of rope) to natives in “desperate” need of civilising.

Dressed in this safari number, the epynomously named “Out of Africa” Melania presents a self assuredness that is arresting.  The jodhpurs not seen in offical clothing since the 36 Olympics give the ensemble the right measure of authority without the need for fully formed jackboots. Nor lightning flashes, though that would help in ensuring a sensible space between the leader and the subject peoples. But the piece de-resistance is the pith helmet, recognised the world over as the defining symbol of authority.  White authority over lesser peoples, who happen to have skin colour.

See how cleverly Melania assists these orphan children. They yearn to be like her, and smile in their poverty. But because they are poor. They are lazy. And cannot be rich. This they must learn this value from birth. See how the gamekeeper, is hushed by her steely glaze. Witness the poise as she teaches these dark peoples the gift of a language. Language that she has eschewed for authority. Firm in her gait, in her dress, poise. And upright. See the  perfection of those gym trained calves. She is a walking doctrine of contemporary values. The power of plastic surgery. The power of botox. The power of a constantly changing wardrobe to rescue those benighted peoples from the curse of poverty. By giving them the gift of ENVY and Hopelessness.  So that they may STRIVE! And to know that however hard they may try, they can never be as singular, as defining as statuesque as Her.  The Goddess! The Priestess! May the WHITE LIGHT pour out of HER! 

Natives have an instinctive respect for those who wear the pith helmet.

As it already does, to light the dark continent in her form so that they may follow and be led. Led by mature foreign policy. That likens statesmanship to a visit to the lolly shop.

For that is the purpose of her statecraft. To be a shining white mint amongst the Licorice all-sorts. 

Dear reader, just when you thought our staple of Hibernian heretics couldn’t get more hyper, we have this scintillating morsel from our sage of the near north Joe, (Archbishop Mannix was my father’s father) Blake.  And Joe has done it again, presenting us with a another slab of life rendered real, visceral and pulsating. We beg you to read this book, read the review first and find yourself a Christmas stocking. If you don’t, we will!

Take it away Joe….

Normal People, by Sally Rooney, Faber and Faber, rrp $19.74

Reviewed by Joe Blake

When 25-year-old Irishwoman Sally Rooney burst into print in May 2017, with Conversations with Friends, the literary world was agog. How could someone so young produce something this good? Well, 18 months later she’s produced something better; this one made the Man Booker longlist before it was even released. It deserved to, if only for its searing meditation on class, but there’s a lot more than that in here.

When we meet them, Marianne and Connell are two very bright sparks completing their final year of high school in a regional town in Northern Ireland. Each is from single parent family, but what different families they are! Connell’s is straightforward: he’s the product of a one-night stand when his mum was 17. He’s never met his father, never even asked who he was. Since then his mum has never had another relationship, and, because of bringing up Connell, has no education and is forced into menial low-paid work. She’s bright herself, and is open and loving with her only child. Connell is well-adjusted and very popular with his friends.

Marianne’s situation, by contrast, is extremely complex, with the layers of complexity revealing themselves gradually as the story goes on. Initially we see her mother as a rich lawyer, widow of another rich lawyer, then we find that the dead father was violent towards his wife and children. Her mum is distant and her older brother is horrible, which may all add up to explain why Marianne makes no effort to fit in at school, and in fact is openly antagonistic towards everybody.

Our two heroes get to know each other across a class divide: Connell’s mum is the cleaner at Marianne’s mansion. (We find out later that she’s paid “fuck all” for doing this.) When Connell comes to pick up his mum after work, he and Marianne strike up interesting conversations, and one thing leads to another … They find solace in each other, but Connell is unwilling to be seen in public with the socially unacceptable Marianne. She’s fine with this; she has no need for acceptance, until …

This wouldn’t be a story about love without miscommunication and stupidity, and a fair bit of both happens. Their two worlds spin apart for a while, but each ends up at the same place when they finish school: Trinity College, Dublin, where the cream of Irish society head for university. For Connell, the word “cream” is reminiscent of Samuel Beckett’s description: “Rich and thick.” These lads would be perfectly placed in our very own Liberal Party. He doesn’t fit in, but Marianne does; she’s found her milieu, probably because she thinks she’s escaped the horrors of home. Not true really, as she discovers when she falls into toxic relationships and friendships.

Throughout the story, one constant appears: both Marianne and Connell feel as if only the other truly understands them. That doesn’t mean they can sustain a one-on-one relationship, but they always have each other’s back.

This beautiful novel is a riveting story (I read it in one go) but it has so many small details that make every line a delight. I’m not sure if it will win this year’s Booker, but there’s no doubt Sally Rooney will have several of those on her mantelpiece before too long.

(Reposted from 22 November 2014, in anticipation of joyous summer visits from numerous relatives.)

LEOPOLD ALCOCKS
by
Jake Thackray

Leopold Alcocks, my distant relation,
Came to my flat for a brief visitation.
He’s been here since February, damn and blast him
My nerves and my furniture may not outlast him.

Leopold Alcocks is accident prone.
He’s lost my bath plug, he’s ruptured my telephone.
My antirrhinums, my motor bike, my sofa
There isn’t anything he can’t trip over.

As he roams through my rooms, all my pussycats scatter.
My statuettes tremble, then plummet, then shatter.
My table lamps tumble with grim regularity.
My cut glass has crumbled and so has my charity.

Leopold Alcocks, an uncanny creature
He can’t take tea without some misadventure:
He looks up from his tea cup with a smirk on his features
And a slice of my porcelain between his dentures.

He’s upset my goldfish, he’s jinxed my wisteria
My budgie’s gone broody, my tortoise has hysteria.
He cleans my tea pots, my saucepans, with Brasso
And leaves chocolate fingerprints on my Picasso.

Leopold Alcocks never known to fail
Working his way through my frail Chippendale.
One blow from his thighs (which are fearsomely strong)
Would easily fracture the wing of a swan.

I brought home my bird for some turkish moussaka
Up looms old Leopold I know when I’m knackered.
He spills the vino, the great eager beaver,
Drenching her jump suit and my joie de vivre.

Leopold Alcocks stirring my spleen
You are the grit in my life’s vaseline.
A pox on you Alcocks! You’ve been here since Feb’ry
Go home and leave me alone with my debris.

So Leopold Alcocks, my distant relation,
Has gone away home after his visitation.
I glimpsed him waving bye bye this last minute
Waving his hand with my door knob still in it.

Notes by our celebrated Poetry Editor, Ira Maine

His style is based on that of Georges Bresson, famous in France where the habit of singing in clubs, cafes and bars is well established and has produced people like Piaf, Yves Montand, Petula Clark, Charles Aznavour and countless others..A similar culture does not exist in the UK, largely because of the draconian licensing laws which denied cafes and coffee shops, until very recently, the right to sell alcohol. This suited the pub owners very well. If people wanted a drink outside of their own home they had no choice but to go to the pub.This was a very effective way of utterly warping the average persons attitude to alcohol. Cafes are for mixed company socializing; pubs are places where men go to get drunk.. 

(First posted 22 November 2014)

Γεια σας και πάλι φίλοι μου,

That 21^st Century Oracle ‘Wikipedia’ tells me that ‘Oxymoron’ is derived from the 5th century Latin oxymoron, which is derived from the Ancient Greek: ὀξύςoxus “sharp, keen” and μωρός mōros “dull, stupid”, making the word itself an oxymoron. The Oracle also tells me that “modern usage has brought a common misunderstanding that ’oxymoron’ is nearly synonymous with ‘contradiction’.”

Of this I plead guilty. It is the ‘moron’ bit that makes my sense of irony find ‘oxymoron’ a useful and appealing word even if laboring under a common misunderstanding.

For over a decade the Howard Government undermined Land Rights and Reconciliation. Around 2006 then Minister for Aboriginal Affairs Mal Brough made claims that paedophile rings were operating on Aboriginal communities as part of, in hindsight, an orchestrated campaign of stereotyping and stigmatizing Aboriginal communities (and Aboriginal men in particular). In 2007 in a desperate bid for re-election the campaign climaxed in the announcement of the Northern Territory Emergency Response (NTER or Intervention)

The NTER included a significant effort by the Federal Police (from memory several years with an expenditure exceeding $30Million) acting with extraordinary powers under the Crimes Act 1914. The Act inter alia forbids people questioned to reveal that they have been or will be questioned and to mention what they have been questioned about and should they so reveal, they risk years of incarceration. Despite this massive effort no more paedophile rings were discovered than there were WMDs found in Iraq. A straw giant.

When John Howard lost the election and when Kevin Rudd made that famous Sorry speech
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aKWfiFp24rA
we all thought that we’d arrived at a Bran Nu Dae…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JiShXMojKfY

The speech in hindsight was a political stunt. Its main purpose, it now seems, was to show up John Howard who had wedged himself into refusing to say sorry.

Mal Brough’s baton was handed to Jenny Macklin who proceeded to take ownership of the Intervention and to further tighten its grip on Remote Aboriginal Australia.

Her chutzpah knew no bounds and is epitomized by her using the Aboriginal Benefits Account (a money tree nurtured by royalty equivalents derived from mining on Aboriginal land) as a personal slush fund to further her agenda, such as building a community stores empire (Government owned Outback Stores) and (wait for it!) paying rents to Traditional Owners for compulsory acquired leases.

During the campaign for the election that saw the end of Jenny Macklin’s Protectorate of Aborigines, Tony Abbott pledged that if he won he would become the Prime Minister  for Indigenous Affairs.

The first Abbott/Hockey Budget saw half a billion dollars cut from the funding of Aboriginal Affairs. Most of the cuts will have very little effect on places like Yuendumu.

The Warlpiri word Waralypa means rain that doesn’t reach the earth. Consulting the oracle I find:

“In meteorology, virga is an observable streak or shaft of precipitation that falls from a cloud but evaporates or sublimes before reaching the ground.”

Thus is funding and that capitalist myth the “trickledown effect” (which is right up there with  “level playing field”)

I want to know…Have you ever seen the rain?…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZEY8clFcm2E

Yesterday we had our first decent shower of rain in Yuendumu for quite a while.
Tu pelo tiene el aroma de la lluvia sobre la tierra…(your hair has the aroma of rain on the earth)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5E3gvCTC2EQ

It isn’t  all doom and gloom in Yuendumu. The much maligned (by me) Centrelink at Yuendumu (you know, the $2M plus building that arrived on the back of 5 trucks all the way from Bendigo?) is now run and fully staffed by Yuendumu locals. The little flame of self-determination flickers on.

….Long as I can see the light….

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q1809vqz3zA

Last July, our self styled Prime Minister for Indigenous Affairs delivered a speech at The Australian/Melbourne Institute. The speech included the unsettling premise that:

“I guess our country owes its existence to a form of foreign investment by the British government in the then unsettled or, um, scarcely settled, Great South Land,”

The Adam Giles (Northern Territory) Government is very keen on empowering itself. The $7.6M police complex being built at Yuendumu (not to mention the half a billion dollars  third prison , which in fairness to Adam Giles precedes his tenure) being but one facet of this.

The Abbott Government is very keen on empowering Aboriginal communities. How do I know this? I’ve been made aware that despite the budget cuts, $5M has been made available to ‘Empowered Communities’(EC) through ‘Closing the Gap’ (CtG).

An EC is defined as one “committed to enforcing individual rights and responsibilities including:

• Children attend school every day, are on time, and are school ready.
• Children and those who are vulnerable are cared for and safe.
• Capable adults participate in training or work.
• People abide by the conditions related to their tenancy in public housing – they maintain their homes.
• People do not commit domestic violence, alcohol and drug offences, or petty crimes and pay their rent. “

Sounds alright, but can you hear the dog whistle?  Am I being a bit too cynical when I suspect “enforced rights” to be an oxymoron?

Coercive Reconciliation: Stabilise, Normalise, Exit Aboriginal Australia
A bit like “coercive reconciliation” (The 2007 Intervention).

Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights…..
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F69PBQ4ZyNw

Δύναμη στο λαό …Power to the people…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wos-dDxpJlQ

Μέχρι την επόμενη φορά

Frank